The Night Fairy (2 page)

I
f a person — whether she is human or fairy — spends most of her time thinking of ways to sting, it is bound to show. In the weeks that followed, Flory practiced her stinging spell so often that she began to have rather a prickly look. Her nose and chin grew more pointed, as did the tips of her ears.

Spring drew closer to summer. The tulips dropped their petals, and the peonies bloomed, fat mattresses of milky petals and rich smells. Flory grew used to the sound of birds singing and the sight of them making their nests. She even grew used to the giantess, who came every day to fill the clear tube with seeds. Flory began to hanker after the seeds herself. She knew that after summer came autumn and then winter. She was not afraid of the cold — a fairy can lie naked in the snow and warm herself with magic — but she thought it might be a good idea to fill her house with food. When winter came, there would be no green shoots and no pollen. She could not fly south like the birds. A little cache of seeds and nuts would be very useful.

She decided to make a rope bridge to the oak tree. She began to gather dried cobwebs, which could be spun into long ropes and knotted into ladders. If she could travel from tree to tree without climbing down to the ground, it would save hours. She would be able to raid the seed tube every day.

Making the rope bridge took time. Even when dried, the spiderwebs were sticky, and Flory had no knife to cut them; she had to gnaw them with her teeth. The spinning work was hard, too, until she found a spell to help her. She twisted the strings of cobweb together and closed her eyes, thinking of the way a vine twists around a tree branch. After a moment or two, the cobwebs began to writhe like snakes in her lap. Flory breathed steadily, letting her magic flow from her hands to the cobwebs. When at last she opened her eyes, the strands had twirled together, forming a rope that was stronger than steel.

She had just finished a new rope when her sensing feather throbbed. At once she jumped up, ready to sting. The squirrel leaped down through the cherry tree, landing on the roof of Flory’s house. Flory was not surprised to see him. He tried to pounce on her at least once a day. By now, he ought to have known that it was no good — Flory always stung him — but he was either very hopeful or very foolish; Flory didn’t know which.

The squirrel stood on top of the wooden house, his paws dangling over his white belly. His nose twitched. He looked as if he were trying to make up his mind whether or not to pounce.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Flory said to the squirrel.

The squirrel leaped. Flory spoke the words of her stinging spell almost before he moved. It hit the squirrel in midair. He twisted and shied away from her. “I told you,” Flory taunted him.

The squirrel turned tail and dove down the cherry tree. He headed for the seed tube. Flory had noticed that he was very fond of the seed tube. He hung on to it for hours, gobbling seeds.

But today there was a new tube, one with a clear dome at the top. The birds had to fly under the dome to get the seeds.

The squirrel looked puzzled and then worried. He leaped onto the dome, but it was slippery and his claws had nothing to hold on to. If he clung to the hook and hung upside down, his front paws couldn’t reach the food tray. If he let go of the hook, he slid down the dome and landed on the grass. Flory burst out laughing.

She watched for an hour. The squirrel jumped onto the dome again and again, his claws scrabbling for a foothold. He stretched himself, flattening his body. He tried leaping straight up from the ground, but it was no use. There was room for the birds to fly between the dome and the seed tray, but there wasn’t room enough for him. Flory laughed heartily, but she began to wish that he would get a little bit of food. In the past weeks, she had learned how hard it was to fend off hunger. She didn’t feel sorry for him, exactly. She had never learned how to feel
sorry,
even for herself. But her laughter grew less shrill and her eyes looked rather thoughtful.

At last the squirrel gave up. He streaked over the grass and galloped up the cherry tree. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Flory. His beady eyes glistened. He was truly hungry now.

“Don’t,” Flory warned him, but the squirrel paid no attention. He flung himself at her, only to give a cry of pain.

“How stupid you are!” Flory said. She didn’t know how rude she was; she had never been taught manners. “I’ve stung you twice already, and I’ll sting you every time you try to pounce on me. You can’t eat me! I’ll hurt you if you try.”

The squirrel sat back on his haunches. “I’m not stupid,” he said in a muffled voice. “I’m hungry.”

“You can be both,” Flory pointed out.

The squirrel thought about this. He shook his head. “I can never think on an empty stomach,” he said, “and my stomach is always empty.”

Flory thought of pointing out that this meant he was always stupid, but she didn’t. Looking closely, she could see he was rather a young squirrel. His grizzled coat hung slack, and his tail was skimpy.

“You could still get the seeds from the seed tube,” Flory said, “only you’re going about it the wrong way. It’s a new seed tube. Didn’t you notice?”

The squirrel nodded. “The giantess keeps putting up new tubes,” he complained, “and each one is harder to get into. I don’t under-
stand it. She must want me to eat the seeds, or she wouldn’t hang the tube in the tree.”

“She’s a giantess,” Flory said. “You can’t expect her to have any sense.”

The squirrel cocked his head as if he had just had a new idea. “You’re a night fairy,” he said. “I can tell from your shadow. Why are you awake in the middle of the day?”

“I’m a day fairy now,” Flory said.

“You’re supposed to be a night fairy,” said the squirrel, “and your wings are all broken off.”

Flory frowned. She didn’t like to talk about her wings. “What’s your name, squirrel?” she asked haughtily.

The squirrel scratched. “I’m hungry,” he repeated.

“I’m not going to call you that,” Flory said. “I think I’ll call you Skuggle.
Skug
is another word for
squirrel,
you know.”

