Faery Tale (23 page)

I traversed a series of switchbacks, keeping a pine forest to my right. This one, however, was less threatening than the others I'd walked—too quiet and a bit unnerving, yes, but completely different than the forest in which I'd nearly lost my wits earlier. I could imagine the types of creatures that would love these woods—short, stocky, perhaps wrinkled . . . like gnomes. This wasn't the territory of airy faeries.

I continued my ascent, sweating now, hearing the occasional loud buzz of the motorcycles tearing through the island, picking up a few black feathers in my path until I could walk no more.There was a barbed-wire fence in front of me that wrapped around to my right, closing off the trail from a field.
Damn it
. And where was the running water? It dawned on me that I had not even made it into the glen. I had taken another wrong turn. I had been hiking now for three hours, and I was hungry, so I slipped under the fence and plopped down on the open hill, overlooking Ramsey, to eat my lunch. It felt nice to be out in the open, and more than anything I wanted to chicken out and head back to the Centre, but I couldn't quit now. I stuck the feathers in the ground and left a little of my leftover cheese by them, just like the peasants on the Isle of Man used to do, for the faeries. Even though it was now past two p.m., I headed back down to find the elusive glen once and for all.

Following yet another trail, I walked a well-trodden path along the side of a stream. I'd found it. The glen started off wide and beautiful, with a flat river that ran through, spiked with massive boulders. Unfortunately, the water was fenced off, so I could only walk on the trail beside it. Moving farther uphill, I climbed over a fence onto the Green Road, which took me along the edge of a cliff. When I reached a small waterfall with a pool, I laid out some chocolate as an offering and sat beneath it, reflecting quietly for more than an hour—during which I experienced absolutely nothing paranormal. It was now close to five, and I needed to get back—my legs were shaking from all the hiking and I was craving a pint with the guys.

I made my way back down the path from Glen Auldyn, feeling well exercised but deeply frustrated. Nothing. I had seen and experienced nothing. Where was the “westerly fork”? I had followed my instincts and ended up at a dead end. Typical. Where had John Hall been when he experienced the green man in the trees, the singing, the light-headedness, the feelings of paranoia? It seemed much more likely that he was experiencing fear—fear of nature and the dangers it can hold for any man. That's why we built shelters and made fires, put roofs over our heads and doors through which to enter. We willingly made the choice to step away from the natural world and all its discomforts and vastness.

The late afternoon sun was warm on my back, and it lit the fields that edged the hillsides with a golden glow. As I reached the last field on the trail, I spotted a man in the distance, coming toward me with a tremendous beast of a black dog. After my startling encounter with the blue jacket I was oddly nervous to come upon strangers, and he had an impressive stature to him, even from this far away. But seeing me, he veered off the pathway into the waist-high grasses of the field, following his dog, almost as though he were trying to set me at ease. It looked as though he was searching for something—discarded golf balls, perhaps. Relaxing, I proceeded through the field with a brave, friendly smile on my face.

As I got closer, I could see the dog was taking great vertical leaps across the field, his head popping into view for a moment as he strained to see above the high grass, before disappearing again in a sea of golden yellow. It was so hilarious I couldn't help but laugh. Pollen drifted gently on the breeze, and I called out to the creature. He lifted up, ears cocked, and then took off toward me, bounding enthusiastically, his owner following behind. I knelt down, waiting for him as he emerged from the field shaking himself, but he stopped just short of me, clearly waiting for his master.

As the man approached, I studied him. Tall and rosy-cheeked, he had grayish, nearly white hair that was slightly shaggy, not unlike his dog's. He wore a thick ivory fisherman's knit sweater, but it was his eyes that stopped me: they were the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. And when he smiled, they sparkled with a curiously captivating intelligence. There was something in them that didn't seem quite . . . human.

Faery
. No, that was ridiculous. Of course this man wasn't a faery!

