Faery Tale

by Signe Pike

  Soon it was checkout time, and Raven was in tears at the thought of leaving. Bags packed and in the car, we sat at the well head, each mourning our departure in our own way, and I realized that there was indeed something waiting for Raven in Glastonbury. Here, she could be herself. People walked the streets in cloaks, they sprinkled faery dust in stores, they walked around wearing ribbons and elf ears. Here people conducted ceremonies at any time of day or night, or played the didgeridoo on top of the ancient tor. She had fallen utterly and irrevocably in love with Glastonbury. And her heart was absolutely breaking for it.

  “I just want to be here, I just want to stay,” she said softly, brushing tears from her eyes. I hugged her close, and said, “You can always come back. Someday, maybe you can buy a house here, your very own house where you can live with Michael, and you can walk down the street in your faery ears, and you can do so many ceremonies in your very own backyard.”

  I gave her hand a squeeze and left her to say her goodbyes in privacy. I wandered back over to the stone wall, the Sanctuary, and sat down on the bench. It seemed like weeks, not days ago, that I had first arrived. I thought about last night, about the bird, and about the question of a faery advocate. I wanted so badly to know if it had all been real. If there was truly some spirit that would be accompanying me, to guide me, protect me. At the Chalice Well gift shop, I’d purchased a necklace with the symbol that represented Glastonbury to wear on my journey. I felt it was important to honor this place, where I broke through my fear for the first time, where I saw the tiny lights glittering back at me in the darkness. It was the oddest thing, but I missed that little bird. A thought flashed into my mind then, a gentle chiding. One that didn’t feel like my own.

  You know I’m not the bird.

  I brushed the thought aside. I was so fond of that little bird, I wanted so badly to see it again, to say goodbye before I had to leave.

  My breath caught when, a moment later, the robin landed beside me on the bench. Who was I, Sheena, calling to the animals of the garden by pressing my fingers to my freaking temples? As the bird hopped down to my feet, I shook my head in disbelief. In its beak, it was holding an insect. I didn’t know what any of this meant, but nothing like this had ever happened to me before. This was the stuff of fairy tales. I gave a soft laugh, my eyes spilling over at the sight of the little bird, hopping closer and closer as it studied me once more.

  I had gotten my wish. Now it was time to go.

  For the first time since I’d been driving, I wasn’t worried I would crash the car, prematurely ending my faery search, and we listened to music as we drove through the countryside.

  “I’m so glad we recorded that ceremony,” Raven mused. “When I get home, I’m going to play it back and see if we were lucky enough to catch anything.”

  “I’m so glad you recorded it.”

  “Wha—wait a minute,” she said, thumbing through her iPod. “It’s not here.”

  “What? What do you mean it’s not there?”

  “It’s gone!” she exclaimed, bewildered. “The ceremony was there when I stopped recording, and now it’s gone.”

  “Well, wait a minute. Are you sure you did it right? I mean, maybe you thought you were recording . . .”

  “Signe,” she said, throwing me a withering look, “I record my Equinox meditations practically on a weekly basis. I know how to work this machine.”

  “Right, right,” I said. “Well, maybe they didn’t want it recorded.”

  She sighed. “I guess maybe they didn’t. ’Cause it’s definitely not here.”

  After dropping off the car—and receiving a hefty assessment of nearly sixteen hundred dollars in damages—we returned to Jill’s house for the night. As we grilled in the backyard, the practicalities of a spiritual traveling companion struck me. I may seem silly, but I was genuinely worried. What would he have for dinner? Where would he sleep? What was he doing when we were drinking wine and talking about men and marriage and other mundane life topics?

  After cleaning up, I grabbed a dinner roll and walked barefoot in the yard. No sooner had I stepped outside than a little robin, the same type of bird I’d been so fond of in Glastonbury, landed on a branch above me. I’m sure they’re all over the Untied Kingdom. They’re called, after all, European robins. But it made me smile, and I broke the bread into small pieces, leaving it at the base of the tree before heading back inside.

