The Forgotten Girl of Hawthorn Wood

Silver fairy dust fell sparsely around me, gently. The dense forest only let in small patches of the orange dawn, warming my face. I stuck out my tongue, catching the falling sparkles like snowflakes. They were sweet, like sugar. I always knew the forest fairies were real, and their presence made me feel immediately calm… safe.

As a child, our old, small house was next to a hawthorn forest. It was just my mom and me for a while, about ten minutes away from town, and I loved having her to myself. She used to take me outside when it was cool, right before the sun went down, and we would play all kinds of games. She always thought I had a wild imagination, and that’s why she didn’t give it a second thought when I told her I saw a fairy in the trees.

At first, I thought they were fireflies. “Look at all the fireflies, Mommy!” I pointed, excitedly. I ran toward the lights, mesmerized. When I neared, they floated upwards, just a few feet out of reach. They seemed bigger than the fireflies Mother had pointed out in the forest before. They were yellow, fleeting, and I only caught a few more glimpses of them before they were gone. Mother didn’t see them, but she just assumed they flew away.

About a month after I first saw them, Mother strung up a line of lights on our wooden back porch. We were outside every night at that point, playing together and enjoying the soft Oregon breeze.

“Do you like the fairy lights, Emma?” She picked me up, giving me a closer look.

The lights looked enchanting to six-year-old me. “Fairy lights? Why is it called that?”

She grinned. “Well, in old stories, some people believed in fairies, or spirits of the forest. They are beautiful little creatures that have wings and light up!” She pointed. “Just like these lights!”

I immediately thought of the lights I saw in the forest. “Like fireflies?!”

“Yes, baby, like fireflies.” She giggled.

I was mesmerized by the idea of little winged creatures flying around and lighting up the night. As I got older, I saw the lights several more times, unsure of what they were. Every time I saw them, they invited me in. The more I saw them, the more I realized that they were not fireflies. They were brighter, more inviting. They made me feel safe. I read stories about fairies at school, and I had feelings… inklings… but I never knew for sure.

I began to tell Mother, “There are fairies in the trees!” She always thought I was talking about fireflies. She never saw the special lights that I did, but she always played along. I like to believe that that is what sparked my creativity at such a young age. When I was only eight years old, I found my love of writing. Something inside of me felt there was more to our lives and our world than we could all see. But since I couldn’t prove it, I decided to create it myself.

My little picture books full of vampires, fairies, princesses, and fantasy kingdoms got laughs from my friends and other classmates. I was no artist, and there is no doubt that my drawings and stories were kind of silly, but at the time, I was crushed. I poured my heart into each and every story I wrote, and no one seemed to notice, so I decided to stop writing for a while.

Mother got sick and passed away when I was nine, and with no one left to care for me, I was placed into the foster care system. It happened quickly, and I was left with a gaping hole in my heart. She was my rock, and the only thing that kept me sane after losing her was getting back into my writing. Several families took me in over the years, each one seemingly absent… and I spent loads of time writing. I created worlds in which my mother still existed, where we were together, sitting on our back porch under the fairy lights. Worlds where we could travel the earth together, seeing everything our planet had to offer, and discovering the magic hidden in the crevices. But what I enjoyed the most was conjuring up worlds where we lived in the forest with the fairies.

We had the most beautiful dresses, crafted just for us using vibrant leaves gifted from autumn’s foliage, white flowers plucked delicately from the hawthorn trees, and silk so soft you could barely feel it caressing your skin. The trees were our home where we built tiny, hidden cottages, stowed away for only the birds and butterflies to see. We lived simple but rewarding lives, praising the beauty of nature and its gifts. We had the time to sit and truly listen to a bird’s song, to soak in the rays of the sunrise, and to remember the deep value of each other’s presence. Most importantly, we were able to use our mystical energy and power to bring peace to those who came upon the forest, many being little girls just like me. Coming up with such stories brought me a level of peace, but also made the hole in my heart a bit bigger, because of how badly I wished they were real.

When I first got to high school, I was stuck with another family in Portland who was obviously in it for the money. They gave me a bed to sleep on in a small, gray room, an occasional meal so they wouldn’t get in trouble for starving me, and then left me to myself and my thoughts. I felt lucky to not have been stuck with somebody worse, but that was all I felt when I thought of them. They were like absolute strangers to me.

