Faery Tale

by Signe Pike

  “I see . . .” I began tentatively. “You’re saying they’ll have me either way.”

  “Yes!”

  “But . . . they would also protect me, right? Because I do feel a little frightened . . .”

  “Oh yes,” she reassured me. “If you do as you’re told.”

  Somehow that was less reassuring than I think she intended. How on earth was I supposed to know whether or not I was doing as I was told? And what if I did something offensive, or wrong, and they . . . killed me or something?!

  When I posed my quandary to Ninefh, she recommended I try asking for a faery advocate—someone in the faery realm who might agree to “sponsor” me, for all intents and purposes—protect me, guide me this summer, perhaps grant me experiences with the faery realm. “I can’t guarantee you’ll get one,” she said, “but it couldn’t hurt to ask. Look,” she continued, growing more serious. “It’s a narrow line, you see. It’s very much like the old country, where you do them a favor, and they’ll do you a favor. And their favors can be great indeed. But that isn’t why you do it. It can’t be your motive.”

  I thought a moment. “My motive is . . . I suppose . . . to help people believe in magic again.”

  At this, she beamed.

  “That’s it.” She smiled at me. “That’s exactly it.”

  “You know, Signe,” she said after a moment, “you’ve got to find your own way. But to be fearful is not being respectful. You can respect them . . . it’s their territory, you don’t want to tread on their toes, but you needn’t fear them. If you’re just doing as you’re asked, and doing things intuitively, through your feelings, you don’t need to be frightened of it. Not of any of it.”

  The night after meeting Ninefh I couldn’t fall asleep. The room was alive with energy, and I had the weirdest feeling, as though there were someone, or something, reclining on the empty bed next to mine, watching me intently.

  I tossed and turned, but sometime in the early morning hours, I must have fallen into a dream. I found myself in my father’s house on Bundy Road in Ithaca, in my old room. I wandered around, my fingers exploring the things that were familiar—sheet music that had been torn from one of my piano books, my old school things, my father’s writing pens. Suddenly I realized with excitement that if I was in my father’s home, with all our old things, he must be there, too! I rushed to the kitchen vibrating with anticipation—I could always find my dad in the kitchen. But when I got there, his chair at the cracked tile table was empty.

  The whole house was empty. I wandered, desolate, into his bedroom and looked out the large picture window, studying the trees that had greeted him each morning of his life there. It was then that the emptiness hit me like a river. And I couldn’t stand any more pain, my body just couldn’t hold it all. I collapsed onto the carpet, breathing in the familiar smell, and sobbing, absolutely sobbing for him. I was alone. He was dead. My heart broke all over again.

  A wail escaped my throat, and I woke to remember I was in Glastonbury. I turned my face into my pillow to find it was soaked with tears. Why was this happening now, here, on this trip? I’d dreamed of my father and his death, twice now in two weeks. Why did I have to feel all this pain now, when all I wanted to do was heal? For the moment, I felt exhausted, wrung clean, but I knew it was only for the moment—I had reservoirs of pain inside me, spilling over, and I just didn’t know how to make them recede.

  I turned toward Raven to find her lounging under the covers, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

  “Hello, beauty,” she said. “I was just doing a little journeying. And I have some messages for you.” I waited, wondering what to expect.

  “First of all, you’ve been assigned what’s called an advocate. A faery man has volunteered. He wears silvery clothing, and he is a very ‘big deal’ in the faery world. This advocate is going to assist you on getting through your fear, and your sadness, because you are a brilliant being and you should be radiating joy. There is room for nothing less in the faery kingdom.”

  A faery advocate, just like Ninefh had suggested? But I hadn’t even asked. I didn’t know what to make of it. Later that morning I went to do laundry and check my email. Noticing my cell phone had several unchecked messages, I dialed in. The first message stopped me cold. It was Ninefh, calling to follow up. “I checked in with the faeries, and although they were a bit concerned at first, everything I shared with you is okay. Oh, and I wanted to let you know—you’ve been assigned a faery advocate, so you needn’t worry about anything anymore. Just thought you’d like to know.”

