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When Sneezlewort Rootmuster Rowanberry Boggs the Seventh woke up one fine
spring morning, he stepped outside the door of his tiny stone house into the light of the day, never guessing that this might be the last time he ever saw home again.
He followed a wandering path through crooked oaks that were as old as time -- for Old Oak Wood was a magical forest hidden deep in moorland hills, home to the oldest faery court in all the British Isles. Sneezle himself was a tree root faery, but merely a child in faery years -- although he was now 201 as humans reckon time. He came from a fine old hawthorn clan, and like every other Boggs in the woods he had nut-brown fur, black eyes, long ears, and a tail he was exceedingly proud of.
On that particular April morning, the young root faery followed his nose until he reached the bank of a chattering stream, where the path turned south. Overhead, the oak trees yawned and stretched away their winter dreams. Likewise, the hibernating faeries -- the hobs, the nobs, piskies and pooks -- were waking now, crawling from their dens beneath the rocks and roots to blink up at the sun, their faces pale, still half asleep.
The boy followed the stream through the morning hours until the sun was high, whereupon he reached a tranquil pool shaded by an elder tree. A dryad sat beneath the tree, her skin the color of elder wood, the long braids of her hair trailing in the dark water below.
The young root faery cleared his throat and said, "Good day to you, Lady."
The dryad turned and gazed at him with eyes as pale as elder wine. "Good day to you, small one," she said, her voice the rustle of leaves in the wind. She was just as ancient as her tree, her features carved by weather and time, grown ever more beautiful with age. Sneezle bowed before her.
"I've come to ask if you will spare some elder sticks for my friend Twig. She's studying magic," Sneezle explained, "and she needs them for her spells."
The elder dryad's eyes narrowed. "And what shall you give to me in return?"
"I'll give you a story," said Sneezle promptly, for this was what dryads loved best.
The woman frowned. "My tree was old when yours was just a seed," she said. "What story can you possibly know that will interest one such as me?"
"I'll tell you about the Winter Child born from a golden egg," said the boy, "and how I rescued her from a goblin tower with my friend Twig."
The dryad favored him with a smile. "Then you must be young Sneezlewort Boggs."
"I am, Lady," he answered, surprised.
"The trees have spoken of you, small one. Come sit beside me, tell me your tale, and I'll give you something better than sticks. I'll give you twigs from the very top of the tree, where the magic is."
Sneezle sat down on gray rocks, his legs dangling above the pool, and told the elder dryad the entire story of his last adventure. The telling took a long, long time, and when he'd finished the tale at last, the clear blue sky had changed to one that promised rain by evening. Eager to be indoors by then, Sneezle said farewell to the tree woman, elder twigs tucked safely into the pocket of his waistcoat.
Text copyright © 2003 by Terri Windling
Excerpted from The Faeries of Spring Cottage by Terri Windling, Wendy Froud
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.