An Ordinary Fairy

This book is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright (c) 2010 by John Osborne

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Cover art Copyright (c) Julie Fain. Used by permission.

The author may be contacted at http://anordinaryfairy.com

Print Edition ISBN: 1451587899

Print Edition EAN-13: 9781451587890

For Suzie

“My heart beats with yours”

Acknowledgments

A story begins as a spark in the storyteller’s mind, which is fanned into flame, and if luck prevails, a raging fire develops. Lighting the fire of
An Ordinary Fairy
was not a solitary task. While I spent many hours hunched over various computers crafting the words, inventing the characters, and imagining the locations, many people contributed their time, skills and advice to the story.

First, thanks go to the early proofreaders who suffered through that awful first draft, but still found good things to say: Karin, Warren, Cheryl, Walt, and the two Julies.

Tracy and Jo—thanks for being the middle crew, who helped add polish and take out the fluff.

Special thanks to Elizabeth Barrette, who provided invaluable, though painful, professional editing skills, and who validated the accuracy of the various rituals described in the story.

A group of reviewers at fanstory.com was kind enough to help a complete stranger, and so deserves mention: a1940sfan, CelticSoul, BB, and MTM.

The final proofreaders were a diverse group from across the country, many of whom I’ve never met in person, but for whose help I will always be grateful: Karin, Warren, Carol, Rhonda, Dawn, Julie, Clara, Linda, Susan, Sharon, Gail, Chandra, my daughter Stacey, and my mother and enthusiastic supporter, Carmen Rucker.

Special mention must go to Debra Dixon, an editor at Belle Bridge books, who owns the distinction of being the only person in the publishing industry who responded to a query with actual advice—and she did so
twice
. Her ideas sparked a major style revision that made the story what it is.

My friend Dawn Johnson provided invaluable proofing, editing, advice and encouragement. Dawn, we should meet some time.

Not enough thanks can be said for the love and support of my wife, Suzie. As Proofreader-in-Chief, she listened patiently as I read the story aloud, not once, but two times. Thanks, Babe, for tolerating the late nights and early mornings, the tantrums, and the swearing at the printer.

I hope Willow is pleased with the results.

Her back itched. The spot that always itched, in the center, between her upper and lower wing pairs. The same spot that had driven her crazy for decades. She tried to reach the offending prickle, but her arm was too short and too muscular, as always. A girl could hope, though.

Fluttering her wings never helped either.

She backed up to a small tree and rubbed her back against it,
ooh
-ing and
ah
-ing as the rough bark soothed the eternal irritation through her robe.

A black Labrador retriever rushed up from behind, woofing a greeting as he took up the lead position twenty feet ahead, nose to the ground.

“Hey, Shadow. Ready for a swim? Sorry you couldn’t get in the water this morning.”

The photographer hadn’t wanted ripples on the water to spoil his pictures.
Hmph!
It was her pond after all, and the only reason she let him shoot pictures at all was … well, he was nice. And handsome. And tall. Of course, the whole world was tall to her. Something about him seemed familiar, too.

Her face and neck tingled, which brought a smile. Dust motes in the air reflected the glow of her skin. When had she illuminated the last time?

Songbirds gathered and circled about. Two blue jays lighted in a tree and watched as Shadow jumped off the path into a pile of leaves, rolled over on his back and wagged his feet in the air.

“Does your back itch, too?”

She pointed her open palm at the dog, murmuring soft words. He woofed again and sprang away toward the pond. The two jays took flight and swooped after him, screaming their excitement.

Laughter spilled from her lips, then a startled gasp. Laughing? That hadn’t happened in a long time, either. What had this grey-eyed photographer done to her? She shrugged and walked toward the pond, pulling her hood forward. The birds flew along, circling about her and singing. She hummed a tune, a favorite old Irish song.

A tremendous splash announced Shadow’s arrival at the pond. She reached it soon after and watched him paddle about from the stone ledge overlooking the water. The early evening sky was beautiful, that lovely deep blue that comes just before sunset. The treetops on the east bank glowed in the last rays.

A laugh burst out again, almost a giggle. “You sure stirred things up.”

Shadow paddled to the stone beach and toiled up a path cut in the rock. Once on the ledge he galloped toward her, stopped and shook snout to tail, showering her with water. She laughed again and pulled back her hood, shaking free golden blonde hair.

“How’s the water?”

The robe was loosely tied; it soon dropped to the rock and freed her naked body. How could she stay covered amidst nature’s beauty?

