“A Faerie Tale”
by Brandon Fibbs
For Jay Manning, a poor player who is currently strutting and fretting his hour upon the faire stage for his 11th consecutive year.
“Do you expect me to believe that she didn’t toss your minuscule maypole out of her bedchamber the instant you tried that?” roared Bernard, leaning so far back in his saddle that he nearly fell from his horse.
“I swear it on the grave of our mother,” his brother, Filbert, countered with exaggerated humility, after guzzling a slug of wine and rubbing his mouth clean with his grimy sleeve.
“Do not bring our sainted mother into this, you soiled degenerate,” Bernard cackled. “Besides, I still say you are a liar. There is no way in the five hells that you could achieve that position with your bloated belly! Now pass the damn wineskin.”
Behind them, on foot, young Geoffrey struggled to keep up, the body of a doe his brothers had killed several hours before slung over his shoulders. His hands clutched wearily to the animal’s cloven legs. Two arrow shafts, both broken off near the tips, and embedded in crusty, hickory-colored puddles, still jutted from her broad neck. She had given them quite a chase, snapping the miniature lances off as she flew through the impenetrably thick trees. They found her, sometime later, crumpled on the ground, staring sightlessly at the sky. Despite the fact that Geoffrey was the only one without a horse, Bernard had made him haul her out of the woods by himself. His family had but two mares and he could not recall the last time one of his brothers allowed him to ride. He felt as if he had been carrying the animal for days.
They were traveling down a shadowed, forest road lined by impossibly tall trees and ferns so thick the ground on either side was almost completely obscured. The sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon, but the canopy was so dense that the light only penetrated in infrequent shafts, creating shimmering pillars within which infinitesimal motes of fuzzy pollen danced. The air was cool and smelled of crumbling cedar.
Geoffrey was not listening to his brothers. It was an aptitude he’d mastered long ago, as a small child harried by their unremitting mistreatment. They were his blood, yes, but they were also as unfathomable as outlanders, boorish louts that he attempted, whenever possible, to vanquish amongst his daydreams. They frequently reprimanded him for this practice — sometimes rebuking him with their fists — but the alternative was unthinkably worse. While his mother lived, she had been a shield between him and their constant abuse, but she was moldering in the ground now, and his father had long since given up on his firstborn twins ever becoming paragons of honor and virtue.
“I have not heard Geoffrey’s twaddle for a furlong. Is our dinner still back there?” Bernard asked, without bothering to turn around.
Filbert cast a lazy glance over his shoulder and harrumphed.
“Look at the damn fool!” Filbert sneered. “He’s lost in his own head again. Probably dreaming of being a knight. Sir Geoffrey, clad in radiant armour, fighting some fire-belching lizard to save a poor damsel in distress.”
Ahead, a stone bridge rose up in their path, spanning a creek of crystal clear water. The horses began to prance with thirst.
“Well, if our little brother wishes to become a knight,” Bernard declared, pulling his horse to a stop, “he must first learn how to squire.”
As Filbert chortled, Bernard dismounted and reached behind him to knead his backside.
“Besides, my ass hurts. Oy squire, take the horses down to the stream and see they get plenty of water.”
Geoffrey had learned long ago to weather his brothers’ contempt in silence. He shrugged the deer carcass from his back and let it fall to the soft and spongy ground, thick with decades of pine needle detritus and primeval trees returning to the soil. Immediately, his shoulders wailed in protest. Ignoring the impulse to massage them, he took the reins from his brothers’ waiting hands, and began to guide the horses down the slight incline to the stream. Behind him, now hidden by the bridgework, Bernard and Filbert collapsed on a toppled tree trunk, and lay back, resting their heads on pillows of dark moss. They continued to pass the wineskin between them.
Thankful for the respite, the horses bent their stately heads and began drinking. Geoffrey patted the nearest one’s neck and crouched beside the water. He paused for a moment to look at the distorted reflection gazing back at him. It was the face of a man, but only barely. He had scarcely celebrated his nineteenth name day and his aspect remained that of a youth, soft and beardless, untouched by life or experience. He hastily drew his free hand through the water, shattering his image into dozens of liquescent ribbons. He cupped some of the cool water into his palm and drew it up, tossing it over his sweat sheened face.
