Worthy Witness

Maggie had brought her little skiff onto the shore, putting down its anchor near a large rock.  She picked up her book bag filled with the plastic bags where she would place plant specimens that afternoon.  The dirt at Moon-Struck Island had magical qualities, and the flowers growing were thought to have been brought there by the wee people of Ireland.  Of course Maggie did not believe in the faerie realm that was passed on through generations of the Muldoon family.  She believed that the unusual flora and fauna came from Iceland one summer during its summer solstice when the moon caught its reflection and passed it along, half way around the world, to the itsy bitsy island.  Monarch butterflies settled over the plantings shortly after, and for the entire summer that year, the flowers flourished under their care.

Maggie was ten, brown as a berry from the sun, and filled with adventure.  She had been rowing her skiff along the inlet of the ocean since she was nine, and this was the first time she had taken it to the island.

The day was splendid, warm, but not too hot; bright, but not too bold.  She sat down on flat rock at the edge of a meadow and marveled at the wave after wave of beautiful yellow and blue, red and orange flowers, some were tall, waving in the light breeze, others were close to the ground, tumbling over rocks and sandy soil.  She was hungry from the trip and took her cheese sandwich from the wrapper.  One bite, and she thought she heard a voice.  Turning in that direction, she heard it again, faintly.  It sounded like, “Give me a bite, give me a snack, help me up, and I’ll pay you back.”

Maggie scrunched up her eyes and saw nothing at first.  She remembered that her glasses were in her pinafore pocket and put them on.  Everything seemed suddenly brighter, and she could see the tiny furrows where something or someone was lying in the tiny blossoms and ferns.  She reached her hand down and picked up an unsightly little man with glasses almost as large as hers.  “Put me down,” he said, “give me some crumbs of your lunch if you will.”  She settled him upright on the stone.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he bellowed.”  “Don’t shout,” Maggie said, “I can hear perfectly well; how did you know I was coming?”  “I was standing on this very rock, just playing my fiddle, when I saw you in your boat.  I was entirely too comfortable and had taken off my waist coat and top hat and buckled shoes, and as I dressed, a wind took and sailed my hat.  I tried to catch it, but fell off and landed where you found me, face down, so that I couldn’t right myself.”

“You poor little man,” Maggie said, “here, let me tidy you up.”  He had his red coat on, and she found his shoes and top hat atop the fern; the fiddle and its bow lay across a crimson bleeding heart.  Once he was buckled and brushed and fed with crumbs and bits of cheese, he played a familiar fiddle tune.  Maggie knew it well and stepped high and low, lifting her skirts and petticoats, twirling in the meadow.

When the day was spent, and the sun cast deep shadows on the meadow, Maggie said goodbye to her little friend.  She promised to return soon and would bring a bit of corned beef with cabbage for his snack.  She asked, “Is there really a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow that you guard here on the island?”  He laughed and touched his nose, disappeared and reappeared.  “I guard hearts,” he said, “the pot of gold is in your heart, and every time you give it away, it fills again and again and again.”