The Windvale Sprites (2 page)

But for now this was the last thing on his mind.

‘OK,’ said Asa and tried to slip past.

‘Were you listening?’

‘Yes,’ Asa lied.

‘If it is cancelled you’ll just have to come with us to Grandma and Grandpa’s.’

‘OK.’

‘What’s in the box?’

Asa froze.

‘What do you mean?’

Mum looked at him then the box.

‘What’s in the box?’ she repeated.

‘Oh! The shoebox!’ Asa acted as though he’d forgotten he was holding it. ‘Oh nothing, it’s empty, I need it … for the school trip.’

Mum looked unconvinced but decided not to pursue it any further. Asa saw an opportunity and legged it up the stairs and into his room where he carefully hid the box under some clothes at the back of his wardrobe.

For the rest of the day Asa wandered around in a daze. Nothing was normal, most of the shops in the nearby town of Mereton were shut and every other tree was on its side.

One shop that was still open was the camera shop so Asa dropped the film off to be developed. He could hardly wait to see the photos but only had enough money for the four-day service so had no choice.

Then he headed towards the library where he hoped to pick up a book on rare creatures that would explain the thing he’d found. But the library was closed – a horse chestnut had fallen on it and taken out most of the large-print section.

Everywhere he went Asa saw people merrily enjoying the catastrophe, sawing logs and hauling branches whilst recounting stories of horrible deaths across the county.

Asa wondered how long it would take to grow back all the trees.

He walked past the recreation ground and was pleased to find that his favourite fallen tree was still fallen and hadn’t been blown upright in the storm.

But as Asa explored the devastated village his discovery was never far from his mind.

He resisted the urge to keep looking in the shoebox by staying out for the rest of the day but he made sure he was back before it started getting dark and the candles came out.

He ran up to his room but had hardly stepped through the door when he realised something was wrong. A rank smell hung in the air and as he opened the wardrobe he realised with horror that he had put the box right next to a hot-water pipe. The creature was still inside but it had changed. Instead of the limp body he had pulled from the pond the fairy was now stiff, frozen into a grotesque pose and its olive skin had turned grey. He briefly thought of freezing the creature before remembering that there was no electricity to power the freezer and by now the smell was so pungent he realised he would have to dispose of the body.

Twilight was drawing in so Asa lost no time. He opened his bedroom windows wide to let in some fresh air, took the box and set out on his bike the short distance to Cottingley Woods.

He knew the woods inside out having spent long, hot summers exploring every corner and climbing every tree. He cycled to a favourite spot where he sometimes made a campfire to cook sausages and there he started digging with a trowel brought from home. When the hole was deep enough he placed the entire box in and covered it over with soil. After that he scattered leaves on the patch to disguise it and sped off home. 

*

That night Asa had a worrying thought. What if everybody knew about these creatures? Everybody except him? It was only a few years ago when his school friends had laughed at him because he still believed in Father Christmas. But what if this was the same situation but in reverse and he was the only one who
didn’t
believe in fairies?

So the next day Asa tried to furtively ask questions that would determine whether this was the case. The trouble is that it is hard to find a subtle line of questioning on the subject of
fairy-folk
and he was unsure of the best approach.

Asa’s mum sometimes used an expression when he was distracted or in a daydream, she would say he was ‘away with the fairies’. Asa thought if he could get her to say it he could then quiz her about its origins. So, at breakfast he deliberately sat there looking gormless and staring into space, pretending not to hear when asked a question. But Mum wouldn’t take the bait and after a while he felt a bit stupid so he just asked,

‘Mum, what do you mean when you say I’m

“away with the fairies”?’

‘Well, you know, just that you seem to be in a different world, that you’re playing with the fairies.’

‘What fairies?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Which fairies do you mean?’

‘
The
fairies, you know,
fairies
.’

This was less than useless so he decided to try his dad.

Dad was down the garden salvaging the wreck of the greenhouse. The hurricane had smashed five panes of glass and tried its best to make soup of the tomatoes. Dad, in his frustration, had decided to abandon this year’s crop and try again next spring. He had dumped the bedraggled vines on the compost heap and was replacing the broken glass.

Asa asked him outright.

‘Dad, do you believe in fairies?’

‘Of course, son. Who do you think leaves you money when you lose a tooth?’

‘Well, I know that’s you. I know there’s no
tooth
fairy. I mean other types.’

‘Other types? What, like the one at the top of the Christmas tree?’

‘That’s an angel.’

‘All right, smart-arse, go and do your homework.’

Later he found himself in the kitchen asking Mum:

‘Why are fairy cakes called fairy cakes?’

‘Because the fairies like them.’

‘What fairies?’

‘Please, Asa, don’t ask stupid questions.’

But why was it a stupid question? Because everyone knew about fairies or because there was no such thing?

