The brook itself was a place of unusual natural beauty—secluded and wonderfully peaceful, surrounded by hills covered in vibrant growths of wildflowers and crested with ancient trees of oak, ash and hawthorn. From the tall grasses beside the narrow road and by the old bridge there grew clusters of lily of the valley, lavender, thyme and foxglove, and thick red and white fly agaric toadstools grew fat and numerous amongst the fallen and rotting trunks of the oldest trees. Still more of these poisonous speckled mushrooms grew in a wide and irregular circle on a grassy hillock not far from the road and the bridge, close to a lone hawthorn whose trunk was oddly gnarled and twisted.
It was a place of unearthly stillness, where even the soft gurgling of the brook faded away if you sat for long enough next to it, and a lingering sense of otherworldly magic hung in the air at all times of the year, even when the barren grip of winter held the land in its icy embrace.
All of us had, at one time or another, heard the faint sounds of music drifting into the village from the direction of the brook on the evening breeze; usually on nights when the full moon sat high in the sky, or at twilight on the solstices. People rarely spoke openly of it, and would hurry quickly inside on such nights, locking doors and securing windows, whilst mothers checked urgently on their children—for it was widely believed that anyone who stood and listened to that faint but haunting melody for too long would soon fall under its spell and be drawn away into the night, never again to be seen in this land.
‘The Fae Folk, the Sidhe, dance on those hills and play in that brook,’ my mother had warned me darkly when I had been a child and old enough to understand, and I had known from the look in her hazel eyes that she had been deathly serious. ‘And you’d best not be there to see them when they do, or you’ll never come home again.’
Whenever I would ask to go out to play, she would always insist that I carry an old iron nail in each pocket, or else she would tie a small bag of dried herbs to my belt, telling me to avoid the brook at noon and dusk and to never go there alone. But I always did. I remember on many occasions I would creep through the morning grass still damp with dew, and crouch expectantly behind a bush or tree, watching and waiting patiently for a glimpse of the Fae. Most of the time there was nothing, and I would trudge home feeling disappointed and empty. But there was one time when I had been out playing in the glorious April sunshine and, on a whim, had set off into the dense woodlands. I loved playing in those overgrown depths. A sense of deep mystery and tranquillity always surrounded me there. I moved between ancient trees whose bloated and lichen-covered trunks had stood for eternity, and picked my way through twisted coils of brambles, around clusters of nettles and past a dense blackthorn, now bright and beautiful with white blossom that treacherously hid the long thorns. The sunlight dappled the forest floor and birdsong and furtive rustlings filled the air around me, but gradually it seemed that the deeper I moved into that green oasis of life the more subdued the birdsong became and the louder those furtive rustlings grew. I knew this forest would lead me out near Sidhe Brook, and I realized also I was half holding my breath with anticipation, hoping to catch sight of the Fae. I slipped silently from the tree line, my trousers covered in green burs, and settled down behind one of the old oaks overlooking the brook and the hawthorn near its faerie ring. The sun was warm enough to take the lingering chill out of the spring breeze, and soon my eyes became heavy. I resolved to stay awake, but my willpower proved inadequate to the task, and I awoke to find nightfall creeping upon the land. My initial annoyance was quickly curbed when I realised that I could hear the sound of bells and a gentle and haunting melody floating through the dusk air.
I recognised it at once from the strange and distant sounds we had all heard at night from time to time—music that the adults had warned us was the song of the Fae.
With my heart racing and my throat dry, I sat up and knelt to peer around the trunk of the tree against which I had been resting. For a moment I thought I could hear the sound of voices and laughter amongst the music. I held my breath as I leaned further out—but as I moved one of the old nails fell from my pocket. I quickly tried to grab it, but my clumsy lunge only managed to hit it further down the slope.
In that instant the music stopped abruptly, and I glanced up in time to see a vague flurry of motion near the tree line. It was so fast I barely had time to register it, but a mix of panic and elation ran through me like a wave. I was frozen to the spot—my eyes transfixed on the growing shadows between the trees and my heart was pounding like a furious drum, seemingly in the back of my throat. I couldn’t even breathe for fear of making a sound.
