Never

Never: A Fairy’s Tale

By Crash Froelich

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 Crash Froelich

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For Dan, who always believed

Acknowledgements

My deepest gratitude to my generous and supportive workshop partners who helped make this book a reality: Deb Cawley, Gio Clairval, Sue Curnow, Jennifer Dawson, Kendra Highley, Elizabeth Hull, Sage V. Jorran, Mike Keyton, Ilan Lerman, Larry Pinaire, and Sharon Ramirez. Sending warmest regards to Rick Drozd for his tireless efforts to keep Saint Joe Memory Lane (http://sjml.net46.net/) on-line for those of us far away and with fading recollections. A special thanks to Jeanne Haskin, without whose faith and dedication this book would have remained a dream.

Chapter One: Snogging the Pepper Pot

Eyes half-lidded against the faint brightness of an overcast morning, Hasse Holmqvist paddled his coracle home from the Warrah and Ram. Each dip of the oar matched the throbbing of his brain. Half an hour’s travel by water, his homestead lay outside West Fox Bay. There, his sheep grazed between a basalt dyke and the sound. They offered him no worries, other than rotating pastures.

Damned, brainless beasts.

Rounding a point where piled stones marked an abandoned Gentoo rookery, his cottage came into view. Hasse’s father, Snurri, built the place after his whaler, Ler’s Pride, ran aground in a gale. Hasse glanced into the choppy water and smelled rain on the wind. Snurri made a life on the Falklands, where he took up sheep husbandry before the whaling industry faded into history. He wooed the homeliest lass of the islands and accepted the gratitude of her father. None of Snurri’s nobility showed in Hasse’s face. Still, Hasse inherited the Merino flock. His sheep produced thick white wool, the equal of any on the islands. Their meat was of good quality, as well.

The storm that threatened all morning finally broke. Though nothing more than a sprinkling, the wind put a sting to it.

Stupid, bleeding animals. Stupid, bleeding loneliness. End of the earth, that’s the place. A green wasteland far from civilization. Thank the gods for drink and a publican who allows a poor sod credit and a pallet by the fire.

Even the rare presence of neighbors provided no relief. A few weeks ago, a father and daughter named Petersham, became tenants on Macdonough’s land. The girl behaved strangely. Hated him. He could tell. They’d passed once at the grocer’s and she looked flaming daggers at him. Never spoke a word.

A flash of billowing white linen drew his gaze to the inland path. Petersham’s daughter picked pale maidens as she strolled near his place. A right frippet and of breeding age. Much too young for him, as were most women who caught his eye. Hasse licked his lips. He hadn’t seen her father around lately. Probably took a job with a fishing crew. Hasse paddled faster.

***

Siobhan Macdonough stood on the pedals of her bicycle, pumping as fast as the slick, flinty path allowed. Not five minutes ago she’d covered her husband’s lunch coddle and placed it on the sill. That’s when she saw fingers of black scraping the sky. Because the grass never dried and there weren’t two trees together to call a forest, big fires meant one thing. The crooked, smoky arm disappeared over a rise toward Hasse Holmqvist’s thatched cottage. Siobhan knew he loved the drink. The old prat could be passed out in his bed while the world burned down around him.

Mounting the rise, she saw a roof aflame. A window burst and a gush of fire raced up the whitewashed wattle and daub. She pedaled faster, her pulse a tattoo. The path ran downhill and followed the bend of a low ridge surmounting the beach. Rough stones made the bicycle rattle and bang. Siobhan spied Hasse leaning against the cairn his mother had raised to bless the homestead. She’d hung a plaque carved with the words, God’s pease on this home. No one ever had the meanness to tell her what she’d done.

On the slope across the path, Hasse’s sheep gathered, neither bleating nor milling about, but watching him as one. She couldn’t remember seeing a flock behave so. She stepped off the bicycle, barely setting the stand, and rushed to Hasse, kneeling beside him.

Mr. Holmqvist, what happened? Are you harmed?

He stared bug-eyed, but not at her. His mouth moved in silent gobbing. The man dressed rudely, even by a shepherd’s standards, and he was fragrant as only the unwashed can be. Muddy smudges covered him head to toe.

