by L. L. Bower
As I drink my coffee, I look across the lake. The sunlight projects a mirrored image of the trees that stand along the bank onto the water’s surface. In the reflection, the loons take flight to sweep over our heads. I take a deep breath and relax in the warmth of the coffee. I could stay here forever, but of course, I can’t.
When we finish our coffee break, we rinse our mugs in the lake, and Crisa packs up the supplies. She removes her coat and stuffs it into her backpack. I take off my now too-warm coat and tie it around my waist, in case I need it again. Charles follows suit.
We heft our packs onto our backs and walk around the lake for a while. Then we forge into the undergrowth, Crisa using her machete as needed to clear our path.
With the lake behind us, we ascend, and the ground gets rockier. Defying the rocky soil, a few trees dot the landscape. This part of the hike is steeper than anything we’ve encountered so far. I’m grateful the rock-imbedded ground isn’t as slippery as the shale basin was, even though the rocks are still damp from the rain.
I’ll bet Charles wishes he were in wolf form and on his four faster and more surefooted legs, although he uses his hands to grip and scramble over the larger rocks as we climb.
On the mountainside where the trees are sparse, the wind lashes me, drying the sweat on my skin and invading the gryphon’s and thorns’ tears in my shirt and pants. I shiver, drop my pack to put my coat back on and wish for our blazing campfire before the storm.
We’ve trekked about a mile when the landscape changes again as we enter a dense thicket of trees. We happen upon a well-compacted, tree-lined trail that twists up the mountain.
Crisa must recognize this trail because she says, “We’ll be there in about an hour.”
Even though we’re rising in elevation, the trees, with the sun skirting in and out of them, keep the wind at bay. As the air warms, I perspire more. Surprisingly, so does my wolf-man, but Crisa is as cool as ever. Heat and cold don’t seem to affect her like they do me.
We break out of the trees to discover we’re close to the summit. The wind whips and chills my sweaty head and neck, and I’m glad to have donned my coat. I turn to see Lake Myrtle far below us, shining like a new coin.
I’m breathing hard from the climb, and my lungs burn. The air is getting thinner, and winter still nestles within the rock crevices in snowy patches.
The sun peeks over the tallest of the mountains. All the way along, I’ve searched for any signs, broken branches or matted greenery, of our mysterious late-night visitor but haven’t seen any hints that he’s been in this area.
To Charles, I ask, “Will you let us know if you smell anything dark?” Even as a human, he still senses darkness, even before Noblesse does.
“Will do,” he replies.
“Okay, so the fairies have to live on the peak of this mountain.
As if I’d spoken out loud, Crisa responds with a mysterious, “Not quite.”
When we finally reach the summit with my body still protesting the climb, I can see for at least a hundred miles in all directions. Only a few delicate clouds remain from the rainstorm. The bright orange ball of morning sun peeks in and out of those remaining clouds like a kid playing hide-and-seek. Cloud shadows sweep across the forest below and float over the now-tiny lake’s surface.
The foliage on the mountaintop consists of a few tall, scruffy bushes that grow in clumps here and there. If it rained here at all, the droplets were scant because everything looks dry. No water pools in the rocky crags, although the lingering bits of snow suggest winter has stubbornly not let go.
Before we start down the other side, Crisa has us stop and change into our climbing shoes.
Oh, no, we’re climbing down the mountain, not just descending on foot. Rappelling down a cliff is one thing, but a mountain? I can’t stop my heart from picking up its pace.
“I’m afraid rappelling is the only way to access Craghollow for normal-size beings,” Crisa says.
Oh, brother she’s reading my apprehensive thoughts...again.
“The fairies haven’t been attacked because they can see enemies approaching long before they’re a threat.”
As I pull on my climbing shoes and stow my boots, Crisa hammers bolt anchors into the rock and begins to uncoil the rope. She lifts her jewel-encrusted blue box from Charles’s pack and removes something from it that she hides in her coat pocket, only to return the box to his pack again.
