The Guiding Star
May Aisling

Fairy tales can guide us like a shining thread

My Name’s Fox

by Lee Vixen

Cover designer Нина Иванова

Illustrator May Aisling

© May Aisling, 2026

© Нина Иванова, cover design, 2026

© May Aisling, illustrations, 2026

ISBN 978-5-0069-7521-7

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Misty Path

The moon was especially bright tonight. Its silvery saucer glowed with a pure white light that looked tinted with lapis blue if you squint your eyes a little.

Once upon a time, there was a fairy who wore a moonlight veil and a cloak of darkness…

A canopy of glittering stars shone in the midnight sky like a posse of fireflies. One star appeared much brighter than the rest, like a shard of moonstone on the velvet tapestry. What was its name? Even though Hannah could stare at the starry sky for hours and had learned all the constellations already, she couldn’t recognize it now.

Should she ask her father? He knows the names of all the stars in the sky. The girl stirred in her warm, cozy crochet shawl and her father hugged her tighter.

“Aren’t you cold, cricket?” he asked. His coat smelled of horse sweat and smoke, and his skin was sun-kissed and salty from the sea wind. This time, Hannah begged to be on the ship, too, so that she could see the harbor town and the sea. The vast water fascinated her, but the sullen looks of the ship’s crew made the little girl cling to her father all the time. However, when the ship docked, she found a lovely seashell flute and a couple of dried biscuits in her pockets.

“How far is it, father?”

“Don’t worry, kid. We’re almost there.”

There was a tension in his voice, and the trail they always took to cut across the forest now looked misty and strange.

Looking at the trees that surrounded them like a stockade of tall, gnarled trunks, Hannah remembered the old lullaby her nanny used to sing to her:

“Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?

My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care;

My daughters by night their glad festival keep,

They’ll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep.”¹

No longer did the forest seem so bright and welcoming as before, with green glades filled with bright sun and snow-white daisies. Hannah used to lie in the grass in a small grove behind their house, where she was allowed to go for a walk. She fell asleep to the sound of birdsong and the rustle of the wind in the leaves. But now…

The night was too dark. And that dead silence made it even scarier.

“Daddy, I’m hungry.”

“Me too, dear. I think I could eat a horse… Whoa, Ebony, don’t worry!” Father patted their pitch-black horse on the neck, but the stallion still backed up and started to spin around.

Hannah felt a chill and turned her head to see the patterned gate that had appeared out of nowhere, right in front of them. The curved iron stems intertwined into a delicate lace, each bud glowing in the dark with a soft, alluring radiance. For a moment, it seemed to the girl that cold, knobby hands with thin fingers were reaching out to her, each topped with a long silver claw… Hannah blinked, and the vision vanished.

But she still had that strange feeling. Something terrible was going to happen.

“Father, please! Don’t go there!”

“Don’t be afraid, little one. Let’s ask someone the way to the town. Maybe they’ll even let us stay the night. My, I was sure we were going the same way. Did I miss the turn or something?”

Then the rain started, urging them to shelter under the trimmed canopy of linden and pines. The crawling shadow of the fence trailed behind, leaving long sparkling traces on the gravel walk.

The castle loomed over them, a giant made of stone and shadow. Its tall spires pierced the pale foam of archways and covered passages, pointing skyward with their bony fingers. Grotesque stone sculptures were scattered here and there, among cracked walls. A lonely flicker of candlelight appeared in one window, then slowly moved to another – and went out. But before that Hannah could notice someone’s pale face behind the foggy glass.

“I could swear, it wasn’t here before.”

Ebony snorted again. The stallion clearly disliked the place. Hannah looked back at the gates that slowly creaked shut on their own.

What if this place belongs to a wicked fairy in the cloak of darkness?

“Good evening!”

A dark short figure leapt out from behind the nearby statue, startling the horse. Hannah’s father clenched her tightly and barely kept himself in the saddle.

“Oh, please forgive me, I didn’t mean to scare you!”

The silver bells on the tips of the richly-emproidered cap jingled softly as the jester bowed, nearly blending into the night’s shadows in his dark velvet coat. The moonlight cast strange, flickering shadows across his face – no, more like a mask, which portrayed a welcoming smile. A painted eye managed a mischievous wink at Hannah.

