Poesie the Changeling

Once upon a time there lived a changeling by the name of Poesie. Poesie seemed for all the world to be a regular girl leading an everyday life, with parents of ordinary means. Nobody knew she was a changeling or even suspected it, as she behaved just like other children her age.

As it happened though, Poesie was fairy-born. On the day she entered the world, a powerful witch had come to pay her respects to Poesie, as her birth had been foretold in the legends of the time. Legend held that a fairy child more magical than any that had ever lived was to be born that very day, and to bless her would ensure one’s good fortune.

Now, you’ll not be surprised to learn that the witch who came that day was only pretending to wish well upon the changeling. In her heart she was scheming and plotting, wondering how to capture and keep the infant sprite’s potent magic for herself. The witch decided that she’d have a much better chance at succeeding if she separated Poesie from her fairy family, and put her somewhere secret and safe until her magic matured.

So while all the magical beings were celebrating that night—the fairies and sprites and elves and other creatures you’ll never know about—the evil old witch crept into the briar where Poesie lay swaddled and sleeping, and quietly replaced her with a young fawn. Swiftly she carried the changeling off through the night, before her cries could give them away.

After a time, the witch came to a simple stone cottage at the edge of a clearing. Smoke curled from the chimney and an axe lay beside a stack of freshly cut wood. The witch leaned close over Poesie’s basket and cast the strongest spell she could, hoping to dampen her powerful fairy magic for as long as possible—until, she hoped, the time came for the witch to kill her and take it.

When the woodcutter and his wife found the basket, they were frightened at first. But soon the infant sprite’s magic enchanted them, and they agreed to keep her and raise her as their own. For ten years, all was good and peaceful with the little family. Poesie, who did not know of her birthright, grew up happy in the care of her human parents. She loved nothing more than to wander the very same woods she’d been stolen from, singing made-up songs to the birds and foxes and frogs she called friends.

Then one day, on Poesie’s eleventh birthday, the spell the witch had cast took hold. It was indeed a powerful spell, and one that from that day forward would cause the changeling many tears and much trouble. You see, the witch cast a spell such that everything Poesie touched would hurt her—or she would hurt it.

If she tried to pick blackberries, brambles would tear at her clothes and hair, and she’d come away with nothing.

If she drew the old wooden well bucket, splinters would find her fingers.

If she picked up a piece of crockery, soon there’d be shards on the ground.

If she moved to embrace her father, she’d step on his toes or snag his beard.

All of this was harmless enough, but as the years went on the spell grew stronger and more dangerous, and the accidents and mishaps worse, until Poesie no longer dared venture out of the cottage. This was a very sad time for the little changeling, who missed her forest friends but feared what might happen to them in her presence. Four years passed, and during that time Poesie wiled away her hours at the window, reading books and writing stories to entertain herself. And so while she could not go out into the world, the young changeling wandered far and wide in her own imagination.

On her fifteenth birthday, the latent magic the witch had been waiting for blossomed in the young changeling. She didn’t know it and couldn’t feel it, but all the magic of all the fairies she had descended from was blooming inside her. What’s more, this very special magic began to counteract the effects of the witch’s spell. Poesie noticed fewer and fewer mishaps befalling her until one day, she decided to go pick an apple—and nothing happened:

She walked carefully through the clearing, cringing at every twig snap, bracing for a tumble or twisted ankle. Nothing happened.

At the apple tree she hesitated, ready for the thunk! of fruit hitting her head. Nothing happened.

Finally, she reached up and plucked a perfect, rosy red apple. Eager for the treat but expecting the sting of a wasp or the bite of an ant, she paused, waiting. Nothing happened.

And so it was that the spell which had caused so much pain was finally broken.

Deep in the forest, the evil witch could feel the change. She lifted her crooked chin and sniffed in the direction of the little cottage. She knew the time had come to kill the changeling and take her magic, before she could fully grow into all her powers. Off she set through the woods, a dagger hidden in her cloak. The old witch smiled to think of how powerful she’d soon be.

Now, little is known about the fairy magic of old times. That’s because it didn’t want to be known and still doesn’t. But it’s said that nothing is more powerful than a fairy who has suffered like an ordinary human. Fairyfolk are born to lead whimsical, enchanted lives—that is the way of things. But a changeling placed in humble human hands learns things that their brethren do not, such as loss and pain and sacrifice. When Poesie was forced to give up the things she loved to keep them safe, another kind of strength carried her until the magic foretold in the legend returned. This was the power the witch faced, as she crept up on the darkened cottage.

No one knows the for sure what happened to the witch that night. Most say she was outmatched by Poesie the Changeling, and her dagger found a home in her own wicked heart instead. Others say Poesie spared the old witch, having no wish to cause pain ever again.

But everyone agrees it’s a very bad idea to try and steal the power of anyone, human or fairy. You never know where a creature gets its magic.