Fey

Fun fact: I wrote this story almost five years ago this December, mainly because I really wanted to write a story about fairies. But not in the traditional way. Even as an adult I was (and am) still fascinated by old fairy tales - mainly because they are surprisingly more METAL than I expected. Anyway, this is essentially a very early story in my portfolio... so don't be too surprised if it reads that way, too, ha ha!

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I was a very imaginative child, according to my mother. She used to say that I could spin a yarn so far-fetched, she never really knew where reality ended and my fantasies began. She was also the first to point out that I was a very good liar. And, to be fair, this is far from insulting information, since I’ve known it myself for years.

I remember our little house out in the country, nestled comfortably into the side of a holler that was carpeted green every year, whenever winter gave way to spring. Our house was a very old one, in both age and countenance. It was built by some long-forgotten relative and maintained by our family for at least three generations. It was also built and fashioned in the form of a cottage, like some fairy-tale thing you’d expect to read about as a child. Pragmatically, it was a very uncomfortable home: too small and too old to shelter a growing family. But through the eyes of a six-year-old child (the first of many for our family) it was a place of wonder and exploration. And even a little magic. I will give you an example:

I remember a very early spring day, now decades gone by. I don’t remember why I got out of bed so early, or why I went downstairs and into the kitchen. But I do remember how shocked I was to discover a little person stuck in a rat-trap in the corner. He was a very tiny thing, standing at only eight inches tall, but was still somehow stout and plump, though not exactly fat. His leg had gotten caught in the trap and I could tell he was in a great deal of pain. I approached him cautiously, because when he first saw me he tried to run away which only caused him more pain.

“Are you okay?” I asked him quietly, squatting down to my knees.

“Does it look like I’m okay?!” he snapped back angrily before crying out “Ouch!” as he twisted his leg the wrong way.

“Let me help you,” I offered and reached for the trap. The creature only swatted at my hand and cried:

“I can manage myself! Thank you very much!”

Insulted, I folded my arms over my chest, thrust my chin out defiantly.

“Fine,” I huffed, “Have it your way. I’m going back to bed then and I’ll forget all about you. Just don’t blame me when the cat comes looking for something to eat and sees you!”

“Wait, wait!” the little man stammered and I stopped and turned back to him.

“If – if you really think you can pry this thing off me,” the little man grumbled, “then – I wouldn’t be opposed to letting you try.” Silently, I knelt back down and reached for the trap. It took a couple of tries, but finally I managed to lift the lever just enough for the little man to pull his leg free. Without meaning to, I let it go too quickly and it snap loudly on the floor, barely missing my fingers.

I stifled a gasp with my hands, fearful that the noise woke my parents, and the little man and I shared worried look. I heard noises, sluggish and sleepy, coming from my parents’ room.

“Okay, you’d better go,” I whispered to the little man. He nodded and tried to stand up, but his tiny leg was still so badly hurt that he only wobbled for three short steps before tumbling back to the floor. He cursed under his breath before turning back to me.

“It’s no use,” he sighed dejectedly, “I can’t even stand on this blasted thing!” I heard more footsteps over head, now stronger and livelier, and knew it was only a matter of time before my parents came down. Thinking quickly, I scooped up the little man and hurried back up the stairs, running as softly as I could.

“What’re you doing!?” the little man cried.

“Shush! Be quiet!” I hissed back as I scrambled into my room. I shut the door softly and launched myself back into bed with the little man still in my hands. With one free hand I yanked the covers over me and turned on my side just as my door opened again. I held my breath and pretended to be asleep and waited for my mother to come in and check on me.

“I told you he was fine,” I heard my father whisper.

“I could’ve sworn I heard something,” my mother insisted. I heard her take a step forward before my father stopped her.

“It’s Saturday, let him sleep,” he said quietly, “it’s too early.” I listened as the door clicked shut behind them. I sat up and sighed, “That was too close!” The little man, meanwhile, grumbled something and rolled out from under the sheets.

“Great!” he said angrily, “Just great! Now how m’I supposed to get home!”

“You’re just going to have to wait until your leg gets better,” I said. “You said it yourself, there’s no way you can stand on it, let alone walk.”

