Page 24 of Velveteen vs. The Consequences of Her Actions

“Um,” said Velveteen, who had had no idea that she might be leaving soon, or what the spirit of spring celebration might have to do with it. But if there was one thing she had learnt from her time in the Seasonal Lands, it was that when things made no sense at all, that was when you just had to roll with it. “Sure.”

Lady Moon—who had been a living lightshow, once, a rainbow dancing in the springtime sky, when the fireworks show of her hands had set New Orleans ablaze, a century gone and a hundred quiet bargains past—walked, and Velveteen followed, and the Spring went on.

* * *

Records of superhumans prior to the modern age have always been sketchy. We know that they existed: that while some origin stories may be uniquely modern, others are uniquely archaic, children somehow gaining powers from poisons, flight powered by alchemy and mixed solutions of hensbane and lead, superstrength granted by glowing rocks that fell from the sky and gradually eroded the heart. Superhumans have always walked among us, although it took a very long time for them to come out of the shadows and take to the skies.

Many of the older superhumans were canonized as gods or as metaphorical forces of nature, which may explain why so many of the reports of the Seasonal Lands read like attempts at romantic poetry. When an avatar of Spring walks in beauty like the night, it is meant literally, and sometimes terrifyingly. As there was no way to live among their original communities after they had been labeled gods, these early superhumans took refuge in whatever sub-realities or parallel realms they could find. Many took on the mantles of Spirits of the Season, and faded from the normal human world forever.

It is interesting to consider the fact that some Spirits of the Season—Trick and Treat, from Autumn; the Snow Queen and Jack Frost, from Winter—have not only performed that most human of acts, reproduction, but have passed their seasonal affiliations on to their children. Perhaps they are in the long, slow process of becoming something other than mere superhumans. Given another few generations, perhaps we will have to contend with the fact that metaphors are literal truth.

* * *

“Where are we going, exactly?” asked Velveteen, after they had walked long enough in silence that she was starting to wish she’d brought shoes. She went barefoot most of the time these days, enjoying the feeling of moss beneath her feet, but even she had her limits. There were jagged rocks even in the Spring, and she was getting tired of stepping on them. “I was supposed to have another flying lesson with Peter today.”

“How you’ve frustrated that poor boy,” said Lady Moon, shaking her head and clucking her tongue at the same time, like an irritated peahen. “He’s so sure that you could fly if you were just willing to put in the effort. Don’t worry about him pushing you off of a cliff. He’s hardly ever chosen to do that, and on the rare occasions where he’s been moved to get physical, it’s been reasonably easy to distract him.”

“…no one ever taught you people what the word ‘reassuring’ actually means, did they?” asked Velveteen, after a moment of staring at Lady Moon. “Here’s a tip for the future: usually it means ‘don’t talk about people getting shoved off of cliffs like it’s something totally reasonable and cool and fun to do at parties.’”

“Don’t be silly. No one ever gets shoved off of a cliff at one of my parties. Not anymore, anyway. It was all the rage for a little while, back when the mode was Gothic and the manors were always perched precariously atop the tallest cliffs.” Lady Moon’s smile turned wistful and reflective. “The gowns were thin as moonlight, and the men were strong and terrible. It was a lovely era to be nostalgic for, and a difficult one to survive.”

“You know, I have absolutely no idea how I’m supposed to respond to that, so I’m going to go with attempting to change the subject,” said Velveteen. “How old are you?”

“There are three things wrong with your question, little animus,” said Lady Moon. Her tone was suddenly cool, like that of a debutante refusing a dance with her rival’s brother. “Firstly, you should never ask a lady her age. It’s insulting to her and degrading to you. Secondly, you shouldn’t be so blunt when you redirect a conversation. Be the reed that casts its ripples through the stream, not the rock that distorts everything it touches.”

She went silent after that, still walking. Velveteen frowned and waited for her to continue.

When she didn’t, Velveteen cleared her throat and said, “And…?”

“And what?” Lady Moon sounded annoyed.