  The next morning Raven packed as I took a shower to accompany her and Jill to the airport. I was toweling off my hair when I walked back into the room to find Raven perched on the bed, waiting for me.

  “You’ll never believe this.”

  “What? You can stay?!”

  “No,” she said quickly. “Our ceremony . . . it came back.”

  I saw the iPod in her hands. “Lemme see.”

  Sure enough, where there had only been three recordings the day before, there were now four.

  “But it has the wrong date on it,” I observed. “You listened to it? You’re sure it’s the right recording?”

  “Yes, it’s us all right. But here’s the weirdest thing,” she explained. “The date on it is March third.”

  “I know! And we recorded it May twenty-fifth,” I said.

  “Right. All the other dates on here are correct, except for this one. But it gets weirder,” she continued. “There’s an old saying that when you knock on the door to faery land, you’re supposed to knock three times . . . then three times again . . . then three times again. For a total of nine knocks altogether.”

  I looked at her blankly.

  “Three times three is nine: 3/3/09! ” she exclaimed.

  “Oh,” I said. So it wasn’t the most convincing of evidence. I still thought any sort of electrical snafu could have occurred, no matter how well she knew her equipment. But it was something to note at least.

  Saying goodbye was hard. It gave me that first day of kindergarten feeling, and predictably, I cried. But soon I was back at Jill’s in a flurry of planning, booking a train from Oxshott to London, London to Liverpool, a hostel in Liverpool for the evening, and then an early morning ferry to the Isle of Man.

  I knew that in choosing to go to Man, I was eliminating Wales from my trip altogether. I hated that thought, but the signs pointed to Man. I just hoped I wasn’t missing anything by taking this leap of faith.

  As I was saying my goodbyes to the ancient Chalice Well, I had felt like the waters whispered, Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake. In Glastonbury some part of me had been awoken, even more so than the unfolding that had begun back in Charleston. And I didn’t want to slip into the unconscious again.

  The next night, as I drifted off to sleep in a hostel in Liverpool, I wasn’t thinking about how it was the home of the Beatles. I wasn’t thinking about how the people spoke with accents I could hardly understand. I was thinking about something Raven had said right before she left. She told me that she had done a journey for me, while I was in the shower, to ask about my next destination, and if there was anything that the spirit world wanted me to know.

  “I don’t know what this means,” she said, her brow creased, “but I just kept getting this over and over again. The Isle of Man is for you, an Island of Masks. Nothing there will be as it seems.”

  THE ISLE OF MAN

  13

  The Isle of Masks and the Mystery of the Blue Jacket

  They were all believing in faeries though. I heard my father say my grandmother wouldn’t go to bed without the crock of water ready just for them, and bread in the house.

  —MRS. KINVIG, RONAGUE (QUOTE ON DISPLAY AT THE MANX MUSEUM)

  TEN days on the Isle of Man. Now that I looked back on it, it seemed that the Isle of Man had beckoned from the middle of the Irish Sea. Of course, what first captured my attention was the fact that it was unbelievably rich in faery lore. There were reports that its great green glens echoed at night with faery music, that people would often get a funny feeling in the woods there, as though they we
re being watched, or sometimes even hunted by something they couldn’t see. Adventurers in the wilderness would feel uncomfortable, then frightened, and some of them experienced problems with their vision, and a light-headedness that made them worry they might lose consciousness.

  In her book The Traveller’s Guide to Fairy Sites, Janet Bord writes that there have been such occurrences as recently as 1994. A man named John L. Hall and his friend were exploring an area called Glen Auldyn, just outside the town of Ramsey on the northern part of Man. They’d been walking for some time when they began to hear tinkling voices and strains of music blowing toward them on the breeze. Seeing as they were in the middle of a deserted forest, with nothing around for miles, they began to feel a growing sense of unease. They felt something was traveling along with them, watching them, but they saw nothing. They felt unwelcome, like they were trespassing. Agitation slowly grew into panic.

