Her fingers tightened on mine. “Don’t be afraid, my love,” she reassured me. “I’ll always be with you.”
“I know,” I said, “I know. I just wonder, now and then, if I should be here at all.”
“Alexi, don’t say that.” Already there were tears in her eyes, trickling down her cheeks.
“Oh, don’t cry,” I begged. “I wouldn’t leave you for the world.”
“Why do you say it, then?” she pleaded. “You don’t think you should be with me?”
“Not you,” I said. “I’ll always be with you. If I have to kidnap you back to…”
“The Human World?” she said. She sounded horrified.
“No, no,” I said. “I’d never do that.” My illogic was a trap now. How could I disengage myself from its piercing teeth?
What happened next caught me totally by surprise.
“Look!” she said, pointing across a stream we went walking by.
I turned to her, wondering why she was pointing.
“I said look!” she commanded, grabbing the back of my neck (my god, her fingers were strong!) and turning my head forcibly toward—what?
Whatever it was was just beginning to form—a dragonlike creature with a head like a cobra, scrawny arms it used to hold itself upright. It had a red roosterlike comb on its head, and two small flames emerged from its mouth as it breathed.
“My god, what is it?” I asked. My breath was having difficulty emerging at all.
“A Basilisk,” Ruthana said quietly. So quietly, it made my blood run cold. A. Black had, often, been accused—or praised—for writing that. But A. Black never saw a real basilisk.
I did. And a chilling sight it was. Its skin—if that’s what it was—gray and mottled, looking less like skin than like ruffled tree bark. Its eyes—aye, there’s the rub, as Hamlet said.
“Don’t look at its eyes,” Ruthana said. Again quietly, blood-chillingly.
“Why?” I asked. Like a stupid child.
“Just don’t,” she said. Every word verbally italicized.
I didn’t. She said something else. About the basilisk’s deadly venom. I listened in frozen silence.
“You’re not looking at its eyes, are you?” she asked, implored.
“No, I’m not,” I told her. “It’s not going to attack us, is it?”
“No, I’ll see to it,” she said.
With that, she threw up both hands and cried out words I cannot possibly remember, part Latin, part French, part—well, it sounded like gibberish to me.
Whatever it was, the cobra-headed dragon faded, then disappeared. The entire incident (nightmare) took only minutes, ten at most.
“Thank God,” I muttered.
“Or me,” she said. For an instant, I had a look at her (how shall I put it?) faerie ego.
“You told me not to look at its eyes,” I said.
“I did,” she replied.
“Why?”
“They’re deadly,” she said. “One look can kill you.”
I started to respond, but she continued speaking. “Most important. You looked at it first.”
“First?” I asked. Fully confused now.
“While it was forming,” she said.
“Is that why you grabbed my neck?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, “I had to make you see it before it could see you.”
“And if I hadn’t?” I said.
“You would have died,” she told me. Once more quietly. I absolutely shuddered.
“Oh, Alexi,” she said. “I’ve frightened you. Forgive me.”
I tried to smile. To grin, actually—but that was out of my league. “You have strong hands,” I said. I wanted it to be some kind of jest. I failed. Suddenly, Ruthana was all apology and sorrow, crying—almost uncontrollably, it seemed. I held her in my arms, thinking momentarily how snugly she fitted into my embrace now that I was three-one not six-two. “Don’t cry,” I told her. “You saved my life. Again.”
“Is it all so bad?” she asked brokenly.
“No, ma’am,” I said, bad-joking-headed again. “I live for danger. I am Alexander the Great. I mean Alexi.”
She knew it was a poor joke but responded with kind indulgence. “Thank you—Alexander,” she said. “I mean Alexi.”
Then was all serious again. “Isn’t there danger in your world?” she asked, clearly in need of further reassurance.
Again with the lousy, however well-intentioned, humor. “Oh, sure. But only wars, not basilieks.” I even got the word wrong. Eighteen, (almost nineteen) what can I say?
“Does it really make you unhappy being here?” she asked. Soulfully (the perfect word).
“No, not at all,” I said. “As long as I’m with you, wherever I am is heaven.” A bit much, Alexi, I told myself. But true.
