"The Whole Story" - by Mark Ivan Cole

("The Whole Story" Pastel, Graphite and Digital)

Sit down, lad. It’s time you and your Grandpa had this talk.

Your Pa didn’t tell you everything. Not entirely his fault. He didn’t actually know everything. For one thing, he wasn’t there for some of it, and for another thing, I never told him everything either. But anything he might have told you and didn’t, well, that’s going to have to stay in the grave with your Pa.

What I’m gong to tell you surely isn’t everything either. Some things happen for reasons we just aren’t privy to, and there are personages and forces at work that we’ll never meet—not all of them, anyway.

And this is where the tale gets a little strange, which, if I guess correctly, is partly why your Pa never told you everything. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

It all starts with your Mum. Actually, that’s not really where it starts. By the time your Mum came along, the story had been going on for maybe a hundred years or more, I don’t know. But it was your Mum coming along that brought your Pa and Grandma and me into the story. Just one look at those smiling green eyes and your Pa’s destiny found a home. From the very first day when he came racing in from the field, breathless as a horse and flushed red as a strawberry, your Grandma and I knew our future would include this beautiful young lady with the long, red hair and befreckled cheeks. Ah, but we didn’t know how short that future would be. Nor could we know the fates would bless us with you, so no one could ever forget the lovely girl with the clear, green gaze.

But I’m going on and on and not telling you the whole story, aren’t I. Maybe it’s harder to do than I realized, but I’ll keep trying.

Bless you for not minding an old man’s ramblings. You’re as fine a man as your Pa. Everything he’d hoped you’d be, and more.

You didn’t know your Mum, and that’s a pity. Had you known your Mum, you might have understood your Pa better. You might have understood why he never looked at another woman, though you know as well as I there were plenty interested in your Pa, especially once you were no longer a babe underfoot. You might have understood why he spent so much time in the woods with you, teaching you how to fend for yourself, how to listen to the forest, and how he insisted you practice with the knife and the ax and the bow until no one in the village could match you. Maybe, too, you might understand better why he never let you rest, even when you bested every contender who came up that long road to challenge you.

Maybe if you’d known your Mum, you’d understand why you never felt like you belonged here.

See, I’m putting it off again. I’m not telling you everything. I’m sorry.

Here’s the piece you need to know first. The fact is, it’s true: you don’t really belong here. You’re not exactly one of us—not just like us, anyway.

No, it’s not that your Pa isn’t your Pa, or that your Mum wasn’t your real Mum. She was. They were. It’s just that, see, your Mum, she wasn’t from around here. It’s not like it wasn’t obvious, to be sure. No one had ever seen the likes of her in our little town. No one had ever heard such singing as that girl could do. I’d venture to say it was the sound of her voice that carried the most of her magic. Yes, probably her voice, I’d say, though I think your Pa loved her eyes the most.

Did I say “magic?” Did I already? Oh, well, then the secret’s out, I suppose.

You may have suspected. I don’t know. Something in your face tells me you’re not surprised. I suspect you figured this out on your own. Your Pa was adamant that we never tell you, but he’s gone now, and, well, there are signs that you’re going to need this information soon.

Yes, your Mum was as fay as any in stories told around the fire at night, as fay as ever danced a jig to the tune of the unseen fiddler who visits fairy rings on a midsummer’s eve. Your Pa knew it the moment he laid eyes on her, but he couldn’t help himself. How could he? All his young life he’d talked of some day meeting a fairy. Grandma told me to stop scolding him and let him believe if he wanted. I’m glad I followed that advice, especially since one of the fay came to live under my own roof and brought me the grandson I’ve enjoyed so much in my old age.

You are an amazingly patient fellow, I must say. Bless you for that.

Now, back to the point.

Not everyone was happy about your Pa and Mum choosing each other like that. Besides every girl in the village being heartbroken, some in town called your Mum’s heritage into question.

“Where are her parents?” they asked. “Why does she not say where she comes from?” they asked. “Aren’t her eyes just a little too green, her hair a little too red, her step a little too light, her voice a little too clear?”

