A Faery's Tale - Chapters 1, 2 & 3

Tone Filter

"Of Gods and Myths. Of Magic and Might.
Of Frogs in Mists. Of Tragic de Light."

         There have been many tales of magic and mystery in faraway lands; like Neverland, the Faewyld, or Wonderland. Places the hero is thrown into; where the adventurer must find their way out. Stories of heroes traveling through the Goblin King's treacherous domain. Tales of young people from humble backgrounds growing into prophecy-fulfilling heroes. Stories of people surviving against all odds due to divine intervention. Legends of defeating evil foes, or narrowly avoiding some world-destroying calamity. Tales of glory sought and won. Legends of heroes and myths and lore. Stories of time being traveled and altered, or powerful magic released to some great purpose.
         Old stories of good intentions leading to horrible outcomes; of death and pain and sorrow. Stories of hope and change, of light and heart. Tales of traveling dangerous roads through foreign lands. Tales of paths that change our internal landscape; impressing upon us some inherent truth about humanity.

This is not one of those stories.

         Truly, this story won't have a happy ending—probably. In all honesty, I'm not exactly sure how it will end. Endings are tricky things you see. There's always another question. Time always marches on—until it doesn't. People keep hoping, striving, and trying. In short, people are kind of like cockroaches. They don't really give up. Oh sure, some individuals might quit. But, overall, the human race is surprisingly adaptive. Of course, this does lead to many maladaptive traits.
         Mal is such a fun prefix to stick onto things, isn't it? It's kind of sticky too. You can't just remove 'mal' from some words after it's stuck for too long. No one says 'evolence' anymore—no, of course not. It's always malevolence. Shame too, evolence was such a great word. You'd probably translate it to 'wish' or something similar. But really, it was more active. It was a will ... a desire, true; but it had real driving force to the word. Oh well, it's ok that the word has fallen out of fashion. I'll try to use your modern dialect, but it is difficult to remember what words you humans consider archaic sometimes.
         Why, it was just the other day a person told me they didn't know that the prefix 'mal' referred to men. It's obviously the old form of "male" after all, and you lot still use that word last I checked.
         Anyway, this story isn't very good. If you're looking for a fun little romp of success to—
         There's a term that's used these days—what was that?—it's sort of like "forgetting all your troubles and enjoying the life of a fictional person" but I can't remember the term. Escapism? Hmm... maybe. My memory hasn't been great for a long time. Either way, the term doesn't matter.
         When I forget the right word, I'll just make something up from now on. That way, you'll know that I forgot the word and we can both just move on with our lives and get back to our normal imcogniscience. See, that wasn't too difficult, was it?
         But, as I was saying, this isn't a very good tale. You should probably put the book down, or close the app. People use apps these days, right? Well, if you're using one of those odd magical devices that shine light at your face—most people walk around with them in their pockets!— it's truly incredible, but you should put it away. Stop reading, go back to your dull life; the boring job, the middling family, the mass-produced identity. I know I'm being a bit harsh. Honestly, I'm just bitter and jealous. Truly, I wish you the best with it. I remember wanting such a simple existence one time. Hell, I even tried getting it once. But no, somethings are just not meant to be. As I said, this isn't a very good story.

         A grouchy old person thought they knew better than a persnickety idiot. Their argument turned violent. Horrible things happened. Loved ones died, relationships shattered, and connections crumbled.

