Truly I should be more sober about this. Yet I have not touched a drop. But soon, soon, soon I will be with her. At least be in the same realm, or country or whatever Faerie is. It makes me want to squeal like a little girl opening her birthday presents and finding that she got exactly what she wanted. Knowing I will soon be closer to my swan… It makes me wish to twirl and hug myself. I think this is love, but even if it’s not I feel like I need this like I need breathing, like –
I think that was an owl. Of course I’ve been in the night forest before. I was there the night the swans left this year. I grew up in it. It has never filled me with as much dread and foreboding as it does tonight. You would think I’d know the location of any fairy rings, but no. And there are spaces in this forest which I have always stayed away from. Those are the places where I start to look. I am sure that, had I seen a fairy ring before, I would recall it now. I would if I were in a story. I should have told Sir Owen. I’ve left my servants a little note to find. I think I went about that wrong. I should go back. I should take care of that as best I may and come back later. Make arrangements.
Tonight I shall merely look for a fairy ring and note where to find it.
I should not have done it. I should have walked away. I should not have done it. I should not have done it. I put wax in my ears when I started to feel intoxicated by the music. That was something else the stories are very clear on. Fairy rings are danced in and any who perceive the revels will want to join in, but it does not work if you cannot hear a thing. I should have turned around and gone back home, like I had planned to do. I should have taken care of my affairs more thoroughly, been more prepared, but instead I am… Elsewhere.
Faerie is even more beautiful than any of the stories I have read has even prepared me for, even more beautiful than my maiden’s tales of home had me envisioning. It is always summer here, they say, and I have found my way past the revels I was drawn to and deeper into Faerie. If I turn back now, even if I could find the ring I entered through again, a century may have passed, or merely a few minutes. I am already lost in Faerie. Even had I had a map, I do not think this place has much use for one. Sometimes, I think it undulates. Where do I get those words from? But the landscape sways and moves and changes. I know because I have tried to backtrack over a forest path I had taken, but it had vanished. I’d been walking in a straight line. I cannot have taken a wrong turn.
So now here I am, lost and stuck in Faerie, with my valise of food which I have already had to defend from fairy robbers. But I am on a road, and I suppose it will lead somewhere eventually. It certainly appears well-maintained. It is the only thing in this realm that does not look the least wild. Perhaps that means I should abandon it. At the very least, I should seek someone to ask guidance of, and pray I can get back home before my food runs out. I tried to pack things that would last a long time, would feed me well on only a little, and did not have to be packed in iron. (I am, of course, carrying a little iron, but too much would be disastrous.) Cook made very strange faces at me when I asked, but if the servants have found my note then I think she’ll understand me somewhat now. I stuck to my travelling story. I had best keep moving.
Do not trust fairies, Eliza. Do not trust fairies. Just because they’re talking to you prettily and look handsome and you’re fairly certain that they do not tell outright lies, that does not mean they do not play with words or mortals. You know the stories. They love playing with words and making riddles and you, Eliza, are not very good with either. Do not play word games with them. Get clear, plain answers. If you play games with the Fair Folk, you will lose.
I have to keep telling myself this, listening to the direction I’m getting. I have to listen carefully and pay attention and I wish to God that I had thought to bring a notepad and pencil! I doubt that God has any time left for me, though. I could be wrong.
Do not trust fairies. Do not trust fairies. But what choice do I have?
Well. At least I seem to have arrived at the right place thanks to those instructions. These fairies are all more human-looking than those I’ve encountered before. Not that they look human, per se, but at least they tend to have two arms, two legs and one head with one nose, two eyes and two ears. The palace here is… hill-like? Only that description does not capture it entirely and it depends on how you look at it. Sometimes it looks like a hill and other times it looks like nothing I have ever seen before.
