“Come now, Still. You have to go to fairy school.”
“No, I’m not a fairy.” She stomped her foot and pursed her lips, head sternly turned down, with eyes to her feet. Her arms were crossed in that strange way that only Still could do. No fairy ever crossed their arms, except when holding a grain.
I didn’t say anything to Fiona. It wasn’t my place. Appleblossom was actually bouncing with excitement. I couldn’t understand Still at all. She had always been this way. Fairies didn’t get angry, nor were they ever that willful. She was stubborn and actually rude. It had been like this almost from the start. She was nothing like Appleblossom. Apple was all smiles and was never angry at anything.
“Come on, Still; it’ll be fun! I want to go to school,” Appleblossom coaxed.
“Fairy school. I’m not a fairy.”
“No, Still, you’re not. But I’ll have a talk to Mr. Scribe to see if it can be a fairy-pixie school,” said Fiona.
Still’s eyes came away from the floor. “Really?” she asked.
“Really,” Fiona replied.
Her arms came away to her sides, the pursed lips were gone. “Really.” She smiled.
“Really.” Fiona smiled back.
Still leaned forward and hugged Fiona’s legs. It was enough. I could see the love, but, oh my sister, how patient she was. I could never have done it. Still would have been too much for me.
Mr. Scribe later told me how everything had gone so wrong for Still’s first school day. It had been the fairy children who had given Still the name Wart: Stillwart.
It had something to do with Still’s ability to fly. You see, the other children couldn’t, not at that age. Their wings weren’t ready. When she had appeared in class, they had all gotten a bit excited and a bit too close. Too many fairies, all crowding in on her at once, trying to see the pixie child they had all heard about. Still didn’t like it, and with only one direction to go – up – then up was where she went. It had caused a major disruption.
“She can fly!”
“Her wings are ready.”
”But they’re green… brown, arrh.”
“She’s so ugly.”
“Sit down children. Sit down please,” Mr. Scribe had cried.
“She looks like a giant wart.”
“Her name must be Wart.”
“She’s a wart. Hey, Wart.”
“My name’s Still,” the little pixie objected.
“Stillwart! Stillwart! Stillwart!” the children cried. Mr. Scribe had never seen anything like it. He had tried to stop them, but he hadn’t been able to. He had never seen fairy children behave so badly in all his life.
Still had simply fled, tears streaming down her face. She had flown as far from the fairy school as she could: through the trees, through the brush, faster and faster. Many years later, she had told us what happened to her. Still had been gone for days. The whole fairy realm had been searching for her. She had masked herself from us so we couldn’t feel her with magic; she didn’t want to be found.