The Old Woman and the Angel, By Kelly Jarvis

Editor’s note: This gloriously detailed story of heartbreak, and love and work appealed to me because of the visual and emotional connection it creates with the reader. KW

Preface: The story of “Jorinde and Joringel,” by the Brothers Grimm, begins with an old woman, a true witch, living by herself in a castle deep in a thick forest. But the real story begins earlier, when this old woman was a girl. Even ancient hags with eyes red from crying were young and beautiful once upon a time, and this girl, who was to become a witch, was the most beautiful of them all.

 

*** 

“Don’t leave me.”  

They were lying tangled together, breathless, beneath an autumn canopy of leaves. The boy smiled at the girl, his fingers slowly twisting through her hair. His own rust colored locks curled down from his temples, framing eyes the color of a far off horizon.   

“I will return in three years’ time, my love.”  

He gently twirled the iron nail he had shaped into a ring and slid upon her finger, his own circle of iron clicking softly against it. They had exchanged these rustic symbols in a secret marriage ritual as the sun had miraculously risen from its casket of green earth that morning. 

Now the sun took its final breath in the loving embrace of twilight, and a thousand protests rose inside the girl’s heart. She had hoped their forest vows would tether them together and silence his desire to sail the seas. A tear slipped from her eye, and she turned her head toward a patch of flowers stained red by the death throes of the sun. He plucked one and touched its silky petal to her damp cheek, circling it down the curve of her neck. Then he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her while the fire he had built in the clearing blazed, dwindled, and eventually died into an ashy gray smoke that curled upward toward the star spattered heavens. 

 

It was long past midnight when she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep on the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.  

When she woke, he was gone.  

***  

The boy sailed the dangerous seas all through the long, dark winter. He sailed through the blooming of spring, when the girl, as swollen and heavy as a harvest tree, was sent far away to repent in the reverent home of her spinster aunt. He sailed through the thick heat of summer as her pains split her in two. The girl screamed out his name with each wave of agony, and, when she burned with fever, and her aunt, thinking she would die, cast a circle of prayer around her, she muttered his name through her blistered lips.

Her aunt told her it was the Angel Zachiel who had answered their prayers. Through the haze of her clouded memory, the girl can recall a host of angelic forms gathered just outside the stone threshold of the window, stretching endlessly toward the horizon, their wings illuminated by celestial light. In her dreams, she remembers a child she would never see again, warm and wet against her breast, with ringlets of slick, soft, rust colored hair. 

*** 

Her aunt’s cottage was an austere place, but the girl, who was now a young woman, came to appreciate the cold stone walls of the house and the scratch of the black woolen gown which had replaced her maiden wardrobe. She wore a silver pendant carved with Zachiel’s likeness beneath her robes so that the metal touched her skin, the cold circle pressing against the place where her heart had been. 

“When you were on the doorstep of death, Zachiel took mercy on you,” her aunt reminded her daily. 

Every morning the woman rose with the sun, spending her days in solemn repentance. Every evening, when her watchful aunt finally took her rest, she loosened the wooden floor boards and retrieved the iron wedding ring she had hidden there. She pressed it into her icy flesh until the sharp point of the nail drew warm palpitating blood to the surface of her skin.

During her times of deepest despair, the woman saw the Angel Zachiel hovering just outside her line of vision. His wings circled above her as her tears watered the ground, and he comforted her as he had when she had first arrived at her aunt’s cottage, frightened and bloated with miracle and sin.  

Three times three years came and went. Her husband never returned.  

*** 

When her pious aunt passed on to heaven, the woman, now long past middle-age, stayed in the solitary cottage and began her arduous study. She borrowed books from a village apothecary and spent years learning the medicinal qualities of herbs that grew in her garden. She brewed health potions and traded them to local midwives for mysterious decks of cards. She pulled the cards under the light of the full moon, hoping to read a story of long-awaited reunion in their upturned faces.  

