by Beth Smith
At the bottom of the valise was the bottle of strawberry wine. Fiona touched it with her hand and suddenly there were four bottles of wine. Last night’s hurried trip from Faerieland had not damaged her pixie power. She was still faerie queen, but she was on Christmas vacation and staying at the Monkton Hotel.
Why did she want to spend a human Christmas in a little American town called Monkton? Well, she was a faerie queen, and she could do everything she wanted, and she was weary of that former elf Hamish O’Fey rambling on and on about Monkton and Christmas filled with parties, gifts, cookies, and carols. And Santa Claus.
When Hamish told her how much American boys and girls loved Santa, she had to laugh. “I remember when he was a skinny elf wizard in training. I am so glad I sent him to the North Pole with his herd of deer and his stacks of toys.” Good move she thought to herself.
Now, with a small supply of pixie dust available if needed, she wanted to concentrate on her vacation. She was going to live as a human person, well mostly, for a week.
Over the next few days, with her faerie powers well hidden, she would wander about the village explaining that she was visiting her nephew Hamish who worked at the Manor Grist Mill. No one in Monkton knew Hamish was once a magical elf who had given up his elfish ways and settled in Monkton after delivering a magic horse there a hundred years ago.
Since then, he had been sending faerie messages to Fiona about his new human life. And, a few times Fiona had sent some pixie dust to help out with a particular problem that was in need of some magic – the broken water wheel at the mill, Tom Gardner’s lame horse, Mrs. Gardner’s strange illness, Margaret Thompson’s burned-down house, or Tink Coburn’s dry well.
Now she was actually in Monkton, and she was determined to meet all the town “folks,” as Hamish called them.
“I am going to visit all the people in Monkton and give them each a bottle of my strawberry wine for the holidays,” she explained to Hamish on the morning of her arrival.
Hamish shook his head. “Aye, but most folks are them Methodists…they don’t drink wine. Yer Catholics and the Episcopalians might take a sip or two, or more.”
“Oh, they will all drink this wine,” said Fiona with one hand on her pocket full of pixie dust.
Soon Fiona, in human form and dress, was meandering about the town, greeting people as Hamish Fey’s auntie, delivering strawberry wine to the families, and candy canes for the children, who had never seen candy canes. Fiona was glad she had brought the sweets. She had picked up the candy canes in Germany when she was on a faerie mission. They had multiplied nicely with just a touch of pixie dust.
Of all the “folks” she met on her rounds, she made special friends with Bessie Burke, the postmistress, who seemed delighted to enlighten Fiona with all the news in Monkton.
“One of my biggest worries is Rev. McGinnis,” said Bessie. “He is the rector of the Methodist Church, and he is so sad. He never smiles. His heart is broken. His infant son died of a fever and then his wife ran off with a railroad conductor a few years ago.”
“Um…that is a troubling situation,” said Fiona.
“Oh, he carries on. Gives a rousing sermon every Sunday, and helps the poor, and conducts a beautiful funeral, but he is so sad,” added Bessie with a sigh. “I’ve invited him to my house for tea after church
but he won’t come.”
“Um…you seem to have a special feeling for the rector,” said Fiona, with a slight wink of her eye.
“Miss Fiona, I am a respectable widow,” said Bessie with a blush.
Fiona just said, “um.”
Christmas week was full of activities. Jeb Jenkins, the owner of Manor Mill, invited the entire town to a holiday open house.
Christmas week was full of activities. Jeb Jenkins, the owner of Manor Mill, invited the entire town to a holiday open house. Mary Elizabeth, his wife, made dozens of Christmas sugar cookies, and Fiona contributed bottles of her strawberry wine to the festivities.
That evening, when she saw Bessie talking to Rev. McGinnis, she wandered over and tossed a bit of invisible pixie dust on both. Then she even convinced Rev. McGinnis to have a glass of her strawberry wine.
“We Methodists don’t drink wine,” said Rev. McGinnis.
“Really, it just the juice of hundreds of strawberries,” said Fiona. “You could call it strawberry juice instead of strawberry wine.” She forgot to mention the pixie dust, the faerie water, and a pinch of merriment spice.
“Really, it just the juice of hundreds of strawberries,” said Fiona. “You could call it strawberry juice instead of strawberry wine.”
Bessie took a glass and exclaimed “It is wonderful.”
Rev. McGinnis took a glass and sniffed. Invisible faerie dust floated down over the glass. He took a sip, then another, then another.
“Yes, it does tastes just like wonderful June strawberries, and, of course, it is probably not officially a wine; real wine is made from grapes. The Bishop would not want me to be drinking wine,” he said as he poured himself another glass of what he called, strawberry juice.
Two days before Christmas, Judge Pendergast gave his annual Christmas ball, and everyone went. In her room at the Monkton Hotel, Fiona took her wand from her valise and created a red holiday gown in a flash. Then she conjured up a sparkling white gown for Bessie. Bessie was delighted although flabbergasted wondering how Fiona found such beautiful materials.
