The hawthorn, one of many trees growing in the hedgerow between two farmers’ meadows, was a dark silhouette against the blue-black of the nearly midnight sky, but the three-quarter moon gave enough light to illuminate the pale scraps of cloth and other items that had been tied around its branches.
A rag tree—a wishing tree—overlooking the holy well I sought.
I was off to make a wish that would change my life forever, and even though it was what I’d wanted for as long as I could remember, my stomach fizzed with nervousness.
I tramped across the meadow, sure-footed even in the darkness. Nearly midnight on the eve of Beltane, on the eve of my sixteenth birthday. An auspicious birthday for me, because sixteen is one and six, which makes seven, and that was a magical number to the Tylwyth Teg, the Fair Family, the faerie folk of Wales.
The last night of April was always a chill one, and I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my hoodie, curling my fingers into my palms to both warm them and keep them from trembling. The long grass shushed beneath my feet, and although the air was still, every so often I caught a faint whiff of sheep.
When I reached the hawthorn and the well, I pulled out my mobile to check the time. Ten minutes to go. Just enough time.
It was called St. Mary’s Well—Fynnon Fair in Welsh—but it had pagan roots, as most things around here did. The people who came here to worship, no matter what faith they held, kept the tree and the well tidy, and whichever farmer technically owned the hedgerow didn’t mind. Or, more likely, neither of them owned it. Which made sense. It was a place between, and places between are always holy and magical. Boundaries between one thing and another, but being neither one thing nor the other.
A faint breeze caressed and fluttered the offerings on the tree. Scraps of fabric and yarn, mostly, but also a plastic bag, and what looked like a strand of faux metallic plastic beads, which clacked and clattered softly. The centuries-old tradition was that you came to the well and the tree for healing, and you tied your wish for health onto the tree, and as the fabric rotted away and disintegrated, so your affliction would fade away. Which is why the Tesco’s bag and the beads made no sense.
Now people come to this tree and well for a variety of wishes, not just about health. Love, fertility, happiness, I don’t know.
I doubted very few, if any, had come here to make the wish I held so deeply in my heart.
At a minute to midnight, I walked down into the well.
The stairs were uneven, worn in the center from centuries of petitioners easing down into the tight space.
Sixteen steps down into the earth. Doesn’t sound like many, but it was enough that by the time I got to the bottom, my head was not only beneath the level of the stone rim, but below the roofline that covered the well itself. My shoulders almost brushed against the mossy sides of the chamber.
My feet crunched over tiny snail shells as I descended, the air growing more moist and cold, and the darkness more complete. The weak moonlight couldn’t extend this far into the earth. I reached the bottom, breathing in the earthy scent of loam, and stopped.
I thought about why I was here, and what I wished for. I couldn’t go on if I had any doubts, any hesitation.
But this was what I had yearned for since I was old enough to understand what I was.
A plentyn cael. A changeling child.
My “parents,” Cerys and John (I couldn’t really call them my adoptive parents, as they’d had no choice in the matter), had brought home from the hospital a sweet, fair-haired baby and then found, shortly thereafter, a temperamental, black-haired thing in the crib. (The latter would be me.)
If they had tried any of the folk remedies to banish a changeling, they refused to tell me, but I couldn’t imagine that they didn’t make an attempt to get their real child back. Why wouldn’t they? Cerys was a professor of folklore and mythology at uni, and John was a renowned fantasy artist; they knew what had happened.
Instead, they’d passed me off as their own, despite the fact that I’m dark and thin and plain, whereas both of them are blond, both attractive; Cerys curvy, John tall.
I’ve seen the looks we get when we’re in public together—both because I don’t look anything like them, but also because I don’t look right. People can tell there’s something off about me, something otherworldly, although they can never put their finger on it. I don’t have pointed ears or walk like I’m gliding. I just make people look away, their gaze sliding sideways and down.
The looks used to hurt, but I’ve built up a wall and taught myself not to care, reminding myself that I am different.
