Fairyborn

by Daniel Arenson

When we think of "fairies", we imagine cute, innocent beings of goodness.  But in the old days, people feared the fairies; here were creatures of mystery and menace.  It seems this world of mystery has vanished...."Fairyborn" was first published in SDO Fantasy in July 2003.



One: She is Taken


In a German village many years ago, a young queen gave her first birth, to a pair of twin sisters. The two princesses looked exactly alike, both with eyes like forest pools and hair like golden thread. One the queen called Windflower, and the other she called Dewdrop. 

The village where the queen and king lived celebrated that day. Sheaves of wheat and baskets of flowers were set in the green. Minstrels played woodsy tunes on wooden flutes. Girls in homespun dresses danced around scrimshawed stones. Windflower and Dewdrop lay in their crib in the center of the festival, lulled and content, as the villagers brought them gifts and adulation. 

When the golden powder flew, the villagers danced and sang with abandon, frolicking and tossing off their clothes, spinning in circles, laughing. Other laughter joined theirs, laughter from the surrounding forest, tinkly laughter like rain on leaves. And when the golden powder dispersed, there were fairy rings in the grass, and the queen was weeping over the cradle of her children. All the villagers crowded around, and saw that only the child named Windflower remained. Where Dewdrop had been now lay a small, pink, quivering piglet. 

Out in the forest amid the birch trees, tinkly laughter echoed. 



Two: He is Born 


On her thirteenth birthday, Princess Windflower rode into the forest on her white horse. She enjoyed these rides from the village, when she could wear simple skirts instead of gowns, and could talk to herself aloud without drawing startled stares. The birches grew tall and white here, and only among them did Windflower feel peace, for her home was sad. Her sister had been swapped for a changeling, her mother had died of heartbreak, and her father brooded all day.

Today, however, Windflower found more than solace in the forest. Halfway into morning, she spotted a girl standing amid the birches. Fear filled Windflower. No one else ever entered this forest, for fairies dwelled here. Windflower wanted to gallop home, but something about the strange girl drew her closer. The girl was about Windflower’s age, with eyes like forest pools and hair like golden thread. She was naked but for a coat of wet petals that clung to her body, and two large, green acorns were her earrings. 

Windflower’s heart skipped. Shakily, she dismounted and stood before the girl. It was like looking into a mirror. 

“Dewdrop?” she whispered. 

The girl was trembling. She opened her mouth and cackled strange sounds like rain on leaves. Her haunted eyes darted, and her hands caressed her belly. Windflower took her sister’s hand, and Dewdrop flinched at the touch. Windflower soothed her, whispering softly, till at last the girl calmed. 

Tears filled Windflower’s eyes, and she said, “At last I have a friend.” 

Windflower took her twin back to the village. Dewdrop shivered at the sight of the houses and people, and clung to her sister’s arm. Together the girls entered their father’s palace, where Windflower combed her sister’s hair, and gave her one of her gowns, till the two girls looked exactly alike. The only difference was that Windflower moved with confidence and grace, while Dewdrop was always frightened and cackling strange sounds like rain on leaves. 

Windflower decided to teach Dewdrop all about being a princess. That evening, she took her to dine with the king, and sat her beside her, and wanted her to eat from her golden plate. Dewdrop stared at the food hesitantly and did not eat. Instead, she only reached shyly for the bouquet on the table, and sucked at the flowers like a hummingbird. When given a knife, she would fumble and cut herself, and cry till Windflower soothed her. The people frightened her and every sound brought tears to her eyes. 

“She is a halfwit,” the king said. “Listen to her talk, these strange sounds like rain on leaves. I am sorry, Windflower, but we can’t keep her here in the palace.” 

Windflower wanted to cry. “No, father! She is smart. She has just been... somewhere, all her life. Raised by wolves, maybe. She will learn. I will teach her to be a princess.” 

The king sighed, for he loved Windflower, and could not refuse her. “All right, Windflower,” he said. “Teach her. But if she does not learn in one year, she must leave this village.” 

Windflower hugged her father, and hugged her sister, and ate quickly. After dinner, she led Dewdrop up the tower into her room. Her bed was large and round and fluffy, with feather pillows and a soft quilt. Windflower climbed into its center, where she looked very small and safe. But Dewdrop only curled up on the floor. 

“No!” Windflower said, tugging at her sister. “Here, into the bed. Bed.” 

Dewdrop looked up at her, and hesitantly she said, “Bed?” 

Windflower laughed. “You can talk! I knew I could teach you!” 