“Oh hush up, I know what I said!”

“You don’t have to be so mean about it,” I replied pointedly. I was starting to regret having saved this poor creature. He was giving me nothing but grief on that early spring morning.

“I know, I know,” he sighed, shifting in his seat. “And I beg your pardon for it. It’s just embarrassing – that I, a proud, young Brownie could be done in by a flimsy little rat trap!”

“A brownie?” I repeated, “Are you made of chocolate or something?”

“Nonsense,” he replied. “I’m a Brownie, a member of the Fey-folk.” I wrinkled my forehead, confused. I had never heard those kinds of words before. “Well, goodness gracious, child!” the little man cried. “Don’t your mother and father ever tell you stories about us?”

“About who?”

“About us, the Fey-folk! You know, fairies and such.”

“You mean fairy-tales?” I answered. “I only know a few. My parents don’t read me those stories. They think they’re silly or something.” The little man shook his head dejectedly and sniffed.

“Well, how do you like that? Only a few centuries in hiding and the humans go and forget about us!”

“I don’t think that’s true. A lot of kids from school still talk about fairies and stuff.”

“Oh, do they?” the little man said with a glint in his beady eyes. “And what exactly do they talk about? Do they think all fairies are diminutive and sweet, with little glittery butterfly wings? Do they think Trolls are round and grubby, or menacing with pointed teeth?”

“No, Trolls are colorful and like to sing with mushrooms.” The little man cursed again and began massaging his wounded leg.

“Nonsense,” he sighed, “Nonsense upon nonsense.”

“Well then what are Fey-folk really like?” The little man gave me a sly, mischievous look. But then he shrugged and simply replied,

“Nope. Can’t tell.”

“Well why not?” I questioned defiantly.

“Just can’t, just cause. It’s as simple as that.”

“You’re no fair.”

“Well, let me be the first to tell you the truth about life, Sonny: it’s usually not fair at all.”

“But I’ll tell you what,” the little man suddenly added. “If you help me until my bum-leg is better, I’ll see if I can’t learn you a thing or two about us Fey-folk. Deal?”

I considered this proposal for what felt like a long time. Needless to say, I was intrigued. But on the other hand… there was a look in the little man’s eye I wasn’t quite sure about. Not a malevolent look, of course – but certainly a mischievous one. Finally I decided.

“Okay. It’s a deal.” After all, I could always sick the cat on him if things went pear-shaped.

It was a bargain I upheld very dutifully for the next few weeks. Every day I brought the little man some food and water, and every day I kept him well out of sight – especially from the cat and her seemingly omnipotent nose. I even stole a new set of doll’s clothes from my mother’s old collection – the little man’s pants and shirt had been ruined by the rat-trap and I was lucky enough to discover my mother had at least one boy-doll stashed away.

For every favor I did for the little man, I was told a new piece of information about the Fey-folk.

(I remember, during my teens, telling this information to my four year old cousin - now fully grown - and all she could do was glance at me slyly before laughing.

“But that’s not what Fairies look like!”

“But how do you know?”

“Disney!”

“Oh, I see.” )

Eventually, as his bum-leg healed, the little man got stronger and stronger. Eventually he got strong enough to hobble about my bedroom on his own, which caused my parents a great deal of concern, fearing that the rats were starting to infest the entire house. But causing a little mischief wasn’t all the little man was good at.

One night I was awoken by noises in the kitchen and crept downstairs as my parents slept. I discovered the little man, hobbling back and forth throughout the kitchen, hard at work cleaning the surfaces of the counters and all the pots and pans. I watched him for a while before I finally asked,

“What are you doing?”

“My job,” the little man huffed as he leaned on his cane (a stick I had fetched for him earlier) and scrubbed the bottoms of the cabinets.

“You’re job is to clean kitchens?”

“In a matter of speaking,” he replied with a shrug. “I am a Brownie after all.”

“I don’t know what that means. You’ve never told me what it means to be a Brownie.”

“And you’ve never told me what it means to be a Human?” the little man retorted contemptuously. I couldn’t say anything to this fact, simply because I was six years old: I didn’t know what it meant to be human yet. The little man sighed, ashamed, and without turning or stopping his work, he added,

“I care for the house when no one’s looking. We Brownies, we’re something of a proud and hard-working people. We take great pride in our work, especially if it’s for a family we have become fond of.”

