Faith Hope & Fiction

By Mike Spencer

            It leans to one side, blank eyes empty, its mouth forming a grim line above a gravelly chin. Mossy hair stands atop a brow of speckled paint grown chalky with age. I approach it carefully so as not to disturb it. Caressing its weakened corner lightly, I whisper good morning. It awakens as the sun breaks over the trees, and its eyes brighten when it hears me.

            “There you are!” I say.

            A rattle and a creak sound from deep inside as its doors straighten ever so slightly.

            I trail my hand down the corner and kneel to inspect the rot. It has grown some since I last came here, forming a small hole in the foundation. A rustling sound in the darkness inside startles me. Beady eyes above a twitching nose peer out at me. Whiskers wiggle this way and that, and one eye considers me before the body it belongs to steps out into the open.

            “Who are you?” I ask.

            He shrugs and finishes what he is busily chewing.

            I giggle.

            His eyes blink, and he races past me onto a log resting near the hole.

            “What is your name?” I ask.

            “I don’t know, nobody has ever asked me that before.” The voice is low and soft, like the rounded belly that nearly touches the ground.

            “Then I will call you Mr. Munk.” I put out my hand.

            He scurries away on short legs that carry his fat little body surprisingly well. Returning just as speedily, he sniffs, then climbs into it. “What is your name?” he asks.

            “Call me Friend,” I say.

            He sniffs again at my fingertips and jumps onto the log. He dashes into his hole and returns with a seed, offering it with his tiny paws. I take it carefully and sniff like he did. I put it in my mouth and chew quickly. Mr. Munk’s face widens.

            “I have something for you, too,” I say and dash to get my kit bag, spreading it out in front of his small house. I show him my paints.

            Mr. Munk hops from one to the next, touching each lightly, smelling each before leaping away. “What are these for?” he asks, his eyes sparkling with curiosity.

            “Every home needs a proper entrance,” I say. I look up into the glassy eyes still watching me closely. “Is it okay if I paint a door for Mr. Munk?”

            I hear the straightening of clapboards and the clang of a spring from inside.

            “I think that is a good idea,” he tells me. “It is good to be hospitable.”

            I get to work. Mr. Munk is excited when I finish and eagerly asks if it’s ready to use. I nod and he steps inside. His face grows even wider than before. He likes it.

            A scratching comes from above, and a wet berry plops onto my head. Mr. Munk flies out of his house and shoves it in his mouth. His cheeks are huge with it. Chittering overhead, and more berries follow.

            “Stop it!” I laugh.

            “Are you done yet?” a voice calls.

            It’s Miss Hazel. She is standing on the edge of the moss line and has an enormous mulberry in her hands threatening to throw it at me.

            “Okay, I surrender!” I laugh again. “I am welcoming Mr. Munk. Come and say hello.”

            The mulberry hits me square in the face, and the chittering fades as Miss Hazel takes off along the roof and jumps into the neighboring mulberry tree. I scramble up the tree and see her on a higher branch, just out of reach. I climb higher and almost catch her, but she chitters again and is gone. Another berry flies at me, and I duck. She is on the next branch, and I have never been this high before.

            “You can do it. Jump!” Miss Hazel squeaks.

            I’m scared, even though the branch is only a little way past my fingertips. All I have to do is jump to catch it. I take a deep breath, close my eyes. I open them and leap off the branch. My foot slips and I fall. I bounce off the branches below, scrabbling for purchase.

            Plummeting toward the ground, I scrape my legs all the way down. Miss Hazel screeches. Mr. Munk rushes and jumps onto my chest, his little paws on my chin. I sit up to catch my breath, wheezing.

            My legs are burning and red. The skin is torn and raw all down my shins. I try not to cry but it hurts so badly, and I am scared from falling.

