[Fairleaf]

Fairleaf had enjoyed herself thoroughly. And now that the last of the music was fading, she drank in the fleeting notes with her leaves, letting their rhythm course through her limbs and tingle her roots.

Under yonder oaken tree,
Whose branches oft me shaded;
Elves, the Fair Folk, dance with glee,
When day's last beam hath faded . . .

Oh, true! . . .tis true indeed . . . she hummed to herself recalling the Eldar beneath the upflung branches of oaks and beeches and towering elms as they danced beneath the stars. How did these Little Folk know, she wondered. Had they seen the Fair Folk, too, on cloudless nights?

From her vantage point near the three Grannies who tended to the great punch bowl, she could see quite well the area where the guests were dancing. How pretty they were! All done up in glorious colors; their faces smiling, their feet fairly gliding over the lawn. Like leaves, she thought, caught up in some fair breeze, whirled this way and that in little eddies of color and movement.

She would have to be more careful, though, she thought if she were to stay about much longer. She had been listening in closely to the old Grannies as they chatted about those at the party, and had occasionally dipped one of her slender branches into the delicious punch for a sip. At one point, as the women were deep in discussion of the handfasted couple, Fairleaf had found herself nodding in agreement at their mention of Zimzi’s garden, her leaves rustling in approval, too, of the flowers that had been planted beneath the trees. One of the old dears had looked up at her from her seat at the table and patted her trunk as if in acknowledgement! And further, before they had left for the night, the three Grannies had held a whispered conference, then pushed the punchbowl with a wee bit of their fine draught in it quite close to her. ‘Good for the roots,’ she heard one of them say as they hobbled away.

She drank deep, finishing off the punch, once they’d left, then withdrew a little beneath the overarching canopy of the taller trees. A grey squirrel who’d thought to rest in her branches for the night startled awake as Fairleaf glided backward. He chattered at her angrily, his tail all fluffed up in irritation.

‘Hush now,’ she whispered to him as she came to a halt. Her branches hearby him, curled round his form, cradling him in her leaves. He settled in with a sniff and returned to sleep. Fairleaf dug her roots in deep and anchored herself for the night. She, too, found her lids grow heavy and soon she was lost to her own dreamings . . .