Fairy Dust and the Quest for the Egg, Page 2

“Can I?” Maybe she would have a talent for something there.

  Tink had the same thought. Maybe she could leave Prilla in the kitchen and get back to her workshop. Or, if a pot really had broken, Tink could find out right there if Prilla had any talent for fixing it.

  “Come,” Tink said.

  Prilla followed her into the corridor, which was lined with paintings of the symbols for each talent—a feather for the fairy-dust talent, a dented stew pot for the pots-and-pans talent, the sun for the light talent. Prilla wondered what the painting of a nose and half a mustache stood for.

  Tink patted the gilded frame of the stew-pot painting as she flew by. Then she turned in to the first doorway they came to. Prilla followed and smelled nutmeg. Her stomach rumbled. It had never done that before, and she wondered what it meant.

  “This is the tearoom,” Tink said. “It’s Queen Ree’s favorite room.” Ree was the fairies’ nickname for Queen Clarion. “You’ll meet Ree at the celebration tonight.”

  Meet the queen! Prilla’s glow flared. The queen!

  Prilla studied the tearoom, looking for clues to Queen Ree in her favorite room. The mood was serene, the colors muted. The narrow windows stretched from a few inches above the floral carpet to the lofty ceiling, fifteen inches away. The daylight, filtered through maple leaves outside and Queen-Anne’s-lace curtains inside, was the same green as the Never pale-grass wallpaper.

  Tink added, “It’s nice, but I like more metal in a room.”

  Most everyone took their tea later in the day. Now, only a few fairies sipped from the periwinkle teacups or ate crustless sandwiches on cockleshell plates. They watched Prilla with interest.

  Prilla thought, I could take the crusts off the sandwich bread. I wouldn’t need much talent to have a talent for that.

  Tink led her past a serving table holding a platter of star-shaped butter cookies, each point perfect and not a single one broken. Prilla would have liked to stop for a cookie, but Tink was hurrying ahead, so she decided she’d better not.

  Tink pointed to an empty table under a silver chandelier. “I sit there with the rest of my talent.”

  “The talents sit together?”

  Tink nodded.

  “So who…” Prilla trailed off. She’d been about to ask who sat with you if you didn’t have a talent. But she knew the answer. Nobody. You sat alone.

  FOUR

  TINK PUSHED open the swinging door to the kitchen. Prilla’s wings skipped a beat. She had never seen so many fairies.

  Fairies from twenty-five talents were at work in the kitchen. Some of the talents were quite specialized—sub-talents, really—such as the knowing-when-a-dish-is-done talent or the stove-to-plate-transfer talent.

  The air was full of flying fairies. But as soon as Prilla entered, they all froze, registering her presence.

  Prilla blushed so deeply that her glow turned orange.

  Everyone went back to work. Tink looked for the source of the clatter she and Prilla had heard in the lobby. There it was, shattered china and a pool of pea soup—nothing to interest a pots-and-pans fairy.

  Then Tink’s eyes were drawn to the racks that rose to the ceiling. She saw the steamer she’d fixed last week. And there was the pressure cooker that had given her endless trouble, and the circular tube pan that had kept going oblong.

  She knew it was silly, but she couldn’t resist a little wave to each of them.

  She turned to Prilla. If the child had any kitchen kind of talent, it would show on her face. She’d be all smiles, excited, eager.

  But Prilla’s expression was vague, her eyes glassy. Tink had seen her wear that expression before.

  Prilla was on the windowsill of a Clumsy girl’s bedroom. On the floor was an assortment of doll furniture. A large doll overwhelmed a chair at a kitchen table. A small doll stood nearby, its head barely clearing the top of the table.

  The Clumsy girl was searching for something in a brown paper bag.

  Prilla flew to the toy stove and put one hand on the handle of a kettle. She folded her wings, made herself doll-still, and tried to lower her glow. Inside she was roaring with laughter. Would the Clumsy think her a new doll?

  The girl turned back. “I wish I…Wha—”

  “Prilla!”

  Prilla jumped in the air. There was Tink, one hand on her bangs and the other on her hip.

  “What were you ... Never mind.” Tink didn’t care what Prilla had been doing. “You don’t see anything you’re talented at, do you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Tink sighed. “You’d know.”

