Fairy Tales

Posted by Robyn Dormois in Stories - Uplifting on 12-8-12

“Tell me again about the Fairies, Gran,” the tiny girl knelt at her great-grandmother’s feet, picking the lavender blossoms that sprung up among the meadow grasses.

A tan doe and her spotted fawn grazed quietly nearby, undisturbed by the presence of the humans encroaching upon their territory. The old woman had always been one to blend in well with nature, being from the Highlands of the Old Country, she’d spent most of her life amongst the wild things. The little girl, too, being cut from the same cloth as her grandmother – or so she had always been told – was as comfortable in the meadow as she was in her own kitchen.

“Which one is it you want to be hearin’ about, my wee one?” The old woman asked with a smile on her lips, for there was only one for which the little girl ever asked.

“Tell me the one about the Fairy King,” was her reply.

A chuckle rumbled deep in the old woman’s throat, as she stroked the spun gold of her granddaughter’s hair, letting the silky strands slip through her fingers. “Oh, aye, I’ll tell ye then. The Fairy King, he was a grumpy, old codger …”

“What’s a codger Gran?” The tiny girl interrupted with her standard question and her great-grandmother chuckled again.

“It means he was grouchy all the time, with a nasty disposition.”

“Why?”

“Weel, he was old as the stars and his bones creaked with his age, ye see. It took him a whole of a half hour to rise from his bed in the morning, his joints ached him so. Now hush until I’m finished, my wee one.”

The small girl hopped up onto the log on which her Gran sat and snuggled close to the old woman’s girth. “Okay,” was her only reply.

The old Scot proceeded to tell of the old Fairy King and his many aches and pains and how, on the nights of the full moon, he went to the meadow and danced with the fireflies and all the fairies of the land would be compelled to join him, for he was their king. And on these nights, his pains would leave him and he would be young and fair again.

Then, one day, as the king was taking his daily walk, stretching his painful joints, he happened upon a bonny young maiden, doing her needle work in the peace of the meadow. But, when he approached her, she was taken aback because he was so old and malformed with age and arthritis. The Fairy King was hypnotized by her beauty and reached for her hand for to give it a kiss but the lass pulled back, appalled, and shrieked, dropping her needlework and running from the place as quickly as her feet would take her.

The old king was furious that she would treat him with such disrespect and he picked up the sewing she had thrown aside and held it between his fingers. He was a tracker, you see and could find anyone by a personal item they left, just like a bloodhound, he was. So he tracked the girl back to her house, a small cottage in the glen, and waited til night, for there was a full moon. And, when he began to dance outside the girl’s window, she was awakened by the fireflies and she saw the King with his fairy court and she was mesmerized by his youth and beauty and compelled to dance with him. And he took her away and made her his bride.

The great-grandmother stopped here, waiting for the question that always came. “But, Gran, didn’t she see him, next day all old and ugly and get scared again?”

A smile curled the old woman’s lips and she answered with her ready reply, “Oh, the King was fair good with magic and he cast a spell that the maid should only see him as young and handsome. So …”

“They lived happily ever after,” the little one sighed and laid her head upon her grandmother’s breast.

Just then a sound came from far away across the meadow and the tiny girl lifted her head as if to listen.

“Taffeta, Gran, dinner.” A voice floated across the field and Taffeta popped up from her seat, instinctively giving her grandmother her hand.

“That would be mama, calling us in,” she stated matter-of-factly.

The shadows were growing long in the meadow and the sun would set before too long. The autumn nights were brisk of late and Gran would take her time getting back to the house. Her bones creaked, like the old Fairy King’s, these days and her gait had slowed to a lumber. It didn’t stop her from coming to sit with wee Taffy, however, and breathe the fresh air. Too much hustle and bustle in the house for her, she said, and Taffy tended to agree. They were of one mind, the old woman and the tiny girl. Taffy’s mother called it spooky.

By the time they made it back to the house and washed up, dinner was on the table, piping hot and smelling delicious. Taffy’s father, Charles, was already seated at the head of the table and Gwen, Taffy’s mother, bustled around the kitchen with last minute preparations.