Sort of true, I thought.
Chapter Twenty-four
So that was it. Ruthana seemed to be convinced of my sincerity. I hoped she really was. I couldn’t be sure after what I’d said to her.
My next—what shall I call it?—adventure came the following week. You recall that I mentioned three rules a man must agree to in order to marry. I’d never (even thought to do so; that’s a lie) asked her about her life before she met me. God knows I never struck her. I would rather have lost an arm than strike that angel. That left the third requirement—to not look at her at certain times. Where did they get that one, from the Bible?
Anyway, “that certain time” came around. I was to avoid her. What about Gilly, then? Ruthana foresaw that as well, bless her angelic heart. She asked Garal to keep an eye on me while she was sequestered with “her problem.” Despite reluctance—Gilly was his son, after all—Garal agreed.
And I experienced one of the most inspiring days of my life. One of them, did I say? The most inspiring day of my life.
It began gradually. After meeting Garal (I’ll describe him later), he and I went fishing. At first, I wondered why he looked into the pond carefully, as though searching for something. What? An available fish? I couldn’t tell. Later on, I learned—a ghastly way—the answer.
But, for then, it signified good fishing—and delicious dinner—so we sat on the edge of the pool (a pond), our bamboo poles extended and leaning over the water, cords (I don’t know what else to call them, or what they were made of or how they were made—I sure know a lot, don’t I?) dangling, dipped below the surface (dangling, dipped, not bad) of the placid water, waiting patiently for some fish to offer up its life to faerie sustenance. Life in all its aspects being so real to the faeries, I wonder if that includes sentient fish. Now, I’m wandering. Sorry, again.
The long and short of it was that I asked Garal where the name “faerie” came from. I found out (later) that Garal was a teacher—a much-informed scholar of the Middle Kingdom. And Beyond. (I’ll get to that presently.)
The word “faerie”? It’s derived, by some, from Homeric sources (whatever they may be), what the centaurs were called. Later, Knights of the Crusade encountered Paynim warriors whose language possessed no letter P. Consequently, their word peri (“little folk,” one assumes) was pronounced feri.
Beyond that, lacking (I would say) further recollection, the word became, in France, faee or fee; in Italy, fata; the root, in Latin, fatum. Got that? I didn’t.
Later on, the word became plural, and in France, the verb faer (meaning “to enchant”) became the noun faerie. The word became worldwide. Thus its presence in Northern England. Remembering that the derivation of the word had to do with an actual phenomenon, not an imaginary one. The beings of Middle Kingdom exist. I can’t emphasize that enough. They exist. I was there.
They still exist.
* * *
I thought Garal was finished. He was not. He was just getting warmed up. I remember, with pleasure, his warm smile and mellifluous (good word; means “euphonic,” “musical”) voice as he went on with his discourse. He saw that I was fascinated. Otherwise, he would have lapsed into friendly silence, I’m sure. A
s a matter of fact, he said, at one pause, then another, “Have I told you too much?” Or, “Am I becoming tedious, Alexi?” Each time, I assured him that it all intrigued me. It did.
Now he spoke about the types of faeries. I won’t go into all of them; there are too darn many. Just the key ones. Garal, for instance, and his family were Elemental Faeries. This meant that they resembled human beings and procreated similarly. They were (are) capable of many faerie tricks. I call them tricks, but they are not “tricks” per se; they’re abilities. Such as appearing and disappearing at will. Shape-shifting—into animals, plants, trees. (I find the second two hard to swallow, although there are extensive faerie archives regarding same.) They can assume human size (temporarily) and move with astounding speed; I saw that with Ruthana. Invisibility? I’ve already mentioned appearing and disappearing at will. Isn’t that enough? Besides, it’s too damned reminiscent of Magda’s manuscript. Ugh!
Next step in Garal’s discourse: the History of Faeriedom; I should say, Middle Kingdom. Also, excuse me for capitalizing “History.” I flunked History in college. Maybe you did, too. Oh, well. Never mind.
The Elemental Faeries come in four categories—Earth, Air, Water, and Fire. Well, let that go, it’s much too complicated. Almost twenty different types under each category! Forget it.