“Welcome, dear guests. I’ve been waiting for you!”

Gravel crunched beneath their feet, forming a winding serpentine path right to the marble staircase with an intricate balustrade. Father cast a cautious glance around.

“Don’t worry about the horse,” the jester whistled gently and Ebony obediently trotted toward the stables. “Come inside! We’ve got a warm bed and a cup of hot chocolate for your little lady.”

Suddenly, a downpour burst from heaven, and they all hurried onto the porch, seeking cover.

Don’t – don’t – don’t go there! the raindrops echoed as they danced across the gravel path.

A silhouette of a marble fountain emerged in the rain, an elaborate white sculpture of a rider in a flowing cloak and his pack of ghostly-white hounds.

The floor in the vestibule was laid with black-and-white tiles, resembling an enormous chessboard. The ivory and dark wood sculptures scattered throughout the hall only deepened the resemblance. Father sometimes taught Hannah to play, yet she could never quite grasp the intricate strategies and simply moved the pieces across the board.

The jester showed them into a living room.

A blazing fireplace was crackling warmly, flanked by two cozy armchairs draped with plush blankets. An enormous vase brimming with fresh fruits stood nearby, on an elegant carved table. Hannah’s attention was immediately drawn to a tray with delicate pastries and most delicious cakes imaginable.

It seemed as if they’d been expected here.

“Are we alone here?” father asked. The jester grinned and quickly changed his mask to a thoughtful one with just a click of his long fingers.

“A man is never truly alone; their shadow is always with them.” While he was saying it, his shadow suddenly grew bigger, almost enormous. Or was it just a trick of mind?

“And good servants should never be seen or heard, right?” The man bowed and left.

The fire was so warm and comfy, and the honey milk was even tastier than one the nanny made every night. They didn’t hear the doors close; a lock clicked ominously in the distance.

The trap was sealed.

Jester’s Masks

Cleaning the fireplaces was a chore that offered no pleasure. Afterward, Hannah’s hands and apron were all dirty, and a faint taste of ash lingered on her lips.

Sort out a plate of lentils and beans from ash, only then will you be able to attend the ball!

“Move it, you stupid little mouse!” A jester seemed to appear out of thin air, his velvet coat shifting colors – blue, ash gray and black, blending into the shadows. “If you keep on being lazy like that, you’ll gather dust yourself!”

Day after day, he kept teasing her, deliberately hanging cobwebs over her hair and shoulders, which Hanna feared more than anything. Recently, his temper had soured, perhaps because new visitors hadn’t come in ages, leaving the house eerily silent and abandoned.

The scent of nocturnal flowers drifted through the air, mingling with the distant chime of crystal bells. Hearing them, the jester noticeably turned pale, even though his skin was already powder-white. Hannah felt a shiver of fear too, yet there was a strange joy in her heart: the mistress won’t let him hurt her little guest. Brushing away sticky threads from her hair, Hannah continued to polish the enormous stone globe in the library. In his study, her father had a smaller one, made of red wood. She loved tracing the curved borders with her finger, listening to his stories of faraway journeys. He also promised to take her with him, when she turned as many years old as there were months in a year.

She would turn twelve in just a week, but she would never leave this place, trapped in a cold, lifeless fairy tale with no end and no beginning.

The girl ran her hand over the polished, icy-smooth surface of the globe. A mosaic of red, brown, and yellow pieces resembled a patchwork quilt. So many lands lay unknown under her fingers… After gazing at the globe, she had to climb a ladder to wipe every single shelf; there were three hundred and sixty-five of them – one for each day of the year, and each day stretched out long and slow, as if it was an entire year.

Luckily, her father taught her to read; he also used to say that she could travel the whole world without leaving her room if she had imagination. Sometimes she could sit for hours and hours, her mind drifting to the scorching African coasts, to a distant continent where trees offer no shade, or to a cozy farm where she could smell the scent of freshly cut hay and milk. She forgot being all alone in this dark place. And what happened to her father, too.

***

That night, the room was filled with the scent of flowers – so sweet and overwhelming that Hannah sneezed a couple of times before she finally awoke. It was a gloomy morning outside. The armchair by the fireplace was empty, the fire long extinguished. And her father wasn’t seen anywhere.