Dewdrop began to cackle her strange sounds again, running her hands over her belly. Windflower sighed. Perhaps her sister was a halfwit. But then, as she listened, Windflower thought she could hear a pattern in the strange sounds her sister spoke. This was not simpleton talk. This was a language, a strange language with no words, too complex to be human. 

“How did you get back?” Windflower whispered. “Why did they return you now, after so many years?” 

But Dewdrop could not reply, only spoke in fairy tongue, all the while rubbing her belly, round and round and round. 

During the next few months, Windflower taught Dewdrop all she knew. How to brush her teeth, how to comb her hair, how to wash with soap, how to use rags every moon’s cycle. Only that last part Dewdrop did not need to learn. Dewdrop never bled. It became more and more obvious as time went by, as her belly swelled and swelled. Dewdrop was pregnant. 

The baby was born that autumn, with the harvest gathered and the birch leaves gold outside. Dewdrop could speak by then, and insisted there be no midwife at the birth, only Windflower, her twin and only friend. Windflower was frightened, especially of blood, but she agreed because she loved her sister. There was never any blood, however. When Dewdrop spread her legs on the large, round bed, there was only blinding light, and golden powder swirling through the air, and a thousand tinkly voices laughing like rain on leaves. 

And when Windflower could see again, there was a small boy in Dewdrop’s bosom. The boy was unlike any Windflower had ever seen. His hair was silver and his eyes lilac, and his ears were long and pointy. A fairy child, Windflower knew, for Dewdrop had been taken only till she was old enough to bleed, then returned with this child in her womb, who was only half human. 

Because one twin missing, Windflower knew, still left the mother with another. One twin dead still left the other alive. And now Dewdrop was dead, and only Windflower remained, empty, with this fairy child whose purpose she did not know. 



Three: The Scholar 


"Rabbit-ears, Rabbit-ears!” the boys chanted, stomping on his hat. Dew knew better than to challenge them. He waited while they stomped on his hat, tugged his ears, and gave him a bloody nose. Finally they left, as they always did, bored by his silence.

Dew picked up his muddy hat. He brushed it and straightened the pointy top. When he placed it on his head, his long ears protruded from its sides. Rabbit-ears. Fairy-ears. That’s what they were, Dew knew, though of course nobody dared name them truly. 

He sighed. Wiping his bloody nose, he crossed the green and entered the forest, wandered amid the birches where he had been conceived sixteen years ago. The tall, white trees could always calm him. There was silence here, and no people. Nobody walked here anymore. Not even Aunt Windflower. 

But then, Aunt Windflower hardly did anything. She had just seen her thirtieth autumn, and had not yet married. Dew did not understand why. Windflower was beautiful, with eyes like forest pools and hair like golden thread. But rather than accept suitors, she would only sit on a mossy boulder and stare into the forest, as if listening to faraway voices. She didn’t even talk anymore. The villagers had tried everything, rushing into her room at night to frighten her, even pinching her so she would cry in pain. But she never made a sound. Not since the day Dew had been born. The fairy folk had enchanted her that day, the villagers said. They had all heard laughter and seen fairy powder. 

Lost in these thoughts, Dew soon found himself deep in the forest. He rarely walked so far; even he feared the fairies. And so, when he heard footfalls, Dew was startled, and tripped over a root into the moss. 

“Why, hello there. I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

Dew stood up and gaped at the man before him. He had never seen such a strange person. The man was young, and clean-shaven, and he wore strange brown clothes and a strange round hat. He carried a book and feather under his arm. 

“Who are you?” Dew asked, frightened. 

The man smiled. “My name is Jacob Grimm. And you must be Dew.” 

“H-How did you know?” 

The man sat down on a mossy, fallen log. He removed his hat, then pulled some biscuits from his pocket. “Please, Dew, come and sit down. Share with me these biscuits.” 

Dew hesitated a moment, then sat down beside the young man. He took a biscuit and chewed slowly. It was crumbly and sweet. 

“I’ve been spying on your village,” the man said at length. “You will forgive me, for I dared not interfere. I find it fascinating that modern science has not found your village yet.” 

“Modern... what?” Dew asked with his mouth full. 

Jacob sighed. “Please, Dew. I need of you a favor. You are a remarkable boy. Tell me your story, tell me about your aunt and dead mother.” 

The young man seemed so sad of a sudden, that Dew told him all he knew, how his mother had been kidnapped, and how he was born. He spoke for a long time, while Jacob wrote down everything in his book. 

“Incredible,” the young man said when Dew was done. “My brother Wilhelm will not believe it. Your village has stayed the same for thousands of years, untouched by progress. But that will soon change, Dew. An army is marching toward your village, and will soon destroy it.” 

