An Ordinary Fairy

  Noah listened to advice and wrote down directions for a few minutes, then finished his coffee, bade them all a good day, and left, walking rapidly back toward the motel.

  “This better be good, Louie,” he growled. “You just cost me breakfast.”

  When Noah reached the motel and approached his red Dakota, he found Louie waiting, with one foot leaning on the back bumper. The old man straightened when Noah approached and waved him over close, as if to share some great secret. He tossed his cigarette to the ground and smashed it with his boot.

  Louie was about Noah’s height, but his stoop said he used to be taller. Noah assumed he was in his late sixties. His hair had remained dark brown, though it had thinned. Rough farmer’s skin, toughened by years of hard outdoor labor, was tanned deep brown. He wore thick glasses now and walked with a limp, but Noah suspected this old man could still buck bales with the young guys. Jeans and a checked shirt completed his farmer’s garb.

  “I didn’t wanna talk around them guys,” Louie began. “They think I don’t know nothin’. My old dad, years ago, was a groundskeeper for the Joneses. Worked at the Big House. That’s what they call the old mansion in the woods. You met Chester Jones yet?”

  Jones again.

  “No,” Noah said, “but I’ve seen the Jones name on a few things around here.”

  “Yeah. Lots of things. The bank. The new nursing home wing. He’s a big deal on the village board. Thinks he’s hot stuff. Likes to push people around, just like his granddad used to. You’ll meet him if you’re here very long. Sticks his nose in everything. The Jones family’s been here a long time. Come up from the south after the Civil War. Always want to run things, tell people what to do. Uppity.”

  “So tell me about this pond in the woods.”

  Louie’s expression turned wistful. “I remember the first time I seen it, long time ago, when I was a young man. Goin’ where I wasn’t s’pose to.” He paused, remembering the scene, Noah assumed. “She’s still there, in a little house near the pond. Used to be like a bathhouse for when the Joneses went swimmin’. The Big House, it’s all closed up. Hasn’t been nobody living in it for years.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Just a little wisp of a thing. Livin’ out there in the woods all by herself.”

  “Who?” Noah asked. “The hermit?”

  Louie jerked back to the present. “She’s not a hermit, exactly.” He paused for a moment, squinting at the bright sun. “She just likes her privacy is all.”

  “Do you know her well?” Noah asked.

  Louie shook his head. “No, no. Well, a little. I do jobs for her every now and then. But she don’t care to talk much to me.”

  “Do you think she’ll talk to me?”

  “Yeah. I think she’ll like you.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Louie shrugged and grinned. “Just a hunch. You have a lot in common.”

  Hermit, photographer … sure, lots in common.

  “Do you think she would allow me to shoot the pond?”

  “Don’t really know. Worth a try though. Beautiful place. Just beautiful.”

  “How do I get there?” Noah pulled out his notebook and scratched notes as Louie gave directions, including a shortcut through the woods to the woman’s house.

  “The lane’s hard to find,” Louie said. “She’s never had a car, so the road’s pretty much growed over. There’s several spots that look like they might be a road but they peter out. You want the one where the sign’s missin’ on the right. The Big House is a fair distance from the paved road, to the south. The cottage is farther even, down a little path to the west, unless you take the shortcut.” He glanced toward Henning’s. “Well, I’d best be goin’. We’ll be seein’ ya.” He turned to leave.

  Noah placed a hand on Louie’s arm. “Louie, why did you tell me all this? You haven’t said ten words since I came to Hoopeston.”

  A sly grin spread across Louie’s face. “You’ll see.” Without another word, he strode away toward downtown.

  Noah removed his ball cap and scratched his head as Louie walked away. “What was all that about? Does he want me to see the pond … or the woman?”

  Noah drove east on Maple street to the post office, where he mailed an expense report to the magazine office, and then drove north to Main Street and turned west. As he traveled through downtown, he perused a store located on the first floor of an old whitewashed brick building. He had driven past this place many times since he came to Hoopeston. Noah knew about it long before the old boys at Henning’s told him its story. In fact, he chose Hoopeston for his base of operations because of it.