The End

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Two Star Readers

         You're still here? Oh! Well, that's great! Sorry about being such a downer earlier. I really just wanted to get rid of those types. You know the ones. They leave one-star reviews, complain about getting too much ice in their fountain drink, and usually want to speak to the manager about something.
         I'd say these one-star types are 'Karens' but that reference is already a bit long in the tooth. Besides, I never felt it was fair to someone who was actually named Karen. True, they could just pick a new name. I suggest Charlotte. Charlotte's a good name. Of course, there's the whole spiderweb thing.
         Come to think of it, spider's get an unusual amount of negative press. Humans really do have a tendency to project their worst attributes onto other creatures; just look at snakes for example. I believe it has something to do with an inherent fear. After all, if humans were afraid of everything they didn't understand then it would explain so much of my own story.
         Oh right, my story. Yea, I was supposed to tell you about that. I guess I should start with a confession. I lied earlier. There are elves and goblins and magic in this tale. You could even say it's set in a mystical land. Of course, I think Chicago is pretty mystical so what do I know? Then again, the city lost a lot of it's charm after it burned down. Sorry about the cow by the way. I didn't know they startled so easily!
         As I already said, we have a persnickety idiot that argued with a grouchy old person. Who could these two characters be? What did they fight about? Oooo! Mystery! Everyone loves a good mystery, right?
         Wrong! No one likes mystery at all. People like resolving a mystery. They like the loose ends to be tied up neatly in a bow. Anything less and they'll spend half a day leaving a two-star review.
         Thing is, people also like to trust that the author will resolve the mystery. I'd tell you to go ahead and flip to the back of the book and look for the names Charlotte and Leannyn, but that's kinda difficult here. Besides, if they're not near the end then I'm about to have a very bad time soon.
         The persnickety idiot, as you may have guessed, is me. Hmm, I'm not sure I want to give you my real name right now. We just met after all. Names can have odd powers attached to them. How about you call me Charlotte? But forget about spiders or their web-weaving magics. No, I'm just Charlotte. I'd love to say that I'm just a normal faery mistress, but those years are long gone these days. I doubt they'd let me return to the Faewyld anyway.
         Is the Faewyld the right word for it now? I do find it difficult to keep up. It's ok if you don't call it that. I'm not fussed about what you call it. You couldn't really pronounce it's true name anyway, and I'm not sure how to get this magic box you call a 'computer' to reproduce the correct characters. Besides, my people don't usually draw squiggly symbols to represent various sounds. We never saw a good reason to write stuff down. Why bother writing things down when you can just tell people? It was only in the last few hundred years that I learned to write myself. You humans do have a way of infecting those around you with your odd habits.

         Anyway, I was having a grand time near my river in the forests when the world ... well, you don't have a term for it I don't think. Is there a word for "the usual sensation of life-sustaining magic in the air shuddered, sputtered, and quivered"? Well, this shuddering felt like someone raked a knife down my spine—only, the knife was made of ice. No, it was like I forgot how to breathe for awhile. No, that's not quite it either. Let's just say it wasn't good. And of course, everyone felt it.
         Not long afterward, the nymphs I had been dancing with near the river heard a summons from one of the fish messengers—I think it was a herring. A small dove told me of the same summons, and we all had to make the lengthy—and quite boring—trek to the local Faery Queen's Court.
         Now, if you've never been in a royal courtroom then it might be difficult to imagine. Times really are different these days. It was far easier a few hundred years ago—wait, what year is it?—oh no, it would've been closer to eight hundred years ago the last time I told a human about the Faery Queen's Court. Time does slip quickly away on occasion.
         Honestly it's for the best. Human kings and queens don't make a lot of sense. You're really telling me that most humans just let some random person tell everyone else what to do? And you let them kill everyone who doesn't obey? I can see why there were so many revolutions since the last time I came here.
         Anyway, the Queens and Kings of the Faewyld didn't didn't come about because they killed everyone who thought differently—or even because one of their parents did. They don't keep their position because of some forced belief in a non-existent magical being either. No, a Faery Queen or King get the position because they're forced into it. Trust me, no one—and I mean no one— wants to have that job.
         For one thing, you can't abdicate the throne. The magic keeps you there until you die. Do you have any idea how long it takes for an immortal to die? I don't either, but I'm pretty sure it's a long time. I've only known a Fae creature to die from wounds, and not from aging. True, the position comes with a grand title, but it's not the real title. Again, names are difficult. Our language doesn't translate well.
         Now, it's important to understand that there isn't a single Faery Queen or King. No one would be powerful enough for that. You see, the crowns and regalia they wear drain away magic. The magic from the crown permeates the land, with a little left over to prevent the Royal person from ever escaping. It's a simple system.
         We're magical creatures after all, and we need magic to keep living. In return, we make sure the Royals are taken care of. They're usually so weak from being drained that they can barely move. I had to spend a few hundred years washing the backside of a king once; you don't want that job.
         I was eventually able to get a small family of rabbits to take over after I sold them a cache of rotten eggs. Don't worry about them. They said it was better than what they were doing for the Ox Queen.
         Anyway, the local Queen was kept in a tranquil glade deep in the forest; set upon a rocky high place. The stream with the nymphs was on the edge of that forest. The journey through the woods wouldn't take that long; maybe a decade or so. Nothing too arduous.
         I even had a couple nymphs for company during the first years. They didn't really have the patience to keep going on foot and decided to evaporate so they could fly there. If you've never met a water nymph, then consider yourself lucky. They're great dancers of course—I have to say that, or they'll thump me—but they are rather competitive and don't have much patience.
         When I was about halfway there, maybe five or six years in, I met a small group of satyr. Wait a second, there's a word here for that. Is it a gaggle? No, that's geese. A murder? No, that would be crows. Hmm... what's the word for a group of satyrs? Damn, now I'm getting hung up on words again. We'll just call it a stator, because I like alliteration.

