The Pumpkin Fairy and the Dragon King
Will Adkins
Chapter 1: Topaz Eyes
A pumpkin sat along Cobble Road in a village called Dwarfle. It was for the little dwarves in their little cottages to live among the gargantuan valleys. The pumpkin, an orange spot among the lush mountains with gold, tawny-leaved trees, was carved into Bellamy’s cottage, the only fairy who lived there among the little men.
Bellamy was twice the dwarves’ height, short for his own kind. His ceiling was a few feet above his green-haired head, which he kept tied in a red bandanna.
Working in his garden and his pumpkin patch worked Bellamy’s body. Between his workmen’s clothing and being too modest to make a show of himself, he gained no regard for a sturdy build. The dwarfs possessed more strength in their thighs than he did in his whole body. Bellamy held the allure of strength akin to a sculpture than a warrior’s ferocity, and his face was soft and hairless compared to the bearded dwarves.
Bellamy worked most days of the week: mining instead of growing or baking delectable goods. He could be charming familiar woodland creatures with his silken singing, but he had to settle for mining songs to soothe the monotony.
His labor brought home gold. It was matter most important to Gyldish folk, even if the country’s money was not gold anymore. They cannot help using the word for any coin.
Genuine gold libre coins never left Bellamy’s safekeeping. He admired their metallic luster and thickness, deciphering the engravings of past kings. There were no kings to be found in his day.
The dwarfs, having raised him, lectured Bellamy to have the prudence he needed to impress any fair lady, especially a fairy. Fairies ranked a higher class than grimy, working dwarfs, so he was told. He knew nothing of fairies or women of any race beyond the what the wonder tales knew.
Bellamy rarely saw fairies. They lived in their chalets up the road and made themselves scarce unless the landowners among them needed to discuss the mining business.
He first laid eyes on fairywomen during a trip to the capital of his home canton, the city of Aldenstadt. The sight overcame him like drinking funny juice.
Bellamy was new to lust, not bearing it for long. He felt his heart pounding, like he was trekking up the mountains, fearing the blood in his body bursting through his agonizing member.
He daydreamed, wandering the amber-leaved woods in his free time, collecting fruits and whistling tunes. Suckled lips were as alien a feeling as leaping over the moon.
***
A carriage appeared in front of Bellamy’s cottage one morning, to his bewilderment. Was he being informed of a secret royal lineage like in the wonder tales of his boyhood? He would not admit he hoped so much he may trick himself into believing it.
It was not such news, but from the carriage appeared a fairyman in a velvety violet coat with brilliant brass buttons and shorter, but styled navy-color hair in dramatic waves and curls. Yet his eyes were colder and more distant than the highest mountain peaks. The fairyman looked down on Bellamy like he stood upon the shoulders of the bygone frost giants.
He said to Bellamy, “Good day, Monsieur Pumpkin. I am here on behalf of the Opalmeyer estate to procure your finest pumpkins and to deliver this letter to you personally.”
Bellamy took the envelope with a wax seal, pressed with an “O,” and guided the man to the patch behind his house which overlooked the river down the slope. Bellamy anxiously spat out trivia about pumpkins, not sure what the man would like.
The fairyman said, “She asked me to purchase the owner’s favorite. Nothing more.”
Relieved, Bellamy picked out a bright yellow one, the first he ever grew. “That’d be this one, here.” He lifted the hefty gourd with both arms to give to the man, who could barely keep his balance trying to do the same. Bellamy brought it to the carriage instead.
The man asked, “And what is your price for a pumpkin of this size?”
Bellamy said, “I reckon ten copper.”
The man retrieved his coin pouch. “One could buy this cheaper at the market, but the lady insisted on your produce. Pleasure doing business with you.”
Bellamy made the sale, and the man left. He sat on his bedside, turning the letter in his hands; it was far too nice to tear open. He gently picked at the wax to retrieve the letter within.
He could read, but not literate enough for university or the clergy, as if his countrymen ever partook in such things.
Bellamy carefully read as follows:
“Hello M. Pumpkin Fairy,
“Not a day goes by when I could resist looking out my window to bear witness to the only fairyboy my age among these mountains. I am blessed he is such a beautiful and dutiful one, as if the Mother Sun herself fabricated him from her radiant light. The only thing more wonderful than the sight of him is his voice as he dances with the squirrels, the birds, and even a scarlet stallion. Every night, I lay in bed wanting to hear a serenade from him, to hear his heart beneath clothes of dirt and patchwork. I wish to bequeath him every comfort and pleasure I could offer, if only he would give me his name.
“I believe I shall love him at first sight upon meeting. If he is willing, I would like to meet him discreetly in the woods tomorrow at sundown at Lake Opal by the Opalmeyer chalet.
“Best Wishes, Mademoiselle Opalmeyer.”
Bellamy trembled the more he read. The author’s flattery overpowered his nerves from being watched unknowingly. “What did I do to deserve this?” He felt doubt’s sharp sting, thinking it was a dwarves’ joke. They were not above low blows, not as if their height suggested otherwise.
