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Prince Oberon's sword flashed like sunlight as he slashed at his foes. Ka-Chang! His shield warded off an attacker as he let loose a yodeling scream; a war cry meant to rally his army of faeries.
The pixie archers kept up their fierce assault, arrow after arrow piercing miniature faerie wings. Despite Prince Oberon's heroics, bit by bit the faeries were driven back into surrender. It was a battle which took place long ago, one which divided England forever, setting up a border at the River Pedder, the pixies living on one side and the faeries on the other.
As the pixies and faeries fought, ravens circled above the battlefield. The sleek black billed birds caw-cawed, calling out for reinforcements, drumming their stout bills on hollow logs. The ravens imitated the howling of wolves, slowly gathering a canine army on the fringes of the battlefield. The Raven King did not order his assembled warrior forces to join in the fray. His eyes gleamed with a red glow, because the Raven King knew that while pixies and faeries battled each other, the good people of the countryside had been left unprotected.
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Oberon mounted his favorite dragonfly and headed homeward, defeated in battle but not destroyed. Suddenly he was startled by the sounds of wailing children. With both hands, Oberon grabbed the front forewing of his dragonfly and executed a sharp turn towards the sounds of the distressed children.
A different human youngster stuck their screaming head out of every open window. Snarling wolves guarded every door of the burning building, preventing any exits. At the entrance, where the wolves barked and bit amidst the flames, a valiant woman fought alongside her fallen husband. The woman battled the wolves and ravens, waving a pitchfork in her hands, long hair blowing back in the breeze, one breast as bare as Lady Liberty leading a charge. Mrs. Goodfellow stood above her dead husband’s body, stabbing her pitchfork again and again at the approaching wolves, fighting with all the ferocity a mother can muster. In the meantime, the Goodfellow children leaned their heads out the windows of the burning barn, clouds of smoke rolling past their ears.
Oberon utilized his magic powers, the type of magic powers that are bestowed upon the prince of faeries. He changed his shape into that of a giant bear. In the shape of an angry grizzly Oberon charged forward, scattering the wolves with blows from his huge forepaws. Oberon lumbered his massive furred shape towards the alpha male. In the shape of a giant bear, Oberon grabbed the leader of the pack by the throat, squeezing out the wolf's last breath between his muscular ursine claws.
Oberon changed his shape back, shrinking back down into his normal size.
"Allow me to introduce myself," he said in a regal, pompous voice, "I am Oberon, Prince of the..."
But Mrs. Goodfellow had no time for luxuries such as introductions. She climbed to the roof of the burning barn battling the flames as her children rushed to safety.
The ravens, which had already plundered the fields and raided the house, were now burning down the barn just out of spite. They flew down the chimney, stole coals from the hearth, and dropped them into hayloft, fanning the flames with their wings. Mrs. Goodfellow battled the birds, the fire singing her hair, her face black with soot.
Oberon changed shape once more, turning into a sleek and muscular hawk. Oberon flapped his wings and sailed skywards towards the sun. He dove, a feathered arrow of talon and claw, scattering the ravens from the fields. Oberon returned to the barn, gliding to a rest atop the weathercock, preening his plumage.
Mrs. Goodfellow gathered her ten children and dragged her dead husband behind the house. There she dug a shallow grave and the children deposited their murdered father into his final resting place with a plop. The Goodfellow family conducted a silent but sad funeral for the departed man. Oberon realized that this was not the best of times for him to demand a reward. He changed back into his form as the faerie king, crossing his legs, resuming his perch sitting atop the weather vane so that he twirled in circles whenever the wind changed.
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Oberon sat atop his perch for many days as he watched the widow Goodfellow care for and comfort her children. She ignored her own grief to solace theirs, foraged for her children's supper, and scavenged a shelter from the charred remains of their home. At last, every night, late at night, after her children were fast asleep and long after the sun had set, when she thought she was all alone, she would allow herself the luxury of tears. Oberon, King of the Faeries, would fly up silently beside the sleeping, weeping, lady and use a rose petal to sponge up her tears.