  In less than three hours, she and Raven had given me the same message.

  What if I hadn’t been imagining the feeling of that presence, studying me last night as I tried to fall asleep? If Raven and Ninefh were right, there was an advocate, a faery teacher and protector, somewhere out there, waiting for me on the other side.

  Part Two

  11

  Beyond the Veil: Entering Avalon

  WHEN the veil begins to draw back, it changes everything. Will you step across the threshold with me? Here, in Glastonbury, where the veil between the worlds is thin. From here, everything will change, and me, I will change with it. If you want to believe, I will tell you everything, just how it happened to me.

  My feet wound their way through the garden, up the path, through the arbor, the sunlight playing patterns on my skin. I felt pulled like a magnet to the gnarled tree, which stood at the top of the hill as majestic as it’d been the night before, and I found an odd comfort sitting at the base of its trunk, sheltered under its boughs. Closing my eyes, I let my mind go blank.

  I still felt emotionally exhausted from the gut-wrenching power of my dream, and I tried to shut everything up, all the jumbles of thoughts, doubts, and criticisms. Don’t let your imagination take you anywhere! it said. You’ll be making it all up . . .

  But I was too worked over to fight it; I let my imagination take me where it wanted to lead. This, Raven had told me, was the first step in taking my own journey. Within our imagination, she believes, lies the key to accessing even the most distant of worlds. As I lay on my back in the grass, my mind and body completely at rest, I concentrated on being open, being present. Mentally, I sent out a wish: If I did truly have a faery advocate, could they give me a sign? I lay there, healing, relaxing, recovering. After a few minutes, I opened my eyes and sat up—I had the most distinct feeling that I was to wait for something.

  I heard a soft flutter of wings, and the next moment a little robin, looking much the same as the one I’d seen the day before, landed on a branch close to me. Delicate and brownish gray, with a burnt orangeyred breast, its eyes were filled with a curiosity, a remarkable intelligence. I gazed back, and it fluttered closer, as if trying to capture my attention. Now it was within ten inches of my face, so close I could see the layers of feathers that made up its breast. But a moment later, it flew off.

  That was weird, I thought. The birds here are so uncannily friendly! Not knowing what I was supposed to do to get in touch with my advocate, I picked up my pen and journal to do some writing while I waited for this mythical faery man to appear. A moment later I was startled by the reappearance of what looked like the same bird, as close as it had been before. I noticed with surprise that this time it held something in its beak—a large ant. With the ant in its beak, it cocked its head at me.

  “Mmmm, yummy,” I joked. The bird flitted from the branch onto the grass at my feet, looking at me rather expectantly before flying off again. I glanced over at Raven, who had made her way to a shady spot nearby, and saw she had an inquisitive look on her face.

  “It’s a flirty little thing, isn’t it?” I called to her. “Not at all like the robins back home!”

  “Mmmm.” She nodded, gazing at the tree intently.

  I had just put pen to paper when I heard a soft noise and glanced up to see the robin had come back—this time with some sort of wasp in its mouth. I dropped my pen in my lap and watched, complet
ely puzzled.

  “Signe,” Raven called in a loud whisper, pointing, “I think that bird is trying to tell you something.”

  I considered this and gazed back into its deep black eyes. It was just standing there, regarding me. And I never knew robins were such efficient hunters—it was a matter of less than a minute between the two insect captures.

  Is that true? I thought. Are you trying to tell me something?

  The odd thing was, the bird wasn’t eating the insects. It was just holding them, showing them to me. It took a few hops toward me and then took off—to finish its meal, no doubt. But I couldn’t help but feel for a moment like Snow White—why, I bet if I had stretched out my hand that little robin would have alighted right on my fingers!

  Gathering my things, I ambled over to Raven.

  “What do you think that bird was trying to tell me?”

  “Signe,” she said, shaking her head, “I have no idea.”