            “There, there,” a kind voice says, shushing me and brushing my face. Day Lily is gently wiping her dew laden leaves along my legs. Drops of dew fall onto my face, and her petals wipe my tears away. The dew cools my legs and cleans away the dirt and bark. “It’s okay, just a few scratches,” she says.

            “Come on now, get up from there,” Mr. Munk says, patting my chin.

            I climb onto my feet and carefully step out of the lily bed. Several of the stalks are bent and pressed down to the ground. I limp to my kit and retrieve string and scissors, then carefully splint the stalks with twigs and set them upright.

            Day Lily whispers her thank you. I gently drag my hand along the tops of her petals, and she sighs with pleasure.

            I brush off the seat of my pants.

            A low groan shudders the peaceful air. I turn quickly, drop to my knees and crawl toward an overhang in the north end of the garden. Built long ago, it is deeply weathered, its grain shiny and its surface sun beaten and bare. The cave within exhales its dry breath. I stop, frozen in place.

            “It is restless this morning,” a high-pitched voice tells me.

            I look around but can’t find it. I know who it is, but he changes his home so frequently that he is hard to find. “Perhaps I’ll come out today,” he says.

            “Where are you?” I ask.

            He drops down in front of me so quickly I fall on my behind. He laughs, and my fear is gone. “I got you again, Friend.”

            I get on my knees and focus on the speck in front of me. He is hanging from a gloriously dew-laden tapestry sparkling in the sun.

            Another exhale, another groan, louder this time. A blast of dust shoots out of the cave and clouds my vision. I cough and wave my hands to fan it away. I hear it moving, dragging what I imagine is its tail. It grumbles, and I hear its teeth crashing as it finishes licking its lips. An eye appears in the mouth of the cave, and I scream and jump to my feet.

            “Get away!” yells my tiny friend. He pulls himself back into his hideaway. I see him peeking out cautiously. “The fairies!” he calls again, his voice so impossibly tiny that I almost don’t hear him. His warning is unmistakable.

            I race across the open space of the garden, never looking back, knowing that if I can get to the forest in time, I will be safe. I slide under the edge of the flowering trees lining the boundary of Fairy Land.

            A roar breaks the terrified silence of the darkened garden. Everyone is hiding, watching from the safety of their holes and homes. The creature is angry.

            I peer out from under the canopy and watch it stalk the garden. It roars again, frustrated at missing its chance to have me. I see rage in its eyes and spittle dripping from the end of its fangs.

            “Friend! It appears you have stirred the Beast.”

            The fairy who just spoke flies into my open palm, giving me a small curtsy. She wears a small crown, the size of an acorn cup. This is Princess Seraphielle, and we have met before.

            The Beast roars again, stirring a wind that flutters the fairy’s small tresses.

            Princess Seraphielle grows stern, flies above my head, and raises both hands. Several fairies fly near and join her, hovering around me. They raise their hands and recite an incantation that drenches me in dew. As it hardens on my skin, I am stunned to see my legs disappear, then my arms, then my middle. I’ve become invisible.

            The Beast sniffs but can’t smell me anymore. He turns, smashing trees with his tail. A shower of leaves and branches rains down, knocking the fairies to the ground and covering them with debris. The Beast thunders away and returns to his cave.

            The garden brightens again, Day Lily resumes her gentle movement, Mr. Munk comes out to search for more seeds, and Ms. Hazel chitters her approval before jumping back into the mulberry tree.

            The hardened dew softens and shines on my skin. “That will disappear by nightfall,” the fairy princess says. As she picks small bits of leaves out of her hair, I notice the blood on her dress.

            “What happened, Princess Seraphielle? Are you okay?” The other fairies are also scratched and bandaged, I notice, their faces and arms dirty. She sends them away before answering.

            “We were attacked last night by Hobnail. He came at midnight with his winged creatures. We fought hard and vanquished them, but he slew two of my soldiers and drenched his cap with their blood.”

            I bring my hand to my mouth. “Oh, Princess! Is the fairy mound okay?”