Crumbs fell from Dew’s mouth. “D-destroy it?” 

The young man nodded. “I’m afraid so.” 

“Have you come to warn us?” 

Jacob shook his head, looking grim. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that. I can only record your story. The army will be here soon, and only the story will remain.” 

Dew did not wait, but turned and ran through the forest, back to his village. 

When he emerged from the trees, he saw a hundred strange men there, dressed in white and blue, furry hats atop their heads. They were shooting thunder from strange sticks. 

“Nooo!” Dew shouted. “Stop!” 

The sticks of thunder boomed. Tears filled Dew’s eyes, and he could hardly see. The strangers were only splotches of white and blue. The villagers were humps of red on the ground. Dew choked on smoke. Blood sluiced his feet. 

“Napoleon!” the strangers cried, over and over like a chant, making their sticks boom. 

Everywhere fighting. Dew could not stand it. He raised his arms, and powder sparkled. He pointed at the strangers, and little ladies laughed, flying on transparent wings. The mind, Dew realized in a painful flash, was so small, a single plain of thought, but there was more--such a greater awareness, now everywhere around him. Slanted eyes and mischievous smiles, long fingers and dragonfly girls, rose petals and toadstools and crazy, crazy dancing, and enough, enough, enough! Too much, this was, too much for his human half, the human mind was too small for this chaos, this strangeness. Everywhere, the strangers were laughing, dancing while the strange little things danced around them. Into the trees they danced, powder sparkling around them, dancing into the toadstools, until Dew made them dance away, dance to where they would dance forever, and never return. 

They were gone. Dew lowered his arms, placed his hands on his knees and stood shaking. Too much. Do not think. Do not recall those strange green eyes. He took a deep breath. He sat down. 

For a moment all was silent. Then came a voice. 

“There will be more, you know.” 

Dew looked up and felt the blood leave his face. It was Windflower who had spoken. 

“There will be more strangers,” she said. 

The villagers were gaping. 

“Windflower!” Dew said. “You can talk!” 

His aunt gazed into the birches. A tear trailed down her cheek. 

“That is your purpose, Dew,” she whispered. “That is why they took her.” She looked at him. “You must travel to the strangers’ land and dance their leader away.” 



Four: The Woman 


Dew wore out three pairs of shoes to reach Paris. 

The city was overwhelming. Dew wandered it bewildered, his ears hid under his hood. People bustled around him, shoving, yelling at him. Dew did not speak their tongue. He was hungry, but when he reached for the stalls of food, people shouted. He was frightened, he was cold, and he missed his home. So strange was this land of strangers. 

He wandered the city all day, his stomach rumbling. Finally, at nightfall, he found an inn--a small, dilapidated house that smelled of too many men. Dew was so tired and hungry, he did not care. If there was a bed here, and food, that was all that mattered, not the smell. 

When he stepped into the old house, however, all thoughts of eating or sleeping left his mind. 

In the common room, leaning against the counter, stood the most beautiful woman Dew had ever seen. More beautiful than Windflower, maybe. It was a different kind of beauty, though. An... exciting beauty, for Dew could see the top of her bosom, and her lips were very red. 

The woman saw him staring and approached him. She spoke in her strange, flowing tongue. Dew stammered an “hello” in his own language. 

“Ah, you are German?” said the woman. “I speak a little German. Your people have a hungry appetite, and often speak aloud in bed.” 

“Bed?” Dew asked. 

The woman smiled. “My name is Faye. Come with me.” 

She took his hand, and Dew felt his blood stir. She led him upstairs into her room. Her bed was large and round and fluffy, with feather pillows and a soft quilt. She lay him on it, lay beside him, took his hand and pressed it against her. 

Dew’s cheeks burned. Faye smiled. 

“This is your first time?” she asked. 

Dew was amazed. What was this strange land, where people made love so casually? 

“Don’t worry,” said Faye. “I’ll do all the work.” 

When it was over, and Dew was breathing heavily, and she lay beside him stroking his hair, she said, “That will be three francs.” 

Dew blinked at her. Faye frowned. “Three francs,” she said. 

“Francs? You mean money? I have no--” 

“Edouard!” Faye screamed. The loud sound frightened Dew. He tossed open the window and leaped outside. He heard Faye screaming in French. He ran through the city. He heard pursuit behind. After hours of running, he fell into a pile of trash, where he remained shivering all night. 



Five: The Maneater from Corsica 


Napoleon stood on the balcony, clad in splendor. A golden coronet glistened atop his head. A rich red-and-white cloak fell from his shoulders. Gems twinkled on his fingers. Standing amid the commoners below, Dew was amazed. How could anything so sparkling be wicked?