  I thought for a moment, then smiled. “Maybe he was saying it’s time for dinner.” I laughed it off, but secretly, I was flustered—I had just been visited by the same bird, three times in a matter of minutes. What was it trying to say? Having spent the whole day in the gardens, it was now late afternoon. Gathering our things we retreated inside to freshen up for dinner.

  Sitting outside over a glass of wine, we savored our last night in Glastonbury. I remembered Coleen Shaughnessy saying that faeries would often come to people in the form of insects, even birds. Birds I love; anything furry or with feathers could perch on my face for all I cared—after all, I was known to crawl around on the carpet with other people’s dogs. But something of a disenchantment had happened between me and insects, I realized, as I looked down at my arm and noticed, for the third time that day, there was a tiny green insect with transparent wings that had perched itself on my forearm.

  Since it was our last night, we decided to enjoy the sunset on Glastonbury Tor. I figured there wasn’t a better place to be than on the top of the faery king’s hill as twilight emerged, and I was determined that tonight I would not be afraid. To burn through my fear (quite literally), Raven had suggested that I write a promise to the faeries and, at sunset, set the paper on fire at the top of the tor. Perhaps I needed to cement my goodwill, to let them know that I would do whatever it takes to complete my journey.

  As we climbed the series of steps that led up the steep slope of the tor, the sun lit the grasses in gold. There was a nunnery on top of the hill at one point, which some say is the reason for the bizarre-looking terracing along the hillsides. Others said the terracing was caused by the trail wound by the pagan worshippers in the thousands of years they made their pilgrimage up it. Our breath grew short, and I thought of Gywn ap Nudd. In 1275, an earthquake brought down that nunnery, leaving only the tower. It had been rebuilt, dated to the 1500s, and now, once more, all that remained was the tower, stuck on the top of the hill. As we climbed, it seemed the great faery king had certainly had the last laugh. What it really had become was one large standing stone, I supposed, channeling the energy between heaven and earth, just like the stones at Dartmoor.

  We reached the top of the tor as the sun was a few degrees shy of setting to find more than a dozen people gathered, transfixed by the splendid coming of twilight. The sun burned its way down toward the ocean, dark pink and magnificent in its enormity, and the hills of Wales were shimmering in the blue distance. A woman with a camera and boom mike was questioning a group of teens who were sitting with their backs to the tower. “But you’re up here this evening,” I heard her say, “so wouldn’t that put you into the group of people who want to believe magic still exists?” I smiled inwardly. It was comforting to know I wasn’t alone.

  I drank in the beauty of the countryside, letting it fill me completely. I remembered something Peter Knight had said yesterday, and I tried the words on for size: Fear is an illusion. Fear is an illusion. I choose love . . . I choose love. Everything in my life had funneled down into me sitting at the top of that hill, looking out to Wales, with Raven leaving the next day, leaving me to pursue this quest alone. What was I so afraid of? Trees? Hills? Nature? My father would be so disappointed.

  As the sun sank, I felt something lift from the center of me—not completely, but noticeably. I could feel my fear, for the first time in years, beginning to dissipate. I had the most powerful sense that I’d felt this freedom from it before. I felt like I could soar from the top of the tor, hollow-boned like a bird.

  All this time, Raven and I were silent, feeling. A pearly crescent moon rose above the tor, and from inside the tower, I heard the low rumble of a didgeridoo. The long notes buzzed deep into the coming night, vibrating through everything in their path, vibrating through me. I wondered what it would be like to be the man who made a nightly pilgrimage up the tor to blast the evening with ancient song. We saw him as we made our way to the wind-shielded side of the tower, walking with the massive instrument balanced nimbly between his fingers. Under the shelter of the tower we knelt, and I pulled out my promise, holding the thin slip of paper between my cold fingers as they fumbled against the wind to light a match. The paper caught and burned, and I watched as the fire ate it up, taking my words with it, into another form. Raven’s hair glowed in the light of the flame, and I thought of the other priestesses who had walked this hill before, thousands of years ago when this place was known as Avalon.

