A Fairy's Tale

Have you ever wondered why they call them fairy tales? It’s not because they’re all about fairies, I can tell you that. In fact, we’re featured in far too few, if it’s my opinion you’re seeking which it probably isn’t. Most people won’t spare a thimble of Guinness for a good Fairy’s turn of mind. Pardon me, for a wee person’s turn of mind. I believe that’s what they be calling us nowadays. 

But I digress. 

I swore on the blessed bones of St. Paddy that I’d give you a fairy tale so settle your own bones down by the fire, sip your Guinness slow, and listen close because this fairy tale is as true as ever there was one and it just so happens to be about me. 

You remember all that bollocks from years ago ‘bout fairies stealing human bairns? Changelings they called ‘em. Weren’t no such things. 

How do I know? you ask.

Because the mirrors told me. That’s right. Mirrors. What good is a fairy tale without a speaking mirror in it? You are the fairest in all the land and all that tomfoolery. 

I had two mirrors in my bed chamber in the Fairy Castle where I lived as a spirit child, and they talked at me year after year but with pictures not words. At night I’d curl up under my flower petal quilt. I saw my first steps when I fell on my arse and my tenth timeout when I cried ugly snot down my face and my hundredth spanking when my face turned to stone and the light went out of my eyes. Scared me so bad I fell asleep, hoping flower petals were as welcoming of tears as they were of morning dew. 

They were. 

The next morning, my Fairy Nanna brushed my hair ‘til it ran like rivers of molten copper down my back and pointed at each mirror where a family ate breakfast together. “Have you decided, little Jewel?” 

I looked from one mirror to another mirror. Husband. Wife. Daughter. All related. Man raising another man’s daughter. They were mirrors of each other while I was the shell of a girl who didn’t belong. All I had to do was choose and I could be spirit and flesh and blood. A real girl with a real home and an almost real family. I shook my head until Nanna cussed and started to brush again. 

I didn’t know how to tell Nanna that being almost real hurt worse than not being real at all. “Not today, Nanna. Maybe tomorrow.” 

But tomorrow never came for me. Oh, the years arrived with the vengeance of a winter storm in the Scottish Highlands with naught but a kilt to wear, but the day of a right and true decision? No, lass, that day never arrived and so I stayed in the Fairy Kingdom until it was I who brushed the spirit children’s hair in the morn after they’d cried themselves to sleep watching their lives in the mirrors. 

Fairies stealing bairns? Mammy, mother of God! ‘Tis the fairies who try to do right by the bairns and give them the choice they always should have had! Why many’s a happy morn I’ve heard a wee one say Yes, Nanna! There’s my family! And just like that, I’ve watched ‘em turn to smoke and float right into the mirror that revealed one last image of a smiling child before turning into a beautiful portrait. 

I know what you’re wondering. Do I ever ask myself if I made a mistake not choosing? Truth is, I don’t think on it oft. I still have the mirrors, but they don’t reflect much to me anymore. Shadows move every now and then but that’s all they are really. Shadows. And I’d much rather brew a cup of hot lemon tea and drink it by the fireplace while I look at the thousands of portraits of smiling children that hang in the Great Hall of the Fairy Kingdom.