"Sally of the Moor" by Garon E. Whited

                Now listen closely, for I’ll only tell you once.  This is the story of my Aunt Reuben and the fairy that was her friend.

                Sally Reuben (long ago, when she was a little girl) was golden-haired and blue-eyed, just the sort of little girl that fairies love to see.  She often wore a gingham dress, for there were only two dresses to her name; one for work, and one that she wore to church.  But when her occasional lessons were done and the washing put away, the firebox full of wood and the washbasin full of water, then she could go out into the moor behind the house and play.

                Now it so happens that the moor was owned by a Duke of Elfland, although no one but the fairy-kind knew that.  Everyone who had tried to live on the moorland, each and every one, had packed up and left it within a month, for the Duke did not take well to others upon his lands.  All manner of misfortune was got upon them, from sickness to falls, to curdled milk to moldy bread, to leaky roof and broken hinges.

                But Sally played upon the moor, and none of the Duke’s retainers felt the need to mention it, for she was a gladsome girl and always paid heed to the fairies.

                “Go that way,” one would whisper; “there is a bog you must avoid.”  And, sure as sunshine after storm, young Sally would turn aside from it.  “Not this way,” another would say; “there are brambles beneath the leaves.”  And Sally would stay out of the brambles and the thorns.

                Once, when she ran down a slope, arms outspread like the wings of a bird, she stumbled upon a stone and went headlong.  Her dress was muddied and torn, her hands and knees all skinned, and she cried because it hurts to go tumbling like that.

                Then up came a young man, smaller even than she, dressed all in clothes of the greatest finery.  He bore a sword, perfect for his size, and even wore a thin hoop of gold about his brow.  He put his hands on his knees and leaned down to peer at her.

                “What a funny thing to do,” said he, watching her cry.  “Why do you do it?”

                “I’m crying because it hurts,” she sniffled, “and my Da will be all angry at me for tearing my dress so.”

                The young fellow pondered this for a while, then said, “If I mend your dress and soothe your wounds, will you stop?”

                “Yes, I will,” she agreed, “for then it won’t hurt so much, and my Da won’t be so angry.”

                And, in an instant, her dress was clean and mended, without even a trace of stitching to show were it had been torn.  Her skinned hands and knees were whole again, and the pain of them was gone.

                “Why, thank you,” she said, rising and giving him a curtsey, for she was a very polite little girl.  “I feel ever so much better.  What is your name?”

                “I am Periwinkle Forsooth,” replied the boy, drawing himself up in a noble fashion.

                “Such a funny name,” Sally replied.  “My name is Sally Reuben.”

                “A funny name, indeed,” Periwinkle replied.

                “Funny enough to you, I expect, just as yours is funny to me.”

                He thought about this for a moment, then nodded.  “I suppose you must be right.  What are you doing here on my Da’s lands?”

                “I was playing, but I tripped and fell.  I didn’t know your Da owned the moorland.”

                “Oh, yes; he’s had it for ages and ages, longer even than I can remember,” replied Periwinkle.  “But he doesn’t like people on it, at least not to live on.  I don’t expect he shall be much put out by you playing here.”

                “That’s a goodness,” Sally said, thankfully.  “I should be ever so unhappy if I could not, for I should simply fade away within that awful house.”

                Periwinkle cocked his head and looked puzzled.  “Then why do you stay there?”

                “Because we’re poor,” she replied.  “If we were rich, we would move away and live in a grand, fine house.  If we were even just a little better off, Da might fix the leaky roof and the drafty walls and make it a fit place to live.  He worries too much about how well off we are, and it isn’t good for him.”

                “Well, then, you must come and play whenever you can,” Periwinkle replied.  “If you like, I’ll play with you, and even bring my friends to meet you.”

                “Oh would you?” Sally said, clapping her hands.  “I’ve been ever so lonely without friends to play with; there’s been only my Da, and he’s always so serious.  But he’s a good man, and I love him dearly.   Still, it would be dandy to have people to play with.”

                “Of course I shall bring them.  When next will you be here?”

                “Whenever I can get all my chores done in time,” she replied.  “Where shall I meet you?”

                “See the top of the lonely oak?” Periwinkle said, pointing at the top of the tree, mostly hidden by the rise and dip of the ground.  “If you’re ever out and wish to play, simply come to that tree and I’ll be with you presently.”

                “Oh, that will be such fun,” she exclaimed.  “But for now I had best get back to the house.”

                Periwinkle bowed low to her, and she curtseyed back to him before turning and running off toward the house.

                Once home, she immediately put the kettle on the stove and stoked it well.  From the other room, she could hear her Da beginning to stir.  He came home after working from before sunup in some dreary mill, and then drank a bit to get to sleep.  Sally poured hot water for the tea, then set two slices of bread on the stove to toast.