Their loose grip came as an advantage to me because it meant they didn’t care when I went off to the woods after school. Whether it was by bus, a long walk, or a ride from a friend, I always found a way to get to the forest. Even though Mother’s old house had been sold, I always went to that same forest. There was an opening a few blocks away from that same spot, and it led to what soon became my writing spot. Deep within the trees, a stream quietly flowed. I would walk all the way to the edge of the stream, leaves crunching along the way, and sprawl my green blanket right at the edge.

The nature and energy around me helped build my worlds. Sometimes I saw the occasional deer further down the stream, taking a peaceful drink. Other times, a butterfly would land on my blanket, and it would stay for a while, almost like a friend. When the sun started to set, I would put down my journal and lie on my blanket, staring straight up at the sky. Ever since I started writing in the forest, the lights were there too. At first, I would see them for a couple of seconds here and there before they disappeared into the canopies above me. But the more I came out there, the longer they stayed, and the closer they got.

When they started to stay longer, I got a better look at them. They were beautiful. They were dazzling balls of yellowish light, filled with even more yellow and white levitating sparkles. Every once in a while, I caught a glimpse of what looked like a tiny arm or a wing. Even though it was always short-lived, it was enough to leave me wanting more. It made me long for them and want them to stay. Every night when I looked up at the sky, they illuminated the night. They were small, but their peaceful energy was infinite. Even though I was alone, lying within the wooded shadows at night as a delicate sixteen-year-old girl, I felt untouchable.

When I won my first story contest at school, it made me realize that my stories were the only thing I had, and those were inspired by my experiences in the woods. My only family had been my mother, and I had grown apart from my childhood friends. The couple of acquaintances I gathered at Longview High meant nothing compared to my connection to the forest. My days at “home” and at school were just me going through the motions, excited for the next time I would be able to see the fairies again.

Yesterday, as I made my way to my normal spot to write, I felt like nature was welcoming me. The sun warmed my face, the water flowed the same, inspiration showed itself in every single thing around me, but something felt different. The peace I usually felt amplified itself, and I was euphoric. As the sun began to set, the luminance from the fairies began to dance around my field of vision. I realized quickly that the fairies were surrounding me. They were not just floating around the canopies; they were at my level. That is when the fairy dust came.

The sugar-like sparkles landed on my tongue and then began to stick to my arms, fall out of my hair, and coat the ground around me. I looked up, and my heart nearly stopped. The entire sky above me was full of the silver beauty, falling so gently that it looked like slow motion. That’s when the tiny, angel-like creatures slowly began to show their true forms. They were levitated by their elegant, translucent wings. It looked like nature was growing directly from their beings. Vines, leaves, small flowers, and tiny butterflies surrounded and hugged their bodies. They were nature, and nature was them.

They didn’t speak, but they looked at me, and I could feel them trying to say something… They wanted me to come with them. A tear fell down my face and onto the dirt below. Not because I was upset, but because this is what I never knew I was waiting for. One of them flew closer to my face, their small, icy eyes looking at mine.

“Your peace and connection to nature will be more grand than ever before, but no human will remember that you ever existed.” The creature spoke with a light, airy voice, amplified by the connection between us. It was like she was projecting to me, so that I, and only I, could hear exactly what she was saying.

The thought was bizarre to me. My old friends, my teachers, my foster parents—none of them would remember me. Something about that felt extremely strange, but at the same time, it felt exhilarating. Ever since my mother's passing, I had felt like an outcast in the human world. The group home, my foster homes, school, and everywhere else felt like a stop on the way to something greater. My stories, the amazing worlds I created, felt almost like a portal. Like they were one step closer to getting me where I belonged. And where I belonged was with the forest.

I looked at the enchanting society around me and nodded, tears beginning to come down my face and my heart rate beginning to slow down. I closed my eyes, feeling more at peace than I ever had in my entire sixteen years of life. I began to float off the ground, and I could feel myself changing, shrinking. The air around me started to thin, and I could feel the cool wind take my body up towards the sky.

When I opened my eyes, I knew I was exactly where I needed to be. The air smelled of roses and rain, mist coated my new body, and the loudest noise around me was a bird’s delicate song. I looked around me, euphoria filling my being, knowing I would never have to come out of the woods again.