"Are there fairies in the desert?"
Now, this question, which is not for the faint of heart, skipped off the lips of my boy at a late hour -- so you'll have to forgive me for my answer: "You know fairies aren't really real, right?"
"Dad," he said, rolling away from me in his bed sheets and then back, a teddy in tow. His tone said it all before he continued. "I know -- but are there?"
This is a perilous situation. When the moon is out, the bedtime story has already been read, and sleep is yet to advance upon the throne of the young child's brow, well, dangerous words spill forth. You understand, I'm sure. Those dangerous words are generally ushered in with a sigh, and then something like, "Oh, I don't know."
The look in his eye alerted me fully to my mistake. As is already obvious, the chief problem is not the answer in itself, but the origin of said answer: Such words are conceived not when the question is too difficult, but when the mind craves sleep, and they are born upon the lips of exasperation.
Now you see.
"How come?"
"How come what?"
"How come you don't know?"
"Well." Here, in moments like this one, which are flashes brighter and swifter than lightning, children learn more than in any schoolroom. Not by the things we say, not really, but by tone and willingness. Beware.
"Dad?" His stillness unnerved me. I must strike, you understand, and strike well at my own weariness.
"There is something," I said. "Yes, there is something." I drew my sword. "Do you know what I think of when I imagine the desert?"
"What?"
"Lizards."
"Lizards?" He smiled, hugging teddy a bit tighter.
"Yes, lizards." I aimed well, and as I continued I slaughtered the remaining obstacle to our beautiful night. "They scurry here and there. Under a rock maybe, or behind a cactus. But do you know about their tails?"
"Yes -- do the cactuses hurt them?" A natural digression.
"Oh. Well, I suppose their scales help."
"They do." This was not a question (try to keep up.) "And their scales are like fish but smaller." I waited for more than a tick too long. "What about their tails?"
I leaned toward him and lowered my voice. "You know all about how their tails come off -- yes, I thought so."
"And they wiggle in your fingers if you hold on." He looked at his index finger and thumb as he pressed them together.
"But the lizard?"
"He's gone."
"Scurried away without a trace."
"Wait." The brief moment of silence that had crawled into the room while we thought about disappearing lizards was chased away. "Are they the fairies?"
You'll also have to forgive me for hoping the thought of lizard tricks would free me from desert fairies. Not even autonomous appendages dancing between our fingers had the power to do such a thing.
"So. Desert fairies also know all about lizards and their tails. Sometimes they make friends; other times, if a fairy is especially naughty, he might try to steal a lizard's tail."
"Why?"
There are times, dear reader, when a story buds quite easily and blossoms in our laps. This was not one of those times. I had never seen a desert fairy, nor had I ever thought about why any particular fairy may want a lizard's tail. The mind wanted sleep, if you remember. Now I had ventured into an imaginary desert where stories, like desert flowers, are rare and often difficult to understand when you do find one.
So I said, "What do you think a fairy would do with a wiggling tail?"
"What?"
And then I made a rookie mistake: "What do you think?"
He made a gesture with his hand, which had been lost in teddy's fur a moment before. "Dad -- are you making a story right now?"
I became a lizard tail caught between the fingers of my spry child. "Of course," I said. "Didn't you want a story?"
"No, you know. Are you?" His body was still for the second time that night as he waited for the answer.
"Well, I guess you might have to help me remember about the fairies. I think I knew once about them -- but they're elusive, and sometimes -- "
"What's elusive?"
"Elusive means they're hard to catch, or see."
"Oh. Yes, they are."
" -- and sometimes that means in my thoughts, too." You'll be happy to note that I really was trying to remember if I'd heard any stories about desert faires; no longer was I attempting to outlast my weary child. We both needed to know now.
"That's why I asked."
Now we were on the same page.
"Okay. So," I said, repositioning myself. "What do we remember so far?"
"They might steal the lizard's tail."
"Yes. Does that sound like something desert fairies might do?" I turned toward him, actually waiting for an answer.
He nodded. "But we have to remember what they need it for."
"I told you about Anados, right?" This thought came from a burst of memory, and I was thankful for George MacDonald and his wild stories. " -- I thought I had. How he watched the fairies play?"