The flutters of more wings are followed by a cluster of small shadows that hover over the ground ahead of us. I look up, but the sun is too bright to see who they are.
I put my hand on Noblesse, but Crisa covers my hand and says, “It’s the king’s men. They’re going to guard us as we descend. While we’re hanging over the side of the mountain, we don’t want to have to battle gryphons, dragons or bogles. You’ve already found out how scary that is.”
If I thought the wind was bad at the cliff we rappelled down, it was nothing compared to the gale forces on this mountaintop. Crisa asks Charles and me to pull out the ropes from our packs, while she dons her harness. After Crisa attaches our ropes, one for each of us, to separate sets of anchors and quick draws, the wind whips the riggings against the rock.
My heart races, and my breathing speeds up as I put on my harness. I try to calm myself by closing my eyes and concentrating on slowing my breathing. I’ll make a great first impression of a champion if I have a panic attack right now. Not!
Crisa explains, “We’re all going over the edge of the mountain together because, as soon as the doors to the village open, we’ll have to swing in through the gap. That’s the only way to enter if you’re not a winged creature. The doors will remain open for sixty seconds, so we have to get inside quickly.”
Now I’m past scared. Not only do I have to hang from the side of a mountain, I also have to swing back and forth on a skimpy little rope to enter the village. Whose crazy idea of security is this? Have they never had a human visit before, so they don’t feel the need to accommodate us land-bound beings?
I didn’t expect fanfare or a royal band playing when I arrived, but now I feel like an annoying cousin, whom they’d prefer not to see, rather than a royal guest.
I look over at Charles and am glad to see he’s not exuding his normal wolfish confidence. He’s pale, and his hands are trembling.
Okay, Calen, I chide myself, what kind of a hero allows a little altitude to stymy him? You’ve fought a basilisk, minotaurs and harpies. You can do this!
“Are you ready to enter Craghollow?” Crisa asks.
I sigh. “Let’s get it over with.”
Charles looks at me. “Life is anything but dull with you.” He removes his coat before donning a harness.
“I tried to warn you about the danger. I wasn’t exaggerating.”
After clipping on their harnesses, Crisa tiptoes over the edge of the massive peak, and so does Charles. A gust of wind catches my coat and puffs it out behind me, like a parasail. Even though I’ll be cold, I remove it and drop it on the ground before putting on my harness and clipping it to the rope. I’d rather be frozen stiff than blown around.
“Come on, Calen. We have to climb down together.” Crisa sounds anxious as they wait for me.
“Coming.” I creep over the precipice, and lean back. Now all I want to do is concentrate on getting out of this nightmare without any broken bones.
The swirling wind is brutal, sharp and cold. It yanks my hat off my head, the chin strap not keeping it from blowing away this time. The wind’s icy fingers grab at my clothes, slap my neck and head, and make my eyes water as I work my way down the mountainside in triplicate with Crisa and Charles. My heartbeat reminds me of a racing horse’s hooves. I should be shivering with cold, but my boosted metabolism is keeping me surprisingly warm.
While the top of the mountain was fissured and rugged like an old person’s face, this side has been weathered smooth by the relentless wind that scourges my back, so I pick my footing carefully.
&
nbsp; We’re walking down the mountain in unison. I can’t believe I just said that. Yes, we’re actually walking down the vertical face of a mountain, supported by a thin line of rope, no less!
When we’ve descended a little, Crisa yells, “Stop here!” I can barely hear her over the wind’s roar.
Something flies out of her pocket and zips past me to lodge in a funny-shaped hole in the rock to my left. I stare at the flying object, which looks like a golden key, with wings. Once it’s poked itself in, it turns to the right.
The mountain that looked solid and unmovable a moment ago is anything but. I look across to see two enormous slabs of rock slide sideways with a loud rumble and reveal a large opening, taller than a man and wide enough for several people to pass through.
The key flies back to Crisa’s coat pocket. She starts swinging back and forth on her rope and shouts, “Come on, start moving!” at Charles and me, but again her words are almost lost in the growling wind.