I do not think they get human visitors very often. They were in a bit of an uproar when I knocked at the gate. They’ve stopped staring now and are talking to themselves in a strange language. It tugs at the heart like some long-forgotten thing. Oh. The Fairy Queen wishes to see me. I didn’t think getting an audience would be so easy. I’m scared. Maybe I should have turned back, asked directions to find my way home instead. It’s too late now, but perhaps this is all insanity. Perhaps I’m dreaming. Can I be dreaming? What if she turns me into a hare? Could she turn me into a doorknob? They don’t seem to have doorknobs here, but could she? Would she? How do you address a Queen of Faerie and of so much magic she could probably rip through time itself if she so chose? Is human etiquette enough preparation for this? What do I call her? Do I call her ’Your Majesty’? How deep should I curtsy? Oh God, oh God, oh God, I’m going to have to stand here waiting for her to admit me to the audience chamber. Why did I not think to pack something sharp and end this? Why am I here? What did I want? What have I done? God, what have I done? I want to play whist with my friends. I want to laugh at one of Sir Owen’s comedies. What did I come here for?
Her. I wanted to be with her. I think I just saw her, woven into a tapestry. If it is a tapestry. The pictures moved so realistically and I do not have the time to go back and check because I have been summoned now and there She is and I really did not need the kick to the back of my knees, but She is so beautiful… If you were to take every aspect of a body you have ever felt was perfect and put them all together to create the most sublime creature imaginable, you would still manage to insult Her. She is magnificent, predatory. She’s going to turn me into a mouse. I know my voice quavers as I speak my wishes like I am told to. My arms tremble and I can feel the floor reflect the heat of my breath because I dare not look at Her for that I am afraid that all thought will leave my mind and I cannot remember what it is that I wish.
And Her voice when She laughs is nothing at all like the laugh of a swan maiden. It is light and deep like church bells, like reed whistles, like purring. I try to plead with Her in my head. Please be in a good mood today. Please do not turn me into anything other than I desire. Please do not make me play a game of wits or riddles.
And She does not. Not yet. There is a price, She says, and my heart sinks and I can feel the tears stinging my eyes though I have always known, deep down, that there would be a price. In the stories She is many things, but generous without a payment is not one of them. A request of Themselves is never quite as straight-forward as that. I just did not wish to acknowledge it, wished to have hope that I might be an exception.
Herself’s challenge for me sounds simple enough: get out of a maze. I wonder if there are any rules to follow, but I dare not ask and I am not told. She thanks me for my aid, those many years ago when I first encountered my swan maiden. Perhaps that’s why Her challenge seems so easy. The stories always say that the Fair Folk remember and pay their debts. It is selfish of me, but I am selfish and I wish my swan had been injured worse so that their debt had been greater.
I am told I have until sundown to find the exit of this maze and She has thrown me right into the middle of it. I blink and the palace is gone. I am alone, surrounded by walls. I think I am alone. You can do this, Eliza. I can do this.
It feels like it has been hours and hours and I am thoroughly lost. There were no pebbles for me to collect, so like in the tale I thought to mark my way with food instead. I should have known that that would be a bad idea. It did not work in the story and I have not seen or heard the birds eat my crumbs, but th
ey are gone even so. And I am facing a stone wall as smooth as glass. If this were one of the stories in one of my books I would have encountered magical beasts to aid me before I had found my way to the Fairy Queen. I would have shown this land my kind heart and been given aid in this, my hour of greatest need. Or I would have shown my valour and wit by stealing from giants, but that tale is too often for the princes and the swineherds instead of the pampered princess. And I have nothing and I do not know how much time I have. I cannot fail. I must not fail. This is my only chance, I know it. My only chance to see my family again, to see my friends again, to see my home again. I never really thought I would miss anything other than my forest, but what I wouldn’t give to smell the stink of the city rivers again, or the mulch of my gardens. What I wouldn’t give to hear the buzz of my friends’ conversation around me again or to be twirled in a dance.
This is hopeless. Should not my swan maiden at least come to my aid? The sun is setting, I know it is, and I do not know whence I came from or what direction I should go in. Perhaps I should sit here and let death claim me. Give up. I shall never find the exit anyway. It is impossible in this labyrinth that does not play fair. I will never see my home again.