“Go on,” he told the dog, in a deep, clear voice.The shaggy monster of mythic proportions made its way over to me and I buried my fingers in his thick tufts of fur.

“He's a fluffy beast, isn't he?” The man chuckled.

“Yes, indeed,” I murmured. After a quick pat the dog lost interest and resumed its investigation of the field. I stood and brushed off my pants.

“How was your walk?” he asked me, matter-of-factly. I couldn't quite place his accent, but it could have easily been from Scotland or the Isle of Man, I supposed.

“It was great,” I said. “Really beautiful.” I paused. “But I wish I knew where I was, when I was up there,” I continued, gesturing to the hills. “I mean, I was trying to find this one trail, and I just . . . I wish I knew exactly where I
went
today. It's so frustrating not to know if I was in the right
place
.”

He gauged me for a moment, his eyes dancing with a humorous sparkle, but then grew serious, and for a moment I found his gaze uncomfortably penetrating.

“No,” he said, a little fiercely. He softened a bit, his eyes holding mine.

“You just enjoy it.” It managed to be both an admonishment and a plea of sorts. Of course! He was right. Up there in the hills I had been so on edge, searching so hard to find something in every crevice of rock, every shuffle of leaves, that I had missed the experience of it entirely. Just being in nature, being alone. My cheeks flushed involuntarily, and I gave him a nod, wanting him to know I understood. Adjusting my pack, I moved toward the fence at the end of the field. At the gate, I turned back—half expecting both man and dog to have disappeared into thin air. But I saw him, walking slowly, his silvery hair lit bright with sunshine, hands tucked into his pockets.

He was gazing up into the hills.

—KATHLEEN FOYLE

 

 

 

 

T
WENTY-NINE years ago, in a hospital in Ithaca, New York, a woman went into labor with her second child moments after a volcanic eruption. It was Friday the thirteenth, and to her great surprise, her child was born with copper-red hair.

I always thank my mother for not measuring the weight of these bad omens against me, not trying to push me back in to be born on a more auspicious date. She in turn jokes, “Why on earth would I want you
back in
? With all that bad luck, I wanted you out as quickly as possible.”

My mother can't help but smile when she talks of going into labor a few minutes after the
second
eruption of Mount St. Helens. (The first eruption was known as the deadliest, most destructive volcanic eruption in the history of America.) Since my mother believes this specific volcanic event and its subsequent timing in relation to my birth has informed my character, I suppose that I (and the rest of world) are fortunate I was born after the second eruption, not the first.

It was an unusual sensation, waking up in a foreign country on my birthday. There would be no phone calls from friends or family. No gifts, cards, or flowers, no dinner out at a fabulous New York restaurant. But I didn't miss all that stuff. Mostly I was excited to be going on an organized faery adventure, thanks to my very generous hosts.

I threw on my cargo pants, a sweatshirt, and one of Eric's T-shirts I'd brought to comfort me. Outside, Mike, his wife, Ali, and Emma, Mike's sister-in-law, were working on wrangling five children into the Venture Centre expedition van. I had given Mike my directions from yesterday, and he seemed to know what had gone awry. We hadn't been able to find the Old Castletown Road because that was merely what it was
referred
to as. As will happen on a small island over hundreds of years, the road now had another name completely. It was about a forty-five-minute drive to find the entrance to the public footpath to Oakhill across from the Kewaigue school from Maughold, and I was amazed at the transformation of the boys' attitudes—they were practically bouncing out of their seats to look for faeries this morning, and it was really quite touching. We clambered out of the van and crossed the road heading toward a big barn. Past the building the driveway became a footpath. Mist hovered above the fields, giving the path a haunted feel.

Ali, Emma, and I walked together with Emma's youngest, George, while Mike and the rest of the boys were farther ahead.

“Manannan's cloak,” Ali murmured, gazing out across the meadow. “People believe that in times of danger, or really any old time at all, he draws his cloak about the island to enshroud it, protect it.”

“People still think about Manannan?” I asked.

