When I was young, or at least significantly younger than I am now, I believed in fairies. I think most of us did when we were children: elves, goblins and fairies are a part of our literary life when we’re children. With the onset of age I stopped believing in fairies and reasoned that it was my parents who put sixpence (I do indeed remember sixpences, thank you very much) under my pillow when I lost a tooth. Of course, now my partner puts a gag under there instead, but that’s probably Too Much Information.
As I got older still I was able to see the magic in the world again. There is so much left to the imagination that who are we to dismiss the notion. Just because we have no proof doesn’t mean that they’re not there. Do we have proof of quarks? Strangenesses? Charms? (Actually, perhaps we do. It’s been a long time since I read up on physics so fill in your own unproven beliefs.)
In my mind, fairies do exist. The characters that appear in my novels meet them regularly, although they’re not the friendly flower fairies of my youth but a race of creatures who, while having no desire to conquer this plane, nevertheless are fascinated by it and the potential for food and trade that it provides. They may not give me sixpence for my tooth but they may well extract the rest with a pair of pliers and a chisel.
I knew there was a reason I learned self defence.
Why not do something good toady? Believe in fairies, just for a moment. What harm can it do, besides getting your teeth pulled?
This post brought to you by the fairies Good Spot, Mernac and Nightblade, and by the demon Jasfoup, who likes his fairies poached in butter.
Quick, he was, and sharp. Tell him about numbers and he would deduce mathematics; tell him about money, and he’d have your credit card before you could say ‘Jackdaw’. He didn’t so much live at the bottom of our garden as consider that we lived at the bottom of his.
Gossamer wings buzzed hesitantly as she edged closer, saffron yellow dress trailing the damp ground. Her eyebrows arched quizzically as she brushed back a lock of her riotous dark hair behind ears as pointed as a cats. She smiled shyly, exposing a row of sharp teeth as she bit down.
She walked with a limp and the aid of a gnarled stick; her wings tattered from a childhood meeting with a mortal dog. Hair once as luxuriant as a field of wheat in summer now hunk lankly as she raised weary eyes to the hedgerow, looking for sun ripened nightberries.
He’d got a letter-opener from somewhere, six inches long and shaped like a broadsword, and he brandished it with skill: defending the portal from the attentions of the tabby cat. He stood with a self satisfied smirk on his round face as he called the others to the unexpected feast.
© Rachel Green 2006, 2007