4 – Fairy
Sarah runs back down the frozen gravel path, her heart pounding against the fragile cage of her chest. She cannot hear whether her mother is calling after her because blood rushes to her ears, deafening her. Clouds of dancing snowflakes billow around, a shimmering white ball gown.
The tinny sound of Christmas carols pulsate out of the juke boxes scattered around her at the various stalls. People’s laughter echoes through the frosty air. Every giggle she hears grazes an edge off her icy heart and every smile she sees exchanged makes her rock with pain.
She manages to escape the forced, exaggerated merriment of the carnival, sidetracking onto a country path near the site. Slowing down her pace, she comes to a halt by a fence. She hoists herself up into a perch on the splintered wood, and draws a long, slow breath. In, out. In, out. Calm, down. Calm, down. The searingly cold air burns her lungs.
She turns slightly and adjusts her periwinkle-coloured scarf around her neck. She sees a bedraggled donkey standing alone in the chewed up, frozen field. Its eyes looks like dark, broken glass and it sways sadly.
To her horror, her eyes fill with tears.
Shattered memories come back to haunt her; sightless eyes piercing into her life.
She presses her gloved hands down on the fence, making the old wood creak. She winches herself down to the snow-encrusted tarmac and shivers. Then she keeps walking, squinting through the frosty sunshine.
Her feet dance faster and faster along the winding path. Follow the yellow brick road.
Maybe, like Dorothy, she’ll find home sweet home.
She stops abruptly, her throat catching. A sudden pain wracks her body but she overcomes it with a great effort and continues on her way. Her eyes are downcast and her tousled head tucked into her soft white coat. Flashes of hoary scenery splash alongside her on either side of the path but she does not pay attention to them.
She reaches the little town but recoils from the high street, at its most garishly festive. It is too cluttered up with Yuletide celebrations and afternoon revelry. Instead, she makes a detour onto another lane, shielding her eyes from the glare of tinsel and Christmas lights. The minute she turns the corner, the only reason she is sure she isn’t dreaming is that she’s standing in broad daylight.
Sarah sees the fairy.
She is a woman, dressed in an elaborate green and silver costume. She stands next to a small platform in the front of the old, closed-down bookstore and is dancing badly. However, she is singing surprisingly tunefully to distorted music blasting out of an old cassette player.
What is she doing?
The fairy had already drawn quite a crowd of amused and bemused shoppers, and as the song finishes, scattered applause breaks out, albeit in appreciation of the comedy, and not the talent in the act. Sarah watches her as she leaps on top of the platform and drops a self-deprecating curtsy.
The fairy sees Sarah looking at her and gives her the smallest of smiles, hopping down. She starts to approach Sarah, who shrinks back into the shadows, reticent.
“Hello,” says the fairy.
“Hello,” says Sarah.
The fairy extends a hand with lime-painted nails. “Marian.”
Sarah smiles, but does not return the gesture. The fairy does not seem to notice; or if she has, she is indifferent.
“What are you doing then, out by yourself on Christmas Eve?” she asks.
Sarah pauses; and then the answer just spills out of her mouth wildly.
“I’m looking for Oz.”
Darn school!