“Skuggle,” echoed the squirrel. He tried it out. “Hungry Skuggle.”

“Listen to me,” Flory said briskly. “I can help you get the seeds from the new tube, but I want some seeds for myself.” A brilliant idea came into her mind. “And I want to ride on your back.”

Skuggle stood with his paws at his sides and stretched his neck upward. It was something he did when he was trying to think. “No. I want to eat
all
the seeds. You can’t have any.”

“Greedy,” Flory jeered. “You can’t have them all. But if you do what I tell you, you’ll get some. That’s better than none.”

Skuggle’s paws twitched. He had very dainty little paws. They looked like tiny gray gloves. “I want the seeds.”

“Then you have to let me ride on your back.”

Skuggle shifted his weight from side to side. “You won’t weigh much,” he said, thinking the matter over, “and I’ll get the seeds. It’s good.”

Flory took a step toward him. He was so big that looking up at him made her neck ache. “You’re very wide.”

“If you take hold of the end of my tail, I can flick you onto my back,” said Skuggle. “Only you have to tell me about the seeds, you know.”

“I will,” said Flory. “Let me up.”

She caught hold of the edge of the squirrel’s tail and wrapped her arms and legs around it. The tail lashed forward. In another moment, Flory crawled up the squirrel’s neck and settled down beside his right ear.

“Now, listen,” she said into the squirrel’s ear. “You can’t get the seeds from the top. The dome is in the way. And you can’t get in from the bottom, either. You won’t fit.”

“What can I do?” asked Skuggle. He sounded as if he might start to cry.

“You can knock the seeds out of the tube,” Flory said. “Go up the oak tree and grab hold of the hook — the
hook,
you hear — because you can hold on to that. Swing back and forth as hard as you can. The seeds will fall out of the tube, and you can eat them off the ground.”

Skuggle’s eyes glistened with greed and hope. “I love you,” he said happily.

F
lory was no longer alone. She felt that she had made a friend, though she wasn’t quite sure what friendship was. Skuggle was not the best of friends, because he would have eaten her if he could; also, he never talked about anything but food. Flory wasn’t the best of friends, either. She knew that if she had been able to fly, she wouldn’t have bothered with Skuggle. She was using him. All the same, after she struck her bargain with Skuggle, she was less lonely.

She had not known she was lonely before. If she hadn’t lost her wings, she would have lived with other fairies. They would have played and danced together, swapping riddles and songs and spells. Other fairies might have taught Flory manners, because fairies simply do not put up with rudeness from their friends. But Skuggle had no manners to teach Flory, and when she was rude to him, he just scratched himself. That was all right with Flory. She enjoyed bickering with him. It was more interesting than talking to herself.

She sometimes wondered how she had managed before she met Skuggle. Perched behind his ear, she explored every inch of the garden. Skuggle took her to the thorn apple tree and gnawed off a long thorn that made her an excellent dagger. In return, Flory helped the squirrel get suet from a little box with a cage around it. The cage had such tiny holes that Skuggle couldn’t get his paws inside. Flory reached through the bars with her dagger and scraped off gobs of suet for the hungry squirrel. She soon learned that Skuggle would do anything for suet or seeds.

Skuggle was not easy to ride. He was much too big for Flory, and his stride was so rough that she clung to his ear for dear life. Riding him was like riding a roller coaster: now fast, now slow. Flory never knew when he would tear straight up a tree trunk or leap to another tree. He often forgot where she wanted to go and bounded off after something to eat. Still, it was a great thing to be able to move about quickly. It made Flory realize how much she missed her wings.

She began to study the other creatures of the garden, wondering if any of them might be coaxed into carrying her through the air. The butterflies were tempting, but butterflies are absentminded; when Flory tried to talk to them, they flounced their painted wings and drifted off. The dragonflies were almost as beautiful as the butterflies, and Flory thought they looked clever. But dragonflies are moody and, like bats, fond of eating moths. Flory didn’t think she could trust them.

There remained the birds. By now, Flory knew the birds of the garden very well. She liked the chickadees and the titmice but avoided the meat eaters: the blue jays, the grackles, and the crows. She admired the scarlet crest of the cardinal and the yellow feathers of the goldfinch. Watching the birds fly brought a lump into Flory’s throat. She missed flying dreadfully.

Flory saw her perfect mount one morning in June. She heard a whirring noise and saw a shimmer in the air — a dark patch only a little larger than a bee. Then the creature caught the light. He was a hummingbird. His feathers were emerald green and glittered like mica. His throat was reddish purple, fiery hot one second, cool violet the next. He hovered beside an orange lily. His wings whirred so fast that Flory couldn’t see them.

“Oh,” whispered Flory. She was filled with such wonder that she could not speak. Her skin was prickly with gooseflesh. It wasn’t until he darted away that she remembered to breathe. Then she leaped to her feet and raced to the very tip of the cherry branch. Oh, he was gone! But he would come back, and when he did, she would talk to him. She would tell him how much she wanted him — needed him. He was the most beautiful, most magical creature she had ever seen. And he was just the right size for her: large enough to carry her easily, but small enough so that she could wrap her legs around his neck.

She was sure she could tame him. The thought made her want to leap in the air and shout with joy. She would tame him and make him her own. Someday — Flory was sure of it — she would straddle his ruby-red throat and soar above the flowers. He would be hers, her very own, and he would take her wherever she liked.