Lessoc Fountain - a fairy-creature tale

Ch. 21 Revelations

After she woke that morning, Cocot baked a batch of cookies for the Bounet Rodzos and a vegetable bread cake for herself. Every once in a while she would stop and stare at the door to Jean-Baptist's workroom. No knocks or voices came from it, but she imaginged she heard the dull rasping of a saw or file.

She had dreamed of walking to the fairy hall under the hill. Some images were so clear, she almost convinced herself the dream was real. Then she remembered putting on the dress. Dream and memories became tangled through the morning, until she didn't know which was which.

Had her mother spoken to her during her flight home? Perhaps it had been a forgotten conversation from years ago that surfaced in her sleep. And the unusual language the fairies had used? Her imagination. What was it the king had said? That he would rather keep her there with him than hold his position as king? Wishful thinking.

She squeezed her eyes shut to better see the hall and the dancers, for she was sure there were dancers, but all she could picture was a shadowed place with water flowing from the ground and a great throne that was shrouded in mist and grown over with ivy. The fairies had said something about a fountain. Or had her mother spoken of that?

By the time afternoon arrived, she was quite certain she was losing her mind, but she did not have any time to worry about it; she had to fetch Hector.

The old farmer was sitting on a rickety bench next to the barn, smoking a pipe. He also had a large glass of yellow beer, and he lifted first the pipe to inhale and then the beer to drink as he stared across his field. Cocot approached him from the dirt drive since she had felt compelled to take the long way to the farm. The stairs to the shortcut had been foreboding in their mossy greenness. A velvet carpet to the devil's lair.

Cocot reached the spot right in front of the farmer and she almost said good afternoon. The way he took his next drink stopped her. He swirled the beer in the glass, reading the future in the floating bits of foam and then threw back his head to finish it off. Someone who was alone would do that.

A cold pinch started aching high in her chest and Cocot could see the fairy king sitting before her. His whisper sighed, "A drop of Farafell's magic."

The old farmer—his beer finished and pipe held between his teeth, returned to the house. Rubbing the ache to ease the pain, Cocot went to wait by the vegetable garden. She told herself she should hate the man for making Daniel work constantly and never giving any thanks or kind word. No hatred came, however, only sorrow. The old man could not see what was right in front of his face; he was blinded by his own loneliness and long days.

She grew bored with waiting and decided to weed the garden. It had been weeks since she had to do hers and, of all her chores, it was the one she actually enjoyed. An hour later, halfway through the rows of carrots, the field fairies arrived to flit in circles over her pile of weeds.

"Did you find them?" asked Soufflé from behind her.

Cocot startled and whirled. "What are you talking about?"

"The great fairies under the hill," Soufflé prompted when she frowned at him.

"The great fairies?" she asked. Tall graceful dancers twirled before her eyes; the flash of jewels, silver, shining cloth and sword blades were dazzling.

"Can you remember?" he asked.

"Yes, I think so. Why is it hazy? More dream than memory?"

He landed lightly between the rows of turnips. "You are not fully fairy, yet. That's why."