Stick and Log: A Short Story

            No one ever asked him for his name. They would never inquire after his health or wonder how he was faring that day. Faeries, after all, had no patience for such human niceties, as ephemeral and meaningless as air. “How are you?” “Fine” as exchanged by two strangers had about as much substance as aether. But sometimes he thought it might be nice to have someone notice him, instead of just handing him their packages, or asking for passage through the dark portal at the center of the mushroom ring.

            That was his job, to guard the portal, like some sort of combination of postman and security officer. Not that a stick fey would be able to stop, say, a troll or a goblin if they decided to use the gateway to the realm for nefarious purposes. But the humans at least never looked twice at him as they passed by on the trail, and very few spared a glimpse at the portal, disguised as it was as the sliced end of a fallen mossy log in the middle of the forest. The occasional keen mortal eye, however, might notice that instead of the usual light tan rings of wood seen on the cut end of a fallen tree, this log terminated in a darkness so absolute, it felt like a black hole laying in the middle of the forest. This vortex was surrounded by a ruffled ring of tiny and delicate shelf mushrooms. It wasn’t your typical faerie ring, but it was just as dangerous, and perhaps that was part of what kept the humans’ eyes moving along quickly, uncomfortably, as they walked hastily away rather than investigating any further.

            Some of the larger fey, the Sidhe, trolls, ogres and the like, would use the vortex as a sort of inter-realm mailbox, sending the stick fey (whose name they never asked for) through with leaf-wrapped packages for family back home, or letters sealed with gathered bees wax stained a dark purple from berries. Smaller faerie creatures, however, could use the portal directly, and ventured through it to travel the realms. They would excitedly gather, families and friends holding hands as they leapt through. Maybe one might nod at him in passing, but otherwise it was like he was invisible.

            And then one day, the witch of the woods walked by on the worn trail, her boots only lightly whispering on the stones and twigs instead of cracking and crunching as most clumsy human feet would do. He hardly even paid attention, but he saw the mushrooms in her basket, the herbs tucked into her hair. How little she resembled anyone else he’d seen pass by before. She whispered to the rocks by the path, stroking their mossy backs, and as he watched her, her eyes slid to meet his.

            It had to be an uncanny coincidence. Her eyes must have just been randomly glancing at the trees around her. After all, the stick fae’s body was disguised as thin wood, and his eyes were knots on slender stems. But he closed his eyes just in case, willing himself to be camouflaged from this woman who was neither mortal nor faekind, but something strangely inbetween.

            “What a lovely portal,” she whispered as she moved closely, and he summoned up all of his courage to open his eyes and do his duty. Sharply he whipped along the tree branch where he was stationed, and snapped across the pitch darkness of the portal, guarding it. She was perhaps a hundred times his puny size, and he wouldn’t survive this encounter, he was certain, but he was the guardian of the portal, and he would guard it with his life.

           “And what a handsome guardian this portal has as well,” she chuckled, not unkindly. “Good day to you, Sir Stick, and how do you fare this golden autumn afternoon?”

            His voice was hoarse from eons of silence, but he squeaked out “This portal is mine to guard and protect, and none shall use it without my permission.”

            “Pish! Tosh,” she spat out, following the odd words with a grin. “What need have I for Faerie portals? And besides, if I needed one, I’ve made friends with enough trolls to know of a cave or two that will lead me to Faerie if I so choose. I was just admiring your gateway, and the lovely faerie ring around its edge. And admiring you, such a lovely and handsome stick fae. You must be what, five hundred or so? I wonder what marvels your eyes have seen as you watched this woodland change over so many years. Have you been the portal’s guardian your whole life long?”

            He saw no reason not to answer her, and so he nodded.

            They passed the afternoon in amicable conversation, she settling in on a nearby stump covered in ferns, sorting through acorns from her foraging basket as she chatted. At first his words were rasping and hesitant, but he found he loved having someone to talk to. Before he knew it, the shadows grew longer, and she wiped off her hands and pushed against her thighs, lifting herself up with a grunt.

            “Well, my dear Sir Stick, I’m afraid it’s getting late, and if I am going to make it home to my cottage before dark, I need to head off.”

            Was this what it felt to be disappointed? Sir Stick, for apparently that was his name, frowned to think of how lovely it was to talk to her, and how lonely it would be to have her gone.

            “I love inviting forest friends—fae and animal alike—to my cottage for tea, but something tells me you wouldn’t be able to accept. I understand that guarding this gateway is of utmost importance, not only to your brave heart, but to the safety of this forest as a whole. You are very brave. And I wouldn’t dream of risking such a powerful talisman coming to harm because I wanted to host a friend for scones. But…perhaps I could bring us some tea tomorrow? I pass by this way rather often in my daily journeying, and I’d love someone to talk to.”

            Could sticks cry? Sir S. wasn’t certain, and perhaps it was simply beginning to rain. But he smiled up at her, and nodded quietly.

            No one ever asked his name, including himself. But now he was Sir Stick, and he had a friend.

This story was inspired by a photo I took on a recent forest trip. This faerie ring on the end of a fallen tree had such strong energy and faerie-ness to it, it has to be one of the most magical discoveries I’ve made in nature recently. When I shared it on Instagram, a friend pointed out that the fellow in front of it resembled a bowtruckle, and I hadn’t even noticed him at all. The darkness at the center of the ring, by the way, was just as completely black in person as it is in the photo. Nature is a wonder, magic is real, and I hope you enjoy this story!

And by the way, for those who might read the autumn 2020 issue of Enchanted Living, yes…this is meant to be the same witch of the woods as my story in that issue.