A few small steps from The Glen, you note beautiful wildflowers. A small door at the bottom of a large oak tree serves as a small indication of who may also dwell within these woods, though you do not notice it as you sweep past to inspect the colorful blossoms. A speckled daybed of tall magenta foxgloves draws you closer as they whistle in the gentle breeze, host to a few roaming bees, their midnight hair burdened with thick pollen. You lean in to admire the tranquil gathering of bees on the foxglove’s pendulous bell-shaped flowers, their throats spotted with freckles – beautiful, despite their toxicity to humans.
A sudden strong gust of wind jostles the entire bunch as you lean toward them, the plant brushing your nose, and in that – its pollen spicy and strong as you inhale. The noxious effect immediately hits your bloodstream. You feel faint, blacking out quickly.
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You feel yourself come to, a slight rocking back and forth as you lay on your back. There is something soft on you, and yet, something else – wiry, warm, unusual, the source of the rocking – beneath you. You sit up quickly, startled, covered by a blanket carefully folded around you. You experimentally scrunch the texture under you; it is fur! Orange-red fur trailing all the way to a set of pointy ears, dipped in black. Your view is warped, as you ride on the back of a fox, its head pointed forward, you are but a passenger on its back, loping through tall grasses.
An orange faery – crowned with autumnal leaves, spotted with evening stars, darts into view – her face hovering just above your own, a true look of concern painted on her features. Her eyes, golden, look you over.
“Oh! You’re finally awake! You must have taken quite the tumble!”, the faery piped in a charming, yet high melodic voice. “I found you in a heap over by those trees,” a soft gesture of her hand across the meadow, “I brought you here to safety to my burrow, I hope you don’t mind. We have just a little bit farther, and then home, sweet, home.”
The fox, whose tail twitched this way and that, wove its way through the tall foxgloves, brushed into hedgerows and grazing the cowbells, alarming the small inhabitants of the meadow, scenting the air with their perfume and the echo of ancient stories.
And then, softly, the air was filled with tinkling, ambient music. The many fae of the area could then be seen - previously invisible to you as they hid amongst the blooms - and amongst them, so are you. Lifting and lofting above the glen, the fae of many colors sweep about, collecting, foraging, humming, singing as they go. They have been alerted to your presence by the guardian fox, and while you yourself are alarmed, their drifting about – wings humming - and curious glances are somewhat calming.
You come to a stop at a tree – the one you hadn’t seen before – with the small door on it. The fox sits and you are able to slide down its back with ease, your new tiny frame on par with the faery who has landed beside you. She gestures to the door, and you enter her small abode – akin to a log cabin, literally wooden in a tree stump. She gestures wordlessly to a chair in the far corner, already fiddling with something in her carved oak cabinets, fixing you a snack.
The chair you eased down upon is of hard wood, but comfortable. The scene is like sitting in someone’s parlor, though the ground is mossy, a carpet of grass intertwined with clumps of bluebells so blue, they looked like puddles of water. Her bed, a suspended hammock of dew dropped spiderweb and painted leaves of red, orange, and burnt yellow. Aside from bed and carpet, there is not much adorning her home.
“So,” she starts, “as long as you’re here, you’ll help me decorate the place, won’t you?” A cup of tea is placed next to you, as a stack of pictures are shoved into your hand. “The fae sure do love their artwork,” she says, chattering mostly to herself, blowing the steam off the rim of her own teacup, “but I am always so awful at being able to decide.”
She half-sits, half-glides into the armchair near you, her eyes alight, tipping her chin to the pictures, “What do you think? Set the scenes for me with them; what’s the artist’s motivation? What’s the feeling you get from them? Give me descriptions, so I can pick one to hang in this place!”
Magenta Foxglove Flower Circle – (Picture Prompt – Every Sunday)
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