Fairy Stories & Other Tales

Once, a tree in an enchanted forest decided to die. The wise old witch who tended the forest did not think it wise for the tree to die, but she recognized it's pain. And so, she fed the tree a mixture of light and wonder, as a kindness. A steady diet for anyone, but the tree was far along its path and there was no course to change. On that, the tree would fade gently, fade away until it was nothing more than everything else around it.      But. Instead, the tree began to grow.      Up, up, up toward the light. And out as far as it could spread it's leaves. It wanted more light, more wonder, more kindness.      And to be kind. To offer it's branches as shelter, allow burrowers into its trunk, dig deep and wide to feed the forest itself.      The witch was not surprised. She had seen too many miracles to marvel. But she smiled often.      And so, the tree grew and grew until it was nothing more than everything else...

 When the universe decided that light would be its medium, it forgot about the darkness.       So the darkness began to tell itself stories. To keep itself company.       The stories wove patterns, varying the darkness.       The universe sat up and took notice, then did what it was inclined to do. It changed.      And wrapped the varied darkness into itself.      So that it wouldn't be alone.        

 Once, a woman traveled. She had a pocket full of magic dust, for safe keeping until the time came when she would need it. All the same, when she saw a need, she sprinkled a minute portion.    The lands through which she moved were varied. In the countryside, there was little need for magic dust - the seasons' needs offered no time to think of it. And in the villages, there was not much more need of the dust - people were either happy with the company they kept or happy to discuss the alternative at length, which kept everyone busy.     The people in the cities took the dust. But it did little good. People there had too much money, and not enough. Regardless the side on which one fell, more was always wanted. The dust, the woman knew, was largely wasted.     After she had seen quite a lot, the woman sprinkled all the remaining dust over a large city. Perhaps - though it was a small perhaps - it would do some good. No matter. As the dust was gone, ...

 The sorcerer was bitter, and with good reason, having lost his wife and child. The culprit had been time, not fate, which seems to suffer from whims and prophesies and a peculiar sense of duty. Time simply carries on, tearing down along its way, strangely making everything more beautiful.      It will come as no surprise that the sorcerer cast blame where it could not possibly be affixed. Witches have a way of getting into the middle of this sort of blame. It's not a talent; more of an occupational hazard. This witch had been the one to tend the boy and his mother.     There would have been a spell. A complicated, carefully crafted one, designed to torment its victim until the end of her days. And yet, the witch did not hide in that way some do - the ones that have a tendency to fail escaping the notice of those with a tendency to tyrannous practices. She stepped into the forefront of his grief, for no other reason than that he might not be alone.   ...