by Signe Pike
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Part One
ENGLAND
Part Two
THE ISLE OF MAN
IRELAND
SCOTLAND
Acknowledgements
FAERY INTERESTING READING AND EXPLORATION
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PRAISE FOR Faery Tale
“I really didn’t want to be entranced. I didn’t want to be enticed into yet another world of strange fantasy beings. But with Signe Pike’s Faery Tale—I was. Honestly. Thank you, Signe, for making us all more aware of the hidden dimensions of our earthly existence—for ‘helping people believe in magic again’—and for showing us how such spirit-world magic can transform the perceptions of our own lives.”
—David Yeadon, author of At the Edge of Ireland
“A beautiful book, wide open and shimmering, full of enchantment, pain, and sweetness. And Signe Pike is warm, open, funny, thoughtful, vulnerable, wise—reading her is like sitting over tea or around a fire with your best girlfriend, listening to her wildest tales.”
—Carolyn Turgeon, author of Godmother
“There’s passion, excitement, and playfulness in Signe Pike’s adventures as she plays with time and space and people . . . and words. If you allow yourself to hear what she hears and see what she sees, some of that magic will seep into your today.”
—Rita Golden Gelman, author of Tales of a Female Nomad and Female Nomad and Friends
“Faery Tale is more than just a refreshing romp among waterfalls, searching for that shining, hidden race of spirit people. It’s Signe Pike’s answer to a grief-sick heart. Whether you use the words faith or faeries, God or magic, Pike’s thirst for belief is both moving and inspiring. She has a wild willingness to reach through her grief and abandon herself to life’s adventures, and I felt so lucky to be along on her journey.”
—Jeanine Cummins, bestselling author of A Rip in Heaven and The Outside Boy
“Anyone who’s ever seen something curious out of the corner of their eye, heard the million whispers of trees, or checked under their bed looking for more than dust bunnies will thrill to Signe Pike’s Faery Tale.”
—Cathy Alter, author of Up for Renewal
“Youthful and sparkling with lots of pizzazz sums up Signe Pike’s book Faery Tale. For questers of faeries and just plain magic in the world, you will have a most enjoyable read.”
—Tanis Helliwell, author of Pilgrimage with the Leprechauns and Summer with the Leprechauns
“Magical and beguiling, tender and heartbreaking, Faery Tale is the work of a fiercely talented new writer.”
—Michael Taeckens, author of Love Is a Four-Letter Word
“Sweet, unsettling, and wise, Faery Tale tells the enchanting story of one woman’s quest to make peace with the unseen. Signe Pike is searching for faeries, of course, but along the way she comes to terms with the ghost of her father, the steadfastness of her patient, adoring husband, and her own enormous heart. Faery Tale is a book for anyone who yearns to understand the invisible, by which I mean everything that turns out to be right in front of our noses.”
—Jennifer Finney Boylan, author of She’s Not There and Falcon Quinn and the Black Mirror
“Finding happiness is an adventure that everyone should take, and Faery Tale inspires you to go on that journey.”
—Lucy Danziger, editor in chief of Self and author of New York Times bestseller The Nine Rooms of Happiness
“Do fairies exist? There is a certain innocence in the belief that they do, and a certain magic in that innocence. With considerable humor and flair, Signe Pike asks us to return to the awe and innocence we knew as children. It’s a worthwhile journey.”
—Sharman Apt Russell, author of Standing in the Light
“Faery Tale is enchanting. I don’t believe in tiny magical creatures, but I do believe in a good story, and Signe Pike has given us one of those.”
—A. J. Jacobs, New York Times bestselling author of The Year of Living Biblically
A PERIGEE BOOK
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2010 by Signe Pike
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
PERIGEE is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. The “P” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Pike, Signe.
p. cm.
“A Perigee book.”
Includes bibliographical references.
eISBN : 978-1-101-44492-4
1. Fairies. 2. Pike, Signe—Travel. I. Title.
BF1552.P55 2010
133.1’4—dc22 2010023602
This book describes the real experiences of real people. The author has disguised the identities of some, and in some instances created composite characters, but none of these changes has affected the truthfulness and accuracy of her story. Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.