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Oberon hastily reassembled what remained of the faerie army. He changed himself into a beaver chewing lumber and put his tiny soldiers to work as carpenters so that they were quickly able to rebuild the Goodfellow house. For the next several weeks Oberon was very busy in several different shapes; gathering thread and cloth as a sparrow to help the widow Goodfellow clothe her children. He nourished the growing Goodfellow family as a milk cow, laid eggs as a chicken, plowed the fields as an ox and worked as a firefly to keep the blaze going in the family hearth.
Although Mrs. Goodfellow had loved her husband a great deal she could not help but fall head over heels for the gallant prince of faeries who had saved her from howling wolves and the family farm from destruction. In the evening he would entertain her children with tales that required him to change into the shapes of Cyclops, leprechauns, Minotaurs, and rhinoceroses. Late in the evening she could not help but notice that when Oberon changed his shape into human form he made a very tall and handsome man.
As a king, Oberon had both many faults and much strength but as a passionate lover he had no peer. After a single night of sleepless procreation Oberon left the Goodfellow farm at sunrise, taking the form of a robin, muscular red breast propelling feathers through air, and winging his way back to his throne in faerie land.
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Exactly nine months later the widow Goodfellow gave birth to a healthy baby boy; a lad whom she named in honor of the last shape she had seen the boy’s father wear. The eleventh child of the widow Goodfellow was named Robin - Robin Goodfellow. Robin's favorite memories of his father were the summer days that they spent fishing together. Sometimes, Oberon would change his shape into that of an eagle carrying young Robin over distant mountains and above exotic lands. Mostly they would just fish, Oberon entertaining his son with wondrous stories of Zeus and Merlin, (both of whom he had known personally) and Ireland rising up out of the sea. Robin and his father would fish, dropping a hook and a line in a stream. Oberon always inquired after the fortunes of the widow Goodfellow and always gave Robin a gift to present to her when he returned home. This present was usually some royal knick knack or lost crown jewel.
One particular afternoon Oberon sighed, "Love between a human woman and an immortal - tis not meant to be"
Then he looked at his son and said, "As my son you are half human and half immortal. I do not know what the future holds for thee. Have ye got a girlfriend lad?"
Robin Goodfellow confessed his first case of puppy love to his father. Oberon laughed and had that talk which fathers have with sons; the one about the birds and bees. Only since Robin Goodfellow was the son of Oberon, King of the Faeries, first he heard the part about the birds and the bees and then the part about the dragons and griffins as well.
Because you are my son," Oberon began, "You carry the blood of faeries in your veins. You are not immortal but you will live for centuries. This may sound like a blessing but it carries a burden as well. Mere mortals will become jealous and suspicious. You will be forced to move often and live under assumed names to avoid being called a witch. Worst of all you will outlive every woman you love time and time again..."
"And worst of all, "Oberon repeated, "You will outlive every woman you love."
Then the King of the Faeries lapsed into silence.
Robin Goodfellow cast his line into the stream but no fish bit his hook, he only succeeded in getting his worm wet.
"As King of the Faeries," Oberon suddenly resumed, "I was able to give you a gift of magic the day you were born."
"A magic present!" Robin said, eyes sparkling.
"Soon you will discover that for the love of a lady you will be able to change shape and form. If you use this gift wisely, no woman will be able to resists your charms. But I have limited the gift, you will only be able to shape shift for love."
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Robin Goodfellow was awakened by torch light and the shouts of an unruly mob.
Startled, he sat upright in the hayloft, immediately searching for an escape route. Elizabeth Buckingham sat up beside him, pieces of straw in her hair, the moonlight shinning down on her naked body, and a satiated sigh upon her breath.
"What's the matter?' she muttered, still half asleep.
"Apparently," stated Robin Goodfellow calmly, "Your father is angered by our consensual affections.
"Father!" Elizabeth cried out, "Oh No!"
