Fairy Forest

Rapeseed flowers stain Emma’s pale clothes as she sprints towards Fairy Forest. Holding my hand, she drags me with her. She’s sticky and smells of peanut butter from breakfast.

She lets go, trailing in front of me. I lose sight of her then spot her gingerbread braids through the abundance of yellow. In front of us, Fairy Forest invites us in, though I can’t see magic the way Emma can. A circle of trees, which sits in the centre of rapeseed like lava surrounding a castle, conceal Fairy Forest from Unworthies like me.

Dodging buzzing bees, I continue forward, brushing through flowers that scratch my cheeks. Ahead, Emma’s mermaid hair bobs in the sea of flowers with stems taller than she is. Her frail frame blends in with the thinness of each sprout. Since fairies only reveal themselves to Dreamers, Emma wants to savour her last experience with them, since tomorrow, she’ll be Unworthy. I remember the disappointment of returning to the forest for the first time Unworthy. No more stolen glimpses of dragonfly wings, extending from fairies’ backs.

My grandmother was the first Dreamer, and she took my mother here until she was thirteen; my mother took me until I too became too old for this place. My first journey to the forest was the most vivid: bluebells sang as I tiptoed around their petals, keeping the fairies safe from human touch. Like butterflies, if you touch a fairy’s wings, they’ll lose their flying abilities. I remember my mother perched on a log with pride in her eyes – they sparkled in the sun – while I stroked fungi that poked out of bark. I understood why fairies would sit there since the mushroom’s smooth heads resembled my grandmother Millie’s couch; however, by my last visit, I barely saw the glimmers of fairies fluttering, faintly hearing their wings over crunching leaves.

My mother said, “As long as we continue to believe the fairies are there, then they’ll be safe, even when you can’t see them anymore.”

But no matter how hard I tried, I struggled to believe in something that I couldn’t see.

**

When I approach the rapeseed’s end, I witness Emma standing before the entrance tree that has carved designs in its wood, resembling fairy wings — so frail, extending long, swirling, transparent. Fairies flicker so rapidly that I used to mistake them with a flurry or fuzz in my eye. By blinking, I would always just miss them. My mother once said, “these carvings are the closest depictions of fairy still-lifes to exist.” But she doesn't know how they got here, just that my grandmother discovered them.

“Are you ready?” I ask, scanning for thieves, who might steal this experience from Emma. Even though my mother told me that we’re the only ones who know of Fairy Forest, I’m still unsure whether that was something she told me to keep the magic alive.

“Yes!” Emma says, fidgeting to see beyond the trunk.

“Remember to be careful where you step. You don’t want to crush a fairy’s home. They live inside the bluebell petals.”

“This isn’t my first time here.”

“It’s a mum’s job to worry.” I kiss the top of her gingersnap head; it’s silky against my chapped lips. Lavender lingers as I pull away.

“Mum?” Emma asks, corkscrewing her shoulders away from me. “Have you ever seen one?”

“A fairy?”

Emma nods with eyes gleaming in her freckled face.

“You have to believe. Your job as a Dreamer is to see fairies and keep them safe. As long as you believe, you may notice what they’ve left behind, and from that you can find out who they are and keep them alive.”

“What do they leave behind?”

“Just believe and see.” I tap her buttoned nose.

Trees whistle as a breeze combs through their leaves. There’s a faint trickling from the brook inside the forest.

“Is it ready?” Emma asks, brushing off her shirt. She insisted on wearing white because the rapeseed pollen resembles fairy dust.

“It’s ready,” I say.

Emma prances around the forest’s thickest tree. Shadows dance like a disco ball, glittering sunlight into misty surroundings and sparkling mysteries luminously. A loose strand of Emma’s hair falls, catching in her lashes; she blows it away.

“Watch out for the bluebells,” I say, watching her run towards the myriad flowers blanketing blue across the forest floor.

Emma sprints to a stump, which sits in the centre of bluebells and is surrounded by a circle of grass. I watch her crouch next to the stump that has rings of age. Her nose grazes the soil, searching for anything that the fairies have left behind. Her nose twitches, itching pollen away.

When Emma was younger, she would search for fairies the entire time that we spent in the forest, but as she got older, her search got shorter. After searching, she often found herself constructing forts out of fallen twigs. I can still see remnants of her first creation, collapsed next to a tree with forked branches. She’d sit under the teepeed centre, bunkering in the leaves.

I find a fallen tree to sit on; the bark has flaked off, revealing a splintered, bald surface. While Emma digs in the soil around the stump, I inhale the forest’s woody aroma, exhaling a newfound relaxation, spreading a wet warmth throughout my body.

“Mum,” Emma says, tiptoeing around the bluebells. Her eyebrows are knitted into two gingery arches.

“Yes?” I pat my lap, inviting her to find the spot she claimed when she was born.

“I found something.” Her hands are hidden behind her as she speaks to the earth.

“Show me.”

Emma guiltily unwinds her hands from behind her back. Her thin fingers ripple as they uncurl from a little black book. “It’s from the fairies. Can I keep it?”

“Of course,” I say with furrowed brows. “Would you like me to hold it?”

