Tales of the Fairy Anthology

by Catherine Stovall

  “I’m sorry, Dion. I should have tried to learn the truth. I thought I knew it. I am so sorry. I am so sorry.” She began to rock him back and forward, her tears falling on his face. The grim faces of the guards showed over the desk and their hands grabbed it to haul it to one side. “I am so sorry. Umama loved you until she died. She waited for you.” Her voice was a mere whisper as she crushed him to her chest and kissed his forehead.

  The desk was hauled through the broken window and crashed down the stairs. Guards were holding a very bloody Sigurd with his arms at a painful angle and knees pinning him down.

  Lady Cian strode through the wreckage. “Who the hell are you?” her question almost spat out.

  Cashile gently laid Dion on the floor and stood up to face the other woman.

  The guards moved to grab her, but Lady Cian lifted a hand to stay them. “Who are you and what do you want with my son?”

  “I am Cashile Dearn, my mother was Khanyisile Dearn and my father is Dìonadair. I am…”

  “My daughter and heir.” Dion pulled himself into a sitting position. “Give us a hand up, please. I seem to be a little weak at the moment.” Cashile reached down and pulled him up. “You’re a lot stronger than you let on when you were our frumpy secretary.” He smiled at her and pulled her into the circle of his arm. “Now, mother, did anyone ever tell you that people can still hear when they are in an enchanted sleep?”

  Lady Cian had become a sickly mottled shade of clotted cream.

  “You, and your company, are hereby banished from this kingdom and,” he waited a moment to deliver the next part, “you are denied Elsewhere. You may never return there. You are free to find a place in this world and see if you can make yourself useful. I will see to it that all the fiefdoms are made aware of your predicament. Get off my friend Sigurd before I find greater punishments for you.”

  The guards leapt back then looked to Lady Cian for orders. Her mouth worked like a goldfish for a moment or two, then she let out an ear piercing shriek and disappeared. The guards ran out the door.

  “Sig, help.” Sigurd was by his side holding him up before he collapsed to the floor. “Cashile? Cashile, may I call you Cashile? It is a beautiful name. Cashile, do you think you could round up a few of our own people and get this place in order?”

  Cashile nodded shyly and ran for the phone.

  Dion watched his friend watch his daughter. “You can’t have her yet, Sig. I just found out she is my daughter. You can wait until next summer, okay. Now, find me somewhere to collapse that isn’t coated in glass.”

  “At your service, my liege!”

  A Bird in Hand

  The Fairy Mab tucked in her three visiting grandchildren, Iolanthe, Arafel and Emmaleth, having ensconced them upon a lovely, swaying tulip.

  “Tell us a bedtime story, Grandma?” Iolanthe pleaded.

  Arefel bounced in agreement, while Emmaleth fluttered tiny baby fairy wings and lisped, “Yeth, pleath?”

  Mab smiled at her grandchildren and perched on a nearby leaf.

  There once was a mortal woman named Jean who was married and didn't like it. Her husband, Merv, was neither attractive nor intelligent, but Jean had turned thirty-five and her mother had turned desperate.

  Merv was a steady worker, at times, and he belched appreciatively after every meal.

  Mab gave a delicate belch and her grandbabies giggled.

  Now, this mortal man did not take his wife to nice restaurants, but he did take her bowling regularly. Jean supposed she should be grateful, but she wasn't. No, she was not. She sat at her kitchen table one day and she began to weep.

  “Becausth thee was thad,” nodded Emmaleth.

  Mab leaned over and tweaked her youngest grandchild’s soft, infant cheek. “She was,” Grandma Mab agreed, “but just then…”

  A small bird peered in through the open window with his wee head tilted on one side. Mab cocked her head to one side, sparkling as she did, and the three baby fairies all tilted their heads with her.

  Jean looked up greatly startled as the bird began to speak.

  “People!” he snapped. “Day and night; whine, whine, whine!”

  “I've gone crazy,” Jean whimpered and began to cry.

  “Why was she crying?” Arafel asked her grandmother.

  “Well you see, “Mab replied as she smoothed the golden hair from little Arafel’s forehead, “mortals do not really believe in talking birds.”

