Discomfort with solitary, calm, and quiet reflection keeps far too many of God’s creatures from the merest and profoundest blessings this good world offers to its harried inhabitants.
The ferry carried George across the narrow bay with only one other passenger, both headed to a small island. George was purposefully seeking the isolation. His fellow passenger was just heading to work. When the ferry drifted into the small dock across the water, George witnessed the changing of the guard, the old man taking his place in the small greyish shack as the rotund man he was replacing waddled onto the ferry to return to the mainland.
Some faded paint of the shack curled off and flaked from its warped wooden panels, little protection from the elements, but a welcome reprieve for the guards from the blustery winter that abused this New England coast. Salt and water and winds work slowly against anything man-made in these parts, a testament to the fleeting idea that man might affect his own permanence. The world is happy to very methodically remove all signs of humanity from the earth, even while he still toils to immortalize his influence. Individuals pass, as do societies and all of their markers. Time and nature march ever on, so outside of any human control.
The disappearing synthetic-sky-blue of the guard house paint, mottled with dirt and mists of salt, contrasted beautifully with the lush greens and dark blues of the pine, fir, and spruce trees backdropping the scene. The island was small enough to see the gentle curve of sand and rock. The drab beach hemmed in the verdant life of this pock of forest in the middle of the cold, grey bay. George, with one measured step after another, worked his way to the opposite side of the beach, removing himself from the last vestiges of man, seeking the pure loneliness of the natural world. He passed a derelict picnic area a quarter of the way back, and could now settle down on the rocky sand with his head on a well-placed stone, a rich replacement for the pillow George would never have considering carrying with him from his cramped, wood-paneled bungalow.
Though this was an unseasonably warm day in the middle of January, George supposed correctly that even the bravest families and pairs of friends who liked to frequent this island in the summer would never even think of coming after the first of December. People so readily choose known comfort over adventurous relaxation. George never minded seeking out original ways to unwind, so here he found himself, entirely alone. His breathing slowed, adding nothing to the gentle breeze, as he drifted off with the quiet rhythms of the insignificant lapping waves, hardly more than whispers against the pebbles on the waterline.
—
George woke with the peacefulness that burns off like a mist in early morning, that which disappears slowly, unnoticeably after a pleasant dream. The last words of an otherworldly sprite rang in his waking ears, the dream lingering without regard for the dull grey light of an overcast noon sun on the other side of George’s eyelids. He did not try to hold back the restful smile that ushered him back into his day-off on the beach.
He heard the elvish words again, dreamlike but with an immediacy that betrayed consciousness.
“Isn’t it nice to get away for a bit?”
George turned to his right, where he was sure the sound came from, squinting his eyes open against the muted brightness of the sky, alarmed and expecting an overly friendly weirdo who had taken the early morning ferry, staying on the island for the afternoon. Quickly, he saw no such form, so he rolled with the same urgent surprise to his left to find that friendly weirdo (who could apparently also throw her voice). Again, nothing, and he spun round in one fluid motion, coming to his knees and opening his vision to all 360 degrees in a split second.
“Easy, friend. You’re liable to hurt yourself or something much more delicate.”
Now awake and aware, George placed the voice on the pebbles near his knee, and turned his gaze downward to find what looked like a spring flower wrapped in dead winter leaves. He blinked, rubbed out the remaining sleep that weighted the corner of his eyes, and looked more closely.
The flower stared intently into George’s face and sat up, shedding its withered cloak. It was alive. And George realized it was no flower, but some tiny creature with a voice too big to come out of its little mouth. He rubbed his eyes clear again, for good measure, for a bit sanity.
“Sit down, please. You’re making me feel buggy.”
George eased himself off of his knees and sat cross-legged facing his granite pillow and the fairy who was likewise sitting cross-legged and looking at him.
“Um, hello,” was all that George could muster. He supposed that the fairy understood that he was the one who was owed an explanation, though she certainly did not feel rushed to give one. She took deep breaths (as deeply as such a small thing could possibly do), smiling with her eyes as she considered the confused and furrowed brow that looked down upon her.
After many seconds, maybe half a minute, she responded with a, “Hello.”
The two continued in silence, the awkwardness entirely one-sided, until George finally tripped over something to say.
“Um, are you a fairy?”
“Yes, of course. What else could I be? Use your head, man.”
George was taken aback, making it harder to respond, almost impossible, as he had no words at the ready for such a situation. Was this creature, no larger than a cricket, giving him sass?
“Oh, I thought so. Of course, you’re right; what else could you be? Though you’re the only fairy I’ve ever met. I just wanted to be sure.”
“I would have thought you’d be pretty sure of such an obvious thing. But never mind. Would you like to lay back down? You looked very comfortable drowsing there. I’m sorry to have interrupted such sweet repose.”
George found it easier to save a verbal response until he had a chance to collect himself and approach this moment with a little composure. He spun round and lay down again, keeping his head turned to the side, watching the little creature. She was much closer now and upright in his horizontal gaze. George tried to take in as much as he could.