Hasse! What’s the matter?

His eyes met hers. Turning his head revealed a raw patch on his jaw, beardless and weeping. Hasse’s bulging eyes darted spastically. A quivering finger pointed at the flock and a word squeaked through his lips.

Witch!

Siobhan turned to look. The white of wool and faces surrounded a petite girl. In the center of the flock sat Belle Petersham and she stared at Hasse, too.

When Siobhan approached, the ewes tightened their circle, forming a wall with their bodies. She pushed at their wooly shoulders, but the beasts wouldn’t budge. Belle wore a garland of pale maidens askew on her feathery mop. One hand held up a torn strap of her dress. In the other she clutched a wad of reddish-gray hair. Belle’s lips trembled and her breath came in gasps.

Belle?

He did a bad thing. A very bad thing.

Siobhan stared at Hasse, who managed an open-mouthed moan.

You stupid bastard! What did you do to this girl? Did you touch her? Did you?

Tears made dirty streaks on his face. Hasse violently shook his head and pointed at Belle. Witch! Witch, I say!

Damn you, Hasse! What are you on about? If you touched Belle, I’ll swim to Stanley if I must to fetch a constable to put you in irons.

Me house! Me house! Hasse drooled on himself and sobbed. She done it. I were friendly. Just trying to be nice. He waved a limp hand at the cottage. Snurri built it. She burnt it. Asked for a tuppence. Turned it into a fireball. Look at it! She done it! Talked to the beasts, too. Made ‘em trod on me. She’s a witch, I tell ye.

Siobhan shook her head. You’re balmy, Hasse. There’s no covering what you’ve done.

No, no, no! Hasse rose clumsily to his feet and tottered. She said she knew me. Told me it were revenge for wishing her ill.

What?

I dunno. It were long ago. Don’t remember it. I tried to apologize. She hates me I tell ye. Mad for vengeance.

Hasse frightened and humble was a thing Siobhan had never seen. Belle watched the goings-on from the midst of her woolly guardians. Icy hardness in Belle’s emerald eyes belied her appearance of youth.

Belle, do you know what Hasse’s talking about?

What do you think?

Siobhan tried to push past the ewes, again without success.

How is it these animals protect you? Did you make them do it?

Belle smirked. No. I athked for their help.

What about them trampling Hasse? Did that happen?

Belle sneered. He grabbed me when I lit the fire. I don’t like being touched by a filthy man. It wath hith own fault. Thilly ath.

Ice water trickled down Siobhan’s spine. None of this makes sense, Belle. What did Hasse do to you? Why do you hate him?

The girl stood, the alpha ram by her side. At her word, the flock parted. Hasse stumbled away from the sheep, but Siobhan saw no anger in Belle’s gaze and stood her ground. With a crash, the cottage collapsed to a smoldering jumble.

He didn’t believe in me. When he could have thaved me, he curthed me. I almoath died.

Siobhan forced a smile. How is that possible? You’ve been here such a short time.

Belle sighed. It happened a long time ago. People are mean. You don’t believe. You don’t care.

Believe what, Belle?

The girl stepped so close that Siobhan had to look down into Belle’s upturned face. Belle motioned Siobhan closer. She bent near until their noses almost touched.

Belle whispered, In The Folk. You don’t believe in faireeth. She extended an index finger and touched Siobhan’s forehead.

Siobhan’s legs rooted to the ground. Her tongue went numb.

You’ve been kind to uth, Mithuth Macdonough. I’m thorry that we muth leave. Don’t worry. You’ll be able to move thoon.

Belle walked toward the tenant house. When Hasse screamed, she turned her eyes and saw him run toward the shore, the ram charging after.

Chapter Two: It Never Happened

Limping from her sciatica, Madge shuffled down the hallway to reach the phone before the ringing stopped. Burt had chided her for years about getting an answering machine, but she didn’t want friends suspecting they were being screened. Wiping soapsuds from her hands onto her apron, she snatched the handset from its cradle.

Helloooo! she cooed into the receiver.