“Does that mean you like us?”

“Not in particular,” he sniffed. “Well, with you being the exception, I suppose. But, still, it’s hard to like a people when they don’t leave out even a tiny dish of cream for all your hard work!”

“Cream?” I repeated. But the little man waved his hand and leapt down from the kitchen counter.

“Never mind. That’s another lesson for another day. Come along, now. Back to bed.” I shrugged and followed him back up the stairs. He never did tell me what he meant about the cream, and if I known that would be the last time I’d ever see him in our kitchen I would have made sure to ask him about it.

The next day was very cloudy. I told my mother I was going out exploring for a bit. She said it was fine as long as I didn’t go too far or get into too much trouble, and as long as I put on my raincoat because it looked liked it could start to pour at any minute. I obeyed and buttoned up my bright red rain coat, and slipped into my green rubber boots. The toes were shaped like little frogs, which is why I liked them so much.

I followed the little man past our little garden that mother tried to grow every year, and out into the country side near a little patch of trees. He wobbled along the whole time, leaning on his little cane for support and ignoring my offers to carry him.

“Such nonsense,” he muttered begrudgingly. “To think I, a strong, young Brownie, would be carried around like a children’s plaything!” I was about to point out that he was already wearing my doll clothes, but something told me that that wasn’t a good idea.

“Where are we going exactly?” I asked after a few minutes.

“I told you earlier, back to the Gate,” he replied irritably.

“But the gate’s back that way,” I said pointing behind me. “We just went through it.”

“No, no, not that gate!” he snapped back, “I mean a real Gate: a Fairy-Gate, like the one I come from.”

“Isn’t that the same thing as the Fairy-Ring you told me about?”

“No, not exactly. Look: do you remember what I told you about the Fairy-Rings?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what was it?”

I thought for a moment before reciting: “A Fairy-Ring is a naturally occurring phenomenon. They pop up all over the world and are generally very harmless, but sometimes they form portals to the land of the Fey, and if people or animals step through them, that’s where they’ll end up. Many stories have been spread all over the world, making people believe that the rings are dangerous, so that people won’t accidentally fall into…”

“Yes, yes, very good,” the little man replied with a huff. “You’re a very good listener, I’ll admit that. Now pay attention to this: Fairy-Rings are only ever one-time portals to the Land of the Fey. Once it is crossed it can never be crossed twice by anyone, not even for a return trip home. But a Fairy-Gate is different, you see. It can be accessed by anyone and crossed as many times as needed. Humans cannot see the Gates, for two reasons...” Without turning around he held up his hand and counted them on his little fingers.

“One: they are ever changing. The Keeper of the Gate will change the locations at varying intervals…”

“What does ‘intervals’ mean?”

“Sh! Don’t interrupt. And two: they are often invisible to humans, unless they are given special permission.”

“Will I be able to see it?”

“Perhaps,” the little man said after a pause. “But I’m afraid that’s not my call to make.”

We walked a little further, before coming to a stop in another clump of trees. They formed a large, seemingly perfect circle, and for a moment I feared I was standing in the middle of a Fairy-Ring.

“Alright, we’re here,” the little man stated. Almost immediately, the clouds cleared overhead, and sunlight poured into the cluster of trees. The light seemed to shimmer all around and the temperature rose steadily until the air was as warm and sweet as a summer’s breeze. I watched as the little man hobbled his way into the center of the circle and call out,

“Keeper of the Gate: I request permission to pass.”

A hand, long and slender, appeared from out of nowhere and rested on the side of a tree. I was amazed, having been certain that no one was standing there only moments before. The woman emerged, dressed in a rich green dress that covered her bare feet, and approached the little man at the center of the clearing. Her short blond hair seemed to glint like silver in the sunlight. She smiled down at the little man and folded her arms delicately across her slender frame.

“Well, now,” she said in a gentle voice, “I was wondering when you were going to get here.”

“Hmp – well you know, dear, it’s not so easy to move about once you’ve had your leg jammed into a blasted trap!”