"Where is father?" shouted out sister Jane.
"Over there!" blurted Mary, the youngest of the Buckingham sisters pointing a finger towards the rows of blazing torches and angry voices approaching from the town.
Robin Goodfellow began to get dressed. Very calmly he adjusted his socks and laced his shoes. The sisters were in a panic, accidentally switching underwear and Elizabeth fell out of the hayloft. Robin had to rescue his shirt from Mary and by that time lynch mob was very close. The lynch mob was so close that Robin Goodfellow could smell the smoke of the torches and hear the voices cursing his name. There was Mr. Buckingham the tavern keeper of course, Jones the blacksmith, Edgar the cooper, most of the husbands from Penny Lane, and a disgruntled father, brother, or two. Robin Goodfellow could see that he had overstayed his welcome in another English town.
Barely in front of the torches of an unruly lynch mob consisting of jilted boyfriends, jealous husbands, and protective fathers, Robin Goodfellow fled along the winding path which slowly led to the sea. Gradually, he outdistanced the jilted boyfriends. It was always the cuckolded husbands who were the most tenacious, chasing Robin Goodfellow until they were exhausted. Robin did not pity them. Women who were treated well were never susceptible to his charms. It was only for love, not lust that Robin Goodfellow could change shape and form.
He wished he could change shapes now, turn himself into an eagle and easily outdistance the last few members of the lynch mob. His legs were tired and he was weary, if he could only change his shape and end this silly chasing game. He had always escaped before, it was just wearying, and right now he could really use another hour or two of sleep. Of course it helped if you thought ahead. At the end of the winding road which gradually led to the sea there was a long wooden pier and at the end of that long wooden pier was a boat. Robin had hidden the boat for just such an emergency. Robin untied the small water craft and used one of the oars to push himself away from the shore. The lynch mob rounded the corner into the cove just in time to see the tiny boat reach the deep waters. One cuckolded husband ran into the surf and hurled a stone at the fleeing Casanova. Robin rowed, silent and steady, floating towards the open ocean.
The tiny boat leaked badly and was swamped frequently by the larger waves. Robin kneeled on the wet wood, using a bucket to scoop out the water and dump it back into the sea. Robin just drifted in the open ocean. He had no desire for a destination.
His father's dire warning came back to haunt him. "Time and time again you will outlive your loves," Oberon had told him.
These events had come to pass. All the women he had ever loved, (and century after century he had loved hundreds), all the women he had ever loved he had outlived. There were other woes too, some of them worse than others. Outrunning lynch mobs was one of them. Once in a while he was caught by lynch mobs and that was worse. Robin Goodfellow was not immortal and it was possible a lynch mob could kill him but they would have to really want to kill him, making him dead over and over again. Usually they just got frustrated and tired out after a while. Living under aliases got to be a bore, century after century, he could never remember which name he used when he moved to a new town. There were hardly any new towns left, as the centuries, eras, and epochs passed, Robin Goodfellow had lived most everywhere in England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. Now he floated on the rainy ocean; bored, cold, wet, and miserable, with no desire to land ashore anywhere on those tiny islands where everywhere was the sad memory of a lost love.
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He was still floating, lost in a thick ocean fog, when suddenly an albatross flew by and almost tore his head off.
Caw-Caw.
The albatross quickly flew away, followed by another and then two more wrestling over a stinking rotting fish flew by, one of the knocking him in the head with a cod fin. The cockney curse words of a shipboard cook soon followed. Out of the fog, two huge mainsails charged forward, sails billowing, heading straight for the tiny wooden boat. Robin Goodfellow figured this was the end of his long and weary life at last.
It was the sailor in the crow’s nest who saved Robin Goodfellow's life.
"Ho there," he shouted through the fog, "Man overboard. All hands, man aside the stern!"
"Ahoy there," the sailor in the crow’s nest shouted, "Would you like to be rescued?"
"Not really." Robin shrugged his shoulders.
The crew was befuddled.