Satyr Trouble

         So, I came across a stator of satyrs—or are they a senate?—and the poor things were weeping something terrible.
         "What's that here, master satyr?" I sang. Ok, I didn't actually sing that, or even say it. But, it's fun.
         "My poor flute is gone forever!" one of the satyrs said.
         "My drum is broken!" wailed another.
         "My wife died, my dog ran away, and I lost an arm!" decried the third.
         This was, of course, ridiculous. Satyrs didn't have wives or dogs, and I could see both of his arms quite clearly.
         "Where did you last see your flute?" I asked.
         "It was clutched in his arm!" the first satyr said.
         "And how did your drum break?" I asked, turning to the second one.
         "The dog ate it," he wailed morosely.
         "And you?" I asked, turning to the last one. "You really had a wife, a dog, and an extra arm?"
         While I would like to say the satyr's face flushed with anger from being accused of lying, this wouldn't be very accurate. Satyr's, of course, are known for their deep red skin tone. In fact, my people have an old saying that means 'accomplishing the impossible.' It goes: Making a satyr blush. So his face didn't get flushed, but his hands did ball into fists and he stomped a hoof on the ground, which is probably close enough.
         "How dare you elf!" the third satyr yelled. "The arm wasn't extra! It belonged to my wife! She got it from a troll."
         "I'm a faery, not an elf!" I snapped. "You overgrown excuse for a goat."
         "How dare you!" he retorted.
         I realized too late that I had probably been a bit too harsh. All three of them took that rather poorly. Two of them picked up some rather tough looking sticks—clubs? It's always hard to know what to call these things. You humans do have such a strange language.
         "Look, I'll forget the elf comment and you three forget the goat thing," I said.
         They didn't seem ready to forget anything as they stared at me with sour expressions. So, I raised my right hand, whispered a soft word, and made small flames dance around my upturned palm. I am a faery after all, and I know how to take care of myself.
         They let the issue drop, and fortunately for me, they let the sticks drop to the ground as well. I released my hold on the small fire sprites and they flittered away into sparks.
         "So, your wife died?" I started, "But satyrs don't have wives."
         "She wasn't married to me, obviously," the third satyr intoned. "But she was a wife of someone—that I can guarantee. She came here with a dog."
         "And I suppose she ran off with the dog?" I asked sarcastically, crooking an eyebrow at him.
         "Of course not! That's just ridiculous. The troll ate the dog," he declared.
         "That's a good one," I said. "But we all know dogs don't really exist. They're just strange creatures we frighten our young ones with."
         "They do too exist! We saw it!" the second satyr interjected.
         "Sure do miss," the first one said, "much as I wish they didn't. Terrible creatures, those dogs."
         "Guess it's a good thing the troll was around," I mused.
         "True enough that," agreed the third. "But I'm gonna miss that ugly little beast. And I don't know where my wife ran off to."
         "Did she take the arm that held the flute?" I asked, trying to confirm the story.
         "Of course she did," he said, "She was clutching that arm like her life depended on it."
         "Do you know who's arm it was?"
         "I do!" the drummer said. "She mentioned it belonged to a 'dearrodderick' or something like that. But I dunno what a dearrodderick would be."
         "Hmmm..." I said, tapping my lips. "This is quite the quandary. I've heard tales of human men being named Rodderick but I've never heard of a Dearrodderick. I wonder if they're some special variety."
         "If only I had my flute, then we could call her back," the first satyr said. He sat down on the soft ferns between the trees and began to cry. "My dear mother gave me that flute."
         "You had a deer mother?" I asked, "Maybe the deer mother can get her deer kids to help us look for them."
         "That's his 'dearest mother' you willow-limbed ninny!" the third satyr said sharply.
         "Oh! Yea, that makes a little more sense. I'm truly sorry you lost your flute," I said, turning to the little satyr in the ferns.
         "Hey, do you think the lady meant her dearest Rodderick?" the drummer said, sitting down besides the flutist.
         "There could be some logic to that," I said, and tasted that odd acidic sharpness on my tongue. Not wanting to be rude, I spat on the ground to rid myself of the foul stuff. I didn't want them to think I was making that ugly face because of them.

