#gray ball

My sister--and most people in our village, in fact--think that my child is not my own. One would assume it was because of the incident a month after my daughter’s birth, where I walked into her room only to find a fairy flying out the window, a bundle in her arms. 

But that’s not why my sister thinks my daughter is fae, because I didn’t tell anyone about that incident. Instead, my sister says it’s because my child is acting odd. It’s a logic I can’t understand, since all children are strange to me. 

I love the way they approach the world with a mix of naivete and eagerness. I’ve even met children that don’t realize that a scrape or scratch is supposed to hurt until you look alarmed. They have no understanding of common sense, because everything they do is for the first time in their life. They’re honest, harsh, and innocent in a manner that is gradually clogged up with new responsibilities and knowledge as they grow older.

Their world is limited, and as such they completely permeate it. It’s fragile and destructive in a way I don’t think can be replicated, not after that window of early childhood has passed.

I see it in every child, and my daughter does not seem any more unusual. But my sister insists that there is a difference, and shakes her head whenever she thinks it’s relevant. 

 My child has broken the table. Not much, she just jumped on the top one too many times and its leg splintered. I’m not going to get it replaced, or get it fixed, or at least not immediately.

She got in a fight with some other children in town, they said something that she just couldn’t understand and she lashed out with a stick. The other kid only had a red mark on his skin from the impact, at least. 

My daughter hates being around others, and spends most of her time back home, where it’s quiet. I once tried taking her to the market and she broke down crying, sitting in the middle of the road. I consoled her there, crouching in the dirt path, and tried ignoring the judgemental stares from people passing by. She would rather spend hours on end at the edge of the forest. I don’t let her explore on her own, and when I’m gone the others say she always stands just before the trees become too dense and stares off, wistfully.

She’s a picky eater, but a very hungry one. I can’t find a consistent set of taste, and each new meal feels like a gamble of my time, but I have to take those chances because I can’t have her eating only eggs and milk for each meal of the day.

She doesn’t like being touched, reacts to my fingers as if they’ve given her rashes, and for the longest time I felt lost because I didn’t know how else to comfort her. 

(I found my ways eventually. When she gets upset, I take my grandmother’s woolen scarf from its rack and wrap her in it. She loves running her hands along the threads.)

After long days of gathering food and walking from errand to errand I’m woken up in the middle of the night by her, and we both struggle to go back to sleep from her nightmares. When she was a baby she wailed as loud as she could, because she knew doing that would bring me to her. Now I’m afraid that I won’t hear her and she’ll think I left her alone on purpose. My friends comment on the bags under my eyes always getting darker. I know they’re trying to remind me that it’s a bad thing.

They call her a changeling, something that has replaced my real baby. The child I gave birth to is out in those woods, the stories say, maybe dancing with fairies or being sacrificed to the devil. But in the meantime, they say I am left with a parasitical replica, a creature that saps me of my energy, food and time. 

I sometimes wonder if they’ve ever had a child before.

I do my best to brush off the people in town, but my sister is more insistent. I know she’s just being protective since my husband’s passing, but something snapped in me with the way she spoke. I yelled that the stories of the fae were all hogwash, and she asked me how I could be so sure. So I told her the truth:

I had already seen the fairy.

I had returned home early from the market, and had seen my daughter sitting at the edge of the forest, like always. Her hand was raised to the air, a single finger stretched parallel to the ground. This didn’t seem out of the ordinary to me, and I was about to head back inside and prepare dinner, when I saw a flicker of movement. 

A tiny sparrow emerged from behind a tree, and settled on my daughter’s finger.

It was difficult to see her face from my angle, but just from the outline of her cheeks I could tell she was grinning from ear to ear. The bird whistled to her, and the child gave a raspy, unpracticed melody in response. She moved her hand around carefully, not wanting to startle the bird, but a part of me knew that something as simple as a jolt wouldn’t make the bird go away. 

The bird was only there for a few minutes before it took off and vanished back into the forest. So my child sat up, stained in green but not caring, and ran back to the house. I entered shortly afterwards, acting casual. She didn’t know I saw her, and she didn’t tell me about the bird then, so I can only wonder how many times the bird had come before. 

