looked for any sign of the wee-sized folk that I’d
assumed by much thinking it over must be a Northern
version of faeries. No sight of them, though my home
was now covered with buttercup blossoms - which I put
to good use. I found the stamins in the centers made a
sweet and delicious butter when smashed up and churned
until creamy. In fact, a buttercup held up under the chin
of a human, if it shines a yellow tint onto the skin, shows
the person likes faeiries - or is it butter? Nonetheless, I
liked the
butter and I’d found some humans who I was pretty sure would like the faeiries - I just had to catch one! I
wanted to show the ladies there were more types like
me, out there in this land; and, well, truth be told, I just
couldn’t stop thinking about the third one, who’d turned
and bid me good-bye. Something about a twinkle in her
eye. I thought about is so much, I almost got sick over
it. Then, on the early evening of the third day, out by
the pond, I caught a glimpse of that very same wee
sized girl through the thick reeds of the cattails at the
edge of the pond. She was standing on a lily pad,
looking into the murky water where I knew trout lurked
beneath her some of them the size to which a fairy could
be swallowed whole in just one bite.
“What are you doing?” I called.
“Shh-sh!” she held a finger to her lips and
motioned with her other hand for me to come over there.
Being part pixie part gnome - I rarely flew; especially
these days, with all the comforts a home of
my own provided rarely an escape was required, if any at all. So, I ran up the shore, several steps and untied the
boat I’d made of birch bark and rowed out
toward the lily pad. At a closer distance, I could see
that she was coaxing fireflies into a jar, but I could also
see the shadows of several trout, circling under her. The
largest swam deep down beneath the lily pad, but if he’d
wanted the smaller fish above to vamoose he could have
chased them off with just a swish of his large tail.
“You’ve got to be crazy or something - out here,
all alone.”
“Sh -” she started to say, again, but I’d already
chased the firefly she sought to catch away from the
edge of her jar, so she sighed, then looked at me and
said, instead, “You scared him off! I almost had him.”
“What were you going to do with him?” I asked
- ever since the barn rat scuffle, I’d been a bit protective
of fireflies.
“Put him in a fairy lantern, of course, to shine my
way, to fly at night?” I wasn’t getting it. “There’s a dance in the wood, tonight,” she said.
“O,” I said like I knew what she meant.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” she
asked.
“No,” I said almost adding the -er sound to that
in my thickest Irish accent I could muster up from home.
“O,” was all she said, then, “Now, what am I
going to do?”
“You can use my lantern,” I suggested and smiled
wide.
“You have one?!”
“Yes,” I said.
“And I can borrow it?”
“Ofcourse,” I said, “I’m Narn.”
“Blossom,” she told me, and then I held out my
hand for her to climb into my boat so we could go ashore
and I could let her borrow my lantern which
was at my home.
She shook her head, “Are you crazy?” she asked. “I’m not getting into that thing. There are trout down
there, bigger than you and I put together.”
“But that’s what the boat’s for,” I said, “C’mon,
climb in!”
“No thanks!” she said as her wings began to flap
sprinkling minute bits of dust like the dust of a
butterfly’s wings into the air which shone like diamonds
when they were caught in the rays of the sunlight.
“Wow,” I said to her a bit stunned and awed
watching the pop, pop, pop of the sparkle dust. Then
all of a sudden, one of the trout - and from the waves it
sent out to my tiny boat of birch bark, I later thought it
must have been the big one - jumped! My boat was hit
first with a wave that rippled as the fish shot out of the
water to snap at Blossom as she hovered in the air above
the pond her wings fluttering. I couldn’t look. I was so
busy trying to keep my boat from capsizing; but then the
fish flip flopped in the air, its huge jaws snapped shut,
and down it went with a splash that sent my birch bark boat toppling over. By the time I pulled myself out of
the pond, swimming furiously toward the shore to stay
alive and away from trout - my wings and elderberry
shorts soaked and heavy with the weight of water
Blossom was gone from her place in the air above the lily
pad. Panting for air and shaking my wings out, I almost
began to cry, but then I heard a sweet voice from behind
me, that caught me off guard (surprised me), I laughed.
“I thought you were eaten!”
“You alright?”
“A bit wet. You?”
“Fine. Look,” she said, “its okay about the
lantern, I’ll just use one of the others’” and then she
paused. I worried I must have looked disappointed
because she added, “unless, unless you want to come
along?”
“It’s a dance?” I asked, being coy.
“Yeah,” Blossom said, dusting off her wings.
She, too, had just been through a lot and she sounded slightly irritated at my sudden standoffishness.
