by Lena Coakley
Yes, we fairies are horrible, I think, and I am the horriblest of them all!
What will he do now? I wonder, peeking through the branches of my bush. I hope he bursts into tears. I hope he runs off down the road and never returns. But the man-people only stands for a long time. His shoulders slump. Then, slowly, he walks toward his door.
“Ouch!” he says, jumping on one foot. He has stepped on one of his own nails in the grass. This should be funny, too, but for some reason I don’t laugh.
The man-people sits down in the dirt, the lantern beside him, and puts his face in his hands. A moment ago I wanted him to burst into tears, but now he’s really crying—and it makes my stomach feel like the time I ate too many green apples.
He pulls off his nightcap and uses it to wipe his eyes. “I don’t need a well, Nix, foulest of the fairies. I’ll get my water from the river.”
Can it be? I think. I made him cry, and he is still not going to leave?
The man-people stands up again.
“Listen to me, Wicked Nix, and listen well! I have a magic powder that can turn a fairy invisible, like a ghost. One touch of it, and no one will see you, no one will hear you—not your fairy friends, not even the queen herself. You will reach out to them, and your hand will pass right through. They won’t feel you. They won’t know you’re there, though you will cry and call and beg.”
The words put an icy chill in my heart. Not to be seen or heard or felt, not even by the queen—it would be too awful.
“I made this powder out of dried troll blood and witches’ tears and ground-up fairy wings,” the man-people says. “And I am going to sprinkle it all over this place.”
I am shaking in the bushes now. How did he get ground-up fairy wings? I feel faint just thinking about it.
“Why do you hate us so much?” I shout.
The man-people raises his lantern, looking for me. “I have my reasons. Why do you want me to leave so badly?”
“I would do anything for my queen.”
The man-people picks up a long stick and moves toward me. “I know all about her. She is cold and cruel.”
I should not let him know where I am, but I cannot help but answer. “Liar!” I shout. “The queen is kind and wonderful. She loves me.”
“Fairies are never kind,” he says, jabbing his stick into the leaves beside me. “And they cannot love.”
I run away so his poking stick cannot find me.
8
I climb the old oak tree in the dark, scrambling from branch to branch until I reach my nest. There is a hollow place in the trunk where I keep my treasures. I feel for it and put the strange carved animal inside.
I can’t stop thinking about what the man-people said, that fairies are never kind and cannot love. I am kind, I think. And I love lots of things.
Then I remember all the tricks I have played—how proud I was to be so horrible, how I hoped the man-people would burst into tears. I remember that my friends Fleet and Flit and the others are always telling mean stories about the “stupid peoples” they have known.
I think about one of those stories now, the story of the singer with the fiery red hair. He was a man-people who came to watch the fairies dance one Midsummer’s Eve. I don’t remember him, but I heard the story many times in the Summer Country.
Usually a people who bothers the fairies during their dance is turned into a toad, but this man-people was different. Maybe it was his handsome face, or maybe it was his lovely singing voice, but for some reason the Good Queen took a liking to him. She invited him to come with us to the Summer Country, where time flows slow and sweet as honey and everything is like a dream.
After a while, though, the singer with the fiery red hair grew to pining for the peoples he had left back home. He could only sing sad songs, which the queen didn’t like, and his handsome face was always frowning. The queen grew tired of his moping and cast him out.
But when the singer returned to the people world, he found that everything had changed. He had only aged a few years, but the girl he had left behind was a white-haired old woman, and everyone else he knew was dead and gone.
The fairies always find this story very funny. They laugh and laugh when they tell it and say, “What a stupid people he was.”
I used to say it, too, “what a stupid people,” and then the fairies would laugh even louder.
Now, I lean up against the trunk of the old oak, wondering how I could have found such a story funny. Are we fairies cruel? I wonder. Can we love?
I put my hands in the hollow of the oak tree, feeling for my other treasures. I have a white stone I found by the river that looks like a face. I have a robin redbelly egg, blue as sky, that never became a bird. Best of all I have my star, a real star given to me by the Good Queen.
I find it and pull it out.
Some might think stars are made of fire, but I know they are made of wood and painted silver, with little bits of mirror in the points to make them shine.
I press my star tightly in my hand. The memory of getting it is old and faded, but it is as precious as the star itself. The Good Queen was singing, and I was looking up at her. With a touch of her hand, she made each star spin above our heads.
I wanted to touch one, too. I reached and reached. Finally, the Good Queen took pity on me and pulled a star from the sky. She put it in my hand, and I laughed and laughed as all the other stars whirled and bobbed and glittered.
Perhaps it’s true that fairies can be cruel, but we can be kind, too—and I will always have my star to prove that once the Good Queen loved me.
9
The next morning, I go straight to the village. My gifts are particularly good, and no one has forgotten, but I notice that many houses have wreaths of daisies on their door, or horseshoes with their ends pointing up, or tied bunches of smelly sticks.
When I get to the littlest house with the prettiest garden, I find a whole jar of jam sitting on the stump. This is a good gift because of the jam and also because of the jar, which I can use to put things in—but for now, I leave it where it is.