  Prilla sighed, too. She wondered if she could get away with pretending to have a talent.

  Dulcie, a baking-talent fairy, flew to them bearing a basket of poppy puff rolls. “Try one.”

  Prilla and Tink helped themselves. It was Prilla’s first food ever, and she wasn’t sure what to expect. She felt her mouth water, which was curious. She bit in cautiously.

  Dulcie said, “Are you the new fairy? Fly with you. Is the roll too salty?”

  Prilla was too busy tasting to answer. She shut her eyes. The roll wasn’t too salty. It was perfect, except that it melted away too fast. She took another bite. Mmm. Buttery. A little poppy-seed crunch. A hint of sweetness. A hint of an herb. Tarragon. She loved it. She’d like about ten more rolls. Eating was a joy.

  Joy! Prilla remembered what Tink had said about the scout. Scouting was his joy.

  She opened her eyes. “I have a talent!” She turned a cartwheel. “Tink, I have a talent. My talent is eating.”

  Tink reached for her bangs. “That’s not a talent. Everyone loves Dulcie’s rolls.”

  “Oh.” Why isn’t it a talent, Prilla wondered, even if everybody else also has it?

  Dulcie said to Tink, “It’s true then? She doesn’t know what her talent is?”

  Prilla felt herself blush again. She wished she were still a laugh.

  FIVE

  A CRY CAME from the other side of the kitchen. “Tink! Is that you? Come here!”

  Tink flew off. Prilla started after her and collided with a fairy carrying a sack of hayseed flour. Both of them wound up covered with flour.

  “I’m sorry,” Prilla said.

  The fairy said, “Nobody says sorry,” and flew away.

  Prilla dusted herself off while wondering what they did say. She began to fly after Tink but stopped mid-flutter. Tink was being embraced by a fairy who was standing in a coconut-shell tub and weeping.

  The weeping fairy was Rani, the most ardent of the water-talent fairies.

  Improbably, the two were fast friends. Three years before, Rani had brought Tink an egg poacher to fix. She had praised Tink’s repair so enthusiastically that Tink had been won over.

  “The coating cracked!” Rani wailed.

  Prilla came close and hovered behind Tink.

  “What—” Tink began.

  “—cracked?” Rani said, finishing the question she thought Tink was asking.

  Tink shook her head. “—did you do to your wings?”

  Prilla stared. Rani’s wings were covered with what looked like dried and flaking mucus.

  “It’s just egg, for waterproofing.” Rani blew her nose on a leafkerchief. “Now my wings have to be washed, and I won’t be able to fly tonight.”

  Rani wanted desperately to swim. Never fairies can’t, you know. Their wings absorb water and drag them under.

  She had persuaded a baking-talent fairy to coat her wings with beaten egg. She’d hoped the egg would make them waterproof. So, when the egg had dried, she’d climbed into the tub and lowered her wings into the water. At first, all was well. But as soon as she’d moved a wing, its coating had cracked.

  Tink began, “At least you didn’t use a—”

  “—balloon.” Rani started laughing so hard she was weeping again. Because of her talent, Rani cried easily, sweated easily, and her nose tended to run. As she herself put it, she was as full of water as a watermelon.

 
She said, “I’ll never try to swim with a balloon again.”

  Tink said, “Maybe not a balloon…” She smiled.

  Prilla hadn’t seen Tink smile before. Tink had dimples! And when she smiled, she looked like someone you didn’t have to be afraid of talking to.

  Tink went on. “But you’ll try something—”

  “—else.” Rani smiled back. “Probably.” She noticed Prilla. “You’re the new fairy! Just in time for the celebration!” She wondered why the child wasn’t with her whole talent, trying things out. And why did she look sad? “I’m Rani. Fly with you. Everyone is so glad you’ve come.”

  Prilla thought, Nobody seems glad. “Fly with you. I’m Prilla.” She braced herself for the talent question.

  Rani stepped out of the tub. “I have the worst talent, Prilla. It’s breaking my heart. I hope you’re not a water-talent fairy.”

  Prilla shrugged. She wished she were.

  Rani looked questioningly at Tink.

  Tink’s smile vanished. “She doesn’t know what her talent—”

  “—is. Really?” Rani thought, Oh, the poor child. She said, “Lucky you. You can try them all out.”