It was several minutes before I could move again, but it felt like hours. Gradually I edged forward, my eyes never leaving the tree line, and my groping hand quickly recovered the nail from the grass and slipped it back into my pocket.
The woods were still and silent now, but I knew two things with absolute surety: the first was that I had not imagined it, and the second was that my mother was going to kill me for being out so late.
I hurried home as quickly as I could, but I admit that I kept glancing over my shoulder the whole time. The still night air seemed wrong somehow, different than before, though I couldn’t put my finger on why. I couldn’t shake the feeling that somebody was watching either, but the roads behind me had been dark and empty.
Finally, the moment I had been truly dreading arrived—I saw the lights of my house and nervously opened our creaking wooden gate.
Mother, as expected, had been furious, not to mention nearly beside herself with worry. I tried to sneak into the house through the back door, but she had been waiting and pounced on me like a cat as I entered. With her eyes blazing and a long accusing finger pointing directly at me, she quickly forbade me from going out for a whole week, and had even strung small pouches of St John’s wort, rowan berries and iron nails around my window and door in case any of the Fae came searching for me.
I had expected her to forget the whole incident in time, but she had gone on to hang those pouches all around the house, and to refresh the contents each and every year whilst I had lived and grown up there. They were still there when I eventually left home, moving away to the city and the job that waited for me there. It was a surprise then—though in hindsight I suppose it shouldn’t have been—when I finally came home again nine years later, shortly after her sudden passing, to find they were still firmly in place and had apparently been freshly changed earlier that same year.
I returned alone to the house where I had grown up, a mixture of strong emotions battling within me: guilt and regret that I had not been back to visit, amazement at how much smaller the house now seemed, and a curious sense of warped familiarity at how so little had changed whilst also feeling so very different. I had stayed in touch with mother over the phone of course, and had always been diligent to call, but my job had swept me away and life too had derailed the best of intentions. Like a fast-flowing river it had carried me swiftly off into a new world full of deadlines, friends, trips abroad and romance, and the years had raced past with a speed I had barely thought possible. But, as I eventually discovered, there were rocks and treacherous undercurrents in that river too—the romance had ended upon them, and my job had been dragged suddenly beneath the waters, drowned by a crippling recession.
That had been the time when I had decided to come home, seeking the wide green fields and quiet country pathways I had so loved as a child, wanting to escape from the cold steel and concrete of the choking and frenetic city. And ironically, it was as I had reached this decision that the call about my mother’s death had come, adding to my misery and sense of utter dislocation with a world that now seemed more fragile and uncertain than ever before.
The first thing I did after dropping off my bags at the house and quickly checking the old place over, was to head for the small churchyard at the heart of the village. It was strange walking those country lanes again. After stepping through the old lych-gate, I quickly found her grave resting alone in a secluded part of the cemetery, close to an old yew who cast its dark shadow across her grave. She didn’t yet have a headstone installed, and only a small temporary plaque bore her name.
I stood in silence, lost deeply in bittersweet thoughts and memories as the reality of her death finally hit me like a physical blow. I don’t know how long I stood there, the concept of time suddenly ceased to have any meaning. It was a strange feeling given that so much of my recent life had been a slave to the clock: tightly organised and bound by deadlines and timetables and appointments. In the village time assumed less of an importance. Here the cycle of the seasons dictated the organisation of the world, guided the planting and the harvest, the lambing and the tasks of the year.
Standing in that tranquil graveyard, the bright June sun filtering through the trees and forming dappled pools of light across the neatly trimmed grass, I felt oddly like I had been reborn. Breathing in the sweet and fragrant morning air that seemed so pure and fresh after having spent so long in the traffic-fume air of the city was like an elixir that filled me with renewed vitality, and even in my pain and sorrow I felt more alive and connected to the world than I had in years.
‘Graham?’ A voice I half remembered called out, and I turned to see an elderly man and woman standing nearby. It took me a moment to recognize them as Herbert and Ethel—the couple who lived across from the churchyard and who had always given me sweets at Easter when I had been growing up.
‘It is you!’ Herbert smiled warmly, ‘I didn’t know you were home. When did you get back?’