Unexpectedly, a whisper of movement caught Geoffrey’s eye. He glanced up, expecting to see one of his brothers or perhaps a wild animal. Instead, what he saw caused his breath to suddenly catch in his throat, trapped, powerless to escape.
On the opposite bank, just downstream, a young woman knelt beside the water’s edge. She was naked but for a gossamer, green-hued gown that seemed to hover over her skin rather than drape overtop it. The transparent covering did nothing to conceal her lithe contours. Her hair was as red as wine, and so impossibly long that the ends of it fell into the stream where it drifted with the current like crimson smoke.
In her hands were several verdant, threadlike vines, decorated with small, velvety maroon and indigo flowers. Her long, delicate fingers performed a dance. She appeared to be fashioning the plants into a kind of loop. A moment later, she smiled at her work, expectantly turning it over in her hands. Astonished, Geoffrey watched as four tapered wings, like that of a dragonfly, rose up from behind her back and unfurled, kaleidoscopic and iridescent. The pattern reminded him of looking at the setting sun through a birch leaf.
“My gods,” he thought, “this is no woman — this is a woodland nymph!” Most mortals would go their entire lives and never catch sight of a magical creature, and those who did perhaps only ever saw one out of the corner of their eye and wondered for the rest of their lives whether it was a play of light or the real thing.
The faerie was the most beautiful thing Geoffrey had ever laid eyes on. She did not seem to notice his presence, and Geoffrey found himself in a trance, frozen in place, time seemingly slowing. Was this some sort of enchantment she had placed upon him, or was he merely immobilized by her beauty? Whatever the magic, his condition did not concern him. He didn’t dare blink for fear of frightening her off.
Abruptly, the spell was broken when the creature suddenly recoiled, drawing herself in. At first Geoffrey could not tell why. She looked not at him but upward, in the direction of the bridge, where Geoffrey found his brothers, each with a small arsenal of stones, hurling them at the nymph. Neither was able to hide their perverse delight at this new, unexpected sport.
Most of the rocks splashed harmlessly into the stream — thankfully, the wine was rendering the men’s aim appalling. However, Bernard managed to connect, his stone striking the faerie on her brow. Instantly, a blossom of green appeared on her skin. Was that her blood? A twinkling later, Geoffrey could have sworn he watched delicate white flowers spring up to seal the wound.
The creature did not crumple in pain, nor did she turn on the men in anger. Rather, she looked up, stricken — not, it seemed to Geoffrey, with pain, but rather some deeper kind of existential grief. Her eyes were cavernous wells of sorrow, as if something unseen and larger than the men even knew existed was irrevocably broken.
She rose slowly and deliberately, delicately sliding the living bracelet over her wrist. She began walking unhurriedly back toward the forest, looking over her shoulder every so often with the same pained expression. Geoffrey bound to his feet. He wanted to shout for her to stop, that he was sorry for what his foolhardy brothers had done, but before a single word could gather itself to take flight, she melted into the trees and vanished. The older men laughed at her retreat, clapping each other on their backs.
“We just saved your life, little brother,” Bernard announced triumphantly when Geoffrey turned angrily to face them. “You know the stories. She might have carried you off to faerieland, where I’m sure you’d be daft enough to eat or drink something, and get trapped there forever.”
“You’d never see us again,” said Filbert, proudly. “Father would be inconsolable.”
“Why is he looking at us like that, Filbert?” Bernard jeered. “Look at his face. Is he about to weep?”
“I believe he is, Bernard!” Filbert taunted. “I think he’s besotted.”
Geoffrey was not about to cry. But Filbert was right — he was smitten. He had just been swaddled inside a perfect moment — one in which he wanted to remain eternally — and now it was lost forever.
