Fairy woke with the feeling that something was awry. Was that a thump she heard? Elf didn’t stir, and she was relieved to hear the dog snoring under the bed. And just as she lay her head back down on the pillow, there, she saw them, two round black shapes fluttering in the silver moonlight outside her window. Leaping up, she threw the window open to the night and was immediately overcome by the distinct and rather overwhelming aroma of mothballs. Could it be? “Who is there?” She shouted into the wind and gusts of petulant rain, but in her heart she already knew the answer. The black shadow hovered just a few feet away in the long willowy branches of the mustard tree. Two black wings beat furiously. But as soon as she saw that the tiara on the creature’s head was askew, half dropped over an eye, then Fairy knew and shouted so loud she woke both the dog and the Elf. So to let Elf go back to sleep Fairy quietly put on her rain boots and old slicker and made her way carefully over the ravine checkered with moss and wet oak leaves. The moon nearly full she could see quite clearly the little creature in her garden. Carabosse! Black bats flew around her face. Her dark hair hung damp and scraggly and yet Fairy could see that there were still a few sparkles clinging to her eye lashes. It was her! Fairy was certain! Carabosse! The ground squished under their little feet as they jumped up and down with glee. Carabosse with her sharp tongue but lovely heart had come to visit them! How wonderful! Fairy ushered the wicked fairy into their tree house just as the night began to leave. A black mist was rising with the light over the mountains to the East. Elf woke up and made a roaring fire. Fairy had been too busy in the garden weeding and so had been lackadaisical about the shopping so they made do for breakfast with their house guest. Recipe for Devilled Tomatoes. You must slice six medium tomatoes, soak them well in French dressing to which you have added a tablespoon of Worcestershire sauce, dip each slice in corn meal and sauté in butter. Add half a cup of chopped bacon. Brown the slices gently for about four minutes on each side. And you are careful not to break them.

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To Elf, who wants to go flying


I will spade your perennial bed
And pack your magic flute,
If you’ll bring me back a rose garden
Preferably bare root

It is March and the fairy violets are opening. The boys are tired of raking leaves and helping their mother weed. They want to express their spring fever in the Topanga tradition and march off with their cardboard boxes and what’s left of their winter sleds to slide down the ice plant and roll in the sour grass. Fairy has soaked sweet pea and nasturtium seeds all night, which she will mix with Lupine and Sunflowers. California poppies, the red and the orange, are mixed with sand to help them spread, and she will go out at sunset with gay abandon and her old shovel into the spaded beds.

Perhaps this afternoon she will dig in some plant food around the Irises. Perhaps she will take the children for a drive down the PCH to the beach to scout for Whales. Or again, she might just sit in the sun.

It is one of those moments of utter contentment that come so rarely to a mother who gardens.

By mid afternoon she finds herself drifting out of her comfy hammock concealed amid the pink blossoms of the Asian plum, and intoxicated by its heavenly perfume, she goes into the kitchen to double boil dark baker’s chocolate and pours it to line the paper cups. She will harden it in the fridge and serve filled to overflowing with fresh berries and cream she whipped herself. This is one way to make sure Elf and their pixies will always remember to come back to her from their Spring flings

It’s always the thing and the thing and the thing. This is what the little troll thought as he pulled out of the school parking lot and headed towards the coffee shop. It’s hard to live in a house where the only sane creatures are your dogs. No humdrum domestication here. No, Sir. This was a full on three ring circus. Emceed by She Who Really Must Be Obeyed, herself, Brynhildr, his better half, his Valkyrie, condemned to living the life of a mortal woman and making him pay for every single minute of it.

And while it was true that Brynhildr was still stuck in their remote castle behind a ring of fire on the mountain, she was definitely not sleeping. Nor did the ring of fire seem to be keeping anyone away. There was always someone with problems descending upon them. And most of the time his wife came and went as she pleased. Topanga has an excellent fire department just down the hill. No ring of fire could keep this woman down.

However, she had long ago grown weary of the hardship of her fate and she wanted help with the mortgage. That part she had made quite clear. While she hadn’t thrown a boulder at him since the unfortunate instance on the Boulevard last year, she could still throw a mean spear and one day soon, if he didn't get a role of some substance and support, he knew she would throw it at him. Brynhildr always got the last word.

Fortunately for him, she still kept her second husband’s cloak of invisibility in her closet.

And lately, without her knowing, he had taken to wearing it.


The quinces in the garden are blooming. In this intoxicating perfume, Fairy watches the children slide down the muddy slopes through the sour grass on their snow sleds, trampling the clover. Fortunately it is a hardy weed. She laughs to see the boys stop to suck the smelly nectar from its yellow flower. She follows them to search for tadpoles in the rippling creek but can find none. They scour the bare branches of the deciduous trees looking for owls’ nests. Using a broken hoe, they explore a hole in the ground and find nothing. Winter is reluctant to leave this year. She wishes she had the time to stop for such things at least once a day.

But all the fairies know that at any time now the bumblebees will come back to Topanga for spring. There is so much work to do to get the beds ready for their arrival. For what would the fairies do without the bees and the honey they make?

The Elf tries not to nag his fairy but she is behind on a few chores. The birds need their nests blessed. The trees want blessing for their buds to promote new growth. Gently, he scolds her that Mrs. Spider has been back three times to ask that she come bless her web on the bare root rose where hundreds of her spider babies cling. She wants it done before the winds blow and scatters those tiny orange spinners out to face the world on their own.

The lupines need opening and the orange poppies too; the yellow tobacco wants dusting. Elf says this, pointedly, as he brings her a cup of tea in her favourite china. He tells her that not only has her friend in Old Canyon who has just had her fourth baby found the time to pull open several of the lupines on her road as well as some tulips but the beleaguered fairies on the Boulevard have also managed quite well with their wisteria openings. Fairy feels rather unaccomplished.