Still, gradually the two of us came to a common understanding: she figured out I knew about the bird,  and I knew that she knew.

I hadn’t fully realized we’d had this agreement until my daughter stepped into my house, sharp distress twisting her face. She raised her tiny fingers to show blood spilled on them, but not from any wound of her own. She told me the bird had been missing feathers, had perched on her finger with only one leg, and its song was weaker than before. Her bird calls had already greatly improved, so she imitated the bird’s pained song for me, just to make sure I understood.

She wanted to follow the bird into the woods, see that it’s alright. I crouched down with the scarf, wrapped her in it, and told her that I would find the bird myself. 

So I wandered through the dark woods, the sun already starting to set, a torch in hand and a cloak on my shoulders. I heard a whistling in the woods, and the melody rangs familiar. The bird was still singing, and it didn't sound any weaker, but my daughter has always been more attentive to details; I trusted her. 

I kept walking, kept following the bird, and for brief flickers in the treetops I saw flaps of wings. It was flying slower than usual. It ducked behind a tree, and when I stepped around to keep my eye on the bird, I saw a child. 

It was not my child, but another little girl of a similar age, one with brown hair closer to my own than my daughter’s fiery red. Patterns were dotted across her arms like that of a sparrow’s wings, but her skin was also spotted with bruises and scratches, twigs and leaves and mud in her hair and stuck to her body. She didn't seem to be in pain, and I wondered if anyone had told her that those scratches are supposed to hurt. She hugged the tree, perhaps as a shield or perhaps as comfort. 

I crouched down, and kept my voice quiet. “Hello.”

She stepped back a little, keeping her eyes off of me. 

“Are you the one who plays with my daughter?”

More silence. I swallowed, my throat already dry. “She considers you a very good friend.”

“She’s my best friend.”

The girl’s voice was rough and unused, but that similar constriction in my chest came when I heard it, and I fully realized that this is just another kid I was talking to. I told her what people call me. The girl gave no response, but I could tell that she was relaxing. 

“Are you a fairy?”

The girl nodded. “I can turn into a bunch of different animals.”

“Oh? Like what?” 

“A cat, and....a dog, and, uh...I’m a sparrow a lot.”

“Do you like flying around?”

To my surprise, the girl shook her head. She told me she likes landing on my daughter’s finger. “I like singing with her,” she said. 

I asked her why she doesn’t transform into different animals to do so much more, and the girl looked at me with the most genuine and honest confusion I’ve seen. She didn’t understand the other options, because this was the only one that mattered to her. Her scope was so small, but she embraced it so wholly that I couldn’t be upset. “Are your injuries okay?” I asked instead. 

There was a slight bob of her head, one I almost didn’t see in the dark. “They’ll get healed up.” She pointed over her shoulder to a small ring of mushrooms behind her. I know a fairy circle when I see one, and I nodded in understanding. I left her to vanish in the fog of that forest. 

I returned home to my daughter and told her the bird is okay, and will come again tomorrow. She didn’t make a relieved expression or gesture, but gave a very quiet and polite “Thank you,” so I know that she was grateful. 

Some of the townsfolk think I’ve had my real child switched with an anomaly, a magic changeling. When I first met the bird, I thought that perhaps she was the changeling that was supposed to replace my child.

But whenever the bird appeared again, I made sure to leave some bread and milk for her, as well as leave our window open, in case she ever needed to rest at our home. My child came to me, wanting to sew a pillow for the bird to sleep on. The snacks I left out became more and more elaborate, from a small bit of porridge to pieces of a cake. Some days I would wake in the morning early enough to see that bird curled up in the roughly made pillow of my daughter’s.

I didn’t even think twice before I moved the pillow to my child’s room, setting it next to her head. I watched her and the bird snore peacefully, and I watched as the bird’s feathers slowly retracted and its silhouette expanded in the faint morning light. 

It wasn’t until I saw the two children, holding each other tightly under the warm blankets and roof of their shared house, did I realize that both I and the townsfolk were wrong.