The faeries of Whispering Wood had a spectacular plan to save themselves from fading. Led by Sneezeweed, Daisy Fleabane and Mossy Stonecrop, they hoped the plan would succeed.
Faeries gather popular opinion as easily as bees gather nectar from flowers. The opinions of almost every faerie from Whispering Wood and other faerie realms had been gathered. Here is an extract from the Faerie News, written by Sneezeweed, that best explains the dilemma.
Faerie News:
We’re fading, and something must be done about it. In a hazelnut shell, humans have forgotten about us, or worse, they don’t believe we exist, and every time someone doubts us, a faerie fades away.
Your opinions on this dire matter have been gathered. There are those who think we should dabble with the thoughts of mortals and spellbind them into believing in us. In other words, they should be faeriefied. This measure is far too drastic. It’s against all the rules of faeries to enchant with undue consideration for the wishes of mortals by sprinkling them with faerie dust and telling them what to do. Only in the most bizarre and outrageous circumstances can mortals be faeriefied.
Others believe that we have no right to interfere with our natural fate. If we are destined to fade, maybe that’s what’s meant to be. Not a popular opinion, thankfully.
Almost everyone thinks that the plan put forward by me (Sneezeweed), Daisy Fleabane, Mossy Stonecrop and Thistle–Bee is our best option. Most of the other faeries of Whispering Wood agree with us. We hope to change our ways and help mortals to look at us in a different light, and once again believe in us.
Over the time of forever we have become dated, so the plan is to play the humans at their own game and become as modern as they are. The bluebell hat issue will, I promise, be dealt with.
The faeries of Whispering Wood have been unanimously authorised to forge ahead with this plan. If it works, other faerie realms will follow in our footsteps.
Modernisation will not be easy, but with a feisty attitude, uncommon sense, and a little bit of magic, I’m sure we’ll succeed. We’ll do it ourselves without any help from the witches, not that we have anything against witches, but we were here first, and as I’m always saying, witches create magic, but faeries ARE magic.’
And so it was decided to forge ahead with the spectacular plan…
WHISPERING WOOD
Deep within the heartland of the countryside was a strange and mysterious bluebell wood. Gnarled trees whispered on the breeze, and mortals who lived in the nearby town, on the far side of the coast, had named it Whispering Wood because they thought the leaves and branches whispered words that no one could ever fathom; little did they know it was the sound of the faeries filtering through the foliage. The faeries had lived there for longer than anyone could remember. They were mystical creatures with sparkling wings and bright character, and loved to dance by the glow of fireflies and starlight until dawn. In the bright light of day they created mayhem and mischief, and worked their magic, as faeries do.
Faerie meetings were held in the hub of the wood at the stone lilies — flowers so old they were fossilised into stone–like monuments. Meetings also took place when it was raining under the huge umbrella sedge, a bushy plant with spiky leaves that looked like a big green umbrella and grew beside the starwort stream. There were several streams winding through the woodland, past the silent mist, witch grass and tickle weeds, towards the coast and a sea so deeply blue and full of mystery. The sea held a special fascination for the faeries. When the weather was fair, they enjoyed a day out at the seashore, racing through the sea holly along the coastal sand and sailing across the frothy waves on magic seahorses.
Although they loved the seashore, the woodlands were their favourite. The trees, whose tangled roots were often shrouded in blue and purple mists, created a safe haven for the faeries, secluding them from mortal gaze, as no mortal was allowed to enter.
Few people had ever walked in this wood as it had a reputation for strangeness, especially in the darkle, the twilight time between day and evening, when unusual figures were said to glitter and sparkle and flit like lightning amongst the trees. No signs were needed to keep out trespassers, for this wood was spellbound, and any mortal with a passing thought to wander in the wood had this notion waved from their mind, and they would take another route to wherever they were heading.
No faerie in particular ruled, though a few were quite bossy. They existed together and whoever was best at whatever was needed happily did it. That’s just how it was. There were rules of course that the faeries abided by but even these were rather vague.
Vagueness and fantasy were part and parcel of faerie life, and they knew that one of their hardest tasks would be to learn everything they needed to know about modern mortals. Now, to be fair, they knew lots of things about mortals, it was just that sometimes years whizzed by without the faeries noticing the enormous progress made by people. It was sort of like gazing into the heart of a flower, getting lost in thoughts of wonderment, and then suddenly looking up and being surprised how much time had passed.