"They came out from the flowers."
"And it was hard to tell if each flower was its home -- "
" -- or if it was the flower." He smiled at knowing how to finish my sentence. Then he added, with a note of sadness: "There aren't very many flowers in the desert."
I took a breath and watched him. A story was taking shape in my mind, but I wanted to hear where his thoughts might take him. I didn't have to wait for long.
"But there are some." He brightened and looked at me. "And what if the lizard helps?"
"Helps?"
"They may need help in a place like the desert." His face stayed on me; now he waited.
"Well, I think we're ready to begin." I took another breath, still turning over the idea he just inserted -- which I had to use, of course. "Don't you think so?"
"Teddy says he's ready for sleep." He placed the bear beside him. "He doesn't like lizards."
What follows is the fairy tale we came up with:
Many people tend to have a knee-jerk reaction against reptiles -- especially snakes. The unfortunate thing for lizards, then, is that they so closely resemble their legless cousins. A small digression: Family dinners, the ones at holidays that so often produce arguments, often turn cold for this part of the reptile species, for the memory of how the snakes lost their legs still haunts them. Forgive the lizards for sometimes bringing it up, but they have suffered because of their cousin's act, and can't help venting on occasion.
("They have family dinners? What do they eat?" -- "Sure they do; aren't they cousins? I'm sure their tables are covered with crickets, don't you think?" -- "Yeah, live ones." *Please excuse our interruptions, but some questions do pester us until we've asked them. Thank you for understanding.)
Long ago, when the curse on snakes was fresh -- the word of their judgement still hung in the air like a fog, and the ground didn't yet know the fullness of its destiny -- a certain lizard wanted to show it was for and not against mankind. Like the snake it was shrewd, but with this difference: It had accepted its place in the Garden. For this reason, it had been given the ability to see what even humans miss, which, as you may have suspected by now, included Faerie. The LORD God knew that the unseen creatures, namely the fairies, were mischievous, often naughty, and needed help.
You see, fairies do love beautiful things, and their work in flowers is important. However, like the snake and lizard, like you and me, they live under the weight of Adam's failure. This means their naughtiness overtakes them when they should be helping the gardens grow.
("Oh, I see," my boy said, and I wondered if I'd taken a false step. "I feel that way when I see candy in the kitchen cupboard." -- "Me, too," I said.)
This lizard ("His name is Lizzy"), whose name was Lizzy, set out to watch over and serve the fairies when he saw they needed him. Of course, by this time, he'd found the desert and felt quite at home in the heat.
One particular day, Lizzy had spread out on a rock to bathe in the sun. He was about to nod off, for his belly was full, when he felt a tug -- something had got ahold of his tail! Lizzy turned quickly, too quickly in fact, to see what it was, but in doing so he threw the fairy that had grabbed his tail: The little creature flew off the rock and fell into a gorse bush.
("There are gorse bushes in the desert?" -- "Well, in this one there are." -- "Oh, I thought they were only in the Hundred Acre Wood." -- "I guess not.")
Immediately, Lizzy ran to help and apologize. He pulled the fairy to his feet, helped him with his tiny clothes, and tried to comfort him. "Oh!" He cried. "You were so terrible!" And with other wild accusations, he made Lizzy feel awful.
"What is it you wanted with my tail," Lizzy finally asked.
The fairy stuck out his tongue. Then he said quickly, "The others have a wand."
"Oh. What for?"
The fairy froze, his mouth wide open and his eyes staring. Then he cried real tears.
"Of course! Of course you need a wand!" Lizzy was a kind lizard, wasn't he? "But, what kind of wands do the others have?"
The fairy continued crying, but then he pointed here and there, and his face changed rapidly from grimaces of pain to an open mouth of laughter to fully red with anger.
"This is silly," Lizzy thought. "This sad creature is miserable!" Then he said, "Well, I need my tail -- how else can I run? Or even stand?"
At this, the cunning fairy, with a straightened face and clear eyes, turned to Lizzy and said, "But without your tail I cannot encourage the flowers to grow." He then formed a great tear and let it splash down on the dust.
