by Rose Jermusyk.
A young man once set out in search of fortune. He thought highly of himself, a prince among men, for he had a fairy godmother – a benevolent creature sure to point him in the direction of glory.
This fairy godmother had a house the color of new-fallen snow and a smile more welcome than spring. Surrounding her house – which may well have been half-greenhouse for all its windows – there was a marvelous garden of everblooming flowers with a pair of pomegranate trees at the gate.
At the young man’s arrival, his fairy godmother was holding out her open hand beneath one of the trees which released a particularly plump and lovely fruit.
“Hello there!” he called out, much too loud for how close he stood. Her attention diverted so abruptly, or perhaps as she intended, the ripe fruit missed the fairy’s hand and fell to the ground, splitting open. “Oh, what terrible luck,” the young man said, “I should have thought you would have caught that.”
“No matter,” said his fairy godmother, opening her hand to let a second treat fall softly into her palm. “Have this one.”
The fairy needn’t tell the young man twice for he soon devoured the treat and was sucking the last of the juice from his fingers. When he looked back for her warm, welcoming smile he was met with an offer of garden shears.
“Take them,” said the fairy.
“Actually, Godmother,” he began, “I came to ask you for a quest.”
“Yes, I know, you’ll be needing these,” she continued to offer him the shears.
“Are they enchanted shears?” he asked, suddenly excited.
“Of course they are. Whoever heard of pruning an enchanted garden with ordinary shears? You would never get anything done.”
“Pruning? An enchanted gard- your enchanted garden? I was hoping you’d give me something noble to do.”
“Is there something not noble about pruning your fairy godmother’s enchanted garden?”
“Of course there’s not, I mean, of course it’s noble, I just thought you would send me on a quest to battle ogres or something.”
“You thought I would pit you against ogres with enchanted garden shears?”
“It could happen.”
“Well, here’s what’s going to happen,” and his fairy godmother explained how to go along the garden fence trimming away the old growth that had not withstood the frost, but he didn’t listen carefully and only caught bits and pieces as he only wanted to know when the indignity would be over. “Here’s a bag to put all the old growth into so it won’t be in anyone’s way, bring it to me when you’ve gone all around the garden’s edge.”
Easy, the young man thought to himself as he took the enchanted shears and the scrap bag from the fairy who went into the house and closed the door. He set himself so to work as quickly as possible, he made the first cutting and put it in the bag where it disappeared. The bag must also be enchanted to keep from getting too heavy, he thought. Yet when he looked back, the cutting was back on the plant.
He made the cutting again and put it in the bag again; it disappeared again and it reattached again. He cut it again … and again … and again. It would not stay in the bag. Thinking perhaps it was the enchantment of the shears’ fault he tried tearing the growth from the plant with his bare hands, but it wouldn’t stay in the bag. He was so desperate he tried biting it off, but it still wouldn’t stay in the bag.
“Slow down,” a voice said, “there isn’t any need for you to rush.”
“Who said that? Show yourself!”
“Me,” said a bright monarch butterfly, landing on the branch the young man had been trying to bag, “and there’s nothing that needs doing with this little branch but to leave it be.” The monarch went on to explain to the youth how to tell the old growth from the new by holding it gently in his hand to feel whether the pulse of green was still there, lithe and strong. “Each cutting deserves your full attention,” the monarch warned. “Should you lose your focus, you will lose all your hard work and have to begin again.”
The monarch left the young man to his work. He made a few mistakes, but he soon caught on to the rhythm of the work. By midday he’d reached the oak tree behind the fairy’s house and realized that all the bits in need of cutting had turned a grayish brown and thinned. With his eyes trained to seek these signs, his work went much quicker.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the young man brought the scarp bag of cuttings to the fairy’s door which opened just as he was about to knock. His fairy godmother welcomed him in to supper.
“Thank you, Godmother.”
The need to begin again and again early on in his day so exhausted him that he barely made it to the little bed she offered him for the night. All through the night she sat in a rocking chair beside him, hugging the scrap bag of cuttings tenderly while humming a lullabye.
During a hearty breakfast the next morning, the fairy explained to the young man that his next task would be to remove the wild morning glories threatening the oak tree behind her house. On his way out the door she gave him the scrap bag full of cuttings to hold all the morning glories as well as an enchanted spade.
When the young man reached the oak tree, he couldn’t help but to first feel what a shame it would be to remove the morning glories trailing ever so elegantly up the trunk and into the branches. As he came closer and touched the vine he realized it was much stronger than it appeared and the danger that it posed if left alone.
The young man tried to slip his hands under the vine to pull it off, but it tightened around the trunk. He tried hacking at the vine with the spade, but it sprouted leaves and blossoms where he hit. He tried to pull the tendrils down off the branches, but they only stretched higher and wrapped tighter and shook the branches harder as he pulled.
“Watch what you’re doing,” called a voice, “carry on like that and you’re likely to pull the oak tree down, but the morning glories will still be there.”
“Is that you, Monarch? Let us speak face-to-face as before.”
“No monarch today,” said a painted lady butterfly landing to drink from one of the new-grown blossoms, “they only live up to two weeks and he was quite at his limit helping you.” The young man was saddened by the news but glad to hear what advice the painted lady had brought. “It’s all about the roots, you see,” began the butterfly, “You have to start at the root because that’s where they get their strength, taking the vine off the tree will only make it look as though it’s no longer doing harm while trouble continues growing under the surface soil.”
