Don't Let the Fairies Eat You

by Darryl Fabia

  “You took too long!” she shouted. “The cursed thorns have already sprouted this far in. You’ll have to upend the whole garden. Then we’ll plant new seeds.”

  Chael was obedient, as always. From noon to nightfall, she ran the shovel through the garden, digging up the chunks of thorn bush before they could take root, and the flowers that had already been growing. She dumped everything in a pile near the woods, shovel load by shovel load, until the garden was gone and a wide patch of ground-up soil lay in its place.

  Wiping the sweat off her brow, Chael thought she was finally done, and then a green glow emerged from the dark woods. The glow split in two as it neared the edge of the trees, blinking like eyes, and Chael found the tall woman standing over her again.

  “Where are the thorns?” she asked.

  “In a pile,” Chael said. “I planted them, like you wanted, and then I dug them up, like Peloga told me to. Now I’m off to supper and bed.”

  “And you will plant seeds in the garden again, won’t you?” the tall woman asked. When Chael nodded, her fingers dug into her leaf-filled hair and her hand emerged full of golden seeds, which she poured into Chael’s palms. “Plant these in the garden before supper and bed.”

  Chael’s obedience didn’t waver. Though her arms and back ached, and she was terribly hungry, she followed the tall woman’s command, digging small holes in the garden of dirt and burying the golden seeds one by one. When she finally returned to the house, she found no supper waiting, and Peloga had gone to bed. She found a chunk of bread in the cupboard and chewed a few bites. Her stomach still grumbled for meat though, and the only way she knew to silence it was to sleep on it.

  Peloga’s shriek woke her up earlier than she’d wanted, but she quickly dressed and hurried outside, where a shriek escaped her lips as well. Trees of every color of the rainbow dotted the garden, each coming up to Peloga’s knee, but shaped as if they were grown tall and full of leaves.

  “Young trees shouldn’t be here,” Peloga said. “And even if they were, they should only be sprouts, nothing more. There’s fairy magic at work here, from those cursed woods. I knew they’d been encroaching on us over the years, but I minded my own business, like a good woman. Here they come, just the same.” She took Chael to the road that ran past the woods and not through them. “Go to town and tell the woodsmen that I have work for them. I need a lot of trees chopped down. They can keep all the wood and I’ll pay them on top of that, so long as they come quickly and start right away.”

  Chael was obedient, as always. She traveled the road to town, a half-day’s journey, and found the woodsmen in a pub. Three of them sounded happy to have work and promised they’d arrive at Peloga’s house by the next afternoon. Glad she could do this task properly, Chael began the trek back herself.

  Then the tall woman emerged from the woods again, just a mile from the house. “Where have you been, dear?” she asked.

  “I asked men from the village to come to the house, like Peloga told me to,” Chael said. “Tomorrow, they’ll come chop down the trees from the garden and trees from the woods as well.”

  “I believe I’ve had enough of this Peloga’s orders.” The tall woman stepped close to Chael and then began to shrink. “Give me to Peloga and tell her she should offer me to the men when they arrive.” By the time the tall woman stopped talking, she had turned into a plump, dead pheasant, almost too large for Chael to carry.

  But she carried it nonetheless, for Chael remained obedient. She walked the last mile to Peloga’s house and offered up the dead pheasant, suggesting they serve it to the men the next evening, when they’d surely be hungry after their work.

  “This bird is too good to be served to hired help,” Peloga said. “We’ll eat it ourselves.” She plopped the pheasant on a platter and swiftly built a fire in the oven.

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to—” Chael began, but a hand snapped across her face.

  “Don’t talk back, child,” Peloga said sternly. “Not if you want to share this supper with me.”

  Chael did not, but she said nothing anyway as Peloga plucked the pheasant’s feathers and then slipped it into the oven. When the bird emerged, it looked like the perfect roast, its skin golden-brown and its scent succulent enough to wet Chael’s mouth, yet she still wouldn’t join Peloga for supper.

  “You’ll regret it when I’ve eaten the whole meal myself,” Peloga said, sitting down and cutting into the pheasant’s flesh with fork and knife. She tore large chunks of white meat from the pheasant’s breast and chewed vigorously at its wings and thighs until she’d finally stuffed herself so much that she couldn’t eat another bite. “Some remains, child. Why not have some?”