Either there was a massive conspiracy going on or he had made an earth-shattering discovery. Either way he was on his own.

 

Two days later the frustration was almost too much to bear. Asa was still no closer to explaining his discovery and at times he wondered whether it had all been a dream. There was still a whole day to go before his photographs were ready and at lunchtime Asa grabbed his bike and headed back to the woods.

What he found there filled him with horror. The patch where he had buried the body had been disturbed. More than that, the grave had been exhumed, and the shoebox and body were nowhere to be seen.

Asa started searching in the bracken but soon realised it was futile. Had an animal dug it up? A fox maybe? If so, where was the box? Could someone have taken it deliberately?

He raced back home to gather together all the loose change he could find. He needed answers. He had to see those photos.

As it turned out, the extra cash was not needed because the photographs were ready a day early. Or rather, the
photograph
was ready, as only a single, blurred print had come out.

The man in the shop was very sympathetic.

‘How long have you had the film?’ he asked.

‘Don’t know,’ said Asa glumly, ‘probably years, it’s my dad’s.’

‘Well, that will be it, I’m afraid. Film doesn’t last forever you see, it has a shelf life and after a while it starts to deteriorate.’

Asa looked at the print. At first he couldn’t even make out what it was, it certainly wasn’t the clear shot of the creature he had been hoping for. Then he realised it was a very close-up shot of the tattoo on the creature’s chest. It was out of focus but you could definitely make out the design. The shopkeeper craned his neck to see the photo.

‘Hmm,’ he said, ‘like the one on the fairy. Don’t worry, I won’t charge you for that, I’m sorry you didn’t get the rest of your prints.’

It took a few seconds to register what the man had said, but when it did it was like an electric shock.

‘Pardon?’ Asa coughed. ‘What did you say?’

‘Don’t worry about the money, it’s only the one print.’

‘No, sorry, you said something about the photo.’

‘Yes, that pattern,’ the man pointed to the picture. ‘It looks like the one on the fairy.’

He’d said it again! Asa couldn’t believe his ears.

‘What fairy?’ he found himself asking.

‘Not
fairy
, ferry. The Ferryman pub on Church Street has a plaque above the door with a similar design if I’m not very much mistaken.’

 

Asa expressed his gratitude as quickly as he could and set off for Church Street.

The street was full of modern shops and new buildings but halfway down was an old Tudor house whose upper floor jutted out over the pavement and whose roof sagged like a wet tarpaulin. This was the Ferryman and it had a painted sign above the door showing a cloaked figure punting passengers on a shallow boat. Asa thought this was odd as there was no river running through Mereton and it was ten miles from the nearest beach at Inglesea.

The man in the photo shop was right; above the door of the pub was a plaster plaque. Layers of paint had smoothed the outlines of the design but it could still be made out and it was the exact same pattern as the tattoo.

Asa stared at the plaque for a long while, trying to work out what it meant. Well, it looked as though it was old, and whoever had put it there must have known about the fairies. It just so happened that at the precise moment Asa was pondering the Ferryman, George, the town drunk, was being thrown out of it, laughing all the way. George spent his mornings in the pub, his lunchtimes being thrown out of the pub and his afternoons sitting by the war memorial with a can of strong lager and a couple of grubby friends. He was always good-natured, even when being thrown out of the pub and, as long as you caught him early enough, could hold down a half-decent conversation, or at least half a decent conversation.

Asa hurried over and offered a shoulder for the old man to lean on. They shuffled over to a bench and George slumped down, giggling at a
long-forgotten
joke.

‘How long have you been drinking in the Ferryman, George?’ asked Asa.

‘I only got there at eleven, and now they’re throwing me on the street, thass what I’m saying,’ slurred George.

‘No, I mean how many years? Has it been a pub for years?’

‘Used to belong to a madman, so they say, in the olden days.’ George pulled a face and waggled his hands next to his ears in order to show what a madman might look like.

‘Really?’ said Asa. ‘Who?’

‘’S the one what shot the birdie, the lil’ birdie,’ replied George.

Asa was confused.

‘What birdie?’

‘Stuffed the lil’ birdie, didn’ he? In the libree. Poor lil’ birdie never hurt nobody.’

Suddenly George looked as though he might burst into tears. Asa gave him a pound for a cup of tea from the money he’d saved from the photos and that seemed to cheer him up again.

‘The library, you say?’

‘’Sright, the lil’ birdie in the libree.’ George pointed in the general direction of the library.

‘Thanks, George! I’ll see you later.’

Asa headed off across town with a feeling he might know what the old man was talking about. In the entrance to the town library was a large wooden plinth and on it was a stuffed bird display under an old glass dome. The Mereton Warbler was a pretty songbird that had been discovered on Mereton Heath in 1780. That was the first and only time the Mereton Warbler had been spotted anywhere near Mereton but that didn’t prevent it from being named after the town and becoming the town symbol.