Bellamy paced and shuffled around his cottage, concluding the dwarfs could not possess this ability, having no exchanges beyond business.
If it truly was the young woman who fancied him, then he should take the gamble. Moreover, she would be a well-off woman, and what working man would refuse with nothing but his service for sale?
Bellamy dressed in clean clothes and a yellowish vest he dyed himself, a more contemporary piece of fashion among Gyldish men, and kept his mind distracted from nerve-wracking possibilities. When sundown approached, he strolled Cobble Road down to the lakeside wood with his woven basket hanging off his arm with bundles flowers: violet and honeysuckle. He had a plethora of flora in his garden, so he had enough to share even with a stranger or admirer.
***
Pink clouds with lavender shadows were oil painted against an opalescent sky. Bellamy counted the stars, feeling more certain something beautiful was going to happen.
Leaves crinkled against his boots as he stepped between the lakeside trees, whistling to the chirping birds. He looked all about for any sign of the girl, not knowing what sort he was to be looking for. What if a fairywoman came passing on a causal stroll only = to be interrupted by a love-starved flower boy?
Humming came from the trees. It followed Bellamy’s melody, only more boisterous and playful. He could only discern it came not too far from his right. With careful steps, he approached the voice.
“Do not come any closer,” commanded a girl’s voice, with an inflection of a tongue accustomed to silver spoons.
Bellamy did as she asked. He felt no desperation to approach talking trees. “Are you Miss Opalmeyer?”
She giggled to herself. “Aren’t you the polite one? You could be more informal. I get enough pleasantries on family business trips.”
Embarrassed, he gazed at his feet. “I’m sorry, miss.” He asked one simple question, and he was already blowing it. “I brought flowers. I thought you’d might like ‘em.” He held the basket up with his arm.
For just a blink, half the girl’s head peered out from behind the tree, although the shade made no features discernible. She quelled her temptation and stayed hidden. “I’m sure they are lovely if you picked them.”
Warmth bloomed in his chest, and his face flushed. “Thank you. Would you like to come down to see them?”
“No.” She did not elaborate further.
Bellamy did not know how to proceed. The only basis for courtship he ever had was from romantic wonder tales, and those did not yield knowledge to begin with.
“Well, why not?” he asked.
“I don’t want to disappoint you.”
Fortunately, Bellamy had only a day to muster any sense of excitement could be dashed like a blown-out candelabra, but he imagined a young, refined woman from her writing alone. He did not expect such a girl to be among trees instead of dancing.
“I reckon I’ll respect your wishes.” He did not press the issue any further. Should he not gain her trust and respect? “You said you wanted to hear me sing?”
“I do, I do!” Though he could not see it, she held her hands over her beating heart. Grinning, her cheeks ached.
Bellamy sat against a tree yards away and twirled flowers between his fingers as he sang. Countless things crossed his mind through his lips: the golden leaves, the mighty mountains, and the dwarf working tunes. Nothing came to him quite like love and loneliness. To be the only fairy amongst hardy dwarfs made for a taxing boyhood even with the kindness of his dwarf father, Bjornstan. One of his greatest yearnings beyond gold splendor was the tender embrace of a woman of his kind: something he imagined and reimagined while cozy in bed. At least he could talk to one at all.
As the hours passed, she applauded each performance with a crowd’s vigor. Never had Bellamy such a resolute audience; it was both flattering and embarrassing. “Thank you, miss.”
“You have a big heart and an eye for beauty to sing all that, Bellamy. If I may, I have one request: only a little one,” the girl said.
“Anything you’d like,” he promised.
“I want you to say my name, to hear every syllable articulated by the loveliest voice a boy could have.” He thought it a little odd, but simple enough to make someone happy. Though, he recalled no given name signed on the letter.
She said, “My name is Jacqueline Opalmeyer.”
“Jacqueline,” he repeated. He uttered the name repeatedly, as if getting a sweet taste like honey. He meditated on any rhymes or alliteration he could save for the future, losing himself to his own little world. Jacqueline was far too flustered, as if his words had power over her.
“Thank you so much, Bellamy. I must return to the chalet to get my evening scraps. Could you come by tomorrow?”
Bellamy agreed to the arrangement and said goodbye. He did not see her, nor did he learn about her, but the company of her voice was pleasant enough. It was flattering of her to ask him to come again. He must have met her expectations. Walking back home, he feared the possibility of letting her down. What if she thought of him as something he was not?
***
The following day, Bellamy toiled in the village mine for his weekly wages, humming to the rhythm of pikes and hammers. He spent much of his labor thinking of Jacqueline, the wealthy girl who ate scraps. Why would she mention such a thing?