Most Perigee books are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, or educational use. Special books, or book excerpts, can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write: Special Markets, Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
http://us.penguingroup.com
This book is dedicated to my father, Alan S. Pike, the greatest storyteller of them all. He walks the woods still, in the memories of all who loved him.
And to my mother, Linda M. Johanson—for her wit, wisdom, and unconditional love. Thank you for helping me believe.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
All experiences in this book are factual. In some cases, names have been changed to protect those who wished to obscure their identity, at their request. As with any memoir, dialogue and conversations have been re-created where required—if only I had known to carry a tape recorder on me at all times at age eight, my job
would have been so much easier!—with the essence and authenticity being of paramount importance. In some places, time has been condensed in the interests of narrative length and pacing.
Throughout the ages there have been a variety of spellings for the word faery. For the sake of consistency, I’ve chosen to use the spelling seen in Edmund Spenser’s sixteenth-century work The Faerie Queene. However, in this book, faery represents the singular use, while faeries refers to the collective or plural.
If you find yourself yearning to embark on your own adventure on the very same faery trail, and I truly hope you do, I’d only ask a few things.
Please tread lightly and with respect. Leave each place better, in some way, than when you came, and most important, be prepared to see everything—not just the faeries—with a grateful and open heart.
Your Fellow Adventurer,
Signe L. Pike
When my father is gone I will remember his voice
deep and charged with music
like falling water
my ear to his chest
each word a smoky pearl
his thick weathered fingers
would trace his progress across each page . . .
Part One
I WAKE up every morning with a sense of purpose: I am a tastemaker. As a book editor in New York City, I think about it constantly: What do people want to read? What will they want to read in one year? What about two? Mostly I acquire books that entertain women, that engulf them. When I think about the reader, I think about you. I buy books that I hope will make you smile, make you believe in the magic of love at first sight—I buy books that I hope will heal your heartbreak. I read all the time, big, thick manuscripts. It’s part of the job. Each night I take home chunks of pages in an extra shoulder bag. I read on the treadmill. I read while I’m eating my take-out dinner. I read before bed, propped up with a pillow, my glasses slipping down toward the tip of my nose. I’m beginning to wonder if carrying all the paper is the reason my right shoulder feels like it’s filled with marbles.
In the morning I get up and I flip on the radio. NPR and a cup of coffee. I’m always running late—I can never figure out what to wear. I’m almost twenty-eight years old and I’m always trying to look older. I hate blazers and button-up shirts. I hate walking the streets of New York in high heels; the men gawk and the concrete wears them down until the metal pokes out the bottom. I lock the door and say goodbye to the cat, hoping for her that today, there will be pigeons.
I read on the subway, pressed up against a big man whose breath smells like rotten eggs and stale coffee. Next to me is a fat, middle-aged stockbroker, staring over the top of his Wall Street Journal at the gap between the taught fabric of a blond woman’s skirt. He has a slim gold wedding band on, and I wonder if the woman who gave it to him believed in love at first sight.
The train shoots underground and the faces around me look ashen in the yellow lights. I close my eyes for a moment, and everything, the lights, the people, the rapidly receding subway walls, slips away and I am rushing out into the bright sunshine. I walk up a long dune that leads to the beach, where I can hear the sound of the ocean. It sounds like a sigh. I open my eyes to see people looking back.
Has she fallen asleep?
I focus again on the pages in front of me. I tell myself, All I want is to heal some heartbreak. Upstairs in the glass-walled building, I flick on the desk lamp in my third-floor interior office. Without windows, the fluorescent lights give me a raucous headache, and I’m not usually a headache kind of girl. Glancing at my calendar, my eyes find the familiar photo pinned near the top of my bulletin board.
Have you ever looked at a photo so much that you can’t even truly see it anymore? I examine it again, trying to break it down into pieces. I see a man who looks far older than his sixty years, walking down a winding set of stone stairs. At his feet, a small brown-and-white dog is captured mid-movement, and he has turned to face the camera above him, his eyes gazing back at mine. The expression he wears is one of faux surprise: he hardly ever plays it straight for the camera. I know this, because neither do I. In a moment he’ll call out, Hey, you coming?
I see a flash of fabric breeze past my office door.
“Good morning, Signe,” my boss says.