To the world, Cerys and John call me theirs. I was grateful they’d told me the truth, though.
I hadn’t told them where I was going when I left tonight. They trust me. They were used to my long rambles in the woods, even this late—after all, it wasn’t a school night. Perhaps they even assume that given my nature, my blood, no harm will come to me.
Now, despite my best efforts to tamp it down, guilt rose on the fizzy bubbles of nerves. I did leave them a note on my pillow.
I appreciated everything they’d done for me, I told them in the note (and it was true), and I’d been fond of them, and soon they’d have their real daughter back, and I knew they’d be happy again. I’d signed it Thank you, Poppy.
They had, in fact, treated me as well as if I’d been their own. They’d fed me, clothed me, nagged me to get good grades, encouraged me to explore what inspired me, hugged me, included me.
But they’d done all that out of duty, not out of love. They accepted the burden of raising a child not their own, when their own had been taken.
They were not my parents, and for as long as I’ve had memory, I’ve wanted to find my real parents. The Tylwyth Teg, the faeries who exchanged me for another.
And so I’d come here to wish, and perform a ritual that should lead me to my true home.
I crouched down and swiped on my mobile’s flashlight. My fingers shook, not from the cold, but from the realization that I was finally here, it was going to happen now, if I did everything correctly. Please oh please...
The stone-bordered rectangular pool of the well extended about a third of a meter back and was twice as wide. The water came from a natural spring deep in the earth, and looked darker than the midnight around me.
In the niche behind it were the melted wax remains of candles, as well as rough-hewn crosses made from two sticks and bits of twine, dried brown flowers, a tiny corn dolly propped up in the corner, and a scattering of small polished rocks, shells, and coins.
Whooshing out a nervous breath, I pulled out of my pocket my own, delicate offering: a whisper-thin braided strand of three of my own hairs. The fae admire difficult tasks completed.
Bracing myself against the ceiling with one hand, I tucked the braid-wisp into the niche. Then I stretched down to scoop some water into my hand.
I pulled three palmfuls of water into my mouth, and held them there. The water tasted of copper and was shockingly cold, making my teeth and the bones of my hand ache.
I eased myself into a turn, no simple feat in the tight space, and ascended. My boot caught on one of the uneven stone steps and I almost swallowed the water in my mouth before I caught myself, my hands scraping against the rough, cold rock of the stairs above me.
Once I reached the top, I stepped around the well opening three times in a clockwise direction, ending up at the head of the well in front of the bushy hawthorn. It was too early for its white flowers to bloom; now there were only dark, waxy leaves and the ever-present thorns.
From my pocket I drew an inch-wide strip of fine oyster-white silk, a piece of the cloth I’d been swaddled in when Cerys and John found me in their baby’s crib.
As I knotted the silk on the tree, I visualized my wish: to be reunited with my true parents, whoever they were. Rich or poor, noble or peasant or however it worked there. To go home.
With a surprising prick of tears in my eyes, I thought of the centu
ries-old cottage I lived in with Cerys and John, of my bedroom, cozy thanks to the foot-thick, whitewashed stone walls. Of the kitchen that smelled like oregano and basil and garlic because John loved to cook Italian food (I hoped faerie food tasted half as good); of the messy study crammed full of papers and stacks of Cerys’s research books, her laptop precariously balanced on one pile, where I’d loved to play as a child, warm and safe.
It was all I’d ever known as a home, and I hadn’t expected to miss it—and them.
I felt a sudden bump in my throat, but still didn’t swallow. I banished those memories.
That home had been temporary. What I needed, desperately, was to learn what my real home was and who my real family was.
And so I channeled all my energy and visions and thoughts into my wish as I gave the silk to the hawthorn.
It was only then I realized the legends and instructions never specified what I was supposed to do with the water in my mouth. Spitting it out seemed to defeat the purpose somehow, if not being outright rude. I shrugged. If this didn’t work, I’d probably contract dysentery or some equally hideous plague.
