A Fairy's Guide to Disaster

by A W Hartoin

  The ladies discussed the purchases and how many men it would take to move the desk. Then they walked away. I couldn’t imagine how many it would take. The thing was huge. Bigger than anything I’d ever seen. As I fluttered above it, eyeing the points that had so recently poked me, I had an idea. I landed on the worn green felt on the desk’s writing surface, went to the nearest bin, and clambered up the side. Resting my arms on the edge, I peered inside. Weapons. They could all be weapons. I spotted one with just a tiny golden ball, the size of my head, on one end and a wicked sharp point on the other. The earring would be heavy, but wood fairies weren’t weak. I could handle it.

  I let go of the bin, flew up, and hovered over the jewelry. Grabbing the earring would be difficult. I hadn’t mastered the delicate art of flying upside down and the thought of landing in the bin again was very unattractive. The brown pile under the table was still snoozing, but who knew how long they’d stay that way. If they woke up and attacked, I had to have a weapon, so I decided to go for it.

  I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and flexed my wing joints the way Dad instructed me. When I opened my eyes, the world was inverted. I’d done it. Not very well, Dad would’ve said. My wings refused to hold me steady. I rocked back and forth, bouncing up and down with every air current, but I was right over the bowl and the desired earring. With a shift of my wings, I lowered myself within arm’s reach. My hand was just big enough to get a good grip on the shaft. I flexed my wings again, but before I could rise out of the bin, an air current caught my wings and drove me down. My forehead hit a necklace bead and the blow unbalanced me. I flipped upright, scraping my knees on several other earrings, but I managed to hang on to my prize. I flew straight up and hovered above the bin, shaking from the effort.

  “Not so bad, Dad,” I said, a little embarrassed to be talking to someone who wasn’t there. But the words felt good. I liked to think that he’d be proud of me. I was doing things he would’ve encouraged if Mom wasn’t always so worried about me getting hurt.

  I flew back down the aisle and landed on the floor in front of the table where the brown fairy pile lay quivering. I found myself quivering, too. Maybe this wasn’t my best idea after all. But it was the best I had and besides, I was curious. I’d never met another species before.

  I walked under the table, holding my earring with the point toward the lump. I couldn’t hold it still. The point kept jumping around until I rested the shaft on my hip. I felt like a knight ready for a joust with my trusty lance. All I needed was a horse and perhaps a bit more courage.

  “Hello, there,” I said to the pile, my voice barely more than a whisper.

  The pile did not move.

  “Um, hello. Wake up.” I stepped closer and held the earring farther forward.

  A couple of hands shot out, but they didn’t wake. I took more steps until I was close enough to distinguish the silky texture of the brown fur and tried again.

  “Hello. I need some help. Wake up,” I said.

  I tucked my hair behind my ears, bit my lip, and poked what looked like a hip with the tip of my earring. Nothing.

  “Oh, for goodness sake. What’s wrong with these things?” I asked as I poked another one. The pointy end of the earring was quite painful. I knew that from experience. What was wrong with them?

  I jabbed another one without any care for the damage I might cause, but the creature didn’t do anything but snore.

  “They won’t wake,” said a voice from behind me.

  I jumped and spun around, holding my earring tightly. In front of me stood a curious creature that looked as though it’d been carved from the table leg it stood beside. It was a golden brown complete with wood-grained skin, long spindly arms and legs, and no discernible clothing. Long, thin sticks stuck out of its head and it hurt my neck to look up at it. The creature was twice my height and had black eyes beneath wood-grained lids. Although I couldn’t tell whether the creature was a boy or a girl, in my heart I instantly categorized it as a male about ten years older than me.

  “They won’t wake,” he said again.

  “Why not?” I asked, my voice shaking despite my efforts to hold it steady.

  “They’re trow. They wake at dusk, never before,” he said.

  “Oh.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  The wood-like creature lifted its knee, then extended a leg and took a carefully balanced step toward me. The step was so slow it disarmed me completely and I nearly giggled.

