There is a war I can’t avoid. As much as I try to avoid getting involved, I can feel the conflict encroaching on my safe life like weeds invading the sanctity of my mother’s garden—a fitting comparison since my mother’s garden is the primary battleground. She’s oblivious, though, laboring in the sunshine and humming innocuous tunes to herself, and I hope to keep her that way. I know how to evade the enemy, their tricks and schemes, but she doesn’t; and, if she discovers their presence, then they will actually be able to harm her—if she doesn’t think they’re real no effect they can have—war will envelop my home, plants and pets and humans alike will suffer, and I will be left alone to explain to the authorities that there are fairies in my garden who killed my mother.
But as of now, my mother believes more in happenstance than the fae, and she is safe while I think of a way to appease the tiny tricksters.
The first incident was in the first days of spring, when the air carried a light breeze, and it wasn’t warm enough for short sleeves, but one could get by with a light jacket. My mother was planting pansies in the garden bed under our front window, and as the wind ruffled her long hair, I caught a glimpse of a few small fairies flitting around her head. They gestured and grabbed onto strands of hair, lightly tugging them. My mother shook her head at the sensation, but kept working as the fairies tied her hair into little knots. I remember her laugh when she came inside and noticed all the tangles.
“Look at this, Sarah,” she smiled, “So windy my hair got all tangled up. How do you like the pansies?”
“They’re very nice.” I didn’t mention the tiny homestead she had upended. An hour combing through her hair was a small price to pay.
It was early June when the next incident occurred. In our backyard, there was a grassy hill in the back corner that my mom decided she wanted a more official fire pit on, instead of a haphazardly stacked circle of cinder blocks surrounded by well-worn, collapsible camping chairs that had seen better days. She flattened the top in a few days, lining the edge with small river stones and filling the inside of the circle with even smaller river stones—cute ones of all different colors. The new area, furnished with a metal fire pit and cushioned chairs, became rather cozy.
It didn’t really replace the fairy town that once stood on that hill.
Throughout the construction, my mother had worn tall garden boots because the top of that grassy hill became rather muddy the days before she added the stones. We’d had a few brief summer storms during the night. As she sprinkled the little rainbow stones like sprinkles on the muddy earth, some impassioned fairies picked up pebbles and dropped them in her boots. Now and then, my mother would shake her foot to rid herself of that terrible, horrible, atrocious feeling a pebble in a shoe provides. She didn’t take her boots off until she was finished, and I watched out the kitchen window as several stones rained out of each of her boots as she held them upside down.
It was at this point that I started worrying about the fairies. My mother was decimating their community, and they were trying to fight back, and I stood and watched.
“You know, Mom,” I commented one day, “maybe you should take a break from all this gardening.”
“But Sarah, I’ve only just begun!”
“It’s dangerous.”
“Oh, darling, it’s so sweet of you to worry. I’m in no danger of overworking myself if you’re here,” she hummed, patting my shoulder as she passed through the back door outside. I cringed as one of her hanging flower baskets fell, narrowly missing her head. “Goodness! I guess I should’ve used stronger rope!”
I’ve started leaving tiny treats out for our fairies. Miniature cookies and portions of diced fruits and vegetables. Little notes reading, “I’m sorry for your troubles” and “Please, don’t bother my mother.” I claimed a small parcel of backyard as my own, my mother delighted in my new interest in her hobby. Amidst a small jungle of shrubs and herbs, hopefully the fairies can make a new home for themselves, and this small war of tricks and pranks can come to an end before my mother begins to question coincidence and the fairies organize a full frontal attack—it will make all things easier in the end if we coexist instead of commencing a petty battle with no winners.