"Oh, well." Lizzy watched the fairy; he knew wands were hard to come by, and he also knew this creature just might be right -- even though he was also behaving quite badly. "You have to be careful." Yes, Lizzy had decided to give his tail. "Who knows," he thought. "Maybe my tail will help him grow the most beautiful of flowers." And, while the fairy tugged and tugged with no regard for Lizzy, he imagined how this little fellow would be happy and how the blooms might smell.
"Careful! Here it comes!"
With one last tug, the tail was off, and with a cry of joy the small one began to rush here and there, first touching a large crack in the ground.
("Lizzy didn't know it would grow back?" -- "No, he didn't." -- "He was thinking about the fairy and the flowers. Yes. And what grew from the large crack?" -- "A white flower called jasmine." -- "Does it smell good?" -- "I think so, yes." -- "Yes, it does.")
Now once Lizzy saw the work of the fairy, which immediately bloomed before his eyes, he forgot that walking would be difficult. In fact, he fell a couple times before he got the hang of taillessness. When the full orange moon rose in the east, the air blew cool and fragrant, and Lizzy strolled easily and happily through new blossoms. It was in the midst of these new delights that he lay down and slept, and it was in a dream that the LORD God redeemed his tail.
"Wait, why did he get a new tail?" Sleep, being the latest guest to the night's activities, seemed now to be settling upon us both. Yet this question pressed us forward.
"A reminder."
"What is a reminder?"
"Something to help you remember." We thought about that a moment.
"Oh. Yes, that's right."
"Which part will you remember most?"
His eyelids were now an insurmountable weight, but he said, "The lizard."
"And do you think you like this story?"
"It's hard to tell the first time," he said. Then he sighed and rolled over. "I won't know until I hear it again tomorrow."
"Yes," I said. "I know what you mean." And as I kissed his forehead, I wondered whether the story had been for him or for me. Late into the night I thought about Lizzy and how his tale had impressed upon me the constant tug -- maybe upon my own tail -- that welcoming loss willingly is somehow woven into the fabric of life with the vibrant colors of desert flowers.
Now, this question, which is not for the faint of heart, skipped off the lips of my boy at a late hour -- so you'll have to forgive me for my answer: "You know fairies aren't really real, right?"
"Dad," he said, rolling away from me in his bed sheets and then back, a teddy in tow. His tone said it all before he continued. "I know -- but are there?"
This is a perilous situation. When the moon is out, the bedtime story has already been read, and sleep is yet to advance upon the throne of the young child's brow, well, dangerous words spill forth. You understand, I'm sure. Those dangerous words are generally ushered in with a sigh, and then something like, "Oh, I don't know."
The look in his eye alerted me fully to my mistake. As is already obvious, the chief problem is not the answer in itself, but the origin of said answer: Such words are conceived not when the question is too difficult, but when the mind craves sleep, and they are born upon the lips of exasperation.
Now you see.
"How come?"
"How come what?"
"How come you don't know?"
"Well." Here, in moments like this one, which are flashes brighter and swifter than lightning, children learn more than in any schoolroom. Not by the things we say, not really, but by tone and willingness. Beware.
"Dad?" His stillness unnerved me. I must strike, you understand, and strike well at my own weariness.
"There is something," I said. "Yes, there is something." I drew my sword. "Do you know what I think of when I imagine the desert?"
"What?"
"Lizards."
"Lizards?" He smiled, hugging teddy a bit tighter.
"Yes, lizards." I aimed well, and as I continued I slaughtered the remaining obstacle to our beautiful night. "They scurry here and there. Under a rock maybe, or behind a cactus. But do you know about their tails?"
"Yes -- do the cactuses hurt them?" A natural digression.
"Oh. Well, I suppose their scales help."
"They do." This was not a question (try to keep up.) "And their scales are like fish but smaller." I waited for more than a tick too long. "What about their tails?"
I leaned toward him and lowered my voice. "You know all about how their tails come off -- yes, I thought so."
"And they wiggle in your fingers if you hold on." He looked at his index finger and thumb as he pressed them together.
"But the lizard?"
"He's gone."
"Scurried away without a trace."