“Good morning to you,” I say brightly. I flick on my computer and glance at the persistent blinking light on my phone.
You have five new messages.
I reach for the phone with one hand and my coffee with the other. Lately, I think, my face hurts from smiling.
“Hi, this is Signe Pike, returning a call . . .”
I am going to heal your heartbreak, because I have no idea how to heal my own.
1
Once Upon a Time
Come away O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping
than you can understand.
—WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS, “THE STOLEN CHILD”
WHEN I was a little girl I believed in faeries as a matter of course. To say that I was obsessed with faeries wouldn’t be the truth—I simply believed in them is all. When my father took me and my sister walking, I imagined there were faeries everywhere: flitting through the bushes, underneath the toadstools, balancing on the petals of the wildflowers that forced their way through the snowy winter crust in spring.
When you’re little, it’s perfectly acceptable to believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy. Do you remember the incredible beauty of those days? Lying awake listening for the faint jingle of a sleigh bell, or peeking through your eyelashes, determined to spot a magical creature with every creak on the stairs? But inevitably, reality comes crashing in.
We forget how devastating it was to learn that the magical creatures from stories aren’t real. We come to understand that growing up means getting older. And getting older means facing up to a certain amount of loss. When I suffered my loss, I woke up one morning with the undeniable feeling that it was high time we sat down to discuss: We live in a world where 9/11 happened. We’re involved in wars in both Afghanistan and Iraq. There’s genocide in Darfur. There are murders, and suicide bombings, and newspaper descriptions of human scalps hanging off restaurant light fixtures. There’s the melting of the polar ice caps, hunger, starvation, and the killing of precious endangered species. I wanted to say to everyone, I don’t know about you, but this was not the happily ever after I was hoping for.
Worse, somewhere along the line I had lost my faith in humanity.
I began to wonder where all our innocence goes and why we let it slip away, when the thing to do at a time like now is to fight it. How might it change the world if we could reclaim some of our magic? How would we look at one another, treat one another, if each of us recognized that inside every man or woman is a little boy or girl who loves popcorn, is still afraid of monsters under the bed, or believes that fairy tales really do come true? Maybe we would treat each other with more kindness, more carefully, more respectfully.
I wanted to find something of the beauty of myth that we’ve left behind, carry its shreds before us all, so we could acknowledge it, somehow bring it back to life. I wanted to delve back into that world that cradled us when we were young enough to still touch it, when trolls lived under creek bridges, faeries fluttered under mushroom caps, and the Tooth Fairy only came once you were truly sleeping. I wanted to see if enchantment was somehow still there, simply waiting to be reached. When I felt my loss, I realized that if I could do anything in this life, I wanted to travel the world, searching for those who were still awake in that old dreamtime, and listen to their stories—because I had to know that there were grown-ups out there who still believed that life could be magical.
And in that moment, I decided, I am going to find the goddamn faeries.
Do you think that sounds silly?
A better question might be, do you think I’m kidding? I am deadly seriou
s. If it makes you feel more comfortable, when someone asks you what you’re reading, you can say, “Oh, this? It’s . . . an examination of the loss of myth in modern culture.”
And it wouldn’t be a lie.
I really don’t believe in faeries. But I really want to. Not just for me, but for all of us. Because we are battered by adulthood—by taxes, by loss, by laundry, by nine to five, by deceit and distrust, by the crushing desire to be thin, wealthy, successful, popular, happy, in love. All the while, we are walking on a planet that is disintegrating around us.
I would have thought this challenge insurmountable, had I not already encountered one such believer. And she just so happened to live in my building.
I first met Raven Keyes not long after I moved into my first apartment in New York City. She and her husband, Michael, lived down the hall, and it wasn’t long before Raven and I were on a first-name basis. With her blond, curly hair and playful blue eyes, Raven exuded a warm effervescence that melted most people into a puddle of bashful smiles and adoration. I was no exception. She was a former actress turned Reiki Master, a tradition with which I was completely unfamiliar. Reiki, she explained, was an alternative form of healing where the practitioner moves their hands over your body without touching you. I was intrigued but had to admit at the time that for me, the best type of therapy was found either on the opulent sofa of an Upper West Side shrink, or the lavender-infused massage table at Bliss Spa on Lexington Avenue.