  “That’s thilly,” Emmaleth declared stoutly. Her older sister Iolanthe nodded in agreement as she snuggled into the tulip, causing it to sway gently.

  “Yes well…mortals,” Mab said vaguely. “You will understand when you are older.”

  The bird snorted.

  “You can talk!” said Jean.

  “I think, therefore I am,” the bird snarled. “What else would you like, the theory of relativity?”

  “What is the theory of, um…levaty?” asked Iolanthe who was shushed by Arafel.

  Mab cleared her throat.

  Jean watched wide eyed as the dainty, scowling bird paced the length of her windowsill. After some time had passed, she tentatively asked, “Having a bad day?”

  “Madam,” said the bird, “I will have you know,” and he puffed up his chest feathers, “I am a Sparrow!”

  Mab stuck out her chest and made a serious face, flapping her arms as she did. The little girls giggled and the tiny bells of laughter caused a series of twinkle lights to appear upon their tulip bed for a brief period of time. Mab nodded approvingly.

  “Okay,” said Jean. “Got it. Birds are talking to me. Yup.”

  “She still doesn’t believe that birds can talk,” whispered Arefel to her youngest sister who nodded as she stuck the end of her braid into her mouth. Mab removed it with an admonishing finger.

  “I suppose you don't bother reading fairy tales?” sneered the Sparrow sarcastically.

  “Not really,” Jean responded.

  The three little fairies all gasped. “She doesn’t read fairy tales?” cried Iolanthe in disbelief, and little Emmaleth’s eyes grew round.

  “We are Sparrows, and we have a motto.”

  Mab continued.

  Arefel piped, “Will you do the voice? Please?”

  “Yeth pleath!” begged Emmaleth, almost bouncing. “Pleath do a thparrow voicth!”

  Mab began again and sort of twittered as she said…

  “We Sparrows have a motto. Proudly to the aid of women in distress.” The bird cocked his head thoughtfully,

  Mab cocked her head and tried to look like a Sparrow.

  “Mind you, it used to be damsels. Come to think of it,” the bird added, “it used to be maidens.”

  Mab chuckled to herself and Iolanthe immediately asked, “What’s so funny, grandma?”

  To which Mab quickly collected herself, recalling how young her grandchildren were, but it was too late.

  “What’s a Damsel?” asked Iolanthe.

  “Whatch a damshel?”

  “Never mind,” Mab quickly replied and returned to the story.

  “Um…?” inquired Jean, who didn’t know either.

  “Thee didn’t know what a damsthel wasth?” lisped Emmaleth.

  Mab sighed.

  “We had to change with the times,” said the bird.

  “I see,” marveled Jean.

  “You still don't get it, do you?” hissed the bird.

  “I don’t get it either,” admitted Arefel.

  “That’s cuz you are thtupid,” said Emmaleth.

  “I am here to rescue you!” the Sparrow roared.

  Mab gave a mighty roar which temporarily earned her a moment’s respite. Even the frogs in the nearby area fell quiet.

  Jean stared at the bird and the bird angrily stared back at her, and then, he shook his tiny head in disgust.

  “Did thee sthmell bad?” asked Emmalth, greatly confused, and her two sisters sniggled.

  Mab stared down at her precious grandchildren.

  �
��Jean did not want to aggravate the Sparrow further,” Mab said sternly”

  The three little fairies looked back at her and had the grace to stay silent. Emmaleth's braid had found its way back into her rosebud mouth, but this time, Mab did not remove it. Emmealth often chewed on her braid before she slept. Maybe she would sleep.

  “What can you do? Do you have powers?” the mortal woman asked the bird.

  “So,” Iolanthe asked curiously, “Jean believes birds can talk now?”

  Mab heaved a small sigh and leaned over, giving Iolanthe a pat. “Yes, she now believes that birds can talk.” Mab looked down at the three young fairies and they innocently stared back. There was a moment of blessed quiet.

  “I can...” the bird's feathers deflated with its bravado, and it began to look uncertain.

  “What’s bravado mean?” asked Iolanthe.

