guard duty. There was a buzz of excitement in the inn, now crowded beyond believing. It was filled
with visitors to the village from every nation in the world, or so it seemed to Dunstan who had no
sense of distance beyond the woods that surrounded the village of Wall, so he regarded the tall
gentleman in the black top hat at the table beside him, all the way up from London, with as much
awe as he regarded the taller ebony-colored gentleman in the white one-piece robe with whom he
was dining. Dunstan knew that it was rude to stare, and that, as a villager of Wall, he had every
right to feel superior to all of the “furriners.” But he could smell unfamilar spices on the air, and
hear men and women speaking to each other in a hundred tongues, and he gawked and gazed
unashamedly.
The man in the black silk top hat noticed that Dunstan was staring at him, and motioned the lad
over to him. “D’you like treacle pudden’?” he asked abruptly, by way of introduction. “Mutanabbi
was called away, and there’s more pudden’ here than a man can manage on his own.”
Dunstan nodded. The treacle pudding was steaming invitingly on its plate.
“Well then,” said his new friend, “help yourself.” He passed Dunstan a clean china bowl and a
spoon. Dunstan needed no further encouragement, and he began to demolish the pudding.
“Now, young ‘un,” said the tall gentleman in the black silk top hat to Dunstan, once their bowls
and the pudding-plate were quite empty, “it’d seem the inn has no more rooms; also that every
room in the village has already been let.” “Is that so?” said Dunstan, unsurprised. “That it is,” said
the gentleman in the top hat. “And what I was wondering was, would you know of a house that
might have a room?”
Dunstan shrugged. “All the rooms have gone by now,” he said. “I remember that when I was a
boy of nine, my mother and my father sent me to sleep out in the rafters of the cow byre for a
week, and let my room to a lady from the Orient, and her family and servants. She left me a kite,
as a thank you, and I flew it from the meadow until one day it snapped its string and flew away
into the sky.”
“Where do you live now?” asked the gentleman in the top hat.
“I have a cottage on the edge of my father’s land,” Dunstan replied. “It was our shepherd’s
cottage, until he died, two years ago last lammas-tide, and my parents gave it to me.”
“Take me to it,” said the gentleman in the hat, and it did not occur to Dunstan to refuse him.
The spring moon was high and bright, and the night was clear. They walked down from the
village to the forest beneath it, and they walked the whole way past the Thorn family farm (where
the gentleman in the top hat was startled by a cow, sleeping in the meadow, which snorted as it
dreamed) until they reached Dunstan’s cottage.
It had one room and a fireplace. The stranger nodded. “I like this well enough,” he said.
“Come, Dunstan Thorn, I’ll rent it from you for the next three days.”
“What’ll you give me for it?”
“A golden sovereign, a silver sixpence, a copper penny, and a fresh shiny farthing,” said the
man.
Now a golden sovereign for two nights was more than a fair rent, in the days when a farm-
worker might hope to make fifteen pounds in a good year. Still, Dunstan hesitated. “If you’re here
for the market,” he told the tall man, “then it’s miracles and wonders you’ll be trading.”
The tall man nodded. “So, it would be miracles and wonders that you would be after, is it?” He
looked around Dun-stan’s one-room cottage again. It began to rain then, a gentle pattering on the
thatch above them.
“Oh, very well,” said the tall gentleman, a trifle testily, “a miracle, a wonder. Tomorrow, you
shall attain your Heart’s Desire. Now, here is your money,” and he took it from Dun-stan’s ear,
with one easy gesture. Dunstan touched it to the iron nail on the cottage door, checking for faerie
gold, then he bowed low to the gentleman, and walked off into the rain. He tied the money up in
his handkerchief.
Dunstan walked to the cow byre in the pelting rain. He climbed into the hayloft and was soon
asleep.
He was aware, in the night, of thunder and of lightning, although he did not wake; and then in
the small hours of the morning he was woken by someone treading, awkwardly, on his feet.
“Sorry,” said a voice. “That is to say, ‘scuse me.” “Who’s that? Who’s there?” said Dunstan.
“Just me,” said the voice. “I’m here for the market. I was sleeping in a hollow tree for the night,
but the lightnin’ toppled it, cracked it like an egg it did and smashed it like a twig, and the rain got
down my neck, and it threatened to get into my baggage, and there’s things in there must be kept
dry as dust, and I’d kept it safe as houses on all my travelings here, though it was wet as ...”