‘You’re looking well,’ Ethel added with a motherly smile before I even had a chance to answer.
‘Just a short time ago, and thanks.’
‘We were so sorry to hear of your mother’s passing,’ Herbert said, casting a respectful glance at the grave.
‘But we all knew it was her time,’ his wife explained gently, reaching out to pat my arm in a comforting manner. ‘We heard the wail of the Bean Sidhe in the night, over your house, and we just knew.’
Herbert looked suddenly embarrassed and gave a quick admonishing glance at his wife, as though worried I might be hurt or offended by her words. Instead, I had a curious sense of remembrance. It had been so long since I had heard anyone speak of the Sidhe, I had almost forgotten all about them. My life in the city had made me forget so much of the lore and tales I had heard as a boy, and had taught me to look at such things as mere superstition. This was not the age of faeries and magic, I mused bitterly, it was the age of human dominance over nature, the brutal taming of the world to suit our selfish needs. The Earth, once cherished and held sacred by many cultures, was now ours to exploit, and the religion of our age was the car and the computer, and money alone opened the mysteries and filled our lives with meaning. Anything else had just been dismissed as old wives’ tales or childish folklore.
But suddenly there they were again, the Sidhe, and with that thought came the immediate recollection of the night I had fallen asleep under the old oak, snapping back into my mind like somebody hitting a light switch, and bringing with it the clarity and vividness as if it had just happened. How could I have forgotten?
‘Well, we’d best be on our way. Good to have you back,’ Herbert had said quickly, looking extremely uncomfortable as he hurried his wife away. He muttered unhappily to her as they crossed the road, and I guess he had taken the stunned look on my face for shock or grief about my mother, when in reality my thoughts were still filled with memories of that night so long ago.
My next stop, unsurprisingly, was Sidhe Brook. Very little had changed in the time I had been away. The place was still wild and untamed, and the signs of modern life had not encroached upon it at all. The road was still little more than a track and the hedgerows and grassy hills still blossomed with a verdant array of wildflowers and plants. At this time of year the haze of summer was upon everything, and the dense, coiling brambles were thick with ripening blackberries. The warm noon air was filled with bees and small flies that buzzed in profusion around the berries and plants whose sweet scents filled every breath I took and which acted like a drug upon my senses, making my eyes drowsy and heavy.
I sat on the dry grass near to the old bridge, enjoying the sunlight on my face and feeling it warm my body as I relaxed. Two magpies fluttered down into the road close by, glancing at me in surprised alarm as I shifted slightly, and then they were off—wheeling overhead into the clear blue sky; and it was then, as I watched them go, that I became aware of a presence behind me.
In that moment I suddenly recalled all the old stories about that ancient hawthorn which sat a little way behind me near the rough ring of toadstools.
I froze at the sound of something moving softly through the whispering grass, and a cold chill ran through my body despite the heat of the day.
It’s probably just a fox or a bird, I told myself, trying to pluck up the courage to turn and look, maybe even a rabbit or a hare.
But I knew in my heart it wasn’t. Surely no fox would ordinarily approach this close to a human, and I knew the timid hares and rabbits would have also turned and fled at the sight of me—but whatever I was hearing was moving toward me with a steady and deliberate tread.
I swallowed hard, an uneasy crawling growing in the pit of my stomach. Suddenly it was as though I were a child again, clothes covered in burs, crouching under the old oak in the dead of night and shivering in wonder and fear.
The sounds of movement stopped and the whispering grass was still. I sensed something behind me, waiting and watching, and the crawling sensation in my stomach grew more intense. My heart was pounding and my palms were slick with sweat. I swallowed dryly and turned slowly, the act seeming to take more of a deliberate effort than usual, and looked behind me.
There was nobody there.
Feeling both relieved and more than a little foolish, I breathed out a sigh of relief—but then my eye spotted something dark lying in the grass behind me. It was a bracelet made of elderberries that had been carefully strung onto a silvery gossamer thread. I picked it up and glanced around, wondering if it had been there when I had first sat down. Carefully slipping the fragile bracelet into my pocket, I climbed to my feet and made my way quickly home.
