A short one that I've had in mind for a while - one day I intend to turn this into the framing device for a fuller story, but for now here is the short version. Not strictly speaking a fairy tale, but a tale about a fairy. And a cat. Those with a cat will know the feeling well. You hear the flap open and close and then sense, more than you see or hear, that the cat is there, watching you, and is pleased with itself. Inwardly, you sigh – it means that it has brought you a present which you’ll now need to deal with. A mouse, a small bird, it could be anything. It might be alive, dying or actually dead. Each gift was a new adventure. I pushed myself back from my desk, the wheels of the chair squeaking slightly. It was poor timing – I was writing a new story, and it was just starting to flow. However, I knew that if I didn’t deal with this, didn’t acknowledge the gift immediately, Jack, the cat in question, would make sure I did. Even more distractingly. I stood from the chair, turned and immediately crouched down before the tribute to see what it was. The first thing I saw were the drooping wings which covered the rest of the creature, though they were diaphanous and almost transparent, rather than feathered. I leaned forward to see more, suddenly actively curious. Jack backed away, purring in satisfaction that I was accepting the gift. I took one wing delicately between my fingers and lifted it, terrified that it might tear, it seemed so slender and fragile. As the wing moved back and the light accessed the creature beneath, it shied back a little. It was alive! I continued to move the wing, needing to know what it was. What it was, was a tiny girl as far as I could tell. Perhaps 3 inches from the top of her head to her feet, and the wings came from her shoulder blades. She was clearly hurt – even as small as she was, I could make out the cuts and bruises on her skin, which was an odd shade of very pale green, a much darker shade where she had bled. Her clothes, a simple tunic, seemed to be sewn from leaves. It seemed the cat had, somehow, managed to catch a fairy. For a moment, I wasn’t sure what to do, but with Jack looking expectantly at me, I couldn’t do nothing. I pulled a clean sheet of paper from my desk and, after placing it next to her on the floor, I tried to gently roll her onto it. She made quiet noises as she moved – clearly her wounds were causing her pain. I then used the paper to lift her up onto my desk, where I could look at her more closely. Her wounds looked like tiny cuts, though she had bled profusely. They looked to be too small to have been caused by Jack, and my storyteller’s mind couldn’t help but to start wondering and imagining what might have caused them. I mean, if fairies were real, then what else might be? Of course, I had no idea of how to treat an injured fairy – anything I could find online would likely be contradictory and useless. Even if there were others who had encountered one before, how could I identify them from the copious accounts that would be entirely fictional? I decided that, lacking any better idea and not knowing how to get one, to default to basics. The fairy had lost blood (albeit dark green blood), and that suggested that she might need fluids. I filled a bowl with water, added some sugar, and then used the end of a teaspoon to bring a few drops to her lips. I couldn’t tell if she was healthy enough to respond, or if it was a reflex, but the tiny creature took in some of the liquid. I repeated the operation a few more times until it seemed that she had slipped from unconsciousness to sleep and I replaced the spoon. What could I do next? Her wounds were far too small for me to try to stitch, even if I had any idea how to do it. The sheer different scale between us made any kind of direct intervention implausible. In the end, I place her (still on her piece of paper) on the windowsill. She had green skin, which I hoped meant that part of her physiology included chlorophyll, which might mean that sunlight would help. That done, I went back to my writing, to hope that she would recover, and that Jack would leave her alone. As it happened, my gritty crime drama went absolutely nowhere for the rest of the day – I simply couldn’t get back into it after trying to nurse a fairy back to health. I kept checking on her, and every sound made me look around to ensure that Jack hadn’t returned to torment her further. Each time, I thought that her colour had improved a little – though it was almost certainly my imagination and my fervent hope – I assumed that her skin should be a deeper shade of green, rather than a lighter one, but had no way to be sure. Occasionally, she stirred. At these times, I would offer some more of the sugar solution, and sometimes she took a little before settling again. By evening, I was sure that her colour had changed, becoming a deeper green and much closer to the colour of her blood, which had begun to stain the paper. Her breathing also seemed more regular and less shallow. When it came