Part 1.

AN INTRODUCTION

My name is Robert Carlisle. I am currently a resident in an asylum for the mentally ill - my previous lodgings were at the court of the faerie King. I am six and twenty years of age, two of which were spent upon this sojourn amongst the wood peoples, and I write to you now to detail this journey.

Better writers than I have attempted tomes on the occult, and the faerie especially. Men more learned and more well-known than I, too. What these esteemed scholars lack, and that I have an unfortunate abundance of, is first-hand knowledge of these creatures. Those cognizant of my current lodgings might scoff at this claim. I certainly would have, before the mad chain of events that now has me shackled in this asylum occurred. Hopefully this accounting of my sojourn with the faerie people might prove effective in dissuading young Romantics from following my dismal path.

Firstly, I wish to dispel the notion that the faerie exist in a realm separate from our own. This is patently untrue - I did not cross between worlds in any of my adventures. I think it is a question of perspective. Much like an ant can scarcely comprehend the grand sweep of human civilization when one of our kind treads upon its home, so too are we fundamentally unequipped to comprehend the faerie. Yes, they are amongst us, as we claim daily more of their ancient territories. These facts fuel their burning contempt for humanity and serve as casus belli for their subtle wars against us (and more overt actions, as well - see Chapter 8 for a detailed account of the Fey-Russo War of 1854). I suppose I cannot blame them - all sentient creatures have a right to defend their nation against those who would encroach upon it.

The second myth to dispel is a simple question of definition. There are those who would, in error, lump the faerie in with the trolls, pixies, leprechauns, brownies, and grindylows. While all listed do indeed exist, there are key differences between the faerie and their cousins, which I shall enumerate at a later juncture.

And to you scoffers and doubters, I address this in particular to you. The world shrinks daily; as each fable dies, it becomes a little shabbier. I ask only that you entertain this one. I ask only that you believe.

*

James, a rogue of thirty some years, was regaling us with his tales of the wars. He claimed he was Wellington’s personal assistant, and spoke proudly of polishing the Duke’s boots. The lady of the house, a gray haired madam with glittering dark eyes and a nervous head, followed his stories with a delighted incomprehension, her empty head filled with glorious cavalry charges and heroic deeds. James, using his knife like a lancet, neatly carved off a piece of mutton and disabused her of this notion.

“Aye, things could get pretty close in those days. Ofttimes all a man could trust was hisself - Brown Bess was a fickle lass. Came down to hands and knives often enough.”

I hissed something about proper table conversation, but Ms. Hardwick positively squealed in delight. James, seeing a willing party to his dreadful (and wildly untrue) tales, grinned like a fox, the long scar livid on his ruddy cheek. And so he launched into even more gruesome exploits, munching at his dinner and describing the choicest locations to stab a man. I languished in utter boredom at the far end of the table, morosely contemplating my overcooked mutton - one did not travel with a man for a month without hearing these sorts of stories, twice over. I rubbed my fingertips on the fine table, its surface burnished into a sort of darkened mirror, reflecting my face as though from a great distance.

“Too right, eh, Robert?”

I glanced up blankly. “Oh, quite.”

James grinned and took a swig of his wine - I feared he was well on his way to becoming beastly drunk - though from the sheen of excitement in Ms. Hardwick’s eyes, I doubted that would be an issue.

“So as I was saying…”

I diverted my attention to the tableware - nicked pewter and dented silver, all lovingly polished. Ms. Hardwick was one of those bankrupt nobles, her name worth more sterling than all her property, living in an old dream. My eyes passed smoothly over the portraits on the wall, the sideboard lined with its liquors, the window with its ghostly reflections and… something else.

I focused quickly, and beheld a face, there in the window. It was incredible - all I glimpsed was the impression of a nose and the flash of two eyes, but I was sure somebody stood without. But who? And why? Surely the gardener had no business poking about this late at night, and in any event, that man was not in possession of such eyes…

“Robert, are you choking?” Ms. Hardwick inquired, laying a fleshy palm on my hand.