She gives her dear friend the lizard a new tail and a lecture to stay away from the cats before she goes back to bed. Sixty degrees at noon is not her idea of a spring day. She is no April fool. Elf makes a nice cozy fire with his magic driftwood powder and follows her in to her chamber. He knows his fairy; she will get it all done in her own time. This is why he cherishes her.






Things for a mortal to do once the storm has passed:

Make a lattice for the sweet peas.

Put some bone meal on the perennial border and cultivate it.

Spray the delphinium shoots with Bordeaux.

Finish pruning the bush roses.

Buy a new pair of gardening shears and find a hiding place for them.


With this in your mind, you may go to the market to make gingerbread on parade for afternoon tea.

You drain the juice from one can of mixed fruits and put the fruits in a well-buttered baking pan. Mix and sift two cups of flour, one teaspoon ginger, a quarter cup of sugar, a quarter teaspoon of cinnamon, three quarters of a teaspoon of baking soda. Add a quarter cup of shortening, one cup of molasses or golden syrup, one egg and half a cup of sour milk which you will stir until smooth. Pour the mixture over the fruit and bake in a slow oven.

Serve cut into squares and covered with whipped cream. If the sun comes out in the late afternoon, take a walk into Red Rock, but avoid the urge to go in the creek. Even the fairies cannot bathe for weeks after a rain. The frogs are not sure they want to stay. The humans do love their grey water.

If you found him, you could see what a sweet, splendid fellow Sir Galahad was, just by looking at him, let me tell you. If you gazed through his whiskers, there you would find lively elfin eyes that tilted up toward the edges, full rosy lips and the small ears that started off as points to remark upon. That is, if you could get him to speak to you. Just an observation, but that isn't as hard as you might think. Elves are very aware that if they charm a human so, most of the beings completely lose sight of their features, and so fail to realize how immensely important it is to pay attention to them. Within moments most humans become so engaged in what it is they want to tell the elf about themselves, they completely forget the passing thought that who they are actually talking to is a genuine Topanga wood elf. As opposed to the common garden elf that will never talk at all. “Humans alone are bad enough Attached to objects coarse and rough But how much greater their offence is When stuck on the usual self interests.” Sir Galahad and his fairy lived in a small wood house in a tree with their family, and there was no room for self-interest. They were not as unsociable as some of their kindred spirits, but they too had taken to keeping to themselves. They had learned this lesson the hard way. The fact was they had once been kind to an unhappy magician. One who had so many problems their magic had just failed to work no matter what they tried to do for him. And now he was menacing them for more of their favors so much that they were forced to avoid him at all costs. “Dear me,” said Sir Galahad,” What must we do, in order for him to forget all about our magic and leave us alone.” “I cannot make up my mind,” Said the fairy warming her toes by the fireplace. "I cannot make up my mind whether we should become World Travelers or stick by our gums.” This pun made the elf chuckle as they were living in modest gum tree and wouldn't have traded it for all the fine pines and majestic black oaks in the world। Wand in hand, hidden in the damp branches of the red sumac on the hill, angry and malevolent thoughts trembled through the magician's heart as he looked across at the twinkling lights high in the wind blown tree. The wind carried the music and voices to his place in the rain in disjointed tones. He couldn't make out who was speaking. He caught a phrase and lost it. And yet, for him, on this starless night, it was just enough, this watching, this waiting. He knew enough about ancient magic to respect the danger he would place himself in if he was discovered lurking so close. A twig from the pepper tree hanging overhead pushed down by the wind and the wet, caught up his leather hat and removed it from his head. An urgent bluster full of water took the hat from there and dropped it at his feet. The storm was returning. He had told his children that he was just going down to the market and that was an hour ago. It had just begun to pour as he scrambled from out of the poisonous brush, and climbed into his truck. The troll from his cave across the way saw him then, driving up the hill to his children, a horrible slumped hump, a cumulus nimbus, and black in countenance. By too much sweetness, she provoked...

Lost and lonely in his little house nestled above the clouds in the Canyon, the Magician looked away from his computer with opprobrium. Having spent a good hour this evening googling his name, he felt a certain restlessness as he gazed over at the Princess Thunderthighs sleeping peacefully in his bed and thought of all the others who had lain there before her...

Once, long ago, he had had better times, having been listed for many years on the much acclaimed Green Porpoise List as the seventh greatest magician of all time in all of the world and now...

Now, he found himself sipping his fifth screwdriver of the evening and absentmindedly waving his wilted wand in the air, and oh, how he wished that he could remember the spell to turn a bullfrog into a fairy.....

Even fairies have to leave the canyon sometimes. And this is what you would have seen this morning if you had flown with her as she wound her way up Fernwood Pacific. At a glance, you would have noticed that the fruit trees in the winter gardens had awakened into a bountiful spray of pink blossoms. And looking down towards the sea, where Stunt meets Saddlepeak, you would have felt the fog flow through your hair and caress your soul as you gazed down on the mountains, a vision in blue. This is the wild woody lilac waking from its long winter’s sleep.

It was early enough in the morning that the fog had hidden all the developments on both sides of the canyon and even the massive human city down below was shrouded in a phosphorescent white. And as she came over the pass, grey wispy mists cleared as though they were curtains opening to reveal grand batholiths rising up in spectacular geological formations, towering peaks and breathtaking striations, and she shivered remembering the ancient dreams from the time of the glaciers. And of course she had heard prophesies whispered by the wet winds but being a sprite she was not much given to reflection or worry.