The stuffed moose head exchanged glum looks with his companions – other victims of taxidermy. Or, he would have exchanged glum looks with them, had any of them still been alive. But they were dead, all of them. The moose, the buck, the roaring bear, and the bird of prey with its wings spread wide (this last was not a mammal, like the others, but they tried not to hold that against the bird, for she was in the same boat as the rest of them). All had been killed and summarily stuffed, and then wedged into the corners of the hermit’s little shack as trophies that he would never be able to show off. For you see, the man never had visitors. Never even had unwanted visitors, who generally come to call most often.
But though the hermit would never show off his prizes, this fact did not stop him from going out to find more. And this time, the moose thought – or would have thought , if he could have – it’s a true shame.
For this time, the man had brought back something of such rarity and beauty that it was nearly enough to bring a tear to the moose head’s wide, glassy eye.
The man bustled around his little hovel, shoving various this-and-thats off of the little table where he ate his meager meals. His pet coon watched as if in a trance, utterly still. When the man had created sufficient space on the simple wooden surface, he set down the cage, lips curling in triumph. The creature inside the metal contraption fluttered about like a mad bee, beating her tiny fists against the mesh that kept her trapped and helpless.
“Now, now, stop that. You stop it now, hear me?” The hermit frowned down at the cage. She either didn’t understand or wasn’t listening. Whatever the case, if she didn’t stop soon, she’d hurt herself. And if she hurt herself, it was bound to affect how much people would be willing to pay to see her. “I said, stop it now!” He gave the cage a rough shake, and the creature within curled up into a ball with her arms over her head, tumbling about uncontrollably.
She stopped trying to break through the mesh after that.
The hermit bent his head down close to the cage, laughing under his breath. He was going to be rich… Really and truly rich… All thanks to the little winged thing that had wandered into one of his traps. He’d known from the very first of it that it was a fairy, even though he hadn’t really believed in fairies before. It was easy enough to guess, based on the stories his ma had always told him.
What else could the creature be but a fairy? What else so tiny could look so human, with those perfect little hands and feet… That sharply angled face, and tiny, wild eyes… And most impressive of all, those quick, shining wings. Shiny as tin foil. But there was no mistaking it. Those wings weren’t tin foil. They were real.
The fairy had short, frizzy hair as red as the autumn leaves that were wrapped around her torso to make a kind of dress. She wore no shoes, but had a little acorn cap on her head. Or maybe the cap was part of her head; it hadn’t come loose during all her struggling.
Oh, yes. This little fairy was going to make him rich. There was no doubt of it. But how to spread the word about what he’d found? Call the papers? No. No one would believe him. They’d have to see it. All of them.
Pictures. He needed pictures. But for that he’d need a camera, and he didn’t own one. Daryl! Daryl had a camera! He’d go see Daryl, borrow the camera, and come right back. Take some pictures, send them off. People would start to come. And he would be rich.
“Stay here,” he told the coon, scratching its ears fondly on his way out the door. Raised the coon from a kit, he had, after killing its ma. He’d given it a home, and tamed it. It got a bit rascally sometimes, but it was a good pet, for the most part. Good company.
“Stay here,” he said again, grinning. “And when I get rich, I’ll buy you somethin’ good to eat. You deserve a treat. We both do.”
He left, leaving behind the coon, the cage, and the stuffed moose head and its companions.
“Wild one!” The fairy flitted to the front of the cage and looked out at the coon pleadingly. “Let me out! I am a wild fairy! This cage will kill me!”
The coon leapt up on to the table, bringing its face close to the cage, staring curiously at the wild fairy’s shining, flashing wings.
“Please, Brother!” the fairy pleaded. “Release me!”
Then, using all her power, she reached out to the mind of the animal and sent it knowledge. Knowledge of how to open the latch. Knowledge of how to open the cage, and let her out.
The coon looked at its black, human-like hands contemplatively, then at the cage, and again at the fairy’s wings. It reached toward the cage door and unlatched it.
“Oh-” The fairy breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Brother! I-” Her words broke off into a yelp as the coon’s hands shot into the cage and grabbed her around her waist, pulling her out as the coon’s mouth opened wide.
For the coon had been tamed, and was not a true Wild one.
When the man returned, he opened the door to his shack and nearly dropped the borrowed camera. He took in the scene with growing rage. The open cage door. The absence of a fairy. The coon sitting on the floor, something dangling from its mouth. Something crippled-looking that shone and flashed, like a scrap of tin foil.
Perhaps that’s the end. Perhaps the hungry coon got its meal, and the man missed his opportunity to get rich.
But perhaps we’ve missed a part of the story. Perhaps the wild fairy managed to escape the coon’s grasp, losing a wing in the process and becoming grounded for life. Perhaps she crawled through the gap under the door that wasn’t quite square with its frame, and perhaps the moose head and his friends cheered and called encouragements, urging her onward to freedom. Perhaps she called a Wild bird from the sky and climbed onto its back, and flew far, far away from the shack, the cage, and the tame coon.
Perhaps…
But the only ones who might know the truth – all of it – are the coon, the fairy…
And the stuffed moose head.