"Wait." The brief moment of silence that had crawled into the room while we thought about disappearing lizards was chased away. "Are they the fairies?"
You'll also have to forgive me for hoping the thought of lizard tricks would free me from desert fairies. Not even autonomous appendages dancing between our fingers had the power to do such a thing.
"So. Desert fairies also know all about lizards and their tails. Sometimes they make friends; other times, if a fairy is especially naughty, he might try to steal a lizard's tail."
"Why?"
There are times, dear reader, when a story buds quite easily and blossoms in our laps. This was not one of those times. I had never seen a desert fairy, nor had I ever thought about why any particular fairy may want a lizard's tail. The mind wanted sleep, if you remember. Now I had ventured into an imaginary desert where stories, like desert flowers, are rare and often difficult to understand when you do find one.
So I said, "What do you think a fairy would do with a wiggling tail?"
"What?"
And then I made a rookie mistake: "What do you think?"
He made a gesture with his hand, which had been lost in teddy's fur a moment before. "Dad -- are you making a story right now?"
I became a lizard tail caught between the fingers of my spry child. "Of course," I said. "Didn't you want a story?"
"No, you know. Are you?" His body was still for the second time that night as he waited for the answer.
"Well, I guess you might have to help me remember about the fairies. I think I knew once about them -- but they're elusive, and sometimes -- "
"What's elusive?"
"Elusive means they're hard to catch, or see."
"Oh. Yes, they are."
" -- and sometimes that means in my thoughts, too." You'll be happy to note that I really was trying to remember if I'd heard any stories about desert faires; no longer was I attempting to outlast my weary child. We both needed to know now.
"That's why I asked."
Now we were on the same page.
"Okay. So," I said, repositioning myself. "What do we remember so far?"
"They might steal the lizard's tail."
"Yes. Does that sound like something desert fairies might do?" I turned toward him, actually waiting for an answer.
He nodded. "But we have to remember what they need it for."
"I told you about Anados, right?" This thought came from a burst of memory, and I was thankful for George MacDonald and his wild stories. " -- I thought I had. How he watched the fairies play?"
"They came out from the flowers."
"And it was hard to tell if each flower was its home -- "
" -- or if it was the flower." He smiled at knowing how to finish my sentence. Then he added, with a note of sadness: "There aren't very many flowers in the desert."
I took a breath and watched him. A story was taking shape in my mind, but I wanted to hear where his thoughts might take him. I didn't have to wait for long.
"But there are some." He brightened and looked at me. "And what if the lizard helps?"
"Helps?"
"They may need help in a place like the desert." His face stayed on me; now he waited.
"Well, I think we're ready to begin." I took another breath, still turning over the idea he just inserted -- which I had to use, of course. "Don't you think so?"
"Teddy says he's ready for sleep." He placed the bear beside him. "He doesn't like lizards."
What follows is the fairy tale we came up with:
Many people tend to have a knee-jerk reaction against reptiles -- especially snakes. The unfortunate thing for lizards, then, is that they so closely resemble their legless cousins. A small digression: Family dinners, the ones at holidays that so often produce arguments, often turn cold for this part of the reptile species, for the memory of how the snakes lost their legs still haunts them. Forgive the lizards for sometimes bringing it up, but they have suffered because of their cousin's act, and can't help venting on occasion.
("They have family dinners? What do they eat?" -- "Sure they do; aren't they cousins? I'm sure their tables are covered with crickets, don't you think?" -- "Yeah, live ones." *Please excuse our interruptions, but some questions do pester us until we've asked them. Thank you for understanding.)
Long ago, when the curse on snakes was fresh -- the word of their judgement still hung in the air like a fog, and the ground didn't yet know the fullness of its destiny -- a certain lizard wanted to show it was for and not against mankind. Like the snake it was shrewd, but with this difference: It had accepted its place in the Garden. For this reason, it had been given the ability to see what even humans miss, which, as you may have suspected by now, included Faerie. The LORD God knew that the unseen creatures, namely the fairies, were mischievous, often naughty, and needed help.
