Puck, the mischievous nature sprite of legend, must enlist the help of mortals to prevent a crisis which could erupt between the human world and the world of Fairie - a place full of dangers for mortals. Dash, a failed writer, has to protect mankind from a potentially deadly conflict. Fortunately, Puck finds someone to help Dash with the quest.
This is the third of a series of stories about Puck's adventures in the modern world. Although they are told in a chronological sequence of sort, the stories are independent. Don't worry if you haven't read the others. You can enjoy this one, then read the rest.
I would like to thank Gustav Rennick for his help with editing.
With an almost silent rustle of keys, Dash Ressel finished another sentence. "Oh, for the days of John D. McDonald's Red-Hot Typewriter," he thought. Back then authors had the tactile feed back, the satisfaction of slamming away at the keys of a mechanical typewriter and hearing the clickety-clack of the type bar leaving a real imprint of the ink ribbon on a real sheet of paper. Dash had just the rattle of the keys on his old laptop. The machine served to render his ideas into words on a screen, but they were stored in an invisible, insubstantial electronic file somewhere in the depths of the machine and in the cloud somewhere - but did creating a series of little electromagnetic patterns really constitute "writing?"
Dash shook his head slowly, and judged from his eyes' swaying focus that he was not yet done writing for the evening. He went to the kitchen, poured another three fingers of bourbon into his glass, and sat back down with his computer. "Lets see," he mumbled to himself, "boy meets girl - boy loses girl - boy turns into homicidal maniac..." He nodded to himself. "Yep, a basic, young-adult plot line."
There was a knock at the door. Dash ignored the sound. Since he lived so far off the beaten track in the wilds of Kentucky, he knew it was no visitor. It was either a walnut falling off the huge tree which overhung the front of the cabin, or it was that mange-ridden raccoon begging for scraps again. Well, the 'coon was out of luck because he had finished the entire can of chili he had heated for his supper.
There was another knock at the door. It sounded a little too purposeful to be a walnut, and the animal never used his fist. Dash pushed back his chair, took a swallow of bourbon, and headed for the door. He swung the door wide and looked out. Just as he had thought. No one there.
"Good evening, sir. May I introduce myself?"
Startled, Dash looked down. A little man, maybe eight inches high, stood on the stoop. Dash looked down at the remaining bourbon in the glass. Maybe he was a little farther along than he had thought.
Evidently standing there in the doorway with his jaw hanging down was enough of an invitation for the little man because he skipped past Dash into the cabin. Inside the door he stopped and looked around. "Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home," he said. "At least that's what I have heard said." The little man looked around. "And this certainly is humble."
Still in the doorway with his hand on the doorknob, Dash felt a flush of heat. "Who the hell are you, and what do you think you are doing in my cabin?"
The little man turned around, swept off his small green cap, and bowed low. "I, good sir, am Puck - the fairy. You may have heard of me."
"Not since Mrs. Potter's freshman English class," Dash replied. He looked up into the rafters of the cabin and exhaled an alcohol-laden gust of breath. "I must be drunker than I thought," he thought to himself. Dash stepped back inside, closed the door, and went back to his desk. He flopped into his chair, looked into his glass, swirled the contents, and took another swallow. He looked back into the room. The little man still stood there - hat in hand and tapping his foot impatiently. "Shit," Dash thought. "This will not end well."
"So what do you want?" Dash finally asked. "What kind of nasty tricks are you here to play?"
Now that Dash had finally recognized him, Puck hopped up on the desk in front of him. "You, sir, appear to be a drunken sot, and I need someone of clear mind. If we are to save mankind from the foul fiends of the depths of Fairie, I need someone sharp of sense and keen of wit."
Dash lifted his glass in mock salute and downed the last of the bourbon. "Well, my senses are plenty witty when I've had a little pop - or two. After all, I am keenly enjoying imagining I am talking to a fairy." He couldn't help himself. He had to giggle.
The little man frowned. "I can certainly see I will get nowhere with you this evening. You force me to take measures."
"Yeah, right," said Dash and he stood up and walked to the kitchen where the bourbon bottle still sat. He poured himself another healthy belt. "If I'm this screwed up already, I might as well go for the big 'all-fall-down' this evening." Truthfully, he was a little unnerved by the fact that his imagination had gotten so vivid tonight. What if this really was the tricksey Robin Goodfellow of legend? He shook his shoulders. "Be real," he told himself. "Go back and sit down. Drink 'till you pass out, and in the morning this will all be a memory." Hmm, a happy thought - maybe it wouldn't be even a memory if he got enough liquor down.
Because his glass was full, Dash sat down a little more carefully. The little man still stood on the desk. "Yep," Dash thought. "Need more bourbon." Out loud, he said, "Ever since Marcy left me, I haven't been getting much." He took a leisurely sip. "So, Mister Puck, if you'd just magic me up a woman, you know, one of those nymphs you fairies cavort around with, this could be just a perfect evening. Do that, and I'll be glad to help." He tipped the glass towards the little man in a small salute, then he took another good sized sip. For a moment he held the amber liquid in his mouth savoring the flavor and feeling it numb his tongue and gums before he swallowed. Dash smacked his lips and sighed.
Puck gasped. "Oh, don't even wish for such a thing as it may be granted." He shuddered and turned away.
