Margaret kept the Bandolier just above the treetops, flying in a northerly direction toward what used to be Montgomery, Alabama. It was now known as Fairytown, Zone One.
What her young passenger called the cathedral had once been a mosque, built soon after The War. The old mosque had served a number of other functions she recalled her history lessons. The mosque had been flanked on one side by an elementary and high school; on the other side and behind it, a full university.
When the inhabitants were forced to the suburbs fifty years earlier, the mosque had been left to its fate. The government had decided it would be a better security arrangement if the fairies were all grouped in one area. Throughout the country they were rounded up and relocated into the deserted cities.
The angry uproar of the citizens concerning this decision was by no means the only outcry of dissatisfaction toward the government's policies. People had no choice but to sell their property in the cities across African-America at bottomed-out prices to the regime that was in power.
"That's it!" the boy shrilled, "That there's the Star of David."
Margaret frowned at the boy's sacrilege as she spotted the old mosque and began her descent. If certain people heard him utter those hated words it would result in a death sentence which would probably be carried out on the viewvision production, History Revisited, a show she absolutely abhorred.
She wondered why he had called the Moslem emblem the Star of David. If he were Jewish, someone had been derelict in educating him to keep it a secret. What happened to the Jews after The War had been the most tragic aftermath of the long, bloody war's atrocities. They had been rounded up and separated into groups by gender and allowed to perish in huge, unsheltered tracts of land. The Jew's fate was all the more appalling because they had fought for civil rights to the very end, and in the end had been treacherously deceived.
As the Bandolier touched down in front of the mosque, it was immediately set upon by a ragtag sea of white faces. Margaret looked into the vacuous eyes of the dreary crowd and saw such despair and hopelessness that a huge lump formed in her throat.
The horde moved closer, pointing and speaking indiscernible words. They leaned into the onslaught of a stiff wind in much the same type of clothing as the boy sitting beside her wore. She used better fabric washing the Bandolier than these wretched souls used to cover their bodies.
She had no real fear they would harm her. Their conduct was inquisitive, rather than intimidating. But as the pasty-white faces continued to group around her, in spite of herself, she began to experience a measure of jitters.
The press of bodies began to part as though it had been rehearsed. A towering, redheaded man strode through the gauntlet of obviously adoring faces. He paused often to touch a shoulder, or pat a hand, as if he were bestowing celestial blessings.
The boy bolted from the craft and wrapped his thin arms around the redhead's waist. The ungainly giant towered above the crowd, the brilliance of his lime-hued eyes causing Margaret to blush. They were so forceful. His eyelashes were so long and perfect that had he been a woman, she would have wagered they were false. Her jitters turned to nervousness as he continuing walking toward her.
He stood out from the rest of the rabble as would a stand of roses amid ragweed. Margaret judged his height to be close to seven feet. That was not the only aspect of him which was noticeable. It was his walk, his bearing, his countenance. She quickly made ready to lift off but stopped when he spoke.
"Where'd you find him?" His voice was softly contemptuous. He had opened the Bandolier's door, allowing the Artic wind to chill her.
"At the Malcolm X University. People were chasing him and I . . ." She stopped when she heard her high-pitched, reedy voice, not at all like her normal strong intonation. Why did this gigantic fairy intimidate her so?
"This is my brother, Zane," the man nodded at the boy. "I'm David." His measured, quiet words seemed to steady Margaret's racing heart. He was not at all like the timid, shuffling people surrounding them.
"Thank you for bringing him home," the giant continued. "He has a bit of the wanderlust, it's a shame he has no outlet for fulfilling his desire to see the world."
"I have to go now." She was unable to quit staring into the man's liquid green eyes, even as his sardonic meaning registered with her.
"You can't leave in this." He pointed at the sky.
Her heart sank when she realized it was snowing fiercely. She had been so mesmerized by her surroundings and this strange man she hadn't even noticed the change in the weather.
"Oh, but I must. Please, I have to leave." She tried to close the door, desperation creeping into her voice.
He held onto it firmly. "You've probably saved Zane's life, lady. I can't risk letting you go in this stuff, it's too dangerous."
Allah's Peace, she hated this soft, damned reasonable voice. He was right, though. Leaving was impracticable. It was forty miles to her home in Jericho, a sprawling, suburban complex completely surrounding Fairytown. It may as well have been in Europe.
"Come," said the giant, holding out his hand, "you have to stay until it blows over."
Margaret looked at the slender hand, highlighted with reddish freckles as though it was a ticking time bomb. He actually expected her to touch him? "No. I can't. I have to go," she gasped, nearly losing her voice as gale-force winds tried to push her words back into her throat.
"Look," he said, as if speaking to a child, "I'll not beg you. Or force you. You helped Zane and now I'll repay the favor if you'll allow me to."
With that he withdrew his hand, wheeled around and walked through the rapidly parting crowd, the boy Zane hurrying to keep up. Margaret was taken aback by the clownish man's effrontery. He had spoken to her as if he were her equal.