Rose is not in the garden, and so I creep toward the house. I try not to think about the fact that it is all put together with iron nails. Usually I don’t like to get so close to where peoples do their people-y things—like cooking with fire and eating on plates—but I need Rose’s help today more than ever.
I peek through the window and see her standing at a big table with her mother. They are making bread, but I’m not sure how I know this because it’s not something fairies ever do.
Rose’s mother has a big lump of dough in front of her, and Rose has a little lump. The table is white with flour. Rose’s mother is singing a song.
Daughter, oh daughter, my heart is wide.
All of your dreams can fit inside.
Swim the sea bottom or sail to a star,
My love is with you wherever you are.
The music of the song does strange things. It slips and slithers in and out of my ears and over my skin and down the back of my neck. It shakes loose old memories.
Did I make bread like this once? Did the Good Queen of the Fairies wear an apron covered with flour and sing to me? I know it can’t be possible, but it seems so real.
Rose looks up from her dough and sees me at the window. Quickly, I duck my head.
“I’m going out, Mummy!” I hear her shout.
“Wait, wait,” her mother tells her.
I run to the end of the garden, where I can hide in the bushes. A few minutes later, Rose comes. She smiles when she sees me, but I shrink back.
“Ugh!” I say, pointing at the daisy chain around her neck. “What’s that?”
“Mummy made it. So the fairies don’t steal me.”
“It will make me fall into a deep sleep!”
She shakes her head, pointing. “You still have the stick.”
I find the stick behind my ear and poke myself a few times. “It might not be the same one,” I grumble. “I’ve got
lots of sticks in my hair.” But since I’m not sleepy, I think it must be all right.
I sit down across from her at the tree-stump table. “Fairies don’t steal children. That’s just something peoples made up.”
But as soon as I say this, another memory comes to my mind. The Good Queen is holding a baby, bald and red, showing him to me. I wonder if she did steal a baby-people once. I wonder what happened to it.
I clap my hands to my head. “My brain is having too many thoughts today!” I shout.
Rose nods wisely, as if she knows exactly what I mean. It makes me feel a little better. She pokes at the wax on the top of my jam until it breaks, then takes a scoop with two fingers. I take some, too.
“Oh, Rose,” I say, sucking my finger. “I’m in such trouble. That man-people is still there, and now . . .” The thought of his terrible powder makes the jam taste bitter in my mouth. “I can’t even say it out loud. It’s too awful.”
“Don’t worry,” Rose says. “Soon we will be in the Summer Country.”
I’d forgetten about my promise to talk to the Good Queen about Rose. It doesn’t seem like such a good idea now.
“Maybe you shouldn’t come. Fairies aren’t always so nice to peoples.”
“You’re nice.”
“I am foul and horrible!” I insist.
She laughs and comes over to hug me, but I squeal and roll away into the grass. “Please get rid of those daisies. I can’t fall asleep now. There’s too much to do!”
Rose looks at her necklace and frowns. “Mummy made me promise not to take it off.” She looks up at me with an idea in her eyes. “But you could. With the stick.”
I reach for the stick behind my ear, but then I remember the singer with the fiery red hair and how miserable the fairies made him. “Maybe your mummy’s right. It’s keeping you safe.”
“But the fairies won’t like me if I wear it. They won’t let me come with them.”
I think of Rose’s mother and her bread song. “Rose,” I say gently. “You should stay here.”
Her eyes grow shiny, and the look on her face is so sad that I almost change my mind. “You said!”
“Can we talk about it tomorrow? Right now I need your help . . .”
“No! The fairies are coming tonight.”
For a moment I can only stare. “What . . . did you say?”
“Tonight is when the fairies come to dance. Tonight is Midsummer’s Eve.”
This must be why my offerings are so good today, why all the houses have horseshoes or bunches of daisies on their doors.
“It can’t be.” The queen will find that man-people living in the forest. She will be angry. She will bring lightning down from the sky.
“Take off my necklace,” Rose begs, so excited she bounces up and down.
“Not now!”
My mind is racing. There is no time. I can’t wait until night to play my tricks. I have to play them now, during the day, before the sun sets and the fairies come.
“Rose, can you give me some magic? The man-people has a potion . . .”
“I won’t give you anything!” she shouts. “You’re a mean fairy!”
“Rose!”
She leaps up and runs to the door.
“Rose, come back!”
10
I have no choice. Even though it’s still daylight, even though I have no magic against the evil powder, I must go to the cottage. The fairies are coming tonight, and I must get rid of the man-people.
The cottage has turned white, and there is a funny smell in the air. The man-people has been painting. I can see his bucket by the barn. The carvings around the door are blue and red.
I recognize this place, I think. I’ve seen it before. If someone were telling me a story about a cottage in the woods, this is the cottage I would picture.
Is this a story? I wonder. Am I in it?
I notice something else—a curl of smoke rising from the chimney. The man-people must have figured out about the moss. He must know now that I didn’t really put a spell on his hearth.
I edge around the side of the house. The thorny sticks have all been pulled out of the garden and added to the pile of weeds. The man-people must know I didn’t curse his garden.
