Fae

by Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  But Kadie’s smile fell. None of those people had known her for two years. And how would any of them have known about that strange little rock shop, or the geode Solly brought home and broke with a hammer, just as he’d described it? She pressed both thumbs into her temples. He. Who was he?

  Tell you the truth, I didn’t feel much of a need to make myself scarce when I saw what I saw in Solomon’s eyes. He’s a special one, that little guy. Call it a syndrome or part of a spectrum or whatever you will, but there’s another facet to his innocence; a kind of clarity of mind you humans don’t often have. And it was obvious right away, just in the way he looked at me, like there was nothing in the world to be surprised about, finding a hairy little dude inside his geode. Truth be told, I knew I’d been sent here for a reason, and the moment he split my world open, I was faithfully his.

  That being said, I should probably get a few things off my overgrown chest here and now, because you’re a wonderful mamacita and all, but you’ve got some things wrong about your kid. Like when Solly seems to assign life to everyday objects. That’s actually my fault (mostly). Remember that time he propped his dirty sock up on the end table and said it was “watching him” play Mario?

  I saw that look on your face, your forehead all creased up, and I just want you to know, he didn’t actually think the sock was alive. Thing is, I’d kind of made a sleeping bag out of that sock. The little dude knew I was in there, peeking out through the hole where his big toe had worn through, but Solomon is smart enough not to mention the little “troll” living in his sock; he knows the meaning of your looks, too, and he knew how much worse that would sound than saying the sock was alive.

  And come on! If he’d glued a couple of googly eyes to the sock, you wouldn’t have thought it was all that crazy, now would you? Kid just wants a friend, is all. Even though you can’t see me, and a lot of times (mostly so he doesn’t get in deep shit) I stay outta sight, he knows when I’m around. So give the kid a break—it isn’t about the sock, ok?

  And man is he smart, but you have to take the time to understand his logic. Like just the other day. I was up on his ceiling fan making a regular banquet out of all the dust up there (don’t judge, you eat what you like, I’ll eat what I like!) when you yelled at him for licking the soap off his hands and sent him to his room. So there I was with a nice five o’ clock of sweet, gray fuzz, and I hear Solly down below me start whispering to himself (by the way, he does that when he’s figuring something out, so don’t mess with that, all right?) So he says, real softly, “I ate it because you said there are germs inside my body, duh!”

  Duh, mamacita! How else is he supposed to kill those nasty germs that live inside him? Aren’t you always harping on him to wash up, and didn’t you just read him that Body Book that showed all those little angry-faced germs that sometimes make him sick? So get with the program! He’s got his reasons for the things he does.

  Another thing, could you maybe keep that side zipper pouch on his backpack cracked open a bit? I know you think he’s fiddling around with that zipper and has some obsessive compulsive disorder going on, but really, it’s me who asked him to keep it open. It gets awfully damn stuffy in there on the way to school and back, and I’d like a little fresh air, if you don’t mind.

  You see, he’s never really alone when he sits by the door all during recess, waiting right where he knows his teacher will come out so that he doesn’t miss her and get left behind on the playground or locked out of school somehow. I know this bothers you, and you really want to see him playing with friends, but the kid’s got anxiety, what can you do? At least he’s got me to talk to. Those other little shits are just waiting for an opportunity to tease him, anyway. Least he’s smart enough to stay out of their way. Besides, a hob makes a hell of a friend, long as you don’t insult me. (Not that I’m one to hold a grudge. I forgave you for sucking me up in the vacuum. Twice.)

  Now, I know you think you’ve failed on a lot of levels, and it really isn’t any of my business when you turn out the light before leaving his room so he won’t see your tears, or you hide on the floor behind the kitchen counter just so you can get a good cry in without him noticing. Look, he might not always notice, but I do. And thing is, I’ve got a serious case of asthma and I am nasty allergic to negativity. So get a hold of yourself, mamacita!

  I’m saying this out of my own self interest, I know, and you aren’t my human to take care of, but if I’m gonna stay (and that’s a big if) it would make it easier on both of us if we could move past all the motherly guilt that really has no place in Solomon’s world, and just try to do what we can for the kid. Because like it or not, we’re kind of partners in this. Like family, no?

