Fairy Grave

8/14/2019 Fairy Grave

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Fairy Grave

By Christine Stoddard

Literary Fiction

[email protected]


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1

Fern sat on the front steps leading to her kindergarten classroom,

looking more pensive than a five-year old should. She had perched

herself in such a way that her velvet skirt nearly covered the entire

width of the steps. Anyone would have described the sight as strangely

regal for the height of the Great Depression. Fern might have assumed

the same thoughtful air were she posing for a royal portrait under

Queen Victoria. But the image soon dissipated. The girls large, dark

eyes flickered when her teacher, Mrs. Tunis, called her name.

Fern! Time for the class tea party! Remember, youre the

hostess, dear!

The little girl popped up and whipped around, careful not to trip

over her long dress.

Thats right, child. In. Your grandmother brought cupcakes, the

ones with the pink frosting you like so much.

Fern nodded and took her place at the head of the miniature

table. Eleven other boys and girls surrounded the table, with their

chubby hands in their lap. All of them looked remarkably wellbehaved---more like wax children than real, breathing ones.

Without saying a word, Fern lifted her teacup to her dollish lips

and sipped. Her classmates followed her lead and started to eat and


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drink, too. Two boys began bickering over a cinnamon croissant and

one of the girls spilled honey all over her silk blouse. Fern ignored the

other children. Instead she continued drinking, rather

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solemnly. When she finished her tea, she abruptly placed the cup on

the table, stood up, smoothed out her skirt, and ran toward the open

classroom door. The rest of the children nibbled and quarreled

accordingly. Mrs. Tunis was so busy scolding Linus about putting his

elbows on the table that she almost didnt notice Fern scurrying out of

the room. Almost .

Fern! Come back here! FERN! Mrs. Tunis had nearly darted out

the door when she skidded and faced the tea party. Alright children,

Ill be right back! Please dont move. They were too consumed with

their sweets that none of them thought anything of eleven five and six-

year olds left alone in a room by themselves.

Fern scampered into the woods at the edge of the schoolyard.

She pushed through knots of thorns, reeds, and honeysuckle. She left

no plant within her path untrampled. Pushing deeper and deeper into

the brambles tore up her beautiful dress and scraped at her face but

Fern was determined. She kept going.

Meanwhile Mrs. Tunis trailed several yards behind the girl. A


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thick, middle age woman, the teacher could not match Ferns agility.

She was too slow and too big to move through the brambles as swiftly

as Fern had. The woman could only guess where the child was so

desperately heading based upon which plants laid flat on the ground.

Finally Fern arrived at a clearing marked only by the presence of

a dozen burgundy toadstools boarding its edge. The toadstools were

tall and bloated, thanks

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to the previous nights rains. Fern paused, breathing heavily, and then

ran some more until she reached the cemetery at the center of the

clearing. The number of

gravestones making up the cemetery could be counted on a single

hand. The girl tumbled toward a new tombstone and flung herself

before it, onto the freshly turned soil. Then Fern curled up as coolly as

a millipede and started to drift off as her mothers ghost watched over

her.

By the time Mrs. Tunis found Fern, the child was asleep. Her back

gently rose up and down as her minor lungs filled and emptied. Theteacher caught her breath and admired the girl, then slumped down to

the silt and clay. She stroked Ferns soft head. The child was hot with a

nascent nightmare on her mind.


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The teachers eyes locked on the alabaster tombstone before

Fern. Its freshly engraved words read: HERMOINE GLENN. (1910-1936).

DEVOTED WIFE OF JAMES AND LOVING MOTHER OF FERN. The outline

of the hole dug up for the womans coffin was still visible; the earth

there smelled moist.

Oh, FernIm sorry, Fern.

Mrs. Tunis sighed and picked up the child from her somber nap.

The girl felt very light in the womans thick arms, as if a small part of

her had evaporated. Then Mrs. Tunis headed toward the school,

praying that her class had not entangled themselves in any mischief

during her absence. She had to get back before they smeared cupcake

frosting all over the walls.

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The next day, Fern was sitting in the schools courtyard, parked

on a bench sized for children. The bench was nestled in the beginnings

of a garden. Marigolds

tickled the girls ankles. Ferns only company at the bench was a yarn

and cotton rag doll. The rest of the girls played jump rope but theyknew better than to invite Fern. She was too melancholy for their taste.