I had a restless night that evening, tossing and turning as I struggled to get to sleep. But my mind was racing with thoughts and ideas, and I couldn’t seem to shut it down. Finally, admitting defeat, I had kicked the sweat-soaked covers aside in the early hours of the morning and made my way down to the kitchen where I fixed myself a cup of camomile tea before sitting at the table with my head in my hands.
Blearily I peered over at the clock though eyes ready to pop out of my head, and sighed. The tea wasn’t helping, and the thoughts still buzzed like a restless swarm of bees in my mind. Foremost amongst them were the questions of what I would do now? Where would I find work? And should I stay in the village or move on?
With a frustrated groan I rose from the table and carried the cold dregs of my tea over to the sink, peering quickly up at my own weary reflection in the glass of the window.
As I did, it felt like a cold hand had suddenly seized my heart.
A different face was staring back in at me from outside.
For a second I blinked, sure it was just my own reflection distorted by the glass. Then the icy shiver returned as I knew it was not. The cup dropped from my hands, shattering in the sink, and I took an unsteady step back, a trembling hand rising to my mouth.
The face at the window watched me calmly, unmoving except for the eyes which followed me as I backed away.
My world was spinning. My brain struggled for a rational explanation, and failed. My heart was pounding and my whole body was trembling.
The face at the window smiled faintly at me now. It was the same size as a normal human face and definitely female, but it was beyond human, with soft lips and shining eyes, and a wild and untamed quality to it. It was the face of a being that has walked in worlds and realms other than our own, and known secrets older than humanity. A slender hand now appeared next to it and rapped lightly on the glass of the window three times, and then the figure beckoned softly to me.
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came, only a strangled-sounding wheeze. My whole body seized up on me, and my mind was spinning in a circle, trying to process what it was seeing against the rational and everyday experiences of my life so far.
And then she was gone, so fast it took a moment for me to realise it. I stared at the empty patch of window like a man in a daze. I was afraid to blink, afraid to move, and unsure of what to do next. Had I really seen it, or had it been some crazed delusion born of a mind starved of sleep and rest?
But then came the faint, haunting sounds of music drifting through the night—music I had not heard in years, but which I recognised instantly. The music of the Fae coming from the direction of Sidhe Brook, and suddenly I understood what I had seen, and just what it meant.
The morning found me sitting alone at the kitchen table, staring sightlessly down at the old varnished wooden surface, a new set of questions flooding through my mind. That face at the window haunted my thoughts—so proud and beautiful, and so filled with power and life. A far cry from the twee and hideously fluffy ‘fairies’ found in Disney cartoons and popular culture, with their tiny bodies, childlike faces and glittering wings. I had never seen a Sidhe before, but still, I knew that’s what it had been.
How much had we forgotten during the relentless march of our ‘advancement’ as a species? How blind had we become in the arrogant and blinkered delusion that we understood all there was to know about the world, or that science alone could reveal the answers to everything?
My mother had always been known as something of a ‘cunning woman’ in the village, making herbal cures to help sick children and crafting charms of berries and herbs to ward off ill luck and unwelcome spirits. They were beliefs brought with her from Ireland as a girl. We even had an old witch bottle bricked up into the wall by the hearth which she had once told me had been made by her own mother.
But she had never forced her beliefs onto me, and admittedly I had never shown much interest in learning about herbs and stones, trees and charms. I had still picked up scattered fragments of her knowledge however, for she had taken great pains to warn me which flowers and plants were safe, and which mushrooms were edible and which were not. I knew to avoid the rue in our garden when the sunlight had been upon it, and to ignore the dangerous seduction of the dark berries of belladonna when out picking blackberries and other fruits. But I now understood how much had been lost with her passing, and I was starting to fear that I might be in a situation I was ill-equipped to deal with without her guidance and knowledge. I was thankful that I had left her protective charms in place—those nails and pouches of herbs that were strung over every door and window, and above the fireplaces.
