An Ordinary Fairy

by John Osborne

  An Ordinary Fairy

  J O H N O S B O R N E

  This book is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright (c) 2010 by John Osborne

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover art Copyright (c) Julie Fain. Used by permission.

  The author may be contacted at http://anordinaryfairy.com

  Print Edition ISBN: 1451587899

  Print Edition EAN-13: 9781451587890

  For Suzie

  “My heart beats with yours”

  Acknowledgments

  A story begins as a spark in the storyteller’s mind, which is fanned into flame, and if luck prevails, a raging fire develops. Lighting the fire of An Ordinary Fairy was not a solitary task. While I spent many hours hunched over various computers crafting the words, inventing the characters, and imagining the locations, many people contributed their time, skills and advice to the story.

  First, thanks go to the early proofreaders who suffered through that awful first draft, but still found good things to say: Karin, Warren, Cheryl, Walt, and the two Julies.

  Tracy and Jo—thanks for being the middle crew, who helped add polish and take out the fluff.

  Special thanks to Elizabeth Barrette, who provided invaluable, though painful, professional editing skills, and who validated the accuracy of the various rituals described in the story.

  A group of reviewers at fanstory.com was kind enough to help a complete stranger, and so deserves mention: a1940sfan, CelticSoul, BB, and MTM.

  The final proofreaders were a diverse group from across the country, many of whom I’ve never met in person, but for whose help I will always be grateful: Karin, Warren, Carol, Rhonda, Dawn, Julie, Clara, Linda, Susan, Sharon, Gail, Chandra, my daughter Stacey, and my mother and enthusiastic supporter, Carmen Rucker.

  Special mention must go to Debra Dixon, an editor at Belle Bridge books, who owns the distinction of being the only person in the publishing industry who responded to a query with actual advice—and she did so twice. Her ideas sparked a major style revision that made the story what it is.

  My friend Dawn Johnson provided invaluable proofing, editing, advice and encouragement. Dawn, we should meet some time.

  Not enough thanks can be said for the love and support of my wife, Suzie. As Proofreader-in-Chief, she listened patiently as I read the story aloud, not once, but two times. Thanks, Babe, for tolerating the late nights and early mornings, the tantrums, and the swearing at the printer.

  I hope Willow is pleased with the results.

  Prologue

  Her back itched. The spot that always itched, in the center, between her upper and lower wing pairs. The same spot that had driven her crazy for decades. She tried to reach the offending prickle, but her arm was too short and too muscular, as always. A girl could hope, though.

  Fluttering her wings never helped either.

  She backed up to a small tree and rubbed her back against it, ooh-ing and ah-ing as the rough bark soothed the eternal irritation through her robe.

  A black Labrador retriever rushed up from behind, woofing a greeting as he took up the lead position twenty feet ahead, nose to the ground.

  “Hey, Shadow. Ready for a swim? Sorry you couldn’t get in the water this morning.”

  The photographer hadn’t wanted ripples on the water to spoil his pictures. Hmph! It was her pond after all, and the only reason she let him shoot pictures at all was … well, he was nice. And handsome. And tall. Of course, the whole world was tall to her. Something about him seemed familiar, too.

  Her face and neck tingled, which brought a smile. Dust motes in the air reflected the glow of her skin. When had she illuminated the last time?

  Songbirds gathered and circled about. Two blue jays lighted in a tree and watched as Shadow jumped off the path into a pile of leaves, rolled over on his back and wagged his feet in the air.

  “Does your back itch, too?”

  She pointed her open palm at the dog, murmuring soft words. He woofed again and sprang away toward the pond. The two jays took flight and swooped after him, screaming their excitement.

  Laughter spilled from her lips, then a startled gasp. Laughing? That hadn’t happened in a long time, either. What had this grey-eyed photographer done to her? She shrugged and walked toward the pond, pulling her hood forward. The birds flew along, circling about her and singing. She hummed a tune, a favorite old Irish song.

