Letters from under the Juniper Tree

The faerie of the Juniper Tree was a lovely old soul. She had inhabited the world for many thousands of years, and seen how man's arched back was straightened into the ploughing, pillaging plank it istoday. With a small bush of curly dark hair and a green silk frock, she danced and pranced from twig to twing all day long, perchance pruning her home-tree of its dead leaves and scavenging worms. The life of
a worker is never dull, nor can it be entirely devoid of action and emotion. Our faerie felt happiness seep through the little veins in her glittering lace wings as if she were tossing worms off her own white marble arms. She had so much to love on her juniper tree, and so little to hate. The only thing she feared about her tree-child was his singular black thorn, like an apex of malice pointing north. Every morning she would sit on one of the berries surroinding the thorn and gaze in that direction: only twilight lingered there in ill mornings and lazy evenings. Cross-legged on the black sphere, she would feel the pus pulsating under her: she would stir. Something drew her to that apex, like a whirlpool of mystery on the line of the horizon. At times, she felt sick of the faerie catharsis she had been living in for so many millennia. Her pouted red lips pursed with desire, she would resolve she had experienced enough lust for the day, and move away to face the other side of nature from the more welcoming quarters of her Juniper. The shade of its prickling thorns was the mountain brook to the thirsty climber. When the gentler winds blew, the tree gave off a flavour of vanilla sticks and lemongrass.
That was the magic of faerie trees. This was the magic and curse of faeries: being bound forever to a flower of their soul, who could only flourish as long as she remained there. The tree was a twin soul of hers, lifting and lowering its messy leaves as her mood lifted or sunk. It would give her the berries she needed to eat as she got hungry, and shade her sliver skin from the boiling sun. An oasis of quiet, a spring of delight.

Except for the mystery of the thorn, pointing towards a forbidden fruit she sought to fly after. She let her soul leap where her body could not, and saw in her mind what treasures she could find North. North.