Tigerheart by Peter David

love, and isn’t all that particular about the mother it comes from. I mean, obviously he’s not particular, if he was willing to receive it from the Gwenny.”
    “So he doesn’t like mothers in general…but wants the love of one just the same. That seems mixed up.”
    “He doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t know what’s good for him.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “Well,” she said as if it should be painfully obvious, “he didn’t want me, did he?”
    “Want you to be his mother, you mean?”
    Fiddlefix flipped over so that she was on her back, flying and looking at him with a combination of amusement and annoyance. “You silly ass,” she said after a time, and flew on ahead of him. It was all that Paul could do to keep up with her after that, and she seemed uninterested in talking about The Boy any further.
    More time passed, and more, and Paul felt fear creeping into him. He had come this far on faith; but the water stretched on and on in all directions without letup, the night seemed endless, and his home was ever so far away. Who was to say that Fiddlefix wouldn’t become bored with him, or impatient, or simply abandon him? He would never be able to find his way home again. Sooner or later he would lose his focus; fall asleep; and, for all he knew, that shark was continuing to follow him, angry over having lost its opportunity and anxious for another chance.
    He rubbed furiously at his eyes lest they tire and betray him, and when he lowered his hands, he was surprised and gratified to see sunlight creeping up over the horizon.
    “Morning,” he whispered.
    The morning came up literally like thunder, for Paul heard a distant booming sound that he thought to be thunder…although it was, in fact, cannon fire. For that matter, the thunderous noise barely registered on him, for he was far too captivated with the land that was spread out before him. If one has ever looked at a globe, one has seen imaginary lines of longitude and latitude crisscrossing it. In the case of the Anyplace, the lines themselves were visible, giving the waters around it a checkerboard appearance. There were also large arrows pointing from four different directions, like a vast compass, all aimed directly at the Anyplace so that any passing fancies would be able to find it with minimal difficulty.
    Paul recognized the land immediately, even though he had never actually seen it with his waking eyes. It may sound odd that one would be able to identify instantly something he had never seen as if he had always known it. The very notion makes no sense. The fact that it makes no sense should tell you that it is true. Truth usually makes no sense. If your desire is for everything to make perfect sense, then you should take refuge in fiction. In fiction, all threads tie together in a neat bow and everything moves smoothly from one point to the next to the next. In real life, though, in real life…nothing makes sense. Bad things happen to good people. The pious die young while the wicked live until old age. War, famine, pestilence, death all occur randomly and senselessly and leave us more often than not scratching our heads and hurling the question
why?
into a void that provides no answers.
    So if everything in your life makes perfect sense, then make no sudden moves and do not allow anyone to pinch you, for you are likely dreaming and you would not want to spoil it.
    Headlong into the unreal reality of the Anyplace did Paul Dear fly. He gazed in awe at the island where all four seasons transpired simultaneously in different sections. He wondered if they remained in their relative climatic states all the time, or if the seasons rotated so that each part of the island was visited by snow, sunshine, and falling leaves at alternate times. Paul wanted to ask Fiddlefix about it, but the pixie was suddenly buzzing around his head. There was excitement in her voice but not the pleasant kind. Instead it was the sort of thrill that one