  I know, I know… I have no concept of what it’s like to birth a child (thank you Mother Earth for your great mercies) and I could never love him the way you do, or know what it’s like to know that your child will never truly fit in, and will always feel a little alien to you, and to everyone else, for that matter. But I happen to know that some things do exist that you humans don’t allow yourselves to see (ahem) and just because Solomon has a different way of viewing the world doesn’t mean his life is going to be eternally shitty. So can we clear out the black aura that hangs out all over the ceiling? Because this emotional pollution is killin’ me, and last time I took a lick of Benadryl, that shit knocked me out for a week!

  Look, I just want you to know that I get it. I see how you look at his baby picture propped on your desk (you can thank me for licking the dust off later), and I know how you wonder what connections didn’t quite take behind those vivid blue eyes. I’ve watched your smile fall as you look back at your two kids in the rear view mirror, and the little one greets you with a smile and a wave, while Solomon stares right back without a flicker of emotion.

  I get it.

  I know how that pains you. Just, keep your eyes on the road, bueno? And quit using that damn wet vac in the car! Don’t you know I could live for weeks off that crust of spilled milk and all that glorious mold on the month-old cracker crumbs?

  Seriously, though—Solomon loves when you call it a drive-in lunch on those days you’re in a rush and have to feed the boys in the car because you don’t have time to unbuckle them before heading out again. And when you stay up extra late to tell him stories about when you were a little girl, and all those times you cater to his obsession that every snack and meal be a surprise. It’s the little things you do that show him how much you love him. Believe me; I get it. And so does he.

  Kadie pressed her fist hard over her mouth, shaking as she fought to keep her sobs silent. She found Solly through her lens of tears, wondering again just how smart he was. But it couldn’t be. Nothing made sense. Whoever it was who’d written to her knew them both way too well. And yet, she wasn’t so scared anymore. She must be losing it. Had that grape juice they’d had with dinner fermented somehow?

  She stared at the heap of dirty clothes in the laundry basket across the room, a little white sock with a large hole in the toe glowing florescent in the moonlight.

  I know you won’t believe any of this, despite all that crap you read to your kids about Tom Thumb and Peter Pan, and the even shittier stuff you write. You think that because humans are so good at separating themselves from the natural world, beings like us have all disappeared. Or worse, that we never existed outside of primitive misconceptions of the natural world. But far from it. You’re always exploring, always bringing little tidbits of nature into your home; a houseplant, a museum store fossil, a blue jay feather, a seashell from a tourist shop, a geode. And we “little folk” come along, too.

  We’re here, floating in the storms of static that cling to your endless electronics, hovering above your produce and houseplants among the gnats and aphids, even crawling through the mold and rotten crumbs in your forests of carpet. All we require is a home where little ones leave leftovers on their plates and coat the ceiling with dark, sweet dreams, and mamacitas who throw their arms up at last and leave
the sugary drips in the fridge, the stains on the carpet and the dust on the fans. Those are your offerings to us. Hell, we live to clean up your messes and lick your plates! The spirits are still here. We never left.

  Besides, you and I, doll, we’ve got a lot in common. If you weren’t 1,000 times my size, a century too young, and easily put off by mass amounts of body hair… never mind. Besides, me and that dryad in the back yard kinda got a little thing goin’ (by the way, if you ever cut that overgrown spruce down, there will be hell to pay!) But I get you, you know.

  Sometimes I actually take a snooze alongside you, just to lick up your dreams. I see those peonies from your childhood memories, crushed up against your face while the little ants run out all over your nose, a pink bit of heaven you plucked from the Mexican family’s field because they won’t miss just one. But then you felt bad and fished out a crumpled bill and left it in the mud, like it grew there. We fairy kind know, and I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t a Goodie.

