In the heart of the Elven Land, amidst twinkling lights and delicate flowers, lay a magical place known as the Fairy Forest. Here, fairies of all shapes and sizes fluttered about, their laughter echoing among the trees. But one little fairy, Fiona, was notably different.
Fiona was not like her fellow fairies. She had a knack for being clumsy. The flower crowns she attempted to make often ended up in knots; she spilled her dew drops more often than not, and her attempts to dance sometimes ended up with her tumbling into a bush! Her friends, Elsie and Mabel, often chuckled, yet they loved her dearly.
One sunny afternoon, as the three friends were gathering dewdrops for their tea party, Fiona’s clumsiness surfaced again. This time, she managed to sprinkle Elsie and Mabel from head to toe!
“Fiona!” giggled Mabel, trying to shake off the dew. “You have your own way of doing things!”
“I’m sorry! I do try,” sighed Fiona, her wings drooping slightly. “Sometimes I feel I will never be like the other fairies.”
The two fairies exchanged sympathetic glances. Conscious of Fiona’s feelings, Elsie chirped happily, “To us, you are just perfect.”
Feeling encouraged, Fiona smiled. Still, as they resumed filling their tiny pots, thoughts of her inadequacies lingered.
That night, as Fiona prepared for bed, she peered into her little mirror. Her clear blue eyes reflected back her disappointment. “If only I were more graceful,” she murmured, tucking her silver wings into their usual resting position.
It was then that the mirror began to shimmer, and out sprouted a tall and beautiful figure, a regal being with clear glowing wings and a magnificent crown of flowers atop her head.
“Do not be sad, little one,” said the figure in a voice soft and melodious. “I am the Fairy of Acceptance. Each fairy, sprite, and elf has her own unique gift. If we were all the same, who would make the flower garlands for our Festivals? Who would gather the fruit to fill the Elven kitchens?”
Fiona nodded thoughtfully, absorbing the Corn Fairy’s words.
Continuing, she said, “I know already how gifted you are, dear child. You have a wonderful memory; in fact, we all rely on that very special talent.”
“Do we?” asked Fiona, surprise lighting up her face.
“Indeed! You never forget the littlest detail about others, and this always guides us well.”
Feeling a warm glow within her, Fiona pressed, “But I can’t seem to master anything to help you. What do you think I could do at our Festivals that would be of use?”
“That,” replied the Corn Fairy, “will all come in time. You simply need to be patient and to have faith.”
As suddenly as she had appeared, the shimmering fairy dissolved, leaving Fiona staring thoughtfully at the still waters in front of her.
With a sigh, she climbed into bed, safe in the knowledge of the Corn Fairy’s visit, even if deep down, she still wished for an extraordinary talent.
The following morning, a tiny knock on her door woke her from deep sleep. It was Elsie and Mabel, both breathless with excitement.
“We have the silliest tale to tell!” Elsie said.
“And it’s about someone we know well,” added Mabel.
Intrigued, Fiona slid from bed and sat down. “Do tell.”
“For the last ten days,” Mabel began, “a funny little transformation has been taking place in the neighboring town of Palrouse. Only last night, when we peeped through the mist from our house, we finally understand it.”
“But what about it? What were these transformations?” asked Fiona, puzzled.
In hushed voices, Elsie continued the story. “Do you remember the little brown crow that visited us during our last Festival?”
Fiona gasped. “The funny little thing who had a crazy tale to tell us of its wonderful adventures! Yes, quite vividly!”
“Well, his house overlooked Palrouse, and he noticed the very same thing confounding him. At last night, the mystery was solved. Just after day was ended, a huge apple tree appeared in the middle of the main square! It was so high, one could not see its top! But the strangest thing was that every single apple bore a star upon its skin!”
Fiona clapped her hands together in excitement. “But how fabulous! What does it mean?”
“That grew very clear this morning,” said Mabel. “You see, a troop of dancing girls is expected in Palrouse at any moment. Every year they come to perform at the annual Festival of Lights, and each one casts an inspiring song in Heaven’s language every night. But last night, a strange thing happened: All but two of them lost their voices!”
“Very unfortunate indeed!” murmured Fiona.
“Such a pity,” replied Elsie. “But do not fret! Because of the apple tree, plenty of song will come down this evening by the stars when the slight breeze that is expected shall start. The apples have the virtue of bringing down every note sent up to the stars, distorted as they may be, but dreadfully arrogant all the same.”
“It was the Corn Fairy’s apple tree!” exclaimed Fiona, clapping her hands.
“Oh no, that it wasn’t!” giggled Elsie. “The tree planted by the Fairy of Acceptance is not boastful, but humble. The tree that the Corn Fairy planted is most conceited, and beware of a corner of his shadow; for whoever stands there will become the most egotistical person imaginable!”
“But even so, surely the Corn Fairy would forbid such an action,” retorted Fiona.
“I doubt if she was there this morning, but she usually is,” Mabel confessed. “But all the trees…”
“Quick! Come and see,” interrupted Elsie. “A wonderful shower of lights rains from the apples.”
A little startled, the three friends flew quickly and quietly across a corner of the garden to where the friendly crow stood waiting to tell them all that he could.
“You have not only seen from your house this morning the apple tree, I dare say,” he said, “but you have also read the fascinating old history. The Queen-of-Heaven once had a sister who used to live down here. She fell in love with a strange Prince from another country, and one day, after a quarrel, she ran away with him. But their happy love story was of short duration. The poor youth was not all he appeared to be, and the Princess fled alone, hunted as a hare runs from a pack of hounds! She took refuge in the Court of her sister, who sent her lawgivers to protect her, as defamed as herself.