I coughed. “No, no, not a bit Ms. Hardwick. But if you might… excuse me for a moment?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Certainly, my dear.”

I stood up abruptly, nearly sending the chair toppling over in the action, and hurried from the room. Those eyes! I blundered through the poorly illuminated front hallways, staggering through them like a man possessed. I paused at the door, breathing deeply, and listened. James was regaling Ms. Hardwick with a particularly uproarious tale, and so I eased open the door as their laughter, hers fluting and high-pitched, his rough and uncouth, reached a peak. The warm spring air embraced me, heady as a lady’s perfume, almost soporific in effect. And yet my heart beat triple-time with the thought of that mysterious face. I strode around the side of the manor, my fine leather shoes whisking through the long grass. Distant crickets sang their songs, their unknowable stridulations reminders of the great dark world that resided outside the purview of silver tableware and candle-lit rooms. Breathless, I turned the corner of the house. The dining room cast a golden patch of illumination upon the grass. Nobody stood within it. I cast my eyes into the darkness of the nearby woods - naught but menacing trees and shadow. I went to the window, and saw plainly on the grass two footprints. Someone had been there! I laid a hand on the mortar and felt the fading remnants of warmth, where another’s hand must have pressed just moments before. I looked again to the woods, and perceived the faintest trembling of a sapling.

“Hello?” I hissed, mindful not to draw the attention of the diners inside. The faint sound of receding feet was the only response. And as I stood there, with an unknown observer fleeing into the dark heart of the woods, I was indecisive. Nothing good could come of such a confrontation - lord only knows what sort of ruffian would engage in such skulking voyeurism. But then the memory of those two eyes came to me - like molten gold, they were. Without another thought I pursued the noise, blundering into the trees. My eyes were unused to the darkness, but quickly adjusted as I attempted to wend my way amongst the trees. I did a rather better job of scraping my face than stealthily pursuing, unfortunately, and by the time my eyes were adjusted to the darkness, I was panting, feeling as if one of the better pugs had had a go at me. One heel of a shoe had been chipped as I had stumbled over a stone, and my dress was in utter disarray. I stopped for a moment and gasped air, unsure of myself. Why had I come here? And how long had I been here? It was just light enough to discern the time upon my pocketwatch. I checked it again. Surely that it was wrong - it claimed I had left the dinner a little more than two hours prior. Confused and discomfited, I replaced my pocketwatch and looked about.

The woods around me were beginning to assume a dread aspect, their impassive faces and reaching branches a vague promise of some indescribable violence yet to come, a vampiric and unwholesome desire to entangle, to trip and catch and crush. These trees were not the cheery residents of Hyde Park I knew so well - no, there was something sinister and nearly feral about these wooden sentinels. I attempted to laugh at myself - frightened by trees! What would James have to say about that? But the laughter died in my throat and lay there, bitter and poisonous on the back of my tongue.

And that was when I heard laughter. It was a single voice, feminine and bewitching, echoing strangely. At one moment it sounded as it were coming to my ears from a great distance, and the next, I was positive the laughter’s owner stood directly behind me. I jumped and twisted about like a frightened cat, the sweet laughter rebounding off the grim trees.

I did not dare trust my voice to speak, and yet I could not stop myself. “Hello?” I called, tentatively. The laughter ceased abruptly, as if a conductor had brought an entire orchestra to an abrupt halt with a single imperious gesture. The lugubrious calls of owls and the chittering of hidden insects were all I could hear. I stood breathless - what was the meaning of it all?

“Reveal yourself!” I shouted, with force lent more from fear than command.

I waited, half-expecting some sort of response, half-hoping for nothing but silence. A sudden wind picked up, breezing through the dark trees. And borne upon that wind was a message, rendered in no tongue I knew, but urgent and dire all the same. Someone was trying to communicate with me! A chill ran down my spine, and I called out again - the wind intensified, promising and cajoling me, driving me mad with curiosity and fear.

