Laura Rodley, a Pushcart Prize winner, has been nominated for the prize seven times and has also received five Best of the Net nominations. Her recent works include Turn Left at Normal (published by Big Table Publishing Company), Counter Point (published by Prolific Press), and Ribbons and Moths: Poems for Children (published by Kelsay Books). With a talent for capturing the essence of life, Rodley’s writing resonates with readers of all ages. Whether exploring the natural world or delving into human emotions, her words evoke a sense of wonder and connection. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PClY8G6HQwk

Inheritance

By Laura Rodley

Angus reached over, stroked the long dark hair of his son Finn as he knelt by his bed, praying.

“Da, thought you were away with the fairies, for good, this time.”

“Soon enough, soon enough, son,” Angus smoothed the variegated counterpane covering his bed.

“I’ve been so worried I won’t be able to carry on the farm like you. Every time you went on holiday pumpkins flumped down in the middle, apples fell off trees before they ripened, watermelons exploded when I picked them up, blueberries tasted sour. I couldn’t do anything right. Can you tell your secret now? How you do it?”

The lace curtain flapped as sea wind wafted in. “There’s people pedaling in the basement on bicycles shooting electrical power to the garden that causes the growth spurts, nothing to do with skill.”

“You told me that when I was a wee tyke—remember, I checked,–all that’s in the cellar is giant apples, potatoes, leftover walnuts size of watermelons. You can’t fool me.”

“It’s the water, son, from the garden spring. It grows everything twice its size—I’m living- proof; so are you, six-foot-five, both of us.”

“That’s our Scottish heritage, anytime I watered the garden, the garden wilted. When you were in hospital, this last time, fruit shriveled to normal-size, people kept asking for the giant-size apples,  pumpkins size of Volvos. What am I going to do?”

“Have you sung to the trees, my son, sung the songs I telt ya to sing?”

“Yes, Da, and felt silly. Mrs. McManus laughed at me, crept up quiet as a goat.”

“Don’t know what to say. I’ve told you all I can.”

“Mrs. McManus remembers well a time that only normal-size, even undersized vegetables grew here, when she was young. Then something happened, and voom, people started coming from all over to buy from you. She was right jealous. Lucky you don’t sell livestock or we wouldn’t have enough feed to feed them, giant goats and all.”

Angus looked out the window, remembering searching in the woods for the bee tree, hearing the buzzing. He hadn’t meant to chop it down—he tripped and fell, his ax swiping the damaged trunk and the bees came buzzing out. Only they weren’t bees. They were fairies with wings like damselflies, iridescent blue and green, buzzing around his head. He covered his eyes as they flew close, unable to run. He thought their buzzing meant they were mad; he’d heard enough tales about enchanted fairies turning men into hairy creatures that roamed the hills, forever lost.

Instead, “Thank you, kind sir, we were stuck in that tree until a kind soul released us; that’s you. We owe you our lives.” The fairy cloud swarmed around all six-foot-five of him. “Are you a farmer, crofter, fisherman? We are now forever tied to you, until death do us part. Take us; we can help you grow your vegetables to the size of king’s treasures, help you fish till your nets grow holes from the weight.”

“No need, no need indeed,” Angus fluffed them away. “I have what I need, a pretty wife, a bonny son. I have no need of anything else.”

“But you were searching for honey.”

“I was.”

“We will ensure all your fruit is sweet as honey, your vegetables sweet. Take us with you in good faith. In fact, you have no choice. A spell was placed upon us. We have been stuck in that hollow tree for three hundred years until you released us. But you must pay a price.”

Here it comes, thought Angus, there’s always a price.

“No, Angus, it will cost you nothing, but your silence. You cannot tell a soul about us. Not your wife, not your son. Our generosity only extends to you.”

“What if something happens to me? Can’t you help my family then?”

“Already greedy, Angus?” The fairies danced around him, uncountable, two dozen at least, maybe three dozen, wings iridescent, reflecting the late afternoon sun.

“When you pass, Angus, then we no longer owe you anything; we are free, finally. Do not tell anyone about us, promise?”

Someone shook Angus’s hand gently. “Da, you away with the fairies again?”

The fairies danced on the counterpane, on wooden spindles on his bed, held tiny fingers to their lips, “Shush.”

“Just dreaming. You don’t have to worry about the farm, son. If you can’t grow vegetables large as I do, there’s no harm done, is there?”

“Really, Da? What if I didn’t continue your farm at all—I’m no good at it, the vegetables don’t like me; I’ve been keeping quiet about it but my wife Jenny wants to live in the city. I’ve stayed here to be with you.”

“Then it works out, doesn’t it. You don’t have to keep farming for me. In fact, I’d be fine if you didn’t. There is no secret I can show you. You’re free to leave, son. Just, not quite yet.  Wait till I go, could you? Won’t be long now, doctors say.”

“Of course, Da. I wouldn’t dream of leaving you here alone.”