You see, fairies do love beautiful things, and their work in flowers is important. However, like the snake and lizard, like you and me, they live under the weight of Adam's failure. This means their naughtiness overtakes them when they should be helping the gardens grow.
("Oh, I see," my boy said, and I wondered if I'd taken a false step. "I feel that way when I see candy in the kitchen cupboard." -- "Me, too," I said.)
This lizard ("His name is Lizzy"), whose name was Lizzy, set out to watch over and serve the fairies when he saw they needed him. Of course, by this time, he'd found the desert and felt quite at home in the heat.
One particular day, Lizzy had spread out on a rock to bathe in the sun. He was about to nod off, for his belly was full, when he felt a tug -- something had got ahold of his tail! Lizzy turned quickly, too quickly in fact, to see what it was, but in doing so he threw the fairy that had grabbed his tail: The little creature flew off the rock and fell into a gorse bush.
("There are gorse bushes in the desert?" -- "Well, in this one there are." -- "Oh, I thought they were only in the Hundred Acre Wood." -- "I guess not.")
Immediately, Lizzy ran to help and apologize. He pulled the fairy to his feet, helped him with his tiny clothes, and tried to comfort him. "Oh!" He cried. "You were so terrible!" And with other wild accusations, he made Lizzy feel awful.
"What is it you wanted with my tail," Lizzy finally asked.
The fairy stuck out his tongue. Then he said quickly, "The others have a wand."
"Oh. What for?"
The fairy froze, his mouth wide open and his eyes staring. Then he cried real tears.
"Of course! Of course you need a wand!" Lizzy was a kind lizard, wasn't he? "But, what kind of wands do the others have?"
The fairy continued crying, but then he pointed here and there, and his face changed rapidly from grimaces of pain to an open mouth of laughter to fully red with anger.
"This is silly," Lizzy thought. "This sad creature is miserable!" Then he said, "Well, I need my tail -- how else can I run? Or even stand?"
At this, the cunning fairy, with a straightened face and clear eyes, turned to Lizzy and said, "But without your tail I cannot encourage the flowers to grow." He then formed a great tear and let it splash down on the dust.
"Oh, well." Lizzy watched the fairy; he knew wands were hard to come by, and he also knew this creature just might be right -- even though he was also behaving quite badly. "You have to be careful." Yes, Lizzy had decided to give his tail. "Who knows," he thought. "Maybe my tail will help him grow the most beautiful of flowers." And, while the fairy tugged and tugged with no regard for Lizzy, he imagined how this little fellow would be happy and how the blooms might smell.
"Careful! Here it comes!"
With one last tug, the tail was off, and with a cry of joy the small one began to rush here and there, first touching a large crack in the ground.
("Lizzy didn't know it would grow back?" -- "No, he didn't." -- "He was thinking about the fairy and the flowers. Yes. And what grew from the large crack?" -- "A white flower called jasmine." -- "Does it smell good?" -- "I think so, yes." -- "Yes, it does.")
Now once Lizzy saw the work of the fairy, which immediately bloomed before his eyes, he forgot that walking would be difficult. In fact, he fell a couple times before he got the hang of taillessness. When the full orange moon rose in the east, the air blew cool and fragrant, and Lizzy strolled easily and happily through new blossoms. It was in the midst of these new delights that he lay down and slept, and it was in a dream that the LORD God redeemed his tail.
***
"Wait, why did he get a new tail?" Sleep, being the latest guest to the night's activities, seemed now to be settling upon us both. Yet this question pressed us forward.
"A reminder."
"What is a reminder?"
"Something to help you remember." We thought about that a moment.
"Oh. Yes, that's right."
"Which part will you remember most?"
His eyelids were now an insurmountable weight, but he said, "The lizard."
"And do you think you like this story?"
"It's hard to tell the first time," he said. Then he sighed and rolled over. "I won't know until I hear it again tomorrow."
"Yes," I said. "I know what you mean." And as I kissed his forehead, I wondered whether the story had been for him or for me. Late into the night I thought about Lizzy and how his tale had impressed upon me the constant tug -- maybe upon my own tail -- that welcoming loss willingly is somehow woven into the fabric of life with the vibrant colors of desert flowers.
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