WITH A FAIRY HAND IN HAND
Presented, for the time being, in the form of first draft, until the story is finished and that dreaded editing process can begin

A BRIEF NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

For those who are knowledgeable on fairyland, and find that these fairies are acting decidedly un-fairy-like, the author begs humblest apologies, and begs leave to say that if it had been in his power to write it otherwise, he certainly would have. But one can only suppose that the odd little ideas that sprang unbidden into his mind were from the fairies themselves, for he cannot find from whence they came. Perhaps the fairies chose to allow their true selves to shine forth in this story; and perhaps they mockingly twisted everything so they could remain as shrouded in mystery as they always have been.
But whatever their reason, ‘twas the fairies indeed.

CHAPTER ONE

"Come in now, child! It's past your bedtime, and on such a night as this I wouldn't want to be out of doors."

"Will the fairies be out tonight?"

"Hush, hush! Don't be calling them by their proper name! You'll make them angry."

The mother and child disappeared into their little home, and the streets fell silent. Brigid shivered and looked up at the sky, where starlight flickered in and out of the dark clouds. A little wind was blowing, and it swirled the fog around her feet. She shivered again, and then hurried down the empty streets, glancing nervously here and there.

When she reached the outskirts of the town, and the green fields, misty and mysterious, lay before her, she hesitated for some time. She saw the river off in the distance, the woods dim and shadowy at the end of the field, and then... the flickering of the home lights. Home was there. A warm fire was there. And Phelan was there.

She took a deep breath, picked up her skirts, and began to run. Her bare feet flashed over the wet grass, and she kept her eyes fixed on the welcoming light at the end of the field. The woods were looming nearer, but she refused to look at them, until she was standing at its edge. Then she stopped her flight. One hand laid over her pounding heart, and the other twisting her skirts nervously, she gazed into the still woods. They were still. Oh, thank Heaven, they were still!

She straightened up then, smoothed her skirts down, and was just running her fingers through her hair to make it tidier when she heard the faint sound of music. She paused in her tidying then, and her eyes grew wide and her face grew pale. The music grew a little louder, and a little louder, until she could hear it clearly. It was an unearthly, wild strain, yet more enchanting then any music ever played. A tear sprang to her eye, and she took a step towards the cheery-looking cottage that lay no more than a hundred yards away. The music grew louder, and she hesitated for a moment. It was compelling, drawing...

She couldn't resist it. She turned and looked into the woods. Lights were flickering here and there, lights that brightened and then dimmed, and brightened again. She watched, fascinated, and took a step, this time away from her home. It was only a few steps to the woods, and it was much longer to home. And the lights in the woods were so much brighter. Another step and she would be in the woods.

The door to the cottage opened. She heard it dimly as if it were happening far away. But the voice that called her name was clear, distinct. It was Phelan. She fled from the woods, from the lights, from the music, and to her own dear doorstep where her husband was waiting.

"Brigid, love, I was beginning to worry about you," he said.

She caught his hand, pulled him into the house, and closed the door. She paused a moment, listening, but she heard no music. With a sigh she dropped her head wearily on his shoulder.

"Is anything wrong, dear?" he asked.

"Did you hear the music?" she murmured. "I heard music from the woods, and I saw lights. Dancing lights."

He laughed and kissed her head. "Then I'd imagine it was the Little People you saw," he said. "I'd stay away from the woods on such a night as this."

"But I wanted to go into the woods... I wanted to go desperately," she said, and her eyes roamed towards the window. It was dark and still beyond the trees now.

"Well, no doubt they're trying to kidnap you," he said. "My little lassie is such a little fairy that I'm sure they think she ought to be with them."

She shuddered at his words. They couldn't be true... but they felt true.

"Mother said that the fairies... that the Little People tried to kidnap me when I was a baby..."

"It wouldn't surprise me," he said. He looked down into her face. "Are you really worried? You know that the fairies couldn't take you while I'm about."

She smiled ever so faintly, but was much comforted by the though. She knew it was true. Whether or not he imagined himself as a dashing hero fighting off hordes of fairies, she knew he would protect her simply by his presence. She couldn't leave him for anything. Besides, she'd heard people say that fairies weren't real, and that was probably true. They were simply stories passed down from person to person. She'd always loved them as a child, and that was why she imagined the lights and music now.

The colour returned to her cheeks, and she skipped over to the fire. "Come now, Phelan, tell me a story while I warm myself. It's rather cold out there."

He smiled and sat down beside her. "Perhaps you would tell me the story of your late homecoming first, my little girl. What kept you out until after dark?"

"I simply didn't realise how late it was until I saw that the sun was set," she said, "and then I had to make my way home. And you had no supper waiting for you."

"And still have none."

"But not for long," she said. "I'll make you something right now, and after you eat you can tell me a story."

And so she made him a very simple meal, and sat by the fire, her knees pulled up to her chin and her eyes fixed on him, adoringly for his sake and enchanted for the sake of his story.

Phelan and Brigid Murphy belonged to the happy class known as the newly-weds. Perhaps not in the very strictest sense, for they had been married three months, but nobody in their small home-town had forgotten their wedding, and nobody had begun to think of them as anything other than the newly-weds.

They had no wealth whatsoever; in fact they were extremely poor. But they managed to live, and they were desperately happy, which made up for all. And they knew quite well that though they were very poor, they weren’t so very poor that they couldn't properly feed a family. And a family was Brigid's most cherished dream. She would recall on the dark stormy nights her brothers and sisters, born one after the other, and never living long enough to walk upon their own two feet and lisp out the dear names of 'Mother' and 'Father.' She would recall their sweet little faces bright and rosy, and then pale and silent, and her mother's own haunted face as she wandered from grave to grave of her dear little ones.

"I shouldn't care how worn and weary I should grow," Brigid said often to herself on the clear nights, as she sat by the window and dreamed of the future. "And I know that children couldn't make me worn and weary. They could only lift me and make me happier and younger."

Her thoughts were far from the future that night though, for they were roaming through ancient times as Phelan artfully spun his words into story. When the tale ended, he stood, went to her and kissed her head, and left her alone, for he saw how thoughtful her eyes were.

She sat silently for some time, reflecting not so much on the story as on her strange flight to home. The fire was beginning to die away to embers when she stood and went to the window. She looked to the woods with a serene face, but with a heart beating wildly. It was dark and quiet... and still dark. A sigh of relief slipped from her lips, and she moved away from the window. She turned back once to be certain that she had seen nothing, and still it was dark. Her heart lightened, and she went to bed easy in her mind.