                When her Da came in he settled down on the only chair in the house, took the tea, ate the toast, and kissed her on the forehead.

                “Thank you, Sally; I’m glad you’re about to be the lady of the house.”

                She smiled up at him and held his hand.  “You’re welcome, Da.  Will you bring me back some butter tonight for the toast in the morning?”

                Her Da looked pained for a fleeting instant, but hid it behind a smile.  “If I can, I will.  Did you eat all your bread and eggs?”

                Sally swallowed, thinking of the meal she should have eaten.  But she couldn’t lie to him.  Not to Da.  Or not much.

                “No, Da.  I wasn’t hungry,” she said, even though she was.

                “You’ll eat them,” he said.  “Fetch them out and do it now, for I’ll not move from this chair until you do.”

                “You’ll be late, Da.”

                “I’ll be later still if I have to hide you.”

                Sally fetched the bread and the eggs, toasted the one, fried the other, and ate them all under the red-rimmed eyes of her Da.

                “That’s my girl,” he said, and kissed her hair.  “Now, you go to bed while I go to work.”

                “Goodnight, Da,” she said, and crawled into the only bed.

                It was the next day, before her Da came home, that she was gathering fallen wood for the woodbin.  And what should come up to the house but a cow!  A thin cow, hungry-looking, lowing loud and deep.

                Sally put the wood in the woodbin and went to the cow, saying, “Poor cow!  I bet you’re just hungry as anything.  Well, we haven’t much to feed a cow, but there’s some green stuff this way, I recall.  Come along.”  And the cow followed her willingly enough.  Once in a low hollow in the moor, among the leafy plants, it showed no inclination to depart.

                Sally stroked it’s sides and said, “You are a hungry beast, I’m sure.  But you can stay there, if you like.  The man who owns this land shouldn’t mind having another cow, I think.”  Then she returned to the house.

                Now, the house was a wooden structure, built up upon little pillars of brick to keep it from the damp.  Underneath was a little space, barely enough to crawl through.  From this space, Sally heard a squawking and a clucking, and she bent down to examine the underside of the house.

                “Gracious me!  A whole family of chickens!  And where did you come from, I wonder?  Well, wherever you came from, you can’t be comfortable under there like that.  But I might find you some straw and some leaves, and that might be enough to make a nest for yourselves.”  And off she went, returning with her skirt hem held up like a basket, carrying a sizable pile of straw and old leaves.  This she dumped at the edge of the house and then pushed the lot underneath.

                “There you are,” she exclaimed.  “Now, you must be quiet soon, for Da must sleep during the day.”

                Sally sprang up, dusted herself off, and went back to her chores with a will, for she was far behind.  Yet, the woodbox was already full, and there was not a trace of dust to be found in the house.  The clothes were cleaned and mended, both of the plates were washed, and even the little stool with the wobbly leg was sitting straight as could be.

                When her Da came home, he was astonished, for there were eggs upon the stove and a cow at the door, lowing mournfully and full of milk.  So he milked the cow and both he and Sally sat down to a better dinner than they had hoped for.

                That marked the turn for Sally and her Da.  The chickens laid eggs with perfect regularity, always a few more than they needed.  The cow had three times the milk they could drink.  And her Da, after tasting the milk, decided that it would be the only thing he would drink again.  Thereafter, he always took a few fresh eggs and a jar of milk with him to work, “For the foreman has a passion for fresh eggs and milk, having grown up on a farm as he did, and will pay me a penny each day.”

                And Sally got to play much  more often.  She tried to do her chores, but no sooner had she started than each was done.  An armload of wood for the woodbin and it was full.  Fetch a bucket of water to clean the two plates, and they were.  Get the broom and sweep out the kitchen and the whole house was clean.

                So every day, she was off on the moor, meeting Periwinkle by the lonely oak.

                After a number of years, her Da came home and sat down in the newer of their two chairs, then called her in to sit in the other.

                “Sally, you’re not the little girl you used to be,” he began, “and your Da’s not so young as he once was.  There’ll come a day when you have a suitor, God willing, and you’ll be a married lady.”

                Sally blushed and looked down.  Already, there were changes that she could see, and she knew that he was speaking true.

                “What I’d like to do is have a lady over for a day or two,” he continued.  “I’d like for you to meet her and be friends with her, for your Da doesn’t know all that he should to raise you from girl to woman.  And it would be good of you to teach her how to take care of your Da, if you would, so that when your suitor comes calling, you can go with him.”

                Sally thought about it for a moment, then said, “If I like her, Da, I’ll do it.  If I don’t, then out she goes.”