But I believed it would work, so I swallowed the coppery-tasting water, still icy cold. I’d almost become used to the bitterness by now, but my tongue was numb.
No magic comes without sacrifice, right?
I did so just as my mobile’s alarm chimed softly to tell me it was midnight, and just as a pure white light flashed from the well.
My stomach lurched—either from terror/disbelief/relief or from the cold water landing in it—and my heart pounded in my throat. In a few steps I was around to the entrance. The light had faded to a glow, strong enough that I couldn’t see the pool below any more than I had been able to see it in the dark.
It was obvious that I should go down again. My wish was being granted, and I shouldn’t waste any time.
I descended carefully, mindful of how I’d tripped on the way up, and how my legs felt weak and shaky. I felt for the edge of each step before I committed to it, because I couldn’t see the worn rock.
I counted as I went, pausing when I hit sixteen steps. Previously, the next step I took would have landed my foot in the pool of the well. Then I continued, and touched another step, and another, and another, down into the earth toward the source of the light.
It was happening. I pressed a hand to my mouth, not sure whether I felt like laughing or crying. It was really happening.
The light changed as I went further down, from white to the blueish-purple of twilight—the time of day when the barrier between the worlds was thinnest—to a gentle gold of lamplight and the birth of new days.
The steps ended and opened onto a vast, luxurious, cavernlike space.
Bloody hell. I was finally here. The breath whooshed out of me and for a moment I couldn’t make my legs move me forward.
It had worked.
I was here.
I was home.
I was overwhelmed.
Painted silk tapestries in watery colors of pearl grey and blues and greens, glinting with stitches of gold, hung from ornate rods. The light came not only from pierced silver lanterns but some ambient source I couldn’t find.
The ceiling soared into darkness, so high I couldn’t see where it ended, but occasionally I thought I glimpsed the sparkle of some flying thing, swooping and dipping.
The air was soft against my skin, and I felt light, as if gravity had less of a hold here. Floating on the air came the chink of glasses, murmurs of voices, soft swells of laughter. There was music, too, but I couldn’t tell where it came from—like the light, it seemed to come from everywhere. It sounded like glass bells and bright strings and some kind of woodwind, with a low buzzy undercurrent of pipes, somewhere between a waltz and rave music, and my blood spiraled in time with it. It reached inside and tugged at me to join the graceful, spinning dancers, but no. Not now, not yet.
Intricately carved sideboards of polished, dark-red wood were laden with food: plump berries like burgundy and purple jewels, mushrooms of all sizes, a mouthwatering rectangle of deep yellow butter, a delicately woven silver basket filled with speckled eggs.
Every legend says not to eat or drink in the faerie realm, or you’ll not return for a hundred years. But my plan wasn’t to return.
Still, food was the furthest thing from my goal right now.
I had no idea, however, how to find my parents.
I should probably find someone in charge.
I took a deep breath and forced myself forward, skirting the edges between the gaiety of the dancers and the temptation of the food. No one spoke to me, although I received a few curious looks—like I’d experienced my entire life. Now, though, it wasn’t because I didn’t look like my parents, or because I didn’t look exactly human. It was either because they didn’t recognize me or because I wore strange clothing: jeans, purple Docs, black hoodie that I’d pulled down off my head when the air warmed during my descent.
In contrast, they wore loose garments that seemed to move of their own accord, in a way that meant I couldn’t quite focus on them. Earth hues, but rich and vibrant, or watery pale colors like the tapestries, or jewel tones. They were adorned with jewelry—silver and gold and precious gems—or with ivy and flowers.
I came around the dancers to the center of the cavern, and there I found Gwyn ap Nudd, king of the faerie underworld, and his bride, Creiddylad, the eternal May queen. I knew their names from Cerys’s books; had memorized everything about them.