  “What happened to you?” he asked.

  I clutched my earring. I no longer felt like giggling.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “You’re covered with bruises and scratches.”

  I looked down and realized he spoke the truth. Some of them were fairly fresh from the jewelry bin. The rest were dried and flaking from when the mantel had been torn off the wall.

  “There was an accident,” I said.

  “A bad one, looks like. Do you need help?”

  “I’m looking for someone. A little boy.”

  “A wood fairy like us?” it asked.

  I stared at the creature. Did it mean us as in the two of us? How could we both be wood fairies? He didn’t even have wings. The creature took another slow step forward and I took a step back.

  “I am a wood fairy, although a different type, as you can see,” he said. “I’m Soren Maple. And you are?”

  “Matilda Whipplethorn. What type are you?”

  “I’m a dryad.”

  “I’m just a plain old wood fairy, I guess,” I said.

  Soren’s face looked as hard as oak, but it curved into a gentle smile. Warmth and sweetness radiated off of him. I could find nothing inside myself that said to fear him.

  “There’s nothing plain about you,” he said.

  I smiled back at him.

  “Come with me, Matilda Whipplethorn, and we shall see,” said Soren.

  “See what?” I asked.

  “If we can find your little boy.” Soren turned and walked away with his high-stepping, slow gate. I glanced around. The antique mall lay quiet and deserted except for the occasional human. I wasn’t sure I should take his help, but neither did I want to wander around aimlessly. It really wasn’t much of a choice. I hefted the earring and followed him through a warren of wooden chair legs and hoped for the best.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE furniture stood like a gleaming maple forest in a quiet corner of the antique mall, each piece elegantly carved and smelling of lemon oil. I stared with wonder at the canopy bed in particular. Its four posts twisted toward the ceiling and the silk lining in the top formed a beautiful sun-burst pattern. The huge headboard below was a riot of scrollwork and various fruits carved with such artistic talent as I had never seen.

  “Oh,” I whispered.

  Soren ducked his head. A tinge of pink bloomed on his golden cheeks. “Welcome to my home.”

  “It’s so beautiful. Do you live on the inside?” I asked, although I doubted it. Soren was so big, how could he fit?

  “No, we nest on the outside.” Soren waved at the furniture.

  I eyed the area Soren was waving at, but couldn’t see anything.

  “You should wave as they’re waving to you,” he said.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Everywhere. You only have to really look in order to see. Just like humans. Although humans never bother to look.”

  So I really looked. I ran my eyes carefully over the beautiful bed, the matching highboy, the bookcases, and dressers. And then they were there, dozens of spindly arms just like Soren’s, waving at me in a most cheerful fashion.

  “I see them. I see them,” I said, waving wildly.

  “My family,” said Soren as the dryads climbed slowly down the furniture, stopping to wave every few steps. When they got closer, I felt a blush come over my own cheeks. They didn’t seem naked, but I couldn’t make out any clothes either. I was able to ignore this with Soren because there was only one of him. A whol
e family of possibly naked dryads made me want to run the other way, no matter how friendly they seemed. I backed up a few steps, uncertain about what to do.

  “What’s wrong, Matilda Whipplethorn?” asked Soren.

  “They’re…” I hesitated. Should I say it? I didn’t want to insult anyone.

  “Yes?”

  “Are they wearing clothes?” I asked at last.

  Soren grinned at me. His wood-grained lips stretched farther than I’d thought possible.

  “Oh, thank you. So kind of you to say.”

  I bit my lip. “Um.”

  “Mother,” said Soren, waving to the closest dryad who was walking toward us with painfully slow steps, even slower than Soren’s. She had the same intricate wood-graining, but she was slightly shorter with large eyes and a small bow of a mouth.

  “Mother, this is Matilda Whipplethorn and…” Soren grinned even wider, “she thinks we’re naked.”

  Soren’s mother clasped her hands together. “Music to a mother’s ears.”

