The thirteenth fairy

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In a kingdom far away a king and queen had been trying for
years to have a baby but with no success. 
Still they persevered.  
They did not give up and the day finally arrived when the queen gave
birth to a beautiful baby daughter. 
The royal couple were delighted. 
They wanted to share their pleasure with the entire kingdom.  To this end they sent out their
couriers far and wide to invite every person who ever lived in their lands to a
celebration of the birth of their baby.
 
         Everyone
was to be invited, from the lowly to the high.  Everyone.  The
party was held in the great hall and those who came all brought some offering,
however small, for the baby.  When
it came time for the fairies to offer their gifts each took it in turn. The
First Fairy waved her wand and wished the baby the gift of beauty; the second
wished her intelligence; the third creativity and so it went on.  Each fairy wished the baby some
attribute to live a good and fulfilled life.  But when the Twelfth Fairy stood to offer her gift there was
a whoosh of wind.  The sky grew
dark overhead and the Thirteenth Fairy appeared out of nowhere.  She was in a rage.
         ‘I
wish this baby dead.’  She waved
her wand and disappeared.
         The
people were aghast, mouths open, hearts beating.  The queen rushed to the cradle and looked down onto her
sleeping baby fearful that the Thirteenth’s Fairy’s power had already taken
effect. But the baby slept on.  Her
cheeks moved in rhythm with each breath. 
         ‘I
cannot undo the power of the Thirteenth Fairy,’ the Twelfth Fairy said. ‘My
power is not so great, but I can soften it.’
 
And so the story continues, the familiar story, the one
you already know.  ‘The child will
live a good life until she is sixteen years old and then she will prick her
finger on a spindle and sleep for one hundred years, only to be awakened by a
kiss.’
What a cow that Thirteenth Fairy.  She was angry you know because she had
not been invited to the party.  She
had felt left out and excluded. 
But she was not invited because no one could find her.  The couriers knew of her
existence.  They knew she lived in
some dank cave somewhere on the other side of the mountain but they could not
be sure in which dark cave she lived, because she moved caves regularly in
order to avoid detection. 
         They
would have invited her.  The king
and queen told their couriers as much. 
They were so full of the spirit of good will with the birth of their
baby they had invited the local drunk, the street urchins, the paupers, the
prostitutes, even the ones with leprosy, but the Thirteenth Fairy hid away,
bitter and resentful.
 
         Typical,
she thought.  They didn’t include
me.  I’ll show them. 
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3 Comments on The thirteenth fairy

  1. Jim Murdoch
    May 12, 2014 at 3:04 pm (4 years ago)

    It’s hard to know what other people are thinking at the best of times but probably one of the hardest things for all of us is living with the fact we’ll never know for sure what other people are thinking about us. A number times in my life I’ve been surprised when I’ve learned—inevitably via a third party—what others thought of me and I wasn’t always pleased by what I heard. I think one of the hardest things for me to come to terms with was that people found me intimidating. I think I’m a cuddly toy but that’s not how I come across it seems. I worry especially nowadays how I’m perceived online. I’ve not made many friends and assume the fault’s mine as you do. I leave what I hope are considered and considerate comments on their blog posts and frequently never hear a word of thanks. (And no I’m not getting at you here.) Did I say something to offend them? Did they think I was showing off? Did I say too much? Did I intimidate them? Maybe they’re just too busy. Maybe they don’t deserve my friendship. Maybe I’m too good for them. Maybe I just won’t bother commenting on their stupid piddling little blogs ever again. It’s easy to fill the silence with all kinds of negativity.

    I’m like the thirteenth witch. I’m not gregarious. I shy away from social situations. There’s a little voice inside me—I was thinking only yesterday just how insistent this voice has been getting of late—that says, “Leave me alone!” And mostly I am happy alone pottering around in my cave. Mostly. The problem with spending too much time in one’s cave is that after a while you start to forget what ‘normal’ behaviour is like. What do ‘normal’ people do? I think about poetry magazines and wonder who reads them. I could probably count the number of poetry magazines I’ve bought on my fingers and I’m talking about in my LIFE. Is that normal? Do normal people buy poetry magazines as a matter of course or do just send their poems to them so they can say they’ve been published and only check their own poem when their copy arrives to see if there’re any typos? Have I got a completely skewed view? Or am I the normal one and no one talks about stuff like that?

    I’m wondering now why you wrote this post. And if, like me, you identify with Carabosse.

    Reply
  2. Anthony Duce
    May 12, 2014 at 4:15 pm (4 years ago)

    Think of all the villains who might have turned out okay, if only they had been found and included in time….

    Reply
  3. Pandora Behr
    May 13, 2014 at 12:26 am (4 years ago)

    Have you every investigated the mythology around Lilith, firth wife of Adam? A darker, ominpresent archetype that goes along with this.

    I like it.

    Reply

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