I spent the day in the house, afraid to go out. I kept away from the windows, though I would occasionally risk a quick glance at them. I was like a rabbit trapped in its warren with the fox prowling outside, and despite some part of my mind struggling to convince me I must be missing a totally rational explanation, I had no doubts that the Sidhe would come back for me once the moon had risen. Mother had always insisted that I was marked by them—ever since that night when, as a child, they had spotted me trying to spy on their dance. I had never truly believed her, until now.
The ticking of the old clock above the hearth cast a spell upon me throughout that day, reminding me of the constant and unstoppable ebbing of time and heralding with each note the approach of the dusk and my own deepening unease. But even though I knew they couldn’t come into the house—not with the charms in place, I was still alone, helpless and terrified to be the target of forces beyond my understanding.
I finally fell asleep from sheer exhaustion sometime in the afternoon, slumped over the kitchen table with an uneaten sandwich resting beside me. When I awoke night had fallen and the light of the moon was shining in through the window. On the night air again were the haunting strains of the Fae music, and in a burst of panic I rushed to the back door—to check it was still locked—when through the glass I spied a figure standing on the garden path, silhouetted against the moonlight.
My heart lurched and a nauseous fear uncurled inside my stomach.
The figure was watching me, though it made no attempt to draw any closer to the house. Soft laughter danced on the breeze, like music in itself, and then my name was called in a sweet female voice.
I reached down and tested the handle of the door, reassuring myself that it was still locked—but my hand remained on the handle as I stared out at that shadowy form. I swallowed dryly, and then, without truly knowing why, I found myself unlocking the door and opening it just enough so I could peer outside.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’ I called, trying to keep my voice even. ‘Leave me alone!’
‘You were the one who wanted to see,’ a voice whispered back. ‘I’ve been waiting for you, for so very long. And now you’ve come back to us.’
‘I don’t believe in the Fae!’ I said as boldly as I could manage. ‘You can’t be real. The world would know about you if…’
‘Your world did know, once,’ came the reply, ‘and then it forgot again, and we slipped out of memory and into legend.’
‘What do you want with me?’ I asked. I dreaded the answer and yet, oddly enough, something inside of me yearned for it too.
‘My brothers and sisters warned me not to come. They have little love for the Human realm, and little time for your kind. We have seen the way humans defile the land, seen the way you treat and abuse even your own kind, and we still bear memories of how treacherous humans can be. But with you, I sense a difference.’
Against my better judgement, I opened the door wider. Despite my fear, some wild and reckless impulse had taken hold and was urging me to step outside. It was the same impulse that, as a child, had made me go and wait at the brook in the hopes of glimpsing the Sidhe.
She moved closer and I now saw her face. It was the same face that had been watching me through the window the night before. She was so beautiful and unearthly that it stole away my breath, and I stared at her, almost forgetting to blink.
‘Won’t you come outside?’ she asked softly. ‘The moon is full and bright.’
Some part of me was screaming as I stepped over the threshold of the house and into the garden, but I ignored it, giving in instead to the reckless impulse that now grew within me, supplanting my caution and my fears. I knew I had reached a crossroads. I could return to my mundane world and close the door on this beautiful visitor, or I could embrace the wonder and the magic being offered to me, and the unknown risks that came with it.
‘I’ll go with you,’ I said softly.
She slipped her hand into mine, and I noticed she wore a bracelet of elderberries, just like the one I had found lying in the grass. As our fingers intertwined it was like a blindfold suddenly coming away from my mind and senses. I could see and feel her wildness and darkness, her pride and her fury, but it was all bound like a counterpoise to her compassion and fascination with me. She was like an untamed force of nature, wild and free.
We moved soundlessly through the night like shadows, guided by the light of the moon and by the music that grew louder and closer with each step. And then, as we turned the bend in the lane that brought Sidhe Brook into view, I couldn’t help but gasp at the sight that met my eyes.
About twenty slender and willowy forms were dancing wildly under the light of the moon inside two blazing rings of ghostly flame and within the wide faerie ring of toadstools that lay beyond those. Around the edges of this otherworldly circle of fire a dozen or so wild hares had gathered, watching calmly but attentively with their dark mysterious eyes as they gazed once more upon a sight that had been long forgotten by human eyes.