“Water?” suggested Dunstan.
“Ever-so,” continued the voice in the darkness. “So I was wonderin’,” it continued, “if you’d
mind me stayin’ here under your roof as I’m not very big, and I’d not disturb you or nothing.”
“Just don’t tread on me,” sighed Dunstan. It was then that a flash of lightning illuminated the
byre, and in the light, Dunstan saw something small and hairy in the corner, wearing a large floppy
hat. And then, darkness.
“I hope I’m not disturbin’ you,” said the voice, which certainly sounded rather hairy, now
Dunstan thought about it. “You aren’t,” said Dunstan, who was very tired. “That’s good,” said the
hairy voice, “because I wouldn’t want to disturb you.”
“Please,” begged Dunstan, “let me sleep. Please.”
There was a snuffling noise, which was replaced by a gentle snoring.
Dunstan rolled over in the hay. The person, whoever, whatever it was, farted, scratched itself,
and began to snore once more.
Dunstan listened to the rain on the byre roof, and thought about Daisy Hempstock, and in his
thoughts they were walking together, and six steps behind them walked a tall man with a top hat
and a small, furry creature whose face Dunstan could not see. They were off to see his Heart’s
Desire...
There was bright sunlight on his face, and the cow byre was empty. He washed his face, and
walked up to the farmhouse.
He put on his very best jacket, and his very best shirt, and his very best britches. He scraped
the mud from his boots with his pocketknife. Then he walked into the farm kitchen, and kissed his
mother on the cheek, and helped himself to a cottage loaf and a large pat of fresh-churned butter.
And then, with his money tied up in his fine Sunday cambric handkerchief, he walked up to the
village of Wall and bade good morning to the guards on the gate.
Through the gap in the wall he could see colored tents being raised, stalls being erected,
colored flags, and people walking back and forth.
“We’re not to let anyone through until midday,” said the guard.
Dunstan shrugged, and went to the pub, where he pondered what he would buy with his savings
(the shiny half-crown he had saved, and the lucky sixpence, with a hole drilled through it, on a
leather thong around his neck) and with the additional pocket handkerchief filled with coins. He
had, for the moment, quite forgotten there had been anything else promised the night before. At
the stroke of midday Dunstan strode up to the wall and, nervously, as if he were breaking the
greatest of taboos, he walked through beside, as he realized, the gentleman in the black silk top
hat, who nodded to him.
“Ah. My landlord. And how are you today, sir?”
“Very well,” said Dunstan.
“Walk with me,” said the tall man. “Let us walk together.”
They walked across the meadow, toward the tents.
“Have you been here before?” asked the tall man.
“I went to the last market, nine years ago. I was only a boy,” admitted Dunstan.
“Well,” said his tenant, “remember to be polite, and take no gifts. Remember that you’re a
guest. And now, I shall give you the last part of the rent that I owe you. For I swore an oath. And
my gifts last a long time. You and your firstborn child and his or her firstborn child... It’s a gift that
will last as long as I live.”
“And what would that be, sir?”
“Your Heart’s Desire, remember,” said the gentleman in the top hat. “Your Heart’s Desire.”
Dunstan bowed, and they walked on toward the fair.
“Eyes, eyes! New eyes for old!” shouted a tiny woman in front of a table covered with bottles
and jars filled with eyes of every kind and color.
“Instruments of music from a hundred lands!” “Penny whistles! Tuppenny hums! Threepenny
choral anthems!”
“Try your luck! Step right up! Answer a simple riddle and win a wind-flower!”
“Everlasting lavender! Bluebell cloth!” “Bottled dreams, a shilling a bottle!” “Coats of night!
Coats of twilight! Coats of dusk!” “Swords of fortune! Wands of power! Rings of eternity! Cards of
grace! Roll-up, roll-up, step this way!” “Salves and ointments, philtres and nostrums!” Dunstan
paused in front of a stall covered with tiny crystal ornaments; he examined the miniature animals,
pondering getting one for Daisy Hempstock. He picked up a crystal cat, no bigger than his thumb.
Sagely it blinked at him, and he dropped it, shocked; it righted itself in midair and, like a real cat,
fell on its four paws. Then it stalked over to the corner of the stall and began to wash itself.
