Yes,
help her. That was exactly what I had to do. But how in the world was I
supposed to do that? Where do I find medicine for a fairy? Touching her seemed
unwise. Mishandling her fragile form might break her beyond repair.
Her weeping worried me. Was she in pain?
With all the talk of liver damage from this pain reliever and recurring illness
from others, just what was I to administer to a mythical creature? Perhaps she
didn’t have a liver. I thought to Google “how to fix a fairy,” but quickly
dismissed the idea.
I longed to talk to Granny, but she was gone now. When I’d stayed at
her house as a child, her stories enticed me to believe in fairies. I wish I’d
paid better attention, but Granny had never told me what to do if a fairy landed
broken on my doorstep. I was sure of that.
Granny’s stories were lovely, taking me
back to a time when magic had been possible. Many a nights I'd slid into sleep with
blissful thoughts of twirling around the garden in the moonlight with dozens of
fairies flittering around me, the breeze from their wings moving my hair away
from my face and tickling my cheeks.
I dropped to the floor again and peered
into the box. Those were just dreams, this was real.
Beep-beep.
My head whipped up. My family had
arrived. I looked down at Her one last time, reaching for the box lid, and said,
“I have to go.”
I looked
at Hector. The cat stared back, his amber eyes wide with interest. She’d spoken.
The Her had spoken. I bent closer.
“Neachtar…” she said again, and closed her eyes, drifting, I hoped, into to
healing sleep.
. . . To be continued next Friday.
Thank you, Josey!
Josey Bozzo is a treasured regular here at Novel Matters. You can read more of Josey on her blog here.
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