  And entertaining as hell; the way you dance at the kitchen sink to the music in your head while you scrub the dishes and walk away with your shirt half soaked. How you teach the boys how to walk like crabs and scuttle around the house with them like some kind of oversized, inverted spider. The mountains of laundry you’d rather write poetry about than actually touch, and the green days of your youth that you whisper to your boys about, the oaks and maples and tulip trees that drank straight from the lake, all of them singing crimson and amber in the fall, crushed like candy under foot.

  This desert doesn’t sing for you, and your dreams feel hollowed out and wind-worn here, crumbling like the slow death of sandstone, but here you are in the cluttered kitchen, dancing again to remember. And when I see you like this, sometimes I wonder. Maybe it isn’t the kid I’m here to look after. Maybe it’s you who needs a little more magic in your life.

  But then again, it’s Solly who’s got the Second Sight, while all you’ve got is a vivid imagination. But Solly, well, I would only make more trouble for him as the years go on. You’ll be all right, mamacita. Just keep lovin’ that boy of yours, it’s all he needs to grow, and don’t forget to water the cactus a couple times a year (those little sprites get pretty TOed when you forget).

  See, thing is, that little set of clothes you’ve started making for Solly’s stuffed monster is actually for me. The kid’s got a big heart, like his momma, and I appreciate the gesture, you gotta believe me. But like I said before, there’s rules and shit. You just can’t offer clothing to a hob; not if you expect him to stick around, anyway. The choice is yours, of course. Finish the clothes and I’ll be off. Or don’t.

  I’ve already written my goodbyes to Solomon, just in case, so if you see him inspecting the dust on the floor boards or the shape of scars on your Dracaena’s leaves or a portrait in the sunlit threads of your balding drapes, he’s just reading, is all. I just wanted you to know, you who never bother to dust and leave that burnt skin on your pans to flavor your food; you with your sticky kitchen floor and your smog of worry; you sitting there with your knees up to your chest, hiding behind the kitchen counter, eating loneliness.

  You, mamacita, keep a lovely home.

  ~*~

  “Mom?”

  Kadie straightened, pressing her back against the cool window as she gauged the expression in Solomon’s wide eyes. She didn’t bother closing the journal, lit like a sin in her lap. “Hi Baby.”

  “Is it breakfast time? Do I have school today?”

  “No, Sweetie, it’s Saturday. You get to sleep in. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

  “Okay. Is that my journal?”

  Though Kadie had never considered herself a great mom, she prided herself on honesty. She taught them the myth of Saint Nicholas, and labeled their Christmas presents “From Mom and Dad.” She never failed to ask what they thought to be true about a fairy tale, and patted their little heads when they said, “That didn’t really happen.” Part of this was a responsibility that evolved from knowing how literally Solomon took things. But last year, when he lost his first tooth, she had surprised herself by playing the role of the Tooth Fairy. She never knew if he suspected.

  “Yeah, Baby,” she whispered, “I read your journal. Are you mad at me?”

  Solly shook his head and yawned, his little silver fillings winking in the moonlight. “Did you see the picture I drew of you? It’s on the last page.” He sunk back into his pillow, pressing her old stuffed rabbit to his chest as he closed his eyes, not waiting for her answer.

  With a trembling hand, Kadie closed the journal and flipped open the back cover. She was surprised he’d chosen to draw her, but there she was, little round glasses circling her dot eyes and a mass of scribbled hair that was actually pretty accurate. Her enormous head floated on a typical stick figure body, and down by her footless left leg was a strange looking plant, ankle high and spiked like a cactus, except… No, it wasn’t a plant; it had eyes and a crooked little mouth.

  Heart thumping, she crawled to the edge of Solly’s bed and stroked his soft cheek. “Honey, what’s this?”

  Solly blinked in the moonlight, not bothering to look at the notebook she held out to him. As he rolled back over, he mumbled sleepily, “My friend Hobby. He writes in there, too, sometimes.”

  “Can I meet him? Will you show him to me?”

  Sollly turned his face to hers, eyes suddenly wide as though he’d let a secret slip. He shook his head solemnly. “No, Mom. You’re not s’posed to see him!”

  “Why not?”

  “Shh, he’s sleeping.”

  Kadie whispered to keep the desperation out of her voice. “Where?”