Aye, now you see why they ask these same questions about you, fair boy, why people both shun you and stare at you, fascinated. It’s because of your Mum. There are those who do not appreciate fairies. They treat you as if your touch were poison. They talk behind your back, blaming your fine skills on fairy art, not giving you your due for your hard work, endless training and practice. Aye, such people can do you harm, for they believe, but they do not understand. And because they do not understand, they are afraid and will misuse and mistreat. Your Pa kept you away from them, and so have I. But you have to make your own way, my boy.

Many simply do not believe. Their lives are filled with work, a little pleasure, a little pain, a little hope, a little joy. But for them, there is no magic. I know, lad, because I was one of them. The closest I came to magic was when I met your Grandma. Yes, it even happened on a stormy midsummer’s eve when she arrived at this very door. You might not think a bedraggled, sodden little girl might bring in something akin to magic, but this wet kitten of a lass, all wrapped in a blanket, smiling shyly at me by the fireplace—ah, for me, that was magic enough.

Your Grandma opened my eyes to the world of magic. See, she was a different kind of person; she believed in fairies, and, by some grace, she understood them. Your Pa, he was another. Somehow, he always knew they were out there, though your Grandma never taught him directly, and I discouraged him. In the end, they were both right. I’m just lucky I got the chance to have it proven to me. Even I could tell there was something special about your Mum, lad. It was just the way she carried herself when she walked, like any movement of her feet was a kind of dance. It was the singing, maybe, as if every wind, every birdsong inspired some lovely melody for which words would not suffice. It was how the sunlight seemed to live more brightly in her smiling eyes than it ever did up in the sky, even on a clear day.

Did you know this, lad? Did you know your smile is like your Mum’s? It is, it is. There is no overcast that can withstand it, no darkness that can overcome it. There, see? The room is brighter just because you smiled!

But I’m not getting to the point, am I? No. I suppose I’m not. Well, I guess it’s time. After all, you’re no longer a boy, and that’s when this story takes a turn that I always thought your Pa would be here to make with you. I don’t know why I’m all that’s left to tell you, lad. Just a broken down old man with little strength left to help. But maybe you don’t need my help. I think not. “We always have exactly what we need when we need it.” That’s what your Grandma used to say, and I think your Pa believed it, too. I’d like to think they’re right again, since…well, let me get to the point.

I guess I’ll just have to come out and say it: your Pa and your Mum didn’t upset just the townsfolk when they chose each other. There are personages more powerful than the mayor, the constable or the priest could ever dream to be. These personages descended upon this house on the very night you were conceived, and an argument ensued the likes of which I have never seen before or since, and I don’t care to.

Anyone who says the fairies know nothing but bliss and mischief has never felt the depth of fear, the height of anger, the breadth of the arguments, or the strength of the determination shown by all sides that night. Back and forth the battle raged, though no one ever drew a bow or unsheathed a blade. Up in the loft, your Grandma and I heard nothing but words, most of which were in a tongue we couldn’t understand. But the meaning was clear: your Pa and your Mum had transgressed some ancient law, and these grand personages were none too happy about it.

If I could wish you one thing, though, lad, it would be to have seen the faith your Mum and Pa gave each other in the midst of this great battle of words. He stood by her and she stood by him, never wavering, even as accusations flew in all directions.

It seemed it would go on forever, but your Grandma flung herself from the bed and dashed down the ladder. I followed. I can’t properly describe everyone who was in this room that night. But your Grandma—in her dressing gown, mind you!--strode right up to the mightiest personage of them all and told him in no uncertain terms to lay out his complaints and describe what justice demanded. Not only that, lad, but she had the ginger to insist that he say it in plain English! Aye. That she did, lad, and she never looked more fearsome or more beautiful than she did at that moment.

Well, what I have to tell you next will explain several things, but it may leave you with more questions than I can answer. I’ll give it my best try, lad.

According to this mighty personage, the law separating humans and fairies cannot be violated except on pain of death. For your Pa and Mum’s transgression, they must pay with their lives. Now what I tell you next is not so that you’ll think me a hero, because my action had no effect. I’m just telling you the whole story. See, at this point, I pulled a cleaver from the drawer and rushed in. What I expected to do, I don’t know, but I tried. The blade simply flew from my hand and clattered harmlessly into that corner over there.

Then it was explained more clearly. This death would come at its own time, visiting the person of its own choosing.