“Yes.” She smiled, as if considering it for the first time. “I guess we do.”

The boys were having a blast, running about and swinging sticks, looking into all the bushes. Alex and his brother came running back toward me, excited.

“I just saw a faery!” they exclaimed.

“You saw a faery?” I asked.

“Yes.” They both nodded. “Well,” Alex explained, “it was a dragonfly, but it told me it was a faery!”

“Well, that is excellent. Very good work, both of you—I told you I needed your help.” At this they beamed and ran back to the head of the pack. None of us had any idea how far we'd be walking until we found the bridge, or even what would be left of it. At my best moments on this trip, I imagined it fully intact, with two dozen stately members of the faery race awaiting our arrival in their full regalia on the bowed arch of the bridge. In more realistic times I imagined three large stones, original purpose long forgotten, stranded in a dry field. Ali, Emma, Mike, and I were all happily chatting when four-year-old George stopped dead in his tracks and turned to us quite sternly, putting his fingers to his lips.

“Shhhh!” he hissed. “We have to be very quiet now . . . We're almost there!”

We glanced at each other, surprised. “All right, George . . .”

I think it's fair to say we were all a little taken aback when, after less than a minute of walking, the path dipped down and we came to a stream. At first I was confused—straight ahead there was a big concrete chunk of the bridge that looked more communist bloc than faery rock. But then Mike pointed. “There it is.”

An ancient-looking bridge, fully intact, arched across the stream to my right. Orange silk lilies had been wound into the greenery that cascaded down from the top of the overgrown bridge. I could hardly take it all in—
everywhere
there were gifts and offerings. On the well-trodden bank beneath the bridge there were artfully arranged ceramic teddy bears, miniature statues of faeries, beach shells, coins, buttons, hand-beaded necklaces, gnomes, origami cranes, and even a Spider-Man action figure. There were iron faeries perched on sturdy rock ledges. There was even a canister of ashes, and nearby was a laminated note:
Here lie the ashes of our mum and dad . . . may they rest in peace in this beautiful place.

Above the bank overlooking the bridge, someone had hung a sturdy green hammock, weaving more silk flowers into its mesh. The sheer swelling of belief here, the trinkets left, the incredible care taken to create something of beauty, the wishes made—the impact of it all brought tears to my eyes. I wondered what my father would have made of it. Obviously, he was no believer in faeries, but the power of this place was undeniable. And I knew he would have felt it, too.

The kids had exploded in sheer delight, and their shouts brought me back to myself. “Hey, guys! Come here a second,” I called out, kneeling down as I waited for them to gather.

“From the most ancient of times,” I explained, their five little faces gazing at me intently, “people would come to this very spot, and when they did, they would leave something for the faeries. They believed if they left something to show the faeries that they still believed in them, they could then make a wish, and the faeries . . . they would make that wish come true.” I rummaged around in my bag until my fingers closed around a bulky package. “So I have a biscuit for each of you, and you can find your own special spot to leave it. Each of you can pick your own spot, and each of you gets to make your own wish. Okay?”

“Yeah!” they exclaimed and, taking their biscuits, ran to find their spots. I turned to Ali, Mike, and Emma. “Of course grown-ups get one, too!” We laughed, but they seemed pleased. I extracted some chocolates from my bag and left them in a few places that seemed right. God, I wished I had discovered this place sooner. I would have loved to come at twilight, sit in the hammock, see what might happen.

“Signe,” Ali said, finding me among the ferns, “I have this friend I really wish you could meet. She's . . . a very magical sort of person, and she's really into all this stuff.”

“Oh, that's sweet, Ali, thank you. If only it weren't my last day here!”

“I know,” she murmured. “It's really too bad . . .”

We wandered around, exploring, taking photos. Of course we had to get a picture of me with all my fabulous faery-finding helpers lined up on the bridge. I knew it was almost time to go, and I was saying my goodbyes when Ali came up to me, her cell phone extended.