Laura Schlitz - The Night Fairy

“And all the cherries?”

Flory looked over her little stock of food. She had had to lug the sunflower seeds up the tree two by two. The cherries had been even heavier, and it was hard work to pit them. She sighed. “All right. But tomorrow, not today.”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“First thing,” Flory promised. “Now, get your dirty little mitts out of my house. I’m coming out.”

She climbed through the doorway. Skuggle was just outside the house. He nibbled the grass quilt. “Dry,” he said sadly, and took another little nip.

“One more bite and I’m going to sting you,” warned Flory. “Let me onto your back.”

He turned his tail to her. She climbed on and let him flip her to the space behind his ear.

“Where to?”

Flory hesitated. She wanted Skuggle’s help, but she didn’t want him to get close to the hummingbird’s eggs. “The fishpond,” she said, after thinking it over. “Hurry!”

The squirrel leaped to the ground. With dizzying speed he arrived at the edge of the fishpond. Flory gazed into the glassy water. She saw the goldfish gliding below.

“I hear they’re good to eat,” remarked Skuggle, “but I’ve never been able to catch any. Raccoon catches them.”

Flory felt a pang of fear as she thought of Raccoon. She recalled the thing that no animal and no fairy should ever forget: the world is full of predators. She glanced up at the sky. The blue was dimmer, and the air was growing cool. Soon the bats would come out to hunt. “You can go now,” she told Skuggle, but he squatted down next to her, his eyes fixed on the goldfish.

“We might be able to catch ’em if we worked as a team,” he said hopefully. “We’re a good team, aren’t we, Flory? Remember how you used your knife to get the suet out of the grease box? And how I ate it? That was teamwork, wasn’t it?”

Flory wanted to scream. She didn’t want to sting Skuggle — she didn’t even want to hurt his feelings — but she wanted him to go away. She could see the barberry bush from where she stood. It was going to be a hard climb, and every minute the eggs were getting colder. She dared not begin until Skuggle left. He could whisk up the fence post and gobble the eggs before she climbed to the first branch. She closed her eyes, trying to think of something that would distract him.

The door of the brick house opened. The giantess came out with a jar of seeds. “Look, Skuggle!” Flory cried. “The giantess is going to fill up the seed tube! Hurry up, so you can be the first one there!”

Skuggle bounded to his feet and scampered to the top of the fence. Flory blessed the giantess as she lumbered down the porch steps. Once the seed tube was full, Skuggle would be busy. Then a frightful thought crept into her mind: what if the giantess stopped by the fishpond?

Heavy footsteps shook the ground. Flory crouched down, making herself smaller. The shadow of the giantess passed over her. But the giantess didn’t see her. She sauntered past the fishpond, up the stairs, and into the great house.

Once the door closed, Flory breathed a sigh of relief. “Now for the barberry bush,” she said, and sprang to her feet.

The climb took all her skill. The barberry bush was leathery and tough, with purple leaves and cruel thorns. One of the thorns raked Flory’s forearm, leaving a long, painful scratch. Flory stopped to lick the blood away. Then she looked up.

Her heart stood still. A praying mantis squatted in the barberry bush. He was less than four inches from the nest. As Flory gaped at him, his antennae twitched. He turned his head as if he knew she was there. His head was triangular, with bulging green eyes on the sides.

Flory went cold. She knew how dangerous he was — how suddenly he could strike. She also knew what was in store if he caught her. His spiky forelegs would dig into her flesh. The mantis would lift her to his bristled mouth and bite through her neck. Then he would eat her body, saving her head for last.

She opened her mouth to say her stinging spell. Then she shut it. If she stung him, he would dart away from her — closer to the nest. She wondered whether he was climbing toward the eggs or away from them. She wished she could work her seeing spell and find out if the nest was empty or full, but she dared not close her eyes.

“Night fairy,” hissed the mantis, “where are your wings?”

The word wings gave Flory an idea. She backed up against a thorny branch. “My wings!” Her voice was high and panicky. “Help me! I’ve ripped my wings on the thorns! I can’t fly!”

It worked. The mantis turned his long body toward her. He was eager for easy prey. Flory wanted to flee; he was a dreadful thing, and her skin crawled as he came closer. But with every step he took, he was farther from the nest.

“Night fairy!” His voice was as soft as a lullaby. “Night fairy, will you be my prey?”

His huge green eyes seemed to be casting a spell over her. He swayed back and forth. In spite of herself, Flory began to sway with him.

All at once, he struck. His spiked legs sliced the air. Flory sprang to one side and shrieked her stinging spell. Never before had she stung so hard. The mantis’s body jerked.

“Go!” shouted Flory. “Go, or I’ll sting again!”

The mantis’s eyes were full of hatred. He lurched back as if to attack. Flory drew her dagger. Instead of leaping backward, she threw herself forward, under his forelegs. She slashed upward, missing his throat by a hair. The double attack — dagger and sting — was too much for the insect. He spread his wings and flew away.

Flory watched until he was out of sight. In spite of her victory, her heart was sick. She was afraid she had come too late — that the eggs had been eaten or grown too cold. Nevertheless, she sheathed her dagger and began the last part of the climb.

The nest above her was the size of a walnut shell. The hummingbird had woven it from dry cobwebs and covered the outside with lichen, so that it blended in with the old wooden fence. Flory caught hold of the edge with her hands, hooked one ankle over the rim, and slid down inside.

The eggs were still there. Two of them, as white as pearls. When Flory touched them, she knew at once that they were too cold. They ought to have been warmer. But the creatures inside were alive. She could feel them, curled tight inside the shells: one male, one female. As she spread her fingers over the shells, she felt a glow of triumph and something else, something strong and sweet and steady. She had saved the unborn birds from the praying mantis. Now she would save them from the cold.

She pressed her palms flat against the shells and began to sing. She sang a spell of comfort for small living things. As she sang, she thought of the warmest things she knew: strong sunlight on black stone, heat lightning on summer nights, the candles that the giantess burned on the patio table. The heat of her thoughts surged through her hands. She could feel the unhatched birds yearning for it.

By the time she finished singing, the two little eggs hummed with life. Flory pushed them together and tucked the grass quilt over them. “Now,” she said, “you must stay warm until your mother comes home.” She stooped down and kissed the quilt twice. “I’m going to bring her home soon,” she added, “but you’ll be warm through the night.”

She felt to make sure her dagger was still at her side. Then she wrapped both hands around the nearest barberry twig, kicked off from the nest, and swung herself down through the branches.

It was later than she thought. Night would come soon.