As rumors of her craft began to circulate, young maidens flocked to her isolated house to have their fortunes told, paying with the smooth pieces of glass that the sorceress needed to scry. Her aunt had kept no looking glasses, and the nearby marsh was windswept, so it had been years since she had seen her reflection. Red rimmed eyes, thick with rheumatism, stared back at her from a face burned yellow by the sun, and she smashed the mirrors on the ground, kicking furiously at the shards. 

Dismayed by the intrusive curiosity of the villagers, she spent ages learning to shift her body into animal forms to disguise her nocturnal travels. She slipped into the skin of a black housecat and prowled nearby inns and taverns, listening for news of a ship that had returned after decades lost at sea. When she could bear her grief no longer, she donned the silent feathers of a night owl and soared to the ocean’s edge, returning home at dawn with the taste of salt air clinging to her tongue.   

  

One winter’s evening, she cast a spell over her iron wedding ring, commanding it to spin on the cold stone windowsill where she had first seen the angels gather. Once set into motion, it would spiral endlessly until day break, as long as her husband was alive and in love with her. 

 

Each night, the old woman fell into a deep and dreamless sleep on the rhythmic rise and fall of the ring as it slowly carved a smooth round recess into the stone. 

Three times three years came and went. The ring stopped spinning. 

*** 

The old woman, who was now a true witch, left the cottage and wandered the woods. Her sadness spilled outward from her broken heart and created a circle of misery around her, so that everyone who came within one hundred feet of her was touched by the strength of her sorrow. 

She built a castle, deep in the thick forest, one lonely stone at a time.  

Over the years, the legends of the true witch grew. On clear, cold nights when the wind rattled through the valleys, children listened for the wailing of the old woman who cried in vain for her dead husband. Mothers told their wayward daughters of a castle-bound enchantress who would turn disobedient girls into caged birds. Young men whispered rumors of forest clearings where gilded statues of boys stood frozen in terror, and preachers warned that the privacy of the woods would bring nothing but death and doom. Still, new couples came into the thick forest, two by two, steeped in the heat of their youthful passion. 

One day, Jorinde and Joringel appeared. Jorinde, a maiden with eyes the color of nightfall, was more beautiful than any other girl in the world. Joringel, a strong and limber youth, curled around her like a tendril. But their love did not protect them from the weight of the witch’s grief. An aged owl circled three times around the helpless Jorinde, and, as she was magically transformed into a nightingale, Joringel froze in terror, like all the others had before him.

A gnarled old woman emerged from the bush, lines of sadness written across her face. Her weathered hands gathered the frightened nightingale and stroked its reddish brown plumes. The songbird lightly wrapped its claw around the beldam’s finger, like an infant grasping its mother’s thumb. Mournful music tumbled from the nightingale’s beak. 

“Zickety, Zickety, Zick…” 

*** 

Even the newborn nightingales’ sorrowful song trilled with beauty when it first saw the aviary at the top of the circular tower. 7,000 cages made of precious metals and jewels hung suspended and sparkling in the setting sun. 7,000 birds with chirped behind their golden bars. The old woman tottered from cage to cage, releasing the winged creatures for their daily twilight flight. They gathered just outside the stone threshold of the window and glided endlessly toward the horizon, their wings illuminated by celestial light. In the growing darkness, they looked like angels. 

***

Before returning to the forest to release the motionless boy, the old woman coaxed her cautious new nightingale onto a ruby encrusted perch. She knew that the moon would stretch its silver beams through the aviary window, and then the perch would throw scarlet blooms across the ceiling, lulling her rescued girls to sleep with a spangled dance of vermillion light. She crept down the circular stone stairwell, stopping every so often to catch her breath. 

 “Greetings, Zachiel.” 

He was waiting beside the frozen boy, as she knew he would be. He looked the same to her now as he had when she was a girl. His enormous wings, tinged with a violet so dark it looked like rust, ruffled with each breath of the night. 

 “When the moon shines on the cage, set him free, Zachiel, just at the right time.” 

“He will return,” the angel’s benevolent face seemed to say.   