Dunstan walked on, through the thronged market. It was bustling with people; all the strangers
who had come to Wall in the previous weeks were there, and many of the inhabitants of the town
of Wall as well. Mr. Bromios had set up a wine-tent and was selling wines and pasties to the village
folk, who were often tempted by the foods being sold by the folk from Beyond the Wall but had
been told by their grandparents, who had got it from their grandparents, that it was deeply,
utterly wrong to eat fairy food, to eat fairy fruit, to drink fairy water and sip fairy wine.
For every nine years, the folk from Beyond the Wall and over the hill set up their stalls, and for
a day and a night the meadow played host to the Faerie Market; and there was, for one day and
one night in nine years, commerce between the nations.
There were wonders for sale, and marvels, and miracles; there were things undreamed-of and
objects unimagined (what need, Dunstan wondered, could someone have of the storm-filled
eggshells?). He jingled his money in his pocket handkerchief, and looked for something small and
inexpensive with which to amuse Daisy.
He heard a gentle chiming in the air, above the hubbub of the market; and this he walked
toward.
He passed a stall in which five huge men were dancing to the music of a lugubrious hurdy-gurdy
being played by a mournful-looking black bear; he passed a stall where a balding man in a brightly
colored kimono was smashing china plates and tossing them into a burning bowl from which colored
smoke was pouring, all the while calling out to the passersby.
The chinkling chiming grew louder.
Reaching the stall from which the sound was emanating, he saw that it was deserted. It was
festooned with flowers: bluebells and foxgloves and harebells and daffodils, but also with violets
and lilies, with tiny crimson dog-roses, pale snowdrops, blue forget-me-nots and a profusion of
other flowers Dunstan could not name. Each flower was made of glass or crystal, spun or carved,
he could not tell: they counterfeited life perfectly. And they chimed and jingled like distant glass
bells.
“Hello?” called Dunstan.
“Good morrow to you, on this Market Day,” said the stall holder, clambering down from the
painted caravan parked behind the stall, and she smiled widely at him with white teeth in a dusky
face. She was one of the folk from Beyond the Wall, he could tell at once from her eyes, and her
ears which were visible beneath her curly black hair. Her eyes were a deep violet, while her ears
were the ears of a cat, perhaps, gently curved, and dusted with a fine, dark fur. She was quite
beautiful.
Dunstan picked up a flower from the stall. “It’s very lovely,” he said. It was a violet, and it
chinkled and sang as he held it, making a noise similar to that produced by wetting a finger and
rubbing it, gently, around a wineglass. “How much is it?”
She shrugged, and a delightful shrug it was.
“The cost is never discussed at the outset,” she told him. “It might be a great deal more than
you are prepared to pay; and then you would leave, and we would both be the poorer for it. Let us
discuss the merchandise in a more general way.”
Dunstan paused. It was then that the gentleman with the black silk top hat passed by the stall.
“There,” murmured Dunston’s lodger. “My debt to you is settled, and my rent is paid in full.”
Dunstan shook his head, as if to clear it of a dream, and turned back to the young lady. “So
where do these flowers come from?” he asked.
She smiled knowingly.”On the side of Mount Calamon a grove of glass flowers grows. The
journey there is perilous, and the journey back is more so.”
“And of what purpose are they?” asked Dunstan.
“The use and function of these flowers is chiefly decorative and recreational; they bring
pleasure; they can be given to a loved one as a token of admiration and affection, and the sound
they make is pleasing to the ear. Also, they catch the light most delightfully.” She held a bluebell
up to the light; and Dunstan could not but observe that the color of sunlight glittering through the
purple crystal was inferior in both hue and shade to that of her eyes.
“I see,” said Dunstan.
“They are also used in certain spells and cantrips. If sir is a magician... ?”
Dunstan shook his head. There was, he noticed, something remarkable about the young lady.
“Ah. Even so, they are delightful things,” she said, and smiled again.
The remarkable thing was a thin silver chain that ran from the young lady’s wrist, down to her
ankle and into the painted caravan behind her.
Dunstan remarked upon it.
“The chain? It binds me to the stall. I am the personal slave of the witch-woman who owns the
stall. She caught me many years ago—as I played by the waterfalls in my father’s lands, high in the
mountains—luring me on and on in the form of a pretty frog always but a moment out of my reach,