  Named The Broom Closet, the store, a source for all things magical and mysterious, specialized in witchcraft supplies and paraphernalia. That’s what drew Noah’s interest.

  Noah was a witch.

  His devout Lutheran mother didn’t like the term witch; he wasn’t comfortable with it either. He preferred just Wiccan.

  The store’s name appealed to Noah. In Wicca circles, people like him who kept their beliefs private were “in the broom closet.” Wicca’s witchcraft and magic aspects drew fire from conservative folks, so Noah preferred the low profile. It amused him that those people were unaware of the practice of magic in every major culture for thousands of years in various guises. Noah thought the conversion of bread and wine into the body and blood of Jesus in the middle of a church full of people quite magical, though many of the partakers would be shocked to hear him say so. He preferred to avoid controversy, however, and so lived by the number one Wicca philosophy, harm none, and remained in his comfortable, magical closet.

  During his numerous Internet investigations of Wicca, he’d run across the story of Hoopeston and its witch school and store. When his current assignment arose, the town popped into his head. Noah heard all about the “crazy witch people” one morning from the Henning’s Gang. He hadn’t let on that he already knew all about it, and certainly not that he was a crazy witch person.

  He slowed as he passed the store, but did not stop.

  Noah, when are you going to grow enough balls to come out of the broom closet and go into The Broom Closet?

  He reached the end of Main Street where it intersected Route 1, and sat for a moment.

  “Okay. Right to Milford or left to Jones Woods?” Milford was a crapshoot; none of the old guys had told him of an actual pond there, or of a particular landowner to visit. At Jones Woods, he had directions, a pond, a name … and a mystery.

  “Jones Woods it is.”

  Two

  Jones Woods loomed up like an island in a sea of dry cornfields, extending far south from where the county road pierced the western wall of vibrant autumn hues. Oaks, hickories, ashes and maples mixed with white pines and hemlocks to form a broad palette of colors.

  “This looks like my kind of place,” Noah muttered.

  The trees blotted out the rising sun, and he passed through a leafy portal into dark woods, slowing until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. He slowed even more, and then rolled to a stop. A frown crossed his features.

  What feels so familiar?

  After a few moments, he drove on. The gravel road twisted and turned through the trees, its course laid to least disturb the natural surroundings; vehicles were intruders here. He followed the curves with confidence, feeling his way by instinct or unconscious memory, knowing which way the road would turn.

  There’s some new energy here. A thing I’ve never felt.

  Man’s only intrusion was “No Trespassing - No Hunting” signs, spaced regularly in matched pairs on either side: not the usual rusty, shot-full-of-holes signs, but shiny new ones on straight posts. At the thirteenth pair, Noah hit the brakes and skidded. The sign on the north side had no mate to the south. Where the sign should have been, two shallow ruts disappeared beneath a wall of pine branches.

  “This must be it.” He backed up and eased the Dakota into the ruts, which were filled with rock. The branches parted but more took their place
. He crept along, keeping the wheel straight, and soon was enclosed on all sides by the needled boughs.

  Louie, you might have mentioned this. But this feels like the right way.

  The gauntlet ended after a hundred feet or so. Noah found himself on a narrow forest road, two rocky ruts through the trees. Two-foot weeds in the center told of little use. The lane twisted and turned and rose and fell, but Noah’s sense of direction kept him oriented: he traversed a wide loop through the woods and ended only a few hundred feet from the county road. A tree trunk across the lane halted his forward progress, as Louie had promised. Noah guessed the tree had been felled for that purpose, apparently many years ago, based on the rotting condition of the wood and the heavy undergrowth that covered the lane beyond. A small clearing paved with scattered rock provided a space to turn vehicles around.

  No welcome mat that I can see.