“They never do,” was her silent reply. 

*** 

Time, as always, wore on. The witch tended to her pets, offering them kind words of comfort when they were sad. The nightingale remained steadfastly on her shoulder, always singing its melancholy song of hope. 

“Zickety, Zickety, Zick...” 

The old woman’s watery eyes searched the horizon, the tops of the trees rolling like an ancient sea. 

It was the birds who first heard Joringel’s footsteps on the stones. They twittered in wild unison. The witch watched as Joringel, smelling of sheep and clutching a red blossom in his fist, opened the heavy oaken door. She saw his eyes grow wide with confusion. She stood, frozen, as the wind from the open window whipped through the long gray ringlets of her unbound hair. She knew she would be painted as a madwoman. She knew the stories would cast this youth, paralyzed with indecision as his aimless gaze traveled over 7,000 birds, as an avenging hero.  

He would be standing there still, if the nightingale’s song had not told him what he must do.

  

Joringel touched the nightingale with the crimson flower, and the bird’s downy wings turned back into luminous skin and hair. Joringel gathered Jorinde, reborn into his arms, and kissed her. She coiled into his embrace and let him carry her down the steps and into the forest. They did not look back. 

***

The story of Jorinde and Joringel ends with the young couple living together in happiness for a long, long time. But the real story ends with the happily ever after of the true witch, the old woman, who was once a beautiful girl.  

 

She watched, silently, as Jorinde and Joringel fled into the night, their hands curling around one another, blind to the painful years that were sure to follow them.  

She watched, silently, as 7,000 maidens, all freed from one act of true love, exited the castle, heartbroken but hopeful, cooing like songbirds as their feathered cloaks flapped in the breeze. 

 

When she was finally alone with Zachiel, a tear slipped out of her eye and caught in the creases of her once rosy cheeks. Zachiel’s hand held the blood red flower, its center dripping with pearlescent dew. The angel touched the silky petal to her damp cheek, circling it down the curve of her neck. She inhaled the far off scent of ocean water. She heard the quiet clicking of iron on iron. She knew that at long last, her waiting was done. 

 

She pushed aside her woolen gown. It was a molting, a prayer finally answered. 

 

‘I’m coming, my loves.” 

When the petal softly touched her breast, like the dewy lips of a newborn child, the true witch, the old woman, the beautiful girl, blazed, dwindled, and died into an ashy gray smoke that circled slowly and was borne upward toward eternity on the wind of angel’s wings.  

***

Kelly Jarvis teaches classes in literature, writing, and fairy tale at Central Connecticut State University, The University of Connecticut, and Tunxis Community College. She lives, happily ever after, with her husband and three sons in a house filled with fairy tale books.  

***

Image: “Portrait of a Woman,” 1870, by Julia Margaret Cameron.

The Stone and the Song, by Mike Neis

Editor’s note: This story has a twist on the boy seeking to marry a princess plot line in so many fairy tales. It’s filled with wonder and a surprising set of twists at the end. It’s a good, angelic story.

A long time ago, in a land far away, there lived a poor orphan boy who had nothing but his hunger and a small creature who lived in his ear. The creature would give the boy advice on where to go, what to eat, and how to live. Sometimes the advice got the boy into trouble, but the creature always got him back out of trouble. And every night, the creature would chirp a lullaby into the boy’s ear until he fell asleep. For this reason, the boy called his friend “Cricket.” The two had been together for as long as the boy could remember.

One bright and warm day as they walked along the road, the pair heard a great noise in a distant town. “That sounds like a celebration,” said Cricket. “Go there. Parties always have lots of food.” The boy agreed.

The town was celebrating the return of its king. The boy grabbed fruits, breads and sweets from open tables. When he came to the town square, a glorious parade was passing by. The king was dressed in magnificent finery, but it was a girl at the king’s side who caught the boy’s eye. “Who is that girl?” he asked a man beside him. “That’s the princess, the most adored maiden in all the kingdom,” said the man.

