Free Guardian of the Green Hill by Laura L. Sullivan

absolute refusal to stay in the place the fates tried to put you. In this last, he was a great deal like Meg, though she looked at it not so much in terms of her own situation but in circumstances around her.
    Why should the stupid Morgans be entitled to something just because they happened to be related to Phyllida? Why should that beastly Rowan see all the fairies he wanted when Finn, finding fairies with his own ingenuity, was half blinded for his troubles? And Silly, the annoying little twit. Meg was okay, though. At least she didn’t seem to hate him like the others. And from what he had been able to piece together about that Midsummer War business, she had acted with quite startling bravery. Still, she wasn’t any better than he was, and she had both her eyes.
    Thinking about his eye made his lip tremble in a new bout of self-pity. However horrible the damage, his tear ducts were still working, and it struck him as the cruelest irony that, though he was half blind and disfigured, that eye could still wound him with its weeping. He rubbed the tears away fiercely, forgetting that he still clutched dirt.
    â€œOh, great,” he said, and to his surprise found himself laughing. A fine mess I am, he thought. Eyeless, filthy, beaten up … and laughing like a lunatic. He didn’t realize that the tired old saying about laughter being the best medicine is true. It won’t mend broken bones (or replace an eye poked out with a hazel twig), but when you can laugh, even self-deprecating laughter, you know you’re on the road to recovery.
    Finn wiped his palms on his jeans and carefully brushed the dirt and grit from under his black silk eyepatch. You could tell he was already feeling better because he was plotting revenge. Laughter is a good tonic; laughter mixed with anger put to constructive use can cure all but the gravest wounds.
    When he heard the sound of weeping from the undergrowth nearby, he immediately thought someone was mocking him and jumped up with his dirty fists clenched, ready for battle. But no, the sobbing evidently came from a very little person, and it sounded heartbreakingly sincere.
    â€œWho’s there?” Finn asked, mostly gently but with just a little edge, in case it turned out someone was making fun of him after all.
    The crying paused, then resumed with fresh passion.
    â€œWhat’s wrong? Can I help?”
    â€œI bro … bro … broke my wagon-hun-hun!” the little voice sobbed and stuttered, and melted away into new paroxysms of suffering.
    Finn looked around and saw a child-sized wooden wagon, painted blue with white lettering on the side: FENODEREE’S MOWING AND CARTING . The left rear axle was broken.
    â€œDon’t cry, kid. I think I can fix that for you.” He turned the wagon on its side and fiddled with the parts. “See, I can use a branch or something, if I can find one the right size.”
    A hopeful little whimper rose from the wagon’s unseen owner. “I love my wagon, I do,” he said earnestly.
    â€œI bet you do,” Finn said pleasantly as he scoured the ground for an appropriate stick. “It’s a pretty cool wagon. Here, this ought to do.” He took out his pocketknife and set about shaping the stick into a makeshift axle. The blade snapped off (luckily flying clear of his remaining eye), but he managed to scrape the stick into an appropriate shape. Lost in his work, he came very close to forgetting his own troubles and resentments for almost a full minute. He fit the replacement into the wheel and gave it a trial roll. “How’s that, then?” he asked. “Good as new, if not so pretty. Do you want to try it out?”
    There was no answer.
    â€œDon’t be afraid. You won’t come out to see it? Okay, I’ll just leave it here for you.” He chuckled to himself. Poor tyke. Probably so well trained by his mommy, he didn’t dare meet a stranger. Or maybe she told