The Middle Kingdom—or Faerieland—Garal went on to say, is a locale within our world yet not. How’s that for an enigmatic explanation? The realm has many names. I’ll give you just a few of them. The Inner-Plain. The Ethereal World. A Parallel Universe. Enough? Okay, how about Land of the Dead? Ghost Dwelling? That’s too much. Scratch it.
The inhabitants of these worlds have been known as Angels (I buy that one), Demons (not so much), Imaginary Beings (not at all!), Ghosts (nope), and Faeries.
No culture in the world does not accept the existence of these elusive beings who live somewhere between our world and that alternate one. Faeries are a universal phenomenon. Every country has them in residence. The most popular of these is what is called The Little People. Or the Wee Folk, the Good Folk, the Blessed Ones. (Daoine Maithe.) How come I remember that?
Faeries have existed as long as humans. And have been the subject of folklore since time began.
Faeries are sentient beings with feelings like our own. They have individual personalities. Some are helpful, some mischievous, some dangerous. (Amen to that.) Fundamentally, though, they are sensitive and deserve respect. (Not that I will ever respect my memory of God-awful Gilly.) They really loathe human injustice. (Who doesn’t?)
They can shape-shift for only a limited period of time. (I told you that, I was thinking of Gilly and the Basilisk. Indicative that he chose that hideous shape to shift to.)
A gift from faeries—gold, silver, jewels—is illusory and will revert when the enchantment ends. Mr. Brean found that out the hard way.
More? Why not? Some disparate facts about the residents of Middle Kingdom.
First of all, if you happen to visit Faerieland, you’ll be hard-put to depart. Especially if you leave the “guided” path—by which I presume, the path the faeries lead you on. And they will tempt you to return. I can verify that.
Faeries can elect to manifest themselves in the mortal world, but must take on smaller forms to compensate for lost energy. So watch out for that ant when strolling through the woods! (Just kidding.)
Sharp noises hurt their ears: bells ringing, hands clapping, and such. Didn’t Magda tell me that? Didn’t Joe?
They are fascinated (and repelled) by human beings and appear in shape-shifted forms to us, particularly as domestic animals. So be kind to your web-footed friends. (Isn’t that how the song goes?) For that duck may be somebody’s mother.
Some believe that faeries are androgynous and have no discernible gender. I can definitely shoot that one down. Ruthana androgynous? Please!
What I do believe about faeries is that they are unique. They can be mean or kind. Courtly or coarse. They feel anger, joy, and sadness. They function as elementals in Nature but think for themselves.
Above all, they require respect. They hate it if they are belittled, ridiculed, or slandered. Mankind, of course, cannot endure anyone different in appearance or beliefs. True or false? You know my choice.
Impressed by my knowledge? Don’t be. This part is based on research, a writer named Edaion McCoy. For my part, I can only verify what he says. Most of it, anyway.
Our treatment of Nature—which they revere and nurture—infuriates them. Resulting in many pranks. I understand that. And appreciate it. I’m a nature buff myself.
There are some faeries who hate all living creatures, even their own kind. (Guess who that was.)
There are some faeries to avoid, just as there are some people to avoid. Yet you don’t reject the entire human race because of those few rejectable individuals. Equally so, don’t turn your back on those few faerie bad apples. Get it? I did.
“Am I becoming tedious, Alexi?” Garal asked at that point.
I told him no, but he chose to give me a break. With a very nice experience.
“Have you done scrying?” he asked.
I told him about attempting it (uselessly) in Magda’s house.
“Oh, yes, the witch,” he said. So casually that I had no further doubts regarding Magda. There was simply no way to disbelieve Garal.
* * *
It isn’t necessary, I discovered, to stare into a mirror to scry. Any body of water will do—a lake, a pond, a pool, a puddle. Since faeries could not look into mirrors (I never found out why), they prefer to gaze into still water. It worked better, anyway. It certainly did for me. I found out later that, while unaware of it, Ruthana was enhancing my psychic ability. Which I had none of until she instilled it.