I must have fallen asleep a while. I dreamt of my swan maiden and she implored me not to give up. How can I deny her anything? But I still do not know how much time I have left. It must be close to sunset by now. I wonder if cheating is allowed. It was never expressly forbidden, and She never actually told me to find a specific exit. So any exit I find will do, won’t it? If I made an exit, that would count. If I could only climb these walls… They are tall walls. The sun has sunk below them for I can no longer see it. I know it has not yet set for no one has yet come to tell me I have failed. They are smooth walls, but I can create something to scale them, surely. There is enough debris lying around. Feathers, twigs, branches, rocks, the contents of my valise…
I could… I could build a ramp or a tower and get on top of the wall that way! The corridor is long enough. If nothing else I would be able to see where I’m going and maybe the edge of the maze. It has got to be better than sitting here, moping and despairing. My hands are bleeding from the way I have been pounding on the walls. They are not so smooth once you touch them. They remind me of sandpaper. That should work in my favour.
I could start building something with my valise. It makes a sturdy enough building block, but I don’t know… I do not dare leave it to collect materials for my tower. If I lose it, I will lose my food and, anyway, I doubt there is enough debris here to make it worth the effort. I could never make a tower high enough or a ramp long enough to support me. Towers and ramps! What was I thinking? Am I truly that desperate? I could perhaps make a ladder. I’ll collect as much material as I can carry and see if I can’t locate a lower wall to toss the ladder over when I am done. This has got to work. I cannot fail. Heroes never fail their quests.
Perhaps I have been going about this all wrong. The walls do not have any differences in their height and I am just not strong enough to carry everything that I need. I tried. It feels like I have tried a dozen times, like I have been trying for a hundred years. I knew it was hopeless. I knew it. I am no hero. I’m just a girl. I don’t know what to do. Perhaps if I run and run and run and look then perhaps I shall find something I missed. Some passageway that magically leads to the entrance. Perhaps it is all a riddle, as the Fair Folk like games and riddles. I know I’m not good at riddles. I know I am not very smart, but I am smart enough to know this. Would She make it impossible for me to win? What amusement would there be in a game when the outcome has been fixed?
Perhaps…
I want to become a swan maiden. I have spent so many seasons with swan maidens… How do they think? How would they escape a maze such as this? A swan maiden would simply don her cloak and fly away. But I cannot. I am only human, not a swan. I don’t have – Wings! What if I made myself wings to fly? Then I could fly away! Surely that will work. That must work. It is the only idea I have left and I do not have much time. There were feathers and I am sure some of them were swan feathers. It cannot be a worse idea than my others… I’ll make a cloak like hers, like the one I stole back for her. It must be made only of swan feathers and I must be swift for I am running out of time. God, if you will still hear my prayers, let me finish this on time. Let me make my cloak before the sun sets.
I won! I cannot believe that that actually worked! But I did it! I am holding my cloak and flapping my arms and rising above the maze. I am not a swan maiden, not yet, and I am not a swan, but I am flying above the maze and I can see that there is no opening anywhere and I can see the hill-palace on the horizon and I know, I just know, that despite the distance they have spotted my ascent.
And then I fall. I plummet. I did not think I was flying that high. As it changes, my body is no longer its own. I solved Her riddle! I did it! I must find the others. I will find the others. For I have already faced my biggest challenge and I overcame it. I will find her.
I honk. I will find my flock. I will go home.
I decided to expand Swanheart into a longer piece after a reader said they’d love to see a fairy bride story where the human ventures into Faerie and stays there instead of forcing their supernatural lover to live in our human world.
The Swan Maiden remains as troubled and uneasy as Swanheart originally was, if not more so. What are we willing to sacrifice to be with the ones we love?
“When we’re old, we’ll go to the moon.” Neil pointed up at the bright satellite in the sky, then tucked his hand back underneath his head. “Just you and me.”
