One voice: "The people--"
       Many voices, including mine: "The people--"
       "--united--"
       Louder: "united--"
       "--will never be defeated!"
       Yelling: "--will never be defeated!"
       The people's mic did its job, taking one speaker's voice and amplifying it, carrying it to the edges of Zuccotti Park, and beyond, to Wall Street, to New York, to the world.
       The speaker moved on to talk about newly homeless families occupying empty homes in LA, in Chicago, and elsewhere, but I walked to the edge of the Occupation, to the People's Library, folding tables loaded with bins of books. It looked like rain, so I got ready to help cover them with tarps. It's there that I saw her; it's there that she saw me.
       She had the whitest skin I've ever seen. She was dressed like a fairy princess, or a hippie for Halloween. A braid of pale blonde hair, almost white-gold, circled her head like a crown dotted with flowers, a flowing, pale green dress and bare feet -- crazy for this time of year.
       She drifted my way, looking up, and up, into my face. And then she put one hand on my chest. I didn't know what drew her to me, and I didn't care. Maybe it was the contrast. I'm a good foot and a half taller than her -- a hurdler in high school -- and dark as obsidian.
       "This large gathering, it is a celebration?" She seemed stoned, maybe on ecstasy? If so, somebody should watch out for her.
       "Don't you watch the news?" I asked. "This is an occupation. We're here to make people realize there are millions of homeless people, that the people who work in these towers are responsible."
       She blinked her intense green eyes. "All these people have no homes?"
       "Many don't; the rest are here in solidarity." I smelled the scent of her flowers. After weeks of unwashed bodies, it was light and welcome.
       "I don't," she said, quiet and shy, "have a nice place to go home to. My father ...." Her voice trailed off. She was definitely stoned, or something. I mean, did she just wander into the middle of the biggest damn demonstration this city's seen since the Gulf War without a clue?
       I said, "There's a working group to find crash space. I could take you there."
       She laughed lightly, merriment crinkling her eyes. "I thank you." She spoke so softly that her voice was almost drowned out by the drum circle. I leaned in close so I could hear her. Her accent was strange, not at all from the five boroughs, kind of Bostonian and kind of South Carolinian. "You look kind," she said, "and I really honestly need one person, just one --" a tiny pause, "decent soul. My people are in trouble." She pulled her hand away, cupped it over her heart. "Can you help?"
       I took a step back, mentally. It's my weakness: being needed, and it always seems to get me in trouble. It got me married, it got me divorced, it got me jailed, and it got me here. Besides, when a cute little white girl comes on like that to a black man, alarm bells naturally go off. Too much history there.
       Still, what was I doing here if not to be of use to those in need? At least I didn't have to worry about us getting side-eye, definitely not in the middle of Occupy. "Okay," I said. "I'm yours. Lead on, er..."
       "I'm Orla," she said.
       "Rashaad."
       She took my hand, drawing me away from the crowd.
       We walked northeast on Broadway toward City Hall. The drums faded into the night air as we went. We turned a corner and weren't on any street I'd ever seen before. I've lived between the Williamsburg and Brooklyn bridges the whole time, growing up. I'd swear I knew every street and alley south of Houston.
       Orla pulled me along. "Here we are," she said, leading me down to a subway station. The sign at the top of the stairs has no colored circles with the train numbers. Instead, it reads: 'IRT Seventh Avenue Line,' like in old black-and-white pictures from the forties.
       We vaulted the chain across the turnstiles. The tile on the wall said 'City Hall, ' and the place looked like an underground Grand Central Station. I recognized it from flying past on the center tracks on my way into Brooklyn. It's been shut down since before I was born, but now the brass chandeliers blazed with light.
       Then came a breeze from our right, and out of the tunnel trotted a pair of snow-white horses drawing a railway carriage. Their hooves were doubtless shod, and struck sparks from the pavement occasionally, but made no sound. The carriage drew up next to us, and a man holding the reins looked down, tipping his hat. The door opened by itself.
       I decided she must be on something potent, and I was getting a contact high. I pulled my hand out of Orla's, and suddenly we were standing in the gloom and stink of a long-abandoned station, no carriage in sight. I've been baked often enough, and even had 'shrooms a time or a few, so I know a high doesn't just snap on and off that way. That more than anything made me think there was something magical about her.
       "Tch." She clicked her tongue. "Ye of meagre imagination." She grabbed my hand again, and we stepped aboard the carriage in the blaze of light from the relit chandeliers.
       The driver snapped the reins, and the horses trotted down the tracks, into the tunnel. Somehow, I wasn't scared.
       Orla gave me a serious look. "Will you believe now?" she said. "It might hurt if you choose unwisely."
       "I believe," I said, not really sure what I did believe anymore. I didn't exactly hold my breath as I gently removed my hand from hers, but it caught momentarily as our hands parted. The carriage shivered but stayed intact.
       "Good," she said, smiling once more. "Would you like to sup?" She cupped her hands, focusing her attention on the space she made. The inside of the carriage brightened.