Garal took our fishing lines from the pond and laid them aside. We had caught no fish. I don’t think Garal had any intention of catching any. (I found out later that he wasn’t crazy about the taste of fish, anyway.) He had us pretending to fish (I took it for real) so we could converse in peace. Which turned out to be a teacher-student exchange: the teacher lecturing, the student listening.
He had me lie on my chest and stomach and gaze intently into the water. I was amazed at how quickly those clouds (pink) appeared, how soon they were moving left to right. “This is incredible,” I said. He shushed me. “Yes, sir,” I murmured. The obedient student.
Then, in no time, it seemed (and was) as if, instead of scudding pink clouds, I was looking at a landscape very much like the one we were in. I bought a television set in 1970, and this was like that, clearly pictured. (Even with a soundtrack!)
From a distant grove of trees—all summerlike, no autumntinted leaves—a figure came walking toward me. He looked familiar. He waved. My god!
Harold.
No wound. No uniform. Dressed as Garal was, beige trousers, green jacket. He looked very happy.
“ ’Ello, chum!” he greeted me. “I’d shake your mitt, but we’re in different places.”
“You’re alive,” was all I could think to say.
“If you say so,” he replied, with that familiar, beguiling smile. “In different places, though. I’m in kind of a Dreamland. You—” He looked around. “Good Lord, what are you doing there? Oh, my uncle’s toe, is that Garal I see?! Hey, Dad! What’s going on?”
I explained, as well as I could, my presence in the Middle Kingdom. He looked astounded, mouth ajar. “You and Ruthana?” he asked, completely floored by that. “What about Gilly? Isn’t he a hornet’s nest?”
“He sure is,” I said. “He tried to kill me the other day.”
“G’wan,” he said. Then, “Well, I’m not surprised. He and I were not exactly comrades.” For some reason, that amused me. I could never, under any circumstances, visualize Harold and Gilly as chums. One was sweet, the other toxic. Brothers? Impossible to imagine.
I asked Harold how he’d come to join the army—after attaining human size, of course.
“Well, I’ll tell you
,” he explained. “I thought, for some reason, that it would be noble to fight for Blighty. Little did I know what it would be like. Oh, by the way, I took on a Cockney accent to fit in. If I’d known you long enough, I would have told you who—what—I really was. Well, maybe not, we little folks are damned secretive—as I’m sure you’ve discovered. Ruthana is a sweetheart, isn’t she?”
“I adore her,” I told him.
“Good,” he said. “The girl deserves to be adored. If I hadn’t been her brother—” He let that one go.
Changing the subject, I asked him a pair of questions. Had he lost any size when he—died? I had trouble using the word. And what about the lump of gold?
No, he remained human size until he reached what he referred to as Dreamland. (Summerland?) And Garal sent him the gold. “He had it in for me at first—when I told him I’d made up my mind to enlist. But he forgave me—he’s a good soul.” When he said that, I heard a grunt of pleasure behind me and realized that Garal had been looking across my shoulder at the scrying images. I didn’t turn around, for fear of losing the image, but I smiled and knew that Harold was aware of why I was smiling.
When I told him about Mr. Brean, Harold didn’t look surprised. “Greedy bugger,” he said. “He might have known better. He was from Gatford.” The last of his words, I didn’t understand.
“But it stayed gold for me,” I said.
“Of course,” said Harold (Haral). “You were my chum. Still are. Don’t plan on joining me too soon, though. You still have a while to go.” That was nice to hear. I don’t know why he said it, but he was certainly right. Assuming eighty-two is a while to go. Not exactly biblical, but enough for me.
There was not much more to say. I tried to talk about our time in the trenches, but I could tell that he was not too interested in that anymore. I can see why now. Afterlife is more, far more interesting. I’ll confirm that one day. Stick around. Maybe I’ll do another book from that side. Through a medium, I guess. I doubt spirits use pen and paper as I do. Maybe possession. There’s a notion.
Well, onward. Harold and I conversed awhile longer—it was as though we were chatting face-to-face. Mostly, he wanted to know what my reaction was to Faerieland. What did I really think of it? “Wonderful,” I said. “Gorgeous.” He laughed at that.