by A V Awenna
***
They were in the kitchen now, Vicky pouring coffee into the huge round mug she always used when she was stressed, whilst Heledd buttered some toast. Heledd was explaining her Postgraduate plans – she was returning to Aberystwyth to research the treatment of women in The Mabinogion, and how this related to the growth of patriarchy and denigration of the Mother Goddess. Vicky could only imagine what her fellow IT students would make of that. If Vicky opted for a postgrad course it would have to be a lot more practical than Heledd’s. But still, Heledd’s voice was gentle and soothing, and despite her tiredness it was easy for Vicky to just nod and say, ‘mmm-hmm’ now and again.
Heledd was explaining Rhiannon as an example of a goddess who’d been stripped of all power by male writers when Demi-Lee’s whistle cut through the morning.
‘That’s an impressive whistle,’ Heledd said.
‘It’s her greatest talent,’ Vicky replied, deciding not to add that it was probably Demi’s only talent. How could the kid be so perky after that horrendous night?
A few minutes later, Demi entered the kitchen, still whistling, her long, brown hair covering her shoulders. She stopped to pull a face at the granary toast Heledd was eating and went to the fridge for her cola.
With the three of them together, Vicky made a decision. ‘I thought we’d go up to the tower today. In broad daylight. Sober. See if we can work out what really happened last night.’
‘I already know.’ Demi was still busy pouring cola into a glass, her back turned to the others.
Vicky didn’t respond, so Demi continued. ‘You never believed in my fairy did you? You all laughed at me. So I never told you that he came back, every summer when I stayed here. Right up until you went away to Uni. Maybe a 6-year-old would have imagined him, but not an 11-year-old. And he came back last night, and he told me what happened.’
Vicky felt her cheeks burning. ‘De-mi. Don’t start this again, please.’
Demi turned and approached them, sweeping back her hair as she did so. Vicky gasped as she noticed something weird and rather disgusting on her cousin’s shoulder. It looked like a dead bird with a doll stuffed inside it. The bird’s head, body and wings sat on a pair of little man-legs in combat pants. It had to be crawling with germs, whatever it was.
‘What the hell is that?’ Vicky asked. ‘It’s vile.’
Demi approached the table and plonked down her drink, cola splashing over the tabletop. ‘This is Blackbird,’ she said, as she lifted the object from her shoulder and lowered it gently towards the kitchen table.
‘Don’t you dare put that filthy thing on there!’ A plastic bag was what Vicky needed; something to pick that thing up and put it in the bin where it belonged. Revolting object! But as she made that decision, the toy seemed to move, and Vicky yelped, leaping from her chair to a safe distance. She tried to speak, but couldn’t.
‘Is it alive?’ Heledd asked. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s just Blackbird, and he’s my friend.’ Demi replied. ‘Put the frying pan down, Vicky, and chill.’
Vicky replaced the frying pan on the draining board, and cautiously approached the table. She felt worse than she’d ever felt in her life – a dreadful night’s sleep and too much coffee had left her a bag of jitters, and now there was a manky dead bird on the kitchen table with something moving about underneath it.
‘What the hell is going on, Demi?’ Vicky croaked. What is that thing?’
In one fluid movement, arms appeared from under the bird wings and tipped back the hood made by the bird’s head and beak. A tiny man’s face glared up at Vicky. She grabbed the back of her chair to steady herself, turning pale and swallowing hard.
Oh my god! she thought, words taking flight before they could be spoken. It’s alive. It’s real.
‘He’s enchanting!’ Heledd cooed. ‘Don’t be afraid Vicky – he’s probably more scared of you than you are of him.’ The creature looked annoyed at that, so Heledd added, ‘although I’m sure he’s very powerful.’
Vicky couldn’t believe how calm Heledd was. There was a rat-sized man on the table, scowling at her. Okay, she thought, be rational; analyse what’s in front of you. But all she really wanted to do was squash it, like a hideous spider.
A miniature man, wearing a blackbird’s skin – head, wings and tail all of a piece, a macabre cloak. And what on earth did he have on underneath? His ragged black combats suggested he was a soldier, but his T shirt was pink with a glittery heart on it. It was totally the wrong shape for him, but then Vicky realised it was made for an exaggeratedly female figure – huge breasts and narrow waist.
They were doll’s clothes!
He had adorned himself with pendants, of bone, seed and a tiny glass bead, purple and iridescent, all hanging from strands of horse hair. He had to be real – nothing imaginary could be so grubby. His bare feet had left smudges on the table top.
Heledd was taking it all in her stride. ‘Hi Blackbird. Nice to meet you. Are you a fairy, a pixie, a gnome or what?’
‘Fairy. Don’t know gnomes or pixies, just fairies, elves and humans.’ His voice was heavily accented, rolling the ‘r’s. Soft, musical, and surprisingly deep for such a tiny person.
His bearded face, was thin, pale and pointed. His wide green eyes darted here and there, intelligent and wary, like a hunted animal. He tilted his head coquettishly, but didn’t smile.
He was eyeing their plates, and Vicky wondered if he was hungry. What did fairies eat? – Heledd would know, if anyone did. Vicky couldn’t bring herself to address the fairy directly, so asked Heledd to suggest something.
‘Traditionally people left bread and milk for fairies to keep them sweet. We can manage that – unless you’d prefer something else?’ Heledd asked.
‘What is that?’ Blackbird asked, indicating Heledd’s plate.
‘Toast with butter and yeast extract. You can try a bit, but not everyone likes it.’ She broke off a piece and offered it to him. He dipped a finger in the yeast extract, licked it experimentally, then grimaced and shook his head.
‘Well, that’s something we agree on,’ said Vicky, although it took a great deal of effort to speak. ‘There’s honey in the cupboard.’
The fairy’s eyes widened and he almost smiled. ‘Honey is good.’
Vicky buttered some chunks of brown bread, found the honey and dolloped a spoonful of it onto a plate, and offered it to him. He didn’t bother to thank her, but asked if he could wash first.
So Vicky provided a teacup of warm water on the draining board, where he removed his bird cape, folding it carefully. She heard his pendants chink on the rim of the cup as he washed his face and bare arms. She realised that maybe he wasn’t so thin and dirty out of choice. Why did this one fairy live in the human world, on the edge of a city? She was dying to know, but his attitude suggested he wasn’t giving much away.
A few minutes later, with Blackbird back on the kitchen table, Demi was explaining to Vicky – in between mouthfuls of crisp sandwich – what she could remember about Aelwen.
‘And she’s our great-great-ten-million-times-great-granny, can you believe that. And I made the magic last night that woke her up – me and the moonlight. Blackbird’s gonna take me over to her later.’
At the sound of his name, Blackbird looked up and nodded. He had been tearing off handfuls of buttered bread and dipping them in the honey. Vicky had balanced the plate on top of the honey jar to make it easier to reach, although it meant he was eating standing up. He held the bread in both hands as he ate, like a squirrel, and was acting very quiet and passive. But he was obviously an adult male, tough and wiry despite his tiny frame. He had the look of a survivor, and it seemed that occasionally remembering to act like a ‘sweet little fairy’ was just another survival trick.
I’ll be watching you, Vicky thought, you and this Aelwen. They needed the human girls for something – but what, and who would
it benefit?