The Hawthorn Tree & Other Fables

The fae gathered around the hawthorn, triumphant and terrible. They sneered through the split in the tree and dipped their fingers into the gleaming pond, laughing at the wet mud staining our feet as they painted their bodies gold.

We turned our backs to them, taking up the handful of soil and scattering it across our lands. At first, the mud only grew wetter and colder, and the fae continued to laugh as they threw their revels and poured their riches into honeyed wines and dark meats.

But then, grass sprouted from our soil. The taller it grew, the lusher our world became. Fruits blossomed like jewels from the earth, brighter and sweeter than gold. We wove flowers into our hair and amongst the hawthorn branches.

Through the split in the tree, the fae's sneers turned to sobs. Their revels faded. They had slaughtered their last cattle, bodies become wan and wasted.

Gold could not feed them.