The front door was tightly locked, secured with a heavy bolt. It didn’t shift a bit when Hannah pressed her entire weight against it. Only at dawn, when she cried her eyes out, the jester found her in one of the many rooms.

“You?! How did you—" and he went straight to swearing in a language which was unknown to her. Now, in the daylight, with a smudged makeup and no mask, he looked like an ordinary old man, plump and bald-headed.

“Why are you still here?”

“I’m looking for my father!” Hannah cried. The jester grimaced and clapped his hands to his ears. When he turned around, the girl noticed a cylindrical leather case hanging from his belt.

Tarnished copper with a slight greenish hue around the ornate spirals of the tube, a twisted leather strap – father had it fixed specially for Hannah who often took his spying glass to watch the birds or look at stars.

Of course, she recognized it immediately.

“Stop whining!” the jester muttered with a squeamish smirk, yawning and scratching his unshaven cheek. “Go home, there’s nothing for you here.” Without much ceremony, he yanked her by the collar, dragging the girl outside like an erring puppy. The air was damp after yesterday’s rain, and Hannah stepped into a cold puddle with her shoe a couple of times.

“Bothering with kids is the last thing I need,” the man said and pushed Hannah towards the gates. And that was when the bells were heard for the first time.

Hannah thought it was ringing in her ears, but the jester froze in place, releasing her hand. The carved latch on the gate slid back into position, and a sudden gust of wind made the tree branches sway.

No, I won’t let her go.

So she stayed in the castle, either a servant or a guest. At first, the jester was constantly finding faults with her, giving Hannah so much work she could barely make it to her bed in the evening. She never saw her father again, not even in her dreams.

The days stretched endlessly, and she felt ensnared, like a tiny midge trapped in sticky syrup. Gradually, Hannah got familiar with the echoing maze of galleries, and even discovered a vast, welcoming kitchen on the first floor. The air was rich with the scent of smoked sausages and hams hanging from the walls, bunches of onions, baskets brimming with dried fruits, and jars of candied berries. The boxes with candies seemed to never get empty, and she never once felt a toothache. Every year in winter, a magnificent cake appeared on the kitchen table, adorned with fluffy whipped cream and flickering candles. Hannah would try to sneak into the kitchen before the jester – not to get the first piece of it, but to make a single wish, hoping it might come true.

She wanted to get back home.

Did Yul Tompten read her letters, which Hannah carefully strung up on the fireplace grate alongside a sugar pretzel from the kitchen? Or was he afraid to visit her in the enchanted castle? Perhaps, the pretzels were enchanted, too. With every bite and every passing year, Hannah’s memories seemed to fade. The clicking knitting needles in nanny’s hands, the sweet aroma of almond cookies and apple pies, and the sharp ink smell from her father’s cluttered desk.

After the library, Hannah moved into the corridor. The marble floor was covered with thick dust, and the carved furniture she spent half a day waxing was no more than yesterday’s memory. It seemed that only the kitchen remained clean, as if an invisible hand dusted and polished the copper ladles.

Useless.

Hannah glared at stained tiles with disdain. No tears!

The mistress hated crying children, the jester told her once. But she loved flowers, especially the translucent bluebells with silvery edges, which grew in the garden next to the fence. Hannah plucked a big bouquet, adding some of the puff-white cotton grass. Passing by the gate, she habitually tugged the carved latch – locked, as ever.

Inside, the flowers started to ring, louder and louder, eagerly stretching their tiny heads. The dark door at the corridor’s end; all others are carved from red wood, but this one is pitch-black, adorned with shimmering mother-of-pearl inlay.

Inside, a faint light flickered – though Hannah saw no candles. The windows were draped, with no furniture or paintings. The décor was a sculpture of a woman – made of snow-white marble, with full lips and shaven head, its thin long arms and legs look astonishingly beautiful yet terrifying.

Like a spider, poised to cast its web.

Hannah never dared to meet the mistress’s blank eyes and avoided touching its cold hand when placing flowers in marble palm. Yesterday’s bouquet was still fresh. Hannah dropped it on the floor where it instantly dissolved, woven into a dark malachite pattern. The bouquets brought by the jester turned to dust as soon as they touched the marble pedestal, but Hannah’s flowers continued to grow beneath the stone.

