By Christine Macedo (Second revision)

I'll tell you a story if you lay very quietly and try not to interrupt. You must know, my dear, that this story is not like the books I read to you. This story is true.

At times I think that it must have been a dream. Then there are times when I am so sure that it really happened. It does not matter which you believe, for in the end you will see that it was a miracle.

I know that I don't speak much of my childhood. Indeed, there is not much that I remember. What I do recall was brutal and cruel. I lived alone with a father that worshipped not at church, but at the tavern. He obeyed not the Lord, but demon alcohol. I don't believe that his work in the fields ever suffered, but there were times when food was scarce so that drink would be plentiful.

The townsfolk never said much to me that I remember. They never questioned the marks that would show themselves on my face and forearms. I'm sure they would not have liked thinking about my unseen bruises. Some would shake their heads in pity, but most refused to meet my eyes. Whenever I was among people, I remember feeling helpless and alone.

I often prayed for strength or deliverance, but none was forthcoming. I must have found it best to try to shrink or disappear when the man was at his worst. I remember dark, enclosed spaces while storms of anger raged. At those times I thought of leaving, but I could never break the spell that seemed to hold the door fast. Stories of what lay outside the house at night frightened me more than the monster within'until this one night.

As I have already said, I am still not sure if I merely dreamt the whole night, but it is my most vivid childhood memory. It was a cool evening in June and I was a few months shy of my twelfth birthday. I had gotten into my cotton nightdress and was dozing in the chair by the fire. I kept telling myself to go upstairs to bed, but my limbs had gotten too heavy with drowsiness to obey. Soon, the fire had all but died and I knew my father must have stopped by the tavern on his way home from the fields. It was well past dark, maybe even close to midnight and my belly growled at the meager dinner I had taken so long ago.

I heard his boots in the gravel before the front step and the dull clunk of them as he mounted the porch. His steps were shuffling and uneven, confirming what the lateness of the hour had already suggested. I heard clumsy hands struggle with the latch and the drunk-talk that he always had with himself. Then the door flew open.

He swore loudly, complaining about the dark. The light from the high, full moon shone in the doorway and he couldn't see me. But I had been sitting in the dark, so I could see him quite well. As fast as I could to stem the rising tide of his temper, I rose, retrieved matches from the mantle and lit the lantern on the table.

He was still standing just inside the doorway. He had a sack slung over his shoulder, which meant that he had gone to the market with his wages before the tavern. I said a silent prayer of thanks for that.

'What're you doing outta bed?'� he slurred. I had no answer and which annoyed him even more. He swore again and tossed the sack on the table. He plunked himself into a chair, looking as though he meant to take off his boots. To buy time for an answer, I moved to close the door. As I passed him, his hand snaked out and gripped my upper arm.

'Answer me, young lady! What are you doing outta your bed!'� His face was close to mine and his voice was getting louder. I could smell the fermentation on his breath. I yanked my arm away and backed up a step.

'I was waiting for you,'� I replied almost saucily. He shot to his feet and hauled me back toward him by the sleeve of my nightdress. I thought I heard it tear a little. He was about to say something, but instead he released me with a shove toward the door.

Before I could close it, a large moth fluttered in attracted by the lamplight. I followed it with my eyes as it disappeared into a dark corner of the room.

'Hurry up and close that door,'� began the drunkard before trailing off into mumbling. My arm smarted where his fingers had dug in and it suddenly made me vengeful. I slammed the door closed and then slammed the bar down across, but my boldness was not my biggest mistake. I had taken my eyes off him to do so and when I turned toward him again I was knocked off my feet by a blow to the side of my head.

Instead of cowering on the floor, as was my usual custom, I felt the heat explode in my temples. I would fight back!

My head ringing, I came up with my elbow intending to drive it into his stomach, but he had taken a step forward and so my counterstrike hit south of my mark.

He clutched himself and roared in pain and anger. Escape in my mind, I lunged for the door, but in one move he cut me off. He swung again, grunting in anger, so I ducked then dashed around the table the other way. Eyes bloodshot and popping with fury, he lumbered after me. I knocked a chair into his path and down he went, all flailing limbs and violent oaths.

'I'LL KILL YOU!'� he bellowed from the floor and though I had heard that before, this time I knew he meant it. Never before had I had the audacity to strike back. Even now, I don't know where the sudden gall had come from.

Just then the moth fluttered out of the shadows and across my line of sight. It landed near the door and at once the spell was broken. Before I knew it, I was running barefoot down the front path, toward the road.