Miss Mary Mac, Mac, Mac! All dressed in black, black, black!

With silver buttons, buttons, buttons! All down her back, back, back!


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the girls sang in unison. The lyrics echoed into the sky.

But their songs did not tempt Fern. She remained on her bench,

clutching her teacup from the previous days party. While the other

girls hopped and skipped, she kicked her little legs back and forth but

her pretty mouth did not smile. Her face sagged into a frown.

Just as Fern finished her final drop of tea, a tiny ray of light, like

that of a firefly, caught her eye. It glimmered in the distance, at the

opposite end of the courtyard where Mrs. Tunis oversaw her students.

Fern focused on the ray of light as it grew larger and larger,

presumably drawing closer to her. The girl perked up but her face

remained serious. Something, the five-year old realized, was amiss and

it made her nervous. The light came closer and closer to Fern until it

reached her.

Hello, Fern, the tiniest voice in all the world said.

Fern nodded her somber nod.

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I see youre not playing with the other children.

Fern shook her head no.

You neednt explain why.

The girls eyes widened slightly.


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Youre sad, arent you? The words came slowly, beat by beat.

Sad about your mother?

Fern froze, precociously suspicious of this ray of light and its

accompanying voice.

No need to worry, the voice continued, You can trust me,

Fern.

The girl stayed silent. She was at the very least curious about

what this voice had to say.

I wont hurt you. In fact, I want to help you. I know your mother

died an awful death. I know what you saw---I know that your father

murdered her. He was so embarrassed about losing his job, the house.

All he had left was his family name. You remember how angry he was,

right? How frustrated he was for weeks and weeks? And then, one day,

he justhad to take it out on someone. Find someone else to blame.

So he chose your mother. Because she wouldnt sell her mink stole!

You know what stole Im talking about---the one with the eyes you

always said glowed in

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the night and scared you? It had those funny ears you hated? Your

mother wouldnt sell that stole or her locket or her pearls or any of her

pretty things, even though your father begged and pleaded that you


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family needed the money. And then that day, three days before Easter,

he shot her, then tried to make it look like an accident. So you had to

go to her funeral on Easter instead of going on the egg hunt with Linus.

The whole funeral, you didnt say anything because you were afraid to

blurt out what you saw. But you dont have to be afraid anymore, Fern.

I saw what Daddy did. I saw. See? Youre not alone, Fern. Youre not

alone.

All the while, Fern shifted uncomfortably, looking down at her

Mary Jane clad feet and plucking imaginary lint off of her skirt. When

the voice stopped, Fern stared directly at the ray of light, speechless.

She squinted her eyes and, upon closer inspection, realized that the

ray of light was actually a bantam being, a shimmering fairy. It had

black, shining eyes and fuzzy-tipped antennae, like those of a moth.

Dragonfly-esque wings sprouted out from its body. A plain white tuniccovered its bony frame, down to its toeless feet. Perhaps other people

would have gaped in disbelief but the sight somehow did not surprise

Fern. The girl didnt even blink. She believed.

See, Fern, the fairys high-pitched voice began again, We can

become great friends, you and I. I can help you with your problem---the

guilt you feel for not telling anyone about how your mother really died.

I can make that guilt melt away.


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Just then, as the fairy uttered the word melt, the being pointed

at a spider web stretched out on the brick wall behind Fern. Fern

turned around to look. The web shriveled into a single drop of dew and

disappeared into a glitter cloud. Still Fern did not gasp. She turned

around again and gazed at the fairy.

The fairy said, Youre quite jaded for a little girl. Other children

might have shrieked out of amazement or delight.

Fern blinked in response.

Lets just get on with it, the fairy sighed and fluttered onto

Ferns round shoulder. The being overwhelmed Ferns nose with its

mixed rose and orchid scent. I have a deal for you, something that will

rid you of all your guilt.

Again, Fern fidgeted, this time with her curly hair. She slid her

fingers in and out of each of the ringlets grazing her neck.

So, my offer is simple. I promise to help you with all of your

schoolwork---every worksheet, every reading assignment, every

project, everything---everyday for the rest of your school days, until

you graduate from high school. And, in allowing me to help you with

your schoolwork, you will never feel guilty about holding the secret to

your mothers death.