Overwhelmed, Hannah dashed out of the room and slammed the heavy door behind her. The jester was there, sitting on the windowsill and flicking a blue petal from his sleeve. His face was beet-red and swollen from wine, and he lazily plucked at the strings of his lute.

“Running again?” he asked with a smirk. “Just you wait, soon there will be nowhere to run!”

The mask strap snapped from his belt and went chasing Hannah, cackling wickedly, as she rushed down the gallery. The chime of bells echoed through the hall like someone’s mocking laughter.

Stone Traces

The bed in her room was so big that Hannah usually huddled in the farthest corner and covered herself with a heavy brocade blanket. The tapestry was decorated with images of lilies, and each time she noticed new buds on the shoots that had stretched out overnight. The girl did her best to believe it was the way it should be and squeezed her eyes shut when the silk lilies opened their petals to wish her good morning.

If you don’t see it, it doesn’t see you.

For her shoes, on the contrary, she had to keep an eye as they were always hiding under the table, lying on the windowsill or hanging on the fender, changing the colour as they pleased.

But the worst thing was with the hair. Hannah’s nanny used to comb her long wheat-blond strands for a long time, making them into two thick braids. And now, every morning, the girl woke up wrapped in a waterfall of shiny curls.

Who made their way into her room at night? Hannah never forgot to turn the key and even slid the heavy dresser against the door. Come morning, it was right in its place, and the key still jutted from the lock, yet the air was filled with vanilla perfume and the whispers of fairy tales.

The furniture she had carefully wiped down during the day got dusty again at night, and the fireplaces were always full of still-hot ashes, as if invisible tenants woke up after midnight and invaded the empty rooms. Hannah would gladly believe in fairies, rather than think that the feather fans, gloves, beer mugs and smoking pipes left on the dressing tables belonged to the disturbed ghosts of those who had ever decided to stay overnight.

Every night, the thick fog covered the courtyard, and the lanterns along the alley lit all by themselves. The castle was waiting for new guests.

Every time she tried to shout and warn them to turn back, but all in vain.

Once, the guests managed to find their way to them long before dusk. A man and a woman. Hannah’s windows overlooked the main entrance, so she immediately heard the clop of hooves on stone slabs.

She rushed to the corridor, but the doors slammed shut so quickly that they almost pinched her nose. Hannah darted back to the window, banging on the glass. It seems that the woman noticed her and said something to her companion. But they didn’t slow down. The jester was already dancing towards the visitors. Even without looking, you could tell that his mask was grinning from ear to ear.

Hannah didn’t have time to break the glass with a heavy candlestick – the curtain fell by itself, blocking the view from her. The fabric of the curtains was too thick and wouldn’t budge. And in the end, the girl’s fingers suddenly ran over the plaster, as a floral mural stretched across the entire wall, replacing the window.

Hannah stayed awake through the long, restless night, slapping her cheeks in a desperate bid to stay alert. Outside, silence reigned, broken only by the delicate strumming of the jester’s lute and the soft, melodic laughter of the woman. As dawn approached, exhaustion claimed her, and the girl finally surrendered to sleep.

The next morning, the door swung open on its own. The window glass was as clear as the first light of dawn. But the guests were already gone. Only icy footprints traced a ghostly path across the gleaming parquet. In some places, the frost had begun to yield, exposing dark stone beneath.

“You’d better hurry. It may be hard to scrub it later,” the jester whispered in her ear, making Hannah recoil. The cheerful mask was tucked into his belt, and a jet-black one with embroidered silver tears covered his face.

“Look what they did to me yesterday,” he whimpered, turning up his slashed sleeve. There was a long red stripe running from wrist to elbow. “I’ve been entertaining them all night, and that’s how they’ve paid me. Who’s going to sew it up now, huh?”

Without saying a word, Hannah turned her back on him. The annoyed fool retaliated by throwing an orange at her, which crumbled into an armful of snow halfway through, sprinkling frosty dust on the girl’s shoulder. The air smelled warningly spicy, making the man cough and sneeze.

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Примечания

1

“Erlkönig” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

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