Written by Mokihana Calizar
Please enjoy the tale for your own pleasure,
but do not reprint it or copy it for any other purpose without permission from the author.
Gypsy Fairydom persists throughout the Cosmos, throughout time, throughout Ever. Unattached to the trappings of broad collections of wealth, the Gypsy Fairies travel light and depend upon the trails of stardust as markers and makers of destiny. Far from invisible the Gypsy Fairy is present in the life of those mortals who appear to have dreams falling down around them. To the Gypsy Fairy, collapsing dreams are simply the signs of Reassembling and an invitation to join in. The braid of mortal life on the Great Planet as this story begins is so far from the wee folk’s value of a destiny fully lived, the strands so tightly woven even the tiniest of fairies can find no foothold. Sprinkled like salt from the Creators salt shaker, the agent of change had begun its work on the lives of humans.
As promised in the beginning, the story of Wood Crafting included two trails … one of which has been sufficiently traveled and though not yet complete, the culture and ways of the Covey have begun to make a mark on your dear coil my friends. The journey from the city of industry was organic, years of slow and diligent work laid the foundation for the new dream the two old people fed with lessons from real life on the Great Planet and hope for something yet to be. Cycles pass differently for mortals, the density of both their bodies and the genetic expectation weighed heavily on the communion with their souls. Though the Grace of each new mortal being continued to be the portal through which stardust mixed with blood, the elevated value of accumulation left so little time to nourish grace. Time on the Planet was compressing, seen from the stars beyond the hold of gravity, the third planet from the sun was aging more rapidly than a planet with such abundance in ordinary times. The spark of imagination and freedom can conjure twists of fate and it seems the lesson of grace kept secret or a talent judged unworthy was tampering with The Great Planet’s destiny. This part of the tale began not so very long ago. I’m not quite sure how to explain so I will simply draw you onto the path leading to The Ledge, and introduce you to Patrick Nicely and Lokea Bird two old though not yet ancient humans in the early stages of a Reassembling Dream.
The sound of engines was now commonplace, though not their favorite sounds by any stretch of the imagination, the Gypsy Folk were adaptable types with a soul large enough to tolerate the roar of the human’s trucks. Life on the Ledge had been one of many adjustments during Traveling Frog’s long, long life. The wild sounds of the high mountains had always included the loudness of his kin in ruckus decibels that might pierce the ear drums of city mortals unprepared for night in the Wood. Gypsy Fairy Folk require very little space as far as a definition fits your lexicon. Seen from the fairy folk’s eyes all space was theirs. However, there came the sound of a truck and the sight of a wheeled human contraption that was not so very commonplace to the folk on the Ledge. The sound of laughter drew Traveling Frog and his family to the fallen stumps that leaned into the side of the Ledge. Two jovial human males with bellies round and faces filled with mirth were making quite a scene on the hard rock path of a driveway a short walk from the pond of Ever. The human with scant hair on his head and a deep voice was waving his hands in the direction of a wagon shaped exactly like the wagons Traveling Frog and his kinsfolk ride when it is time to migrate from the pond of Ever to the
With his front legs hitched onto his hips Traveling Frog let out a sound that could easily be mistaken for a hoot, “Hoot, hoot! Stars over easy …we have family come to be with us.” Never without something to say the leader of the Gypsy Fairy Folk stopped short his declaration, hopped nimbly up the length of the old stumps for a better look. The stumps weren’t high enough for his tiny body to see just exactly was happening on his encampment. Tutu the great-great-great grandmother fir grew inches from the humans’ activity that afternoon. She was a woman of easy humor, accepting of change as the wind is accepting of rain and when she saw Traveling Frog’s predicament she leaned casually in Frog’s direction giving her long time neighbor a perfect solution. From Tutu’s outstretched limb the view of the human’s caravan filled the driveway and the shouldering road above.
Traveling Frog and Tutu watched in silence as the human with scant hair on his head repeated directions to an old white haired man at the wheel of the truck. The dandelion colored wagon rocked atop the two black wheels and moved down the slope toward Tutu. Unlike the frog sized wagons that traversed the length of creek bed between the pond of Ever and the