Indeed, the girl was beautiful. Golden hair flowed from the top of her head down to her waist. A heart-shaped face framed a tiny nose, full lips, and large round eyes that sparkled like two stars. Wherever she walked a hush would fall over the crowd, in awe of her beauty and grace.

“Oh, that girl is the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen!” said the boy to Cricket, but Cricket already knew what the boy was thinking. “Take care boy, or you will lose your heart, and once lost, a heart is very difficult to get back.”

“I think it is too late,” sighed the boy. “For I shall die if I cannot gaze into that lovely face every day for the rest of my life.”

“You are a fool,” said Cricket. “Nevertheless, I can tell what you say is true. You should go to the king and ask for the princess’ hand in marriage.”

“Oh! That’s a marvelous idea!” said the boy.

“Head for the castle,” said Cricket. “The party will continue there. Ask for the girl’s hand during the happy feasting, and the king might agree.”

Indeed, it was easy for the boy to pass through the great halls of the castle, right to the very court of the king himself. He arrived just as the king sat down on his throne, with the princess at his side.

“What do I do?” asked the boy.

“Throw yourself down on your knees before the king and call out, ‘Your majesty! May I ask a favor?’ If he agrees, then say, ‘please give me the hand of the fair princess in marriage, for I love her more than anything else in this world,’ and then hope the king will say yes.”

So, the boy did as Cricket said. He threw himself down on his knees before the king and called out in a loud voice, “Your majesty! May I ask a favor?”

The crowd quieted, amazed at the temerity of this poor peasant boy, and nervous how the king would respond.

“What is your request?” said the king, a clever man with sharp eyes and a stout face. He looked down at this impudent boy in the hopes of some amusement.

The boy lifted his head and looked the king square in the face. He spoke as Cricket advised him. “Please give me the hand of the fair princess in marriage, for I love her more than anything else in the world!”

This time the entire assembly fell into a stupefied silence, horrified that the boy could be so presumptuous. All eyes went to the king.

The king’s own eyes narrowed. His lower lip pushed upwards, and his broad chin dimpled as he considered the outrageous request from this worthless urchin from the street.

Then he burst out laughing. The throng did the same, and the room was filled with the sound of laughter.

“Poor peasant boy,” said the king. “To marry my daughter, you must prove yourself worthy. Come back here with a halo on top of your head, and then will I give my consent.” The king chuckled and pointed at the door. “Now go! Fulfill this quest I have given you but take care. If you fail, I shall cut off your head!”

Then he burst out laughing again. Guards took the boy by the arms and led him back outside. And so, the boy was on his own, walking down the road as he had always done.

“That was not good advice,” the boy said to Cricket.

“Perhaps not,” said the creature. “If you fail, we shall avoid that place. But I have an idea. There is a glen in an old forest. No one has gone there for ages, but I have heard that a saint was martyred there. Perhaps this glen can help you find the halo you seek.”

And so, the boy, with the guidance of Cricket, found the old forest and the glen. In the middle of the glen sat a stone with some words inscribed on it.

“I cannot read the words, Cricket. What do I do?”

“Do you see anything else?” asked Cricket.

“I see blood on the stone.”

“Touch the blood,” said Cricket. “Then you will be able to read the words.”

The boy touched the blood and found the Cricket’s advice was true.

“Now read the words aloud,” said Cricket.

“I cannot just read the words,” said the boy. “The words are lyrics set to music.”

“Then sing the words according to the music,” said Cricket.

And so, the boy began to sing.

Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus

Dominus Deus Sabaoth 

Pleni sunt cæli et terra gloria tua.

Hosanna in excelsis.

Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini.

Hosanna in excelsis.*

The boy sang the chorus again and again. He could not stop, for a spirit had taken hold of him. Then the greens and browns of the land, and the blues of the sky changed to white, and the trees transformed into magnificent angels, tall as trees themselves. The angels had shining wings and sang in voices that made the air shimmer. They, like the boy, were singing the song.