                He laughed at her then and wiped away a tear.  “That’s my girl!  But she’s nice enough, I think, and I hope you’ll learn to like her.”

                The next day her Da brought home the lady.  She was pretty, at least a little bit, but she smiled a lot and was very kind.  She and Sally talked for a long while when Da was sleeping, and between them they settled things. 

                It was not quite a year later when Sally helped the lady—now she called her “Mum”—to be delivered of a baby brother.  He was a smiling baby, round and wide-eyed and eager to laugh.  Mum and Sally both helped to raise him, and Da was fit to burst with pride.

                But with all the mouths to feed, it was more than the millwork and the milk could manage.  For a week or two, Da was pensive and worried, but Sally and Mum both comforted him and told him not to.

                For you see, Sally had told Mum about her friend, Periwinkle, and the coming of the chickens and the cow.  Periwinkle had never said so, but Sally knew what he’d done.  And Mum agreed to keep silent, for speaking out of turn about the gifts of a fairy could bring worse luck than before.

                One afternoon Da came home with his face aglow in smiles, for the foreman was retiring to live with his son, and Da was to be the new foreman with an extra shilling a week.  With this news, his worries vanished, and the gloom within the house was gone.

                Baby brother grew up straight and tall, with a bright eye and inquisitive mind, and he too learned to play upon the moor as Sally did.  Many of Periwinkle’s friends took a liking to him, but Periwinkle’s affections were solely for Sally.

                On the day after Sally turned sixteen, there came a knock upon the door.  Da opened it, and there stood a young man, garbed in rich, fine garments, a large, feathered hat, and with a white horse at his back and a sword at his side.

                “Good day, goodman,” spoke the stranger.  “I understand you are the foreman at the mill?”

                “That I am, sir.  Will you come within?”

                “I will, and thank you.  I see the family is all at home?”

                “Yes, sir.  This is my wife, my daughter, and my son.”

                “Fine family.  Now, if you’ve a mind to it, I would like to ask for your permission to pay court to your daughter.”

                Da and Mum looked startled, and Sally looked dismayed.

                “Why, of course, sir,” Da replied, “saving only that she’s willing.”

                The stranger turned to Sally and bowed low, sweeping off his hat and brushing the floor with it.  “If the maiden so agrees, I will pay court most handsomely,” said he.

                “I do not!” she declared, and turned away from him.  Da and Mum both gasped at her, but the stranger merely stood up tall.

                “I see.  Is it any fault of mine, maiden?” he asked.

                “No, not a bit.  You are fair and gentle-spoken.  But I will not have you.”

                Without another word, the stranger turned and left.

                Da looked at Mum and Mum looked at Sally.  With a few words, Mum ushered Da and baby brother into the bedroom to play for a bit.

                “You’ve another that you love, isn’t that so?” asked Mum.

                Sally only nodded.

                “Then what will you do?”

                “Wait.  And when he asks, I will be ready.”

                Two years went by, and each time, the same stranger came to the door and asked permission to court Sally.  Each time, he was refused.

                Then he came no more, but another took his place.  An older gentleman, driving a handsome carriage, came to the door with the same end in mind.  But no, Sally would not hear of it.

                Every year, another gentleman would come knocking, and every year, Sally would send them away.  And every year, the quality of the gentleman callers would sink a little, until Sally began to wonder if she ought to accept one and give over the foolish hope that Periwinkle would someday ask.

                But she never did.  Nor did she speak of it to him.

                Mum and Da passed away, greatly aged, and Sally remained in the house.  Baby brother grew up, moved on, and visited with his children (including me).  My Aunt Sally lived to a ripe old age.  She was slow and a bit feeble when last I saw her, forty years ago, puttering around the ramshackle house, and still going for walks on the moor.

                I don’t know what became of her; not really.  One year, we visited the house and there was no one to be seen.  Not even a chicken.  We stayed there for a day and a night, waiting, but she never came back.  At last, my Da (her baby brother), went out on the moor to search for her.  When he came back, his eyes were laughing and his step was light, so I think I know what happened, even though he would not say.

                Some say she met her end out on the moor, perhaps in a bog.  But I don’t believe it.  I say that Periwinkle finally asked to court her, and she is with him still, restored to the golden-haired, blue-eyed, beautiful little girl that she always was, in her heart.  For the fairy-kind are strange; not cruel or kind, just different from you and I.  My Aunt is with Periwinkle, I know it, once more that gladsome girl that ran over the moor, arms outstretched as though she might take to the air like a bird.

If you don’t believe me, I can direct you to the moor.  And if your ears are sharp, on summer afternoons you can hear the wind laugh with the voice of a little girl.