  After deciding to press on, Hall noticed his vision growing fuzzy. He worried that, at any moment, he would black out. Unable to continue, the two turned back, abandoning their trek—not before, however, John snapped a few pictures. When the photos were developed, they were stunned to see what appeared to be a green man standing amid the tree branches.

  Also associated with Glen Auldyn was the star-crossed love story of Phynnodderee, a handsome faery man who fell for a mortal girl who lived in the village of Glen Auldyn. Though he was part of the nobility of the faery world on the Isle of Man, his devotion for the young woman was so great that he left the faery court to be with his human love. But on the eve before Phynnodderee was to join his lady, he failed to attend an important faery event in Glen Rushen, deeply offending the king of the faeries. The king transformed the once-handsome Phynnodderee into a horribly ugly creature, banishing him to the mountains.

  Isle of Man or “Manx” folklore, as it was called, was apparently rife with sightings of Phynnodderee, who, despite his terrifying appearance, was willing to assist humans who found themselves in trouble. On the Isle of Man, the faery world was so close that grandmothers told stories of their grandmothers seeing or speaking to beautiful men or women who behaved strangely on the roads at night, only to turn to find them vanished the next moment, seemingly disappeared into the moonlight or the eerie evening mist.

  Folklore aside, there were other things about the place that made me wonder if it might be a particularly lucky location for faery research. The entire island, for example, was simply one big ’tween place. Any island, of course, is an oasis between land and sea. But the Isle of Man wasn’t just any island. It was an island almost exactly equidistant from four different countries: Wales, Scotland, England, and Ireland. And yet amazingly enough, despite its proximity to four different countries, the isle is a sovereign country of its own, with its own currency, language, postal system, and laws.

  Though the island had enjoyed relative tranquillity for the past thousand years, there was still one ruthless invasion that took place every year, carried out by rough, bearded, powerful men. Their conquering was fast, furious, and it roared across the island for two weeks every summer. Since 1907, the Tourist Trophy Motorcycle Races, or TT as it is better known, has been held on Man, bringing tourists, tattoos, and the deafening thunder of roaring engines and squealing rubber to this otherwise quiet island.

  I thought I was avoiding race week, as every tour book strongly suggests. But phoning a local hostel, I learned otherwise.

  “Oh, hi there, need a room, hey? You coming for the TT?”

  “What? Oh, no. No.” I paused, utterly confused. “I’m actually coming to do some hiking.” My statement was met with uproarious laughter by the man on the other end of the line.

  “Hiking?”

  “Yes.” I cleared my throat, my fingers tracing the phrase in my guidebook. “I’ve heard the area around Ramsey is perfect for hiking, with its many glens and streams . . . you know, I’m just looking for some peace and quiet . . .”

  “Yes, of course. We have lovely walks here. It’s just that you’ve picked quite a time to get some peace and quiet.”

  “I don’t catch your meaning.”

  “It’s going to be TT week. Or didn’t you know?”

  What?

  “The motorbike races?” the man on the phone continued.

  “No, no. That was last week. Bank holiday week,” I informed him. Silly man.

  “You would be right,” he said, failing in his effort to control a snicker of amusement. “But they’ve moved it this year. You’ll be coming smack in the midst of it now.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes. But you’re lucky. I don’t have anything available for the first two days you’ll be here, but I can get you in for June four through June thirteen.”

  “Okay,” I sighed. “Please do.”

  I called dozens of places before I was able to book my first two nights in the only hostel left that had space. It was a music school that housed visitors in the summer, King William’s College in Castletown, all the way on the other side of the island.

  I came to terms with TT, or so I thought. Maybe I was supposed to be there during the loudest week of the year. After staying the night in Liverpool, I woke up early and caught a cab to the shipping port. The novelty of leaving England via steamboat was exhilarating. As we pulled up to the port I spotted the Snaefell, the huge white-and-red ship that would be ferrying me to Douglas, the capital of the Isle of Man. Ticket in hand and a smile on my face, I walked the gangplank that led to the outer deck of the massive steamer. Turning the corner toward the bow of the boat, I must have gasped out loud, because the whole gang turned in a single movement. To stare at me.

