The Faedog

The Sound of Laughter

Be aware and be guarded,

For little is known

of the littlest ones who roam

Or their faithful protectors, who eventually departed.

***

It, like many things, is well-known that to break a contract with a person is frowned upon. For instance, it is common to make a contract with a neighbor to borrow his rake or perhaps eggs in exchange for doing yard work for him at a later time. It is also common practice for some of the worst neighbors to never hold up their end of the bargain.

Where I come from, that is more than frowned upon. To break a bargain struck is akin to--nay worse than theft or even murder. Words hold more power than most would imagine, and my people learn that before we are ever allowed to utter them. Simply put, deals struck and bargains made are to be upheld at all cost; no matter the cost.

It is hard to understand where to begin, perhaps from the boy's birth? That, in my humblest of opinions, wouldn't be fair to the child. He, in his defense, spoke his first words before he comprehended them. Goos and gaas, that in his tongue were gibberish, but to my people would have been seen as an insult. Thus judging him and his actions based on that would be unfair, he ultimately wasn't culpable yet. A jaded individual may interject here, saying that perhaps the fault lies with the parents for raising him in such a fashion. There is a kernel of truth in that opinion, but it is my earnest belief that humans as a whole don't understand the power of words, even in their own broken languages.

I understand how most will feel upon reading this tale, that I am a human sympathizer... that in the war that would inevitably come that I sided with the child in question and ultimately led to my people's exile. That would not be further from the truth, and it pains me to this day to know how everything fell apart when the bargain was struck.

Mind you, watching is what I did best. As knotted as a trunk I could appear, or as transparent as the wind. It was on a fairly average day that I saw him, the bushy mess of hair that sprouted golden from his head like the wheat his parents farmed. His eyes as blue as the sky on a clear day. An ugly little thing to be sure, but the spark in his eyes hinted at a wit that could match the fish he was after. An uncommon trait in that of humans, having a wit as fast as the small darting fish that lived within the deep water.

I itched to move and study him closer, so I did, as I am not one to not do what I want to, as knotted as I may be at times.

His golden wheat-like hair was only an accurate description from afar as it was far duller up close, but he was more like dirt the closer I came to him. Filthy, but sturdy and reliable. The boy cast his rod and line, but the fish were my friends; we had dinner together every first day of the new moon. Thus I knotted his line and cut the small lure he used.

He only ever came afternoon, and I could tell by the lumps on his hands that he had chores to do in the early hours. When he returned his rod was fixed and the line straight, truthfully, I would have been disappointed otherwise.

I had warned the fish ahead of time, and they avoided his lure for they now knew it meant death. The logs at the bottom were eager to be pulled up and see the sun again, dead wood or otherwise they still didn't enjoy wasting away within the pool they had fallen in, so I moved his line around the friendliest log when he wasn't looking.

It was a joyous thing seeing his face wrinkle in frustration, he ended up cutting his line, though his eyes soon became as wet as the log he had left his line with.

I couldn't bear it, for as transparent as I could be, I was most boastful with my mischief.

I whispered into his ear. He ran immediately, sobbing and terrified. I couldn't help but giggle. These are the moments that defined our first and last encounter; laughter, tears, and a desire.

I was told much later, by one of our people that stayed within his home, that the boy had spoken to his mother. Apparently, she laughed at his tales and brushed his hair in an affectionate way before promptly dismissing his words as an over-active imagination. The boy came back after the newest moon, though I initially planned to ignore him for the sake of it. In a small parcel he had brought cookies and fresh goat milk, clearly relying on ancient folk-lore and half-truths for advice. Mankind was as ignorant as ever if they still considered goat milk and cookies to appease all the fair-folk and not just the friendlier ones who worked within their homes.

I should have left then, should have gone to the deepest parts of the woods and waited. Tales have been told of little mischievous creatures who steal the hearts of the fair-folk and trap them to waste away forever. I knew better, but if he could believe in folklore why couldn't I ignore it. It seemed the right thing to do, as I was and am a very contradictory being. One of my greatest and worst characteristics if I had to describe myself.

This was where all the trouble truly began.