  Prilla felt like the least lucky fairy in Never Land. What if she tried them all and had none?

  “Let’s see if you have a water talent,” Rani said. “Come closer to the tub.”

  Prilla landed and approached the tub. If only, she thought. If only I could be a water-talent fairy.

  “Watch.” Rani brushed a grain or two of fairy dust from her wrist into the water. Then she reached into the tub and scooped up a handful of water.

  Prilla’s eyes widened. The water didn’t run through Rani’s fingers. Instead, it stayed in her hand, a ball of water.

  With her free hand, Rani pinched the water here and pulled it there until it took the shape of a fish with a gaping mouth. She passed her hand over it, and its scales gleamed gold and its eyes turned iridescent.

  Prilla drew in a breath. Tink’s smile returned.

  Rani said, “That takes practice. This too.” She balled up the water again and tilted her hand. The ball dropped into the tub, but stayed a ball. She raised her hand a little, and the ball rose to meet it. In a moment she was bouncing the water ball into the tub and out again.

  Prilla wanted to shout her delight or turn a somersault.

  Rani threw the ball into the air and caught it. Again. Again. Then she missed. The water ball landed on the floor, rolled an inch, and stopped near Prilla’s feet.

  Prilla drew back a step.

  “Try picking it up,” Rani said. “If you have a talent for water, you’ll be able to.”

  Prilla’s hands trembled. Please let me be a water-talent fairy, she thought.

  She bent over and reached for the water ball.

  SIX

  THE WATER ball dissolved into a puddle the instant Prilla touched it.

  She looked up at Rani, her eyes full of tears. Rani drew the puddle up and dumped it into the tub without leaving a drop on the floor. She was crying too. Tink was more irritated than ever. Now two fairies needed fixing.

  But Rani brightened. “Tink, did you take Prilla to meet Mother Dove?”

  “No.”

  Prilla knew who Mother Dove was. Knowing was part of being a Never fairy.

  “Oh, Tink. She’ll know what Prilla’s talent is.”

  Mother Dove understood fairies better than fairies understood themselves.

  “Prilla,” Rani added, her face shining, “I can’t wait for you to meet Mother Dove.”

  Tink said, “We’ll go now.”

  Prilla saw that Tink was smiling again, looking unTinkishly happy.

  Tink and Prilla flew out the tree-bark–side kitchen door.

  Outside, the wind was sharp. They didn’t know it, but the wind was coming from a hurricane that was chasing Never Land up and down the ocean.

  As she flew, Prilla worried that Mother Dove wouldn’t love her. She was the first fairy not to know what her talent was, maybe the first not to have a talent. What if she was the first fairy Mother Dove didn’t love? What if she was the first fairy Mother Dove hated?

  Prilla flew toward a Clumsy boy who was burying his teddy bear in his mainland backyard. She tweaked the boy’s ear and flew on after Tink.

  Tink felt proud to be bringing Prilla to Mother Dove. The wanded fairies had their wands. The spell fairies had their spells, and the shimmerers had their shimmers. But the Never fairies had Mother Dove, and Tink wouldn’t have changed places with the others for anything.

  After half an hour of flying against the wind, Tink and Prilla finally reached Mother Dove’s hawthorn tree.

  Tink stopped and hovered a few feet above the nest to let Prilla see Mother Dove before meeting her. This was uncommonly kind of Tink. If both events had happened at once, Prilla would have been too excited to form a clear memory. She wouldn’t have been able to think, in the time to come, This was when I saw her; this was when our eyes met; this was when she spoke.

  Mother Dove cooperated. She was aware of Tink and Prilla, but she didn’t look up. Give the child a chance to collect herself, she thought.

  And how was it for Prilla or any fairy to see Mother Dove for the first time?

  Picture a cottage. Your cottage might have a thatched roof. Mine might have a blue door with a brass knocker. The walls of yours might be a soft gray with pink trim. Daisies might bloom by the open door. A golden light might twinkle out.

  You see the cottage and recognize that it’s exactly what you’ve always wanted, although a moment earlier you had no idea.

  That’s how Mother Dove was for fairies. More than the Home Tree, more than Fairy Haven, she was their home.

  Prilla sighed, completely satisfied.