“Okay,” I said, decisively and a wee bit too loud,
“I’ll go along. I’d like to. I’ll just get -” and then I
stopped. She looked at me. She must have sensed I did
not know what I’d started to ramble on about because
she interrupted.
“Meet me, here, tonight. We’ll pick you up. As
the moon sends the shadow of that tree (she pointed) to
here,” she drew a tiny line in the loam of the pondbank
with her foot, “We’ll go together, then, as a group.”
“Okay!” I said, smiling, while looking at the tree
and then the tiny line.
I heard a quick, “Bye!” When I looked up, she
was gone. I had at least several hours, as the moon was
not up and its shadows would not be cast for quite some
time. I wanted to dress nicely for the occasion, so I
headed for the McGillicutty household,
to Honor’s sewing room and the scraps of fine fabrics
that she’d used to decorate the house. Honor and I fashioned a green velvet coat to which Honor offered to
sew on tiny, gold glass beads as buttons.
“A dance!” Honor said with a far away sigh, a
smile on her face and a quite lively spark to her eyes.
She must have been remembering as I could almost see
and hear the music and the whirling around of the
dancers that she must have been imagining.
“What are you seeing, Miss Honor?” I asked her
to describe such engrossing of a memory.
“O, its silly,” sh
e said, “and Blithe would not
approve if I talked of it.” I looked at her sideways with
one eyebrow raised. She glanced toward the door to see
that Blithe was not standing there, and then she said, in
a quieter tone, ‘Ever since the social gathering where she
was offended - you know, called a shrew?”
“Yes -” I said.
“She’s not wanted me to talk, or plan, or even
think about such things as dances, get-togethers - I think
she’s even jealous of the man I met in town. The man with the sewing machine factory.”
Just then, while I was making sounds of consoling
her, like, “that’s too bad,” and “I’m so sorry,” I slipped
on the coat - I just couldn’t resist - and looked at myself
in the mirror.
“I’m, I’m… well, I’m absolutely ravishing!” I
blurted out, turning from side to side. I cat called a
whistle at my fetching image in the mirror. “I love it!
Miss Honor, what do you think?” Honor clapped her
hands together.
“It’s marvelous, Mr. Twinks. Just look at you.”
Then Blithe poked her head in through the door and
asked about the commotion.
“Well, I’ve made Mr. Twinks a coat,” Honor
told her, “he is going to a dance.” There was a pause.
Honor went on, “Well, he just loves his coat and I think
I would be very good at making people coats, in town,
like the man who I met at the store that sells fabric
talked about with me and -” “Nonsense!” Blithe said, “no slight to you, Mr.
Twinks, it is a very nice coat and it looks dashing on you
- but, Honor, dear sister, when you are finished here
with this dance nonsense and your ideas of offering up
your sewing skills to a man you only met once, in town
”
“Mr. Fitzpatrick!” Honor blurted out loudly, “the
man’s name is Mr. Fitzpatrick!” Then, Blithe said calmly,
although I thought with a hint of bitterness, “I’mglad to
hear he has a name. Now, I’d like to remind you,
Honor, that our usual tea time started almost one half
hour ago.”
“Did you make the tea, then?” assuming she had.
Honor looked toward me, as if to invite, “Mr. Twinks?”
she asked.
Then Blithe spoke sharply and a bit loud, “No!”
she said, “I did not. Make the tea. I thought you
would. You always do.”
“Well, Blithe,” Honor said, “I suppose I’ll get on that soon as I finish up, here.” Then Honor raised her
chin a bit and a slight tussle, or rue, ensued between
them. Not a roll-up the sleeves and wrestle or duke it
out tangle of an Irish pixie gnome rue, but a tenser, more
proper, disagreement sort of rue where a lot of tension
hung in the air and there was a good deal of silence
interrupted sharply with loud noises like thimblesslapped
down onto the sewing cabinet, doors slamming shut,and
cabinet drawers closed so quickly as to rattle the entire
arrangement of family photographs and antique thimble
boxes sitting on top of it.
There were also bits of conversation that I’d felt I
was intruding on, although they were spoken out loud,
loud enough for me to hear, like, “Can’t even make tea
for herself!” and “Must I do every chore around here?!”
To which the utterer not only did not require a
response, but the looks that she gave when I offered her
one, well, needless to say, I saw myself out, wearing the coat I would wear that night.
