by Tam Erskine
Almost.
He stared at the sky, imagining what it'd be like to belong, not to be kept at a distance. The girls would giggle and look away. The townsfolk would wink and nod. He'd have a place, and he'd have a future.
A barefoot girl, clad in dark green breeches and a long-sleeved tunic, stepped out of the woods. "Shall I sit with you?"
Without waiting, she sat down beside him and stared out over the water. Though her clothes were cut of a cloth he'd not seen on even the wealthiest families, she sat on the ground as if her clothes were as ragged as his.
"You want to sit with me?" Jack stared at her.
She had dark eyes, like a night without stars, and those dark eyes were assessing him as if he were something peculiar—not as the townsfolk did, but as if peculiarity was a wonderful thing.
The girl buried her toes in the soft soil. "I'm Ivy."
"Do you know who I am?" he tried to sound teasing, but he felt the strangest urge to run. Mad as it seemed, he could almost swear he'd seen a deer with those same eyes watching him from the edge of the trees.
Girls are not sometime deer, not even in the stories he made up.
"Oh, indeed, I do know." She nodded rapidly, sending red hair away from her face, revealing features too delicate to be real. Her ink-black eyes widened just slightly.
He wondered if the girl beside him was somehow kin to the woodland creatures that gathered at the lake. He couldn’t decide if she seemed more like the deer or the wolves he’d seen in the forests. Whatever she was, she wasn’t someone he’d ever seen in the village.
She held his gaze as she pronounced: "You are Jack Merry, the so-called son of the faery folk."
Jack swallowed hard, watching her. She's merely a girl--an odd girl, but a girl nonetheless. He swallowed hard several times and tried to calm himself.
She leaned so close that her breath was warm on his cheek. "Oh, Jack Merry, are you quite all right?"
Jack could hear a faint ringing of bells, delicate things that in his mind were made of sea glass. Perhaps he'd been too long in the sun--imagining strange girls as forest animals, hearing bells. Before long, he'd be muttering faery legends like the good Widow.
"I'm . . . fine," he insisted. “I’m completely fine.”
He leaned back against the oak tree and tucked his hands behind his head to hide their trembling. His voice was barely shaking when he asked, "So, aren't you afraid the fey folk will spirit you off to a faery hill if they come to visit me?"
She laughed--an eerie sound, like a loon's song on a dark night--and the resounding ring of glass bells grew briefly deafening. Then she winked and began pulling items from her satchel.
"Tell me a story, faery boy."
Ivy watched Jack wrestle with the urge to run from her. He clenched his jaw; he looked around. He swallowed loudly.Then, settling his gaze on the lake, he reached up and tugged that horrible cap off his head. He squirmed, but he hadn't run yet.
She prompted, "If we were to go to your faery-hill . . ."
She began braiding a length of rope together with a flowering vine. If he couldn't get past the natural fear mortals seemed to feel around the folk, well, it was all for naught. She'd hoped that all her visits in the guise of deer would help him learn to resist that fear, but here he was looking like he was a heartbeat from flight. It was disappointing, but she wasn’t going to give up on him yet.
He was special: she knew it. From the shadows, she'd listened to his tales and remembered the old legends--a mortal who'd tell a tale that became. Jack Merry could do that; she was sure. He could change things. He could help her save her home.
Jack began, "Well, inside the hill, the feasts last longer than a human's life. And the tables are always set with silver goblets that gleam like they're filled with moonlight."
He paused, a small smile on his lips.
And Ivy knew he could see the things he'd spoken, see them in his mind as truly as if they'd floated to the surface of the lake in front of them.
She whispered, "Would you go to the faery realm, Jack Merry?"
Jack laughed, quick and fleeting. "Perhaps I have. Perhaps it’s why I know these stories."
"You haven’t. We both know that, but suppose you could. Would you go there, really and truly?" She paused, twisting the intricate knots in her rope. Her fingers were clumsy with excitement and nervousness. It was making the process take far longer than it usually did. "If you were invited, what would you say then?"
Jack lifted one eyebrow. "Aaah, but a mortal can't stay there, and they say that once a person goes inside a faery hill, he'll waste away from wanting once he returns to this world."