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Fern nodded.

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But, the fairy said, You must never thank me. If you ever

thank me for helping you with your schoolwork, your guilt will haunt

you for the rest of your life.

You will never forget how your mother real died and you will especially

never forget that you were too cowardly to tell a soul the truth. Do you

understand, Fern?

The girl nodded very earnestly.

As soon as you return to class, our agreement shall take into

effect. I hear you have to read a story today---and we both know how

much trouble reading gives you.

For the first time since the fairys arrival, Fern expressed a shade

of nervousness. She gulped at the mention of reading.

Not a minute passed before Mrs. Tunis rang her bell, signaling

the end of recess. The girls dropped their jump rope and the boys

abandoned their kickball. All the children filed in front of Mrs. Tunis and

trailed behind her as she led the class to the library. It, like all the

rooms in the school, opened to the courtyard.


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Once the last child entered the library, Mrs. Tunis gathered the

students to the middle of the room by waving her long arms.

Alright, boys and girls, if you all recall, its Ferns turn to read the

story of her choice. So why dont we all sit down while Fern takes a few

minutes to find a book she likes.

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The children, tired from playing outside, gladly fell to the floor. A

few of them broke into chatter but most of them were fairly quiet. Mrs.

Tunis smiled at Fern and

escorted her to the storybook shelf. Already the girl felt anxious---heart

galloping, skin sweating. Fern halted before the shelf, closed her eyes,

and snatched Rumpelstiltskin at random. The book felt heavy in her

hands.

The fairy whispered in Ferns ear, Good girl, good. Now walk

over to the rocking chair. Ill take care of the rest.

Oh, thats a scary story, Fern, Mrs. Tunis said, in that

saccharine voice only elementary school teachers can muster, A scary

story indeed. But it has such beautiful illustrations! The other boys and

girls will love it.

Fern didnt reply and ambled toward the rocking chair facing the

pile of kindergartners on the floor. The girl settled into the big chair


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after arranging the pillows to her liking. Mrs. Tunis towered over Fern as

she situated herself to the right of the chair.

Alright, children, Mrs. Tunis announced, Lets all listen to

Fern.

The children wiggled to and fro, restlessly. They all anticipated

another one of Ferns lackluster performances. Only Linus sat in rapt

attention. No one else harbored courtesy or faith.

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The fairy began reading word for word everything on the front

cover of the book for Fern to repeat. The girl waited a beat. Then she

cleared her pint-sized throat and pronounced the books title and

author loudly and clearly. This newfound confidence and articulation

startled more than one of Ferns classmates but none of them were

genuinely amazed until Fern got into the story. From Once upon a

time to The end, Fern did not stumble over a single syllable.

A late bloomer, I suppose, Mrs. Tunis muttered under her

breath and then clapped. Fern! That was excellent! The rest of the

class joined their teacher in applause.

Fern beamed. She slowly rested the book on her lap and basked

in her momentary fame. Had she not remembered the fairys


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command, she would have embraced it between her palms and

shouted, Thank you!

The rest of the afternoon, the fairy helped Fern perform her best.

He whispered the answers to her math worksheet, reminded her of the

lines to five different nursery rhymes, and calmed her nerves during

her French lesson. Again and again, Mrs. Tunis praised Fern, astonished

by her seemingly overnight transformation. The shy, stuttering girl had

changed into such a sure-tongued sprite. The next day and the day

after that, the fairy kept its promise and Fern kept hers, as well. Not

once did she thank the fairy.

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As Fern became more popular with Mrs. Tunis and her reputation

improved, Linus began spending more time with Fern. He never played

with her during recess but he sat next to her during story hour and

occasionally offered her one of his crackers at snack time (but only the

ones in which he had already bitten and decided

he disliked.) The rest of the students continued to avoid Fern but atleast none of them teased her anymore.

For weeks, the fairy and the little girl honored their pact and Fern

no longer felt guilty about keeping the reason for her mothers death a


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secret. Sometimes she even imagined her mother had killed herself,

just as her father told her grandmother and their priest. She

sometimes doubted if she had witnessed her father shoot her mother

at all. A new source of guilt, however, developed in Ferns sweet head.

