My Own Self

My Own Self

A little house stood at the edge of a great heather moor. Beyond it lay hills, stony paths, and wide open spaces. On clear nights, the stars seemed to come almost within reach of the earth.

A mother lived in the house with her six-year-old son.

The boy was cheerful and curious, with one habit: the moment bedtime came, he suddenly found a hundred urgent things to do.

“Mom, I'll just drink some water.”

“Okay.”

“And I’ll just check that the moon is still there.”

“It’s still there.”

“And I'll check if my wooden horse has forgotten the way to the stable.”

“He's standing by your pillow.”

“And then I...”

“And then you go to bed,” his mother said with a smile.

That evening she was exhausted. She had spent all day on household chores: fetching water, baking bread, and mending a shirt. Now she could barely keep her eyes open.

“I’m going to bed,” she said. “And it’s time you did too.”

“I’ll just sit by the fire a little longer.”

His mother looked at him closely.

“Not for long. And don’t touch the coals in the fireplace. At night, everything here seems more exciting than it really is. They say the Little People wander on the moor.”

“Fairies?” the boy immediately perked up.

“That’s what the old stories say.”

“I wish at least one of them would come and play with me!”

“I’d rather you met one in daylight,” his mother answered. “Good night.”

She went to her room, and the boy remained by the quiet fire.

At first, it was quite exciting.

The wind was blowing outside the window.

Swish-swish.

A night bird called from somewhere far away.

A log crackled in the fireplace.

Crackle-crackle.

Watching the red embers, the boy began to think that bed might not be such a bad idea after all.

And then something tinkled in the chimney.

Tink!

Then there was a rustle.

Swish-swish!

A tiny girl leaped lightly out of the fireplace and onto the rug.

She was no taller than a milk jug. Her silver hair fell to her shoulders, her green eyes sparkled, and she was wearing a dress the color of young leaves.

“Hello,” she said.

The boy forgot that he had wanted to sleep a minute ago.

“Are you a fairy?”

“Maybe.”

“What’s your name?”

The girl narrowed her eyes mischievously.

“My Own Self.”

“No, I mean, what’s your name?”

“That is my name: My Own Self.”

The boy laughed.

“Then I’m My Own Self too!”

“Splendid,” said the fairy. “My Own Self and My Own Self. What a fine pair!”

They began to play.

The fairy touched the ashes beside the fireplace with a finger, and a tiny gray house rose out of them. Another touch brought a little bridge, then a tree, a cart, and a whole town square no bigger than a plate.

The boy watched without blinking.

“Can you make people too?”

“Of course.”

The fairy turned her hand, and little people made of ash ran down a tiny street. One carried a basket, another rolled a barrel, and a third led a miniature goat.

The boy kept his laughter quiet so he wouldn’t wake his mother.

“More! Make some more!”

But at that moment the fire in the fireplace began to die out.

“We need light,” said the boy.

He remembered his mother's words and did not stir the hot coals with his hands. Instead, he took a long poker and very carefully moved the log.

But one small spark did fly out of the fireplace.

Whiz!

It landed beside the fairy and singed the edge of her little grass shoe.

“Oh!” cried My Own Self, jumping back.

“Are you all right?” asked the boy in alarm.

“I’m all right. But my shoe!”

Just then, a high, commanding voice came down the chimney:

“My Own Self! Where are you? It’s time to come home!”

The fairy raised her head.

“Mom! My shoe nearly caught fire!”

“Who did that?” came the voice from above.

My Own Self glanced at the boy. She did not want to get him into trouble, and nobody had thrown the spark on purpose.

“My Own Self!” she called.

The chimney fell silent for a moment.

“If you did it your own self, why make such a fuss?” answered her fairy mother. “Come up here. I’ll mend your shoe.”

The boy covered his mouth with his hands to keep from laughing.

My Own Self understood what had happened too.

“It’s because of my name!” she whispered.

“You chose it yourself,” the boy whispered back.

“True. See you tomorrow, My Own Self.”

She leaped up, caught an invisible step inside the chimney, and vanished.

Swish! Swish! Tink!

And everything was quiet.

The little ash town began to fade too. Its houses sank, its trees crumbled into heaps of ash, and its tiny inhabitants vanished one by one.

The boy sat by the fireplace for a while longer.

The room seemed very large and very quiet now.

He thought about his mother's words: everything really does seem stranger at night. And even a good adventure can suddenly become scary if you stay up too long.

The boy put out the lamp, slipped quietly into his room, and climbed into bed.

The next evening, his mother had barely opened her mouth to say “Bedtime” when he was already carrying his wooden horse to his pillow.

“No arguments?” she asked in surprise.

“Today I decided to go to bed on time all by myself.”

The mother smiled.

“By yourself?”

The boy smiled too, remembering the little silver-haired guest.

“By myself. My Own Self.”

When the wind rustled over the roof again that night, he thought he heard someone laughing softly, high up in the chimney.

May this story leave a little light in your heart ✨