  Noah shouldered his small camera bag, climbed out of the Dakota, and surveyed the clearing around him. He was hemmed on all sides by large trees and thick undergrowth, though many leaves had fallen or taken on their autumn colors.

  “This place has energy. And … something else.” He tilted his head to one side, as if listening might reveal the trees’ secret, but they stood silent.

  Laughing at me, I suppose.

  At the southern edge of the clearing was a narrow opening, which Louie had identified as the short cut to Willow Brown’s home. Noah left the clearing and plunged into the trees. Brush grabbed at the camera case on the narrow path, but it was smooth and straight; he could see at least a hundred feet ahead. While the surface seemed worn and often used, Noah dodged many low branches. At one spot, the ground was soft. Noah edged around it, eyeing the prints of small tennis shoes that had plowed straight through. Large paw prints were there, too.

  Must be a favorite place for the neighbor kids.

  About three hundred feet from the truck, the trail opened into a clearing in front of a small house. Tall grass and wildflowers filled the space and linden trees surrounded it.

  Noah didn’t know if “house” was a good description. Large beams laid across the gap between two small knolls fashioned a sturdy roof, covered with soil to create the illusion of a single hill. Trees and shrubs on the roof completed the effect. Below the beams stood an unusual stone wall, made of river rocks mortared with white concrete, pierced by two small four-pane windows flanked by a heavy wooden door. The little house also possessed a heavy, wrought-iron gate hung like a storm door.

  Life flourished here, and a welcoming air. A yellow cat crouched near a crockery water bowl. Both windows sported flower boxes that despite the late season still displayed blooms. Yellow curtains hung in the windows, and a grey cat snoozed inside the right one. Split wood lay in a neat pile near the door. At the top of the hill, Noah spotted a stone chimney trailing bluish gray smoke.

  Where’s the round green door?

  He took a deep breath in through his nose, and exhaled out his mouth. Myriad forest aromas filled his senses: damp leaves, wet earth and wood smoke. Whoever this Willow Brown was, she lived in a magical place.

  Time for the sales pitch.

  He walked across the clearing while digging a business card out of the camera case, put on his most innocent expression, and then rapped sharply three times on the door. From inside the cottage came a crashing sound of glass breaking. Deep-throated barking erupted.

  Noah heard an indistinct, though disgusted voice through the heavy door, then a shout. “Just a minute!” Soon, a bolt was thrown, and the door swept open.

  “Yes?”

  Oh, wow!

  A striking little woman wearing an exasperated expression stood behind the iron gate. One hand rested on the door, as if she were prepared to slam it shut if needed. She was less than five feet tall and appeared to be as trim as she was short, though a bulky tan sweater concealed her figure. Her legs were short and stout, but not what Noah would call heavy. Solid described them best. Faded jeans fit tight across her thighs and calves, and her tiny feet were bare.

  Noah took all this in and then returned his gaze to her face. Annoyance flickered in her little eyes, which were deep-set and dark, the dark that hides the pupils. They drilled into Noah’s eyes, unafraid. Smooth, fair skin and slightly rounded cheeks complemented a somewhat pointed chin, pert nose and small, thin-lipped mouth. Golden blonde hair cut pageboy style completed an exquisite picture.

  You’re no witch, but, my goodness, you are magical. The trees did have a secret.

  “Good morning,” Noah said. “Ms. Brown, isn’t it? I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.” She should be older, based on what the Henning’s gang told him. At the old witch’s cottage, he had instead found a beautiful young princess.

  “That depends on what you want,” she said.

  Okay, an impatient beautiful young princess.

  For so small a person she possessed a low and commanding voice.

  “Yes. My name is Noah Phelps,” he said, and extended the business card to her. “I’m a photographer for Outdoor Midwest magazine, and I heard there is a beautiful spot, a pond actually, in these woods, and I hoped I could get your permission to photograph it.”

  Willow didn’t move or speak. She looked at the card, then back at Noah. Her gaze remained unchanged at first, but then her features softened.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I saw the article about you in the paper.” She reached through the gate and took the card.

