Scene From An Oak

painting: The Acorn Fairy by Cicely Mary Barker

"Ouch!" Mayflower said, rubbing her head, her long brown curls springing around her shoulder as something hard hit her and continued down to the forest floor below with a thump. She straightened her crown of mayflowers, the soft petals brushing her fingertips, and looked up into the branches of the thousand-old oak tree she called home, its leaves forming a dark canopy that filtered the morning sunlight. A red squirrel chattered down to her as another acorn clattered past Mayflower, pinging off the bark. 

"Sorry!" the squirrel called in its high-pitched voice and scampered down the rough bark to see if the little fairy was okay. May hovered above her branch, the earthy smell of her cooking mushrooms for breakfast wafting out from the hole in the tree where she lived.

"Sally," May scolded, landing lightly on the branch the squirrel stood on, its texture gnarled under her tiny feet, "you've got to be more careful storing your food."

"I know, May," Sally said, clasping her little paws together, her glassy eyes watching May carefully. "I'm in such a hurry that I got carried away. I'll be more careful."

Mayflower, the guardian of the oak, smoothed her frilly lavender-colored skirt, the fabric rustling softly, and squared her tiny shoulders. The lilac shirt she wore shimmered in a ray of morning light, and the mayflowers on her head quivered as she held back a little laugh, the blossoms bobbing. 

"Winter is getting closer, so I know you are hurrying, but you could have hurt someone. Please do be more careful." As firm a scolding as any of the woodland creatures ever got from May, Sally squeaked another sorry and hurried down the tree to collect her fallen acorns, her claws scrabbling on the bark.

"Everything okay, May?" a little voice called from a neighboring branch. Petunia, another fairy who lived in a nearby maple tree, stretched lazily and yawned, her delicate wings fluttering. She looked down at May, sniffed the air, and flew down to the branch, her wings buzzing. "What are you cooking?" Petunia peered curiously inside, her hand on the edge of May's door, the wood smooth beneath her palm. Her wings, see-through like a dragonfly's, fluttered rapidly in the air with a low hum.

"Mushrooms. Want some?" Mayflower motioned for Petunia to follow her inside and passed her on her way into her home. A stove made out of an old soda can had a tiny fire crackling, the aluminum glinting in the dim light, the mushrooms sizzling as they cooked on top. Next to the mushrooms, a small glass bowl held water that was starting to steam for a pot of chamomile tea, the scent of flowers perfuming the air.

"Oh, May, those mushrooms smell delicious. I'll be right back." Petunia flew out the door, her wings whirring, and over to her tree. Within minutes, she was back with a few sprigs of thyme, the pungent herbal scent wafting from the crushed leaves. She handed them to Mayflower, who added them to the mushrooms sizzling in the pan, releasing more earthy aromas. 

The two friends sat on toadstools growing in Mayflower's home, the spongy texture conforming under them. They heard the scratching of Sally's claws up the tree as she hurried by, her cheeks puffy with acorns.

"What was wrong with Sally?" Petunia asked. She reached up and pulled on a tuft of her short black hair, twirling the silky strands around her finger, her large eyes mesmerized. 

"Oh, she dropped an acorn on my head," May rubbed the tender spot, still sore. 

Petunia giggled, a tinkling sound like chimes. "And you gave her a scolding?" She stopped playing with her hair and stood to examine herself in the tiny mirror hanging next to May's door, the glass throwing back a perfect reflection. She stuck her tongue out at herself and leaned out the door, looking up at all the noise Sally was making, leaves rustling, acorns clacking. 

"I did. She needs to be more careful," Mayflower said, pulling the hot mushrooms and thyme off the stove, wafts of flavorful steam rising up. "Come back in, Petunia, and eat before we go about our day."

Petunia turned and came back inside, sitting at the little wooden table with two chairs made of twigs that creaked slightly under her weight. Mayflower set two plates, teacups with saucers, and silverware on the green tablecloth woven from soft reeds. She poured the steaming chamomile tea, fragrant tendrils rising, and served the mushrooms and thyme, their earthy aroma filling the cozy space. The sunlight streamed through the leafy branches outside as more birds awoke, their song filling the tree. Soon, the occupants of the oak would be awake, preparing for another day. 

The two fairies talked in hushed voices about their duties for the day as they ate. Mayflower had to visit the bottom of the oak to make sure it was healthy and strong. She'd talk to Willa, the worm who gave her monthly reports on the soil and roots. She imagined Willa burrowing through the loose earth down below, churning up the scent of damp soil.  

Petunia and Juniper, another fairy with yellow hair and a crown of goldenrods, would fly through the tree to check on the health of the leaves, their gossamer wings humming. They'd look for dead or diseased branches, poking into crooks and crannies and asking neighbors how the tree was doing.

"Remind everyone to meet me at the Glade to give their reports," Mayflower said as Petunia stood, her chair scraping back. She sipped the last of her tea, allowing the warmth to seep through her. She picked up her own crown of lavender, the purple blossoms releasing their sweet perfume as she settled them on her head.

"You know Alder always forgets, so I'll make sure he's up and checks on the birds." Petunia's voice faded as she flitted outside. "We'll need a report of who still hasn't left for winter and who is coming back in spring." 

"Thanks, Petunia," Mayflower called after her friend. She gathered her bag of soft leaves and plucked a small roll of bark and a piece of lead to write her and the others' reports. The bark was etched with rows of tiny letters, a record of their duties. Later in the week, she would be meeting with the tree dryad, who would then report to the warlock who tended this part of the forest. And she wanted to make sure she had everything ready.

She closed her creaking door, turned the tiny brass key in the lock with a metallic click, and took flight to the bottom, where Willa was probably already waiting, ready to share her subterranean secrets.

Sep. 30, 2023