            She nods grimly.

            Kneeling, I hold out my hand. She places her tiny palm in mine, and I gently cover it with my other hand. “I am so sorry for your loss. What can I do?”

            She looks at me expectantly. “I’ve asked you already, must I ask again?”

            “The wards!” I cry. She asked me to provide her with wards to protect their land, and I forgot to bring them! They are still in my kit bag. “Princess! This is my fault!”

            I run out of the trees to Glassy Eyes where I left my kit. The wooden crosses made of twigs and twine are lying in plain sight. My tears fall on them as I pick them up, their wood darkening quickly. They must be planted in the soil along the mound’s perimeter. Hobnail’s evil cannot match the authority of these holy symbols. If I had delivered them on time, the fairies who died might still be alive. I race back to her.

            I place the crosses at her feet. “Princess, I don’t know how you will ever forgive me.”

            She sees my tears, touches my hand with hers and says, “Friend. You are an ally of the fairies forever. But let this be a reminder to you of the responsibility that brings. Please don’t forget us again.”

            Her gaze is deep and sorrowful. I nod my head and wipe my nose. “I am sorry, Princess. I will remember, always.”

            I take my leave and step out of the forest and into the sunlight. Taking a deep breath, I release it slowly and survey the garden. Mr. Munk’s hole is quiet, and Glassy Eye’s shadow is reaching across the grass. Day Lily is closing for the afternoon, one orange flower at a time, like a clock counting out the hours to nightfall. I watch Mr. and Mrs. Robin take turns leaving their nest in the hedge to gather food for their nestlings. I can hear the babies pipping for it, eagerly gobbling up their dinner and demanding more. I run my hand along the leaves and branches of the hedge all the way to the end of the garden—back to where the overhang and the cave are.

            In the corner, there is a wall, underneath which is a nest. This one is big enough to be a warren with interconnected tunnels and maze-like passages, but it is home for much smaller creatures. They hear me coming and scatter. I creep over and take a seat. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a package of seeds and nuts. I pile them on the ground in front of the hole.

            A soft swishing reverberates from inside the dark tunnel. Then a squeal, answered by another and yet another, followed by the silken rush of fur against fur. Soon I am swarmed by an onslaught of tiny, long-tailed mice who scamper like silver demons, running up my legs and arms and covering my face and shoulders. They laugh at my surprise, nibble my ear lobes and dance in my hair. I laugh and shout, “Please! No more!”

            They giggle and squeak, running off my body, teeming around the small pile of nuts and seeds. In no time at all it is gone, inserted into full cheeks and whisked back to the hole. Only one silver tailed munchkin remains. He sits on his hind legs and puts his hands together, giving me a small bow.

            “Thank you, dear Friend,” he says. “We love it when you visit.”

            “You are very welcome. I love when I visit, too.”

            His tiny eyes dart behind me when a dark shadow slides up the wall. He is gone before I realize what has happened. I turn and look. A tall black shape stands on the ledge, silhouetted by the sun.

            “There you are,” it says. “I’ve been calling you!”

            The familiar shape leans over the railing, peering down at me. I squint into the brightness of the sun low in the sky trying to make out who this might be, when I feel the air settling around me. The fairy dew slides off my arms and legs, soaking into the ground. I stand and shield my eyes.

            “It’s time to come in now,” the voice assures me. “Oh my, what a mess you’ve made of yourself! What in the world have you been doing?”

            Smiling, I run up the stairs and into a great big hug.

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Michael Spencer is an artist and writer living in Cleveland, Ohio. He is an artist from the days of his BFA and MFA and worked large scale in bass and poplar. His sculptures were shown throughout the country. He is a writer due to the wonder of becoming a father. Learning to do that well meant he could not be knee deep in chainsaw shavings for hours on end but had to be hands on and ready for childhood. Writing opens the doors to his creativity, and his children and faith have supplied much of his inspiration.