I could hear the clamor behind me calling me names no decent man would ever utter around his daughter. I knew that he'd be able to see my white nightdress in the full moonlight. As fleet as my feet would carry me, I crossed the road and into the darkness of the forest beyond. Sobriety, youth, and a day not spent hard at labor in the fields were to be on my side, but I had not eaten much that would have given me strength and I had been asleep only a few moments ago. A few yards ahead of me, I thought I spied a path, so I sped toward it.

I heard the crashing behind me and I knew that my pursuer had entered the wood and like me, would seek to follow the path. Lest hunter become captor, I leapt off a turn in the trail and hid myself behind a wide old oak tree. In the dark eeriness of the midnight forest, my newfound recklessness left me. I cowered against the trunk and prayed for salvation. Magnified by my panic, the sound of drunken men seemed everywhere and I knew that I was trapped. If I moved from my hiding spot my clothing, lurid even under the trees, would give me away. Hide--I needed to hide, but where? How?

And now you may say that it is here that I must have fallen asleep: here, pressing my back into the bark of the old tree; now, when I held my hands to my thudding heart to keep it from beating out of my chest. You may say that after you hear what happened next, but I ask: does a person fall asleep when they are in such a state, shuddering and gasping in fevered panic?

I shut my eyes tight and tried to slow my breath. By the racket of his slashing and cursing, I could judge his proximity and he was getting closer. My new courage had failed me, so I fell back on my old cowardice. Trying to shrink and disappear, I crouched down, but even bare feet and soft cotton make noises in the leaf litter. He seemed just on the other side of the tree and he must have heard movement, because he stopped suddenly. I could hear his ragged breath hold now and again as if listening.

I opened my eyes wide in the darkness, ready to bolt at the first shadow of motion. For a moment I felt disoriented because the trees seemed to be growing before my eyes. The sound of breath drawing in and out seemed to rise higher and higher and the dark underbrush was rushing up to meet me. Then it dawned on me. I was shrinking! I wished and prayed so hard for it that it was actually happening.

I was astonished and a tiny bit relieved. Had my adventure ended there, it would have been amazing enough, but, my darling, the tale continues.

I ended up no more than a few inches tall, as near as I could tell. Once I was over the shock of it (which took quite a few moments, I can tell you), I sought a hiding place among the roots of the now giant tree. I had no more time to wonder at my state, for sudden shouts began anew, rending the woodland air in its midnight stillness. I leapt in fright and stumbled, falling into a deep groove between two roots. Just then, a pair of giant boots attached to giant legs came into view around the tree. I scooted back, deeper into the crevice.

My hands, feeling out the dimensions of my new hiding place found a short ledge to the back of the niche. I turned to look at it and discovered a staircase that wound up and out of sight with a faint light that filtered from around the curve. It seemed that there were steps carved out on the inside of the tree, under the bark. How far they went or where they led was beyond my knowledge, but I was seized by a sudden desire to find out.

The unknown often frightens us even as we seek it and so my haste to discover was tempered by such caution. The recent chase and my resulting panic were forgotten in light of this new curiosity, perhaps because I knew that there was no way he could follow me now. Or perhaps it is true that things out of sight are out of mind, for the moment I stood on the stair, I no longer saw nor heard any sign of my father.

The faint light seemed just around the next turning, a promise that beckoned. Presently the aroma of food reached my detection. My empty stomach rumbled and my head was filled with visions of bread in the oven, roasting meat over the fire and fresh-picked fruits.

Though the light never seemed to get any brighter, the smell of food became stronger and after some moments both were joined by a sound. Each sense that was awakened to new information furthered my thirst for whatever lay at the top of the stair and drove me to a faster and faster pace. With each step, I climbed more and more swiftly, stumbling a few times on the rough-hewn unevenness.

It was not long before I began to wonder if this was a cruel trick or a nightmare. Was I destined to climb those stairs forever without end? The murmurs became voices and music and laughter. With each passing moment the smells became more enticing, the laughter more inviting, sharpening my hunger and a loneliness I hadn't been aware of before.

Then, as suddenly as my climb began, it ended. The top of my staircase opened onto a flat landing with one doorway like a gap in the side of the tree. A beautiful light spilled forth accompanied by lively music and conversation, all of which had a tinkling, sparkling quality.

I was filled with a sudden shyness and stood dazzled at the top of the stairs. While my eyes were still adjusting to the sudden brightness, a figure blocked the doorway. I could not see what it was save that it was in the general shape of a person. A rich tenor voice spoke and even his words had a musical quality.