The cold air was exhilarating. She stretched her arms, flexed each leg, and rippled her back muscles, watching her reflection dance in the water below. Cares fell away and merriment warmed her heart. A headfirst dive off the ledge left barely a ripple.

The delicious cold water streamed across her skin and tightly furled wings. She frog-kicked just under the surface with powerful legs, searching the darkness for the perfect spot. Driving herself to the bottom, she crouched on the gravel, and then propelled upwards, powering to the bright surface overhead, bringing her wings up and forward. As she broke the surface, a mighty downward thrust threw her into the air amidst a spray of water. Tiny droplets flew off her vibrating wings, glittering in the evening light.

Hanging ten feet over the water, she raised her arms to either side. The water below her glowing palms began to froth and large bubbles emerged, exploded and became shining balls. The orbs rose and spiraled about her as she slowly twirled twice around. Laughing, she pitched forward and returned to the water, swimming beneath the surface while the lights shadowed every turn. Accelerating, she burst through the surface and soared to treetop level. She hovered, surveying her forest home, her softly buzzing wings cooling her wet skin.

Autumn colors surrounded her on every side, subdued by the evening light. The far margins of the woods sank into darkness. Here was her world: the trees, the animals, the water and the sky.

She spun about and plummeted headfirst toward the pond, pulling up at the last moment to rush along just above the water, her body horizontal. The lights and birds rejoined her and followed her about the pond. Returning to the deep water near the ledge, she rose upright and gracefully dropped into the water. She swam on her back, murmuring to the birds, which had lighted on the ledge.

A rolling of her stomach, which had started in flight, disturbed her peace. Again, something not normal. Perhaps her snack of mushrooms didn’t sit well. Her eyes fell on Shadow, who had remained on the ledge. He seemed observant, alert, about to bark. She pulled herself erect and scanned the bank the dog was watching, tilting her head to listen. Not a leaf stirred.

She whistled and motioned for Shadow to join her. He bounded off the ledge and into the water, creating a momentary geyser.

The evening gloom spread while they paddled about. Her mind found its way back to the photographer and his intense grey eyes. The way he looked at her, as if he’d never seen a woman before, was unnerving.

Time to go. Emails were waiting. She paddled to the narrow cut in the rock and climbed up, Shadow right behind. Water dripped off her wings, which glistened even in the failing light. “Ready for some supper? I’m starving.” They reached the ledge and Shadow shook himself, showering her again.

“Two can play that game.” She vibrated her wings for a few seconds in his direction. He barked and wagged his tail. She laughed, the sound echoing across the water. She dried her face and hair with the robe, ambling toward the path, while Shadow bounded ahead.

She stopped and turned her eyes toward the pond. There had been a definite sound that time, something unnatural. She leaned her head to one side, listening. Her wings rose and began to twitch.

No one could be there. She would have sensed a human. Must have imagined it. She turned back to the path and began to sing.

Her stomach growled. A Snickers bar sounded good.

One

“J
eez, it’s colder than I thought,” Noah Phelps said to himself.

The October air was crisp, but clear, with the promise of a beautiful sunrise teasing the eastern sky. He straightened his John Deere ball cap, snugged up his jacket, and closed the door to Number 13. Just outside the motel room was a workman’s ladder, leaned against the second floor balcony, which Noah ducked under at precisely the same moment that he stepped on a crack in the concrete walk. Not a black cat was in sight, though.

“Your back is fine, Mom.”

Noah had arrived at Hoopeston three days earlier on the thirteenth, a Friday, and was scheduled to be here thirteen days. His wallet held thirteen dollars in cash. On his thirteenth birthday, his parents gave him a camera, which led to his graduation from college with a fine arts degree in photography on June 13th, 1992. Thirteens were all around him, always had been, but this didn’t worry Noah, and he had, in fact, reasoned that thirteen was his
lucky
number. He was also unafraid of black cats, walking under ladders, and cracks in the sidewalk.

Just two things frightened Noah: heights and the Gremlin.

Logic demanded a fear of heights, Noah thought. Falling kills, which was an easy to understand cause and effect relationship, and fit with Noah’s desire to live an ordered, predictable life. A life led no more than six feet off the ground at any time.

Noah feared the Gremlin just as much, because it trailed disorder in its wake. The Gremlin caused your camera to fail at that no-one-will-ever-be-able-to-get-a-shot-like-this-again moment. The Gremlin allowed light to leak unseen into your darkroom, made light meters read incorrectly, and covered the sun with clouds the instant you clicked the shutter. Noah felt sure the Gremlin was a real, mean-spirited supernatural creature: a photography demon.