“Oh get a move on, fool,” Bernard shouted, shattering Geoffrey’s reverie. “The horses have had their fill. We are going to have trouble making it home before dark as it is.”
Geoffrey had forgotten about the horses, though their reins were clutched so tightly in his left hand that he suddenly felt his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palm. He glanced across the glade where the faerie had disappeared and saw nothing but branches swaying hypnotically in the breeze. Sighing heavily, he pulled the horses close and reluctantly led them back up the hill where his brothers were waiting impatiently.
They mounted the animals and began trotting off before Geoffrey had even bent over to pull the deer carcass back onto his aching shoulders. He began to follow his brothers but stopped to glance back one last time. He imagined seeing her there, standing amongst the trees at the edge of the clearing, her form silhouetted by the sinking sun, beckoning for him to join her. But he saw only trees.
“By god’s bones!” he heard Bernard call. “Move your ass, boy!”
Taking a couple small jumps to situate the carcass more evenly across his shoulders, Geoffrey turned back toward the road and began walking. He did not mind being several paces behind their wake. He had no desire to listen to their demeaning remarks.
“I think we’ve broken the lad’s frail heart,” Bernard said.
“Nonsense,” Filbert retorted, “he’s just sorry that he’ll have to take his man’s yard in hand tonight rather than ploughing it in sweeter nectar.”
The two men roared in laughter.
The horses reacted first. The gust of wind was so strong and so sudden that they reared back in violent surprise. Monolithic trees groaned as they arched their wooden spines, bending toward the ground as if prostrating in worship. Millions of leaves quaked in a deafening, crackling chorus. Branches snapped, tumbling through the dense canopy on their way to forest floor below.
Bernard and Filbert reined the horses to a stop after nearly being thrown from their saddles. The squall ended as suddenly as it had begun. The wind had been so loud that they barely perceived an underlying sound until it was gone.
Like the brisk beating of colossal insect wings.
A dull thud stirred Filbert to turn in his saddle.
“Bernard, look!”
Geoffrey was gone. The doe he’d been carrying lay on the ground where it fell, its legs splayed awkwardly. Resting on its brown hide was something Bernard did not recognize. Perhaps it was just a piece of forest flotsam, blown down in the tempest.
As Filbert began bellowing Geoffrey’s name, Bernard climbed down from his horse to get a closer look. He knelt to retrieve the object. It was a braided vine that had been fashioned into a hoop and adorned with small maroon and indigo flowers.
“Geoffrey!” Filbert thundered.
But the forest did not answer.
This above story is true.
Sort of.
In the spring of 1993 or 1994, I attended the Scarborough Renaissance Festival in Waxahachie, Texas. I’ve always adored Ren Faires and have attended half a dozen across the country. I love shutting myself off from modernity and surrendering to the intoxicating allure of magic and make believe for a day. My chief memory from Scarborough occurred while I was crossing a wooden bridge that spanned a slender creek. I happened to notice one of the festival actors below me, kneeling beside the water, fashioning small cakes out of mud. She was dressed as a fairy, and very beautiful. But more than that, there was something about the enchanted authenticity of the moment that stopped me dead in my tracks. I must have stared at her for several minutes, smitten.
My perfect moment was shattered a few seconds later when a couple of frat guys, doubtless drunk, began throwing rocks at her from the other end of the bridge. I can’t recall if I was too uncomfortable to call them out or if it was all over too fast for me to react, but one of the rocks hit the young woman on the head. I’ll never forget how she responded. Rather than stand and cuss the men out, as she had every right to do, she remained completely in character. She looked up at them, stricken, like they had just broken the universe. She rose slowly, and gracefully vanished into a grove of nearby trees. The frat guys howled in laughter and went on their way, congratulating each other.
I was simultaneously enraged that they would behave so barbarically, heartbroken that they had ruined such a lovely moment, and astonished by the manner in which the festival actress had handled the situation. I waited around for several minutes, hoping she might reappear, but she never did. It was as if she was the real thing, and had merely melted back into nature.
That moment has haunted me for decades. I find myself replaying the memory often.
~Brandon