Now I understood better what the argument was about. These mighty fay were not there merely to mete out the punishment for breaking the law. We were arguing with Death himself, because he had chosen you, and your Mum had offered her life in place of yours.

Yes, lad, that she had, and when we knew she’d done it, there wasn’t a one of us who hesitated to offer ours instead.

But Death would have none of it. A king among kings is Death. With but a breath, he can snuff the candles of a thousand soldiers. He chooses whom he will take, and when he moves to strike, none can delay him.

None that is, but, perhaps, your Mum and your Grandma, lad. None but they.

Maybe it was the fierceness of their faith, their belief in the rightness of their cause. Maybe no one had ever stood on that boundary between the worlds with the strength of Motherhood as did this fay and this human. Your Pa and I stood fast with them both, but Death paid us no heed. He knew our power to produce life was limited to but a small seed, and that part, however necessary, had already been played.

All eyes were on your Mum.

“At least let me raise my son,” she said, but to our ears it was a song of the most achingly beautiful yearning. The notes of your mother’s plea lingered in the air long after she had ceased to sing them.

Death himself stopped to listen.

But then he shook his head. The answer was “no.”

“Then at least let me bear him,” she cried.

I tell you, lad, the desperation in that plea nearly broke the heart of me. The song that sailed out to the bitter wind was sweeter yet, and stronger, and full of such pain as would make a man wish  that either he’d never heard it, or that he might hear it forever. Aye, lad, I’ve wished for both many times.

In the end—and it’s the end I’m coming to, the long way round as usual, so I do appreciate your indulgence, lad—in the end, a bargain was made.

Even Death, it seems, has a heart. He agreed that your Mum could bear you, but nine months only, and then he’d come for her. Your Grandma insisted that the child should have his mother till he was weaned, and Death granted this as well, but in return, he would take your Grandma first.

And so it was that the day you were born, your Grandma held you bright and smiling until she handed you back to your Mum. And then, lad, she bid us all good bye. She left us with a smile on her face, lad. She had no regrets.

And then, when you were old enough to reach for solid food, your Mum left us, as she agreed. Aye, make no mistake; she had no regrets, though our days seemed darker then. Yet your smile brought the sun back in and the breeze still wafted through the window, so your Pa and I took to raising you as best we could.

But you see, Death is never finished. Your Pa had broken the law separating humans and fairies, and now he would never leave your side, so what was Death to do? We never know when Death will come—at least most of us don’t—and we didn’t see him coming for your Pa. But your Pa knew his days were numbered. He knew better than most that each day was a gift, and he poured them into raising you to be strong, clear-headed, capable and independent.

And you’ve become all those things, my boy. You’ve become them all, even though your Pa was taken before you became a man. But here you are, a man. And a good one.

So now you know the whole story, though, well, I suppose it’s not quite all. Your Pa could not have told you this last because he wouldn’t know.

See, after your Pa died, Death came back for you, my boy, looking for you in this house. You see, in Death’s mind, you break the law daily, just by virtue of who you are. In your very body, you join the human and the fay. You cannot take a breath without bringing those two worlds together.

But every time Death comes a-knocking, I ask him in, and pour him a drink, and I tell him again how the world is changing, how his bargaining has made it so, and how he, himself, has broken many laws. And then I say that maybe just this once, he can let it pass again, and give it another day or two.

And perhaps he is amused, or perhaps there is enough truth in what I say that he just finishes his drink, slaps me on the back and takes his leave once more.

But the reason I’ve had to tell you this, lad, and the reason it’s taken so bloody long, is that my old friend Death is sitting over there, just now, warming himself by the fire, waiting for me to finish. You see, he agreed to let me tell you the whole story first.

And I have, I guess. So that’s done. He’s held up his end of the bargain. Now it’s time for me to hold up mine. It’s only fair. He let me pay my bit last, and he gave me many years to do it.

Just one more thing before I go, though. One more thing: that green-eyed lass who’s visited here these last few days—treat her well, lad. She’s from the same place as you.

You never know how long you’ll get.

Every day’s a gift, lad. Ah, and that smile of yours is the perfect ending to this story.

Good bye, lad. It’s been good being your Grandpa.