  Solomon rolled over and pointed at the little Kleenex box beside his bed, where he kept the stuffed monster she’d made for him out of fabric scraps. She peered through the slit in the top and spied the soft outline of the monster, and something a little smaller next to it, something darker than shadow. She nudged the box toward the dwindling spot of moonlight on the floor.

  “Don’t, Mom,” Solly whispered, the covers falling from his shoulders as he sat up in alarm.

  “I want to see…”

  “He gets mad if you wake him up. Last time he told me he was gonna go away. Please, Mom. I don’t want him to leave!”

  Kadie took her hand from the box and stood, finding Solly’s eyes. “I won’t. It’s all right, Solly. Go back to sleep.”

  He nodded, relieved, and she kissed his forehead. For once, she didn’t care if he saw the tears standing in her eyes. She left the little room at last, and made herself a cup of Chai before creeping downstairs. She set the warm mug on her desk, but couldn’t sit, couldn’t touch the sleeping laptop. Instead, she slipped into the cluttered sewing room and plucked up the tiny shirt and pants she’d been working on. They felt like moth wings in her palm, such little things. She smiled faintly as she reached for her sheers.

  When she finished, Kadie brushed the scattering of snippets from her lap and laid the sheers back on the table, where they shone like a silver grin in the moonlight.

  ~*~

  Kristina Wojtaszek grew up as a woodland sprite and mermaid, playing around the shores of Lake Michigan. She earned a bachelor’s degree in Wildlife Management as an excuse to spend her days lost in the woods with a book in hand. She currently resides in the high desert country of Wyoming with her husband and two small children. She is fascinated by fairy tales and fantasy and her favorite haunts are libraries and cemeteries.

  Her fairy tale retellings, short fiction and poetry have been published by World Weaver Press, Far Off Places and Sucker Literary Magazine. Follow her @KristinaWojtasz or on her blog, Twice Upon a Time (http://authorkw.wordpress.com/)

  ~*~

  A Fairfolk Promise

  Alexis A. Hunter

  Cedric writhed and flailed like a wild beast. The Rolfmen gripped his wrists, his arms. They cuffed the back of his neck and drove him forward into the field of corn. Desperation burned within him, fueled his emaciated
body. Striking out, he caught one of the Rolfmen square in the jaw and sent him reeling backward.

  A guttural cry tore itself from Cedric’s bleeding, cracked lips as he twisted down and back. Tearing loose, he darted toward the forest. A surge in his chest—half a heartbeat of freedom, but their hands were as brambles, snagging him. They dragged him to the earth, shouting curses and pummeling his bony sides their boots.

  The wind knocked out of him, he lay immobilized. His lips parted and he sucked in mouthfuls of air as they dragged him forward. The cornstalks whispered around him, their blades slicing little red trails on his exposed arms and chest—nothing compared to the purple-blue bruising marbling his body.

  “You hit me again, and I’ll strike you dead, kushna,” growled the Rolfman.

  An iron cross stood in the midst of the corn, its vertical pole driven deep into the earth. Cedric forced his weary muscles to move again, to fight. To resist. But he had little hope of victory. They were too many, and they ate hearty meals each night. Slept in beds fluffed by goose-feathers. Cedric hadn’t eaten a scrap of food in the past three days.

  They pressed him against the iron cross. The blazing twin-suns above had heated the surface, and it singed his skin. Gritting his teeth, he refused to cry out. Three held him while the fourth and fifth stretched his arms across the horizontal pole. They secured him with thin, sharp wire, laced with barbs. It cut into his skin, drawing blood.

  And still he fought.

  For Lina and the baby, he fought to be free.

  The other workers wouldn’t look at him, heating his fury still more. “Why do you stand and watch? Why do you not aid me?” he cried. “We must rise against these oppressors. How can you stand idle while your families starve before your eyes?”

  They kept their heads down, fingers moving through the corn and snapping off whole ears. They dumped the fruit of the land into baskets—baskets to be carted away to Lord Rolfere. In truth, he knew why they would not aid him. For the same reason he had never aided the others.