         I've been informed by a human, who I allowed to read this tale before you managed to stumble upon it, that you don't experience sharp, acidic sensations on your tongue. Or rather, that such an experience is only the result of placing something—physically—on your tongue. Like, why would you humans ever place something on your tongue that hurts you? For me, and indeed for all faeries, different concepts taste differently. Making any kind of logical statement leaves an unpleasant, bitter taste in my mouth.

         "The troll might be able to help," said the drummer, "but I can't call him without the drum."
         "A drum!" I said, perking up with an idea. "What kind of drum did you have?"
         "Ya know, the usual kind," the satyr said. "Round, human skin stretched tight over a box made from the skull of a bhyraghalia—just a basic drum really."
         "Hmm..." I thought. "Well, I don't have those materials to hand. But, I could sing one from the Oak tree ... maybe. I'll have to ask the Oak first, of course."
         "Of course, the Oak would have to agree," the little satyr drummer said. "Couldn't tune such a drum if the Oak didn't. But, what would the head be made from?"
         "Ah, there's a right sour grape to sink your teeth into," the third satyr said. "Can't get the human skin without the wife, can't get the wife without the troll, and can't get the drum without the wife."
         I shrugged. "We could use the troll's skin, I guess," I said, as I walked to the nearest Oak that looked agreeable.
         The trick is to find an Oak that's not too young or too old. If it's too young, it'll be too dimwitted to understand what you want, and you may end up with a plum instead of a drum. If it's too old, then the drum will always have a creak to it.
         "Can't use the troll's skin!" the drummer said. "Far too thick. You'll get notes that tumble out all lazy and never skip off to catch anyone's attention."
         "Besides," the third satyr said, "that's the same puzzle only shorter. We already did that joke, so we certainly can't do it again."
         "Fair point," I said, not really paying attention to the trio. "I'm going to get the box for that drum, be right back."
         I had found the perfect Oak for such a thing. I did say the trick earlier, but there are actually a few tricks to singing a drum box from an Oak tree. After selecting the right one, the next thing to do is get the Oak's attention. So I walked up the trunk and began looking for it's face. Their faces are usually hard to find, unless they're very old.