On the night of the great party, Hamish insisted they both ride in his handsome carriage to the Pendergast estate. On the way, he stopped at the rectory.
“Why are you stopping here? asked Bessie. Fiona smiled.
“Well, I convinced his honor, the Rev. McGinnis to come,” he said. He left out the part about borrowing a pinch of Fiona’s pixie dust to sprinkle on the Reverend when he was convincing him to join them.
The ball was a splendid affair. Everyone danced, well almost everyone, except the Methodists.
“Methodist don’t dance,” said Rev. McGinnis. Invisible pixie dust floated over to him from Fiona’s dance gloves.
“Go on,” said Hamish. “the Bishop won’t mind. In fact, if yer take gander by the fireplace, the Bishop is a’tasten a glass of Fiona’s strawberry wine with the Judge.”
“Well, maybe just one dance,” said Rev. McGinnis, taking Bessie’s hand.
At midnight, the Judge sent everyone home to get ready for Christmas Eve.
In his every best preacher voice, Rev. McGinnis announced to all the guests as he was leaving, “I will be looking for every one of you Methodists at church tomorrow evening, Christmas Eve. I want us to sing all the old Christmas carols, hosanna to the highest for the infant babe in Bethlehem.”
All the guests, especially the Methodists, were intensely listening and watching Rev. McGinnis. They were astonished. The once very sad and unhappy man was smiling broadly and laughing as he helped Bessie into the carriage.
The next night, Fiona and Hamish walked up the steep hill and arrived early at the church. Rev. McGinnis was standing alone on the church lawn, in front of a huge pine tree, dilapidated from age.
“You know,” he said. “My tree man wants me to cut down this tree. Says it is dying. But at night I dream of that old tree, glowing with lights on a dark Christmas night, a symbol of grace, hope, and peace. Wouldn’t that be a fine Christmas gift?”
He turned and followed the last of the congregation into the handsome old church. Fiona and Hamish could see Bessie waiting for him.
“I am going tonight,” Fiona said to Hamish.
“Aye, I could tell ya visit was ending.”
“I am going tonight,” Fiona said to Hamish.
“Aye, I could tell ya visit was ending.”
“Tonight, and in the future, no one will remember me, but I am going to leave a very special gift,” Fiona said, looking at the tree.
“Aye.”
They could hear the congregation singing “Silent Night” in the church. Snow was beginning to fall. Fiona felt a bit strange for a faerie queen. Her faerie heart fluttered.
She thought about the town, the friendly people she met, the stories they shared, the children playing in the yards, the frame houses with white fences, holidays greens on the doors, the railroad station with people coming and going, the Gunpowder River covered in ice, young girls and boys skating, the old church on the hill, the Manor Mill Grist Mill churning out corn meal and flour, the beautiful horses grazing in winter pastures…all without pixie dust.
“You know,” she said to Hamish, “for the most part, humans live a wonderful life.”
Then she turned. She reached under her cape and pulled out her glistening, gold wand.
She waved it in front of the old pine, and suddenly the tree was bathed in a thousand lights, glowing in the dark, sending light rays down over the town.
Fiona waved to Hamish and disappeared.
Hamish waited until church was over and everyone emerged greeting each other with “Merry Christmas,” until they saw the beautiful tree glimmering in light. All was silent. Rev. McGinnis walked to the tree in awe. His heart was overflowing with joy.
He looked at Hamish. “How did this happen?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see a thing.”
Quietly, everyone walked around the tree, bathing in its light.
“I think we have a Christmas miracle,” said Rev. McGinnis.
Later that night, Bessie, Rev. McGinnis, and Hamish sat in Bessie’s kitchen after church and opened a bottle of strawberry wine that just happened to be sitting on the table.
“You know, I like this strawberry wine – there I’ve said it – strawberry wine, not strawberry juice,” said Rev. McGinnis. “It reminds me of someone I used to know, but I don’t know who.”
“It reminds me of someone I used to know,
but I don’t know who.”
Hamish just smiled.
The Christmas tree glowed until the New Year. Then in an unusual winter thunderstorm, the tree tumbled down. The spell was broken as Fiona planned. But she knew it was not the end.
Everyone was sad, but in the spring, Judge Pandergast gave a new pine tree to the Methodist Church. Reverend McGinnis planted it himself, with Bessie, his wife, at his side.
Every year following, at Christmas, the town folk of Monkton decorated the tree with the electric lights from the new Edison Electric Illumination Company in Shamokin, Pennsylvania. And, for all the years ahead, at Christmas, the beautiful tree twinkled and glowed down over the town of Monkton.
As the years went by, Rev. McGinnis and Mrs. McGinnis had very happy holidays and three happy children. And each Christmas Eve, an anonymous gift of strawberry wine appeared at their front door.
Thousands of miles away in Faerieland, on the most northern seacoast mountain tip of rugged Scotland, on that very same night, Queen Fiona smiled, grabbed her great wand, and wrote in the sky: