Wee Folk
by James Hanna
part 1
Only females had escaped the disaster: a hundred tiny creatures known as Aphrodites, although the press dubbed them “Thumbelinas.” Their survival was not due to the imprecision of the meteor that had destroyed their little world but because males had no apparent ranking on the planet Aphrodite.
A miniature spacecraft containing only women, had been plucked from the asteroid belt by a mining shuttle returning to Earth. So enchanting was the diminutive cargo of the spacecraft that every one of the Thumbelinas had been safely delivered to the NASA laboratories.
Henry Hokum first learned of the creatures from his daughter, Deborah. “Can we adopt one, Daddy?” she asked. “Can we? Please? They’re only six inches tall.”
He studied the newspaper article that his daughter had thrust into his hands: an article confirming that the government would not be segregating the Thumbelinas at the laboratories. Instead, the women would be placed with a hundred carefully chosen families across the country. This seemed to be due partly to the fiery temperament of the little creatures, the consistency with which they irritated one another, often coming to blows or stabbing each other with wee hairpins. If left to its own devices, the race seemed determined to self-destruct, and so it seemed wise to assimilate the women individually into their new world.
“A planet?” he said. “In the asteroid belt?”
His daughter laughed. “It’s magic, Daddy. Magic.”
He shrugged and shook his head. Since the situation defied both science and speculation, it seemed best to submit to a child’s interpretation of the matter.
“All right,” he murmured, not in the spirit of charity but because he owed his daughter a concession. She had scarcely benefitted when his divorce had been finalized last month, when his ex-wife had reminded him that ten years of marriage were enough. “We were good together, Henry,” she had told him. “Just like a pair of old shoes. But who wants to live with an old shoe?”
He had nodded profoundly and had felt vitalized for the first time in years. A towering man with wandering eyes, he was more like a spring bull than an old shoe. And so he had been trolling the singles bars while his daughter remained with a sitter.
“Can we, Daddy? Can we? Their hair is so golden.”
He looked at his daughter and smiled indulgently. He was glad to have her for the summer, but she had grown clingy since the divorce, and her clinginess too often kept him from the bars. Perhaps a diversion, something to compensate for her mother’s absence, would help him take better advantage of his freedom.
“All right,” he repeated, “if that’s what you want. Let’s adopt a Thumbelina.”
* * *
A letter from NASA arrived in the mail. He opened it and read.
May 3, 2040
Dear Henry Hokum & Daughter:
Congratulations. You have been selected as a host family for one of our Thumbelinas. Her name is Clarissa and she will provide you with hours of intrigue and entertainment.
You will particularly enjoy it when she sings, since her voice is sweet, full, and purer than that of any nightingale. Sometimes, she can be a little temperamental, but this can be moderated with steady attention and a select diet.
Please stock up on honey, cantaloupes, and sunflower seeds. These are her favorite foods. She also needs lots of milk, not to drink but to bathe in, because her skin is very delicate.
We will deliver Clarissa to your home in one week. Should things work out, the arrangement may be made permanent.
Thank you for opening your heart to a little refugee.
The letter was signed by Jean Hargrove, a public relations official with NASA. Startled by the news, Henry called her office immediately. She answered her phone on the first ring, as though she had been expecting his call.
“Ms. Hargrove?!”
“Yes.”
“Henry Hokum. You wrote me about a Thumbelina. About my providing a home for one of them.”
“We know that, Mr. Hokum.”
“There must have been a mistake.”
“No, Mr. Hokum. There’s been no mistake.”
“I’m a barfly, a jerk, a pop-music promoter. My wife left me a month ago.”
“We know all that, sir. You were carefully investigated.”
“Well isn’t there a problem?”
“No, Mr. Hokum. There would be a problem only if you were a married barfly. Thumbelinas are very jealous. They cannot abide the presence of wives, mistresses, or lovers. not for very long.”
“What about my daughter?”
“She’ll make an allowance for your daughter. Children of ten, they like. Perhaps because they share the same emotional level.”
“So how did they build a spacecraft?”
“We really don’t know, Mr. Hokum. Theories abound, but we really don’t know. Perhaps it was a gift from an interplanetary civilization. One that takes pity on tiny creatures in distress.”
“And how did they survive in the asteroid belt?”
“We don’t know that either, Mr. Hokum. We don’t understand their language, not yet.”
“Then why are you placing them with families?”
“We believe it will speed up communications. Collectively, they’re disinclined to talk to us. Mostly, they just jabber among one another and get into fights.”
“I’m terrible with women. Just ask my ex-wife. I’m a bore.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Hokum. Thumbelinas are not impressed by men. We want her to feel at home, don’t we?”
Henry sighed and scratched his head. He was totally out of objections.
“One week,” he said.
“One week, Mr. Hokum. And please buy some sunflower seeds.”
* * *
The following morning, a delivery van pulled into his driveway. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. Henry cringed as he answered the door.
“A delivery, Mr. Hokum.”
Henry looked with astonishment at the miniature house that a pair of deliverymen were carting on a dolly. Moments later, the men were gone and the house lay parked in a sunny corner of his living room.
Henry studied the house. It was a marvelous construction: six feet high, solar powered, and lined with tiny green shutters that complemented its white siding. He slipped loose a panel, examined the interior, and was even more amazed. The house had an elaborately decorated living room, a bathroom with shiny faucets, a spacious bedroom with a telephone, even a gymnasium. Obviously, no expense had been spared to make his small visitor feel at home.
When his daughter came home from day camp, she squealed. “Is that for me, Daddy?”
He shrugged guiltily. “No, Deborah. That’s a real house.”
“It’s wonderful. How does it work?”
“It’s powered by the sun.”
Holding her breath, Deborah peeked into the house. She ran her hand over the stunted staircase, a bed no larger than a book, and the little treadmill in the gymnasium. She touched a tiny light switch and gasped when the living room came aglow.
“I can’t wait till she’s here, Daddy. We’re going to be such friends, her and me.”
Henry patted his daughter on the shoulder. “Even the plumbing works,” he said.
* * *
Six days later, a tall saturnine woman was standing in his doorway. She frowned when he asked her in, as though he were inviting her to bed. She was holding a briefcase and what appeared to be a shoebox with holes.
“Mr. Hokum?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Jean Hargrove. We made an appointment.”
“A week ago,” he admitted.
“And the week is over, Mr. Hokum. I would like to introduce you to your guest. And then I would like to go.”
“Why the rush?”
“There’s no rush, Mr. Hokum. I would simply like to go.”
She followed him into the living room where she dropped the briefcase and then set the box upon the coffee table. She then stared at him critically, as though he were an intruder in his own home.
“Let’s wake her gently, shall we? She’s napping.”
She lifted the lid off the box and he gaped. Asleep on a velvet cushion was a perfect miniature of a woman. She was beautiful, incredibly beautiful; her skin so white and shiny that she appeared to be made of porcelain. Only when she stirred, brushing her long blonde hair from her eyes, did he realize that she was a living being. She looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and reserve.
“You might introduce yourself,” Jean said.
He continued to stare, too dumbfounded to speak. “Henry,” he finally stammered, slapping his chest as he spoke. The slap brought a hiccup to his voice.
The tiny woman smiled, and he felt himself blushing. Although the smile did not seem spontaneous, it was entirely disarming. Even her dimples had dimples.
Feeling wholly embarrassed, he looked back at Jean, but her presence did not reassure him. Next to the dazzling creature in the box, she looked like a big awkward horse. His eyes, as though drawn by a magnet, returned to the tiny woman.
“Hey there, Dolly,” he said.
Jean scowled. “Her name is Clarissa, Mr. Hokum. Please have the courtesy to address her by her name. Now show her the house we delivered to you.”
Henry pointed towards the little white home with the green shutters. Noticing it, Clarissa yawned. She did not seem surprised or unduly impressed. Obviously, her startling beauty had endowed her with a king-sized sense of entitlement.
“I said, show her, Mr. Hokum. Carry her over to it.”
“Pick her up?”
“Yes, Mr. Hokum. She expects to be carried.”
Self-consciously, he extended his hand towards the tiny woman. He felt like a panhandler and was surprised when she hopped instantly into his palm. She was warmer — far warmer — than he expected her to be.
Although his palm itched, he carried her to the house and deposited her in front of the doorway. His embarrassment increased when she looked up at him, placing her hand on her hip, teapot-style. She seemed to be in a hurry.
“Open the door for her, Mr. Hokum.”
Slowly, as though performing surgery, he pushed the door open with his fingers. As she vanished into the house, he sighed with satisfaction. He felt as though he had passed a test.
“So what happens now?”
Jean opened the briefcase. “Now you will sign our agreement, sir. The agreement gives you custody of Clarissa for one month. During that month, you will interact with her, make her feel welcome, and try to teach her some of our language. Just a few words will do — we’re not expecting rapid progress.”
“I’m a bad conversationalist; ask my ex-wife. She says I’m a Neanderthal.”
“It’s just as well that you are, Mr. Hokum. We don’t want to over-stimulate Clarissa, do we?”
She placed the paperwork on the coffee table and handed him a pen. Shrugging, he accepted the pen and signed the contract with an exaggerated flourish. With his visitor now out-of-sight, he began to doubt that she truly existed.
Jean took back the contract and stuffed it into her briefcase. “Thank you, Mr. Hokum. If you have no more questions, I’ll leave you alone with her.”
His skin prickled as he followed her to the doorway. He felt ill at ease, as though she might suddenly arrest him for fraud. His heart missed a beat when her hand hesitated upon the door handle.
“We’ll check back with you in a month,” she said.
He nodded.
“And, Mr. Hokum.”
“Yes?”
“Good luck with her.”
* * *
Clarissa did not speak to him for the rest of the day. Instead, she remained in her house. He could hear her puttering in the bathroom, running on the treadmill, and chatting on the tiny phone in her bedroom. Her voice had a rich lilting quality, but she spoke a language completely unrecognizable to him. Apparently, she was talking to another little refugee somewhere in America.
When Deborah returned home from day camp, she squealed; Clarissa was peeping at her from the doorway of her house. “We’re going to be such friends,” Deborah cried, a prediction that was instantly fulfilled. Within minutes, the two girls were in Deborah’s bedroom, laughing, shrieking, and banging about like old friends at play.
They don’t even need a language, Henry thought, and the realization made him envious.
What is going on in there? Aching with curiosity, Henry slipped down the hallway and peeked into the bedroom. The two were playing Whack-a-Mole, a game involving an electronic rodent attempting to dodge a rubber mallet. Deborah was wielding the mallet; Clarissa, skipping about on the game board, was teasing the critter from its hole. She showed no compassion when the mallet struck the rodent, causing it to squeal like a pig.
Noticing him at the doorway, Deborah froze the mallet in mid-air. “Leave, Daddy,” she said.
“How come?”
“Clarissa thinks you’re weird.”
He looked at Clarissa, hoping for some support, and was struck once more by the irrelevance of language. The pout of her little mouth, the thrust of her tiny chin, the iciness of her stare all spoke a clear message: Get Out. But even in defiance, she was beautiful, so much so that she appeared to glow. For all true purposes, she might have been a fairy.
Feeling justly chastised, Henry stepped away from the door and slunk back down the hallway. Once he was seated in his den, laughter again spilled from his daughter’s bedroom.
* * *
The next day, he awoke to a beautiful song — a song so enchanting, so lively and full, that it reminded him of water tripping along a brook. It was the purest sound he had ever heard — so utterly engrossing that, had he been a sailor, he would have run himself aground rather than drift away from it. Spellbound, he arose from his bed and walked in the direction of the song. He walked slowly, carefully, contemptuous of the sound of his feet.
Reaching the living room, he paused: Clarissa was indeed singing in her little home, singing so bewitchingly that she might have been an angel of the morning. He stood there for an hour, listening to her sing. When she had finished, he felt an irrepressible sadness.
It wasn’t until he heard Deborah cheer that he noticed his daughter beside him. “Wasn’t that lovely, Daddy?” she said.
“Incredible,” he replied. “I never heard such a tune.”
“Yes, you have, Daddy. It’s ‘Hang on Sloopy.’ I taught it to her last night.”
He shook his head disbelievingly. The song, on some ethereal level, did bear a slight resemblance to “Hang on Sloopy” — that trivial classic of the sixties. But the thought of this in no way dampened his spirits; he continued to feel such joy — such pure and utter elation — that he could not contain it. He dialed Jean Hargrove on her cell phone.
“Yes, Mr. Hokum?” Her voice was like sandpaper.
“She sang.”
“I know that, Mr. Hokum. Thumbelinas sing every morning at sunrise. They’re singing all across America right now.”
“Every morning?”
“Yes, Mr. Hokum, every morning. I think it’s some kind of ritual.”
“It was ‘Hang on Sloopy.’”
Her chuckle was like the raw cackle of a crow. “That doesn’t surprise me, Mr. Hokum. They’ve also sung car commercials.”
“It was incredible.”
“Maybe so, Mr. Hokum. But singing makes her ravenous. Please don’t delay her breakfast.”
“Will that make her cranky?”
“Very cranky, Mr. Hokum.”
Copyright © 2024 by James Hanna
