Illness had robbed them of the ability to speak, their kind brauniin friend that gently nursed them through it helped them learn to sing. Though it took time, patience, and though it hurt some, the kindness of loved ones. -- Anon Guest
Brauniin pride themselves on being unnoticed. Kind deeds done without reward nor praise. Help where it's needed, for those who toil but fail regardless. They only take that which is offered, or that which will not be noticed.
People know what to do when they find tasks mysteriously completed. They know what to do when they think they have the favour of the Faekindred.
Offerings of milk and honey, rare spice if the householder can afford it. If neither milk nor honey was available, then other offerings of food and handicrafts can do the same job. The Brauniin, unlike most other Faekindred, understand that mortals have limits.
Oleander was the Brauniin who lived in the hut owned by a solitary Human named Gall. There was not a lot to share, since Gall spent most of hir time scratching for enough to survive. However, there was always a portion of hir dinner waiting on a yellow plate for the Brauniin. Or a little coat made of rabbit skins for the winter. Or little boots from hir scrap leather.
Oleander was truly grateful, and summer after summer, she made sure that the tinder box was always full. Winter after winter, there was always enough wood to last through the snows. The chimney never clogged and the cracks in stonework were always sealed with the right kind of mud.
Then Gall caught a winter cold that laid hir low. Very low.
For days, Gall was a-fever in hir bed. Alternately shivering under hir furs and sweating atop of them. Unable to care for hirself.
Yet... there was always soup, and clean water with a sprig of mint to give it flavour and Gall's guts some ease. And in Gall's distress, a little hand holding hirs, or a soothing one on hir brow.
Gall could not speak when ze rose from hir bed. Nevertheless, ze did what ze could to thank the invisible helper who had nursed hir. A switch of herbs gathered mere steps from hir door... bent and woven into a simple circlet.
Hir hands, once so clever, shook with a great palsy. Hir legs, once so strong, could barely carry hir about the small territory ze used to farm. And the songs ze used to sing in idle moments... were no more. No voice left to sing them.
Gall could never whistle. The skill never came to hir. It was a reed from the creek that gave Oleander an idea. Ze could use the reed to make something approaching a simple tune, if it was held betwixt finger and thumb.
A length of cane. A little carving, and a piece of reed. Simple principals put together to create... something a Faekindred should never have made. Something new.
Civilisation would eventually name it the Clarinet, and later additions to it would add metal to the holes. For the little hut in the middle of nowhere, it was enough to have music.
An offering enough for a Faekindred, for all that the process of learning how to play was painful for all.
[Photo by Chandler Cruttenden on Unsplash]
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