How do you catch a fairy? by Michael Schultz

“How do you catch a fairy?” Isabella asked, skipping by her mother’s feet with a silver ribbon in her auburn hair.

“Why, with glass bottles,” the older woman said with a smile. She had graying brown hair and eyes as blue as sapphires.

Glass, of course, no other material would do. Steel was too cold, iron rusted brown, and nets had many pores without locks and doors. Her mother was wise: she always knew how best to make a cookie, with a pinch of salt and an ounce of sugar. Isabella’s stomach growled as her mother set a needle and thread and stitched fabric with an invisible seam closing the hole in her daughter's gown.

“But I’ve never seen a fairy,” Isabella said, trying to find the seam in her mother’s work.

“Oh, but they cannot be seen until they are caught.”

“Then how can I catch them?”

Her mother smiled, holding the girl close and smelling of lavender fields.

“Fairies love happiness, sadness, and passion. You will find them where emotions flow like water.”

“You mean by the river?!” Isabella clapped, jumping up and down with an ear-splitting grin.

Her mother chuckled. “Yes, my love, down by the river will do just fine.”

Then Isabella’s mother reached into a cupboard and uncorked a bottle, dumping dry flour onto a countertop and cleaning the glass with a basin of water.

“Remember,” she said, handing her daughter the bottle. “Fairies gather to celebrate memories.”

Down to the river Isabella went with a silver ribbon in her hair, a newly-patched dress, and a glass bottle pressed tightly to her chest. The water that day was smooth and clear with a gentle current that nudged at her toes. This was the place where the silver salmon swam, a school of glittering fins and scales that danced beneath the clear spring water. She came here with her mother many times a year to dip her feet in the stream and tell stories of the fishes’ struggle.

Isabella daydreamed of sailing the high seas in search of a great silver salmon with a scarlet belly. She spied the beast breaking the water’s surface like a whale in the distance. Then, from its gaping maw, it roared like a lion, shaking the bow of her ship as the fish raced against the ocean current.

“Launch the harpoons!” she cried, swinging down from the mast as a legion of squirrels manned the cannons, pulled the oars, and hid acorns beneath loose wooden boards.

The little girl smiled to herself as she uncorked the glass bottle and dipped the open end into the river. She caught just enough water to fill the bottom, then sealed the glass and held it up to the sun.

Her mother was right.

There, swimming in the water, was a fairy with a fish’s tail. She had a thousand silver scales, golden hair, a scarlet belly, an eyepatch, and a sneer. She rode the water’s surface in a conch shell, wrapping her tail around the mast and pointing the tip of a sword towards the river's mouth where a school of silver salmon leaped into the air.

Isabella raced back to her home bottle in hand and burst through the kitchen door.

“Mommy!” she shouted. “Look, I’ve got one! I’ve got one!”

“That’s lovely, my dear,” her mother said with a warm smile. “I knew you could do it.”

Patting her daughter's head, she took the glass jar and placed it on the kitchen table so every morning they could watch a fish-tailed fairy chase the crimson salmon.

The next day, Isabella woke, racing into the kitchen to watch the escapades of the fairy captain and her conch. At first, it was a morning ritual that she thought would never end. But, as days passed into months and months into years, the girl lost interest in childish things. The conch sunk beneath the water, and the captain's scales turned dull gray. Her golden hair was now dark brown and her once scarlet belly was pale as snow.

Isabella, now a teenager, woke every morning to run in the fields and pick grapes from the orchard, a silver ribbon replaced with a red bow. She then caught the eye of the neighbor boy, who winked as she passed, making her cheeks turn bright red. On a cool spring day, beneath the curled branches of a sycamore tree, Isabella would share her first kiss with him, heart pounding like thunder.

Racing home with a skip in her step, Isabella burst once again through the kitchen door.

“Mother!” she shouted. “May I have one more glass bottle?”

“No, my dear,” her mother said, shaking her head. “You may use only one.”

So Isabella returned to the river once more with an old bottle in hand, the fairy gray and sickly, flopping around like a fish out of water.

“I’m so sorry,” Isabella said, “I’m sorry that I forgot you. I’m sorry that I have to let you go.”

Popping the cork off the bottle, she nestled the glass lip in the running water and watched as the fairy burst to life. Her scales turned silvery-white, belly scarlet red, and hair yellow gold. Then, with a flick of her tail, she dashed down the river's current to dance with the salmon. Brushing tears from her eyes, Isabella dried the glass bottle with the corners of her dress.

That afternoon, she returned to the sycamore tree where her heart fluttered like a butterfly’s wing, and cheeks turned red hot. Isabella expected a peck on the cheek, but her sweetheart surprised her. A pleasant surprise, one that made her lips quiver and her hands sweat. She wanted another taste to capture that moment of bliss. She uncorked the glass bottle and filled it with a handful of winged sycamore seeds.

Holding the glass up to the sun, she watched as one seed cracked open like an egg and out rolled a fairy with wings of pure fire. Her hair was bright red, eyes sea green, and she carried a length of mistletoe, white flowers, and roses. The cinders from her wings tapped the glass, and Isabella held the jar against her cheek to feel the warmth of passion.

“I will never forget you,” she said, her heart swelling with joy.

A fleeting promise, nothing more, for one kiss became two and two became ten: the white flame of young passion sputters and fades. Ephemeral is the snowy blaze ignited by butterflies and love’s first kiss. Soon, it is replaced by something more lasting: an azure flame born of comfort and familiarity fed not by roses and poems but trust and the subtle bump of baby number one.

As the years passed, the fairy’s white wings began to fade, and her red hair turned black as coal. The once dazzling display of roses, lilies, and mistletoe now wilted into a golden-brown wreath of thorns. Isabella too had changed. She was no longer a girl with a red bow in her hair but a young woman with a golden ring and a belly heavy with child. Isabella sat next to her mother, who lay in bed, her brow heavy with wrinkles, hair as gray as storm clouds. Yet, with a pleasant smile, her mother appeared to be resting, a life well-lived.

“I wish you could’ve held your grandchild,” Isabella wept, uncorking the old glass bottle.

Once born of passion’s kiss, that destitute fairy returned to life, her wings bursting into flames as she soared through the air. Now Isabella filled the glass bottle with tears from her cheek.

Climbing out of a mote of sorrow, a gray fairy with a broken wing, muddy gown, and short white hair appeared. She sat in the corner of the jar, hugging her knees to her face and sobbing quietly, alone.

“This wound will never heal,” Isabella said to herself.

But this was not true. As time marched on and yesterday became next year, the fairy’s wing set properly, and she cleaned her gown into a pearly white sheen. That’s when she started whispering in Isabella’s ear. This fairy was wise. She knew best how to make a cookie, with a pinch of salt, and an ounce of sugar. By drawing lines in the air, she taught Isabella how to set a needle and thread and stitch fabric with an invisible seam.

Then, when Isabella’s smile finally returned, the fairy whispered once more in her ear.

“It’s time to let me go. It’s time to move on.”

With a tear in her eyes, Isabella took the dour fairy into the lavender fields and uncorked the bottle, setting her free. The fairy danced in the air, flicking her wings and tapping her heels before coming to perch on the woman’s shoulder. Then, her feet turned to a fish’s tail, and her wings snapped with a golden flame. Indeed, Isabella learned that some fairies need not be bottled, for they nested close to her heart.

“How do you catch a fairy?” Isabella’s son asked, racing through the lavender fields and wrapping his arms around her waist.

She lifted the little boy into her arms and said with a smile, “Why, with glass bottles, of course.”