Then, one by one, the angels fell silent and drew away from the boy, until the boy was singing all by himself once more. The boy’s voice did not make the air shimmer, but his pitch was pure and true. Some of the angels looked like they were about to burst out laughing. Some had faces contorted into scowls. A few were weeping. But all were staring at the boy.

“That’s enough singing, boy,” said Cricket. “Stop singing and see if they will speak to you. And get on your knees! Even the king himself is nothing next to these beings!”

The boy stopped singing and fell to his knees, and the angel who had been at the head of the choir, who seemed to be the leader, flew down and alighted in front of boy.

“My child,” said the lead angel. “How did you arrive at this place?”

The boy trembled because he knew he was kneeling before an angel of singular power. The tallest angel of them all had robes that shone like the moon and wings that could make the wind blow at their slightest stirring. Nevertheless, the boy screwed up his courage, and told his tale about the forest, the glen, the stone, the blood, and how he began to sing. The angels looked at one another and spoke in hushed murmurs. Then the lead angel held up his hand.

“All is well, child. None have approached this stone and sung its song in a long time. Indeed, your people have forgotten their creator and the heavenly host. And so, I may give you a wish. Is there anything you would like to have?”

“Now is your chance,” said Cricket. “Ask for the halo. But try to be polite about it.”

The boy began to speak. “Thank you, oh wondrous angel. There is one thing I would like to have—if it is not too much—and that is a halo. May I please have one of my own?”

The angels fell back to murmuring, and the boy raised his eyes and looked around. But again, the lead angel held up his hand.

“All is well,” he said. “You shall have a halo of your own.” He reached up into the whiteness of the heavens, higher than the boy could see. He brought down a shining band of light just like the halos that the angels themselves wore. And the lead angel affixed it to the top of the boy’s head.

“Thank you,” said the boy, filled with wonder that the halo lit his own surroundings. “Now I must leave and present myself before the king and show him that I have done as he requested.”

“Farewell, then, my child,” said the lead angel. “And remember, if you wish to return, you need only come to the glen and sing the song again. Farewell.”

The boy began to walk, and with each step, the angels looked more and more like trees, and the heavenly whiteness turned back into the land and sky.

The afternoon sun warmed the boy’s face as he walked back to the town, guided by Cricket. The clouds and the whole heavens looked close to the ground, like they were trying to embrace the earth below. Vast fields, heavy with grain and fruit, gave assurance of the abundance of the lands and the boy sang the stone’s lyrics as he walked.

When he arrived at the town, the people were astonished to see the boy wearing the halo as the king commanded. By the time the castle came into view, a vast throng had assembled behind him.

But as he approached the gates, a powerful longing seized the boy. “Oh Cricket! My heart aches to the point that it will burst! For I long to be singing with the angels again. I never could have imagined their glories before, and now everything is different.”

“You are a fool,” said Cricket. “First you will die if you don’t have the princess—now your heart will burst if you are not singing with those angels. Will you not make up your mind? But if that is what you want, you need only do as the lead angel instructed. Return to the glen and sing the song. Then you will be back with the angels.”

And so, the haloed boy pushed his way through the townspeople, who fell back as he approached. He returned to the glen in the forest and began to sing—and just as before, the greens and blues of the land and the sky transformed into magnificent whiteness, and the trees transformed into angels. The boy sang with them as before, happy as he had ever been. And, as before, the angels fell silent to listen to the boy. The lead angel flew down and alighted before him.

“You have returned, my child. Why? Did you not present yourself to the king?”

“No, I did not,” said the boy. “I no longer desire the things of the earth. I only wish to be with the choirs here, and to sing their glorious praises forevermore!”

The angels fell into a murmuring, and their movements were animated. The lead angel held up his hand. “All is well,” he said. “You shall be one of us this very day. You shall have wings like us, a voice like us and a body like us. You shall have our powers, and you shall be free of the woes, the blights and the vermin of the earth—like that creature that dwells in your head.”

The boy put a hand over his ear. “Vermin? You mean Cricket? But he is my friend. I cannot leave him. Not this way.”