Madge? Madge? Is that you?

Harriet Coulton, deaf as a post and chairlady of the neighborhood beautification committee. Madge took a deep breath and used enough lung power to conduct the conversation through open windows. Yes, Harriet, dear. How are you today?

Madge? Oh, I’m fine, fine. Listen, that girl is in your driveway. I think she’s eating your Anemone Narcissiflora.

‘That girl?’ Who are you talking about, Harriet?

Harriet exhaled loudly. That strange little thing who lives in the old Snyder place, across the street from you. I told you about her. The one who wanders the neighborhood all hours of the day and night. Her father, that old beach bum who dresses in short pants, is never around. Remember?

Madge didn’t remember. If anything was true about Harriet’s dirt, it was that her revelations were forgettable. The old hen served as a source of endless rumors, tales, gossip and warnings about anything and everything that caught her notice, which was considerable since she spent most days at an upper story window, sipping tea, and using binoculars to scan the length and breadth of Krug Park Place.

Are you sure?

Go look for yourself, Madge. She’s standing out there for all the world to see.

Shaking her head, Madge limped to the front door. She could take the phone with her since Burt had put it on a long cord. Burt was clever with such things. He still worked on their cars himself. Changing the oil, doing tune-ups and whatnot. She smiled at the thought. Burt was a good man, smart and handy.

Madge pulled open the front door and stood behind the storm door. She’d remind Burt to take out the glass and put in the screens, now that spring had arrived. It would be good to let a breeze through the house when she cleaned. She looked to the side and, sure enough, there was a girl in her driveway, next to her ancient anemones. The plants grew about two feet tall, but the flowers were still tightly wrapped in their sepals. Great green balls waiting to burst into snowy glory.

The girl’s back was turned, and she seemed to be busy with something in her hands. It was impossible to tell if she committed the atrocity of eating her anemones. The idea seemed awfully strange. Perhaps Harriet’s binoculars needed cleaning.

Well, do you see her?

Yes, Harriet. I see her. Are you sure?

Harriet sputtered and rattled china on the other end of the line. Of course. Don’t you think something should be done? The poor thing must be starving. Lord knows what that oddball of a father feeds her. She may be malnourished for all we know. Don’t you think we have an obligation to investigate?

Ah, I see what you mean. Madge sighed. Harriet wouldn’t be satisfied with a half effort. I must hang up now, dear. Don’t worry. I’ll get to the bottom of this.

Be sure to call me when you have news.

Yes, certainly, Harriet. Goodbye.

Madge didn’t wait for a reply before hanging up. Perhaps Harriet was right. She couldn’t stand the thought of someone mistreating a child. Maybe she could get the girl to come inside and have a bite. Yes, that would be nice. She tossed her apron onto the sideboard and pushed through the storm door.

As soon as the hinges squeaked, the girl stiffened. Madge let the door shut and cautiously descended the three steps from the stoop. The girl remained motionless. She walked up behind the child and stopped close, but not close enough to startle. Hello, dear.

No reaction.

Chopped short, the child’s thick, feathery hair formed a mass of wispy curls. Madge first thought it was brown, but the color changed to ash and then strawberry blond. The girl wore black leotard shorts, a too large T-shirt, and no shoes. Madge bristled. The poor thing could pick up pinworms, or worse, running around barefoot.

Hello, dear. I’m Mrs. Murray. What’s your name?

After a reluctant jerk, the girl turned, her hands behind her, and looked into Madge’s eyes.

The girl quietly spoke. I’m Tinkie Gardner, Mithuth Murray.

Madge had never seen the girl before. Her wide green eyes glowed with an inner light. She possessed skin of flawless alabaster and a smile that could melt ice. Almost as tall as Madge, Tinkie was slender and delicately proportioned, more like a teenager than a juvenile. Beneath the loose folds of her top, Madge detected breasts, not the ambiguously flat chest of a tweeny. Tinkie grinned wryly at Madge’s surprise.

It’s, uh, nice to meet you, Tinkie. I was just wondering why you aren’t in school today. Did you miss the bus?