One day, about a month after the fairy had first approached Fern,

the girl confessed what now ailed her. She was in the courtyard,

nibbling on the crust of her toasted sandwich, when the fairy appeared

on her knee. Recently, it followed her almost everywhere she went, like

a tick clinging to a fawn.

Whats the matter, child? You look glum, the fairy said. It

crossed its slender legs, brought its elbows up to its knees, and

plunked its chin into its hands.

Fern swallowed and placed the rest of her sandwich on her lap. A

black fly landed on it but she didnt care. Usually she would have

swatted it but this time the girl had something to say. I-I d-dont like h-

h-how youre h-helping me so much w-

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with all my schoolw-work. Its like I-Im tricking everyone into t-thinkingI l-learned things I havent learned at all.

But dont you like all the attention youre receiving? Youre Mrs.

Tunis favorite student now. Shes even promoting you to third grade.


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You always wanted to grow up faster, didnt you?

Fern didnt reply. Both she and the fairy already knew the answer.

Ever since her first day of school, when everyone but Linus taunted her

for her stuttering, Fern wished to grow up as quickly as possible to

escape the classroom.

The fairy scoffed, Really! If it isnt one thing, its another. Youre

never happy, are you Fern? I rid you of one guilt and now you feel

guilty about something else!

Fern bolted up and stomped her foot. I j-just dont like t-tricking

everyone! I like b-b-being honest! Her curls shook in fury.

You werent honest about your mothers death, the fairy shot

back. Look, Fern, I promise you that the guilt you felt about not telling

anyone how your mother died was far greater than what you feel

now---and it would have only grown larger in time. If you know whats

best for you, youll keep up your end of the deal. Dont risk doing

otherwise.

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Fern began to sniff. She didnt want to feel guilty about anything

at all. She started to wail loudly enough that her teacher heard her

from the other side of the courtyard. Mrs. Tunis came racing toward the


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girl.

Whats the matter, Fern? Did a bee sting you? How many times

have I told you not to play in those flowerbeds?

Fern shook her head and continued sobbing. Streams of tears

zigzagged down her Botticelli face, making her cheeks and nose bright

red. The child buried herself into her teachers chest. All the while, the

fairy teetered on the top of Ferns left ear.

Remember our deal, Fern, it murmured in an abnormally deep

voice, Remember our deal.

That afternoon, Fern chose to listen to the fairy and remember

their agreement, as much as it pained her five-year old conscience.

She posed at her desk, the picture of the perfect student, with her

hands daintily folded. Anytime Mrs. Tunis called on her, she delivered

the answer so earnestly that it almost didnt matter if it were wrong---

not that it ever was. She could have convincingly fooled even her

teacher at that point.

Here, Mrs. Tunis said as she pulled Fern aside at the end of the

school day, A cookie for the smartest cookie I know. Sheadministered a succulent chocolate-chip confection to the little girl.

The gooey cookie nearly covered the span of Ferns

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face. She thanked her teacher and took a greedy bite. But the cookie

tasted no more appealing than sawdust. As soon as Fern stepped out

the door, she spat it out on the

ground and handed the rest of the cookie to Linus, who had been

waiting for her. Ferns guilt had even conquered her tongue.

A week later, Mrs. Tunis officially bade Fern farewell. She walked

the girl down to the third grade classroom and introduced her to her

new teacher, Mrs. Carlucci.

Im not ready, maam, Fern told Mrs. Tunis.

Yes, you are, child. Trust me. And dont worry about leaving

Linus. You can still see your friend at recess.

Fern gulped, said good-bye to Mrs. Tunis, and stepped into her

new classroom. None of the students even greeted the new student.

The girl took the desk with a piece of paper bearing her name. Mrs.

Carlucci smiled politely and continued scribbling very quickly on the

chalkboard. Puffs of chalk dust flew into Ferns face from her place in

the front row. Soon Fern began reciting multiplication tables and

proceeded through the rest of the day without once incorrectlyanswering a teachers question.

You are quite a clever girl, the teacher told Fern at recess. As

usual Fern was sitting on the bench half-hidden in the flowerbeds,


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alone, when her teacher

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approached her. She no longer even brought her ragdoll to school

anymore. The fairy warned Fern that doing so would ruin her

intellectual image.