  A tremendous splash announced Shadow’s arrival at the pond. She reached it soon after and watched him paddle about from the stone ledge overlooking the water. The early evening sky was beautiful, that lovely deep blue that comes just before sunset. The treetops on the east bank glowed in the last rays.

  A laugh burst out again, almost a giggle. “You sure stirred things up.”

  Shadow paddled to the stone beach and toiled up a path cut in the rock. Once on the ledge he galloped toward her, stopped and shook snout to tail, showering her with water. She laughed again and pulled back her hood, shaking free golden blonde hair.

  “How’s the water?”

  The robe was loosely tied; it soon dropped to the rock and freed her naked body. How could she stay covered amidst nature’s beauty?

  The cold air was exhilarating. She stretched her arms, flexed each leg, and rippled her back muscles, watching her reflection dance in the water below. Cares fell away and merriment warmed her heart. A headfirst dive off the ledge left barely a ripple.

  The delicious cold water streamed across her skin and tightly furled wings. She frog-kicked just under the surface with powerful legs, searching the darkness for the perfect spot. Driving herself to the bottom, she crouched on the gravel, and then propelled upwards, powering to the bright surface overhead, bringing her wings up and forward. As she broke the surface, a mighty downward thrust threw her into the air amidst a spray of water. Tiny droplets flew off her vibrating wings, glittering in the evening light.

  Hanging ten feet over the water, she raised her arms to either side. The water below her glowing palms began to froth and large bubbles emerged, exploded and became shining balls. The orbs rose and spiraled about her as she slowly twirled twice around. Laughing, she pitched forward and returned to the water, swimming beneath the surface while the lights shadowed every turn. Accelerating, she burst through the surface and soared to treetop level. She hovered, surveying her forest home, her softly buzzing wings cooling her wet skin.

  Autumn colors surrounded her on every side, subdued by the evening light. The far margins of the woods sank into darkness. Here was her world: the trees, the animals, the water and the sky.

  She spun about and plummeted headfirst toward the pond, pulling up at the last moment to rush along just above the water, her body horizontal. The lights and birds rejoined her and followed her about the pond. Returning to the deep water near the ledge, she rose upright and gracefully dropped into the water. She swam on her back, murmuring to the birds, which had lighted on the ledge.

  A rolling of her stomach, which had started in flight, disturbed her peace. Again, something not normal. Perhaps her snack of mushrooms didn’t sit well. Her eyes fell on Shadow, who had remained on the ledge. He seemed observant, alert, about to bark. She pulled herself erect and scanned the bank the dog was watching, tilting her head to listen. Not a leaf stirred.

  She whistled and motioned for Shadow to join her. He bounded off the ledge and into the water, creating a momentary geyser.r />
  The evening gloom spread while they paddled about. Her mind found its way back to the photographer and his intense grey eyes. The way he looked at her, as if he’d never seen a woman before, was unnerving.

  Time to go. Emails were waiting. She paddled to the narrow cut in the rock and climbed up, Shadow right behind. Water dripped off her wings, which glistened even in the failing light. “Ready for some supper? I’m starving.” They reached the ledge and Shadow shook himself, showering her again.

  “Two can play that game.” She vibrated her wings for a few seconds in his direction. He barked and wagged his tail. She laughed, the sound echoing across the water. She dried her face and hair with the robe, ambling toward the path, while Shadow bounded ahead.

  She stopped and turned her eyes toward the pond. There had been a definite sound that time, something unnatural. She leaned her head to one side, listening. Her wings rose and began to twitch.

  No one could be there. She would have sensed a human. Must have imagined it. She turned back to the path and began to sing.

  Her stomach growled. A Snickers bar sounded good.

  One

  “Jeez, it’s colder than I thought,” Noah Phelps said to himself.

  The October air was crisp, but clear, with the promise of a beautiful sunrise teasing the eastern sky. He straightened his John Deere ball cap, snugged up his jacket, and closed the door to Number 13. Just outside the motel room was a workman’s ladder, leaned against the second floor balcony, which Noah ducked under at precisely the same moment that he stepped on a crack in the concrete walk. Not a black cat was in sight, though.

