Jennet reached out a hand once more. ‘Come on, let’s keep walking. There’s so much more to explain than I thought.’
He moved forward, but this time he did not take the offered hand.
She walked alongside him. ‘You never knew your father, did you, Thom?’
‘You’re not going to tell me that you did.’ His tone was curt, his mood changed.
She laughed, that same tinkling sound that had charmed him before. It almost did again.
‘I’m not that old, Thom, especially not in your years. Rigwit told me everything.’
‘Then he was around even before my mother died.’
‘He was there at your birth. Rigwit is a Venerable, he’s always been here. He knew both your mother and your father.’
‘Why didn’t he tell me?’
‘There was only so much you could absorb last night. You were confused enough.’
You got that right, he thought, but did not say.
‘Thom, your father was a human. He and Bethan fell in love and were meant to be together. Their love was strong enough for it to be so.’
‘Of course he was human. I’m human. My mother was human.’
Jennet was patient with her response. ‘No, Bethan became part-human. That’s how strong was the love between them. But our kind can only exist on your level when love is there to sustain them.’
‘But I loved her. Wasn’t that enough?’
‘No. It isn’t the same kind of love that a man and woman can have for each other. That goes beyond blood binding, for sexual attraction plays its part to begin with. You humans still have no idea of how powerful the sexual magic is, how awesome is the alchemy involved, the force it gives to body and mind. Unfortunately, when your father passed on to his next dimension, Bethan was unable to return to her natural state. No faery who has given birth to a human can. And yet, she could not continue as one of you without her man’s love. She had no choice but to leave you, Thom.’
His throat suddenly felt full, his eyes watery. ‘My father . . . who was he?’
‘Don’t you know? Isn’t it obvious to you?’ He shook his head, sadly this time. Why would I ask?’ She was silent, but only for a moment or two. ‘Perhaps I’ll show you later, Thom. It would be the kindest way.’
Onwards they went and Thom suppressed the question of his parentage by embracing the wonders she revealed to him.
Jennet told him why faeries were invisible to most people, explaining that the human eye lacks the ability to see the more subtle shades that existed before and after the perceived colour spectrum, as well as those in between, that if Man could only ‘tune in’ to the infinite vibrations discharged by such ‘neverworld’ beings who themselves were composed of ethereal structures, then he might just begin to learn and eventually accept. Faeries could easily present themselves by changing their resonance and bringing their tones within the human-accepted spectrum, but rarely chose so to do; on the other hand, certain ‘enlightened’ humans could raise their own game and meet the faeries half-way. Although he was not conscious of it, this was precisely what Thom had achieved. Sometimes it happened by chance or freakish accident, other times the phenomenon was faery-inspired.
‘You know those things you call Yufoses?’ she said. ‘The non-organic flying creatures?’
‘You mean UFOs?’ he replied.
‘Yes, Yufoses.’
‘Flying machines. Spaceships.’
‘What ships?’
‘Spaceships. From another planet in another galaxy.’
‘Oh, I see. The things that cross the space between homes in the sky. But they don’t have sails or oars.’
‘It’s just an expression, just a convenient name for them.’
‘Spaceships. That’s nice.’ She thought about it, smiling delightedly.
‘What of them? You’re not going to tell me they’re real too, are you? You know, most of us think they’re a joke concocted by over-imaginative idiots or attention-seekers. Or nutters.’
‘Nutters?’
‘It doesn’t matter. What were you going to say?’
‘You don’t believe in Yufoses . . . Yufose?’
‘Why should I? I’ve never seen one.’
‘You could now. Now that you’re learning to perceive rather than just see.’
‘Are you saying they work on the same principle?’
‘Why do you think they appear, then vanish so quickly?’
‘Well, we’re told by the fools or hoaxers who claim to have seen UFOs that they fly off at fantastic speeds.’
‘No. They appear to get smaller at fantastic speed. The Yufoses . . . Yufose . . . alter their vibrational pattern and disappear beyond your spectrum when they realize they’re being observed.’
‘But sometimes they’re supposed to hang around for hours.’
‘They’re not so smart.’
He was dumbstruck. Then: ‘Have faeries made contact with them?’
‘Goodness no. Why should we?’
Thom shrugged. ‘No reason. Hey, I suppose you’re going to tell me they really are responsible for crop circles.’
She started to laugh, both hands held to her mouth as if to stop herself.
‘What’s so funny?’ He was smiling and frowning at the same time.
‘Crops circles are one of our games.’
‘Faeries make them?’