Then there was the memory thing. When you live as long as a faerie does, your memory off–loads excess knowledge that it thinks it doesn’t need. Even when faeries understand plenty about what’s going on in human life, it can so easily be forgotten again, wisped into nothing like bubbles on a breeze. Forgetfulness was a necessary safety valve. Some faeries in Whispering Wood were as old as…forever. That’s a lot of memory to store in a little faerie head.
Lists helped them remember things. They were good at making lists. Information was collected by various faeries. In fact, it was the Tooth Faerie who’d inadvertently come up with the awful statistic that people didn’t believe in them any more. She’d found it while miscalculating that only two and three ninths percent of children left a tooth under their pillows.
‘Approximately five billion, four hundred thousand, twenty–three and tix people don’t believe in us,’ she’d announced with a lisp, as some of her teeth were mithing. ‘If thith belief dwindles, you know what will happen — we’ll fade.’
This was true, and the faeries knew they had to fight for their survival in the modern world. It was time to reinvent themselves.
 
‘Take that stupid bluebell off your head,’ Sneezeweed shouted.
Thistle–Bee glared at Sneezeweed as he took the hat off and threw it angrily on the ground.
All the faeries of Whispering Wood were gathered at the stone lilies. It was quite a sight on a starlit night, aglow with sparkle and chatter. The lilies cast long shadows across the tangled grass and fireflies lit up the darkness. A sense of excitement singed the cool spring air, and the faeries were eager to discuss their plan. There was no time to waste.
‘We agreed to do this, so let’s do it right,’ said Sneezeweed.
‘It was only a bluebell,’ said Thistle–Bee.
‘It’s the impression it gives. You know what mortals are like — first impressions count.’ Sneezeweed knew all about first impressions because everyone thought he was quite tall and willowy for a faerie, and had a snooty, authoritative attitude when first meeting him. Later, when they got to know him better, they realised this was absolutely true.
He wore long robes and a flowing cloak of deep reds and browns. His wings were threaded with silver giving him a distinguished air and older appearance. Though the faeries weren’t of an age, they were more of an era. The ravages of time had failed to wither the rich autumn colouring of his clothes, nor the keen look in his hazel eyes. He was as tall as he needed to be amongst his own kind, but the faeries could magically make themselves as tall as the average mortal and disguise their wings with the appropriate clothing. Certainly there was still something about them that made them stand out from the mortal crowd, but nothing so bizarre that they wouldn’t blend into the throng of a pop music festival on a good day.
‘What about snowdrops?’ said Teasel, not the brightest light on the Christmas tree.
Numerous sets of disapproving eyes glared at the purple, tousle–haired faerie. Teasel knew he’d asked a stupid question and stepped back into the crowd.
Sneezeweed continued. ‘We either do this together or not at all. Anyone who is too flaky to cut it here can go and live at the bottom of Mrs Bell’s garden and flit about all they want and stick bluebells on their head.’
‘He’s talking funny,’ Mossy Stonecrop whispered to Daisy Fleabane, forgetting that whispers in this mysterious wood often sounded loud and clear.
Sneezeweed looked in their direction. ‘I’m trying to learn how to talk like twenty–first century mortals. The best way to learn is to do.’
‘What does flaky mean anyway?’ said Mossy.
‘Do you remember Viper Bugloss? He was here when you first arrived three seasons ago. Remember how he was always too cold to make icicle bicycles, and said it was too hot in September to come out from under the chestnut shade? He wouldn’t even dance around a faerie ring more than two circles because it made him dizzy —’
‘I remember,’ said Mossy.
‘Well, he was flaky.’
‘Ah,’ Mossy said, not wishing to be flaky ever.
Mossy’s great ambition was to impress Daisy Fleabane. He’d met her once at a faerie fayre when he lived in another wood, and had moved to Whispering in the hope that she would notice him. She could hardly miss him in his emerald robes with yellow stars and eyes as green as the ocean. The features of his pale, handsome face appeared to have been sculpted from marble, and his white–blonde hair was long enough to touch the neck of his collarless cloak.
Daisy however had her own ambitions. She’d set her heart on having a part of the woodland where she could encourage faeries to learn how to develop their magic powers and find ways to merge with mortals for the betterment of everyone. She planned to show them great methods for using faerie dust. For a daisy–like little faerie with long fair hair that glistened like barley sugar and a wispy white and pink appearance, she was quite fiery and bold. Her wings were the colour of wild roses — deep pinks and woodland green, and her skin the palest cream.