Apparently so did his spritely guest, for she seemed entirely at ease lying and watching George, letting each detail of his face, of his behavior, tell its own story. She simply laid there and watched, comfortably ignoring the silence. Again, George’s curiosity kept him from maintaining the lull for too long.
“What are you doing here?”
“You want to begin a conversation without knowing my name? Very odd.”
George felt a blush as he once again tried to compose himself, calibrating his approach and expectations to his ever-changing perception of the interaction he was having.
“I’m terribly sorry. Forgive my rudeness. What is your name, please?”
“Wiggle, thank you for asking. And yours?”
“George.” A pause. “I’m sorry, Wiggle, but I don’t understand what you are doing here, why I woke up to your voice. Why are you here?”
“Oh, I’m on a vacation. Just taking a day or so off. I thought it would be nice to come over to the island for a little rest on the beach. It’s not quite so comfortable as my elvish kin might like, but I prefer to get some time to myself. Where better than here?”
“I entirely agree,” responded George. “In fact, I’m here for the same reason. It’s nice to get away from my everyday life once in a while. Even just a few miles up the shore, this island makes me forget all of those worries.”
“Precisely. Gotta get away sometimes.”
George was encouraged by this brief back-and-forth, and felt forward enough to continue asking his questions.
“How did you get on the island? Fairies don’t swim, do they?”
“Oh, there are plenty of ways to get on an island without swimming. Little bark boats. Riding the back of a sparrow. Any number of ways would be just fine.”
George waited a moment considering Wiggle’s answer, which of course was not really an answer.
“I thought fairies were social creatures. Swarming around with loads of energy at fairy-balls and playing tricks on us humans and our dogs and cats. I thought fairies never really changed their M.O. You like being here alone?”
“I’m not here alone,” observed Wiggle. “I’m here having a conversation with a human, who seems to think I’m playing a trick on him for some reason.”
“But you didn’t know that there would be anyone here to tease, as you fairies are rumored to do. Except the guard, I suppose. Is that why you came? To be able to exercise your trickery in private? To practice without your brothers and sisters watching and judging?”
“Practice? I’m a fairy. We don’t practice. We just do. It’s more fun when you are doing than when you are trying to do.”
“Ok,” said George, “but that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here. Why didn’t you bring all your fairy friends? You like them, don’t you?”
Wiggle exhaled the quickest sigh ever sighed and said, “Of course I do. If I didn’t, I don’t think I’d be a fairy at all. Probably some sort of goblin, I suppose. They prefer solitude, if the stories are true.”
“Ok. The question still stands. Why are you here alone?” George realized he asked the wrong question for a second time and quickly corrected himself. “I mean, why did you come here alone?”
“For the same reason you did. Sometimes it’s nice to get away from the daily stuff.”
“Mmhmm.” George was prompting her on.
“You probably know that us fairies prefer spring and summer, but you probably don’t know why. We like the budding life. We like the warm nights. We like being together in some dell or glade, dancing over the grass and through the trees. We like being together then.”
The fairy paused for only a second before continuing.
“But being together tucked up in the hollow of a tree, bracing against the uncomfortable cold, that’s less fun. Most elvish things can put up with it for the winter months, but I don’t know. I just like to get away. Get it?”
She did not need to explain that to George. Again, they had come to the island for the same reason, making the most of a little unseasonal warmth before retreating back inside until March came to an end.
“Yeah, I get it.”
This time, when Wiggle did not respond immediately, letting the conversation trail off, George was content to let the silence linger between them. They both watched the water and the far shore and the faintly shifting greys of the sky above. The mood was relaxed, as if George lay beside a lifelong friend or an aged spouse. No words were necessary. The man and the fairy communicated more than enough by simply being near.
Eventually, George’s breathing deepened again, keeping time with the lazy and inexorable rhythm of a warm winter afternoon. Before he slipped back into his subdued dreams, or perhaps after, he heard a few last words. Wiggle was probably just talking to herself.
“Still, we hardly pass up a chance to play some tricks. The bitterest chill and harshest wind won’t change that.”
—
George woke as the early winter dusk was falling. He shivered and pulled his coat tight, rising to return for the 5 o’clock ferry, the last of the day. Of course, Wiggle was nowhere to be seen. Fairies, if they are not merely the imaginative fancies of men and women and especially children, like humans to believe that they are. All the better to frighten them with some silly hoax.
When he was nearly back to the tiny dock and the tired old guard house, George looked up to where the first trees invaded the beach. He saw among the darkened trunks a shadow like a large dog keeping pace with him. The eerie thing stopped, and one shining eye became two as it turned to gaze at him full on.
George smiled a sly smile and looked down at his feet dragging lazily along the stony shore. He shook his head and wondered if Wiggle knew that he knew there was no big game on this island. No wolves. Fairy mischief is best executed on the mainland, where one’s imagination has the whole wide world to contend with.
He had come to the island for peace and relaxation, and one feeble elven attempt at spooking him could not take that away. George smiled again, thinking that Wiggle might be alright with failure tonight, just this one time. They were on vacation, after all.