Stone Hill Homestead

The garden people are not near as disgruntled by the smoke from the northern fires as I thought they would be. They have other problems. The fairies are all in a flutter. Only, flutter, they cannot.

It seems that not only is there an upcoming ban on the use of fairy dust, they have also been prohibited from flight, effective yesterday. This order came from the council yesterday morning delivered by mail into every tiny mailbox of every fairy on the property.

I found this sad party discussing it last night. They visited late into the wee hours. The hedgehogs are heartbroken for them and frankly, I fear Mr. Hedgehog is very angry at the point of doing something stupid.

I took it upon myself to ask some pertinent questions and learned that the council seems to consist of the fairy queen mother and a handful of people she deems worthy. While the upcoming ban on fairy dust was arguably understandable to some, the ban on flight was totally unprecedented and inexplicable.

“It’s a matter of our safety now!” Matilda wailed. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and onto her little pink frock. She nearly spilled her tea with trying to remember to keep her feet on the dirt. If she could just flutter, holding her cup would be easy. Matilda was right. I nearly stepped on my little fairies on six or seven separate occasions between yesterday and today.

Constance feels confused and betrayed. “I met the fairy queen mother once. She seemed like such a nice lady. She blew me a kiss and commented on my new dress…this green one I have on actually. There must be a good reason for all of this. But I don’t know…this feels very wrong.” She sniffled and hiccupped into her tea.

Tonight I found my dear old Night Gardener climbing the hollyhocks. “What on earth are you doing? How is that safe?”

“This isn’t a matter of safety but of necessity, Ma’am. The fairies are not allowed to fly. So now I’m climbing hollyhocks to check for them blasted beetles. Scuze the language Ma’am.”

He climbed back down, sighed heavily and said, “Fairies do not have the arm strength to climb. Their strength is in their wings. Should they attempt climbing, they would fall. Should they begin to fall they would flutter. Should they be seen…” He muttered something gruffly under his breath.

“Then what?” I asked. “What happens then?”

“Disobedient fairies are stripped of their wings. Gone. Forever.” He paused for a long time and then said, “I have tended this garden with the fairies for nine years. There are no disobedient fairies that I’ve ever had the pleasure of aquainting. It ain’t their nature.” He paused and added thoughtfully, “They believe the world of that fairy queen mother, though most of them wouldn’t know her if they met her on a flower.”

Now I’m feeling righteously indignant myself. I seldom weigh in on the matters of the little people, but I need to meet this fairy queen mother myself. “Do you know where she lives?”

The old gardener sighed deeply and said, “I have an inkling. I’ll find her.”

So I’m waiting for the Night Gardener to bring me the fairy queen mother. I’ll check in again when I know more.

I’ve been thinking about it all day. What’s the equivalent for me? I already can’t fly. But what is something that is a normal human ability that I have that if taken away, I would feel lost and forlorn in my own skin? I don’t even know. What’s it for you?