  Breathe, Noah, you’ll be fine.

  Her tiny hand suited her frame, and seemed child-sized next to Noah’s big farm-boy mitts. She squinted at the card, holding it at arm’s length.

  Without looking up, Willow asked “Who told you about the pond?”

  “Louie … well, I don’t remember his last name. He’s one of the good old boys who drink coffee together every morning at Henning’s.”

  She looked up. “Louie Miller. He’s my occasional handyman. He does the heavier work around here when I need him. What did he say about the pond?”

  “That it was beautiful, and I would be dumb not to at least ask if I could shoot it.”

  Willow hesitated, then reached through the gate and handed Noah his card in a dismissive way. “I’m a private person, Mister Phelps. I live a quiet life here and prefer not to be disturbed.”

  “Louie told me as much, ma’am, but he thought you might make an exception, since I’m only in town a few days, and it would just be this once.” Well, Louie implied that anyway.

  She shook her head. “That Louie. I’m going to have to talk to him. One thing I can rely on, if he didn’t think you were trustworthy, he wouldn’t give you the time of day.”

  “If it makes any difference, he said you’d like me,” Noah said, smiling his best farm-boy smile.

  Louie did say that.

  Willow’s eyes brightened and her face twitched, as if she was trying to remember how to smile. “Wait here,” she said. She disappeared from view for a few moments and then returned clad in clean white sneakers. She slid two bolts, pushed the gate open and came out, followed by a huge black Labrador retriever. The dog walked up to Noah without hesitation, his tail wagging wildly. Noah dropped to one knee to greet the dog.

  “Who have we here?” he asked as he scratched the dog’s ears and chin.

  “He’s never done that before,” Willow said. “He never approaches anyone until I give the okay. This is Shadow. He’s been with me about three years. He’s one of Louie’s security ideas.”

  “Is the gate over the door Louie’s idea, too?”

  “Yes, actually, it was. Shadow is my intimidator. At least when he remembers not to wag his tail.” She patted the dog fondly, easily done without bending over.

  Noah stood up. “Aw, I’ve been around dogs all my life. I bet he senses it somehow. They’re smart you know. For most intruders, he’d do the trick. He’s the biggest Lab I’ve ever seen. He must weigh more than you do.”

  Shut up, Noah! Your ears are turning red! r />
  “Uh, I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I shouldn’t have said that, that was kind of personal.”

  Slowly, Willow’s features relaxed into a small smile. He hoped she was being friendly and wasn’t just amused at what an ass he was. “That’s okay,” she said. “And you’re right, he does weigh more.” She pulled the door closed, swung the gate shut and locked it with a key. “Let’s go,” she added.

  “Uh, where?”

  “To take your pictures or photos or whatever they are.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now. If you want to photograph my pond, I’ll be with you. Right now is a good time for me. Let’s go.”

  This princess didn’t appreciate having her commands questioned.

  “Okay,” Noah said, “but I usually like to make two passes at a subject, the first with a small camera and then later I return with the big equipment.”

  Storm clouds formed in Willow’s eyes, complete with lightning. “Usually you’re not on my property, so this time you’ll do it once.”

  Little snot.

  “Sure,” he said tersely. “I’ll run to my truck for the rest of the gear.” He turned toward the path.

  “Wait,” Willow said. She regarded him for a moment. “I’m sorry. I’m being impolite. I’m just … people seldom show up at my door unexpectedly, so you startled me. Usually I know—” She stopped and her features colored. “You seem like a good person, and for Louie’s sake I shouldn’t be rude.” She walked past Noah, talking as she went. “Come on, Shadow. Follow me, Mister Phelps, I’ll help you get your … gear. I presume you reached the tree across the lane?”

  “Yes. And you can call me Noah.” For someone with such short legs, she walked at a blistering pace. Shadow bounded around them and took up point position in front of Willow.