It would have been smart to back off and leave it alone. Irritating a Spirit of the Season on home ground was never a good idea. Velveteen wasn’t sure she was allowed to call herself “smart” after willingly slaving herself to the seasons for her audition period, and after the last…however long it had been…she was no longer inclined to play nicely with social conventions. “You said there were three things wrong with my question. What was the third?”

“Ah. The third thing…thirdly, I suppose, for the sake of symmetry, so: thirdly, you’re assuming that I’ve always been Lady Moon. I’m as much mask as maiden.” Lady Moon reached up and tapped her own mask, as if for emphasis. “Some of us, we got to keep our names and our histories, and all the things we’d been in the Calendar Country. Others have roles to fill. Everyone’s Cinderella at the ball, little rabbit, and no one’s an ugly stepsister, no matter what face they wear beneath their pancake makeup and painted lips.”

“Wow,” said Velveteen, after a horrified pause. “That is the most pretentious depressing thing anyone has ever said in my presence. You should get some sort of award for being able to spread that much shit with a straight face.”

Lady Moon laughed. “I am going to miss you, little rabbit. One way or another, I’m going to miss you. Yes, I’m a bit pretentious. I’m allowed to be. It fits within the purpose I serve, and every little freedom is precious when you’ve given up so many of them. I come from a time when women were expected to be seen and not heard, and when they had names for girls like me, who liked to dance until dawn and didn’t fancy any of their suitors. But I had a secret, you see. I could scatter light through the air like a prism; I could make the stars dance.”

“You were like Yelena,” said Velveteen.

“Exactly so, in some respects, and not at all, in others. I had no secret love to hide; everyone knew that the only thing I loved was the dance.” Lady Moon shrugged. “When Spring came calling, I was happy to follow. What I gave up was well worth what I gained. I talk a good game, but never let me make you think that I feel differently. I lost a name and was granted a party that’s going to last forever. It was a fair trade.”

There was something oddly wistful in Lady Moon’s tone, like she was trying desperately to convince her audience that she was telling the truth. Velveteen nodded slowly. “Okay. But you still didn’t answer the question.”

“I’m as old as the human desire for celebration and release, and as young as Cecile Warden, late of New Orleans, who vanished from the Calendar Country on her sixteenth birthday, back in 1882,” said Lady Moon. “I don’t really celebrate my birthday anymore.”

“Um,” said Velveteen. “No, I, uh, guess you probably wouldn’t. That’s like, a quantum number of candles on your cake.”

“Not enough paraffin in the world,” agreed Lady Moon. They were approaching a grove of willow trees, their long, fronded branches dangling down like a curtain. The foliage was thick enough to completely block whatever was on the other side. Lady Moon stopped, looking seriously at Velveteen—or at least, Velveteen thought it was a serious expression. The mask made it so hard to tell. That was generally the idea, with masks.

“None of this is personal,” said Lady Moon. “There are certain steps that must be taken, if you want to call your dance a waltz; there are certain forms that must be observed, if you want your poem to be a sonnet, and not a sestina, or a crude, arrhythmic insult to the lady you’re attempting to woo. The poet does not hate the terminal rhyme, nor the drinker detest the twist of lime.”

“Just so you know, if you don’t stop talking like Dr. Seuss, I’m leaving,” said Velveteen.

“Yes, you are,” said Lady Moon, and pulled the veil of willow branches aside with a sweep of her arm, revealing the clearing beyond. The rest of the denizens of Spring were gathered there, save for Geb, who was represented as always by a smattering of snake-necked, beady-eyed geese. “We’ll miss you.”

Velveteen stood where she was, rooted to the spot, as Lady Moon walked past her and took her seat in the circle. The rock she sat on looked like all the rocks around it, but the moment she sat down, it seemed more thronelike than the others, suited for placement atop a parade float. The rocks the others perched upon had undergone similar transformations. Jack’s rock looked like a shipwreck, wracked with moss and clinging vines. The Easter Bunny’s rock was softer, rounded, like a balloon structure masquerading as a boulder for some reason. The geese had covered their rock in geese poop, as was only right.