  “Your back is fine, Mom.”

  Noah had arrived at Hoopeston three days earlier on the thirteenth, a Friday, and was scheduled to be here thirteen days. His wallet held thirteen dollars in cash. On his thirteenth birthday, his parents gave him a camera, which led to his graduation from college with a fine arts degree in photography on June 13th, 1992. Thirteens were all around him, always had been, but this didn’t worry Noah, and he had, in fact, reasoned that thirteen was his lucky number. He was also unafraid of black cats, walking under ladders, and cracks in the sidewalk.

  Just two things frightened Noah: heights and the Gremlin.

  Logic demanded a fear of heights, Noah thought. Falling kills, which was an easy to understand cause and effect relationship, and fit with Noah’s desire to live an ordered, predictable life. A life led no more than six feet off the ground at any time.

  Noah feared the Gremlin just as much, because it trailed disorder in its wake. The Gremlin caused your camera to fail at that no-one-will-ever-be-able-to-get-a-shot-like-this-again moment. The Gremlin allowed light to leak unseen into your darkroom, made light meters read incorrectly, and covered the sun with clouds the instant you clicked the shutter. Noah felt sure the Gremlin was a real, mean-spirited supernatural creature: a photography demon.

  He walked south past the long line of doors toward Henning’s Root Beer Stand. A breeze chilled his damp hair and sent a shiver through him.

  “Why couldn’t I have found a nice indoor job,” he said, then felt eyes on him. Sam, the day clerk in the office, appeared to be looking for Noah’s companion.

  Busted.

  Noah waved, sheepish, and turned his gaze back toward Henning’s. His mother had cursed him with talking to himself, as her mother had cursed her. Noah had taken the affliction to new heights by also talking to inanimate objects. Mostly his cameras.

  After the one block walk along Illinois State Route 1, he pushed open the heavy glass door at Henning’s. A quaint, converted drive-in, the intercoms and menu boards hung by the indoor tables instead of in the parking lot. He glanced toward the rear of the building, where he knew a group of old men expected him. One of them waved and hallooed, leading to a chorus of greetings.

  Noah walked to the coffee maker first, since his adopted son status earned him the privilege of filling his own cup. The shapely waitress who presided over the counter gave him a flirty smile as he poured, so he grinned and winked. He liked to think his trim, muscular frame elicited this usual reaction, but he knew better. His magical grey eyes were the thing, an old girlfriend had said.

  The Henning’s Gang, as Noah called them, sat at their reserved table, some in denim overalls, and some in Carhartt’s. Harry, the big talker, commanded the show, assisted by next-in-charge Frank, the comedian. Louie, a retired farmer, sat quietly, content to just listen. The oldest was Lawrence, who professed an inability to hear but joined in the conversation anyway. A new member, unknown to Noah, sat at the table today, dressed in shirt and slacks with brightly polished shoes.

  Animated discussion punctuated with laughter came from their table, more than should be expected on a Monday morning, but then they had likely all been up since 4:00. They offered loads of unsolicited wisdom, and the years of toil in their gnarled hands and crooked backs demanded respect. Best of all, they knew every back road and trail within twenty miles. Noah liked them, but he also needed them. The conversation paused as he sat down, with the aromas of strong black coffee, tobacco, and hair tonic washing over him.

  “Well, young man, what direction are we off to today?” Harry asked.

  “Wait, Harry, Noah hasn’t met Stanley yet,” Frank said. “Stanley, this is Noah Phelps, photographer extraordinaire.”

  Noah had nodded to the newcomer when he sat, and keeping with protocol, stood and offered his hand to Stanley, who, also following protocol as the elder, remained seated and shook firmly.

  “Good to meet you, Stanley,” Noah said.

  Stanley smiled. “Same here. Heard a lot about you already.”

  Noah laughed as he sat down. “Oh, I’m sure.”