"Look here lad," the captain cried out, "We're a sailor short, and why don't you work your passage to another land?"
Another land? It was a possibility Robin had never pondered. "Where are you headed?"
"To the New World and the American colonies." The captain answered
The New World, that had a ring to it, a good place for a fresh start.
"Sure, I'll work my way to the New World."
"Welcome aboard lad," the captain said, "What's your name?"
Now that presented a problem, Robin could not use any of his old aliases. It was always possible that he could run into a betrayed lover for whom he had been the betrayer. If he used his real name, Robin Goodfellow, that man had become a creature of legend and myth centuries ago, a story told to children, none would believe that he really existed in the flesh. Robin Goodfellow looked at the pail in his hands, the one he was using to bail out the tiny boat filled with water.
"Bail..." he answered, "They call me John O'Bail."
"Welcome aboard John O'Bail," the sailor in the crow’s nest waved.
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Robin, or John O'Bail, would have to try to remember his new name this time. In fact he was not even certain if his powers would still work on the distant shores of the New World. In America, everything seemed so different. Maybe the magical powers he had inherited from his father were limited to his native lands and not the shores of distant seas. When John O'Bail first landed in the new English colony there was little chance to test his shape shifting abilities. For the first time in a life that spanned over millennia - John O'Bail was stranded in a community of bachelors.
This monastic lifestyle was a welcome change for Robin Goodfellow. It was his first opportunity to till the soil, learn a craft, and prosper as a businessman. With no scandals or jealousies to follow him it was the first time he had ever stayed in one place for such a long time, used the same name for so many years. It was the first time he ever put down roots. The thing that really made him doubt the transfer of his magical powers was one simple fact - he had begun to age.
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John O'Bail had stalked deer all morning, following fresh tracks all day and even catching glimpses of a white rump or antler racks as they fled over the next hill. Hunting all morning without any success, John O' Bail decided to take lunch on a rock ledge overlooking a clear mountain pool. O'Bail knew that the deer came to drink at the mountain pool every day and that all he had to do was wait patiently.
His mind began to wander, remembering all his past loves; treasuring every smile and every embrace. Some men count sheep as they drift into sleep but John O'Bail faded into dreamland by counting past loves. O'Bail slept soundly, tired from his morning of hunting, snoring loudly and missing the many does and bucks who came to sip at the clear mountain spring.
O'Bail was awakened by the sound of two young women laughing. It was the kind of free and easy laughter which can only come from two young women who are sisters or the best of friends or both. The two young women were Native Americans, splashing each other so their long black hair glistened with moisture as their lean brown body’s glowed copper with the setting sun. O'Bail watched, the women's beauty and innocent natures stirring up long dormant feelings deep inside him. He knew just enough of the Iroquois language to eavesdrop on their conversation.
"The white panther likes me best," one sister teased the other, "He is my boyfriend."
"The white panther can practice on you all he wishes," the other sister answered, "That will make him a better husband for me."
Then they wrestled some more. O'Bail knew that among the local Native Americans the white panther was a symbol of male virility. O'Bail watched from his stone perch and admired the beauty of the two sisters. The two Iroquois sisters were drop dead gorgeous, and they were the first women he had seen for years in his tiny bachelor colony community. He felt a familiar power surging through his body as his heart thumped wildly against his chest. O'Bail felt magic coursing through his veins and stood up on the edge of the rock precipice overlooking the lake. He revealed himself to the sisters in the form of a magnificent, muscular sleek panther. The white panther rolled his shoulders, feeling the muscles ripple along his spine, his senses tingling all the way to the edges of his tail twitching back and forth.
"Yoooooowwwwlll!" he roared.
The swimming sisters screamed, and hugged each other, his feline roar raising goose pimples on their flesh.
John O'Bail, sleek white panther and lonely New World colonist looked at the beautiful sisters, licked his fangs, and smiled.
The girls slid gracefully across the water, stroking his soft fur, scratching behind his ears and tickling his belly.
John O'Bail purred.