  Oh. My. God.

  The ship was packed, and I mean packed, with testosterone-fueled, beefy, leather-clad bikers, who were eyeing me quite openly. I scanned the boat in disbelief. I was practically the only woman on board.

  Taking a deep breath, I tried to look confident as I made my way over to the ship’s rail, but I could feel the curiosity all around me.

  What’s she doing here?

  I was beginning to wonder the same thing myself. But as I took a seat on a nearby bench to better observe them, I began to relax. These guys were okay. On closer inspection they looked like teachers, lorry drivers, barristers. Nearly all the men had close-cut hair, many sprinkled with salt and pepper, and they were sporting sophisticated driving boots, T-shirts with long sleeves underneath, and thick leather jackets. They looked more like a bunch of giant horse jockeys than the rough-and-tumble, more menacing bikers you might see in the States.

  The Irish Sea was black as tea, and even as the giant steamer cut through its choppy waves it wasn’t hard to imagine how many times, on how many different boats, people had made this journey. All around me I could hear the bikers laughing uproariously, clapping each other on the back. Looking out over the gray horizon, I breathed it all in, and wondered what story I would find, what awaited me on this faery-haunted island.

  Nearly three hours later, the island appeared before me. As the clouds broke I was met by emerald green trees, blue sky, and colorfully painted houses. The feel of the place was Victorian, I decided, my eyes settling on a light pink home with several steeply gabled roofs. I made my way down the ramp to collect my heavy pack from the luggage claim area, heaving it onto my back with a grunt. Without a doubt, this trip was going to give me sciatica.

  I was lucky enough to have my own little dorm room on the second floor of the school. After an impromptu nap and improvised dinner, I set out for a bit of exploration. Across the street I noticed a ruin overlooking the ocean—sandy beaches strewn here and there with large boulders and flat rocks. I looked at the plaque posted by the ruin:Hango Hill: Ancient Place of Execution. The ruins are those of a late 17th century summer house known as “Mount Strange.”

  How fantastically creepy. I was sleeping across the street from an ancient place of execution. The ravens certainly seemed to have gotten word, as they circled overhead calling to one anoth
er. Combined with the evening chill off the ocean, it was enough to send me back inside for the night.

  The next morning I walked into town to visit Castle Rushen, which had stairways too dark and foreboding for me to even want to climb them. The town itself was charm personified, with exquisite white-washed buildings and curving streets. Between the buildings burst brilliant flashes of blue ocean.

  Mostly, I slept. I slept all the time. I literally couldn’t keep my eyes open. It was utterly against my will, and I couldn’t explain it—like I was under some sort of bizarre enchantment. I walked around feeling spacey, light-headed. There were so many things I wanted to do, but there seemed to be perpetual confusion within me about where to start, when to go, and how to get there, and every time I tried to get up and get motivated, I fell asleep. It made no sense; I had gotten plenty of sleep prior to my arrival on Man. I am not, and have never been, a napper—it makes me feel too inherently guilty about all the other things I should be doing. And still I couldn’t keep alert or awake. I began, of course, to blame the faeries.

  “I don’t know how you expect me to do anything in this state,” I fumed, as I sat on the college lawn overlooking the ocean. “What is this about exactly, huh?”

  Eat some clover.

  Why was I feeling like I should eat some clover?

  Above me the ravens circled. I ambled over to a patch of clover growing alongside the dunes by the beach and plucked it, giving it a rinse with my water bottle, supposing it was worth a try. It tasted clean and lemony. It could have been my imagination, but after a few minutes I actually began to feel better—more alert, a little more grounded. Nonetheless, those two days were some of the longest of my life. I wasn’t sorry to be moving on. Predictably, I fell asleep on the bus ride to the north of the island. I awoke as we were approaching Douglas. The bus had passed right over Fairy Bridge, from what I could see on the map. I’d slept right through it, meaning I hadn’t even had the opportunity to greet the faeries as Ninefh had directed. I was beginning to feel like this island was conspiring to make me earn something before it would concede to my demands.