“Come, sit, Gwen,” was Charles’ nightly reprise. “You’re buzzing around like a fly, you make me nervous.”

Setting the last few items on the table, Gwen finally succumbed and seated herself opposite her husband. The four comfortably settled, clasped hands, bowing their heads for grace, which was their dinner tradition.

“So, did you two have a nice day out of doors?” Charles asked of the girl and her grandmother. “It was quite warm today, for autumn.”

“Oh, yes,” young Taffy replied, warmly. “Gran told me about the Fairy King.”

The tiny girl did not see the sideways glance her grandmother gave to her mother. “Gran,” irritation tinged Gwen’s voice. “I’ve asked you not to fill her head with those stories. You will give her nightmares.”

Gran made an indignant noise in her throat. “Someone’s got to remember them once I’m gone. And lord knows, you have no interest. I’m just passing down the Scottish traditions. Besides, the wee bairn is old enough to know the difference between real and make believe, aint ye, Taffy?”

A broad smile spread across the little girl’s face. “I like to watch the fairies dance outside my window at night,” she replied, brightly.

Charles couldn’t suppress the chuckle that rose up from his throat.

Gwen shot him a look. “Charles, don’t encourage them!”

“Oh, Gwen, relax. All children hear fairy stories when they’re young. And a good imagination is a healthy thing. Shows intelligence,” he sounded almost proud, but looked down at his plate in concentration.

“And I wish you wouldn’t call her Taffy, sounds like candy. Her given name is Taffeta.”

“Weel, ye can’t name a child something like ‘Taffeta’ and expect no one to give her a nick name. It’s only natural.”

Gwen huffed and dropped the subject, paying attention only to her dinner. Gran winked slyly at her great-granddaughter who answered with a grin and the rest of the meal was eaten in silence.

That night Gwen was awakened by the voice of her daughter, gently whispering in her ear. She opened her eyes and forced them to focus. She saw Taffy standing in front of her, her tiny brow knit with a frown.

“What – what is it, honey? Are you sick?” Gwen pushed herself up on one elbow.

“Gran is cold,” she said, her voice sounding small. “I covered her with the blanket, but she’s so cold.”

Gwen reached for her robe and slipped her feet into her slippers. The autumn days were warm but the nights had taken on a chill. “Honey, why are you in Gran’s room? You should be in bed.”

“She called me. I heard her voice in the dark calling me, but when I went to see, she was asleep. Now she is so cold. C’mon,” she tugged at her mother’s hand.

“Okay, honey, I’m coming.”

Just then Charles stirred on his side of the bed. Opening his eyes, he squinted and mumbled, “Wassamatter?”

“Nothing, Charles, go back to sleep.”

Taffy practically dragged her mother down the hall toward the old woman’s room. The pair entered the room and there on the bed lay Gran, as peaceful and still as if she were sleeping. Gwen knew, however, as soon as she came through the door that her grandmother was gone. She instinctively grabbed her daughter and pulled the girl to her side, trying to shield her from this tragedy. There was almost a hint of a smile on the old woman’s face.

“Charles,” Gwen’s voice came out in a ragged whisper. She felt glued to the floor, her feet unable to move. Taffy broke away from her embrace and went to her grandmother’s side. She picked up her hand and held it to her small cheek.

“She’s so cold, mama.” Her daughter’s actions spurred her into motion. She went to her daughter’s side and took the old woman’s hand from her’s.

“Go wake your father.”

Taffeta did as she was told and soon Charles stood at her side, staring down at the still body that had once been Gwen’s grandmother. He put his arm gently around his wife’s waist. “We should call someone,” he said, finally.

The next few days were a bustle of activity. Charles took time off from work while Gwen dealt with the task of burying the dead. A constant parade of people trooped in and out of the house, bearing casseroles and words of sympathy. Gwen kept a brave face and Charles played the supportive husband, all the while, Taffy played quietly and tried to stay clear. She understood that the visitors only meant well, but she found herself rolling her eyes at their expressions of good thoughts. At first she had responded with the truth, her Gran was not gone – she simply wished to dance with the fairies in the moonlight. After a stern warning from her mother to “stop that nonsense”, she learned to smile and remain silent.

