By Mary Beth Barrett
Dear reader, some say that the world is full of magic; the trouble is finding it. Some will tell you that you must stay on the lookout for the surreal, the fey, and the magical, yet it just isn’t so. If it were, every fanciful person would be up to their ears in magical critters. No, the key is that the magic must find you.
Those instances are few and far between, though. We should be grateful that they are. All too often, magical interactions lead to tragedy. Sure, some are harmless and innocent. But alas, magic is not nearly as charming as many would like to believe. It is unknown, and it is dangerous. Unfortunately, it is usually those who are the least suspecting who are caught in its clutches. Take, for instance, the story of young Constance Whipple.
It happened in early summer, many years ago, just outside of Whipple Manor. The sun shimmered down on the estate. The lawns were lush, with well-tended flowerbeds edging them. The tulips lay in tidy rows, popping with yellow and pink. However, this story did not take place on the orderly grounds. It occurred within the woods on the west side of the estate.
There, the trees grew tall. Ivy clambered up the oak and maple trunks. Clover and moss covered the forest floor. Flowers budded in wild brilliance. It was a rather jumbled place for being so close to a grand house, but you cannot always entrap nature in a neat box. Nonetheless, if you had looked past the mayhem, you would have seen something quite marvelous.
Deep within this wild wood ran a babbling stream. Its water was crystal clear and sparkling. If you were to follow the stream, you would eventually come to a pool surrounded by whispering willows. Smooth, white pebbles lay on the pool floor, giving the water a brilliant brightness. Next to the pool were large stones, covered in plush moss. Flowers of every imaginable shape, color, and size flourished. Full hydrangeas towered over marigolds, while climbing sweet peas rose around lilac branches. Hundreds of other plants grew and bloomed. A botanist would say that this assortment could not possibly coexist in the same space. They would say that their natural habitats were too diverse. Of course, science also says that this strange place could never contain magic. Therefore, it would be best to ignore the ‘informed’. In all actuality, magic flocked to this special place, as it does to everywhere untouched by humanity. That is, it was untouched by all but Constance Whipple on that fateful day.
…
Constance was a small thing, even for her age, and curious too. The six-year-old had little interest in children her own age. In fact, she had little interest in anyone. She preferred to spend hours and hours outside. She would skip clumsily in her pink ballet slippers, with her dress flouncing around her knees. That dress was always sure to be dirty by evening. She would kneel in the flowerbeds, staring intently at the tiny critters in the dirt. She would watch worms swim in puddles during the rain, ants march unceasingly to their hills, and butterflies dance from blossom to blossom with their dainty proboscises drinking delectable nectar. She would also climb high in the cherry trees of the estate. There, she could see the birds skipping through the air on their wings. The swallows dove and danced. The robins pecked and pranced. Every chickadee had a cheerful chirp.
Eventually, the more bashful of animals drew near. As Constance played quietly on the edge of the estate, shy creatures peeked from the forest. A timid rabbit would give a hop onto the lawn, before darting back into the brush. A doe would watch with somber, brown eyes. Constance saw them, and her greatest desire was to join them. However, they would never tread far onto the estate. It was too clean, too manicured, too human.
Constance knew this, so she decided to go to them. She would wander into the woods, never disturbing nature. There, the creatures were finally able to come to her. The rabbits bounced around her bumbling feet. Squirrels scurried in the branches overhead, providing a friendly chatter of conversation. The doe even brought her fawn, who took to Constance like a sister. Day in and day out, they would skip and frolic through the woods, with Mother Doe and Father Buck keeping careful watch over them.
Constance’s parents never noticed that their daughter was delving deeper and deeper into the forest outside their home. It is unlikely that they would have stopped her, however. They had come to terms with their child’s odd ways and decided to let her do as she pleased. Consequently, further and further Constance pilgrimaged from Whipple Manor. She trailed after her furry friends, burrowing into the leafy habitat. They presented her with all the wonders the woods had to offer. They took her to the sparkling river, which enchanted her. It burbled and hummed. Some might even say it sang to her. In the late nights, when Constance was tucked safely at home, she could be heard singing a trickling tune to herself.
Albeit, water is a fickle entity. Any sailor will tell you so. Some days, the sea is peaceful and serene. On others, it thrashes and destroys. All bodies of water have this temperament. While the river was interested in young, innocent Constance, it still had a wild streak. One day, it begged and pleaded with her to follow it. At first, Constance hesitated. It was farther from home than she had ever been. Despite this, the river insisted that the most spectacular place awaited them. Mother Doe nudged the girl to stay. Her fawn bleated mournfully. Constance had already made up her mind. The river called to her, and she wanted to answer.
Down and around the river wound, with Constance skipping along. The farther they went, the quieter everything became. The airy silence blanketed them. As the silence grew thicker, so did the forest. The trees were larger and older. Delicate vines curled up their trunks and dangled from their lofty branches. The moss formed a thick carpet. Flowers crowded and bloomed in impossible variety and lavishness. It was brighter, more colorful, and more real. Then, the river washed into a still, silent pool.
Constance stood motionless at its mouth. It was so pristine, so pure, so perfect. Most people would feel out of place in a setting so precious. Constance, on the other hand, felt as if she belonged there, for she was also precious, pristine, and pure. To her, it was like finally coming home.
S he knelt at the edge of the pool on the soft moss, with the scent of wildflowers in her nose. She peered into the water. A perfect reflection stared back at her. Her reflection was not the only thing watching, though. If one looked carefully at this scene, they would see flashes, flutters, and miniscule bursts of color throughout the willow trees surrounding the pool. They started on the outermost brink, then danced closer. A swirl here, a rustle there. Soon, a tiny spark burst from the branches and floated down. It hovered a few feet above Constance’s curls. It stopped, fascinated by the girl below. She was new and unusual. It floated down a few more inches.