  I looked back and forth between them. Soren’s mother laid a warm hand on my shoulder. Again, I felt nothing but sweetness coming from the dryad.

  “We’re not naked, dear. We’re painters,” Soren’s mother said.

  “Painters?” I asked. “What do you paint?”

  “The greatest canvas. Ourselves.” She held her hand up in front of me and rubbed away a strip of wood-graining, revealing pale brown skin.

  “Oh.” I didn’t want to state the obvious. Paint wasn’t clothes. No one with sense would think so. Maybe Soren and his family weren’t dangerous, but they might be crazy. “I think I’d better go.”

  “Does this help?” Soren’s mother stepped back and appeared to lift her skin right off her hip.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Our clothing, dear. We’re painters. We paint everything to match our beloved trees. It is a huge compliment that you thought the illusion perfect.”

  I dropped my hands. “It is perfect.” I turned to Soren. “I was worried you were naked the whole time.”

  “I should’ve known. You looked at me so oddly.” Soren laughed and was joined by his family. They all crowded in, patting me and giving thanks for my compliments.

  Soren’s mother put her long arm around my shoulders and led me away. “Don’t crush the child, people. I suspect Soren brought her to us for a purpose, not just to feed our vanity. Vanity is our great weakness, that and walnuts. You don’t have any walnuts, do you?”

  “Sorry, no,” I said.

  “Too bad,” she said. “What would you have us do, my son?”

  “I would have us help.” Soren put a hand on my shoulder. “Tell them, Matilda Whipplethorn.”

  “I’m looking for someone. A little boy. He’s a wood fairy. A wood fairy like me, I mean.”

  “He’s your brother?” asked Soren’s mother. “Another Whipplethorn?”

  I grimaced. “Not a bit. He’s not my brother and he says he’s a Whipplethorn, but he’s not.”

  Soren examined my earring and tested the sharp tip with his finger. “What is he then?”

  “He’s an Ogle. His family moved into Whipplethorn Manor late and changed their name. My family is original to the house. We came with the first stick of wood. We’re real Whipplethorns.”

  All the dryads nodded as one. “So sad,” some said.

  “I thought it might be something like that. Such a sad thing,” said Soren’s mother.

  “Sad? It’s not sad. He’s just pretending to be a Whipplethorn and going around acting better than us when he isn’t even one of us.” I planted the ball of my earring on the floor and held it like a flagpole.

  “Perhaps you’re too young to understand. Take us for example. We dryads are tied to our trees.” She gestured to the furniture. “First we lived in our trees in the forest, and then our trees were cut and fashioned into furniture. We’ve traveled from house to house and finally to this antique mall, but we’ll never willingly be separated from our trees. Something terrible must’ve happened to separate the Ogles from their home. You’re wood fairies like us. You must feel the same about your trees as we do.”

  I considered what she was saying. I’d never thought about it before, but my parents said we came with the first stick of wood to Whipplethorn Manor. They said that our family had always been with the mantel. Did that mean we were with the mantel before it was a mantel? I did know Gerald’s family didn’t belong to any particular bit of wood in the house. They just found an empty spot and burrowed in. Nobody minded. Other families moved in when they needed a place. It was the changing of the name that bothered people. I once heard Grandma Vi describe it as disloyal. Disloyal to what? Was Gerald’s family disloyal to their original tree?

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess they must’ve left the Ogle house for a reason. I never thought about it.”

  Soren’s mother squeezed my shoulder. “About this little boy, who are you looking for?”

  “Gerald. He’s about this tall.” I gestured the appropriate height. “His wings are not as…” I stopped. I was going to say that his wings weren’t luminescent like mine because he wasn’t a Whipplethorn, but it didn’t seem like the kind of thing Soren’s mother would want to hear. “His wings are blue and grey.”

  “Why did he leave you?” asked Soren.

  “He wanted to find his parents. I tried to tell him to wait, that they would find us. But he climbed out the window and ran away.”

