The Night Fairy (5 page)

Once they had flown away, Flory began to breathe again. She caught a glimpse of gleaming white between the trees. The moon was rising — the beautiful moon. Its light did not dazzle her or make her eyes water. She could look at it as long as she liked.

A tiny green light appeared above the grass. Then another. The lightning bugs were rising. One by one they lit their lamps and floated toward the sky. Flory gazed at them, rapt. All at once she realized how homesick she had been for the night. She was not sleepy. She had been up since dawn, but she knew that she would have no trouble staying awake. She was, after all, a night fairy. This was her time.

H
ours passed. Flory swung back and forth on the juniper twig and gazed at the moon. The night breeze tickled her sweetly. The fireflies blinked on and off, now green, now golden. From time to time, Flory heard the faint
shhhh
of the grass moving and saw long shadows cross the ground. The earthworms were leaving their burrows, coming out to breathe the moist air.

A curious chuckling sound caught her attention. Flory held her breath.

A raccoon was drinking from the fishpond. She could hear his tongue as he lapped the water. Noiselessly, Flory got to her feet and peered through the darkness. She saw the grizzled hump of the raccoon’s body. He was combing the water, searching for goldfish. Flory prayed that he would catch one and eat his fill, but her hopes were dashed. He looked up, eyes gleaming, nostrils twitching. She could almost feel him smelling her.

He came straight toward the juniper bush, his claws making a faint
click-click
on the patio. His eyes flashed yellow in the dark. Now he was close enough that Flory could see his dark mask and the weird prettiness of his face. “Who’s there?” he barked.

Flory didn’t move a muscle.

The raccoon came closer. The long, ringed tail swung over the grass like a fat snake. Flory gritted her teeth, clenched her fists, and stung.

The raccoon stopped in his tracks. “Ow,” he said in an annoyed tone of voice. “What are you?”

“I’m a night fairy,” Flory said with dignity.

The raccoon opened his jaws, licking the roof of his mouth as if he tasted something bitter. “I don’t eat fairies,” the raccoon said. “I ate one once, and it stung me. It didn’t taste very good.”

“Then you’d better leave me alone,” said Flory. “I sting
very
hard. I practice a lot.”

“All right. I won’t eat you,” the raccoon answered glibly. He sniffed again. “I smell something good to eat. Is it bird?”

Flory’s hand stole to the hilt of her knife. “You’d better go away.” She knew that her words, like her threats, were idle. The raccoon was huge, sleek, and muscular. If he made up his mind that he wanted the hummingbird, she would not be able to stop him.

The raccoon chuckled. He had seen the bird. His claw shot out and nabbed the hummingbird, snapping the threads of the spiderweb. Flory stung as hard as she could.

The raccoon gave a little yip. He dropped the bird and put his paw in his mouth. “Would you stop
doing
that?” He licked the bottom of his paw. “Oof. I hate cobwebs.” His tongue swept the edges of his mouth. Then he bent down and picked up the hummingbird in his jaws.

“Let go!” screamed Flory. She grabbed a thread of the spiderweb and swung to the ground. She yanked her hand free, so angry that she didn’t feel it when the web ripped off a layer of skin. “You stop! Let go of that bird, or I’ll stab you!”

The raccoon cocked his head. He loomed over her, and his bright eyes twinkled. He was ten times as big as Skuggle and thirty times as heavy. But Flory was too furious to care. She darted forward and slashed the raccoon’s forepaw with her dagger. When she pulled the knife free, there was blood on the tip.

“Stop that!” snarled the raccoon, shaking his paw. Flory thrust again. This time she missed.

“Silly fairy,” said the raccoon, “You can’t fight me! Leave me alone, or I’ll have to hurt you!”

“I won’t!” screamed Flory. “Go away, or I’ll kill you!”

The raccoon laughed so hard that the hummingbird fell out of his mouth. Flory slashed at him with her knife. This time the raccoon struck back, smacking her with such force that she tumbled headlong over the grass. Flory sat up and uttered her stinging spell. She was amazed by her own strength. The raccoon winced as she stung again. Her spells were small wounds, mere pinpricks under the raccoon’s fur. But it was Flory’s time, a little before midnight, and her magic was at its strongest. Though the stings were small ones, they came one after another, pelting the raccoon from all sides.

The raccoon was losing patience. He had been stung all over his body, and the pad of his front paw was bleeding. He lowered his head and crouched down, growling.

A bat squeaked. The cry of a bat is a common sound at night, and the raccoon paid no attention. But Flory threw down her dagger and covered her head with her arms.

The bat streaked toward them, coming within an inch of the raccoon’s head. The raccoon ducked, and the bat zigzagged back. His mouth was open, showing needle-sharp teeth. The skin wings jerked and rippled. No sight could have been more terrifying to Flory. She burrowed into the grass.

The bat’s squeaks grew softer, then louder — Flory felt the wind of his wings — then softer again. When Flory dared to raise her head, she saw that the raccoon had scampered a few feet away. He sat back on his haunches, a baffled look on his face.