  “Girls,” Mab sighed. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”

  “I do!” Arefel said quickly.

  Emmaleth grunted adorably as she drooled on her braid, “Me thood!”

  “This is my first time,” the Sparrow eventually offered as it clicked his beak with a snap.

  Mab clapped her hands, and the little fairies squealed.

  “I can give you some advice!” said the Sparrow.

  “Well, that's always good! What advice can you give me? Jean asked.

  The Sparrow warbled and began to ruffle his feathers.

  Mab gave a nice impression of a warble and lifted her arms as if they were wings, but Emmaleth interrupted her grandmother’s imitation ruffle.

  “The sptharrow sounds pithed.”

  Mab gasped. “Miss Emmaleth Asrai Acacia Fae! Where did you learn that word?”

  Arefel pinched her youngest sister who smacked her back with one tiny wing.

  Iolanthe scolded, “Both of you stop acting like Mumiai, or we won’t hear the rest of the story!”

  Mab looked at her grandchildren, first one and then the second, and then to Emmaleth, who pouted around her braid.

  “We Sparrows have given advice to the famous!” said Mab, sounding like herself and not the slightest bit like a Sparrow.

  “For example?” countered Jean.

  “What about Cinderella?” demanded the Sparrow.

  “What about Cinderella?” retorted Jean.

  “We directed Prince Charming to the step-meanie’s house,” reported the Sparrow smugly.

  “Seriously!” said Mab as she leaned over and put a halting hand on a wiggling Emmaleth, who was being punched by Arafel, who was being pinched by Iolanthe.

  “Oh!” breathed the outraged bird, “I forgot that little miss “Sparrows wear army boots” over here doesn't read her fairy tales! I will have you know,” he yelled, “without us, Cindy would never have become a princess. I mean she is fat now, but she is royal!”

  “I am sorry,” Jean apologized. “Please advise me, great Sparrow?”

  Emmaleth continued to wiggle and Iolanth stuck one wing up.

  “Yes?” Mab snapped tiredly.

  “I think that Emmy needs to use the toadstool.”

  Mab hurriedly scooped up the smallest fairy and flew her quickly to a nearby patch of fungus.

  “She is getting mad, you can tell,” Iolanth said to her sister. “The two of you better stop or she is going to turn you both into ugly bats.”

  “She will not; grandma loves us,” Arafel responded tearfully. “She would never turn us into bats!”

  “Yep,” Iolanthe said. “Ugly, smelly little bats.”

  “She will not!”

  Mab flew back with Emmalth, forcibly unhooked her granddaughter’s sweet smelling arms that were gripping her around the neck as if they were strangling vines. She placed the little fairy between the two arguing sisters, and scolded, “I want the two of you to stop acting like Ekimmu, right this second!”

  “She started it!” Arafel sobbed.

  “Did not!” hollered Iolanthe.

  Little Emmaleth’s bottom lip quivered, and she began to whimper.

  “Iolanthe said you would turn us into bats!”

  Emmaleth began to howl—even though she liked bats and wouldn’t have minded being turned into one.

  Mab quickly scooped Emmaleth back into her arms and rocked her.” I would never turn you into a bat.”

  “But…but I want to be thurned into a bat!” wailed Emmaleth.

  Mab rocked her a little bit faster and gave the other two little fairies in the tulip her sternest look as she patted Emmelth on the back.

  “Ahem,” Mab said.

  The Sparrow stuck his beak up in the air and tapped the windowsill with one claw.

  “Please, oh please give me some advice?” Jean asked desperately.

  The Sparrow sighed with importance and not a little impatience, “Easy!” he said. “Just leave!”

  “Leave?” Jean echoed blankly.

  “Elementary,” said the Sparrow smugly.

  “Leave?” Jean all but shrieked, “That’s all I get?”

  The Sparrow pulled his shoulders above his head and gave its best beady glare.

  “Leave,” chuckled Jean. “Now, why didn't I think of that!”

  Iolanthe opened her mouth but quickly closed it again as her grandmother gave her a look. Mab rocked for a moment of quiet with the only sound coming from Emmalth who, on her grandmother’s lap, moistly chewed on her braid.