The lead angel knelt down beside the boy and put a hand on his shoulder. “We have no other way,” he said.

The boy’s heart was breaking, for a terrible decision loomed before him. Nevertheless, he delayed his answer only long enough to draw breath.

“No,” he said. And his head shook. “I cannot join your glorious choir.”

The boy reached up, removed the halo from his head and held it up to the lead angel. “I am sorry, but I must go. Thank you for all you have done for me.”

And as the boy looked into the lead angel’s face and the faces of all the angels, he saw great sadness and great joy—like the parents of a bride and groom—sad to see their offspring leave, but happy at the future ahead of them.

The lead angel accepted the halo and placed it back into the impenetrable whiteness of the heavens. “Bless you, my child. Your gifts, your faithfulness have served you well, and I foresee that your life will bring great blessings to the entire world.”

And so, the boy took his leave. As he walked, the angels and the whiteness transformed into the rich colors of the old forest, which was rapidly descending into night. The boy was very tired. He lay down at the base of an old oak and made ready to sleep.

“You are a fool, boy,” said Cricket. “You have lost the princess, the angels, and your halo. You have lost everything.”

“I have lost nothing,” said the boy. “I still have the song, which has been my key to all I truly desire. And I still have you, my friend, without whom I could not imagine living—even for a moment.”

The boy felt a stirring in his ear, like the soft throbs of an old woman weeping. “Thank you,” said Cricket. “I am truly the luckiest creature alive to have a friend like you.”

And the creature chirped a lullaby for the boy.

***

*Translation:

Holy, Holy, Holy Lord God of hosts.

Heaven and earth are full of your glory.

Hosanna in the highest.

Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.

Hosanna in the highest

***

Bio: Mike Neis lives in Orange County with his family and does technical writing for a commercial laboratory. His fiction has appeared in Amethyst Review, Euphemism, and elsewhere. His outside activities include church music and teaching English as a second language.

The Goblin King and the Pig, By Oliver Eade

Editor's note: A pig, a goblin king and a fairy princess? What's not to love? This is a charming story in the mold of classic fairy tales.

 

Jimmy Halliday was an ordinary schoolboy who came from an ordinary home in an ordinary town somewhere in the centre of England. At least he thought he was until one Monday morning when, cycling to school, he was forced to squeeze the break and skid to a halt, almost colliding with an old woman lying in the road. Strangely, he only saw her at the very last moment. Even more strangely, she seemed unharmed when he crouched down beside her and spoke to her, for the traffic was heavy that day.

 

"Boy and Angel," Abbott Handerson Thayer, artmagick.com

 

“What are you doing lying in the middle of the road?” he asked. Cars blared their horns as they skirted past Jimmy and the woman. It was a miracle she hadn’t been killed.

 

“Waiting for you,” she replied. She picked up her walking stick and struggled to her feet. “And you’ve passed the first test,” she continued, gazing vacantly into the distance.

 

“Please, let me help you to the pavement,” Jimmy insisted, supporting the old w

oman’s arm and steering her out of danger.

 

“And the second!”she added, a feint smile softening her wrinkled face. 

 

“Sure!” agreed Jimmy, frowning. “Well… better be going. Late for school already.” He paused. “Will you be okay? Can I help you to wherever you’re going?” he asked.

 

“No, because this is as far as I go.”

 

“Fine… erm… bye, then!”

 

Jimmy got back onto his bike.

 

“What about the third test, Jimmy?” the woman asked.

 

Jimmy’s jaw dropped.

 

“You know my name?”

 

“I know your name and everything about you except for one thing.” Jimmy stared at her. “Whether or not you can pass the third and final test.”

 

The boy shrugged his shoulders. Maybe she was more than just a bit mad. But the name thing? Perhaps she was an old friend of his parents he’d forgotten. 

 

“I’ll try,” he answered. “But what…?”

 

“To save my granddaughter from the Goblin King. She’s a fairy princess.”

