The Tobacco Fairy

In the Canadian forest, where a lake scattered the trees as a crystal blue dwelling, lived a family. The father, mother, and two children lived in relative peace as the hunt was fertile and the forest was giving. The mother watched her children grow into kind, beautiful people. As she marveled at their coming-of-age, she’d often say how they were children of another plane. “Surely, they are too good for this world,” she mused.

Before they fully matured however, the world introduced them to tragedy. A plague ravaged through their community and took their mother. The father grieved over his wife thinking no other fate could be worse, until it claimed his children.

The life he had known, the home of the forest and fertile game, was gone. All he now wished for was for death to claim him. At the abysmal level of his depression, he stopped thinking about himself and of the others that suffered as he did. He felt as if he carried all the grief of the world on his shoulders and in this moment he found hope. “My grief is strong,” he thought, “and others experience the same. Perhaps together the weight will give. Perhaps to let go of my grief is to help others let go.”

So, he volunteered to help those of his tribe. The weak and the poor were always in need, and the man was always happy to help. This is how he spent most of his days until he grew very old. The others gave him the title “Grandfather” though he had no family of his own.

His good deeds brought him happiness, but it did not snuff his loneliness. During the day he felt fulfilled doing the work he could. The evenings, however, were long and lonely. It was a time where he thought of his lost youth, lost friends, and lost family.

One sunny day, the old man sat by the lake as his people enjoyed some aquatic leisure. As his eyes drifted from the endless ripples of the lake to the sky, he frowned. A large black mass moved swiftly through the sky, flying away from the blue hills. Eventually everyone noticed the mass and, being a superstitious people, felt afraid. A large flock of black birds flew over them. A type of bird that no one had ever seen before.

“This is an omen,” someone shouted.

“What does it mean?” asked another.

The old man looked curiously at the flock, when one bird began to pummel towards the ground. An arrow protruded from the bird’s heart but no one had seen the shooter. The bird fluttered in pain and screeched. The other birds called back to their fallen, and circled the injured bird. After a moment, the birds abandoned the injured bird and returned towards the blue hills.

The people of the tribe, still asking about the omen that had surely just happened, sought the old man’s guidance.

“I will go look at the bird,” he said, unafraid. “Perhaps I can help the poor thing.”

“Do not go,” cautioned one of the men. “Who knows what it might do.”

“I’m not afraid of death,” retorted the old man. “My day has breached into evening, where my kindred have already gone. If death salutes me today, then I shall stand in its ranks tomorrow. Let it happen while I shine a light on another.”

As he approached the bird, the sun began to set. Suddenly, the sky lit up, as if dawned skipped it’s slumber, and a ball of fire struck the bird. The man moved quickly towards the bird. It was nothing but ash. He took a knee near the charred remains and began to stir the ashes with a stick. There in the center was a lump of coal, still breathing in embers.

The man moved it and in a twinkling it disappeared. Where it had been was a strange figure. A man, no taller than the old man’s thumb, stood before him.

“Hello, Grandfather,” it said. The old man’s heart began to race at the sight of the anomaly. His legs began to weaken under him.

“Do not be afraid,” the thing continued. “I have been sent to you. I’ve been sent to help you.”

“What are you?” whispered the old man between shallow breaths.

“One of those. The ones from the blue hills. Little people? That might be your name for us.”

“A-” the old man let his breathing regain itself. “A fairy? What do you want?”

“To give,” said fairy. “We have watched your deeds. Watched you sacrifice for others. Never receiving anything in return, until today.”

“What is it?” asked the old man.

“Contentment,” said the fairy holding out his hand. The old man offered his, and the fairy dropped a number of small seeds into his palm. “Drop these into the ashes.”

The old man did so, slightly afraid but mostly curious. Immediately, the seeds grew consuming the surrounding verdant area. Great leaves shot out of the the ground, and what was once an area of pine, became a tobacco field.

The fairy then gave the old man a pipe. “Dry these leaves,” he said. “Stick them in the pipe and smoke them. You have a long life to live. This will help pass the time away, and when you’re lonely this will be your companion. It will bring you dreams of the future and the past. In the smoke you will see visions of those you loved. The faces of your youth will join you on the edge of twilight.”

The old man was thankful.

“Teach other old men how to use it, so they too will possess it, enjoy it, and find contentment.”

With that the fairy disappeared. The old man returned to the village with the power to dream and see the faces of the future and past. This was how tobacco was brought to the native peoples.

From Canadian Fairy Tales by Cyrus Macmillian (1922)

Revised by Jacob Meza

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