She nodded vigorously through the laughter. ‘Not to begin with. The Yufose caused the first magnetic patterns by mistake. The machinery of the . . . spaceships?’ She looked questioningly, waiting for his nod. ‘The machinery of the spaceships attracted the magnetic lines and motifs that lie beneath the earth, bringing them to the surface so that the corn collapsed. That might have been deliberate, just to let you know they were around in the same way we faeries steal from you or play tricks just to tease you and hint of our presence. Like us, they think the human race is too dangerous for them to introduce themselves properly.’
She was still grinning as she went on and her eyes seemed to flash and sparkle with inner energies.
‘But then, just for fun, the pixies – of all of us, they’re the ones who make the most mischief – decided to make their own designs in the corn. Some were quite good to begin with, then they became too complicated even for us to understand. After that . . .’ she looked heavenward in mock despair ‘. . . after that, you humans started making your own patterns, which were even more mystifying than our own and beyond all logic. We never thought humans could be so funny.’
Thom was not as amused as his petite companion. They went on, Jennet sometimes skipping lightly ahead, wheeling round to face him with a remark or a new piece of information.
What the hell is going on? he wondered. Am I going crazy? Do I really believe in faeries, me, a grown man, a pragmatist in most things? Motherless since the age of ten, fatherless even before his birth, Thom generally had had to deal with life and everything it brought with it alone. Sure, he’d had a generous patron – generous in financial terms, that is – but he’d had to cope with the traumas and stresses of growing up very much on his own. Realism had been forced upon him and coping had quickly become second nature. Perhaps it was that very aloneness and the necessity of getting on with life that had stifled fanciful notions and absurd memories; perhaps over the years they had been beaten into submission.
But still it was not cynicism that was now prompting him to doubt all that he had seen, heard, and learned over the past few days, for Thom was no cynic. Rather it was the sober voice of reason that was forcing him to think rationally.
Nevertheless, faint stirrings in his memory bank could not be denied, the sudden snap-visions of playing and talking with tiny folk in the woods, little people who resembled human beings, but who were different in so many ways, could not easily be dismissed. Yet they were just that, snapshots that had scant substance, for they were not complete, had no beginnings or end. Still he remembered the tales his mother had told him, stories of small people who loved to play and dance
, who could be very naughty, but who often liked to help the ‘big’ people in their times of trouble. Faerytales of bewitchment and wonder, kindness and cruelty, magic and mischief, sadness and joy. He recalled them as fantasies; now he was not so sure, now he wondered if they were true accounts of another life that Bethan had known intimately, one which she had wished to share with her young son. No, he resisted. Surely not, it just wasn’t possible. And yet . . .
As he and Jennet trekked further into the woods and he listened to her light sing-song voice with its peculiarly distant huskiness, Thom realized he was beginning to see and sense more clearly than ever before: the colours of the forest, its perfumes, the piquancy of its exhalation – yes, the forest breathed – and even the vibrations of its biomass, the trees, the flora, the vegetation, every goddamn single blade of grass and leaf, he could see and sense it all, and he could hear it sing its own vitality. It was almost overwhelming.
And there was still more to come.
Jennet, who was ahead once more, unaware that the assault on Thom’s senses had slowed his progress, waited for him inside a small clearing.
‘Are you all right, Thom?’ she called back anxiously when she saw him frown.
‘Uh, yeah. I think so. I seem to be getting a bit lightheaded though.’
Her smile returned. ‘Come on, catch up. Let’s see what we can do about it.’
Again her outstretched hand invited him to her and this time, when he took it, she pulled him forward. A familiar charge of electricity ran up his arm and through his body at her touch and he shivered, not with shock, but with delight. She surprised him by raising her other hand to his face, palm flat and facing upwards, long slender fingers pointed at his stubbled chin. Before he could protest, she had pursed her lips and softly blown across her open palm.
If it had not sparkled as it billowed, the powdery dust that filled the air between them would have been invisible. Where it had come from he had no idea, but it filled his nostrils and open mouth instantly. He felt the minuscule particles being absorbed by his skin, a brief tingling sensation that was not unpleasant; the powder(?) carried no smell and its irritation – a tickling really – was minimal. But its effect was astonishing.
Like some fast-working, high-powered and highly illegal drug, it sharpened his senses – all five, plus one other – to a degree that might have been frightening had it not also had a warming, calming effect. It was then that the world around him became almost surreal in its explicit reality.