         Ok, the human who read this before you has made a note saying, What do you mean you walked up the trunk? I had a discussion with this person and came to the conclusion that humans tend to only walk on the ground. Well, faeries don't care that you people assume the correct direction for down is always the same everywhere.
         For me, down is whatever happens to be below my feet. So, if I want to go upwards, the easiest way is to make that direction forwards by making the current forwards into downwards. Did that clear the matter up? Hope so, because I'd like to move forward with the story now.

         So, I walked up the side the large Oak tree and found it's face. The usual method worked well last time, so I did the same thing to wake the tree this time: I stomped hard on it's nose. It did wake the tree, but don't worry, they don't feel pain.
         "Ow!" the Oak yelled, "That really hurt! Why'd you do that?"
         "Hey there Oak!" I said cheerfully. You see, it's important to address Oak trees in a happy way. They tend to get grumpy if you don't. Oh, and never talk to a Spruce in a happy way. In fact, you'd probably be better off not talking to trees at all, especially not Birch trees. They're absolutely horrible.
         "Well hello there, my little faery friend," the Oak chortled out slowly in her odd breezy voice.
         "We have a bit of a problem," I said, looking the Oak in her eyes. They do have wonderful yellow eyes by the way. Like soft rays of sunlight on a deep woodland pool. But, that's the poet in me, and we can't get distracted.
         "What's the problem then," the Oak said.
         "You know the story about the stupid turkey?" I asked.
         "I've heard of this manling tale, but we have another one about the acorn," she intoned.
         "Ya, probably that. I'm not sure I've heard it," I said, before quickly adding, "but we don't have time to go into the details. We need a drum box."

         Ok, once again, the human reader told me that I need to explain what I mean by "stupid turkey story". I thought for sure you'd have heard of it; humans invented that tale after all. Trust me, we don't have turkeys where I'm from. But, the story goes like this.
A turkey crossed the road to get to the other side, because the other side contained an egg. The egg asked how old the turkey was. The turkey didn't know, but thought it was a good question. So, the turkey asked the egg how old it was. The egg didn't know. Thus, no one knew which came first, the turkey or the egg. There, I told you it was a dumb manling tale. Can we get back to the Oak tree now?

         "A drum box?" the Oak asked.
         "Yep, drum box," I said. "Round thing, hole through the middle, stretch a piece of something over it to bang on."
         "Ah yes, a drum box," the Oak said. "How could I help with a drum box though?"
         "I was gonna sing one from your wood," I said.
         "But how can I help with a drum box though?"
         Believe it or not, Oak trees are actually some of the smarter trees out there. Most trees are even worse. I think an elf had a theory describing an inverse proportion of wood density between the types, but I'm pretty sure that person spends their days eating toast.
         "Well, can I sing some of your wood for it?" I asked.
         "Oh, yes," the Oak said, "that is a good question."

         I waited. This wasn't the first time I'd dealt with Oaks.

         "I suppose that would be alright," the Oak said, after a lengthy amount of consideration—I think.
         It's always hard to tell what is going on inside an Oak's mind. I'm never quite certain if they're thinking about something, or just falling back asleep.
         I once saw an Oak that fell asleep with it's eyes open—it's eyelids shutting so slowly that it took over a year for them to close. It's a good thing I was around to dust off the eyes, or the Oak would've gotten grit into places where it really shouldn't be.
         "Thanks!" I said cheerfully, remembering my manners. "You can go back to sleep now."
         "Just don't take it from the larger branch around the back," the Oak added. "A family of nesting oozlum moved in and I don't want them disturbed."
         "Oh, congratulations!" I said, and offered a slight bow. "May good fortune be upon you and yours."
         The Oak rumbled an appropriate response, and her large, yellow eyes began drooping shut.
         I sung the box, and brought it back down the tree to the satyrs.
         The three were dancing and skipping around a unicorn while laughing merrily. They were also wrapping the unicorn in grape vines as they went, while chanting to a merry tune.
         "Uni uni unique corn," they sang merrily, "came to play and came to scorn"
         The unicorn did not look pleased.