  Had Peloga ordered her, Chael might’ve eaten some despite knowing the meal wasn’t a bird at all, but she only shook her head at Peloga’s invitation. Peloga smiled and opened her mouth to laugh at the girl. No sound came out. Her eyes widened and she suddenly grasped at her gut as if she had a mighty stomachache. Her hands then turned to fists and she began pounding at her gut, beating it like the pheasant inside her wasn’t dead and needed to become so. Then she dropped lifeless to the floor. A few minutes later, Peloga’s belly wriggled and the tall woman climbed out, drenched in the dead woman’s innards. Chael remained quiet.

  “Not what I expected, but not bad either,” the tall woman said. “Now, we wait for the other guests.”

  The woodsmen arrived the next afternoon, and two hunters followed with them, hoping to catch game that would escape the forest while the trees were felled. Each stopped in his tracks when he spotted the tall woman at the door, now dressed in one of Peloga’s gowns that ran only so far down as the tall woman’s knees.

  “I thought Peloga was an ugly hag,” one woodsman said.

  “She’s away at the moment,” the tall woman said, licking her lips. “You’ll be serving me in this venture, once I’ve finished serving you. Come inside for a bite to eat. You must be famished from your journey.”

  Not one man refused, and none noticed Chael standing stiffly in the corner of the kitchen, where she’d remained all night. They each watched the tall woman, never taking their eyes off her, even as they sat at the table and began eating the roast she’d prepared for them. “Wonderful,” one said. “Delicious,” said another.

  “Not yours,” said a third voice, but it didn’t belong to any of the men. They each looked down at the table then, where one had a human breast on his plate. Another had a hand, and another, a foot. One more had some of a woman’s thigh, and the last had a head, which looked up at and spoke to the men. “Not yours. My body. Not yours.”

  Each man began to retch, stumbling away from the table, and they ran away through the garden, into the woods. All their supplies and tools were left at the house. Sense would’ve driven them to the road, to run for town and fetch help, to oust the horror from this house in the woods, but sense didn’t command them. They disappeared into the darkness of the trees, scared out of their wits, and none were ever seen again.

  In dead Peloga’s house, dead Peloga’s head stopped talking at the tall woman’s touch. She then sat at the table, gathering the cooked pieces of Peloga to the table’s center, and beckoned Chael to come near. “You’re to live with me now, dear,” she said. “I will care for you and dress your hair with flowers. You’ll live among my people, for this place will be part of our woods soon. I will feed you supper, so come and eat. I command you.”

  “Eat her?” Chael asked.

  “Among my people, you will either eat or be eaten.” The tall woman’s eyes glowed green. “Eat.”

  The young girl reluctantly neared the table and sat down, grasping a fork and knife. Chael was obedient, as always.

  Dansi and Lyri

  Dansi’s sister lay dying in the forest and no one knew what to do. Their people were ready to move on from these dark woods where they had to burn greater fires than usual, night after night, to keep back not only animals, but the fair folk. They lived in the
wilderness days of old, a time when the peoples of the world wandered, sleeping in fields, forests, and caves, when villages were few and mortal cities but a dream. It was a time when giants ruled the heavens and the Earth, and men were easy prey for them and their fairy-kin. They came in all sizes and natures in those days, and hunted mortal flesh for food, trickery, or sometimes breeding.

  The world did not belong to humans, and so few of Dansi’s people wanted to stay too long in dark woods in hopes that Lyri would recover. To them, she was likely as good as dead. They were ready to migrate from these woods, following the herds of animals they hunted, rather than wait to be hunted themselves.

  “The sun and moon drink our days,” the leader of her people said. “Some girls’ days they drink faster than others. You’re the lucky one. But we must move on.”

  Lyri’s sickness chilled her skin, sweated her brow, and made her shake and cough while muttering nonsense. Dansi couldn’t leave her twin to die and she wouldn’t let one of the men kill her, even for mercy. After seven days, the people moved on from the clearing where Lyri lay on a bed of thistles, while Dansi knelt crying beside her. She went on crying until nightfall and then wandered in a vacant daze until she heard her sister’s voice calling.