But then Dew saw that behind the jewels, the man was short and fat, and his eyes were mean and pained. Dew saw how this man would storm across Germany, and all lore would be forgotten. Dew raised his hands and prepared to call the strangeness, to dance this man away. 

But when the green eyes opened in his mind, Dew saw in them a future. There would be others, he saw, men of science from his own land, men even crueler with armies even larger, who by trying to preserve folklore would destroy its magic forever. Ensorcelling this Frenchman would not help. That was not why he had been created. His purpose was another. 

Dew turned and left. 

The next few weeks he spent working at a shop, sweeping the floors, till finally he had three francs. He wanted to pay Faye. The coins in his pocket, he returned to her inn and stepped inside. She was not by the counter as last time, but Dew saw a fat drunkard wobble into her room, so he sat down to wait. 

While he waited, grunts and slaps came from upstairs, and Dew heard Faye whimpering and once call out in pain. Dew became frightened. He scanned the common room and found Edouard, the man who had chased him that day, sitting alone playing dice. Horrified, Dew stepped toward the large man. “The drunkard is hurting Faye!” he said. “Aren’t you going to do anything?” 

Edouard looked up, and his small eyes widened. “You!” he said. “You’re the boy who didn’t pay.” 

Quick as rain, Edouard leapt up and grabbed Dew by the throat. Dew tried to shout, but Edouard’s hands constricted him, and he could not talk or breathe. He tried to struggle, to pry the hard hands loose, but he was not strong enough. His lungs ached, and spots began to dance before his eyes, like frolicking fairies. 

Then, as Dew was preparing to die, the door to Faye’s room opened, and she came stepping downstairs, her hair tousled and her cheeks bruised. 

“Edouard!” she said. “Let him go.” 

The big hands opened. Dew took a ragged, wheezing breath of rank, delicious air. He fell to the floor, breathing hard and rubbing his throat. 

“What are you doing here?” Faye asked icily, standing above him. 

“I wanted to pay you,” Dew said hoarsely. With shaky fingers, he pulled three francs from his pocket and handed them to Faye. She took them, staring at him strangely. Dew looked up at her, and his eyes moistened. She was so beautiful. He reached up to touch her black eye, but she turned her head away. 

“Let me help you,” he whispered. 

Her voice was tight, as if she was trying not to cry. “Edouard helps me.” 

Dew touched her hair. She let him stroke it. 

“Come with me”, he said. “I know where we can hide forever.” 



Six: The Fairy Ring 


Dew took Faye back to his village. He lay her in his round, fluffy bed, placed her head on the feather pillows, covered her with the soft quilt, and kissed her to sleep. Then, in the dewy dawn, he stepped outside the village and stood at the edge of the birches. The fairies laughed around him. Dew called them, for he was one of them, he was fairyborn. He joined them in a dance around the village, a great fairy ring around the houses, where all fairy creatures danced, laughing like rain on leaves.

And when it was over, Dew stood alone, gazing at an empty fairy ring in the grass. They were gone, all his home and love, and he could not join them. No. If there were more such villages, he must protect them, send them into havens of enchantment. 

For a long time Dew traveled, from city to city, from land to land. The strangers moved across the continent, and Dew stayed always one pace ahead, sleeping in bushes, feeding off the land, searching for his kind. They were dying, he learned, all around the world their laughter was fading, for no room was left for them. And all around the world, there were none others like him. There was only he, Dew the Fairyborn, with the green eye of strangeness, to preserve what chaos and mystery he could before the strangers drove it away. 

The decades went by, and Dew kept walking. He saw the invention of the train, of flight, of air fleets, and all the while he found more villages and danced them away. He continued until one day there came a war of trenches and guns, a war like none had ever been, and after that Dew found no villages. Those were strange days for him. He spent them wandering the ruins, half asleep, so thin and weary. Whenever he slept, he awoke months later, to wander again through piles of ruin. Finally, as in a dream, a second war broke out, a war worse than the other. In this war, in his land, rose people like him, who believed in fairies and folklore, but who were marring their nation. Dew lived through it all, the holes and the concrete and the chimneys, the mushrooms like in his forest at home. And when that war ended, Dew knew that he was dying. 

He lay that night atop a mountain of famished, rubbery bodies. Ashes flew around him, and the sky was strewn with a million stars, so beautiful Dew could weep. Tanks and soldiers moved around him, but Dew could smile, for his story was written in those stars. Before his eyes shut forever, he thought he saw a face, a face amid the crowd of strangers, smiling at him. 

She was Dewdrop. 



Copyright ©  Daniel Arenson