  The Sparrow fluffed his feathers again, and Jean quickly said, “Oh bird, I'm not trying to insult you. That is very good advice, but I haven’t any place to leave to! And,” she explained, “while Sparrows may not need money, people do.”

  “Wuffs mummy?” said Emmaleth indistinctly, but Mab chose to ignore the question.

  “Money,” the horrified Sparrow whispered hoarsely. “I forgot about money!”

  “That's understandable,” Jean said, trying to comfort the distraught and suddenly trembling bird, “you being a Sparrow and all.”

  “That's no excuse!” The bird waved his wings, flapping in distress. “I have failed my first mission!”

  “Well,” soothed Jean, “I am sure your boss will understand.”

  “No she won't!” the panicked bird wailed. “We have a one hundred percent success rate!”

  Jean whistled, “One hundred percent?”

  “Yeah,” sighed the Sparrow sadly.

  “Don't take it so hard,” said Jean. “Here, have a crust.”

  “How can you think of food at a time like this?” screamed the Sparrow.

  “What if I gave you a letter of recommendation?” offered Jean. “Would that help?”

  “No,” muttered the despondent avian, “but that's awfully nice of you.”

  “Don't mention it,” grinned Jean.

  The Sparrow flew to the kitchen table and deep in thought, took a sip of Jean's coffee. “Money,” he mused. “I do have a friend who is a goldsmith of sorts....”

  “Really?” responded Jean politely.

  “That's it!” screeched the Sparrow, hopping up and down in excitement. “It’s not exactly by the book but,” the Sparrow twittered, all smiling beak, “you could sleep on the couch, do the dishes maybe? What do you say?”

  “I don't know....” Jean answered doubtfully.

  “Do you know how to spin?”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, never mind! Grubs! I can't just leave you here!”

  “One hundred percent, you said?” questioned Jean.

  “Chirp!”

  “Okay,” Jean decided, “maybe wishes do come true. Hey! What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, don't mind me,” sobbed the Sparrow, “I always cry at happy endings.”

  “That Jean really flipped,” said another mortal named Mabel to her best friend Sally, “I heard she left her husband and she took nothing but birdseed with her.”

  “I know,” giggled Sally, “and three suitcases of straw!”

  “I know where she went!” Iolanthe squealed.

  “Me too!” Ar
efel squeaked.

  “Thee wenth to….”

  “Rumple….”

  “Don’t say it,” warned Mab. “Don’t ever say that name!” With that, Mab finished tucking her three grandchildren in, sang softly until they were asleep, and then went for a much needed cup of nectar.

  Broken

  Broken. She’d never felt as absolutely shattered as she had in the moment she realized that her relationship and whole existence had been a lie. The dream had been lost. The cotton-candied, triple-dipped, sugar coating had been washed away by the stinking saliva of the world as it had devoured her soul with rotted and fetid teeth.

  Lorie Maze thought she’d never be whole again.

  That was until she laid her eyes on the bright and shiny, metallic plum purple, hell-on-highway wheels, Harley Davidson Iron 883. The sight of the blacked-out curving metal and plush leather completely blocked out the feelings of betrayal that still stung like a thousand angry hornets protecting their nest. The machine seemed to call to her, beckoning some wild and unearthed goddess that had yet to be discovered.

  As she ran one delicate hand over the gentle curve of the gas tank, her mind whispered, Eric who?

  “It’s a real beauty, isn’t it?” The salesman, young and viral, crossed the showroom floor. Smiling from ear-to-ear, he looked more charming than she had pictured a man who sold motorcycles would appear.

  “Gah…gorgeous,” she managed to stammer, eyes flickering between the salesman and bike.

  Oh, what am I even doing here?

  Seeing her hesitation, the gentleman stuck out his right hand. “Harold, Harold Wright.”

  Lorie couldn’t help but beam, her mind so often danced on the edge of lunacy since the break-up, and at the moment, it was laughing at the man’s name. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wright. Lorie Maze, and I’m not sure what I’m even doing here, to be honest.”

  “You don’t ride?” Harold looked a little perplexed by the stunning smile and odd confession.