 

“Oh!” exclaimed Jimmy. “Well, erm…”

 

Of course, he could have pushed his foot down on the pedal and just cycled away, but he didn’t. Something was preventing him.

 

“Thank you for committing yourself. There’s no turning back now. I can take you as far as Goblin Hollow and turn you into a pig, but after that you’re on your own.”

 

“A pig?”

 

Call for help? The police… a doctor? Jimmy’s mind twirled like a carousel.

 

“Just follow me.”

 

Before he had a chance to say "sorry, no way!" the old woman flew upwards. For the first time he saw her four diaphanous wings, like those of some enormous damsel-fly. He began pedaling like crazy, but he, too, shot up off the ground, the bike following the woman as if pulled by an invisible thread.

 

“This isn’t happening,” muttered Jimmy as he peered down at the busy streets through half-closed eyes. But it was!

 

Soon they’d left the town and were soaring over fields and woods. Having no head for heights, he gripped the handle bars for all he was worth as his feet spun the pedals. Soon the bike began to descend. He had no idea where he was. He always thought he knew the surrounding countryside well, but the nest of hills ahead was totally unfamiliar. They landed below the crest of the largest of these.

 

“And this is where I must leave you until you’ve passed the third test – or not, as the case may be – for only a mortal can save the girl from the goblins.”

 

Jimmy felt truly afraid for the first time. A pig? He’d already seen what she could do.

 

“You must offer yourself up in the place of my granddaughter. The Goblin King wants to cook her and eat her. Just tell them pig is far tastier than young fairy.”

 

A dead pig? End up as pork chops? Jimmy struggled with his bike, trying to turn it the other way so he could take off down the hill, but the thing had a mind of its own. It would only face the brow of the hill.

 

“Leave your bike here. If you succeed, she will lead you home.”

 

“If not?”

 

There was no reply. Gradually the old woman was turning invisible. The bike fell sideways when Jimmy’s trotters could no longer hold onto the handlebars. He could see the end of his twitching snout through which became acutely aware of an unpleasant smell wafting down from the hill-top – like old socks, only a thousand times worse. But it was something else that forced his fat body to hurry up the slope. Something his large, flapping ears now picked up: the voice of a young girl screaming. He waddled to the very top of the hill and peered down.

 

In the hollow below a large fire was ablaze and a crowd of hideous goblins danced around the fire, whooping and brandishing spears. A particularly fat goblin, dressed in splendid gold and purple finery, sat on a stone throne watching the spectacle, his face contorted by an evil grin, but it was the sight of a girl tied to a tree that held the pig-boy transfixed. Her long, wavy black hair reaching her waist, a small crown of colourful flowers on her head, he’d never imagined anyone could be so beautiful. Sadly, her silvery dress was in tatters and her glistening wings drooped. 

 

The girl’s screams cut Jimmy to the quick. Snorting and squealing with fury, he capered down the hill scattering the dancing goblins asunder. He trotted up to the Goblin King who emitted the same putrid smell that had invaded his nostrils on the other side of the hill.

 

“Oink, oink, oink!” he demanded. He knew what he wanted to say: "Let her go at once! Take me instead"’ But all that came out was "oink!"

 

The ugly goblin roared with laughter.

 

“What makes you think I’d be interested in roast pig when I can feast on roast fairy?”

 

Jimmy thought of the delicious smell that came from the kitchen whenever his mother cooked pork on a Sunday. Uncertain what to do next, he dithered.

 

“Put her on the fire!"ordered the Goblin King. “If we have room in our bellies afterwards we’ll cook the pig as well!”

 

So I’ll die anyway! Jimmy glanced at the fairy princess and their eyes met. He saw anguish, despair and purity in those beautiful eyes. Scampering over to the fire, he turned around and stuck his bottom in the flames. The pain was awful, but he refused to budge until his nose could detect that same deliciously-tantalising aroma his mother always produced from a pork joint. The goblins watched, mouths agape, when Jimmy returned to the Goblin King and stuck his bottom in the creature’s face.