I peer down the well. There is nothing in it but water. He must know I didn’t turn his well water into skunk spit and frog pee.
He must know everything. He’s seen through all my tricks.
I swallow hard. He is too clever for me.
I had such a good idea of the trick I was going to play next. I told the man-people I would give his cow wings and she would fly to the moon, and so I thought I would lead his cow away and hide her somewhere. After all, she might be on the moon for all he knew. Now my idea doesn’t seem so good. My tricks aren’t tricky enough, but I don’t know what else to do.
My eyes sting. My only hope is that maybe the man-people thinks I am coming tonight, so he hasn’t sprinkled his evil powder yet. I don’t want to become invisible. I don’t want to call and call and have no one hear me. It reminds me of a game Flit and Fleet and the other fairies like to play.
One of them will point at me and say, “I don’t see any fairies over there. Do you see a fairy?”
Another will answer: “Well, I see you and I see me, but there’s nobody over there.”
“It’s me!” I say. “I’m right here!”
“Do you hear a fairy?”
“I do not. I hear no fairies.”
“I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” I say.
It is a mean game.
I take little steps toward the barn, all the time looking back and forth for the man-people. He must be in the house.
There is no ring of salt now; there are no nails or bits of iron in the grass. For some reason, this upsets me more than anything else. It’s as if he thinks he has already won his fight against me.
Slowly, I open the creaky door of the barn, hoping the man-people is not listening. I’ve never been inside a place before. I’ve never felt walls all around, squashing me. Is it like being inside the belly of a wolf?
I creep in and shut the door. It’s not so bad. Light comes in from some holes in the ceiling and from the spaces between the boards of the walls. The cow takes no notice of me. Suddenly, I’m afraid I may have stepped into the man-people’s powder without realizing it.
“Can you see me, cow?” I ask. “Can you hear me?”
She is a beautiful brown cow with big black eyes. I pet her gently on the forehead, and my hand does not go through. No, I don’t think I’m a ghost yet.
There is a rope around her neck attached to a ring on the wall. It’s a metal ring, but I carefully pick the knot without touching it.
“You’re going to be free,” I whisper.
“Mooo!” she says.
I take the rope in my hands and pull, but she doesn’t come.
“Don’t you want to get away from the horrible man-people?” I ask.
“Moo!” she says again, loudly.
“Shhh!” I tell her. “He’ll hear.”
I can see why she doesn’t want to leave. The little barn is snug and small and has a wonderful smell of hay. I’m sure it’s as cozy as my nest. I pull the rope again, and she kicks the wall, making the barn shake.
“Oh, don’t make so much noise!” I beg. “I’m trying to rescue you.”
“MOOOOO!”
“Wicked Nix!” says an angry voice from outside. “Fairy Nix. I know you’re in there.”
I freeze. There are no windows, and the man-people is at the door. This is why I don’t like inside places. You can’t get out again.
“There is no one in here,” I say.
I don’t move, hoping he’ll go away again.
“If there is no one there, who is speaking?” the man-people asks.
“Only the cow,” I say.
“You don’t sound like my cow.”
“Only the mouse who lives in the wall.”
“Hmmm.” I hear th
e barn door open with a creak.
Quick as a mink, I hide myself in a big pile of hay.
“Nix, foulest of the fairies,” the man-people says. “I warned you.”
I try to make myself small. I wish I really were a mouse and could scurry away under his feet.
Through the hay I can see him creeping toward me. He has a handful of something. It must be his evil powder, but it’s not in a bottle or a jar; he’s just holding it against his bare skin. It probably only works on fairies.
“Don’t come any closer,” I tell him, my voice shaking. “I might not have any magic, but I do have my face and when you see it, you will scream and run away and your hair will turn white as bone forever . . .”
“I don’t have any hair,” the man-people says.
I hadn’t thought of that. “Well, maybe your eyes will fall out, then; I’m not sure. But the queen said I must never show my face to any peoples. It is too foul for them to bear.”
The man-people hesitates. I can see that he believes me. “I have this magic powder.” His voice is shaking a little, too. “I’ll . . . I’ll use it.”
I make my decision. It’s Midsummer’s Eve, and there’s no more time. Slowly, I stand up, letting the hay that was covering me fall to the floor.
“Gaze on me in terror, man-people!” I say. “For I am Wicked Nix, the foulest of the fairies!”
The man-people’s eyes open wide. “But . . .” he says. “You’re not a fairy. You’re a boy.”
11
I know that the man-people is lying to me. I know that I should laugh at him, yell at him, do something. But as soon as the awful words fall out of his mouth, it’s like I’ve been thrown into the icy cold river. I cannot move. I cannot speak.
Boy. He called me a boy.
He takes a step toward me, and I jump back.
“Don’t be afraid,” he says.
“I’m not!”
But I am. He still has the magic powder clutched in one hand.
“I thought you were something terrible,” he says, “but you are only a poor boy lost in the woods. Aren’t you?”
That word again. Boy. I do not like it. I do not like the softness that’s come into his voice. The gentleness. It’s the voice I use when I see a deer in the forest and don’t want her to run away.