The Faerie Ring Dance
Chapter Seven * The Six-Shaped Tree and the Enchantment of Einion Gloff
There is no denying that being in a wood, at
night, with those who know their way around it, can be
a magical experience - or a fearful one. However, with
the tribe of Ellewyon it was no less than splendidly
magical, indeed - a feast for all of the senses was the
only way it could be described. As I entered, fire
twirlers were dancing in rings of fire which whirled
above their heads and some whizzed balls of flame on
strings round and round as they danced. Colors and
costumes and lavishly decorated huts and stages were lit
by such ornate lamps and lanterns I had never seen
before. Lively music filled the ears. There was sweet
cedar bark barrel honeysuckle punch and the scent of spiked elderberry cider drifted in the air mixing with the
fragrance of moon flowers that
glowed under moonlight. To one edge of the wood, a
lavishly decorated throne of gold sat empty to which a
procession of miniature horses and mastifs, the size for
the fairies to ride, led the Queen of all Ellewyon fairies
to the steps of her throne. The queen was encircled in a
cape of gold light that sent out rainbows of colorsunder
firefly lanterns as she walked. She carried in herhand a
walking stick of finely spun gold a top of which there
was a beating heart amid ornately tooled gold leave and
twirly twigs. Her wings were the most majestic butterfly
wings I had ever seen. If there were such a thing as a
queen of all the butterflies, this queen would surely have
been it. They were absolutely iridescent with green and
gold, and shone like see-through diamonds on the inside
and flourish through. She had upon her head, a crown
or headdress made of two of Muir Wood’s rarest and most lovely wild flowers, the dog lily and the star
flower. With hair as blue as the sky had been
that day and a fuzzy, furry buttress bustier made of the
centers of Echinacea, she took the stand before her
throne and for a moment, all music stopped, but the
softest notes of a single flute which teetered up and
down a high octave scale while she spoke.
The crowd sighed a hushed, “Awww!” and bent
down on one knee - which I followed along with, a bit
later than the rest of them - we lowered our chins, but
kept our eyes on our Queen while she spoke ancient
words in a language more beautiful than I had ever heard
before, after which tiny harps and fiddles, then drums
and other instruments were played upon by fancy
dressed fairies to begin the dance. And, as fairies young
and old began to dance an agreeable welcome into the
dancing became more of an irresistible indulgence and I
sensed the enchantment of humans would soon be a part
of this dance. The Queen raised her hands and the music ceased immediately. Dancer’s froze in place on tip toes,
one leg up, another down, hands in curves, fingers held
like pinchers in a snap or waggling through the air.
She called loudly a name, “Einion Gloff!” and a
human man, a mere boy he was only several summers
past, stepped forth, amid the crowd of stick still dancers
who commenced again the merriment of dancing as the
music started up again, full volume and with many cheers
and hollers as the boy approached the throne. Being an
Irish pixie gnome, I knew about the magic of faeries, but
rarely used the magic of my own. A pixie gnome’s
mischief being really due to the facts of the ins and outs
afforded by a diminished size and of course capitalizing
upon (assumed) human disbelief as an advantage; no,
enchantment was something about which I held in my
soul more than just a wee bit of in trepidation. Besides,
this boy I recognized. He’d been the boy hired to watch
and tend the sheep of many masters in the hollow - three
of the ewes, the McGillicutty ladies bought. He had already shorn them and brought them a season of wool.
For this reason, although surrounded by all of the beauty
and luxurious splendor, I could hope for, I began to love
and hate the fairies, both, as I should have known I
would from the stories of Irish faeries told to me by my
mother. Just as I determined I would rescue young
Einion Gloff, a band of one hundred and one pretty
little fairy sprites converged upon the side of thethrone
where Einion stood holding in their hands great firefly
torches or carried in their outstretched palms balls of
light - inside of which glow worms evanesced a brilliant
hue. Right quick, they spun the master Gloff into a
dance with him - and seeing his joy at the time he was
having, I lost my fervor to rescue him - decided not to
preach the wiles of the dance away as an evangelist on a
mission and joined in the dance, myself, as Blossom had
turned my shoulder and asked me for a dance with her.
For some reason, looking into her large, bright eyes
surrounded by the purple and pinks and flowers of her hair, I knew in my gut I could trust Blossom, so I
agreed, and O, a time we had!
We danced until the wee hours of the morning
and drank the dew of dawn off flowers handed out to us
as we bid each other farewell. I entered back into my
humble hut as the first rays of daylight touched the
pond and set the McGillicutty’s rooster off to begin his
morning crow. Ah, what a smile I had on my face and it
lasted an entire day.
After some sleep, I vowed to go to the six
shaped tree where Blossom told me I could find the Old
Soul’s goblin who could recount the tale of Einion Gloff
to me and how he ended up with the fairies, rather than
tending his sheep, if, as she had said, “I was really that
worried about it.” I was, and I think Blossom sensed
this. I also think it made her feel more than just slightly