  We stayed until the wind whipped up and the stars multiplied, carpeting the sky. As we descended down the steep stairs I wasn’t worried about tripping or falling. I wasn’t frightened of the enveloping blackness around me. I wasn’t worried that we were trespassing on the sacred mound of an ancient faery king. As the wind blew, the trees at the bottom of the hill bent toward me as if they were bowing, their leaves shimmying in the moonlight. We made our way through the gate, across the road, and back into the Chalice Well Garden. After the vast expanse of the tor and the countryside around it, the garden felt cozy, secure. Raven had given me her cloak, and I walked through the night garden barefoot and hooded in green, a woman not completely myself, yet more myself than I’d ever been.

  As we reached the tree, we sat once more, back-to-back. I gazed out at the night around me, but there was no more fear, just curiosity. Fear is an illusion, I choose love. It radiated from me, from the very center of my chest, and I felt timeless. Last night, when I heard the shuffling noise, I’d been afraid—and my fear had broken the moment. Was it a test? If so, I’d failed. Tonight I could feel the land singing to the stars, feel the trees gently twisting in the wind, the bushes rustling as though they were papered silver in the moonlight. Behind me, Raven was humming something soft and delicate.

  It was then that I began to notice tiny pinpoints of lights from town, blinking in the bushes. I watched them as they twinkled in and out, in and out. But after a moment, it dawned on me—I couldn’t be seeing lights from town. I gently shook my head in confusion. I was looking at a thick hedgerow, with an orchard on the other side. We were sitting at the top of a hill, but I knew that banking the hedges on the other side was only another hill—the orchard itself. Meaning, beyond the hedge was nothing but the slope of earth and grass.

  If I were seeing lights from the city, I reasoned, I would be able to move my head, and the light would stay fixed, possibly be blocked by leaves when gazing from another perspective. Then again, Glastonbury was hardly a glittering metropolis. Even as I reasoned, even as I puzzled, I watched a blue pinpoint of light move slowly at first, then zip into the tree above us. There were dozens of them now, delicate dots of light glowing within the dense blackness, one deep blue, another orange like fire, many in bright white.They began to move, to come alive it seemed, and I let out a small gasp in disbelief. Those were no city lights.

  “Are you seeing them?” Raven whispered.

  I hardly wanted to move my lips, afraid my voice would put a stop to whatever was happening around us.

  “Yes,” I managed. “Yes, I’m seeing . . .”
>
  I understood now what Coleen Shaughnessy had meant. This phenomenon was vastly different from any fireflies I’d seen. Fireflies are a flash, a burst of light, and compared to these, fireflies were too large, fuzzier and clumsier somehow. As I marveled, the lights moved around us, glittering and dancing in the night. And as I sat there, beneath that ancient tree, my spine resting against the spine of the priestess, I began to cry.

  All I could do was sit there and acknowledge that the implications of this moment could change the course of my life forever. I shook my head in amazement, and leaning back into the cool night grass, I gave myself over to it.

  12

  Knock Nine Times on the Faery Door

  AS much as I wanted whatever was happening to continue forever, to keep twinkling until the sun rose over the hills of Somerset, whatever we were seeing was certainly not at our beck and call. I had the distinct feeling that we had been granted something, and then it was over. Had it been minutes or hours? We lost track of time. I said thank you, and we made our way back through the night garden. My head was reeling, my body electrified.

  By the next morning the human brain had recovered itself and began the process of doing what it does best—denying. I had known, even as I slept snug under my blankets, that this would come, that it was an inevitable part of the process. I know what I saw, I thought as I drifted off to sleep. Nothing will change in the morning. Morning had me back at faery hill examining the hedges, the bushes. I had no explanation. There was, indeed, just a hill on the other side of the hedge where I’d first seen the blue light, and the bushes were so incredibly thick, it seemed doubtful that light could penetrate them at all. And yet still, the more time that passed, the more I wondered—had I really seen it? Couldn’t my eyes, in concert with my imagination, have been playing tricks on me?