  When she returned to Lyri’s side, it was not Lyri who had spoken, but a tall and elegant woman wearing a dress made from a snow tiger, with its paws clutching her waist and legs, and its living head leering hungrily at Lyri. Her skin, pale as the moon, betrayed her kind—she was of the fairy-kin.

  “You can’t have my sister!” Dansi cried, standing over Lyri without a care for whether she’d soon become a tiger coat’s meal.

  “Death has your sister, not I,” the tall fairy said. “Her days are numbered to one by now, and so you have one chance to save her if your grief is as true as it sounded moments ago, strong enough to draw my pity. There are moments when you may steal days from the sun and the moon, if you’ll give me your time, and listen.”

  Dansi had heard in whispers that the fair folk might be moved to help sometimes, or perhaps she was being tricked, but she had little choice if she wanted to save Lyri. She listened to the fairy’s instructions and watched the fairy go, and then ran off right away to put those instructions to action.

  First she searched for the tallest tree in these woods. She climbed one, and then spotted a taller, thinner trunk. She climbed that, and spotted one more, thin as her arm, but taller than three giants standing on each other’s shoulders. At last, after an arduous climb up the slender trunk, she reached the top and stared into the night sky.

  “Moon, didn’t you know?” Dansi called. “The great giant who moves the sun into place has fallen asleep, so the fair ones say! You’ve been out too long and we’ve lost the morning!” The moon, having no sundial to tell the time in the dark of night, believed Dansi without a moment’s pause and disappeared to her bed on the horizon. The sun quickly slipped into place, guessing the moon had gotten a late start.

  “Sun, didn’t you know?” Dansi cried. “The great giant who charts the year has fallen asleep, so the fair ones say! You are not supposed to look at us now and we’ve nearly missed our eclipse traditions!” The sun, having no stars to tell the passing of many days, believed Dansi without a moment’s pause and turned away from the world, shrouding the wilderness in a shadowy gloom.

  Dansi descended from the tall tree and hurried toward the very center of the forest while purples and reds bathed the sky and the world. These colors occur naturally often enough, in the middle of twilight and the earliest part of dawn, but not for the length of time Dansi needed, according to the fairy.

  At the center of the forest, when it wasn’t day, but it wasn’t night, Dansi found the place where time was gathered. Two muscly giants sat within a wide circle of red-needled pines and pale blue willows. Behind one stood an enormous wooden water clock, thick and tall as a mammoth, atop which sat a great brazier brimming with flame. The word Damvr was stitched in red on the giant’s forehead between two red, fat horns. Behind the other giant, crystals hung on spider silk, webbed together to form the starry night’s sky, and Nirvm was stitched in red on the giant’s forehead between two stubby, thick horns. Both giants’ eyes were closed and Dansi heard two snores rumbling in unison from their noses. Between them sat a stone block, where the word Eon was carved crudely into the rock.

  The site caught Dansi’s gaze for a moment longer than she meant, but she slapped herself out of her reverie and hurried to where she’d been instructed—the trees. Black sacks hung by silver thread from every tree and the word Eon had been stitched into the leather in letters larger than Dansi’s head. She grabbed one sack from a tree, ripping away the spider silk, and began carrying it out of the tree circle. It strained at her arms even though it seemed only as heavy as a bag full of feathers.

  The ground shook when Dansi neared the thick woods again and she looked back only long enough to see the giants rousing from their sleep. The sun trickled through the tree branches above once Dansi had left and she wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she returned to her sister. She seemed too weak now to even cough.

  “Here, Lyri,” Dansi said, kneeling next to her sister and untying the mouth of the black sack. “A gift from the giants of time, who sleep when it isn’t night or day, and a gift from a fairy who knows how much I love you. And a gift from me, sister, because I love you.” Dansi dipped the sack toward Lyri’s mouth. What fell out looked like a thin cream made of wind and light, blowing like a hurricane from the sack and sliding between Lyri’s lips like a soft breath.

  Within moments, Lyri’s eyes fluttered with life and she sat up, hugging her sister. “Dansi, it’s been too long!” she cried. “What happened?”