“I can’t understand you,” I said. And as my voice faded, so too did the wind, leaving me becalmed in the strange woods like a ship upon the open seas. My ears could deliver me nothing, and I felt defeated. But my eyes perceived something, the faintest glow in the distance - as if a fallen star pulsed among the far trees, an eldritch light causing me to wonder if my eyes played me false. But I would not turn back, not then. I moved forward with the languid determination of a somnabulist, compelled by a dreamlike magnetism. As I neared, I again heard faint strains of laughter - this, however, was merely the sound of a merry group, not the haunting laughter I had experienced not moments before. I approached even more cautiously, the strange light intensifying in time with the laughter, and soon I realized I approached a clearing in the trees. Shadowy figures flitted between the gaps in the trees, their motion portentous and fearful, as if engaged in some sort of pagan rite. What was I coming upon?

Whatever I might have thought, the reality was nothing like it. I came close enough that the laughter and voices should have resolved themselves into something comprehensible, but I still failed to understand - as if underwater, I drew even nearer. Like a cat burglar, I drew to the final rank of trees ringing the clearing, laying a trembling hand on one to steady myself. Then, breathing deeply through my nose, so as to make as little noise as possible, I tilted my head ever so slowly, to see what lay before me.

What I report to you now has been met with general derision and scorn, but I swear to you now it is true. The clearing held a party unlike any I had ever seen. At the far end of it there was a great tree-stump, fashioned into a crude sort of throne. Seated at that throne was what I thought at that time a man. He had the invincible confidence and command of all sovereigns - the simple crown laying upon his aristocratic brow merely reinforced my assumption. Before him stood casual ranks and files of petitioners, garbed in the most fantastic manner - I do believe I saw one man wearing a jacket entirely of oak leaves. These strange folk were all talking and laughing with the other, whatever business they had been conducting temporarily suspended. At the right of this king of the woods loomed a hulk, with wild tangled hair and shoulders broad as a blacksmith. And to his left stood a girl. My breath was snatched away from me as I beheld her beauty - who was she? Perhaps the daughter of this mysterious ruler - she was whispering in his ear, one delicate hand cupped over her hand and mouth. The king frowned impressively at whatever secret she was imparting him, and I nearly forgot myself, so absorbed was I in the beauty of this wonderful creature at the far end of the clearing. I leaned a little farther out, to gain a better vantage, and became nearly certain that she was the one I had seen at the window; she was the one who had laughed in the woods. This surmise was borne out a moment later when she turned her head, revealing those golden eyes - and pointed directly at me in my hiding spot.

I scarcely had time to blink before two rough looking types rushed me. They were small and moved with the careless speed of cats, leaping with long teeth revealed and bearing me to the ground. I hit the earth and the air burst from my lungs, and I gasped like a landed fish, watching with shock as one of the brutes raised a fist. It flashed towards my face, and I remembered nothing for some time after that.

When I awoke, I was in a cage of unorthodox construction. The cage was of secondary importance, however, as the welt on my forehead throbbed and pulsed with each moment. Groaning, I levered myself to a sitting position, woozy and disoriented. I glanced about myself, making note of the cage. Certainly unlike those great wrought-iron boxes they transported men to the gallows in - no, this particular cage was all wood. As far as I could discern, I lay imprisoned at the base of a tree, confined by a dense and peculiarly shaped root structure. I went to the twisted bars - the gap between them permitted no more than a bare handsbreadth, and even then at the cost of scraped skin. From what I could see, this prison possessed no door. Stupefied, I looked high and low, crouching and examining each root - I found nothing. I stood, frustrated, and found myself face to face with the hulk I had seen earlier. He gazed at me curiously, in much the same way the ladies had observed the chimpanzees at the London Zoo. He stood a head taller than myself, his wild hair suitably paired with eyes of such savage intensity that I involuntarily recoiled from him - violence was present in his every brutish feature.