'There you are,'� he said, 'we'd wondered where you'd got to.'� With that he grabbed my hand and led me through the doorway and into the midst of a great festival. Everything was a disorienting whirl of sight, sound, sense and smell. When I was finally able to register what I saw, I marveled. In the upper boughs of the oak tree there was a gathering of the strangest, most wonderful beings that I had ever laid eyes on.

My feeble words will not do the scene justice, but I will try to describe what I saw in those first few moments:

They all appeared human in general form and came in as many sizes and shapes as people do, though comparable to my height at the time, which was only as tall as an oak leaf is long. There were stout ones, thin ones, tall, and round, muscled, and lithe and they all moved with a light grace. They flitted between branches on nimble feet or on the wings that some of them had. Some had wings like dragonflies, transparent and lacy, while others' were arrayed with pattern and color like butterflies'. The one that led me had wings like a moth. Some seemed to wear costumes or skins like birds or squirrels, lizards or insects.

Their voices were like music, faces pleasant and full of mirth. Each one's skin was tinged a different hue: golden, bronze, rose, and even blue and green and it glowed slightly with a kind of inner light.

To tell the tale, to recall what I had seen that night, these things seem strange and wondrous, but the thing that seemed strangest to me at the time was the air of merriment. As I passed by groups of revelers, they all greeted me with welcoming smiles, a touch on the arm, a pat on the back. Such warmth was foreign to me, I recall, yet before I had time to question it I was swept up into it. I began to nod back, then smile, then wave. I even returned the occasional embrace, though I never let go of my guide's hand. As he led me winding through the throng, his warm, strong hand felt secure.

We were on one of several platforms of smooth wood that extended out from the trunk of the tree. Each one was shaped like the wedge of a circle. On the outer edge of this one, I spied the source of those delicious smells waiting for me, piled high on tables. My eyes must have been as big as wagon wheels, for my guide chuckled when he glanced at me.

'You must be hungry,'� he laughed. I nodded mutely, aware of the calling of my stomach.

'Well go on,'� he said not unkindly, 'don't be shy,'� and gestured with an open hand. I hesitated a moment longer, but only because I didn't know where to begin. There were acorns filled with honey, loaves of bread and rolls and buns, platters piled high with roasted meat and poultry and fish. There were steamed root vegetables, beans and berries as big as my head. There were cakes, pies, ices and a tinkling fountain with wine flowing down one side, and cool, clear water flowing down the other.

Shunning the wine, I took my fill of the water that tasted as though it were a mountain stream in spring flowing through a patch of fresh mint. After that, I started in on the food. I was in the midst of a mouthful of bread and honey when a rich tenor murmured close to my ear, 'if you fill up too much, you'll be in no state to dance!'�

I looked around and my handsome guide stood beaming. His hand was out in invitation. At this I blushed for it was just then that I was able to get a good look at him. He stood straight and strong. His brown eyes twinkled. His hair was the color of autumn leaves in the sunset and it curled around his ears and the nape of his neck. He was bare-chested and barelegged, as were many of his companions. His skin was a coppery color and though it glowed like the rest of his people, it was a less unnatural tone than the blues and purples. He smiled and I thought it beautiful.

'Who are you?'� I half whispered.

'We're sprites!'� he said sticking out his chest and opening his eyed moth's wings and at that he bowed gallantly.

Do you recall the moth that I had seen in my house? Perhaps I had forgotten to mention that it was an eyed silkmoth, but that is indeed what it was.

'You were in my house'�'� I murmured, but he had already put his wings away and was spinning me out on the floor to dance.

The sprites were awhirl with brilliant color and twinkling lights. Winged couples waltzed airborne above my head. Peals of laughter rang out in tune to the music. As we spun, my partner threw back his head and laughed. Giddy with the excitement of it all, I laughed, too. We danced ourselves sleepy, ate ourselves stupid, and laughed ourselves silly. It was a celebration the like of which I had never seen before!

Hours flew by like minutes and soon all the sprites began to seek out places to sleep. Some nestled in close to the trunk of the tree, others among the leaves. One plump, yellow friend with rosy cheeks even curled up on a table among the dinner rolls. He fell asleep with his goldfinch wings furled and a smile still on his lips.

The silkmoth looked at me and I at him and I knew that it was time for me to leave. The fear that had left me so long ago crept its way back in.

