The Faerie Ring Dance

by Kara Skye Smith

  looked for any sign of the wee-sized folk that I’d

  assumed by much thinking it over must be a Northern

  version of faeries. No sight of them, though my home

  was now covered with buttercup blossoms - which I put

  to good use. I found the stamins in the centers made a

  sweet and delicious butter when smashed up and churned

  until creamy. In fact, a buttercup held up under the chin

  of a human, if it shines a yellow tint onto the skin, shows

  the person likes faeiries - or is it butter? Nonetheless, I

  liked the

  butter and I’d found some humans who I was pretty sure would like the faeiries - I just had to catch one! I

  wanted to show the ladies there were more types like

  me, out there in this land; and, well, truth be told, I just

  couldn’t stop thinking about the third one, who’d turned

  and bid me good-bye. Something about a twinkle in her

  eye. I thought about is so much, I almost got sick over

  it. Then, on the early evening of the third day, out by

  the pond, I caught a glimpse of that very same wee

  sized girl through the thick reeds of the cattails at the

  edge of the pond. She was standing on a lily pad,

  looking into the murky water where I knew trout lurked

  beneath her some of them the size to which a fairy could

  be swallowed whole in just one bite.

  “What are you doing?” I called.

  “Shh-sh!” she held a finger to her lips and

  motioned with her other hand for me to come over there.

  Being part pixie part gnome - I rarely flew; especially

  these days, with all the comforts a home of

  my own provided rarely an escape was required, if any at all. So, I ran up the shore, several steps and untied the

  boat I’d made of birch bark and rowed out

  toward the lily pad. At a closer distance, I could see

  that she was coaxing fireflies into a jar, but I could also

  see the shadows of several trout, circling under her. The

  largest swam deep down beneath the lily pad, but if he’d

  wanted the smaller fish above to vamoose he could have

  chased them off with just a swish of his large tail.

  “You’ve got to be crazy or something - out here,

  all alone.”

  “Sh -” she started to say, again, but I’d already

  chased the firefly she sought to catch away from the

  edge of her jar, so she sighed, then looked at me and

  said, instead, “You scared him off! I almost had him.”

  “What were you going to do with him?” I asked

  - ever since the barn rat scuffle, I’d been a bit protective

  of fireflies.

  “Put him in a fairy lantern, of course, to shine my

  way, to fly at night?” I wasn’t getting it. “There’s a dance in the wood, tonight,” she said.

  “O,” I said like I knew what she meant.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” she

  asked.

  “No,” I said almost adding the -er sound to that

  in my thickest Irish accent I could muster up from home.

  “O,” was all she said, then, “Now, what am I

  going to do?”

  “You can use my lantern,” I suggested and smiled

  wide.

  “You have one?!”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And I can borrow it?”

  “Ofcourse,” I said, “I’m Narn.”

  “Blossom,” she told me, and then I held out my

  hand for her to climb into my boat so we could go ashore

  and I could let her borrow my lantern which

  was at my home.

  She shook her head, “Are you crazy?” she asked. “I’m not getting into that thing. There are trout down

  there, bigger than you and I put together.”

  “But that’s what the boat’s for,” I said, “C’mon,

  climb in!”

  “No thanks!” she said as her wings began to flap

  sprinkling minute bits of dust like the dust of a

  butterfly’s wings into the air which shone like diamonds

  when they were caught in the rays of the sunlight.

  “Wow,” I said to her a bit stunned and awed

  watching the pop, pop, pop of the sparkle dust. Then

  all of a sudden, one of the trout - and from the waves it

  sent out to my tiny boat of birch bark, I later thought it

  must have been the big one - jumped! My boat was hit

  first with a wave that rippled as the fish shot out of the

  water to snap at Blossom as she hovered in the air above

  the pond her wings fluttering. I couldn’t look. I was so

  busy trying to keep my boat from capsizing; but then the

  fish flip flopped in the air, its huge jaws snapped shut,

  and down it went with a splash that sent my birch bark boat toppling over. By the time I pulled myself out of

  the pond, swimming furiously toward the shore to stay

  alive and away from trout - my wings and elderberry

  shorts soaked and heavy with the weight of water

  Blossom was gone from her place in the air above the lily

  pad. Panting for air and shaking my wings out, I almost

  began to cry, but then I heard a sweet voice from behind

  me, that caught me off guard (surprised me), I laughed.

  “I thought you were eaten!”

  “You alright?”

  “A bit wet. You?”

  “Fine. Look,” she said, “its okay about the

  lantern, I’ll just use one of the others’” and then she

  paused. I worried I must have looked disappointed

  because she added, “unless, unless you want to come

  along?”

  “It’s a dance?” I asked, being coy.

  “Yeah,” Blossom said, dusting off her wings.

  She, too, had just been through a lot and she sounded slightly irritated at my sudden standoffishness.

