A Button for a Soul

By Rosemary E. Johnson

Dad told me, “Never insult a fairy, or it’ll steal your soul.” He didn’t warn me fairies take even the tiniest tease as an insult.

Greetings from a soulless peasant boy!

“How much money do you have, Will?” Dad sits me down on the bench outside our front door.

I slouch. “Uh, a few pennies, I think.” Not much for the button needed to barter back my soul. Preferably, buttons, plural. But good ones are expensive. Alric the blacksmith had to spend an entire month’s earnings last harvest to get his soul back. Apparently that fairy only took buttons carved from the heart of a birch tree, and birch trees only grow halfway up the mountain.

The wrinkle between Dad’s eyebrows deepens, and he disappears inside. I shove my hands in my pockets and scuff a wiggly line in the dirt with my shoe.

A minute later, Dad returns with a fistful of something. When I hold out my palm, he drops eleven copper pennies into it.

My eyes widen. “But, Dad…”

His smile silences my stutter. I clutch the coins to my chest. “Thanks, Dad.”

It’s barely past lunch, so after dumping my entire four cents of savings into my pocket with Dad’s coins, I head to the marketplace. Our village is small, but with all the stalls set up, there’s bound to be a good button I can afford. Maybe two, if I’m lucky.

Although my luck tends to help like a mop in a mud puddle.

The scent of fresh bread and coffee make my mouth water, then the clamor hits my ears of housewives haggling, children shrieking, and merchants bellowing how amazing their wares are.

I grin.

The first stall specializes in buttons carved like flowers. The merchant wrinkles his nose at my pennies, so I move on. The rose one was awfully pretty, though.

I had no idea merchants had such expressive noses. Every place I stop, they twitch and sniff at my pennies. My chest tightens. What if I don’t get my soul back? They say if you die without your soul, your spirit is doomed to wander the earth until you find it.

I guess ghost-me haunting the fairy who stole my soul wouldn’t be so bad.

Still.

In a shadowy corner of the marketplace underneath a tattered covering, I find a thin, bedraggled merchant whittling a scrap of wood. I squint at his wares and find a button painted bright yellow and another made of polished rock. It was probably a pebble plucked from the street, but it’s pretty. I don’t even have to count with my toes to add up the price. I slap my money on the table and clutch my new buttons. Now to find that dratted fairy.

The fairies live out in the forest, a bit of a hike, but walks make me whistle, so I don’t mind. Keeping my eyes peeled for anything tiny, gray, and winged, I tramp down the forest path.

There.

I break into a run, following the streak of gray, and stop at a mossy stump.

The fairy flutters above the open door, arms crossed, frowning. “Rude human, chasing me like that.”

“My apologies.” I bow from the waist like Dad taught me. “I’m looking for my soul, if you would be so kind to assist me.”

The fairy’s beady black eyes narrow. “Oh, so you’re the idiot that called my sword a needle.”

Heat tingles in my cheeks. “Guilty.”

“What’ll you give me for it?”

“These exceptional buttons.” They clink when I drop them into my palm.

The fairy scoffs. “Two ugly buttons for this fine decoration?” He gestures inside.

I kneel so I can see. My soul hangs over the mantel, a pulsing ball that illuminates everything with warm green light. My chest gives a funny little jump.

“Begone, scallywag. Your buttons are of no use to me.”

“But…”

“Hmph.” The fairy slams the door in my face.

Well then. I sit there, staring at the rejected buttons. Finally, I get up and trudge home. I don’t need to explain to Dad. He knows as soon as I walk in.

I grab a chunk of firewood and my pocketknife. If the fairy won’t take the buttons from the marketplace, I’ll make my own.

Darkness creeps in the window by the time I finish, but I have … something. I blink at it in the firelight. It looks like a leaf somebody stepped on. A great start for the reject pile.

Every day, after my chores are done, I scout in the forest, the village, everywhere for button material. I’m sure my pocketknife is thrilled to be used so much. Before long, my artistic genius pile is bigger than my reject pile. If the fairy doesn’t like these, he deserves to be haunted by my vengeful spirit.

Pockets stuffed with buttons, I trudge down the forest path. What if the fairy’s idea of artistic genius isn’t the same as mine?

Deep breaths, Will. You got this.

I knock on his tree stump, and the door flies open.

“Thought I told you to scuttle.” The fairy huffs, gray wings bristling.

“Thought you might like these better.” I scatter my buttons on the moss.

The fairy’s eyes widen. He hovers above them, counting under his breath. “Twenty-four well-made buttons for one soul.” He smiles, making his drab, colorless figure look almost cute.

Whoops. Almost said that out loud. Better keep my mouth shut.

“You have a deal, rude human.”

If I grin any wider, my face will fall apart. I take my pulsing soul from the fairy and press it against my chest. The green light soaks through my shirt and disappears. I sigh.

The fairy clears his throat, clutching three of the buttons. “All right, you got what you wanted. Skedaddle.”

“Thank you.” I turn a cartwheel and whistle all the way home. It’s nice being a peasant boy with a soul.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rosemary Johnson is a dragon-loving, cat-whispering writer and college student. Epic fantasy is her favorite to write, but she enjoys exploring other genres, too. She’s studying for a degree in Linguistics so she can do Bible translation, is a submissions coordinator for Havok, and has ten short stories published so far with another upcoming as a staff feature in Havok’s second anthology.

---

More Stories | Instagram