time to go to bed, I placed her on a fresh sheet of paper and carried her to my bedroom. Unusually, I shut the door, wanting to keep Jack out – he rarely visited whilst I slept, but he was normally welcome to. Once I woke, my first thought was to check on her again – firstly to ensure that the previous day had not been a dream, and secondly to see if she had changed. Again, she seemed better, but was still not awake. I carried her paper over to the windowsill and opened the curtains, allowing the dawn’s light to flood in. At the touch of the sun on her skin, she started to stir, and, for the first time, I saw her eyes open. As those eyes, brilliant green but with the form of those of a cat, opened she saw me and jerked upright. She shuddered in pain, but it seemed that her wounds had closed, and she did not bleed further. I held out a hand, fully aware of how much larger than her it was but knowing of no other way to indicate that I wouldn’t harm her. She huddled back against the windowsill, her eyes darting up and, seemingly, acknowledging that the window was closed and so she was trapped. She raised her own hand in response, breathing deeply, small feet firm against the floor as if she were ready to flee if it were necessary or the opportunity presented itself. “Are you alright?” I asked the question hesitantly and quietly – I wasn’t sure if she would understand, or if my voice might scare her further. Her eyes widened, and I repeated the question. “I have been injured,” the fairy answered, also sounding hesitant. Her voice was light and reminded me of the sound of a babbling brook. I nodded to her. “I tried to help you,” I said, still keeping my voice low. “I wasn’t sure what to do.” She stood up tall, the effort only be slightly spoiled by her grimace of pain. Once upright, she dropped into a curtsey. “Then it would seem that I owe to you a debt. How might I address my saviour?” I truly wasn’t sure how to react and so I answered her question. “My name is Thomas,” I said. “Thomas Havers.” She raised herself back out of the curtsey. “Then I, Fern of the Court of Meadowdown, acknowledge my debt to thee, Sir Thomas.” I shook my head at her and waved my hands. “No, no – I’m no sir. And there is no debt – I just tried to take care of you.” Fern looked at me in surprise. “Is it not knightly to care for those in need? To my mind, and to that of my brethren, it very much is. If you are not formally a knight of your own realm, then that is their loss, and I shall acknowledge your virtue as much as I acknowledge my debt.” It was my own turn to be surprised as such eloquence. I wasn’t sure what I had expected from her, but this was not it. Nor the mention of a court – that suggested that not only were there many more of her kind, but that they were organised, seemingly into some kind of feudal structure. “Now, Sir Thomas,” she continued. “We must establish how I might repay my debt.” She raised her hand as I was about to object to the concept of a debt again. “Neh, sir – I have a debt and I will repay it – to do otherwise would be shameful in the extreme. I expect there is little that I can offer one of your stature but if there is aught, you have but to name it – on my honour as a bard of the Court of Meadowdown.” I pulled over a chair and sat down, which placed us on a much more even level, and thought about what Fern was saying. I didn’t want to take advantage of her sense of obligation, but I also didn’t want to, as she had said, shame her. Thinking back to the stories that I had heard of the faerie folk, many of them centred on favours and debts and how they would not want to be in a debt any longer than necessary – perhaps some of them were actually true. “You are a bard?” I asked. Fern nodded. “Indeed, Sir Thomas. I am a teller of stories, a singer of songs, and a teacher of lessons.” I smiled at her. “Then, perhaps, whilst you are here and being restored to strength, you might share some stories or songs of your people with me? I am also a teller of stories, for my people.” She smiled at me. “Then, in exchange for my life and your continued care, I shall speak to you of my people, tell you their tales, and teach you of our customs.” I nodded to her in acknowledgement. “Deal,” I said, hoping there wasn’t some custom I was supposed to follow for this. She sat down again with a smile on her face, clearly enjoying the sunlight on her back. “May I ask of you, Sir Thomas, how you came to discover me? My folk are generally too small for your own people to pay us much mind.” “My cat, Jack, brought you to me,” I replied. “I think it was after you’d been hurt though – the cuts looked too small to have been caused by him.” She nodded. “Then, it seems, that I must also offer to repay my debt to him.” I smiled. “Can you not simply say that your paying me back counts for him too? He is my pet, after all.” She looked shocked at the idea. “Of course not. A cat has no liege but himself.” I had to admit – she had a point.
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