Ivy thought of the changes in the realm, trees rotting and waters thick with strange poisons. She shook her head. "They're wrong."
Then, she lifted the vine and whistled, long and piercing.
Suddenly, the waters shivered. In front of them, forming as if from the water of the lake itself, was a great white horse with eyes as green as the moss in the deepest part of the forest and a neck as thick as ancient trees. It drew a deep breath, sides quivering.
Jack blinked. Water didn’t solidify into horses. That was simply not how anything worked.
But it stood there, larger than any animal he'd ever seen. Light rippled on its skin, just as it did on the lake's surface. The magical creature in front of him was both horse and water all at the same time.
Ivy hopped up from the ground and walked calmly toward the creature. She stood ankle-deep in the water, held out her hand--palm up--and murmured, "Shhh, now."
The beast huffed a great breath, filling the air with the sweet scent of lilacs, as if objecting. Then, it made a noise that might have been a word but was probably a nicker. Finally, it lowered its head.
Murmuring strange words, Ivy rubbed her cheek against the animal's face, and then she looped the braided vine about his neck.
It stood perfectly still. The only movement was the steady deep breaths it drew, but the sense of barely restrained movement was almost tangible, as if the smallest step would start an unstoppable charge.
And Jack was sure that whatever was in its path would be trampled.
Ivy swung herself astride the water-horse. Holding the end of her vine in one hand, she extended the other hand towards him. As she did, he could see misty shapes of wings unfolding on her back, like the fog in the morning was hovering behind her back. They weren’t solid wings, and he wasn’t so sure they were ever present, but if he had to swear to the parson, Jack was certain he could say he met a faery at the edge of the lake.
"So what say you, Jack Merry? Will you join me?" Ivy asked.
"You're real.” He let out a long breath, before whispering, "It's all real? Faeries?"
"Oh, indeed, Jack, we are quite real." Ivy held up her hand and added, "But there's strife aplenty where I go, and not all fey things are . . . kind."
Her eerie black irises widened so far that if he'd had any doubt that she was something Other, it would've fled in that instant. "Will you trade vows, Jack Merry? Let me take you into the faery realm. Stay with me for three days, and I promise you my full truth on whatever you ask of me by the third eve."
A shiver ran through him as she spoke, but Jack gripped his tattered sack and looked up at her.
'Strife aplenty,' she said.
He looked around at the woods, the lake, the world he knew. Then he turned his gaze to her, a faery on a strange water-steed inviting him into a new world. Behind her back, the air moved as if great green leaves stretched open and closed.
I'd be a fool to turn down such a chance.
"I will," he promised.
“Your vow then?”
“Yes. I vow it. Three days,” he swore.
Ivy took his hand and, with surprising strength, pulled him up behind her. There were no wings blocking his view, but he felt as if they’d brushed against him. Leafy, feathery shapes, slid over his cheek as he settled on the water-made horse.
Briefly, Jack wo
ndered what he’d done when the chiming of glass bells came again. This time like the crash of falling ice all around them. It didn’t seem like a good omen.
Whatever it was, though, Jack was only there for three days. How much could go wrong in only three days?
Chapter 2: In which Jack sees the forest in an altogether new way
As the horse sped past fields into the edge of the wood, Jack clung to Ivy. Creatures didn’t move this fast. They didn’t run so quickly that their hooves forgot to touch the ground.
Jack couldn’t decide if he was excited or about to throw up. He had tried gazing at the horse's massive neck, but too soon found his vision blurring: the horse was not white at all, but jumbled hues like the inside of an abalone shell.
Finally, after what was either hours or a second, Ivy tugged the vine looped lightly around the horse's neck, stopping them as suddenly as they'd started. Glaring into the shadowed branches above them, Ivy asked, "Why are you still waiting here? I said I'd be along."
They were in a grassy clearing that Jack hadn't ever seen—and he’d explored a full two days walk from the village. He peered around, seeing only brambles and close-cropped grass. He looked up. An empty bird's nest was the only thing in the tree.
She speaks to birds?
Ivy's voice dropped even lower. "I'm quite aware of what I'm doing. You needn't be involved . . ."