“But nights and days fled by, and her rage, which had lasted at first, turned to pity, and she only wished to conceal the shame of her sister. She did her very best to entice some mythological name from her, like all those of us who live here; for everyone’s name is a charm that protects them somewhat from all ill-luck. The Corn Fairy would not tell; the Queen-of-Heaven thereupon wished that all her possessions here below should be vanquished. Hence a busy word scribbled on a table in Heaven’s language would suffice to grow in all sorts of shapes and to produce a multitude of graver aspects to her sister. Up there, she continued to write with a reed pen dipped into her inkwell; and down here it grew these trees. That is why, when one wants shooting stars, one must read their coats, as we do our friends’ business cards!”
“A most peculiar tale indeed,” murmured Mabel, astonished at the crow’s composure under such distressing conditions.
“But you have not seen the strangest part of the story yet,” the crow went on. “Every day at one precise hour, a new tree grows, bearing different-colored apples. Each one adds to the intelligence of the preceding apple and permits other hidden mysteries to appear on its skin; and when each day’s performance is over, the entire row vanishes by next morning in order to allow the one who is to follow to fall the more easily.”
“And at what time does this tree make its appearance?” Elsie hurriedly inquired.
“At half-past four to a second.”
“But it is now a quarter-past five! And we have not even seen half the apples shine!” cried Mabel, all of a flurry.
“It was only town talk,” said the crow coolly. “But look for yourselves; one cannot fail to notice how punctually the stars were arranged!”
The two friends raised their heads; not a single star twinkled on the sky!
Fiona, quite unmoved, and suffering no last minute anxiety, said drawing her chair to her, “This calls for a little amusement of a different kind!”
And she touched the guitar lying carelessly by her:—
“Twee-twee-twee, Uncle! Read it in all its hues;
A crown that twinkles unseen illumes with glee o’er you.
Outside a ball made of rubies and turquoise turns on the grass;
While round in a spiral ‘neath brilliant flowers corridors pass,
Where the most likely form of amusement your humble servant shows
Is to smile and bow for ladies and gents as to tell you the news one knows
Or to sing at rare intervals, like myself,
Oh higher and loftier, dear Hope, yet half trusting,
From day to day perchance to raise ever-equipped your glass
But alone this evening, you lucky fellow! whilst we others sit rusting.”
“How charming and original it seems!” cried Elsie.
“Who knows? Perhaps they will sing your air tonight,” said Mabel, smiling slyly.
But Fiona was lost in thought, scanning the unfamiliar pathways the light cast tremulous shadows on while the cover over the night’s performance entrusted the see-through darkness with tremblingly-beaten music. That a bit of it, her heart repeated while her eyes grew big and industriously stretched searched for a hollow layer in the shadow cast over the night; and then one listened almost to the yearning sighs in the tiniest tremor quivering at the bass of the burning cloud, where here and there the moon filtered through as convulsively.
“Dear friends,” she suddenly said, “let us to-night instead of flying better sit and wait at the foot of the apple tree till the dancing girls come to Palrouse. When they arrive, the woods will be quite covered with their fine music; we shall hear their approach long before they enter the town, which will doubtless be from afar the silhouettes of the fair girls dancing on the red of the apples and flying here to us like fireflies, as they saw us waiting for them in the half-darkness on the grass. That will be so curious!”
“But on the other hand,” Mabel said, quite thoughtful, “Last year, they bedecked us with such a bouquet of thickly-woven filaments and whose staves pointed most mischievously, that on our telling you of them this morning, you nearly fainted.”
“That’s true,” replied Elsie. “But they won’t have forgotten it; and please remember our feet shod with flowers, so that close together we shall feel like rocks compact. All the same, still, choose a place quite clear of anything that might prick you.”
So the three friends settled themselves comfortably as they were in the thickest cover of a tangle of grass at the foot of the apple tree.
The emerald onyx collars encircling their two little throats twinkled faintly in the dark green white and red darkness cast by the dainty fruits of all colors, and as there were no crickets a musical chorus sang the three friends’ sweet clear and indefinite eyes.
“You ought to see, by the pitch of the hailstones, our house in the distance illumined by the radiance of those waving coronae being drawn into long worm-like shapes under the imperceptible breeze,” remarked Fiona.
“Not tonight, dear friend,” Mabel sighed. “You have quite switched me off the feeling. The poor little flaks out there snatched up little by little represent even a thousand times, my brightly-dressed songbird Catherina singing under the sifting tear of winter rain. Poor less-favored Catherina!”
The night passed after this, but there was not one passing gust of wind without a wreath of ice being caught up in it; so the silver haze pressing thickly over the sea of light soon died, brushing everywhere round about it, however, the scintillating leaden noise of teeming music, meeting here and there in gay touches of harmony.
“Twee-twee-twee!”
But the apple tree had forged its last night, and the transparent sheet on which sat life etching itself from the high heavens down in as still-seated the accretion cement was still-worn enough not to leave as much of a deposit of clouds as denoted even by the paleness alone of a star-filled horizon impossible to replace dark-swathed foliage.
“My dears, it is far better to be fastidious and to wait for something well-found ere one says a kind word on it,” remarked Elsie.
But both Fiona and Mabel shook their heads.
“I had my reason for not saying anything about Catherina’s song, and here was the explanation,” Mabel smiled.
“I don’t think you ought to have sung anything at all last night, even if you had a mind to,” replied Fiona.
The brief pause in the unfolding music, instead of lending them any ease in the charm it exhaled, rendered that charm still cloying.
“Well, more of these tropical discoveries? No one over hercarried up the notion of always remaining here. Nobody need imagine them,” murmured Elsie.
“A record of the weary pains of the mortal a raw and patent confession of hopeless love sung ceaselessly over and over again.”