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Nine months later, he was blessed with a handsome Seneca son. The boy took his father’s name as his own - Cornplanter O'Bail. He grew up to be an important leader among the Iroquois confederacy but of course no one realized his destiny when he was still just a little boy. As a lad he was a spirited youth, enjoying the forest frolics which train young warriors.
John O'Bail always treasured the time he had spent as a boy with his father Oberon. As a result John O'Bail swore to spend time with his son. He took Cornplanter hunting and fishing, always making sure that they spent plenty of time together during the summer. Papa O'Bail always remembered the boy’s birthday and dispensed fatherly advice the best he could.
Summer after summer passed, the years rolled by and Cornplanter grew tall. Cornplanter remained in the household of his mothers, living in the Seneca village, but knew that he was always welcome in the colonial village. Like Cornplanter the colonial village was growing quickly too. More colonists came and soon self-supporting businesses had arrived. It was not long after that the village saw its first importation of European brides.
John O'Bail romanced one of the young women, won her heart, and for the first time in his life - romanced only one woman. Her name was Susan and he married her.
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The years passed rapidly as the New World changed at a rapid pace. Cornplanter grew quickly into manhood, earning the responsibilities that come with being an adult. He too took a wife and soon had made John O'Bail into a grandfather. Cornplanter provided food for his families table and as conflicts arose between Indian tribes, as warfare broke out between different European powers, Cornplanter proved himself an able warrior. Cornplanter was such a fierce warrior that he soon became war captain of the Seneca
The colonies grew too, and just as the young Indian lad had grown up fierce and warlike so had the colonies. They declared their independence from England and the Revolutionary War had begun. The Iroquois Confederacy split apart over the issue of neutrality and which side of the war to take if they were going to take sides at all. The Seneca and the Mohawk aligned with England. The colonial village where John O’Bail lived in the Schoharie Valley of New York sided with the Revolutionary Army. Father and son found themselves separated, on opposite sides of the warring factions. It was a situation which grieved father and son greatly.
The warriors hid themselves in the forest, decorated with war paint. Cornplanter ran his fingers across his scalp lock where feathers adorned his mostly bald head. His golden nose ring glinted in the moonlight. Some of the other warriors carried rifles and muskets, others held sabers but Cornplanter carried only an Iroquois war club. There were some tasks for which it was important to carry a sacred weapon. All about him Seneca warriors were hidden in the brush. As they waited for the attack they grew restless, jostling and wiggling, making far too much noise to stay hidden if a passerby happened upon them. Cornplanter rapped on the trunk of a tree with his war club, making it sound like a woodpecker.
It was the signal for the warriors to move. The Seneca soldiers moved silently but swiftly through the forest. Cornplanter had explained his plan carefully and thoroughly to his warriors. He had remembered the city streets well from his visits as a boy. The warriors crept past the outlying farms and were soon running down the dusty dirt roads as they entered the colonial village.
One town drunkard had the misfortune to have awakened long after the tavern had closed and was stumbling home in the wee hours of the night. It was the wrong evening to be roaming the streets late at night. He stopped to urinate along the public roadway, amused by the sounds of his own bodily waters tinkling. Looking up, the sudden sight of dozens of well-armed, brightly painted Seneca warriors charging towards him was enough to sober him up instantly. An arrow to the throat silenced him before he could sound the alarm.
Some of the Seneca warriors broke off from the main invading force. The main group of Seneca warriors charged straight into the heart of the colonial village and with murderous war cries they began to break down doors and attack the sleeping citizens. Many of the colonial villagers were killed before they could even awaken. Others rushed out wearing their night clothes to grab their weapons, defending the city in their pajamas.
As gunfire, war cries, and death groans filled the night sky, Cornplanter and three of his most trusted warriors broke away from the main invading force and crept silently to the edge of town. Cornplanter opened the gate and strolled up the walkway to a familiar home. It was a house he had been a welcome guest inside many times before, a house where he had dined many times. The Seneca chieftain strode towards the door - he doubted that he was a welcome guest this time.