The fairy squadron that was following us buzzes on past us and through the opening. How I wish I had wings right now. As they enter, a large black raven exits.
I push away from the mountainside with my feet to get my momentum going and then pump my arms and legs, like a kid on a swing. The wind pushes me from behind, so getting back to the cliff is no problem. But pushing away from it against that same wind takes a lot of leg and arm strength. And my arms shake and ache from the strain.
After three good swings, my shoes brush the bottom of the opening. One more good swing, and I land inside, just as I think my arms are ready to give out. I let go of the rope and lurch forward.
My shoulders slap the vibrating stony floor, but my feet dangle over the edge. A loud growling noise, louder than the wind, makes me grab the rock with my fingernails and claw my way forward. With my heart beating out of my chest, I look over to see Crisa and Charles already scrambling to their feet and moving away from the opening. Charles runs over to give me a hand up.
Charles pulls me toward him as a loud bang makes me jump. I turn around to see that the stone slabs are now shut across where I just landed, and the mountain is sealed shut again.
Crisa removes her harness and puts her hands on her hips. “Aren’t you glad I didn’t warn you ahead of time about the entrance to Craghollow?”
“I might not have come.” I’m only half joking. With shaking hands, I brush dirt off my shirt and pants and remove my harness and the rope with it, as does Charles. My knees tremble from adrenaline’s effects, but I can’t help but feel excited. I’m here, in the heart of Fairyland.
I look up to see five narrow rocky corridors branching off in different directions from the entrance.
“Follow me.” Crisa takes the closest narrow corridor on the left. The ceiling here wasn’t designed for human travel, so we all have to travel single file and bend over to avoid bumping our heads.
We’ve only gone a little ways before a fairy, dressed in a tiny, gold-embroidered suit, flits in front of us. I peer around Crisa as he says, “Welcome. I’m Alfie. We’re so glad you’re here. Let me show you our fine city. Another attendant will direct you to your quarters, so you can freshen up from your arduous journey.”
Crisa bows. “Nice to meet you, Alfie.”
She introduces us, and then we shadow the little fairy for a few hundred feet before the corridor opens up into a wide, sunny overlook. Yes, as improbable as it sounds, this area is brightly lit. Here we can stand tall. Alfie sweeps his hand over the scene below, puffs out his chest and announces, “Craghollow.”
We step to the railing at the edge of the drop-off and look down.
Beside me, Charles takes a sharp intake of breath. My jaws drops.
I think we’d both agree that nowhere in our wildest dreams could we imagine a village as beautiful as Craghollow.
Chapter 31 – A True Fairyland
From the ledge above, we can view the entire settlement. Even though the ceiling must be made of rock, it’s been constructed to look like a canopy of trees beneath realistic-looking sunlight that speckles the ground with golden warmth. How they’ve done this I don’t know, maybe by magic means, but it’s easy to forget we’re in the middle of a mountain. Instead it appears we’ve stepped into a vibrant, fantastical forest of incredible beauty.
Despite the bustle of fairies, I notice how quiet the city is. Everyone talks in hushed tones, even the children when they giggle and the miniscule dogs when they bark. The loudest sounds come from the squeaks of wagon- and cart-wheels as they roll over the cobblestone streets. Some wagons and carts are filled with colorful flowers, and some carry vegetables. Others display pottery or pans like an open-air market. They’re pushed by petite silvery fairies with rainbow-colored wings and oversized dark eyes, characteristics of their race.
A few fairy children play fetch or tug-of-war with tiny dogs in their yards. Others kick balls or roll large metal rings along the cobblestones with sticks. Tiny horses pull carriages full of elegantly dressed fairy men and women. Are they going to the theatre or some other social engagement?
Charles asks Alfie, “Why do those fairies ride when they can fly?”
“Riding keeps their clothes spotless. Plus, at ground level, it’s easier for us to carry on conversations.”
“If I could fly, I’d fly everywhere.” He pauses. “But maybe, for you, flying is mundane.”
