Faery Tale (17 page)

She let out a long sigh on the other end of the line, but agreed somewhat warily. “All right then. Give me your number, let me check in with them”—I assumed she meant the faeries—“and see what I can tell you. I'll call you back and let you know what I hear. But I can't make you any promises,” she warned.

Wow, I hadn't come across this yet. Her secrecy made me all the more eager to meet her. And her tone made me feel like a scolded child.

“Okay, I understand. I'll . . . just look forward to hearing from you then.” Hanging up the phone, I tried not to chew my fingernails as I waited. I wasn't sure when she would call back, so I was surprised when about half an hour passed and my phone rang, startling me from my reverie.

“Thank you for understanding,” she said, her tone completely different than before. “I'm allowed to speak with you, about everything. Some of it for the book, and some of it just for you. And you're not to use my real name, or write about where we meet. If you can agree to this, I can meet you now.”

“Okay,” I said quickly. “Um, when would you be free to meet?”

“Now.”

“Oh, right! Now.” I raised my brows at Raven as I snapped my laptop closed. “Okay, no problem, just tell me where.”

The directions were easy to follow and as I entered the building, I was met by a middle-aged woman with sparkling eyes and curly, dark hair peppered with white.

“You can call me Ninefh,” she said, slipping me a card with her contact information and proper spelling of the pseudonym printed in capital lettering on the back. Gesturing for me to make myself comfortable, she didn't waste any time.

“Well, so, you're looking for the faeries. You'll be going to the Isle of Man next, I suppose?”

I couldn't help but laugh. “I am now,” I murmured.

Earlier that day I'd noticed an advertisement for the Isle of Man in the window of a travel office near High Street. Now this was the third time since arriving in Glastonbury that I'd come across it. This time it was a sign I couldn't ignore.

“Good,” she said. “When you get there, there's a special place I need to tell you about. Have you heard of the Fairy Bridge?”

“Only in passing,” I admitted. The bridge, she explained, was significant because in forgotten times, it marked the boundary between the elves' land and the land of men. Legend had it that a great battle had been fought at that site, between human and faery, and the faeries won. Now as long as anyone could remember, it was an island tradition: those who crossed or even passed by the bridge must salute the faeries—a gesture of acknowledgment and respect that would ensure safe travels on the island.

“Otherwise the islanders are absolutely terrified something awful will happen to them,” she said. “And this includes really wild bikers . . . they will all do it, because they are afraid they won't get off the island in one piece otherwise.”

She looked at me intently. “In a country where the belief in faeries is endemic, there's always a fear of offending. And you
do
have to be careful. Because there's just no restraint.” She paused for a moment, then repeated, “There's just no restraint. That's the simplest way to put it. If they're enjoying themselves, there's no restraint; if they are going to have it in for you, there's no restraint. They just don't have the same moral code that we've got, so . . . you offend them at your peril.”

As I listened to her talk, it seemed that the Isle of Man faeries worked on a tit-for-tat basis.To have a favor granted, or to contact them, for example, one must sacrifice something in exchange. Ninefh went on to describe a visit to a place called Elfin Glen with her husband, who had been having problems with balance. She made an offering—a pink quartz heart—and it immediately began to snow. Her husband's balance problem disappeared. But on the way down, she fell and sprained her knee.

“You see, it was my knee in exchange for his healed sense of balance. But don't worry,” she went on. “If you cross the Fairy Bridge, and you stop and acknowledge them, they will guide you from there.”

I couldn't understand why the faeries would want to help me. “But why would they want to guide me?”

“Ah,” she said with a laugh, “because they'll
use
you. It's as simple as that. They won't do it unless it's beneficial for them, don't you worry about that. And they're not to be treated as lovely little New Age angels,” she added. “'Cause they're not.”

I laughed. “That's something I learned pretty early on,” I agreed, telling her the story about the Alux showing up past midnight in the cabana bathroom in Tulum. It seemed to be true that, as Peter Knight said, the world of faery was populated by many different creatures, spirits, if you will, and in fact very few of them might have “wings” in the way we imagined.

But it was hard to understand this new world I had encountered. And the question “What is a faery?” still loomed large in my mind. Ninefh was happy to be plied with questions, and there was something about her that made me trust in her experience, so I let fly.

“Maybe you could tell me,” I ventured, “what
is
the difference between faeries and, say, angels?”

“Well, angels have to do as they are told.” She flashed a wicked grin. “Faeries . . . don't.” Ninefh believed that faeries are only partially incarnated, or physically present, on the earth. They were lacking one element, unlike us who have access to all four elements. The faeries, she explained, use us as a go-between, to do things for them in
our
world that they cannot do.

And according to Ninefh, there was a specific reason that twilight and nighttime were the best times to encounter the faery realm. In a wood at twilight, trees, which are always “breathing” in and out, breathe “out.” Their respiration cycle reverses as the light fades, and suddenly, carbon dioxide is released. Ninefh believed that due to their biological composition, certain beings are able to “hide” easily in air saturated with oxygen. However, their biological composition makes it more difficult to mask themselves as the night air becomes more saturated with carbon dioxide. It was enough to send my head spinning, and I took a moment to gather my thoughts.

“I've read a lot of folklore that describes kings and queens of faery land,” I mentioned. “Where do they fit in all of this?”

“Ah, the gentry,” she mused fondly. “Well, as far as I understand it, you've got a level of tiny faeries, like worker bees. They're the ones that go out and do things, and they behave in one mind—they have one sort of collective mind.
Then
you have the royal court, the Shining Ones, or sometimes they're called the lordly race.They oversee and direct the rest of them. They're tall and beautiful to look at. There's a lot of ancestral ties going on, and the races of faeries change depending on where you are geographically. It's not dissimilar to what you find with people, really.”

