What happened by the old wooden swing

Storming inside like the sky above her, Chelsea stiffly closed the front door behind her and stepped onto the wet lawn. It was colder then she had anticipated, so she hugged the already soaked Jean jacket to her chest and curled her wet toes, wishing she had chosen to wear her sneakers, instead of her leather sandals. Being defiant, however, Chelsea refused to step inside and be comfortable. Instead, she took a step forward and away from the lonely house, towards the forsaken woods.
When they first moved there, Chelsea had felt lonely in the woods. She had written in her diary that she felt an ‘unbidden presence locking me out of the serenity that is said to lie with nature’. Almost four years ago, the young writer had spent as much time as she could trying to open up the forest to her mind.
Now she was not glad, for even though the boughs and branches usually offered comfort, the trees were distant today. This change made her even more uncomfortable then the change at home, and not for the first time, she wondered if the change hadn’t happened inside herself. Pushing all thoughts of the past out of her mind, Chelsea marched forward, never looking back.
She went to the spot in the forest where she had met her first fey. ‘Lady Fey’ as Chelsea called her best friend, had been sitting on an old wooden swing, like a scene in an old fairy tale, and singing to herself.
"I knew you would come." ‘Lady Fey’ had told Chelsea lightly, that day. "I was waiting for you. My mom is in the Real Estate business, and found out that you were going to be our neighbors. I’m Fiona. What is your name?" Ever since the girls had been closest of friends.
Chelsea entered the clearing and, upon seeing it empty, wished Fiona had answered the phone when she had called her to arrange the meeting. Chelsea had known she would be gone tonight, gone to a slumber party with other friends, but the knowledge did nothing to still the longing for Lady Fey’s smile and bright eyes.
The swing was wet, but the ground was soaked, so Chelsea sat on the seat and began, unwillingly, to cry. When she caught herself weeping, she started to swing. Faster and faster she pumped her legs with all the strength she had. The harder she swung, the deeper she found hurt and the more she wept.
Without warning, she became aware of a great wetness on her back. Furrowing her brow, she took off her jacket and found the back very muddy. She spun around as a giant rain drop hit her back, splattering her black tee shirt and coffee colored hair with mud.
A little man stood there, a mud ball in each hand, each hand held out to his side, as if he were weighing each. His yellow grin was as wide as his green, grass-stained face. His black slitted eyes looked up to Chelsea and he jumped toward her, causing Chelsea to loose her balance and fall forward off the swing.
The man laughed heartily and with a ‘splut’ one of his dirty hands was empty and Chelsea’s backside was wet with slimy mud. Enraged and frightened, Chelsea stood before the man. She was at least three times his size and at least three times wetter.
The man jumped again towards her, and she took a step back, making him burst out laughing again.
"Who are you?" She asked, eyeing the jacket that had landed between her and the man. The man followed her gaze and leapt for the jacket.
"Give it back!" Chelsea started for him.
"Give it, give it, give it not to teary eyed lasses with no home!" The man chanted, wrapping the coat around himself, and laughing when it fell in a heap around his feet.
"What do you know about me?" Chelsea found herself offended and interested at the same time.
"You’re a serious folk-lass. You cry too much and cry because you cry too much… You are muddy and lonely and can’t dance."
"What?" She thought about the last statement the filthy wretch had made and said "I’ve had three years of dance classes!"
"Classes can’t teach what the heart wants to release. I bet you couldn’t dance to a step of a note! Not one!"
Chelsea wondered why this man’s words were causing such a reaction in her. "What is your name?"
"Pig, now you must give me a favor."
"What? Pig?"
"Tell me your name, in the fullest and give it gladly."
She squinted at him, there was something her mind was warning her about, yet what it was she did not know.
"Chelsea Ann Connor."
His smile, though it covered his entire cheek-span, grew and he doubled and trippled and all of the Pig’s said in one voice, "Come and prove you can dance, Chelsea Ann Connor."