Little brown bats are insect eaters. They do not attack raccoons. But the bat swooped down again, shrieking curses.

Flory began to understand that he was not after her. He was tormenting the raccoon. She watched as he drove the raccoon across the patio and past the fishpond. The raccoon dodged and ducked, spinning in circles, but the bat would not leave him alone. At last the raccoon slunk under the garden fence. The ringed tail vanished.

The bat chittered with triumph and circled back toward Flory. He flopped down on the grass less than six inches away. Flory was so frightened that tears filled her eyes.

“Don’t cry,” the bat said gently. “Don’t you see? I came to help.”

Flory’s mouth was too dry to utter a spell. Her hand went to her side, seeking her dagger.

“Your knife’s by your left foot,” the bat told her. “Only please don’t stab me. Or sting me. I don’t blame you for wanting to, but please don’t.”

Flory picked up her dagger and got to her feet. She stared at the bat.

He was really rather a small bat. His wingspan was huge — like two large pinecones set end to end — but now that he was close to her, she could see that he wasn’t much bigger than she was. He was mouse-size, with a pushed-in snout and enormous ears that were set wide apart, like moths’ wings. He lay belly-flopped on the ground with his elbows folded up like jackknives.

Flory’s voice shook. “What do you want?”

“Well,” said the bat, “I don’t want to hurt you. Or your friend.” He nodded toward the hummingbird in the grass. “How did you come to make friends with a hummingbird? They’re not friendly birds, you know.”

“I know,” Flory said with feeling. She thought a moment. “We’re not really friends. I was hoping she would let me ride on her back one day.”

The bat opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something. But Flory went on speaking. “That’s how it started. The first time I saw a hummingbird, I knew I wanted to ride on one. I didn’t care whether they were friendly or not. I just liked the way they looked.”

“Who doesn’t?” said the bat. “They’re beautiful birds. Amazing fliers. Of course, bats are good fliers, too —” He paused, once again as if there was something he wanted to say. But Flory interrupted.

“I hate bats,” she said.

“I know,” said the bat humbly. “It’s my fault.”

Flory gasped. “It was you?”

“I was younger then,” the bat said pleadingly. “Try to understand. I was asleep for the winter — I’d found a nice little attic for my home. Then one night, the door opened and the giants charged in. They had bright lights in their hands, and they were shouting — you’d think they were afraid of us! Luckily I got away through a hole in the roof. But of course, it was early for me to be out, and I was half-asleep and terribly hungry. I saw you and I thought you were a luna moth. I ought to have known better — luna moths in April! — but I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“I see,” Flory said slowly.

“I’ve been sorry ever since,” the bat went on. “And I’ve wanted to tell you so. I looked for you night after night — I thought you must have dropped down close to this garden — and I called out to you, but no one ever answered. Then tonight I heard a fairy screaming. I came closer, and I listened for the echoes, and I heard that the fairy’s wings were jagged and torn. That’s when I knew it was you.”

“Oh,” said Flory. She thought of all the nights she had huddled inside the cedar house with cobwebs in her ears, trying to block out the sounds of the bats.

“There’s one thing more,” the bat added. He sounded nervous. “I know I’m not a hummingbird — and your wings are coming along nicely — but if —”

Flory held up her hand. “Wait. Stop. What do you mean, my wings are coming along nicely? What do you
mean
?”

The bat raised himself up on his elbows. “I mean they’re growing back,” he said. “I can hear them. Can’t you?”

Flory shook her head. She reached behind her, feeling up and down the ruffle of wings on her spine. The scabs had fallen away; she had known that. She couldn’t tell if the wings felt longer or not. She craned her neck, trying to see over her shoulder.

“Oh, my dear,” the bat said softly. “Didn’t you know? Your wings will grow back as your magic grows stronger. They’ve already begun. I don’t see very well — but I can hear the cells growing, if I listen carefully. Can’t you?”

“No,” answered Flory. “I can’t hear that well. And I can’t see behind me.”

“They’re growing,” the bat told her. He gave a little shriek, and his huge ears rippled. “I can
hear
the echo. You can make mistakes with your eyes, but ears never lie. At least, my ears don’t.”

Flory wanted to dance and weep for joy. “Then — I’ll have wings again!” She saw herself flying through the garden on her own wings, dipping through the spray of the fountain, soaring over the snapdragons. “I’ll be able to fly!”

“Yes,” agreed the bat. “And in the meantime”— he sounded suddenly shy —“if you want someone to fly you around, well, there’s me. I’d be happy to carry you. Of course, I’m not as beautiful as a hummingbird — most creatures think bats are rather ugly — but I’d like to help, because, you see, I am so very sorry.”

Flory thought about what the bat was saying. She looked at him, with his long, clever fingers and the soft fur around his face. He wasn’t glittering and magical like the hummingbird, but Flory liked his face. It was a gentle face, and she felt that she could trust him.

“I don’t think you’re ugly,” she told him. “What’s your name?”