Bernstan, Bellamy’s dwarven friend, said, “Maybe she’s used to being filled to burst and anything like a normal meal’s a gift of starvation.” Bernstan was one of the kindest fellows Bellamy knew, but he did not take kindly to the fairies by the lake, thinking them soft and haughty. He once recounted to Bellamy in confidence that two fairymen of the chalets accused the dwarf of his fancy and eloping of another dwarfman, as fairies may be prone to accusing dwarfs of brutish lust, only to find the fairies had done the very same when they fled to a far-off city. Of course, with no dwarfwoman in sight, it is an open secret as to what dwarfs may do in private.
Bellamy said to him, “If rich folk can be cold to working people, why wouldn’t they be on their own?” It was with this thought Bellamy began to worry for Jacqueline. So, he decided to prepare another basket to share with her. He spent a copper on a sack of apples from the Garnstan’s orchard and a small bottle of cider, his favorite kind of funny juice. For fondue, the fairy acquired black rye bread from the baker, Ametystan, traveled across the mountain for cheese from the summer pastures, and procured red potatoes.
He had to haggle a bit for the cider, but Garnstan liked the boy enough, and his intentions, to make a cheap sale for once. Garnstan’s produce was the finest in all the peaks and valleys of the canton, and he charged whatever he could get away with. He could always pass on the expense to his farmhands.
***
The transformative cooking process in the comfort of home was magical to Bellamy. His culinary craft garnered the dwarfs’ favor when he was a boy, as they were suspicious of his kind, and wondered why Bjornstan would take pity and raise him as one of them.
With a delightful basket prepared once again, Bellamy made his way to the lakeside, filled with a reserved giddiness. Surely no woman could resist a meal made just for her.
He walked beneath the trees and heard the voice again.
“You came back,” she said with a hint of joyful surprise.
“Of course. You asked nicely enough,” Bellamy said. “I brought somethin’ to eat. We could share.”
Unknown to him, her eyes lit up with excitement, but she hesitated. “You’re just trying to make me come down, are you not?”
His heart sank with her words. He only wanted to do something kind for her as he would anyone else. “I thought you might be hungry standing up in the trees for so long. But I would like to see your pretty face.”
She snickered at what she heard as a joke, though it was sincere. “You’re sweet, Bellamy, but I am not beautiful, not at all.”
An awkwardness wedged itself in the air, as neither spoke in the passing moments. Both were far too lost in what to do. Bellamy hummed and whistled to pass the time.
Jacqueline broke the silence. “Thank you for the food, Bellamy. I will savor it. Would you please come back tomorrow?”
And so Bellamy returned to his cottage and prepared dinner to share with his friends and father. He told them of his jarring meeting with Jacqueline, and the dwarfs joked it was only a romantic fantasy for him to look more like a genuine man.
***
The next day, Bellamy thought about Jacqueline’s comments about her appearance. There could be something he could gather to make her feel like a fairy princess.
The best he could do within hours was gift her a wine-red scarf he rarely wore.
He draped it around his shoulders to demonstrate its beauty and jaunted to see Jacqueline again. He eyed the tree canopies some more, but the voice, to his surprise, came from the base of a tree.
“I appreciate you coming again,” said Jacqueline. “No one comes to see me without family business or marriage involved.”
“I like coming out here with you. That’s all,” he said. “Did you like the food?”
She smiled. “It was the best I’ve had in years. You’re spoiling me.” Her giggling was infectious. “Let me guess, you brought something else? A pony, or gold slippers?”
“I brought you this scarf. You can’t see, but I’m wearing it to show you.” He picked at it with his fingers. “I thought it’d look good on you. Everyone deserves to look nice.”
With a reluctant pause, Jacqueline circled around the tree, running her hand against the smooth, pale bark. She strolled in the dark shade, with a sunbeam peeking between the leaves to illuminate the lower half of her face. Her thin lips formed a snaggletooth smile, her teeth as crooked as her nose. The grass-light painted a faint yellow on her plain, rugged apron.
Coming out from the shade, Jacqueline’s hair was long, dark blue, and left unbrushed. Her brows were thick, dark, and expressive, for she could not hide her joy if she tried. Her skin was pale, and her face had an uncanny, imperceptible asymmetry.
Bellamy, however, did not address her features. Her eyes, those irises of blue topaz, enraptured him. She radiated a charm beyond words Bellamy could muster, and he learned endless words for beauty in his young life.
“Are you going to say anything?” she asked, her eyes darting around in terror.
Bellamy’s chest was tight, but words weaseled out from between his lips. “You have pretty eyes.”
Her face turned from white to pink, and she covered her smile. “You have gorgeous eyes. I’ve never seen amber eyes before.” She eyed his red scarf and rubbed the linen fabric between her fingers. “I love the scarf, but it looks too nice on you to give away. You’re beautiful.”
Bellamy’s mind could not fathom her. Was this girl real? Something could smack him out of this dream at any moment and grieve the fantasy.
Jacqueline said, “Keep it. Now, I want to give you something: one wish.” She held up a calloused finger. “You can have anything you heart desires.”
Bellamy choked. “Anything?”
She stepped into his space, backing him into another tree, holding her finger in his face. “Anything,” she whispered.
Only one thing came out of Bellamy’s mouth: “Can we dance, miss?”