Spot barked and licked at his face. Neil warded him off with a chuckle and sat up. Practically half his size, Spot sprawled onto his lap and barked again, wagging his tail. Neil hoped his parents would let him keep the dog. He scritched Spot’s head until the dog decided to roll over onto his back and off Neil’s legs. Dutifully, Neil scritched the furry belly instead. “And we’ll get you another leg so you can run. And we’ll jump so high we’ll think we’re flying and you can have at least twice as many dog biscuits as here.”
He sighed and leaned back to look at the sky again. None of that would happen if his parents sent Spot back to the shelter. He’d never see Spot again. Never. The dog squirmed for attention, then abruptly bounded off to chase whatever it was that he’d deemed worthy of chasing. Neil tilted his head back as far as he could to watch. Spot was running fine, really. It took Neil a moment to figure out that the bright stream of light moving his way was a torch and that the figure the dog was dancing around and jumped up towards was his father. Neil balled his fists and got up. It was well past his bedtime, he knew, and he braced himself to be lectured.
“You’re all right,” his father said as he settled himself on the hill next to where Neil was standing. As the boy sat back down, his father turned off the torch. Spot plonked himself down between the two of them and seemed content to nose at the ground. Neil curled one of his hands in the dog’s fur. Please. “Your mum and I talked matters over.”
Neil dug the fingers of his other hand into the dirt and made himself stay silent, not beg or plead. Be a big boy and show his dad he could handle responsibility. Yet all the same he willed his father to stop talking, turn around and never say a word about what their decision was. He didn’t want to know, was too much of a coward to want to know. He’d loved Spot from the moment he’d seen the dog at the shelter that morning. He’d fought to get the staff to let him take Spot home instead of murdering him because no one wanted a three-legged, middle-aged dog. And Spot loved him.
“You can keep him, b–”
Neil fell over Spot in his hurry to hug his dad. The dog yelped and bolted off from underneath the boy. “I’m sorry!” Neil called after him, but he had no clue whether Spot understood him. The dog had run into the woods. “Please come back!” he cried out and clung to his dad’s arm. He hadn’t meant to hurt Spot! Surely the dog knew that. Poor Spot… His dad stroked his hair, but
stayed quiet. They sat together on the hilltop, son nestled against father, and waited to see if Spot would return. Neil tried hard not to cry.
Finally, Spot bounded back out of the forest and dropped a stick at Neil’s feet. His dad chuckled. “Go on. Spot wants to play with you.”
Neil took the stick and studied it, then held it out for the dog to take. Spot barked, rump firmly planted on the ground.
“Throw it,” his dad said.
“But he can’t see where it’s going…”
“I’m sure he’ll manage, Neil. Try it.”
So Neil did. While Spot was off chasing the stick, the boy asked his father why he wasn’t in trouble and getting lectured like he normally would for being up too late. His father hugged him briefly and then squatted down to look into his eyes. “Because you did a good thing today.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Compassion is something to honour, not punish.” He paused a moment. “You’re walking him, though.”
“Yes, sir!” Neil saluted, took the stick Spot had dropped at his feet and threw it again. He was dubious that it was the same stick, but Spot didn’t seem to mind.
They sat and played and talked or a while: Neil, his father, and Spot. Neil’s father told him about how he’d always wanted a dog of his own when he was a child and never could because Grandma was allergic. They discussed what Spot knew and what Neil would need to teach him as well as what Neil wanted to teach him. They talked about Neil’s homework. They played fetch for another while and tug-of-war. It was the best night of Neil’s life, but before long his father got up and announced that it was now truly bedtime. Neil had school tomorrow and needed to be well-rested. As the dog had bounded off to explore some bush or clump of grass again, they called Spot over. He stayed beside Neil all the way back to the house, but his mother refused to let the dog sleep anywhere other than the utility room.
Feather by Feather and Other Stories Page 16