Birds he couldn't see or hear.
Craning his neck, Jack stared into the branches of a tree where Ivy seemed to be looking. Leaves. Branches. Maybe a bird’s nest.
Maybe someone is hidden behind the leaves.
He squinted and saw . . . absolutely nothing. "Ivy? Who are you talking to?"
"The Ellyllon . . ." Ivy glanced into the branches again, put her hands on her hips, and frowned. "Meddlesome Ellyllon actually, that's what they are. If they want to avoid the troubles to come, they ought to go home where it’s safe." She pursed her lips. “If they had any sense whatsoever, they’d go home.”
"Ellyllon?" Jack repeated, staring into the seemingly empty air.
"Tiny faeries, Jack." Ivy looked back at him.
“Where?” He spun around to try to see them.
She snorted, a silly sound he wouldn’t ever have thought a faery could make, and said, "Though they claim they're big enough to defend themselves against clumsy mortals. Stop thrashing about so."
"Defend themselves? I'm no threat to them."
Ivy stared back towards the trees where the Ellyllon apparently were. "Still and true, Daisy says they refuse to show themselves."
Jack sat very still, peering at the tree, covering one eye, trying to look sideways out of an eye, blinking. It was no good: he saw nothing but branches and an old nest. "If I stay still, can I see them?"
"You mean no threat to the Ellyllon. And they might do well to remember it, mightn't they?" Ivy swung her satchel up from where she had fastened it on the long vine and rummaged around in it. "I suppose there's no reason not to give you the Sight now."
She pulled a dirty clay pot out of her satchel and opened it. Inside was a milky substance that looked a bit like garden slugs. She dipped her fingers into the stuff. "Close your eyes and hold still. I don't want to get this all over your face."
Jack closed his eyes while she spread the gooey cream on his eyelids. It burned even through the lids, so he kept his eyes closed until Ivy said, "Open up, Jack Merry, and see the world you've been blinded to."
When Jack opened his eyes, his mouth opened too. Zooming about like mad dragonflies were three tiny winged girls. Like Ivy, their eyes were almost solid black; their hair seemed normal shades of browns and blonde, albeit in deeper hues, but their skin . . . Their skin was a riot of colours--a periwinkle ankle faded into a leg of muted green which disappeared under random violet splashes.
"He's staring, Ivy!" A girl with violet eyes and a fierce snarl hovered beside him. She snorted, "Cattle are brighter than this one! And they give sweet, sweet milk. What good is he?"
The other two zipped closer, flying in darting movements, sudden and strangely rhythmic. Briefly, Jack wondered if dragonflies were all secretly faeries.
Their speech pattern grew quicker, as their sentences tumbled into each other. "The geas, Ivy . . ."
"We must be careful . . ."
"Foolish, that's what it is!"
Jack closed his eyes for a second, listening; then, he turned in the direction of the snarling girl. Opening his eyes, he peered directly at her face. "You are truly amazing."
All three girls stopped darting.
"Left my quill at the lake . . ." Jack stared at the Ellyllon all the while. He reached in his sack. "I have parchment. Maybe there's an extra quill . . . Do you have a quill?"
"Whatever for?"
"To sketch them." Jack turned to her. "I want to describe them. I've never thought . . . They're so beautiful."
Two of the girls alit on his shoulders. He froze.
The violet-eyed one perched on his wrist and grinned up at him. "Well, maybe he's not entirely daft . . ."
From his shoulder another Ellyll—the one with hair the colour of dandelions--muttered, "Ivy, are you sure about bringing him?"
Ivy said nothing.
The little Ellyll on his wrist grinned. "So, mortal, do you want to run while you've a chance?"
And the third--quietest--Ellyll drifted down and shushed her. “Hush, sister. The mortal has already made his choice." She peered intently at him before adding, in a tone that invited only agreement, "Haven't you?"
Jack, bemused, answered, "Why would I turn back?"
Ivy turned, then, and he saw the great feather-leaf wings he’d thought he’d glimpsed.
“This is amazing,” he whispered, taking in the horse-made-of-water, the dragonfly girls, and his new leaf-winged friend. “You’re amazing.”
