The Baptism
Contributor

The winds were  unrelenting.

From a thick gnarly branch of a shady oak, under a new moon, Elf watched his Fairy languorously dance with the fairies about the reedy cradle in the center of the magic ring. Diadem atilt, her face flushed and wings droopy, she carefully traced the circle steps that she might take every  hand that wound round to greet her.

Carabosse struck a pose on the ancient spot, a glacial boulder serving as her platform. A queer silence fell over the crowd, more than a few sprites remembered that infamous temper of hers and held their breaths as she lifted her wand over the new infant and introduced in a singsong voice, to the beat of the cicadas, her gift of a spell.

Of the Canyon and the Sea,
Of the Mountain ridges be,
Like the wildcat, coyote
Born beneath the stars, live free.

‘Now please let us go to the waterfall!” The pixies wailed.

Carabosse drew a thunder clap from the sky to silence the din. The sticky air seemed to hang molasses-thick; the gleam in Carabosse’s dark eyes so fierce, it felt to Fairy that the continent might move if she didn’t intervene.


“Please excuse their impatience,” She consoled her old friend. “They mean no disrespect to you. The babe is honored and blessed; now let us go break the ocean waves to celebrate.”

It looked to Elf as if a spell of black intent was about to be spoken, he knew Carabosse well enough to know that she was thinking of doing something, and feeling someone had to be prepared for the rage, he bravely leapt off the branch, puffed up, purposely flew low, swooped in and buzzed over all their solemn heads, singing his own jolly best wishes for the little one to live a long happy life. This raucous invasion broke loose the sacred binding magic of the fairy ring and the dancers wasted no time to use his marvelous distraction to flee. Hastily they glided off pulling the cradle along after them with the help of spider webs and some strong crèche ants.

Later, before they turned in for the night, Carabosse admitted over a drop of dandelion wine, to thoughts of changing those she deemed most unmannerly into stink bugs.

“I am quite grateful for your thoughtful intervention.” She told Elf tenderly. “I think my reputation has suffered quite enough.”

In the morning, the Magician found toadstools marking the sacred spot, and remembered when he too had once been part of their magic.

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