Thank you, maam, Fern replied, frowning.

Whats the matter, dear?

The fairy hissed in Ferns ear, I have a stomachache.

I have a stomachache, maam.

Im sorry, child. Would you like to go to the clinic?

No, thank you, maam. I think Ill rest here.

At the end of the day, as Fern gathered her coat and lunch pail,

the fairy grinned and asked, How did you like your first day of third

grade, Fern?

The little girl sighed, I didnt l-l-like it very much at all. I still feel

like a f-fake.

But you certainly impressed Mrs. Carlucci. You charmed her!

Give it some time, Fern. Give it some time.

Fern nodded a sad nod, the way a drooping daisy might, and


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trudged home to her father and grandmother.

The next morning, Mrs. Carlucci engaged the students in an art

lesson. She passed out charcoal and sketching paper for each child.

Fern grasped her piece of

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charcoal very eagerly, happy that at last she would have the chance to

do something on her own without the fairy to guide her every

movement. But her delight vanished when the fairy seized the piece of

charcoal. Fern gasped.

When I told you Id help you with all of your schoolwork, I meant

all of it, the fairy scolded.

This not schoolwork!

Youre in school, arent you?

Ferns didnt answer. Instead, her hand shot up and called to her

teacher. Maam, could I please have another piece of charcoal?

Whats the matter with the piece you have?

Just then the fairy nipped Ferns thumb. A drop of bright blood

gushed out. Fern leapt up and yelped, Ow!

Fern? The teacher glanced over, concerned.


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Ow, no. Its, um, n-nothing. T-thank you, maam.

Alright. Then Mrs. Carlucci turned her attention to the rest of

the class. Were drawing this still life, boys and girls. She pointed at

an arrangement of a blue-and-white vase, a couple of leather-bound

books, and a glass paperweight. You will have one hour to complete

your piece and then present it to the class.

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Grab onto the charcoal, the fairy barked. Fern reluctantly

wrapped her hand over the piece, as the fairy held onto the very top.

The fairy began directing the

charcoal this way and that. Beautiful forms emerged and shadows in all

the right places soon followed. It was the kind of delicate work only a

fairy could create.

I want to draw, Fern muttered.

I told you: the deal was that I would help you with ALL of your

schoolwork.

But this isnt math or reading. Its art. Nobody can help me with

art.

Shut up! Ill be done soon enough and your teacher will love it.

But---


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SHUT UP!

Fern squeezed together her lips so tightly that they took on a

purplish shade. Then she let go of the charcoal. The fairy kept drawing,

unaware of what Fern had done. The students sitting on either side of

Fern stared at the black chunk swaying to and fro seemingly by itself.

Hey one of the students said and nudged the student beside

him. One by one, each student in the class turned to the floating

charcoal.

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But before any of them thought to ask the obvious question, Fern

jumped up and screamed, THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!

The words lingered in the air.

Everyone gawked at the hysterical child. Nobody was drawing

now. Suddenly the fairy shrieked and shriveled away, along with the

charcoal. The fairys charcoal sketch burst into flame without a sound.

Not even a wisp of smoke ensued. Then Fern ran out of the door,

toward the woods, with only one destination on her mind.

She thrust herself into the cluster of trees and weeds at the edge


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of the school property and tore every plant in her sight. Every part of

Fern went flying as she sprinted. Her hair bounced; her skirt swung

around wildly; she flapped around her arms, aimlessly. Further and

further she went until again she stumbled upon the cemetery.

Fern threw herself on top of her mothers grave and bawled. She

pounded her firsts against the earth, as if demanding that someone

open the portal to the other side. As she pounded, crimson toadstools

spurted up from the soil and encircled her. The girl cried and cried until

a cold air engulfed her. Something pushed into her skin until it

completely seeped into her small body. It was her mothers ghost,

brandishing the bullet hole where her own husband had shot her. But

Fern could not see her. She felt her entire being tingle, shiver, and

violently shudder but she never questioned the reason. She kept crying

until her eyes dried out and throbbed.

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For the rest of her days, no matter where Fern went or what she

did, the truth of her mothers death lived within her. And just as the

fairy had predicted, Ferns guilt grew with everyday.

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Fairy Grave