They sat on thrones carved from the same wood as the sideboard, his with owls and stags, hers with flowers and vines. At their feet lounged white hounds, their ears tipped bloodred: the Cŵn Annwn, Gwyn’s hunting dogs.
I’d never assumed or even hoped that my parents would be royalty—hadn’t really ever cared. I just wanted to find my parents, and go home.
But now I knew with a startled certainty that the king and queen of faerie were my family, because sitting at Creiddylad’s side was a girl who could only be Cerys and John’s real daughter.
I’d found them.
I could barely breathe. I’d imagined this for years, and now I was speechless.
The queen spotted me first. She tapped her consort on the wrist and leaned forward, her gaze pinning me.
“We have a visitor in our midst. Welcome to my festival.”
She said she welcomed me, but I felt as if I were on display as all three regarded me.
The king and queen had hair black as a moonless night and skin the color of moonlit shadows, and eyes like mine, dark brown as the deep soil. But where I was plain and stunted, they were beautiful, otherworldly.
Creiddylad held out her hand. She wore green leather gloves the color of new oak leaves. Foxglove bells dangled from the wide cuffs embroidered with purple and gold flowers.
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do, so I touched her fingers and curtsied awkwardly.
When I rose, I said—maybe too brashly, but I couldn’t keep it in any longer—“Don’t you recognize me?”
They regarded me for a long moment, and then he said, “You have the look of the fae about you, but your scent is human.”
“I’m fae, but I’ve lived in the human world all my life,” I said.
Creiddylad arched a delicate eyebrow. “A plentyn cael?” she said. “My goodness. Your will to live must have been incredibly strong; plentyn cael normally don’t survive past their first year.”
It was something I’d considered myself. My theory was perhaps Cerys had some faerie blood in her, from generations past, so her milk had been enough sustenance for me early on.
But I had never thought of myself as strong. Stubborn, maybe, but that had grown from how I’d been treated. People had judged, and I’d grown a shell to deflect their judgments, a wall that had protected me from caring about how they felt.
That shell had cracked, disintegrated to dust as I descended into the fae realm. I was home, so I didn’t need it anymore, and now I stood here, o
pen and vulnerable and aching.
“But don’t you recognize me?” I said. “I’m your daughter.”
At least I had the satisfaction of surprising them. They both sat back, just a fraction, and their eyes widened, also just a fraction.
Then Creiddylad smiled.
It wasn’t the smile I’d wished to see all my life.
I’d dreamed of a joyous reunion, of the delight in my parents’ eyes when they saw me. I’d dreamed of being welcomed, embraced, accepted by my people for who I was.
Creiddylad’s smile was at best indulgent; at worst, condescending.
“Dear girl,” she said, “you’re mistaken. This is our daughter.” She waved a hand to indicate the girl on the smaller throne next to her.
The girl had Cerys’s generous mouth, and John’s dark blue eyes. Cerys’s curves, John’s height, and something in the way she held herself reminded me of both of them. Poised, confident, graceful.
They’d named her Poppy, “our little poppet,” and it certainly fit her, the blond child they’d brought home from the hospital, far more than it ever did me.
Yet she lacked one important quality that set her far apart from her birth parents, and that seemed to be emotion. She regarded me with the same polite distance that the faerie king and queen did; I sensed no kindness, saw no compassion in her blue eyes.
She was missing Cerys’s fervor when Cerys told the ancient stories, made them come alive, shone a light on the magic in them. She lacked John’s joy of cooking and his passion when he painted.
“No,” I said. “I’m your daughter. The one you exchanged for her.”
I wanted to ask them why. I’d always wanted to ask them why—but then, I’d always believed the exchange had been to keep me safe, to protect me. Or that maybe it had all been a mistake, and they’d been unable to find me again. Or any of a hundred obvious reasons why they’d give up their precious, beloved child.
Now I didn’t want to know the answer, because now I was scared it would be one I’d never considered.
“No,” Gwyn said, a hint of impatience in his voice. “She is whom we chose, and whom we raised, and who sits at our side.”
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