She took my hand and led us boldly through the flickering fire to join them and my whole body tinged as we moved through it. The hairs on the nape of my neck prickled and rose, but there was no heat from those flames. Her eyes were bright as she guided me, and that same spectral fire blazed there.
She led me in a swift dance, and we spiralled inwards to the centre of the circle. The cool night air caressed my face as we whirled and turned, and her sweet laughter hung on the breeze. The music grew louder and more wild, filling my mind with glimpses of far-off worlds, of deep leafy groves in the heart of sprawling forests and dazzling waterfalls and verdant cities rising from the foot of tall mountains, and my soul thrilled to these visions, yearning to step through the doorway to where those worlds waited. I lost track of how long we danced, it felt like hours, and then we were spiralling back out toward the edge of the circle. My head was spinning and my senses were reeling. My only anchor to the world was those pale slender hands that held my own. I was swept up in a rapture that I had never before felt, unable to break my gaze from her powerful eyes, and she in turn was laughing gaily, her long silky hair flowing through the night behind her like a silvery streamer as we whirled around and around, the haunting music of the Fae filling the night air all around us.
I staggered dizzily as our dance came to an end, but she kept her gentle hold on me, steadying my movements even as her pale eyes gazed deep into my own and a smile lit her face. My head was still spinning, and an almost drunken euphoria filled my body and my mind. I wanted to sing and join in with that beautiful tune, to cry out with the heady joy and wonder that built up within me until it felt like my lungs and chest would burst from it. But my eyes were now also growing heavy with the call of sleep. I fought it, wanting to stay awake and not wanting this glorious night to end.
I sat down on the grass and she sat beside me, whilst behind us the rest of the Fae continued their whirling dance.
‘This is the third time I have come to you,’ she whispered, her lips close to my ear. ‘I will not come again. The choice must be yours. The doors to our world will be open for you, and although I could force you to come as others of my kind have done to humans before, I will not do that.’
‘What must I do?’ I asked, fighting to keep my eyes open.
‘Be here tomorrow night when the moon is again high,’ she said, ‘and I shall be waiting to welcome you.’
I wanted to hold her, to take her in my arms and tell her that I was ready now. But my eyes were too heavy to keep open any longer and the darkness of sleep fell over me despite all my efforts to remain awake.
I awoke shivering the next morning, my clothes damp with dew, to find myself lying under the old oak where I had once awoken so many years before. For a moment I wondered if the events of the previous evening had been nothing more than some wild and fabulous dream or a delusion created by lack of sleep, but pressed into my hand was another delicate bracelet of elderberries.
I returned home as though in a daze, recalling little of the walk through the winding country lanes. The house seemed even smaller now than ever before as I walked through the front door, and I felt almost like a stranger there. I packed quickly, throwing some spare clothes into a rucksack. I didn’t pack much else, for there didn’t seem to be any need.
My last act, as the afternoon turns towards dusk, is to record these thoughts and these events, so that people will know what has happened, though I don’t expect these words to be believed. As I write, I cannot help but think of the old stories and songs about Thomas the Rhymer, the famous bard and prophet who journeyed into the otherworlds after meeting the Queen of Elfland under the Eildon Tree. As I prepare for my own journey, I cannot help but wonder if I will ever return.
Some believe the Fae are spirits of the dead, others that they are spirits of nature. Some believe they are the old gods, and others a race of beings driven into the hollow hills by the spreading domain of Humanity. Still more speak of their darkness, malice, trickery and deep hostility to our kind; yet enough tales exist to suggest they aren’t all this way.
I don’t know which version is right, if any, but I can feel them watching me, and I know that whatever they are, their existence is beyond doubt.
I have taken down the protective herbs and the nails and have opened the door to the growing dusk. I can hear again the music of the Fae drifting on the breeze, and also my name being called. Tonight, under the light of the moon, I shall walk to Sidhe Brook, willingly and alone, carrying no iron to repel them and no charms against their ancient magic. And as for what will happen next, only time will tell. And while I know the Fae can be fierce and proud and dangerous, I am not afraid at their call.
Instead, I wonder where it will lead me.