“Look there,” Alfie gestures, “some are flying.” Residents use their wings to flit from house to house and over the roads. One fairy hovers outside a house’s upper-story windows, cleaning them with a cloth.
Each dwelling is made of either small stone blocks or a hollowed tree trunk. We humans tend to build square or rectangular houses, but these dwellings are round, whether they’re made of wood or stone. All are covered with stained-glass windows, moss and ivy vines. The ivy starts at one side of the cottages, branches out and covers the fronts and sides in wild profusion. One fairy clips ivy back from over her windows.
Fairies must love light, judging from the multitude of windows, plus dormers, turrets and attic niches. At the top of each peaked roof is what must be their signature architecture, a cute squiggle that looks like a carrot curl.
Each yard looks like a Better Homes and Gardens photo spread. Flowers abound in every color, along with patches of vegetables and masses of emerald greenery, used like fencing, along the edges of the properties.
“Look over there,” Charles points, and my eyes follow his finger. A large waterwheel, which must have an underground source, rotates slowly at one end of the village. Fairies gather there and draw water in buckets from the pool at its base. Because no hoses or sprinklers are visible, everything must have to be watered by hand. Near the wheel, children splash and play in another quiet, silvery pond.
“This is one of many such villages,” Crisa says, “sprinkled all over Fairyland. Craghollow happens to be the only royal village, its location, as you know, a well-kept secret. The other villages too are very hard to find.”
“Are they all this beautiful?” Charles asks.
Alfie nods. “Yes, and you can see why we desire so strongly to preserve our way of life. No place is more tranquil than a fairy village and, in the case of Craghollow, nowhere is safer.”
I shake my head. “We humans have little in our world that compares to this idyllic setting.” I’m reminded of why I became a champion, to allow beings like these to continue to live in peace and safety.
Narrow stone steps lead down to the village, but Alfie motions us back the way we came. “The palace is this way.”
We walk through more twisting stone passageways, still bending over because of the low ceiling. Oil paintings of previous fairy kings hang on the walls, at least twenty, each labeled with the monarch’s name and dates of reign. Judging from the dates, fairies were around before humans entered the history books. Below each portrait, fresh flowers sit on finely carved wooden tables. This hallway is as beautiful as any art gallery. I look up to see how it’s lit and
find translucent globes sunk into the ceiling.
“Do you have electricity here?” I ask Alfie.
“No, the lighting comes from Fairyland fireflies, whose job is to keep the lights on, even at night.”
Charles scratches his head. “They must have to work twenty-four/seven.”
“Don’t worry,” Alfie responds, “we don’t overwork them. They only work four-hour shifts.”
As we round a final turn, the corridor opens up again onto another rock ledge with a railing, and the palace appears below, as brightly lit as the village was. It has gilded trim, turrets and an abundance of guards, as evidenced by archers standing at attention in the parapets and armed soldiers that patrol the grounds in front of the moat.
The ground-floor windows are large, segmented and mirrored, I assume so no one can see in. The upper-floor windows, by contrast, are made of brightly colored glass. Colorful flags adorn the top of each turret and corner of the palace walls. Even the pictures I’ve seen of European castles aren’t as impressive.
We climb down another narrow set of stone stairs, where we can finally stand tall at the bottom. When we reach the bottom step, Alfie excuses himself with, “This is as far as I can take you. The palace attendants will handle your settling in. Nice to meet you all.” He flits away before we can thank him.
The front gate is a typical drawbridge-style door made of thick wood with heavy wrought-iron fastenings. Ramparts (not the wolfish kind) line each side of the moat. Suddenly, through unseen means, the drawbridge lowers into place, revealing an entryway that’s massive by fairy standards in height and width. To us, it’s human size.
About twenty feet away and from a small side door on the other side of the drawbridge, a fairy emerges, clothed in a floor-length robe with golden ribbons in her long, braided hair. She has a smile on her face.
She waits for the drawbridge to thud into place over the moat before she flits over the bridge toward us. “So glad you made it here safely,” she calls, in a high and tiny voice.