'Fear not,'� he said reading the expression on my face, 'your father has long since given up the search for you. The ale has taken him off to slumber and when he wakes he'll have no memory of his anger, as is often the case when men drink.'� The gentle tones of his rich tenor voice comforted me.

'You rescued me,'� I said. He shook his head.

'You found the strength to escape. And just in time to join our Summer Solstice Celebration,'� he smiled. Sprites awake in the woods at night to do their magic and mischief. They are never harmful and sometimes helpful. Summer solstice is the shortest night of the year and so they feast to celebrate the longer nights forthcoming, or so it was explained to me.

'Your long night will soon be over,'� the silkmoth said to me, 'for the strength you found tonight will serve you well in the future. But now you must creep back into bed before the dawn, but be sure to wash your face and hands and feet; they are dirty from wandering the wood.

'Soon will come a day when you will leave your torment behind you and find your true home. Now hurry! The sky is lightening in the east.'�

I waved goodbye to the silkmoth and those sprites who were still awake, field-mouse, tree-frog, the monarch and the others. I turned toward the doorway in the tree trunk to take the stairs that led me up. I found, however, that I was too tall to fit, so I began to climb down the tree instead. By the time I reached the ground, I was back to my normal size.

I made my way home, stopping at the well to wash my face and hands and feet. I found the front door open just a crack. When I peered around the door, I saw my father asleep in a chair, head down on the table, still in his boots. I closed and latched the door silently, though I probably could have shouted and he wouldn't have heard for all his snoring. I crossed the room and climbed up the ladder to the loft that held my bed. I crawled under the covers and was asleep before the sun was up.

It all happened as the sprite said that it would. My father had had no recollection of the night's chase and just after my twelfth birthday, I left his house for good. I gathered up my courage, for I had a good deal more than before, along with some clothes and food and I left one day while he was in the field. Honestly, I thought he'd be as glad to be rid of me as I was of him, and he hasn't sought me out since.

I followed the course of the great river and after passing town and wood and field, came to a church where the minister lived with his sister. That is to say, that they lived in the house next to the church and so I came to live there, too. He was unmarried and childless; she was a widow who had not long ago lost both husband and son. They took me in and taught me such peace and kindness. Even their brother, who was older and wealthy and lived in the city, came to think of me as his favorite niece. He came to visit often and I never wanted for anything. I had found my true home and what I cherished most about it was the love and warmth that flourished under its roof.

So it would seem that the story is over, wouldn't it? Yet there is one more part. You see, it came to be that I decided my Night of the Sprites was a dream, though a very realistic and vivid one.

Then one day, on the verge of my nineteenth birthday, I was walking the road from a farmer friend of the minister's, returning from some errand or other that I had been glad to perform. I was singing to myself and swinging the basket of cakes that the farmer's wife had baked for us. Up ahead, it appeared that a cart had left the road and was half in the ditch to one side. A horse was standing idly, but no one else was in sight.

As I approached, the horse eyed me with a passing interest. It didn't appear that he would run off, but I led him to the fence on the other side of the road and tied him there anyway. He followed without protest. Then I approached the cart and called out to see if anyone was there.

'Hallo, are you hurt?'� At the sound of my voice, a head popped up near the cart.

'Are you alright?'� I asked.

The young man stood and faced me. He looked as though he were about to say something but was instead struck dumb. It was just as well, for in the shock of this full view of him, I wouldn't have heard a word he said. I, too, was struck dumb and stood staring.

He had a handsome face. He stood straight and strong. His brown eyes twinkled. His hair was the color of autumn leaves in the sunset and it curled around his ears and the top of his collar. His face was ruddy with exertion, but I could still see the coppery freckles across his nose and cheeks. He smiled and I thought it beautiful.

'The eyed moth,'� I whispered. A confused look crossed his face.

'I'm sorry what did you say?'� he asked in a rich tenor.

'Who are you?'� I half whispered. He climbed out of the ditch and, sticking out his chest he answered.

'I'm Joshua,'� here he gave a gallant bow, then straightened, 'and my cart is stuck in a ditch.'� We both laughed, then I took his hand and it was warm and strong.

'I'm Samantha,'� I said.

Now does the description sound familiar to you, or can you not imagine what your father looked like before you were born? Yes, love, I had seen your father long before I met him and I already knew that I loved him.

Not long after that day, we were married. You can still hear people talk about that day and how blessed the event was. At the wedding feast we danced ourselves sleepy, ate ourselves stupid, and laughed ourselves silly, and we've been doing the same ever since!

THE END

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