It was beginning to feel like the more I learned about the faery world, the more I didn't understand. And now here I was on this journey, with the feeling that I was expected to do something for the faeries, but what? The words of Brian Froud echoed in my head:
Once you begin walking the faery path, you don't need to worry about straying . . . they won't let you off
. As we moved toward the door, I looked at Ninefh, searching for the right question. Her warm eyes sparkled at me, and she gave me a reassuring pat.

“You know,” she said, “there's always an element of choice: you can make it difficult for yourself, or you can make it easy.” With that, she burst into laughter, as though this were the most amusing thing. I couldn't help but feel a sense of dread creeping in.

“I see . . .” I began tentatively. “You're saying they'll have me either way.”

“Yes!”

“But . . . they would also protect me, right? Because I do feel a little frightened . . .”

“Oh yes,” she reassured me. “If you do as you're told.”

Somehow that was less reassuring than I think she intended. How on earth was I supposed to know whether or not I was doing as I was told? And what if I did something offensive, or wrong, and they . . . killed me or something?!

When I posed my quandary to Ninefh, she recommended I try asking for a faery advocate—someone in the faery realm who might agree to “sponsor” me, for all intents and purposes—protect me, guide me this summer, perhaps grant me experiences with the faery realm. “I can't guarantee you'll get one,” she said, “but it couldn't hurt to ask. Look,” she continued, growing more serious. “It's a narrow line, you see. It's very much like the old country, where you do them a favor, and they'll do you a favor. And their favors can be great indeed. But that isn't why you do it. It can't be your motive.”

I thought a moment. “My motive is . . . I suppose . . . to help people believe in magic again.”

At this, she beamed.

“That's it.” She smiled at me. “That's exactly it.”

“You know, Signe,” she said after a moment, “you've got to find your own way. But to be fearful is not being respectful. You can respect them . . . it's their territory, you don't want to tread on their toes, but you needn't fear them. If you're just doing as you're asked, and doing things intuitively, through your feelings, you don't need to be frightened of it. Not of any of it.”

 

The night after meeting Ninefh I couldn't fall asleep. The room was alive with energy, and I had the weirdest feeling, as though there were someone, or
something
, reclining on the empty bed next to mine, watching me intently.

I tossed and turned, but sometime in the early morning hours, I must have fallen into a dream. I found myself in my father's house on Bundy Road in Ithaca, in my old room. I wandered around, my fingers exploring the things that were familiar—sheet music that had been torn from one of my piano books, my old school things, my father's writing pens. Suddenly I realized with excitement that if I was in my father's home, with all our old things, he must be there, too! I rushed to the kitchen vibrating with anticipation—I could
always
find my dad in the kitchen. But when I got there, his chair at the cracked tile table was empty.

The whole house was empty. I wandered, desolate, into his bedroom and looked out the large picture window, studying the trees that had greeted him each morning of his life there. It was then that the emptiness hit me like a river. And I couldn't stand any more pain, my body just couldn't hold it all. I collapsed onto the carpet, breathing in the familiar smell, and sobbing, absolutely sobbing for him. I was alone. He was dead. My heart broke all over again.

A wail escaped my throat, and I woke to remember I was in Glastonbury. I turned my face into my pillow to find it was soaked with tears. Why was this happening now, here, on this trip? I'd dreamed of my father and his death, twice now in two weeks. Why did I have to feel all this pain now, when all I wanted to do was
heal
? For the moment, I felt exhausted, wrung clean, but I knew it was only for the moment—I had reservoirs of pain inside me, spilling over, and I just didn't know how to make them recede.

I turned toward Raven to find her lounging under the covers, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

“Hello, beauty,” she said. “I was just doing a little journeying. And I have some messages for you.” I waited, wondering what to expect.

“First of all, you've been assigned what's called an advocate. A faery man has volunteered. He wears silvery clothing, and he is a very ‘big deal' in the faery world. This advocate is going to assist you on getting through your fear, and your sadness, because you are a brilliant being and you should be radiating joy. There is room for nothing less in the faery kingdom.”

A faery advocate, just like Ninefh had suggested? But I hadn't even asked. I didn't know what to make of it. Later that morning I went to do laundry and check my email. Noticing my cell phone had several unchecked messages, I dialed in. The first message stopped me cold. It was Ninefh, calling to follow up. “I checked in with the faeries, and although they were a bit concerned at first, everything I shared with you is okay. Oh, and I wanted to let you know—you've been assigned a faery advocate, so you needn't worry about anything anymore. Just thought you'd like to know.”

In less than three hours, she and Raven had given me the same message.

What if I
hadn't
been imagining the feeling of that presence, studying me last night as I tried to fall asleep? If Raven and Ninefh were right, there was an advocate, a faery teacher and protector, somewhere out there, waiting for me on the other side.

W
HEN the veil begins to draw back, it changes everything. Will you step across the threshold with me? Here, in Glastonbury, where the veil between the worlds is thin. From here, everything will change, and me, I will change with it. If you want to believe, I will tell you everything, just how it happened to me.

My feet wound their way through the garden, up the path, through the arbor, the sunlight playing patterns on my skin. I felt pulled like a magnet to the gnarled tree, which stood at the top of the hill as majestic as it'd been the night before, and I found an odd comfort sitting at the base of its trunk, sheltered under its boughs. Closing my eyes, I let my mind go blank.

I still felt emotionally exhausted from the gut-wrenching power of my dream, and I tried to shut everything up, all the jumbles of thoughts, doubts, and criticisms.
Don't let your imagination take you anywhere!
it said.
You'll be making it all up . . .