  “Your time had nearly run out,” Dansi said. “A fairy told me of the place in the forest between day and night where giants milk the time drunken by the sun and moon from mortals. I stole some of it and gave it to you, Lyri. I don’t know how much, but you’ll live for a while longer. Now, stand up. Our people must’ve rested while the heavens were confused and we can still catch up to them.” She helped her sister to her feet and they hurried through the woods, out from the trees into a grassy valley, where they spotted their people camped by a blue pond.

  Dansi was all smiles and pride when she and her sister reached their people, but everyone looked to Lyri with wide-eyed alarm, and then to Dansi with wintry disdain. “What’s wrong?” Dansi asked. “I’ve done it! My sister’s all better. We can follow the herds with you.”

  “Where did this help come from?” the leader asked. “All of us smell it on you—the taint of the fair folk and the giant-kin, in your mind and her body. Your hair grows red even now from their touch. They’ll be drawn to hunt our people more than ever before if we let you stay with us, and only you two will be safe. We don’t want to see you again. Leave before Lyri’s doom finds us instead.”

  The nomads packed up and left the valley pond, and the twins in tears beside it. The sisters followed at first, but then the leader commanded their people to drive them off. Old friends from childhood, along with mentors they’d learned from, hunters they’d admired, and wise women all began to lob stones at the two girls. Dansi and Lyri ran before getting too many cuts and bruises, and watched their people wander beyond the hills, as if they’d never known the two at all.

  “It would’ve been better for you to let me die,” Lyri said as her tears ebbed.

  “I’d rather keep you around than all of them, if that’s how it is,” Dansi said. “We’ll leave their sight, and everyone’s sight as well.”

  Lyri wasn’t certain what her sister meant, but followed Dansi up out of the valley, through a sprouting forest, to the underside of a hanging cliff where they found a system of caverns. “You want us to live here?” Lyri asked. “Spend the rest of our lives in the darkness, without friends or hunters or the sky?”

  “Especially not the sky,” Dansi said, dragging her sister by the arm into one opening. “Our
people who betrayed us can wander under the sky, letting the sun and moon drink their days away. We’ll hide here and keep our time for ourselves, living forever on.”

  In the woods around the caves, they learned to hunt enough to feed the two of them, but only in the early dawn and twilight, when neither the sun nor the moon could watch them. They lived peacefully, though by living away from other mortal men and women, the twins were prey to the whispers of the wilds. The nighttime voices carried by the wind often drove men mad, but the two young women found knowledge poured into their heads. They learned how to tell which stones spoke and sang, and which of them told lies. They learned of fairy doors, of how to hurt and heal with blood. They learned the forbidden, true names of fairy-kin—pixies, glums, goblins, brownies, whistlers, and dryads—treated as curses by most peoples. They dreamed of the names of giant-kin—burls, frost giants, ogres, dornics, danes, trolls, and stroms—which most clans feared like titanic calls to dinner.

  The twins remained young for many decades, hording their time and their knowledge without seeing another soul, until whispers about them began to carry through the night, reaching the dreams of any people who traveled in the land close to the caves. Soon, people came asking for help. At first, Dansi shooed them away with lies, shadow tricks, and even cursing one poor man, but eventually their pleas bit deeply enough into Lyri’s heart that she couldn’t stand it.

  “I know what it’s like to need help and be ignored,” she told her twin. “We’ve been miserly with our gifts. A day spent here and there won’t be missed for good deeds.”

  Dansi didn’t like the idea, but acquiesced for her sister. When a stranger came looking “for the witch sisters bridging our people to the fairy-kin,” as their visitors put it, the twins would go help the unfortunate man, woman, or child if the sisters didn’t have to travel more than a day’s journey and if Dansi deemed the problem worthy of their time. They once helped a pained pregnant woman ease into sleep through helpful herbs and so her baby slid out painlessly as a drop of water. Another time, they steered a starving clan in the direction of a white deer herd by watching the shimmer of moonlight from their distant antlers. They even, at Lyri’s insistence, helped a lovelorn woman snare her true love with a special onion clove she had to sew to a belly cut from a bull, which would find its way to her intended man’s heart.