  Tink started down to the nest. Prilla followed. Please love me, she thought. Mother Dove, please love me. Please know what my talent is. Please. Please.

  Tink landed on the edge of the nest, but Prilla was afraid to come so close. She hovered almost a foot away.

  Mother Dove smiled at Prilla. Mother Dove’s eyes smiled too, and her neck feathers stood out with pleasure. She cooed a string of coos, happy musical gurgles. She saw how sweet and merry and smart and acrobatic Prilla was.

  Prilla smiled blissfully at Mother Dove.

  Beck, the animal-talent fairy who took care of Mother Dove, smiled too. She loved to see Mother Dove’s effect on new fairies.

  “You’re Prilla, aren’t you?” Mother Dove said. “Prilla.” She peeped the p and rolled the r and ls. “You’ve come where you belong, Prilla. I’m glad as can be that you’re here.”

  SEVEN

  “THANK YOU.” Prilla felt so relieved. Mother Dove did love her. Prilla wanted to throw herself into Mother Dove’s fluffy feathers and stay there, safe.

  Mother Dove sensed Prilla’s blinks over to the mainland and her blank spots about being a fairy. “You’ve had a hard arrival, haven’t you?”

  Prilla nodded, feeling understood for the first time.

  Mother Dove cocked her head. She couldn’t see the future in any detail, but she sometimes saw hints. “I’m afraid your hard arrival isn’t over yet. You’ll need your inner resources.”

  Prilla nodded again. With Mother Dove looking at her so sympathetically, Prilla felt she had inner resources for anything.

  She turned a cartwheel in the air. “I don’t mind.”

  Pleased, Mother Dove said, “Would you like to see my egg?”

  Beck was surprised. Mother Dove didn’t show her egg to every new arrival.

  “May I?”

  Mother Dove raised herself on one leg. “I never get off completely.”

  Prilla saw a pale blue egg, bigger than an ordinary dove’s egg and smoother than the finest pearl.

  “It’s very pretty,” Prilla said politely. She didn’t see anything extraordinary about it.

  But it was extraordinary. It was this egg that kept all the animals and Clumsies on the island from growing old. The egg was r
esponsible for the Never in Never Land.

  “Thank you.” Mother Dove cooed happily. “Do you know, Beck, I think Prilla is hungry.” Mother Dove loved it when a new fairy was hungry. “Is anything left of the nutmeg pie?”

  Beck opened her picnic basket and cut a slice of pie. She lifted the slice onto a plate and placed the plate on the nest in front of Mother Dove.

  Mother Dove pecked off a fairy-size bite and held it out in her beak.

  Prilla took it. Ah. It was as good as Dulcie’s roll.

  Mother Dove pecked off another bite, and Prilla took it. Of course Beck could have given Prilla a fork, and Prilla could have eaten on her own. But this was better. The nutmeg pie was sweet. Mother Dove’s love was sweeter.

  Bite by bite, Mother Dove fed Prilla the rest of the pie.

  Tink closed her eyes, remembering Mother Dove’s first words to her. Oh, my, Mother Dove had said. You’re Tinker Bell, sound and fine as a bell. Shiny and jaunty as a new pot. Brave enough for anything, the most courageous fairy to come in a long year. Then Mother Dove had fed her. Tink had known, and still knew, that Mother Dove loved her, from her toes to her ponytail.

  Finally, the last crumb of pie was gone. Prilla reeled back, dizzy with fullness and feeling.

  Tink came out of her reverie. “Mother Dove, do you know what Prilla’s talent is? She doesn’t.” Tink paused, feeling uncomfortable, then blurted out, “Is she incomplete?”

  Prilla was astounded. Tink thought her incomplete?

  “There’s nothing wrong with being incomplete,” Mother Dove said, a hint of sharpness in her tone.

  “Am I incomplete?” Prilla asked, scared.

  “Prilla is complete.”

  Prilla thought, What’s my talent? Say it, Mother Dove. Say it.

  Mother Dove cocked her head again. She became aware of something new about Prilla, something that had never before been in Never Land. “You have a talent, dear, but I don’t know what it is.”

  “Will I find it?”

  Mother Dove smiled. “I believe you will.”

  Believe? Prilla thought. She just believes? What if she’s wrong?