Painted warriors rushed past each side of him. With steel axes they began to beat on the barred door, crushing the wood to splinters and ripping the door from the hinges. Cornplanter stepped inside, letting loose a blood curdling war cry.
Inside the house Momma Susan wept and cried, her daughter little Shauna clung to the hem of her mother’s night dress. Johnny Junior held his father’s sword with two hands but as the fierce, savage looking warriors burst through the door the sight was too much for him and he broke into tears, running and hiding beneath the bed. John O'Bail stepped forward, defending his family from the invaders. Armed with nothing but his bare hands John O'Bail stepped forward with his fists raised, preparing to battle the axe wielding, savage painted warriors.
The warriors stepped back. It was the break John O'Bail needed and he dove across the cabin floor, scooping up his musket from beside the fireplace. John O'Bail took his loaded musket and raised it to his shoulder, taking aim directly into the center of the chest of the chief who held his war club still in hand. John O'Bail's hand flinched on the trigger.
John O'Bail recognized the intruder.
It was his son.
John O'Bail dropped the gun. He and his family were taken captive and whisked away through the night, racing through the darkened streets where the colonial village was alive with the sounds of gunfire and screams.
In the forest clearing the Seneca warriors celebrated their victory. They built a huge bonfire, feasted on stolen foods, and danced like wild men; cleansing themselves from the exhilaration of battle. The Seneca soldiers danced while the drums pounded and the captives huddled together in the shadows of the trees and shuddered. John O'Bail gathered his family together, holding them close in his arms while the Seneca warriors danced.
The raid on the village had been a complete success. They had defeated the Revolutionary Army, acquired a great deal of spoils, and captured the captives whom Cornplanter had prized so dearly, of whom he commanded that not a single hair of their head must be harmed. As the sun broke across the plain of the horizon Cornplanter arose and walked towards the captives. The warriors stopped dancing and turned an attentive ear to the words he was about to speak. Cornplanter spoke in a calm strong voice, carefully choosing his words.
"My name is O'Bail, commonly called Cornplanter. I am your son. You are my father. You are now my prisoner and subject to the customs of Indian warfare but you shall not be harmed. Have no fear I am a warrior. Many have I killed, many scalps have I taken. I was anxious to see you, to greet you in friendship. I went to your cabin and took you by force but your life was spared.
Indians love their friends and kindred and treat them with kindness. If you do now choose to follow the fortunes of your red son and live with our people, I will cherish you in age with plenty of venison; you shall live at ease. If your choice is to return to your fields, to live with your wife and your white children, I will send a party of trusted young men to conduct you safely back. I respect you, my father, you have acted kindly towards the Indians and they are your friends."
John O'Bail stood up and rushed forward to hug his son.
He knew what he must do however, and that was return with his wife Susan and their two children to the only world where his children belonged. Cornplanter sent a half dozen of his ablest warriors to escort the O'Bail family back to their home.
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The Revolutionary War ended happily for the tiny village in New York's Schoharie Valley. Independence was achieved for the fledgling United States of America and the tiny village was bursting at the seams with energetic commerce and optimism.
The war did not go as well for the Seneca, Mohawk, and other members of the Iroquois Confederacy who had supported the British. George Washington had sent one of his best commanders; General John Sullivan to make war on the Seneca and Iroquois in a way that was not matched until Sherman's march through Georgia. An able general, Cornplanter was defeated by the superior numbers and firepower of his Revolutionary Army adversaries. His grief ran deep.
