The techno music woke me up sometime before 3 am. I spent roughly twenty minutes tossing in my sleeping bag and grumbling Johann Sebastian Bach’s “Get Off My Lawn” Toccata in D Major. Apparently bad faeries are not susceptible to negative energy because my mental pushes to shew them away only resulted in the sound of increased revelry. Damn things probably feed off of negative energy; I should have known. Gah!
The fact that there are bad faeries wasn’t a surprise to me. It isn’t like I hadn’t been warned. Weeks ago, the husband and I came out to pitch the tent. As we were walking back to the car we ran into a kindly (and beautiful!) faerie whom we’d met the week before.
He greeted us warmly and inquired of our doings. “I’d forgotten you were coming out today to set up your tent. What spot did you pick?”
We described the area we’d chosen and I said I was happy with it. I wanted a place of solitude so I could choose my level of group activity.
Our new friend’s response wasn’t what I anticipated.
“Oh,” he said.
It was the kind of “oh” that meant “How unfortunate” and “this is amusing” all at once.
“What do you mean, ‘Oh,'” I asked with growing concern.
“Well, that’s typically where the bad faeries go,” he replied.
“Bad faeries? What the hell is a bad faerie?” I asked, alarmed.
“Oh, they’re not really bad. They just like to party until 4 in the morning.”
Back home, I’d worried about the bad faeries over the days that followed. But after four nights of peaceful slumber, with nothing but the rain, the wind in the trees, and the occasional owl to disturb me, I had become complacent.
What to do? I thought of kindly asking the bad faeries to leave but immediately discarded the idea. At best I assumed they would completely ignore me. At worst I imagined retaliatory reaction. They might come back and slather Vaseline on my tent zipper, making it impossible to get back inside. Or they might fill the bottom of my sleeping bag with shaving cream. Or, horror of horrors! What if they stole me coffee?
I realized I had to be smart about this. I remembered that the husband had left a fifth of Jack when he left. What if I took it to them as an offering? I knew they wouldn’t be able to resist it. “Yes!” I thought. “I’ll get them drunk and they will soon stumble back to their beds, or rocks, or toadstools, or wherever bad faeries sleep.
I put on my robe, slipped on my flip-flops, grabbed the bottle of Jack, and walked toward their laughter and thump of their music. That’s when things started getting confusing. I expected to see outsiders, newcomers, people with unfamiliar faces and from far away places like, California. Instead, these were people I’d been with all week. I heard a distinct, familiar laugh. No! Sister Enya? My big Sister Enya? She’s a bad faerie?
“Sister Ann! How lovely of you to join us! What’s that?”
I became a happy bartender, offering the Jack to any of the bad faeries who wanted it, and sipping it myself.
It started to rain. The party moved to the shelter of the bathhouse. Thing is, I went with them.
It’s now 5:58 am and the bottle of Jack my husband left is three-fourths consumed. I’m back in my tent trying to figure out what went wrong. With the help of the rain my plan to rid myself of the bad faeries was a success with one perplexing, undeniable exception: I am a bad faerie.