As they rode into the heart of the forest, Ivy's fears rose up until she felt she'd choke on them. She had considered bringing Jack Merry back home for some time, and now . . . now it was done. She'd revealed herself, given him the Sight. Once, in her childhood, a mortal would've been blinded for having the Sight, have his eyes gouged out. There was no other way to undo it. Mayhaps she should tell him. She could tell him that she needed his help, that her mother was so ill.
She glanced over her shoulder.
Jack was gazing at the Ellyllon, the horse, the wondrous-strange creatures of the wood that poked out of hidden doors and scurried away. He looked happier than she'd ever seen him in all the times she'd watched him.
Time for talking would come soon enough. "So, Jack Merry, what do think?"
He shook his head and breathed, "Amazing. It's all so amazing."
In a puddle of sunlight on the forest floor, Kayt stretched, re-positioning his long limbs in a more comfortable position. The great cat's fur grew darker: his blue-black fur absorbing the sun's rays like water seeping into soil.
He looked up and winked. "Strange indeed, this sight before me."
She nodded. "Kayt."
Kayt stretched his long pink tongue out and licked his eye. "Dare I think the talk is true? Have you brought a mortal among us?"
Knowing hidden others listened, Ivy raised her voice, "Jack Merry is my guest, under my protection."
"A protected guest . . ." Kayt stretched the word out like a hiss. His tail flicked, like a sinuous serpent. "What proof has he?"
Ivy pulled the silver medallion with her mark from under her tunic. Lifting the cord from around her neck, she lowered it over Jack's head. "Jack Merry bears my mark. To offer insult or harm to Jack wounds me as well."
The branches above them shimmered, revealing Cerridan--with his bark-covered limbs and leafy hair, the rowan man was hard to distinguish from the trees unless he moved.
Jack stared at him with a look of sheer awe.
Leaves brushing together in a wild symphony of forest music, Cerridan stepped to the ground and bared his mossy teeth in a smile. "Be welcome then, guest of Lady Ivy."
&n
bsp; Jack tilted to the side, his face only a whisper away from touching those swaying leaves, and looked up at Cerridan as if to answer, but the rowan man was already ambling away, trailing music in his wake, blending into the true trees as quickly as he had unfolded from them.
Eyes wide with the wonder of it all, Jack turned to face Ivy. "I don't know why you decided to show me this, but I swear to you that I'll never forget it."
Ivy lifted her hand in caution. Her heart thudded at his foolishly chosen words. "No swearing on things, Jack. Words have power in this world."
"But I mean it. I couldn't repay you for letting me see this, not even if I spent a lifetime trying." Jack gestured at the forest, and then he lifted Ivy's medallion. "There's nothing you could ask me to do that I wouldn't at least consider. Nothing."
"Jack . . ." Ivy started. She should've talked to him, told him before she brought him home. She glanced around at the others. "He hasn't any idea what he's saying."
"Spoken and accepted." Kayt padded closer. His wide smile bared most of his teeth. "I stand witness to your vow, Mortal. May it serve the Folk."
And from the forest, myriad voices answered, "I stand witness to the vow . . ."
"And I."
"So spoken, so might it be."
From her perch in the tree, Clematis nudged Daisy. "Jack's lucky that Ivy's kind girl, unlike some royalty . . ."
"Clematis!" Jonquil gasped, gripping her sister's arm. "Hush now!"
She could weep for the changes that had come the past few seasons. Things weren't always like this, but speaking of it so carelessly was far from wise, especially so close to a tunnel home.
She darted over to Cerridan.
But instead of talking to her, the rowan-man leaned down from the canopy and peered at Jack. "Do you mean your vow, Jackie Mortal?" The tree man bent closer still. "Will you stand beside Lady Ivy?"
Gazing into the boughs of trees and the depths of thickets, Jonquil saw the terrified and hopeful faces waiting for Jack's answer. It had been quite a while since they had a reason for true hope. Even those above-ground would feel the ripples of change in the realm if Ivy bound herself to a mortal and challenged the queen. If a mere mortal could face the queen, what fey could do less?