“How long was I out for? Quite a span, it seems - you managed to grow a tree about me in the interim.”

He cocked his head, and uttered a string of gibberish. Wincing, I prodded gently at the great lump upon my forehead - had I sustained some sort of injury? It was then that I realized I stood before no man. Examining him at my near remove, I noticed that his skin was a pallid shade of blue. And his hair was not black, as I had originally thought, but rather a deep hue of green. This was certainly extraordinary, but his unusual colouring was the least of it. He barked more of that peculiar language, and then snorted when he saw my uncomprehending stare. He turned away, and squarely between his broad shoulder blades rested two withered wings. I sat down rather abruptly, deeply curious as to what I had gotten myself into. A long night passed, and I felt the presence of eyes upon me throughout the course of it. I was still disoriented from the injury to my head, and lay inert on the hard-packed dirt, listening absently to their babbling and trying to tamp down the hot flush of terror at the pit of my stomach. At some point, I drifted to sleep.

I awoke with another visitor peering down at me. This one bore a carved wooden crown upon his brow, and I recognized his lordly disposition and accipitrine eyes. I groggily made obeisance, which he regarded with an amused smirk.

“My name,” said I, rising to my feet, “is Robert Carlisle. I am an Englishman, and whatever charge you have imprisoned me on, whatever offense I may have given, I assure you it was unintentional.”

This he regarded with a genuine smile, but not one that held any understanding. I sighed - the ape was merely doing something amusing. I sat back down, and he left, to be replaced by a long procession of the curious. I took on the sullen disposition of the caged and observed, and frankly assessed them even as they did the same to me.

THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE FAERIE
—————————-

The identity of these incredible creatures quickly becomes manifest to the keen observer. Even I, in my dazed state, came to the conclusion that I was dealing with the supernatural quickly enough. Many poets and artists have hazarded guesses as to the appearance and carriage of these beings - the poets and artists are wrong. Faerie are said to be small, winged creatures with mischievous natures and a faculty for caprice - this judgment is true, but only for a subset of the broader population. These would be the sprites, my term for juvenile faerie. The faerie operate much like butterflies in reverse; the adolescents have insectile wings, and at a certain threshold to maturity, these wings become useless and slough off. Past their winged youth, adult faeries defy generalization. Their appearance is as varied the nature they inhabit, with many of the same colours appearing on their person: beryl, blood, and copper eyes, hair the colour of moss, rivers, or bark, skin the colour of fresh-tilled earth, lilies, or a dusty rose. Every imaginable hue and shade could be discovered upon them, vivid as wildflowers. In stature, they tended towards delicacy. Adults might be mistaken for a human youth, at a distance. Again, such rules of thumb are usually devoid of utility when discussing such creatures - certain of their members, like the male with the rotted wings, stood taller than most men.

*

I know not how long I languished within the confines of that cell. Time grew liquid, like it had in the forest, shifting and running through my addled mind. I felt not at all myself, my thoughts jumbled, a strange alien presence at the hindmost parts of my brain, a great green force, vibrating within me. It was disconcerting, and the ignominy of extended imprisonment only added to my distress. The welt on my forehead slowly faded, however, even as I myself seemed to fade. Sometime after that first interminable night, I was given a handful of berries and a slim flute of water. I swallowed these without hesitation, and felt their effects immediately. The water especially was most potent - faerie water is not like the dingy stuff we drink - it is pure to the point of pain, cold and perfect, sluicing through the throat. It was welcome relief - the Faerie King had returned at many points during those hours, each with a different retinue at his back, a new gaggle of sight seers. He would gesture at me until I spoke, and they would laugh uproariously. I lay one day with eyes closed, in between dream and the real as dusk threw its crimson mantle over the sky and painted the enchanted woods a lurid red. I heard a hiss, as if someone sought to gain my attention. Assuming it to be the King again, eager to mock my human tongue, I wearily recited my lines, eyes still closed:

” I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine. “

There was no attendant laugh. I cracked one eye open to see why this was so. Crouching on the other side of the roots was the female - the one who had bewitched me and lead me into the forest, the one who had betrayed me, the one who had brought me to this loathsome prison with its daily parade of insults. And even as my rage boiled at the thought of this careless enchantress, it evaporated under the still greater heat of her eyes. She looked at me as I have never been looked upon before in the whole of my life - her eyes bore an intensity that bordered on the frightening. But there was no contempt, as I had found in the hulk, nor amusement, as in the king. Just a ferocious curiosity. Compelled, as I found myself whenever I was in her presence, I stood shakily, and made my way to the bars. I loomed over her for a moment, and she gazed up at me, then stood to her full height. She came only to my collarbone, and was as delicate as a bird, with slender fingers and dainty wrists. Her eyes I have enumerated the merits of many times before, and the reddish light only accentuated them - gold and crimson, treasure and passion, wealth and blood. Up close I saw her skin was the exquisite shade of an iris flower, her hair bright as memory. I found I had to remind myself to breathe in her presence. She was clothed in the woods themselves, a riotous dress of new shoots and leaves draped over her body. Flowers bloomed across the bodice, woven into the plants - I gazed in wonderment at this attire - this was merely my first sight of the great power of faerie magic. She continued to stare at me a long moment, and extended an arm through the bars. I stood stock still in my ragged coat and dirtied shoes, face covered in stubble and hair wild as that brute. I watched with a sort of fascination as her fingers, sinuous and probing as tendrils, wound their way around my fob.

“Too right, eh, Robert?” She said, as a schoolgirl might repeat an idle rhyme. I was nevertheless shocked. “English, I say! You speak english!” I shouted. She started at the outburst, looked at me quizically, and then diverted her attention again to the golden chain. I sighed - a mockingbird, it seemed. I gently tugged my pocketwatch free of its berth and showed her its once exquisite face, now cracked at some point during my mad forest pursuit. The fading sunlight glittered prettily upon it, and she smiled as if I had placed the very sun into the palm of her hand. If the effect of her face in watchful repose was moving, the sight of it in a transport of joy was enormous. She stroked the cracked glass, turning it over, examining the inscription. She rubbed a single fingertip around its circumference, cooing and singing idly to herself, nearly under her breath.

“Who goes there? Stop, I say! Did you hear something?”

How many windows had this creature stared into? A great tenderness was born within me at that moment, and with the dying sun above, I clasped one of her small hands within both of my own, and slowly pressed it against my breast.

“Robert,” I said.

Her smile faltered as her attention moved from the watch face to my own, and I repeated it, with greater conviction. “Robert.”

The smile broke again across her perfect face, even broader. She then tugged my hand through the bar, and laid it upon her chest. I could feel her heart beating rapidly - either from excitement or merely the greater speed the faerie kin possess in most things.

What she said my tongue was incapable of reproducing, and impossible to write here. But I was overcome with a single name, and whispered to her: “Morgana.” She heard this was some delight, and repeated it a few times, the name positively music on her lips. I heard rustling in the distance, and the eerie faerie laughter and chatter that marked the kings approach. She started at this, and released my hand, which I wistfully withdrew. She looked over her shoulder, frowned, and then turned to me once more. A brief smile flashed across her face, and she said, “Robert”, then turned and ran off into the woods, green skirts grasped in both fists as she fled.

“Morgana,” I whispered, leaning my forehead against the twisted roots.

The king and his party drew near, and came to stop before my cage. He made a single sharp beckoning gesture with his hand, my signal to commence. Voice thick with emotion, I focused on their alien eyes.

” Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon’s sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.”

They broke into peals of laughter as I watched them, stony-eyed. The sun finally relinquished the sky, and night fell.