The painted lady left the young man to his work. Remembering the gentleness required to distinguish between the new and old growth, he took his time and slowly dug down among the roots which had extended far beyond those of the oak tree into other parts of the garden. By midday he learned how to coax the roots back to their origins where they seemed to gladly wrap themselves around the spade. Once he had uprooted as much of the plant as he could find, winding it around the spade as he went, he was able to unwind the vine off the oak tree and rewind it around the spade as though he were spooling thread.
Just after the sun had dipped below the horizon, the young man brought the scrap bag of cuttings and morning glories to the fairy’s door which opened before he had a chance to fall asleep on his feet. His fairy godmother welcomed him in to supper.
“Thank you.”
The focus with which he had sought out the entire root system of the morning glories so exhausted him that – though he went straight to bed without eating – he was absolutely sure he had eaten one of the best meals of his life. All through the night his godmother sat by him in the rocking chair, tenderly hugging the scrap bag with its cuttings and morning glories as she hummed a lullabye.
The next morning the young man woke refreshed and strong and grateful for the especially hearty breakfast he devoured as his fairy godmother explained the simple task of mulching. When he set off to work she handed him a bag of soft, rich mulch as well as the scrap bag for when he was done he was to add whatever was left of the mulch to the cuttings and the morning glories.
The young man decided the best place to start was by the gate and go around the edge of the garden as he had for the cutting. As he approached he noticed the pomegranate his fairy godmother had dropped when he first arrived was still laying the base of the tree and it occurred to him he should put it in the scrap bag. Yet upon closer inspection he noticed a mourning cloak butterfly drinking from the rotting fruit and decided to start at the base of the other pomegranate tree, saving the fallen fruit for last.
The young man began spreading the mulch at the base of the tree. He did not rush, but took his time to ensure a thick and even layer. His mind did not wander, but looked to every plant no matter how small to ensure they could all get at the sun and the rain. He did not leave the scrap bag at the gate, for though it surely would have been easier to work his way back to it he knew instinctively he should not let it out of his sight lest it be forgotten or lost.
“Thank you,” said a voice, “for saving our oak tree yesterday.”
“You’re welcome. Do you hide from me?”
“Of course not,” said the mourning cloak as it lighted on a nearby shrub, “I would have thanked you earlier, but I was enjoying the pomegranate too much.”
“I’m glad to hear it, though I can’t take all the thanks as Painted Lady was kind enough to offer advice.”
“Yes, of course, she makes her farewells this week. They live just up to a month, you know.”
“Monarch lived two weeks, Painted Lady has one of four left and what of you, Mourning Cloak?”
“Oh, my kind can live for 10 or 11 months, I have a few left myself.”
“Will you and yours eat from the fallen pomegranate all the while?”
“As long as it lasts.”
“Then I shall be sure to not make waste of it in the scrap bag.”
“I would be much obliged.”
The mourning cloak left the young man to his work. He did not rush and his mind did not wander. The scrap bag was never any farther from him than the bag of mulch. By midday he had reached the oak tree looking quite regal in its unencumbered state. As he put mulch around the base of the tree a leaf fell and struck his face with the gentle force that good ideas are apt to use. He took up the fallen leaf, the bag of mulch, and the scrap bag and went immediately to the fallen pomegranate by the gate. Using the leaf as a sort of plate, he gently scooped up the remainder of the fruit and its juices and seeds and place the whole little platter at the base of the pomegranate tree that already had mulch. When this was done he took up the bag of mulch and the scrap bag and went back to the oak tree to continue working.
Just before the sun touched upon the horizon, the young man poured what remained in the mulch bag into the scrap bag and brought all he had to the fairy’s door. He knocked gently and his godmother called him in for she was just making supper.
“Thank you very much,” he said as she put his supper before him.
“It’s what I’m here for.”
“I hope I’ve done well,” he said with a hand still touching the scrap bag.
“Well,” she began, taking the bag and peaking inside, “you seem to have done just right.”
“What would have happened if I did wrong?”
“You would have had to return next year to work in my garden.”
“May I return next year though I have done well?”
“There is nothing to stop you from doing as you wish.”
The young man went to sleep that night unable to wipe the smile from his lips. All through the night he was watched over by his fairy godmother in her rocking chair, still she hugged a scrap bag full of cuttings and morning glories and mulch as she hummed her lullabye.
On the final morning a fine breakfast was shared between the fairy godmother and the young man who by all accounts could only be described as princely. At the garden gate she gave him the scrap bag and made him promise not to open it until he had found the place he would call home on the very spot where he would build a house.
He journeyed for three days following a clear flowing river until it opened out into a lake beside verdant pasture. He was tempted to open the bag as soon as he saw, but remembered his godmother telling him it needed to be where he intended to build.
He measured out a good distance from the river. He measured out a good distance from the lake. He measured out a good space of strong earth for the foundation of his new house.
There in the middle of his plans did he open the scrap bag and from it sprang the trunk of a mighty oak that kept stretching upwards and upwards so he could not tear away his eyes and did not see other trees spring up around his plans. The trees grew taller and wider, some as pillars and some as flat walls, and they all grew and connected leaving spaces for doors and windows.
When the trees stopped growing the young man found himself Prince of a beautiful wooden manor, his crest a pomegranate resting on an oak leaf over garden shears and a spade. Every year he returned to work in his godmother’s garden, and brought back a scrap bag full of whatever magic was required for the prosperity of the hard-working subjects who flocked to him.