LATE AFTERNOON SUN FILTERED ACROSS A WIDE EXPANSE OF THICK GRASS, TURNING THE GREEN BLADES GOLDEN. In the sky, clouds moved slowly, their unhurried movements mimicking the fluffy white sheep in the field below. Sitting on a nearby stone wall, a shepherd and his four-year-old son kept watch over their flock. At their feet sat two collies, their eyes closed as they relaxed from their watchdog duties for a moment.
This was the young boy’s first trip to the pasture with his father. He had waited for this day forever, always the one left behind while his brothers took the flocks farther and farther afield. But now it was his turn. He had run behind his father the whole way, trying not to scare the sheep when they finally found them at the back of one of the farthest fields. Then he had hooted and hollered, mimicking his father as best he could, to make the furry creatures move on.
With all the new experiences and all the running and yelling, the boy had worked up quite the appetite. Supper had been quickly devoured, and now he took a big bite of his sweet cake. Crumbs fell onto his lap as he enjoyed the treat. Noticing his father had placed his own treat on the ground next to him, the young boy cocked his head. “You don’t want your sweet cake, Papa?” he asked.
“I’m leaving it there for the Fair Folk,” the shepherd answered, his weathered face serious.
Wasting a treat? The young boy had never heard of such a thing. “Why?” he asked.
Smiling at his son’s inquisitive nature, the father answered, “To thank them for making the grass grow tall and helping the flowers bloom. To show that we mean them no harm.”
But that was not enough of an answer for the boy. He had more questions. “Why do they do that? What would we harm them for?” he asked, his tiny voice full of confusion.
Before saying anything, the shepherd smoothed the dirt beneath him with his worn boot. The soles were brown with the earth of the fields, and the tips were faded. Times had been tough of late, with King Henry demanding more and more of their crops and sheep every year. Things like boots, hope, and dirt were what the farmer held on to tight now. “They’re part of nature. They care to the plants, the animals, even the air itself,” he went on as he scooped up a handful of loose dirt and slowly made a soil wreath around the treat. “But not all humans appreciate them. Some people attack their land, wanting to reap the benefits of all their natural treasures. Aye, there have been many pointless wars between greedy humans and the Fair Folk. And no matter how many times both sides strive for peace, we always seem to be on the brink of another.” The shepherd looked into the distance wistfully.
This was too much for the boy to handle. His father was talking gibberish! Whenever he said silly things, his mother would cuff him upside the head and send him out to the barn to clean the stalls. But since he couldn’t do that to his own father, he just asked, “Why are you doing that with the dirt?”
“It is a sign of respect,” the father answered matter-of-factly. “We want the Fair Folk to know it is safe for them to eat it. We don’t want them thinking we’ve tried to poison them. Faeries can be quite mean if they are provoked.” Standing up, he whistled to the dogs and began to walk home.
Behind him, the boy sat on the wall, his mind racing. He had never heard of mean faeries. Looking nervously over his shoulder, he scanned the large wall. Not satisfied that he wasn’t being watched by mean faeries, he jumped off the stones. Then, uttering a soft cry, he raced after his father. When he was safely by his father’s side, the boy let out a relieved sigh. He began to look around the fields, eager to catch sight of one of the Fair Folk.
As they moved down the hill, herding the sheep toward their farmhouse, which was just a spot in the distance, the young boy peered up at the sky and down at the ground. Spotting something green on a nearby flower, he stopped and pointed it out to his father. “Is that one of the Fair Folk?” he asked hopefully.