“Yes, please,” Emma says, smiling.

“I’ll place it in my pocket for safe keeping.”

She giggles and runs toward her fort.

I untie a string that holds the notebook together, protecting what’s inside. Darker blotches stain the leather from rain or snow; it’s gritty and wrinkly against my fingers. Inside, the yellowed paper emits a similar odor to rare book libraries that are old enough to carry Shakespeare’s first-edition plays. Careful not to tear the aged paper, a look I’ve attempted to replicate in school projects with tea bags blotted against the page, I strum the brittle edges. The book’s rhythm hesitates at two pages guarding a thin slip of paper. I peel them open…and halt.

A cream card with script writing sticks in the notebook. On top, the words Bank of England are between an emblem and serial number 000006. Underneath are the words, I promise to pay the Bearer on Denmark the Sum of One Million Pounds. My heart beats faster in my chest. My body trembles, and I have to grip the book tighter, so as not to drop and destroy the prize in my hands. One million dollars is in my hands.

I delicately lift the thin note, careful not to smudge the decades old ink. In school, we learnt that in 1948, all Giant notes but 000007 and 000008 were destroyed, cancelled. But here I am, perched on a log, cradling another one. I heard one was auctioned off for a large sum of money. Suddenly, I notice writing on the notebook page:

For those who are deemed the Dreamers. I leave it here for you to find amongst the fairies.

All the best,

Millie

It’s my grandmother's handwriting and name. Before she died, she must’ve left it here for my mother, Emma or me to find. I gently tuck the notebook into my coat pocket for safekeeping.

Butterflies flutter around, and I remember what my mother said about butterflies in Fairy Forest. “When a butterfly is near, a fairy is close behind.”

**

Sunset’s orangey glow dances like flames on bluebells, setting a purple glaze across the earth.

“The fairies need to get some sleep,” I say.

“Five more minutes?” Emma asks, whining.

“If the moments that you’ve enjoyed lasted forever, then they wouldn’t become memories,” I say, stroking the top of her head like I did when her crown fit in my palm. I thread her arms through her coat before she stumbles out of the forest, into the rapeseed field and all the way home.

**

“Daddy!” Emma says, running into him. “Mum?” She turns to me. “Can I have my notebook…to show Daddy?”

“Sure!” I say, thinking I’ll remove the banknote first. Searching for the book, I loop my hands into my pockets. My mouth dries as I twist my fingers against my shorts, but there’s nothing there; it’s just linen and old biscuit crumbs.

Emma stares, watching expectantly with her palm open. The same fingers I held crossing the road everyday after school, the same hand that was once so small that it could barely fit around my thumb. And now, that same hand waits for me to return her last Dreamer memento. Her education’s future. And I’ve lost it.

“It’s gone,” I say with my head to the earth searching for the notebook, which most likely disappeared ages ago. “I’m so sorry. It must’ve fallen out.” My voice is hoarse with incoming tears. I flip my pockets inside out and watch as the crumbs float like fairy dust.

“My notebook?” Emma asks. Her face pinkens and screws up like it did when she was a baby. “I hate you.” She sprints through our front garden and into our house. I hate myself.

I crouch on all fours, searching for the notebook…the money...a childhood and future for my daughter...and innocence for me.

**

The alarm rings at 7am to wake Emma up for school. I hear it and shuffle into her room, watching as she rolls over to snooze the chimes. I lean against her door jamb.

“Emma, wakey wakey,” I say. “Happy Birthday.”

Emma groans. “What’s so happy about it?”

The scent of freshly-baked chocolate cake wafts upstairs. I hope the fragrance lingers throughout the day. I can almost taste the velvety dark-chocolate icing.

“I made your favourite breakfast,” I say, using cake to replace her lost book.

“Fine,” Emma says. Annoyed, she presses her heavy body away from the mattress.

“I’ll make your bed,” I say.

She nods and heads to her ornately carved wardrobe. “Thanks, Mum. I forgive you for losing my notebook. It’s just a notebook…it’s not important.”

I don’t forgive myself. Something inside me wrenches. She’s grown up and officially Unworthy.

Emma dresses into her school uniform – a blue plaid dress with a white collar – and she scurries to the kitchen, leaving me alone in her room.

I open her curtains, allowing daylight to pool in. Outside, I notice butterflies kissing her window pane. I smile and shake the duvet so the inside can realign with the fabric’s corners. Parachuting it up-and-down, I finally lay it to rest on her sheets, tucking them between the frame and mattress. I press down on her pillow, fluffing it so it’s light for her weary head tonight. But there’s something underneath her pillow that isn’t usually there. I think it might be a sock or one of Emma’s books. I slide one arm underneath it – something creased brushes against my fingertips. I send my grip to her pillow. Slowly, I lift it, revealing the objects to myself. I can barely believe my eyes. Startled, I lower the pillow back down.

I crawl onto her bed and face her pillow. Again, I pinch the cotton, hoisting it from her mattress, then I toss it to the ground to be engulfed by dirty clothes. Lying on Emma’s sheets, beneath where her pillow just was, is Emma’s notebook – with the money inside – and a single bluebell.