  “Okay,” I said, decisively and a wee bit too loud,

  “I’ll go along. I’d like to. I’ll just get -” and then I

  stopped. She looked at me. She must have sensed I did

  not know what I’d started to ramble on about because

  she interrupted.

  “Meet me, here, tonight. We’ll pick you up. As

  the moon sends the shadow of that tree (she pointed) to

  here,” she drew a tiny line in the loam of the pondbank

  with her foot, “We’ll go together, then, as a group.”

  “Okay!” I said, smiling, while looking at the tree

  and then the tiny line.

  I heard a quick, “Bye!” When I looked up, she

  was gone. I had at least several hours, as the moon was

  not up and its shadows would not be cast for quite some

  time. I wanted to dress nicely for the occasion, so I

  headed for the McGillicutty household,

  to Honor’s sewing room and the scraps of fine fabrics

  that she’d used to decorate the house. Honor and I fashioned a green velvet coat to which Honor offered to

  sew on tiny, gold glass beads as buttons.

  “A dance!” Honor said with a far away sigh, a

  smile on her face and a quite lively spark to her eyes.

  She must have been remembering as I could almost see

  and hear the music and the whirling around of the

  dancers that she must have been imagining.

  “What are you seeing, Miss Honor?” I asked her

  to describe such engrossing of a memory.

  “O, its silly,” sh
e said, “and Blithe would not

  approve if I talked of it.” I looked at her sideways with

  one eyebrow raised. She glanced toward the door to see

  that Blithe was not standing there, and then she said, in

  a quieter tone, ‘Ever since the social gathering where she

  was offended - you know, called a shrew?”

  “Yes -” I said.

  “She’s not wanted me to talk, or plan, or even

  think about such things as dances, get-togethers - I think

  she’s even jealous of the man I met in town. The man with the sewing machine factory.”

  Just then, while I was making sounds of consoling

  her, like, “that’s too bad,” and “I’m so sorry,” I slipped

  on the coat - I just couldn’t resist - and looked at myself

  in the mirror.

  “I’m, I’m… well, I’m absolutely ravishing!” I

  blurted out, turning from side to side. I cat called a

  whistle at my fetching image in the mirror. “I love it!

  Miss Honor, what do you think?” Honor clapped her

  hands together.

  “It’s marvelous, Mr. Twinks. Just look at you.”

  Then Blithe poked her head in through the door and

  asked about the commotion.

  “Well, I’ve made Mr. Twinks a coat,” Honor

  told her, “he is going to a dance.” There was a pause.

  Honor went on, “Well, he just loves his coat and I think

  I would be very good at making people coats, in town,

  like the man who I met at the store that sells fabric

  talked about with me and -” “Nonsense!” Blithe said, “no slight to you, Mr.

  Twinks, it is a very nice coat and it looks dashing on you

  - but, Honor, dear sister, when you are finished here

  with this dance nonsense and your ideas of offering up

  your sewing skills to a man you only met once, in town

  ”

  “Mr. Fitzpatrick!” Honor blurted out loudly, “the

  man’s name is Mr. Fitzpatrick!” Then, Blithe said calmly,

  although I thought with a hint of bitterness, “I’mglad to

  hear he has a name. Now, I’d like to remind you,

  Honor, that our usual tea time started almost one half

  hour ago.”

  “Did you make the tea, then?” assuming she had.

  Honor looked toward me, as if to invite, “Mr. Twinks?”

  she asked.

  Then Blithe spoke sharply and a bit loud, “No!”

  she said, “I did not. Make the tea. I thought you

  would. You always do.”

  “Well, Blithe,” Honor said, “I suppose I’ll get on that soon as I finish up, here.” Then Honor raised her

  chin a bit and a slight tussle, or rue, ensued between

  them. Not a roll-up the sleeves and wrestle or duke it

  out tangle of an Irish pixie gnome rue, but a tenser, more

  proper, disagreement sort of rue where a lot of tension

  hung in the air and there was a good deal of silence

  interrupted sharply with loud noises like thimblesslapped

  down onto the sewing cabinet, doors slamming shut,and

  cabinet drawers closed so quickly as to rattle the entire

  arrangement of family photographs and antique thimble

  boxes sitting on top of it.

  There were also bits of conversation that I’d felt I

  was intruding on, although they were spoken out loud,

  loud enough for me to hear, like, “Can’t even make tea

  for herself!” and “Must I do every chore around here?!”

  To which the utterer not only did not require a

  response, but the looks that she gave when I offered her

  one, well, needless to say, I saw myself out, wearing the coat I would wear that night.