  “So your parents are gone, too,” said one of the other dryads.

  “Yes, but they didn’t leave us. It was an accident.” I flushed and looked around, daring anyone to say otherwise. “I’m the babysitter and I decided we had to stay together when the humans came. Maybe I should’ve let him go when we were still at Whipplethorn.”

  “Tell us what happened,” said Soren.

  He gestured for his family to sit in a semi-circle around me. They carefully folded their long legs and arms in and waited for me to tell my tale. I bit my lip, searching for the words to explain what had happened.

  “Humans came,” I said.

  “They always do,” said one of the dryads.

  I told them everything about the humans, the mantel, Gerald, baby Easy, and my sister, Iris. The dryads asked few questions. They seemed to know everything before it happened in my story. When I finished, Soren rose to his feet and told his family to do the same. It was a slow process.

  “You must find Gerald immediately,” he said. “Your sister is right. It’s not safe out here for little ones on their own.”

  I looked around at the dryads standing around me with expressions of worry on their painted faces. “What could happen?” I asked.

  “Well, there’s the spriggans for one,” said Soren.

  “We met one,” I said. “He came into the mantel.”

  The dryads murmured to each other. An intense worry radiated off them and settled in my chest. All I could think about was Iris. She was alone with Easy. Alone.

  “Was the spriggan very interested in Gerald?” asked Soren’s mother.

  “He offered to take him off our hands,” I said.

  Soren’s mother turned to him and he began giving orders. He told certain dryads to organize a search and another one to get supplies. He ordered his mother to take care of me and she led me around the back of the bed to one of the legs. It looked normal from a distance, but up close it was out of proportion. The Maples’ home was built right on the leg and painted to match. Soren’s mother opened a long, narrow door at the back and ushered me inside. Tiny pinholes in the walls let in light. My eyes took a moment to adjust in the dim glow after the glaring light of the antique mall. When I could see, I was astonished by what I found. The house was bigger than it looked, with several rooms and comfortable furniture. Everything was wood or painted to look like it. Soren’s mother sat me on a cushy couch and left the room. The fabric on the couch was silky and painted to look like Birdseye maple, my favorite wood.
I ran my hands over the fabric again and again. It was so perfect I wished my parents could see it.

  Soren’s mother came back into the room with a warm cloth and a set of clothing, wood-grained, just like hers. “Here, dear. Tend your scratches and change your clothes. They’re ruined, anyway. There are some here in the mall who would help you, but they’d be shy of you in your present condition.” She turned and left, closing the door behind her.

  I brought the clothes to my nose and sniffed them. They smelled like Dad’s wood shop just after he’d cut a fresh piece of maple. I breathed the scent in until my lungs could take no more, and then slowly let the air out, pressing the fabric to my face. I heard the door open and looked up.

  Soren’s mother peeked around the edge of the door. “Hurry, dear. There’s no time to lose.” Then she disappeared again.

  I nodded and wiped my face and scratches. There must’ve been an antiseptic on the cloth because all my scratches tingled and left a pink tinge on the cloth. I realized how awful I must look. It was a wonder Soren didn’t run the other way when he saw me. I probably looked like I’d been in a war, and in a way, I had. A war where I seemed to lose every battle.

  I slipped off my tattered jumper, blouse, and tights. The blouse survived all right, but my jumper and tights were trashed. The new clothes were way too long for me, but fit in every other respect, except that there was no place for my wings to emerge. The clothes felt wonderfully clean and new against my skin. They were soft, probably woven from cotton and painted with intricate detail.

  The door opened again and Soren’s mother asked, “Are you finished?”

  “Yes, but the clothes are too long and I can’t get my wings out.”

  She came in with a piece of glass. “No matter. We’ll fix that.” She cut the hem of the pants and the cuffs of the sleeves. Behind me, she cut long slits down the back of the top and pulled my wings through.

  “Done,” she said, patting my shoulder.

  “If the spriggans got my sister, what would they do to her?” I asked.

  “How old is she?”