The Boy Who Lost Fairyland Read Online Free PDF Page B

Delivery, Fragile, Sorry About That Broken Pyramid, There Was a Dog, See? and dropped on the doorstep of some poor blighter in Perth who thought he’d ordered clothespins. Fairyland loves human rubbish as well; don’t let them tell you it’s all a lot of dull junk. They’ll murder you flat for a pair of boots or a good mirror. S’how I got my limp, you know. And God help you if you’re a clever nipper! They’ll tear the sky down for a strand of your hair. Believe me, it’s better for us to sort it ourselves. Someone has to make sure the mail flows freely. And despite Miss Wind here’s breathtaking grasp of history, she’s got it half right. Possibly one-third. You see, young parcel post, very few humans know about Fairyland—the heart is a Tidiness Engine when it comes to the task of Knowing and Unknowing, and it tends to clear out anything that doesn’t fit with what they’ve read in respectable newspapers and heard from people wearing glasses come springtime. Now, getting boffed in the face with a bolt of lightning tends to bludgeon a man’s ability to dust his brain-shelves properly. But it does polish up the windows! So Mr. Franklin the First acquired both a speech impediment and the ability to see through space and time, which is a fairly good bargain when you think about it. He saw a mess of swords and spinning wheels and children flying back and forth with no rhyme or reason, post haste, post hoc, post modern, post-post! The old man set up a system to handle the volume and here we are. All the Postmasters of all the nations take a shift. You’re lucky enough to get me today, not to big-note myself. Canada’s in on Thursday and he’s a bear before his coffee. We keep the secrets—the Postal Code is sacred. But Fairies live as long as planets, and we all look alike to them. They call us all Benjamin Franklin so they don’t have to remember that my name is Agnes Robinson and I have never worn a powdered wig nor electrified a kite nor earned myself even one goiter. I do believe that’s plenty of natter for you, young man. Step up here into the Postal Ruler, please?”
    Hawthorn frowned at the enormous rusty slab of half-painted metal that appeared suddenly before him in a puff of stamps, dwarfing the counter. It had several slots cut into it of different sizes with all manner of things written over them. The letters had obviously worn away, gotten drawn back on, and then worn off again. He could see Benjamin Franklin’s face through one of the slots. Over the slimmest gap, Hawthorn read:
    DOCUMENTS ONLY! GRIMOIRES/PROPHECIES/JOKES/CONTRACTS (DEVILS AND OTHER DAIMONIA USE CORRECT CUSTOMS FORM OR YOUR PAPERS WILL NOT BE PROCESSED!)/CURSES
    On the next slot, a little longer and wider:
    ENCHANTED SWORDS/PENS/CLOTHING (NO SHOES!)/ NOVELS/UNGUENTS/PERISHABLE FOOD ITEMS
    The next said:
    PORTENTS/WOLVES (MEDIUM)/CHILDREN (SMALL/MEDIUM)/ FOOTWEAR/GOBLINS/TRAGEDIES
    The grooves went on, growing bigger and bigger, until they said things like DRAGONS and HENGES (STONE AND OTHER) and REVOLUTIONS. The Postmaster’s eyes glinted through CHILDREN (LARGE)/HORSES/EXISTENTIAL CRISES/PLASTICS/FLYING CARPETS/AQUATIC BEASTS/FETCHES.
    â€œCome on then, squeeze in,” the Postmaster beckoned. “The Post waits for no man. Postage rates are determined by size.”
    Hawthorn bit his lip and climbed up, turning sideways, to wedge himself into the slot that concerned itself with children and horses. But it was too large for him, as he was not yet a very big troll. He stepped instead into PORTENTS/WOLVES and found it quite snug, but if he held his breath, the ruler held him.
    â€œStandard Priority Air Mail rate?” Benjamin Franklin asked, noting down something on her pad of paper. She used a beautiful yellow pencil with a pink nub on the end, so bright and cheerful Hawthorn immediately longed to steal it.
    The Red Wind shook her head.