  The Faerie Ring Dance

  Chapter Seven * The Six-Shaped Tree and the Enchantment of Einion Gloff

  There is no denying that being in a wood, at

  night, with those who know their way around it, can be

  a magical experience - or a fearful one. However, with

  the tribe of Ellewyon it was no less than splendidly

  magical, indeed - a feast for all of the senses was the

  only way it could be described. As I entered, fire

  twirlers were dancing in rings of fire which whirled

  above their heads and some whizzed balls of flame on

  strings round and round as they danced. Colors and

  costumes and lavishly decorated huts and stages were lit

  by such ornate lamps and lanterns I had never seen

  before. Lively music filled the ears. There was sweet

  cedar bark barrel honeysuckle punch and the scent of spiked elderberry cider drifted in the air mixing with the

  fragrance of moon flowers that

  glowed under moonlight. To one edge of the wood, a

  lavishly decorated throne of gold sat empty to which a

  procession of miniature horses and mastifs, the size for

  the fairies to ride, led the Queen of all Ellewyon fairies

  to the steps of her throne. The queen was encircled in a

  cape of gold light that sent out rainbows of colorsunder

  firefly lanterns as she walked. She carried in herhand a

  walking stick of finely spun gold a top of which there

  was a beating heart amid ornately tooled gold leave and

  twirly twigs. Her wings were the most majestic butterfly

  wings I had ever seen. If there were such a thing as a

  queen of all the butterflies, this queen would surely have

  been it. They were absolutely iridescent with green and

  gold, and shone like see-through diamonds on the inside

  edges where her cape was cut so her wings could unfold

  and flourish through. She had upon her head, a crown

  or headdress made of two of Muir Wood’s rarest and most lovely wild flowers, the dog lily and the star

  flower. With hair as blue as the sky had been

  that day and a fuzzy, furry buttress bustier made of the

  centers of Echinacea, she took the stand before her

  throne and for a moment, all music stopped, but the

  softest notes of a single flute which teetered up and

  down a high octave scale while she spoke.

  The crowd sighed a hushed, “Awww!” and bent

  down on one knee - which I followed along with, a bit

  later than the rest of them - we lowered our chins, but

  kept our eyes on our Queen while she spoke ancient

  words in a language more beautiful than I had ever heard

  before, after which tiny harps and fiddles, then drums

  and other instruments were played upon by fancy

  dressed fairies to begin the dance. And, as fairies young

  and old began to dance an agreeable welcome into the

  dancing became more of an irresistible indulgence and I

  sensed the enchantment of humans would soon be a part

  of this dance. The Queen raised her hands and the music ceased immediately. Dancer’s froze in place on tip toes,

  one leg up, another down, hands in curves, fingers held

  like pinchers in a snap or waggling through the air.

  She called loudly a name, “Einion Gloff!” and a

  human man, a mere boy he was only several summers

  past, stepped forth, amid the crowd of stick still dancers

  who commenced again the merriment of dancing as the

  music started up again, full volume and with many cheers

  and hollers as the boy approached the throne. Being an

  Irish pixie gnome, I knew about the magic of faeries, but
<
br />   rarely used the magic of my own. A pixie gnome’s

  mischief being really due to the facts of the ins and outs

  afforded by a diminished size and of course capitalizing

  upon (assumed) human disbelief as an advantage; no,

  enchantment was something about which I held in my

  soul more than just a wee bit of in trepidation. Besides,

  this boy I recognized. He’d been the boy hired to watch

  and tend the sheep of many masters in the hollow - three

  of the ewes, the McGillicutty ladies bought. He had already shorn them and brought them a season of wool.

  For this reason, although surrounded by all of the beauty

  and luxurious splendor, I could hope for, I began to love

  and hate the fairies, both, as I should have known I

  would from the stories of Irish faeries told to me by my

  mother. Just as I determined I would rescue young

  Einion Gloff, a band of one hundred and one pretty

  little fairy sprites converged upon the side of thethrone

  where Einion stood holding in their hands great firefly

  torches or carried in their outstretched palms balls of

  light - inside of which glow worms evanesced a brilliant

  hue. Right quick, they spun the master Gloff into a

  dance with him - and seeing his joy at the time he was

  having, I lost my fervor to rescue him - decided not to

  preach the wiles of the dance away as an evangelist on a

  mission and joined in the dance, myself, as Blossom had

  turned my shoulder and asked me for a dance with her.

  For some reason, looking into her large, bright eyes

  surrounded by the purple and pinks and flowers of her hair, I knew in my gut I could trust Blossom, so I

  agreed, and O, a time we had!

  We danced until the wee hours of the morning

  and drank the dew of dawn off flowers handed out to us

  as we bid each other farewell. I entered back into my

  humble hut as the first rays of daylight touched the

  pond and set the McGillicutty’s rooster off to begin his

  morning crow. Ah, what a smile I had on my face and it

  lasted an entire day.

  After some sleep, I vowed to go to the six

  shaped tree where Blossom told me I could find the Old

  Soul’s goblin who could recount the tale of Einion Gloff

  to me and how he ended up with the fairies, rather than

  tending his sheep, if, as she had said, “I was really that

  worried about it.” I was, and I think Blossom sensed

  this. I also think it made her feel more than just slightly