       "Whatta' you--?"
       "Hush now." The light condensed into hard little snowflakes which drifted toward her hands. I shut my eyes against the glare, and when it faded she was holding a dozen or so triangles of flat bread. She held them out to me. "Soda bread," she said.
       Something in the back of my mind said there was reason to be dubious, but the look on Orla's face dispelled any concerns, and I took a bite. It was delicious, delicate, and moist enough to swallow easily. The flavor reminded me of a spring afternoon in Prospect Park, the kind you get in New York for a few days before the heat and humidity settle in for the summer.
       The inside of the carriage brightened considerably. Filtered sunlight shone through the lace curtains. Instead of a dark, dank subway tunnel, the world outside the carriage had transformed into a huge park, bigger than even Central Park, with none of the tall buildings I'd expect to see, even from the middle of the Sheep Meadow. Just a fine, turquoise sky, with fluffy, white clouds, the kind that look like giant pillows, floating past in no particular hurry. Perfect, except everything was a little too bright, the colors a little too saturated, like in an action movie. The air carried the scents of a billion flowers all at once, yet distinct. The taste of the soda bread turned sweeter in my mouth. I could not even imagine wanting to be anywhere else or with anyone else.
       Orla's hand moved to the door of the carriage. It opened just before she touched it, and I looked out. There was no station, just a crossroads where six dirt roads came together. As we stepped out, I saw there were no rails, and the only indication of where we'd come from was the orientation of the carriage.
       Orla saw I was about to say something and lifted one finger to my lips. A thrill rushed through me, not just up my back, and not a cold spark but a shiver that was cool and warm at the same time and spreading through my whole body from where her finger touched my mouth.
       The smile radiating from her eyes warmed me from the inside, and I no longer cared where we were or where she was taking me, or if I ever got back to Zuccotti Park again. I knew I was in deep, and it didn't matter to me in the least.
       Then I blinked. This was a spell; it had to be. Yet the fairies were so beautiful, so compelling, it seemed impossible to deny them anything, futile to even try.
       Orla stared into the distance, thinking. Then she grabbed my hand again and started down one of the dirt roads. We walked a while. I glanced at my watch once or twice, but it just kept showing the time I left New York. Park land sloped away from us in all directions, and the trees looked like they'd been placed just so for some effect I couldn't quite put my finger on. "It's amazing," I said.
       When I turned, I saw she was frowning. "You don't see?" She heaved a sigh. "There should be towers, and game, and people of a surpassing beauty. Underhill should be perfect. Yet it grows effete, past its prime." She considered. "And smaller."
       "Well, nothing lasts forever."
       "It always has," said Orla. "Lasted forever. Now is past the time for its renewal."
       This was it: the reason she'd brought me down here, to be her "one decent soul," but I still didn't see what I was supposed to do.
       I felt a coldness on my back. When I turned, there was a man dressed in black. The family resemblance to Orla was evident. His expression was thunderous.
       "Orla, what have you done?" It was as much accusation as a question.
       She swallowed. "Father, I have retrieved a man to become my husband and reign beside me, so that this land may once again prosper."
       He looked at me, as if he'd discovered a cockroach. "You. You count yourself worthy to marry a princess of the Fae? Imagine yourself ready to rule?"
       Taking a calming breath, I spoke my heart. It's my greatest failing. "Your Majesty, or whatever, Orla didn't ask me whether I wanted to marry or to rule. I've tried marriage. It didn't work out, and ruling's not my gig."
       "Truly?" Pop's eyes narrowed. "It's a rare being who refuses the Fae. Why, the feasts alone are truly spectacular. Would you not like to partake?" He waved a hand, and there, surrounding us, was table after table of delicacies: steaming fish, potatoes mounded with butter, not one but two roast pigs. "You are hungry, are you not?"
       Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to dig into the food around me, gorge myself silly. I took a step toward one of the tables.
       Orla's hand slipped into mine. That's all it took. Just as quickly as it came, the hunger was gone.
       Trying not to glare, but failing, I managed, "No. I already ate."
       His eyes widened. "You did?" He picked up some small bird's cooked carcass and nibbled at its breast. "Know then, as you have partaken of the local provender, you are required to stay until the one who provided it gives you leave to go." He glanced from me to Orla. "Smart girl." A small smile, directed at his daughter. "I wish you much joy of him."
       I blinked, and he wasn't there. The food stuck around for all of two seconds, then it disappeared, too.
       Orla pulled her hand away. "What am I to do with you? Truly, you would abandon me? You have no wish to rule at my side? The law states that whoever should race the king and outrun him shall be crowned king of this land."
       I shook my head. "I've seen what power does to people, and I'm not all that good. You asked, so I came along to do what I can to help."
       "You're impossible." Still, she reached out to touch my sleeve. "There's naught you can do for us without having power. I think I'll miss you, though."
       She made a gesture and stared at me while I just stood there. She gestured again, frowning. Then, a third time.