“Yes, I know,” the woman chuckled, “I’m only teasing.” She then glanced over at me, her smile never faltering.

“I see you’ve brought a guest with you today,”

“Was the least I could do,” the little man grumbled, his ears turning pink with embarrassment. “Kid did help me out of tight scrape back there.”

“So he did,” the woman agreed. Then she looked back down to the little man and added, “I like your new clothes. They suit you very much.”

“Hmph – can’t say I’m quite used to them yet. But…” he looked down and gently brushed one hand along the front of his shirt. “I do suppose I like them better than those old rags.” The woman nodded approvingly as she stepped aside, allowing the little man to pass. As he hobbled toward the trees from which she emerged, I suddenly realized something important.

“Wait!” I called after him. The little man paused and turned to face me. “I just remembered something: I don’t even know your name.”

“Such nonsense,” the little man grumbled. “You humans and your names. You know something, child? You’re kind places too much value on such trivial things.”

“But you must have one, right?” I insisted. “At least one I can remember you by?” At this, the little man’s eyes lit up and his grimace softened (though he tried very hard to hide it). He sighed and cursed under his breath before finally replying:

“Friend. You can remember me by that name, alright?” I nodded even though I was a little disappointed. And then, for the very first time, the little man smiled at me.

“You’re a good kid, you know. Take care, now.” And with that he turned and shuffled through the trees, disappearing in an instant. After he had gone the smiling woman approached me. Kneeling on the grass she gently said,

“I’m afraid I must now send you home, little one."

“I know,” I replied.

“You’re a very kind child, you know,” the woman said as her smile brightened. “Thank you very much for taking good care of my friend.” I shrugged, feeling both a little embarrassed and a little proud.

“It was nothing really. But…” I paused and the woman raised her eyebrows questioningly. “Will I… will I ever see him again?” The woman seemed to consider her answer carefully.

“I can’t say for certain,” she finally admitted. “But, I think it’s likely that you won’t.”

“Oh,” I uttered, disappointed.

“But I will tell you a secret,” the woman whispered. “The Fey may not be forgotten, or ever truly remembered, but we are always, certainly present.” I looked at her curiously, unsure her meaning. The woman simply grinned and she rested her hand on my shoulder.

“You’ll understand one day, little one. I promise you.” She then pulled me closer and kissed my forehead gently. I felt my face turn pink with embarrassment, though the woman didn't seem to notice.

I took a step back as the woman rose to her feet and bid me farewell. She then turned and vanished back into the trees, the brilliant sunlight vanishing with her. The world around me was gray and cloudy once again. I could hear thunder rumbling from a distance far over head, and knew I had to get home soon. I turned and left the ring of trees the same way I had come, daring to take only a single glance back. It was a small cluster of trees. Nothing more or magical than that.

The sky opened up and buckets of rain poured on top of me. I raced home as quickly as I could and met my mother at the backdoor of the kitchen. She was putting on her boots with an umbrella in hand, getting ready to go out after me.

“There you are!” she gasped when she saw me. “Where were you? Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

“No.”

“Oh, I told you not to go too far from the house! What if something had happened?”

“I didn’t go far from the house. I was at a magic Fairy-Gate talking with a Fairy and Brownie.” My mother’s anger immediately subsided, and was replaced by a look of bewildered amusement.

“Oh really,” she sighed. “Well, I’m glad you at least had fun.” She turned and leaned her umbrella against the wall. “Lunch is ready. Come along.” I nodded and kicked off my boots at the door and rushed to take her outstretched hand.

“At least you beat the storm home,” she said, leading me to the kitchen table.

“I didn’t beat the storm home,” I explained, “the Fairy at the gate gave me a kiss and that kept me dry from the rain.”

“Oh, I see,” my mother chuckled.

It was around that time when she and my father learned just how imaginative their oldest child was. It was also around that time when my mother became pregnant with my twin sisters. And a short time later, the country house was sold and our family was moved into a larger, suburban house in the middle of the city. It was a practical decision, as three more children were destined to be born.

I didn’t think about that old house for years at a time, though I always remembered the little man and everything he taught me during those few short weeks of early spring...

But, as a friend of mine one said, those are lessons for another day.

- 11/18/23