A child dressed in a long sleeve pink shirt and jean overalls races across the field. The gauzy fake butterfly wings on her back flutter as she makes a beeline towards the grove of old oak trees. The tiny brass bells at the end of her two long pigtail twists jingle as she clambers over large gnarled roots of the old oak trees. The oaks’ branches spread out far above the child, allowing only flickers of sunlight through.
The brown-red leaves crunches underfoot as she jumps off a root down to the ground below. It stirs up the musty and earthy scent brought about by dying leaves and early morning fog. Unbothered by the smells of the forest, she hums, crouching down to shift through the leaves, uncaring of the bits of dirt sticking to the tips of her fingers. Brushing aside the leaves reveals a ground littered with acorns. One by one she picks them up and studies them in the dappled sunlight. If the acorns were too tiny, she would drop them back into the ground; if they were too big she would toss them into a little nook around the roots believing squirrels must be hiding nearby waiting to grab them. But the ones that were around the size of a quarter she kept, putting them into a brown pouch knitted by her gran. The bag is out of place among all the pink and sparkles, nor does it match the shiny purple shoes on her feet.
A tall lanky man appears from behind an oak tree. His vivid curly red hair tumbles over his shoulders as he perches on one of the large overgrown roots. The child jumps at the sudden appearance of this strange man, and despite the fact he stares at her with his unnaturally golden yellow eyes she has no fear in her heart. In all honesty, he looks like a character that had just stepped off the pages of one of her fairy tale books. In fact, his whole form stood out in that little oak grove, in spite of the fact his clothes were nothing but varying shades of brown.
She looks around, as if reconsidering where she was, before asking, “What are you doing all the way up there mister?”
“I’m watching the turning of the leaves, little one, and what are you doing all the way out here?”
“I’m collecting acorns for the fairy market!”
Amusement leaks into his voice as he asks her in turn, “The fairy market?”
“Uh huh! I read it in a book! That fairies hold secret markets to sell fairy things! And they trade in acorns,” she paused and hums, “And yellow leaves like the leaves on the trees, but they’re all red, not yellow. So I can’t use those.”
The man cackles at this answer as he hops down from his perch. Landing on his feet like one of the stray cats that roams the little girl’s neighbourhood. He struts towards her, seemingly pleased by her answer. As he comes closer, she realizes he is tall, taller than any adult she had seen before. She takes one large step back, and he stops before her, holding out a hand.
“May I see your acorns, fascinating one?”
“Am I gonna get them back?” she clutches the pouch to her chest as she asks this.
“Of course! I’m no thief! I’ll give your acorns back to you, every single one acorn. I shall give them back to you,” he assures her.
She takes half a step forward and holds out the pouch, dropping it into his waiting hand. Taking the bag he pours the little acorns into his hand; the sound of soft clinking of acorns fill the space between them. He hums, admiring the attentiveness she shows in her choice of oak seeds.
“What is your name, diligent one?” he asks as he admires a particularly blemish free acorn.
“Mama said to not give my name to strangers.”
He chortles at this, the response amuses him. With great care he puts all the acorns back into the pouch, counting them aloud one by one before handing the pouch back to her.
“How about a trade observant one?” he inquires as he crouches down to be close to her height, his knees bent so much he looks almost frog-like in posture.
“A trade?” she looks at him and then to her pouch of acorns, “Do you trade in acorns too mister?”
The man grins with a wide smile full of teeth, “Why yes, I do, for I too like to trade in the… fairy market.”
He holds out his hand to her once more, and with a twist of his fingers appears two small charms, a small golden oak leaf and an even smaller brass acorn, both hanging from a thin leather cord. They gleam in the dappled sunlight, and as the wind blows through the grove, it tugs at the charms causing the acorn to chime like a bell. The little girl stares at the charms with wide eyed surprise and looks at the man in disbelief.
“Could I really have that for my bag of acorns?”
“Yes, a trade is a trade, this pretty trinket for your bag of acorns. I will honour this trade of your acorns for my trinket. This is a trade of acorns and trinkets,” he nodded as he spoke.
With a shriek of delight she holds out her bag of acorns with both hands. The man looks at it and smiles, telling her gently.
“When trading, hold out your trade in one hand, and take what you want to trade with, with your other hand. This way we both know it’s fair, yes?”
He then puts the trinket into his right hand and holds it out to her, reaching out for the pouch with his left hand.
