Glade Manchu
Puck whistled a low tune as he wound his way through the forest. Soft water droplets fell about him as the winter's last frozen icicles began to melt, giving way to the growing spring heat. Now and again, he reached out a hand and gently brushed away pools of water that had collected in some small leaf or another. A light breeze picked up the small drops and tossed them about in the air, playing with them and then letting them fall softly to the ground. Puck stifled a shiver. Although spring was slowly bringing warm to the land, winter still held her icy grip on the land and stubbornly refused to let go.
He stopped one small tree, bowed over from the heavy snowfalls of the winter season. Its dark grey bark glistened with water, accentuating the small cracks that had formed when water had gotten in and froze.
"You poor thing," Puck whispered softly. "This won't do. This won't do at all. You ought to grow straight - be tall and strong." He looked at the tree for a moment and shook his head. "No," he declared, growing bold. "No, I can't just leave you like this."
He peered at the forest floor for a moment and spotted a large branch that had fallen off during the winter. Propping it against the tree, he slowly brought it back to its upright position. Using a bit of vine - long since withered, of course, as Puck would never harm any living thing without good reason - he tied the branch to the supple tree trunk.
"And just a touch of magic, to help it along, I think," he said. Although no outward change appeared on the tree, any peering watcher might have thought that it stood a little straighter and a little taller. Of course, any watcher would have also denied that the young man standing in the forest had made any mention of 'magic' at all. But the onlooker would not have known that the young man, with his amber locks and emerald eyes, was Robin Goodfellow, caretaker of the land and keeper of the horn of the Wild Hunt. Imbued with greater power than men and most fae, Puck could be a terrible foe or a powerful ally.
Most days, like today, however, he was content to simply be Puck, tending the small gardens and forests and aimlessly wandering to those places which could use the small touches of magic. Aptly, he had earned his title as a mischievous and trickish knave, pulling pranks upon the farmers and churning milkmaid's milk to butter. The farmhands cursed at him and laughed - and always laughed, for his tricks did no harm and things were always better when Puck came by. Though, many tricks they assigned to Puck were not truly of his doing: they were the work of other pucks, hobs, brownies, and fae of similar ilk. The old and wise of the villages knew; every once in a while, a young child would marvel and gasp at the household chores done in the night and attribute the labours to Puck.
"Nay, nay," the wise women would cry. "Not Robin, not the king of the Folk - he's off busy doing the great deeds. Best you leave out a bowl of milk or honey for our hob."
Often they would substitute hob with the local variation and for the most part, they were correct. It was generally these helpful, if sometimes mischievous, fae that helped the home. Robin, however, was not king of the fae - or Fair Folk, or Other Folk, or simply the Folk, as they were often called - in a strict sense of the word. For the most part, they did as he asked when he cared to task them to anything and if they didn't, he could always force them, but they did not owe him any sort of allegiance or loyalty. He didn't take it upon himself to govern the others in any way, nor to set about any rules or law, save to be good and merry, for Robin hated all that was cruel and unkind.
Nor, indeed, was he the strongest; there were far older and more powerful Folk than he, though mortals encountered them rarely. There were still those that even Robin answered to, despite his influence over many of the fae. Even the Wild Hunt, though he could wind its horn, had its own leader, who would not be overruled by Robin Goodfellow. Mortals preferred to think of Robin as such though, since he was one of the few fae named to mortals and friendly with them, for the most part.
Nor was it always true that he was about "doing the great deeds" for he chose, when he had the choice, to spend his time doing simpler things. When all was right in the lands, he spent his time wandering from place to place, finding the patches that needed especial care and tended to them. He stayed in one place never for very long, though when he occasionally came across a special area or a particular youngling who needed tending, he might venture back on a semi-regular basis. But it was not the place for Puck to reside in any one spot; he belonged to the land and he belonged to all of the land. He was the caretaker and he could forsake no part of the his duty by overstaying.
Puck withdrew from the tree and admired his handiwork. Even without his magic now, the tree would grow much straighter, supported as it was by the other branch. Eventually, the tree would have little need for the support and would grow on its own. By that time, the branch would have mostly decomposed and rotted away, providing some more nutrients for the soil. That time would be still many seasons in coming, but Puck left it satisfied that he had done some small good in the forest for the day. He knew that's what the land needed - small goods. As much as humans liked to believe that the Folk went around, using magic in all sorts of places, casting it about whole lands like a great net, Puck knew better. He knew the best way to make a land fertile and welcoming was to nurture a plant here and a tree there; the small acts would build a better landscape as a whole and, better yet, it would not be so dependent on the magic and would continue to thrive when Puck, or any of the other Folk, moved along if they must.
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skittish; profile and story by Shakespeare; background image from Unsplash & transparenttextures