The day of the funeral brought strife between husband and wife. Gwen felt a funeral was no place for a four year old. Charles, on the other hand, said death was a part of life and that the ceremony would help Taffeta to say goodbye. He ultimately won and Taffy, dressed in her brown church dress with the pleats and tiny yellow and orange flowers, accompanied her parents to the graveyard.

Taffeta sat quietly at the edge of her great-grandmother’s grave in the folding chair that sat under the green awning brought in to shade the on-lookers from the warm autumn sun. She swung her feet and tried hard to listen to the minister as she knew she ought to do, but soon her mind wandered and her attention was drawn to a blue and black butterfly that flitted across the air over her Gran’s coffin. Suddenly and not of her own volition she was on her feet and following the fluttering insect as it rose higher in the sky and danced away from the gathering.

Gwen, who had not seen her daughter’s exit, sat rigidly in her seat, dark hair pulled tightly back into a bun. Her face was drawn from exhaustion but no tears stained her cheeks. She had yet to shed a single one. She glanced sideways and saw Taffeta bouncing across the cemetery lawn, arms outstretched in her effort to capture the butterfly. Gwen sprung to her feet and raced after the girl. “Taffeta,” she hissed, trying not to disrupt the minister’s speech.

Charles saw his wife and joined the exodus. Gwen grabbed Taffy by the arm and pulled her back. “What in the world are you doing?”

“It’s Gran, mama, look!” The young girl pointed toward the butterfly that had settled itself upon a sprawling oak.

“Will you stop this outlandish behavior! Your grandmother is not a butterfly, she’s -.”

Charles pulled Taffy from her mother’s grasp and gripped his wife by both arms. “Leave her alone, now, Gwen.”

Taffeta moved silently to a nearby rock and sat down to watch the butterfly, seemingly unaffected by her mother’s outburst.

“Children process things differently than we do.” The patience in his voice was strained. “It’s difficult for them to understand death. She’s just trying to …” He stopped when he saw the tears well in his wife’s eyes.

“Difficult for her?” She said, her voice a hoarse whisper. “I don’t understand!” She bent her head then and let the sobs overtake her. She had held the tears pent up for days and now there was no stopping them. She fell against her husband’s chest and he wrapped her gently in his arms.

“All I can think about is the last night of her life,” Gwen sobbed. “We argued. I got on to her about the fairy tales. The last words she heard from me were harsh and critical.” Gwen took a deep, steadying breath and wiped her tears with her handkerchief.

“But, Gwen,” Charles tried not to smile, as he knew the nature of the two women’s relationship, “the two of you have always bickered. That’s just how you were with each other. Don’t feel bad.”

“But, why, why did it have to be that way? Why couldn’t it be easy, the way it was with Taffeta?”

“Gwen, we are what we are. You are practical and direct and no-nonsense. Three of the reasons I love you. And just because you two didn’t see eye to eye, didn’t mean she didn’t love you.”

“But, did she know I loved her? Will I ever know that now?”

“She knew, sweetheart, she knew.” He stroked his wife’s back and they both turned to watch their daughter as she peered diligently up at the old oak. “And you’ll always have a little piece of her right there.”

That evening, Gwen and Taffeta sat on the bed, amongst the teddy bears and baby dolls, looking at one of Taffy’s favorite story books. Suddenly the four year old sprang to her feet and ran to the window, pulling the curtain to one side. “Look, mama. Gran is dancing with the fairies!”

Gwen had the overwhelming urge to pull the curtain shut and chastise her daughter. Then she saw the twinkle in the little girls eyes. She looked so much like her grandmother, Gwen couldn’t help but smile. She joined Taffy at the window and saw the sparkling of the fireflies as they flitted about the front yard. And there, amongst them, was the figure of her grandmother. She was not old and bent and gray, but young and beautiful as in her youth.

“See, mama. Doesn’t she look happy?”

Gwen pulled the little girl close to her and smiled. “Yes, Taffy, she surely does.”

King and Queen Fairy, 1910   Giclee Print
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