Magic or Rubber Boots?

A long, pointed, yellow stone rests peacefully on its side just above the waterline of the tumbling, sun-sparkling, wintry waters of the stream.  There are actually two stones I long to get my hands on.  I wish to bury the long yellow stone in the earth like a stone seed, its sharp, pointy end upwards, as a marker, a guide to my small stone circle below.  The other stone is white and roundish, like the top of someone’s head.  My wife would like this stone.  The problem is, both rocks are on the other side of the stream from me.

“Tough luck, lad,” empathizes a Faerie fellow with blonde hair.  With otherworldly grace, he leaps across the stream and gives both rocks a friendly pat.  “Are these the rocks you and the missus wants?” he asks with a mischievous smile.  I nod.

“Well, if you believe hard enough, you can call them over to you,” he says, quite seriously.  I frown at him, but he just shrugs.  “Or you can put on your waders and swim for ’em.”

Magic or rubber boots – it seems those are my two options.  The Faerie fellow across the stream sits on my wife’s round rock.  He smiles at me and then stares down the stream, as if pondering the question.

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