       "What?" Like I had to ask. I suspected a trick. When I looked in her eyes, there was a glint of mischief there that sent a chill up my back. In the old Celtic folk tales I used to read, fairies were sly and devious, at best, at their worst, outright cruel.
       "He's taken my power," she said, sounding genuinely upset. "He's stolen it away. I can't return you."
       "Ever?"
       "I--I don't know." Orla put one small hand on mine, and it dawned on me that maybe I'm not the one she'd planned to trick. "The king's word is law because he is guided by the wise counsel of the Goddess Danna herself," Orla said. "Wise counsel that nae but a king can hear. Were you to become king."
       In other words, I could tell my new 'subjects' whatever I wanted. It still sounded like way too much power -- the kind that corrupts absolutely. "And if I lose?"
       "Then you are not the champion I seek, and I would not marry you anyway. Banishment has always been the loser's fate."
       Pretty much a win-win. I nodded.
       Orla pulled on the hand she held, and announced to the air, "We challenge the ruler of Underhill to a foot race." She led me up a hill, and when we crested it, there was a crowd waiting for us.
       The crowd parted, and we walked through an aisle bordered by wild roses. At its end stood the king.
       Orla inclined her head. "Father, be so kind as to explain the rules to my intended, Rashaad."
       "Changed yer mind, then? Better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven?" The words were mocking, but his tone was even. "Very well. Do you see this hill rising behind me, and the path winding around it to the throne which sits at its peak? Merely be the first to touch it, and you shall have my crown." Until he mentioned them, I hadn't seen the hill, the path, or the throne.
       Orla squeezed my hand, then stepped back. The way she was looking at me was unlike how anyone had since my mother had died when I was ten. Since I'd lost the only home I'd ever known.
       "Daughter," said the king. "Give the word when we take our marks." He scratched a line in the dust. Then, in a lower tone, "Be aware, O Rashaad, that the penalty for failure is banishment."
       I nodded.
       "To the realm of my choosing." His level gaze said I wouldn't be going home if I lost.
       There it was, the fairy trick, and I was already caught in the web. He might send me to Hell, or the Moon, or Schenectady. All I could do was my best.
       He nodded to Orla and, reluctantly, so did I. We leaned forward, me touching the ground in classic starting position.
       She raised a hand, then let it fall.
       We took off, our legs pumping. The level path steepened, and I let him take the lead. I was at a disadvantage, wearing street clothes and hard shoes, and I hadn't warmed up. On the other hand, he was older, and his sandals looked worse than my deck shoes for running. I figured I'd let him tire, and come from behind. But then I saw a golden glow build around those sandals, and suddenly he was a dozen feet farther along the path.
       Magic cheating. Great.
       We pounded along the path, and after two more golden boosts he was out of sight around the edge of the hill. A few more of them and he'd reappear above me on the next loop of the path.
       Wait. Next loop! If the king could cheat, so could I.
       I hung a left and hurdled a rose barrier. Inch-long thorns tore at my jeans. I leaned into the hill as I leaped up the slope. The soles of my shoes skidded on small rocks, my legs pumping. Ahead of me loomed another damned rose barrier.
       The king appeared as I made it to the path again. A gold flash, and he was closer; another, and he was level with me. The glare he gave me as he passed could've curdled milk.
       This would be close. I jumped, barely clearing another rose hedge, swearing all the way. Once more I loped uphill, sliding and falling and pulling myself up sometimes hand over hand.
       I was concentrating so hard on the incline that I didn't know I'd reached the next part of the path until I found the throne in front of me.
       The king appeared in a golden sparkle. I slapped my hand down on the throne. He came to a dead stop, then dwindled and turned into a last gleam of gold, a floating sparkle that darted to the throne and then into it.
       And then I was the king.
       There came a whisper that only I could hear. The Goddess Danna told me about this land, about its people, and about my new powers as king. She said I might rule for a long time, or only a thousand years, or until someone came along who was faster than me, craftier, or deadlier.
       I had a home. And, from the way Orla was regarding me, I might just give marriage another go. There was a feast afterward, just like the old king had promised, and this time, Orla said, it would be okay to eat my fill.
       Finally, she said it was time, so I mounted the dais to give my victory address. As I climbed up, I thought about what to say.
       I looked out at the biggest crowd full of beautiful white people this side of the Oscars.
       "You folks that can hear me," I called out loud as I could, "you repeat what I say so the folks far in the back can hear, too. It's called the People's Microphone."
        "Orla told me that it's past time for this land to have a renewal," I said, and waited for the repetition to die down. "She thinks a new king is the answer." I stopped for the crowd. "Well, you're done waiting for kings to save you. There is so much for us to do. I am sending Orla above to bring more volunteers. And some of the homeless to live here. Together we have the power to remake both our worlds."
       "...the power to remake both our worlds," they called in return.
       "The Fair Folk, united," I shouted.
       "The Fair Folk, united," they shouted back.
       "Will never be defeated."
       Echoed by a thousand voices.