Sarah believed in fairies. When she was little, she tromped with Tess, her best friend since age five, through the woods behind our stepmother’s house and looked for signs of magic. Sarah told Tess that she was a fairy herself. That she had a psychic connection to the fairy queen and served as a messenger to the humans. Tess asked Sarah for proof, for some sign that she was telling the truth. Sarah sighed sadly and told her, “I could show you my wings, but if I do, I will die.” When she was feeling more magnanimous, she told Tess that she would sacrifice herself, if it meant Tess believed.
They built fairy houses, small intricate palaces of wood, leaf, and flower. Even now, one of us will come across these long-forgotten altars, these shrines to magic. They appear so fragile and eerily permanent all at the same time, as if they are saying, We will remain long after you are gone.
Once I was up late talking to a boy, and I could hear Sarah and Tess giggling and whispering in the loft above my bed. It was past midnight. The rest of the house was quiet except for the chestnut tree outside dropping fruit onto the wooden deck. I ignored the noises above and shyly flirted into the phone. After our goodbyes, my face burning hot and my body throbbing painfully from hormones, I snuck the phone back to its cradle in the living room. It was only then that I noticed the smell.
I climbed up the ladder stairs to the loft. As the room came into view, there was a fierce spitting noise, and all I could see was fire. The girls had made an altar, taken every candle in the house and lit them all, whispering prayers and spells into the smoke and flame. The individual flames had joined together and created a monstrous, beautiful pillar of light and heat.
I slid back downstairs and rushed to get something to help put the fire out. I could hear the girls’ whispers turn to urgent calls for my help. I grabbed a large glass of water from my bedside table and a beach towel that was hanging over the back of a chair. With a splash and a smother, the fire was put out, and we were left with a wet, waxy mess.
The next day, after adults found out what they had done, Sarah and Tess spent hours with butter knives, trying to gently scrape all the candle wax off the furniture, floors, and wood.
There is still a scorch mark on the wall, the gray imprint of two girls who believed in miraculous things.