Constance caught sight of its reflection in the pool below. She tilted her head, considering it. It was small, only a few inches tall. Yet, it was easily the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. It had delicate, translucent wings that fluttered faster than a hummingbird’s. Its petite figure was clad in pink rose petals. She smiled shyly at it, through the pool’s reflection. The fairy darted closer. It stretched out a tiny hand and stroked one of Constance’s thick curls. It cooed in delight and settled itself atop her head. It chittered upwards, calling its friends.
A swarm of fairies alighted from the treetops. They circled down in a colorful whirlwind. Bright reds, soft pinks, sunny yellows, and warm greens. They swirled down in their floral clothing. Constance gazed at them with her large, deep eyes. They regarded her carefully. One by one, they flitted close: tugging at her lacy sleeves, stroking her hair, settling on her shoulders, even swooping to place a kiss on her soft cheeks.
…
Dear reader, let us take a brief repose from this lovely, placid scene. It is important that you know a few things about fairies and magic. First of all, magical creatures are not people. They resemble miniature humans with wings and possess some similarities to humankind. They are intelligent. They have language, culture, and personalities. However, that is as far as the correlation goes.
Fairies are, in fact, rather horrid creatures. They are beautiful—it is true. However, think upon the bright light of a lamp. Its beauty attracts the unsuspecting moth, who is scorched by its heat. Likewise, the spectacular beauty of magic often masks a dark nature. That is, fairies have no souls. They maintain no sense of right or wrong. Where there should be a conscience lies an empty hole. They try to fill this with pleasure, fun, pride, and mischief. Moreover, when they want something, nothing will dissuade them. If only our dear, little Constance knew that fact.
…
Alas, instead, she sat completely enraptured with the fairies, ignorant of their foul nature. She danced with them fluttering around her and tried to mimic their chirping song. Whatever she did pleased the fairies. She was keener, more fun, and more patient than all the wild creatures in the forest. She was new and exotic.
The hours passed quickly for them, yet dusk still came. The sky dimmed. Constance looked up, realization dawning. Night was coming, and she needed to return home. Loathe as she was to leave her new companions, she feared spending the night in the forest. Yes, it was full of wonder, but it was still wild. Not every creature was her friend.
She rose to her feet and dusted off her pink dress. The fairies twittered merrily. One wearing purple tulip petals gave a pirouette, encouraging Constance to dance. Constance gave a sad smile and shook her head. The fairy made a sour face and gave her arm a sharp pinch. Constance yelped in surprise. The fairy flew angrily towards a small cluster of others. It chattered viciously. Constance began to move out of the pool’s clearing. However, she did not get far. The purple fairy returned and grabbed Constance’s hair.
Constance gently brushed a hand through her tresses, harmlessly shooing away the fairy. It attacked with new vigor, pulling hard and shrieking at its friends. The others zoomed closer. One tinkled a little song and waited expectantly for Constance’s response. Another pulled at the lacy trim of her skirt, gesturing for her to return to the pool. Constance just shook her head. She couldn’t stay.
The tulip fairy shrieked to its companions, giving another savage tug on her hair. The swarm of fairies chattered to each other for a second. Then, they seemingly decided that they would not lose their new playmate. Each dove towards Constance and grabbed hold. Some attached themselves to her hair. Others grabbed fistfuls of skirt to pull. Still more just flew around, giving potent pinches or gnashing their pearly teeth at her.
They pushed her back towards the pool, which had begun to bubble and froth hungrily, agitated by the fairies’ anger. Constance tried to escape. She tried to brush the fairies away. However, her heart was too soft and gentle to actually hurt them, so they only came back with greater vengeance. Step by step, she was forced backwards, until her heels almost touched the pool. It reached its watery fingers up to grab and swallow her. The fairies chattered eagerly, encouraging the pool. Soon, young Constance Whipple would lie in a liquid grave, surrounded by what she had supposed were her friends.
...
Fate had other plans. While Constance had followed the treacherous river to the fairies, Mother Doe had run off in search of help, for she was old and wise. She knew exactly what lay at the end of that river. She wasted no time after her failed attempt to persuade Constance to stay away. She bounded through the forest, her fawn bouncing behind her. Over the brush and under the branches they flew, until they came to the sheltered furrow that they called home. There, they found Father Buck. Seeing his family’s distress, he charged toward the pool. He had often watched Constance frolic with his fawn and knew that she was not like other humans. Her heart was soft and generous.
Later, when poor Constance was within a millimeter of her demise, Father Buck burst in all his glory into the enchanted clearing. He was a sight to behold. His antlers shone in the fading sunlight. He was large and stately, standing as tall as a man with a velvet coat of majestic brown. He gave a single grunt, then dove toward the pool, kicking and tossing his antlers.
The pool, old enough to know the fury of a mighty buck like this one, immediately withdrew into a placid state. It had no desire to meet his sharp hooves and horns. The fairies, however, were less quick-witted. They made the mistake of moving from Constance to buzzing around Father Buck, who lashed out against them. (Fear not, dear reader. Father Buck will be fine. No fairies, even banded together, can harm a powerful deer like him.)
Meanwhile, Constance ran with tears in her eyes. She ran away from the pool, away from the clearing, away from the river. For the first time in her life, the forest was not where she wanted to be.
Mother Doe watched sadly from the trees. Constance would return to the forest again. She was sure of that. Her heart and soul were with nature. However, it would be different. She would be a little wary, a little afraid, a little more human. Until then, she would find refuge in the safety of Whipple Manor.