November 2012
The top of the Christmas tree reached to within inches of the ceiling. At the top of the tree the fairy stood proud and serene, as she had for the past five years; her bright tinsel tiara upon her head and her slightly bent magic wand in her hand. But five years of being stuffed casually into a black bin bag on twelfth night with the rest of the decorations was taking its physical toll on the fairy and she knew that she could not expect to occupy the top spot for very much longer.
Fairies are not manufactured, they are created, and like every other creation each one is unique. This particular fairy – we shall call her Genevieve – could remember the exact moment of her creation: the brilliant white light, the murmuring voices hovering at the limit of her hearing, the gentle handling, the softness of the lining of the box and the strange movements during the long journey. But most of all she could remember those whispered words of the Creator, 'You are a fairy. You will serve and inspire. You will unselfishly devote your existence to the needs of others. And you will never forget that you have the power to grant one wish. But this power to bestow hope and salvation should never be taken lightly; you must ensure that the moment is right and that you have chosen wisely.'
To a being barely six inches tall this was a seriously daunting obligation, but Genevieve knew that she would be strong; she would be true to the fairy code; she would not fail the Creator.
The period following her creation was a blur and, try as she might, she could not remember much detail of the process that led to her being placed on top of the tree. There were long periods of darkness, a lot of bumping around and strange background noises, after which she spent some considerable time dangling together with her sister fairies, surrounded by all manner of bright, gaudy decorations.
But the day that a small pair of hands had lifted her delicately and reverentially up onto the topmost branch of the massive tree she could remember with considerable accuracy. From her vantage point on the table she had watched as the tree had slowly and methodically taken shape. How the lights had been carefully strung in a great spiral around the tree, then removed and replaced again . . . removed and then replaced again.
Next, a great swirl of red gossamer was embedded deep within the spiny green leaves, which the lights suffused with a soft glow. She was not able to watch the positioning of the brightly coloured baubles, because somebody had accidentally nudged her box and from that moment on the nearest she could see was the ivory marble fireplace in which a few small logs crackled and spat. The warmth of the fire and the elaborate preparations being made behind her was fuelling her excitement and she could feel the overwhelming joy of Christmas filling this happy room.
After an age of anticipation she was finally rewarded when the small hands took her gently up and then she was finally able to see the true splendour of her tree. It was magnificent, baubles of every size and shape, lifelike birds, small wrapped parcels and twinkling stars covered every branch. A tangle of silver tinsel twinkled magically as the warm air currents moved about the branches. Beneath the tree a haphazard jumble of presents large and small awaited the happy children on their special day. Genevieve was proud; she knew that this was simply the best tree there had ever been.
She was transported ever upwards, wondering where she was to be placed, for the tree was full to overflowing with its treasures, but soon her eyes caught sight of the topmost branch reaching towards the heavens, with a single bright light positioned a few inches from the top. She was overjoyed that she was to take pride of place over this magnificent tree. As she was fixed carefully into place she could see that the light of that single bulb shone through the delicate fabric of her dress with a magical glow and she gripped her wand with pride, revelling in the warmth of the light.
The tree complete, the family spent some time making minute alterations, before they dispersed to carry out their other tasks and the fairy was left alone. She smiled beatifically at her good fortune.
But as the day progressed, that smile was slowly fading as the warmth from the bulb grew and grew until it was distinctly uncomfortable and it was not until the very end of the day when the lights were turned out that she had any respite at all from the oppressive heat.
She awoke with a shiver the following morning; the thin gauze of her dress had done nothing to relieve the chill of the night air, but when the lights were lit once more, feeling began to return to her cold limbs and she was able to relax once more. However, the log fire quickly followed and within minutes the warmth from the fire, but especially the heat from the topmost light bulb, had become unbearable. Genevieve gritted her small fairy teeth and smiled her best fairy smile.
Night followed day . . . day followed night after long night. The alternating cold and heat were relentless. When twelfth night arrived and the fairy was finally lifted down from her high perch and dropped into the black bin liner with the rest of the decorations she felt overwhelming relief at the end of her torment. Within the bag it was forever dark and she was cramped, but the temperature was just perfect and she settled down for a well deserved rest.
Four more times she had been brought out from the bag to adorn four more Christmas trees and now the family were beginning to strip the tree yet again. But this time she felt a tug of unease as large rough fingers bent her wand back into shape, ruffled the fabric of her skirt tearing a great strip down the side. After she had been stuffed back into the black bag she could hear the muffled conversation and the fateful words, 'tatty old fairy', 'had the damned thing five years', 'a star would look much better'.
Genevieve knew that her days were numbered and that it would be a very small number indeed. She remembered the words of the Creator and thought hard There was not much time. She had to fulfil her oath. She could not wish for herself, it was made clear that the wish could only e bestowed upon another. Inside the claustrophobic confines of the bag it was difficult to imagine just who she could help, but then all those years of debilitating heat came back to her and she made her wish . . .
'I wish . . . I wish . . . that in future years they put the top light bulb a little lower down.'
Satisfied at last that she had done her duty, she closed her tired eyes in the darkness.
A little over two hundred miles away in a small factory in Neasdon, the Creator slipped the last of the fairies into the box and leaning in close whispered, 'You are a fairy. You will serve and inspire . . .'