“Mmmm!” exclaimed the Goblin King. “Smells delicious!”

 

Jimmy felt something stab into his hind-quarters. He heard a crunching sound, and turned his head enough to see that the Goblin King was holding a knife in one hand and in the other a hunk of meat coated with crisp pork crackling. An idiotic expression of sheer ecstasy lit up the goblin’s face as he chewed on the pork crackling.

 

“Let’s swap them round, boys!” shouted the Goblin King, his mouth still full. “This pig is seriously good. We can finish off with the fairy. She’ll be our dessert!”

 

There were further agonising stabs at his haunches and his sides, and Jimmy was aware of chunks of meat being flung in all directions to other goblins who fought greedily over the mouth-watering morsels of… himself! He glanced again at the distraught fairy, and was about to return to the fire to roast what remained of Jimmy the pig, when he realised that the only sound was that of a sobbing girl. The goblins had gone quiet, and the Goblin King sat still, his eyes closed. Jimmy crawled over to him and nudged the creature’s knees with his snout. No response. His soldiers lay motionless around the fire. The boy could feel a large hole in his bottom where the Goblin King had hacked chunks of roast pork from him. He wriggled backwards and squeezed himself out of that hole, emerging as Jimmy the schoolboy. Whether the goblins were dead, or sleeping after overfeeding on pork, Jimmy didn’t wait to find out. He ran to the fairy princess, untied her from the tree, took her by the hand and together they fled back up the hill.

 

“My – erm – bike,” Jimmy said proudly, pointing to his bike.

 

When the fairy girl looked at him with those eyes of hers he feared his legs would buckle in the face of such beauty.

 

“Thank you,” she said softly. “You’ve saved my life. Granny will reward you for sure.”

 

“Oh… it was nothing really. Look we’d better get going. Can you – erm…?”

 

She giggled.

 

“Fly? Wouldn’t be a fairy if I couldn’t!”

 

She spread her damsel-fly wings, and, after springing gracefully into the air, hovered above Jimmy.

 

“Follow me!” she called down.

 

Jimmy leapt onto his bike and started to pedal furiously. It came as no great surprise when he found himself climbing towards the sky rather than wheeling down the hill. Not for a second did he take his eyes off the fairy princess as they flew over meadows, farms and villages. He almost felt disappointed when he saw the town ahead, for he now wished he could travel on forever with the beautiful fairy girl in front of him. Only too soon, they landed in the very same street where he’d braked hard to avoid hitting the old woman. 

 

“Is… is this it then?” Jimmy timidly asked, not quite knowing how to say farewell to a fairy princess. The girl smiled and, reaching up on tip-toes, kissed him on the cheek. 

 

“Granny will reward you,” she repeated.

 

He cupped his hand over the spot where she’d kissed him, watching her face and body grow transparent before vanishing.

 

“Curses! Didn’t even to think to ask her name or find out how we can ever meet up again,” muttered Jimmy, feeling cross with himself as he rode on to school.

 

“Sorry, I’m late, sir! I was…” the boy began after rushing breathlessly into the classroom, but he was rendered instantly speechless by what he saw: a new girl sitting behind a desk in the front row. He’d have known her by her long, wavy, black hair alone, but it was because of those eyes that he could be certain.

 

“Prin–” he was about to say on recovering the power of speech.

 

“You can sit down, Jimmy,” interrupted the teacher. “I was just introducing our new student, Gabriella, to the class! I’m sure, like everyone else, you’ll want to make her most welcome.”

 

Gabriella? What a lovely name!

 

And when their eyes met, Princess Gabriella winked shyly at him. He was pleased she no longer had wings, for he had no head for heights.

 

So this is my reward, Jimmy thought, happily, as he sat at the back of the classroom unwilling to take his eyes off the girl who was once a fairy princess.

 

 

Oliver Eade is a medical doctor living in Scotland, with family in Texas, and is a writer of children’s and adult books and plays. Although unconfined to any particular genre, he is often drawn into the space of magical realism.