Tinkie looked first at the ground and then the sky before answering. No. I’ve been thick for a long time. I’ll go to thkool later, when I’m better.

Sick? Oh, my. What’s wrong, Tinkie?

Thumthing I drank. It wath an akthident. I’m moathly okay now.

The thought of Tinkie getting into medicine or worse because she wasn’t properly cared for got Madge’s Irish up. I’m very glad you’re better, Tinkie. Madge heartened at Tinkie’s beaming smile. A bit of plant litter surrounded Tinkie’s feet. Madge spied a broken stem on a stalk and wondered what Tinkie hid behind her back.

Do you like flowers, Tinkie?

Oh, yeth. Tinkie licked her lips. Very much. Yourth thmell good.

Really, you can smell them before they bloom? That’s a rare thing. You must really love flowers.

Tinkie sent her tongue after an errant run of drool. I love flowerth.

Where are your parents? Are they home?

Who? Oh, Ken. He took thum tuff to thell at the antique thop. He’ll be home later. Tinkie looked at Madge with moist eyes. Mithuth Murray, I’m hungry.

Madge leaned close to Tinkie. Would you like to come inside? I’ll fix you something to eat.

A hand tentatively appeared and Madge gently took it. She guided Tinkie through the house to the kitchen, which accommodated a dining table. Tinkie’s gaze roamed the room as she turned in place. Madge noticed her interest in the apothecary jars filled with dried flowers and herbs. Making sachets for relatives and friends had been her hobby for years. Her collection filled several shelves.

Have a seat at the table, dear. Would you like a glass of milk?

A chair squealed as Tinkie dragged it over the linoleum. Yeth, pleeth, Mithuth Murray.

Madge set the frothy glass of milk on the table. How about a nice peanut butter and jelly sandwich? Would you like that?

The glass already at her mouth, Tinkie nodded.

What kind of jelly do you like, dear? I have grape, strawberry, apricot, and orange marmalade.

Tinkie put down the half-empty glass and turned to look into the open refrigerator. The Mason jars with their colorful contents sat in a row on a door shelf. Tinkie pointed at the marmalade. Whath that, Mithuth Murray?

That’s orange marmalade. It’s quite tart. Would you rather have the grape?

I want marmalade, pleeth.

Madge chuckled. Then marmalade you shall have.

Tinkie laughed, too. I thall have! I thall have!

As the girl finished off her milk, Madge served Tinkie a neatly quartered sandwich made on Butternut bread with the crust trimmed. Madge refilled her glass. Tinkie picked up one of the pieces and took a nibble. Her eyes grew large and she smiled while chewing. Ith delithuth, Mithuth Murray!

Madge poured herself a cup of Chase & Sanborn from the percolator and sat facing Tinkie. I’m glad you like it, dear. When Tinkie stuck a finger in her mouth to remove sticky sweetness, Madge went to the sink and wetted a fresh dishrag. Madge wiped each hand in turn though there wasn’t any obvious dirt and Tinkie’s fingernails were clean. The long absence of Madge’s children and no grandkids to fuss over made the task pleasurable, if unnecessary. Tinkie didn’t complain or resist, but easily switched hands to keep the food moving from plate to mouth. Madge caught a glimpse of another knowing grin fading from Tinkie’s lips.

After rinsing out the dishrag and draping it over the spigot, Madge returned to her seat. The coffee had become strong, but the steamy bitterness invigorated her. Tinkie ate daintily, returning each piece to her plate between bites and chewing with her mouth closed. She seemed happy and comfortable. Madge believed she wouldn’t upset her new friend with a few personal questions.

Tinkie, dear, you said Ken is your father?

Tinkie nodded while chewing.

What’s your mother’s name?

The chewing missed a beat, and then proceeded normally. Tinkie didn’t look up when she answered. Mother left uth.

Oh, how sad. I’m sorry, dear.

Ith okay. I didn’t like her much. Anyway, it wath a long time ago.

Tinkie squirmed in her seat and something thumped on the linoleum. It rolled against Madge’s foot. She bent close to the table and retrieved an anemone blossom. The sepal had been removed and