‘If we’re flaky,’ Sneezeweed said, ‘we’re history, we’re toast.’
Thistle–Bee was curious, and blunt. ‘Where did you learn to talk like that? You’re usually so pompous.’
‘I’ve been reading mortal magazines. Horrid things, but needs do as needs must. There’s a pile under the umbrella sedge. Gossip and gibberish if you ask me, but people buy millions of them every week.’
‘Are the magazines like our Faerie News?’ said Thistle–Bee.
‘Nothing like it. Theirs is full of chitchat, whereas ours is packed with useful nonsense.’
Thistle–Bee nodded, realising the difference. He was a striking looking individual with robes of hazy, sun burnished bronze and copper tints, and in the right light he was almost handsome. If anyone would miss wearing a fresh bluebell hat it would be him, but apart from the determined Daisy Fleabane, whom he secretly admired, he was the most likely to adapt to forgoing this pleasure.
‘I’ve read women’s magazines,’ Daisy confessed.
Everyone glared at her and even the fireflies paused mid–flutter. Things like that weren’t done unless there was a wonderful excuse.
Daisy flicked her hair defiantly. ‘The magazines just happened to be lying on the shelves in Mrs Bell’s ice cream shop. The breeze kept blowing the pages over and I read them by accident — a few times. It’s a very windy shop.’
Her excuse was quite acceptable.
‘Mortals are a strange lot,’ said Hairy Bitter Cress, his voice tinged with resentment. ‘They seem quite happy to believe in witches but scoff at the existence of faeries. It’s quite unfair.’
‘Witches have spells, potions and strange notions,’ said Sneezeweed. ‘Yes, they create magic, but we are magic. That’s the difference. We don’t need brooms to fly.’
‘What is it with brooms anyway? I mean, who came up with that bright idea?’ said Hairy Bitter Cress, a dark vision of a faerie dressed in robes of deep, inky blue. ‘Who’d want to soar across the sky on a bristly old brush?’
‘The whys and wherefores of witches aren’t our concern,’ said Sneezeweed, realising they’d gone way off the subject as usual. ‘Mortals are. We must concentrate on the task in hand and not wisp to other topics no matter how trifling.’
Teasel felt compelled to divulge a useless grievance. ‘Last autumn I went as a tall faerie to a witches Hallowe’en party, and someone, I suspect it was a mortal dressed as a witch, said my wings looked fake. Plastic indeed.’
Teasel’s comment hung in the air for a moment and then Sneezeweed continued. ‘Can anyone think of other things we need to learn?’
‘Technology,’ said Daisy Fleabane. ‘Digital equipment and techie gadgets. We’ll need to learn about them.’
‘Who knows of such things?’ Sneezeweed asked the gathering.
‘Sprite Spark, the sprite, who lives at the edge of the wood,’ said Daisy. ‘He’s a bit of a geek. He should cost no more than, I don’t know, two stars, one perhaps.’
Sneezeweed nodded. ‘Excellent, we’ll enlist his help to teach us about new technology and computers.’ He glared accusingly at Sparkleberry who blushed as red as her shimmering strawberry robes.
An unfortunate incident with a washing machine earlier in the day when she’d mistaken it for a computer (same shape and size — vaguely) had left her wings crinkled and crumpled. Had she known what a forty–degree wash, spin and rinse would do to her wings she never would have ventured into the stupid thing. Her wings would straighten out in a few days but they were still too wrinkled to fly properly.
‘We’ll also need a human spokesperson to help us,’ said Daisy, who’d clearly given this a great deal of thought. ‘Someone powerful, someone who sort of rules the world.’
‘And who would that be?’ said Sneezeweed.
‘Journalists rule the world,’ said Daisy. ‘We’ll need one of those.’
Thistle–Bee wasn’t convinced. ‘I thought politicians ruled.’
‘No,’ said Daisy, ‘politicians may seem powerful, but they need good press to win campaigns, so this equates to: journalists don’t need politicians but politicians need journalists for publicity. Yes, it’s certainly journalists who rule the world. We’ll definitely need one of those.’
Sneezeweed seemed satisfied with this logic. ‘All those in favour raise their wings.’