  “Tell him what it is you’re doing here, Noah,” Harry urged.

  “It’s quite simple really. I photograph nature and write articles for magazines. Right now, I’m on assignment to shoot as many Illinois backwoods ponds as I can find for an article in Outdoor Midwest magazine. Preferably natural ponds rather than man-made, unless they’re really old. They want an article about how these ponds are disappearing.”

  Stanley nodded. “You’re a farm boy, aren’t you?”

  Very observant.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “It’s hard to get the farm out of a guy,” Stanley said. “So where you from?”

  “Wisconsin, northeast of Madison. I grew up on my dad’s dairy farm.”

  “He’s looking for ponds at least as old as Lawrence here,” Harry interjected with a laugh.

  “What?” Lawrence asked.

  “Never mind,” Harry said. “So where you goin’ today, Noah?”

  Noah started to answer but before he could speak, Louie did. “Southeast. He should go southeast.”

  So, Louie, you do have functioning vocal cords.

  “Southeast?” Harry said. “Why would he go that way? Nothin’ out there but Jones Woods.”

  “Jones Woods?” Noah asked. “No one mentioned that before.”

  Lawrence scowled at Louie, and then turned to Noah. “That’s ‘cause you got no business goin’ there, is why. Bad stuff happened at that place, and you don’t need to go there. Them are bad people.”

  “Bad stuff?” Noah asked. “Like what?”

  “Just bad stuff,” Lawrence said. “Some people was kilt, years ago. Least most people think so. Police say they just disappeared. That woods is a bad place, I tell ya, ya shouldn’t go down there.”

  “When did this happen?” Noah asked.

  “Oh, thirty or so years ago,” Stanley said. “Quite a big play in the papers. Lots of stories about ghosts and strange goings on ever since. Doubt there’d be anything interesting anyway, the woods is so thick you can’t see fifty feet into it. The daughter still lives out there by herself. She was always pretty shy, but she became a real recluse after her parents vanished. Downright hermit, she is. You almost never see her around town. Little bitty thing, cute as a button if she’d just smile a little.” />
  “She’s a witch, they say,” Lawrence said in a loud whisper, as if someone might overhear. “Living out there alone in the wild ain’t natural.”

  Stanley rolled his eyes as Frank took up the story. “I hear that every now and then she’ll get into a to-do with Chester Jones. He’s heir to the Jones family fortune and keeps a feud going, they say. Claims the Joneses were tricked into selling the property to the parents.” He looked toward Stanley. “Their name was Brown, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Stanley said. “The daughter’s name is Willow. Anyway, most people shy away from the woods, except Louie here.”

  All eyes turned to Louie, who was looking out the window and sipping his coffee, seemingly ignoring the conversation.

  Harry broke the uncomfortable silence. “Louie works for the Brown’s daughter.” Another long pause ensued.

  “Just odd jobs,” Louie said in a low voice.

  Wow, you’re up to eight words now.

  From experience, Noah knew the old men’s tale was half truth and half conjecture. “Are there any ponds on the property?” he asked.

  Everyone looked at Louie again. “One,” he said.

  Harry took command of the situation and shifted the conversation in a new direction, literally, suggesting Noah should shoot around Milford, to the north, the opposite way from Louie’s suggested course. Everyone agreed and described numerous back roads and shortcuts to wooded areas that might have ponds. Noah scribbled in a small spiral notebook.

  Everyone volunteered help except Louie. He sat for a few minutes without speaking, then drained his coffee cup and said his goodbyes. As he left, with the slightest motion of his head, he indicated Noah should follow.

  What do you want?

  Noah kept one eye on Louie. The old man stopped outside to withdraw a cigarette from his shirt pocket with his left hand, while his right hand dug in his pants pocket for a lighter. He cupped his hands around the cigarette to light it, took a long drag, and peered through the window at Noah. A jerk of his head again signaled Noah to follow. He walked away, passed the corner where he should have turned to go downtown, and instead walked north toward the motel.