Photographing Fairies: A Novel by Szilagyi Steve

Author:Szilagyi, Steve [Szilagyi, Steve]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2014-05-26T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

How I Photographed the Garden

Transforming the cellar of St. Anastansias into a darkroom presented no insurmountable difficulties. As I was still technically a convalescent, Linda directed the church handyman to do most of the heavy work. My main worry about using the room was that dust might fall from the ceiling onto my prints and negatives. Linda suggested I tack a rubberized sheet over the ceiling to catch any particles that might fall. I thought this was a good idea. But where would I get a rubberized sheet? Fortunately, Linda had one. She brought it over from their house. She brought Esmirelda along as well. Esmirelda had been hanging around the town square, trying to avoid some task at the Starry Night.

You wouldn’t think Linda and Esmirelda had much in common, but Linda, as the wife of a minister, could talk naturally to anybody from any class. She and Esmirelda chatted easily as they helped me tack up the sheet.

They talked about fairies. They spoke names that meant nothing to me: Dab Swallowfoot, Busky Debaree, Kip-Kip, Pin, and Pupkin. They discussed which fairies lived under tables, which drank from bowls of milk, which could be bought with gold, and which ones scattered curses and sickness over houses.

Linda noted my expression of bewilderment.

“Don’t you have fairy stories in America?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, we do,” I answered. “I never went in for them much. I rather liked pirate stories better.”

“Then you missed out on some great stories, didn’t he, Esmirelda?”

“Yes, m’um.”

“The British Isles are full of wonderful fairy stories, Mr. Castle,” Linda went on. “Every brook, hillock, and tree has some little fairy or elf associated with it. And the kitchen — the larders, cupboards, and stoves are just overrun!”

“What brought this subject up?” I asked.

“You did.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. When I was leaving to get this sheet. I lost my key, and said that some sprite must have stolen it. And you asked me if I believed in fairies. A strange question from a man, if you must know. Don’t you think it’s a strange question, Esmirelda?”

“I don’t know, m’um. Some men believe in fairies.” Esmirelda gave me a look. I could not, however, fathom its meaning.

“Well, I’m always throwing off comments,” I chuckled. “I guess I don’t even remember them.”

We were standing on boxes holding the sheet up against the ceiling. I was about to hammer a tack into it when the hammer slipped out of my fingers. I jumped down to get it. The sheet dropped down around Linda. She stood there with her head covered by the sheet, looking like a tent post.

We all had a good laugh, and I apologized.

“I suppose I haven’t thought about fairies in years,” Linda said, as I helped her out from under the sheet. “They’re sort of cheap now, aren’t they? Like Father Christmas. Advertising things, and all that. Children can still enjoy them, though, can’t they? There are some wonderful books. I know if I had children . . . Well, enough of that.

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