Still, Cornplanter was a father too and he could not allow himself to wallow in despair or drunkenness. Cornplanter continued to lead his people and set an example for his children, paving a path in the rapidly changing world for his children to follow into the 19th century. Cornplanter was a leader in peace as well as war, signing the first of the treaties with the new fledgling country the United States of America. He journeyed to Washington DC and posed to have his portrait painted. He reluctantly signed the treaty with the first president of this new country - George Washington. Cornplanter spoke these words to the historic man;
"When you first came to our country we called you Caunotaucarius, which in our language meant "Town Destroyer"; and to this day when that name is heard, our women look behind them and turn pale, and our children cling to the knees of their mothers. Our councilors and warriors are men and cannot be afraid; but their hearts are grieved with the fears of their women and children, and desire that it may be buried so deep as to be heard no more. When you gave us peace, we called you father, because you promised to secure us in possession of our lands. Do this and so long as the lands shall remain, the beloved name will remain in the heart of every Seneca."
Cornplanter was reviled and cursed by many of his fellow Seneca for signing the peace treaty which ceded some of the traditional tribal lands to the new country known to the Native Americans as "The Long Knives." Cornplanter was through with war. He wanted nothing more than to live the quiet pastoral life and raise his children. If the world had changed so very much in his lifetime, Cornplanter vowed to be the best father he could be and prepare his children for the future. He did not want his son to die in a futile war like so many of the warriors had died while under his command.
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Cornplanter's son, Jesse Cornplanter O'Bail, grew up to be a fine strong, young man. Like his father, he too would grow up to be a chief of the Seneca nation. One day when he was still a boy, but almost a man, a strange and unusual thing occurred.
At a tribal dance celebrating the summer solstice; a white dog ceremony, Jesse Cornplanter O'Bail took his first steps into manhood. There were visitors from several different neighboring villages who had come for the ceremony and celebration. There were games, races, dancing, and feasting. Young Jesse stood on the edges of the bonfire while the drums beat and the people danced, mirth and music in the air. Jesse bobbed to the drums, his body swaying and his heart pounding with summer electricity. Glancing to his left he noticed a young maiden beside him.
This girl, from some other village, whom he had never seen before, was so beautiful that she took his breath away. As she danced, long silky black hair bouncing to the music, she moved gracefully, and Jesse was captivated by her eyes. The young maiden's eyes sparkled with color, like prisms trapped in dew drops, reflecting the colors of the flowers. The girl with the beautiful eyes turned to the dancing young man and smiled.
Jesse transformed himself into a flock of butterflies.
The beautiful jeweled insects hovered about the young girl like a magical bouquet. As she danced, the butterflies frolicked around her. To the beat of the drums the butterflies approached and wavered, orbiting her dancing form. She giggled and laughed as the silken powdered wings caressed and tickled her smiling cheeks with their silken powdered wings. The wind gusted and the flock of butterflies was whisked upwards, spiraling towards the moonlight. As the chill breeze lifted the butterflies towards the tops of the trees they once again transformed back into the young man known as Jesse Cornplanter, depositing him atop the branches of the tallest tree in the forest. There the young man perched all night, grinning from ear to ear, the moonlight glowing eerily on the love struck boy.
The people attending the ceremony were thunderstruck. Cornplanter himself was shocked. The next day he took Jesse fishing. It was what his father had done for him and what his father's father had done for his son. Cornplanter O'Bail and Jesse Cornplanter O'Bail went fishing and had a father son talk. It was similar to those talks Cornplanter had with John O'Bail and those that Robin Goodfellow had with Oberon. Fishing was just a good excuse to spend the afternoon in conversation along the banks of a peaceful river.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" Cornplanter asked his son.
Jesse confessed his first case of puppy love.
"My son" Cornplanter told Jesse, "You will soon become a man and become interested in having a wife. You will find that she will need you to be many things and you will have to wear many costumes. The magic of Oberon, Robin Goodfellow, and Cornplanter O'Bail flows through your veins. When she needs a strong and fierce warrior you will need to be strong like the bear. When she needs you to be gentle you should imitate the fawn, journey swift like the eagle, and at other times you will need to wear the costume of a noble industrious servant like the ox. Sometimes she will want you to be virile like the sleek and muscular white panther and you will learn to take this form too. Always remember son, that a good woman treated fairly makes the best and most loving wife and that someday you must have a talk with your son and teach him these secrets of attaining a wife and treating her well."