A flurry of wings wafted across the grass, causing the glow–worms to flicker. The vote was unanimous, except for Sparkleberry whose wings were too crinkled to respond.
‘That’s settled,’ said Sneezeweed.
‘Where will we find a journalist?’ said Mossy.
No one had an immediate idea.
The air was abuzz as little faerie brains racked their memories for an answer.
Thistle–Bee finally had a suggestion. ‘Let’s put one of our postcard advertisements in the window of Mrs Bell’s ice cream shop.’
Everyone agreed.
‘Brilliant,’ said Sneezeweed. ‘Maybe Mossy Stonecrop could make a postcard for us in bright colours.’ Mossy had a wonderful eye for colour and design. He often created the postcard advertisements the faeries put in the window of the ice cream shop in town. They did this whenever they needed various things such as old beads and baubles that they used for making decorations and charm bracelets.
‘I’ll start on it right away,’ said Mossy, hurrying off and then stopping suddenly. ‘What will I write on the postcard?’
Everyone looked at Daisy because she had a way with words.
‘Something straightforward is always best,’ said Daisy. ‘How about —
Journalist wanted. Must believe in faeries.
We’ll contact you.’
‘Perfect,’ Mossy said, and headed off to create the postcard.
‘Speaking of advertisements,’ said Thistle–Bee, ‘could satellite television interview us? We could tell the world of our plight in between the shopping adverts.’
‘It’s a good thought,’ said Sneezeweed. ‘However, satellite can’t pick us up because of the faerie dust — the chaff affects the signal.’
There was a disappointed lull.
‘Perhaps Sprite Spark could find a way around the chaff,’ Thistle–Bee said hopefully.
Sneezeweed nodded in agreement. ‘We’ll ask him. In the meantime, the most intelligent among us need to learn three new mortal subjects. Those who are dimmer, learn one. Those who are completely hopeless, try your best — and well done.’
Hairy Bitter Cress spoke up. ‘Is there a list of subjects?’
‘Let me think,’ Sneezeweed said, rubbing his fingers across his brow. There were lists on just about everything. It was simply a matter of remembering where they were. ‘Ah yes, I think you’ll find it near the prickly poppies.’
No sooner had he pointed towards the poppies than it was found by Teasel and passed forward to Hairy Bitter Cress who flicked through the list and made his selection. ‘Fashion, fast cars and marvels.’
‘Fashion?’ said Thistle–Bee. ‘What can mortals possibly teach us about that?’
Daisy spoke up. ‘Everyone should learn their own fashion. Sneezeweed’s magazines are a hive of information. Adapt some of the mortal’s ridiculous fashions to suit our own tasteful style.’
The majority seemed happy with Daisy’s suggestion.
‘What are marvels?’ Teasel asked Sneezeweed, while the others busily chose their subjects from the list.
‘They’re tiny round glass balls that people roll along the floor as a game. And if you ever lose them, you go quite mad.’ Sneezeweed’s misinterpretation was overheard by Daisy, but she gave him the benefit of the doubt. It had been a very confusing day.
Sparkleberry was the last to get her hands on the list but there wasn’t much left to choose from. Her wrinkled wings were proving to be a great drawback when trying to flit amongst the woodland.
Everyone’s eyes were on her. What would she choose?
Taking a deep breath she stabbed a confident finger at a subject that really did interest her. ‘Rocket science,’ she announced triumphantly.
There was a stunned silence, except for Thistle–Bee who let out a loud guffaw.
‘What’s so funny about rocket science?’ Sparkleberry said, wishing she could spread her wings to give herself a more capable appearance.
‘Rocket science is one of the hardest subjects there is,’ said Thistle–Bee. ‘I seriously doubt Daisy Fleabane could tackle it let alone you. And what’s the point, why is it of any use to us?’
Daisy wasn’t sure if she’d been flattered or insulted so she buttoned her lips on the matter.
Sparkleberry was adamant. ‘It’s one of the main subjects we should learn. Rockets are the only way mortals can ever reach the stars. We fly to the stars on the strength of our wings and magic. We should learn about their transport.’
Cheers and applause resounded from the faeries, and even Thistle–Bee had to admit it was a very clever point she’d made. If she was intelligent enough to think up this excuse, for everyone knew she’d just made it up so as not to look utterly stupid, then perhaps she could eventually understand rocket science, or at least enough to sound as though she knew what she was talking about.