Free The Windvale Sprites by Mackenzie Crook

you could say about Benjamin Tooth, he was a skilled artist).
    The sculpture was a carved statue of a young sprite squatting on top of a grotesque, six-legged creature with a long tail that curled underneath to form a base.
    Asa could recognise in it the shape of the pond-sprite’s stylised tattoo but this carving was exquisitely detailed. The wings of the sprite showed every vein and even the thorns on its limbs were there.
    It reminded Asa of a dragonfly hatching from a nymph.
    As he studied the page he suddenly got the feeling that someone was looking over his shoulder. Thinking it was his mum or dad he slammed the book shut and wheeled around. With a frantic, panicked buzz of wings the sprite, which had somehow crept from the burrow and around behind him, zipped upwards and crashed into the glass. Stunned, it dropped again, spun around twice and then darted back inside the burrow.
    Asa crept slowly over to the entrance and, clearing the plates of untouched food to one side, he opened the book at the painting and laid it on the ground. Then he retreated to the door and watched. Ten minutes passed, twenty, but then, after half an hour, he thought he saw a movement from within. Sure enough the creature, crawling on all fours, came nervously into view and crouched at the opening. It was watching him. Asa crossed his arms on his knees and laid his head on his arms to show that he was not about to pounce or attack it.
    The creature spread its wings and buzzed up into the air, hovering above the book looking down at the picture. Then it turned to Asa and looked at him with an expression of pain and questioning. It slowly held out its long, willowy arms towards him and then dropped on to the page and ran its hands over the painting.
    ‘I don’t have it,’ said Asa. ‘I don’t know where it is.’ The sprite again reached out its hands as if it were pleading with him.
    ‘I don’t know where it is,’ he repeated. ‘The old man took it.’
    With a flick the sprite’s wings became a blur and it rose slowly into the air. It drifted forward until it was floating no more than a foot from Asa’s face. It filled his vision and he was suddenly aware of nothing else but this incredible thing in front of him. He could see, in magnified detail, every hair on its head, its filament fingers, the hundred glittering surfaces of each hypnotic eye. From somewhere distant he heard an echoing, ringing note and then a word.
    Help.
    Nothing had been said out loud, the word had been planted without a voice in his brain.
    Help.
    Asa said nothing but found himself replying: How?
    Help us.  
    I want to.
    The creature pointed away.
    Home .
    A great sadness washed over Asa as he looked deep into the sprite’s eyes.
    ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you home.’
     

18
     

Home
     
     
    Asa didn’t need any further supplies for this trip. He simply wanted to return the sprite to the moor. Suddenly the whole adventure seemed like a mistake. He was as bad as Benjamin Tooth. What right had he to steal one of these rare creatures from its home and keep it captive? He knew what he had to do: set the sprite free, leave them in peace and never whisper a word about them to another living soul.
    He placed his open rucksack on the ground and pointed to it. ‘You go in there,’ he said. ‘You ride in the bag.’ He stepped back and the sprite flitted over to inspect it. It looked at the bag from all angles then settled on top. It dropped inside and then shot out again, circled round and once again came to rest on the bag. It looked at Asa and seemed to be happy enough with the arrangement.
    Asa put the bag on his back as the sprite hovered nearby.
    ‘You get in there,’ he said, gesturing over his shoulder, but it took no notice.
    ‘OK, well, it’s there if you need it,’ and he stepped out of the greenhouse to fetch his bike.
    The sprite seemed to understand the plan and regained some of its former energy and colour. It was constantly on the