He began to see things as they truly were, without the mind’s own inbuilt proclivity towards conformity and order; he saw the world around him as it was meant to be (and perhaps, once was) seen had not the human brain become cluttered with assumptions and prejudices, development its enemy rather than ally, progression a blinding foe. Thom became aware of the wildlife not only in his vicinity, but well beyond his range of vision also; he could sense, hear and smell the woodland animals’ presence even though they were far out of sight. And he watched the wildlife that was before him in the same way, seeing and perceiving, sensing and feeling, as if he were part of them, they were part of him. He saw the fox ignore the rabbit, the fawn dance with the hare, the mole’s game of hide-and-seek with the wood-mouse, the moth encourage the late caterpillar, and he knew that as his view of these creatures had changed so, too, had their view of him. He was no longer a threat, he was of their kingdom, an accepted member of their habitat.
As Jennet quietly drew him on still further, he began to see the faerefolkis again, only this time they were even more lucid; they were also less inhibited, as though they, too, accepted him in their world.
Tiny coruscations of light emerged as winged faeries. They played together and with the sudden abundance of butterflies, several mounted on their insect counterparts, riding them as if they were flying horses, while still more trailed behind using silken threads as reins.
He almost tripped over a green imp who squatted on the poorly defined path, like a thin frog with ‘human’ limbs and features; stalks of grass grew from its back and otherwise bald dome of a head as part of its very nature. It watched balefully and made no effort to shift as Thom cautiously stepped around it.
Two muddy-green and brown pixies sat conversing on a fallen tree trunk, each of them about ten inches high and resembling wizened old men; wrinkles ravaged their thin faces and long pointed ears, and their slitted eyes were totally black. Tall brown hats of aged leather bobbed as they nodded their heads together in agreement and they hardly acknowledged Thom and Jennet as they passed by.
‘Krad and Detnuah,’ Jennet whispered leaning into Thom. ‘They’re always philosophizing about something or other without ever coming up with a conclusion. They get cross if they’re disturbed, so tread carefully and say nothing.’
Bright silvery-blue faeries and imps played leap-frog together, jumping over a cluster of mushrooms, the former’s fluttering wings making them master of the game. Their flutey high-whistling sound quickly became laughter and happy cries to Thom’s ears.
As they approached an ancient oak that must have been growing in this part of the woods for the last three hundred years, Thom thought he noticed movement in its bark, but when he drew close he realized hundreds of tiny brown creatures were squirming and writhing on its surface in some mad slithering dance, their limbs intertwined, naked little bodies wriggling through gaps, tiny ugly faces grimacing as if each suffered their own private torment. Soft moans and wails came from them and he looked at Jennet in dismay.
She, herself, avoided looking at the oak and its moving cloak of misery and hurried on, urging Thom to follow quickly.
Her lovely face wrinkled in disdain. ‘We call that the Punishment Tree. It’s for all those elves and pixies who do harm that can never again be set right. It’s their shame and despair that makes them wriggle so and each miscreant is there for a hundred years until they die and drop off like rotting bark. By doing that they make room for the next offender – the waiting list is enormous. If a human comes by, they freeze and become the oak itself, their torture interrupted until the unaware traveller passes by.’
Thom shuddered inwardly and they swiftly moved on. The sudden downturn in his mood lifted when he spotted a little fellow puffing away on a cornpipe while sitting almost invisible among the ferns. He was stroking his long brown beard, muttering happily to himself and taking no notice of Thom and Jennet until they were nearly upon him. Even then, he merely grinned and waved a hand in greeting, continuing to puff away at the pipe and talk to himself at the same time.
‘Good-day, Ekulf,’ Jennet bid him cheerily, and it was only then that Thom saw many, many other faces among the lush shrubbery, all eyes directed at the pipe-smoking speaker in their midst. Up close, Thom could make out faces and shoulders, and here and there almost complete bodies; all of the listeners, who seemed enraptured by the tale being told – Ekulf had not been muttering to himself at all – were green in colour and wore green and blue clothing, which was why Thom had not noticed them right away.
‘Sometimes he’s called Trebreh,’ Jennet was saying quietly as they continued to walk, ‘and sometimes Semaj, depending on what story he’s telling. He claims to know all the old ones, the sad ones, the happy ones, and all the ancient riddles and songs, but sometimes I’m sure he makes them up as he goes along.’
Everywhere Thom looked there was some kind of activity, although more than once he had to concentrate hard to discern what was going on even with his heightened perception. Faeries, sheer wings sometimes twice as large as their own bodies, flitted among the trees and undergrowth, but particularly around the brightest of the flowers or coloured toadstools, chasing each other, calling out or singing, floating by hand-in-hand, in groups of three, eight, or a dozen, enjoying themselves on the perfect summer’s day. Others copulated unashamedly together, their tiny bodies full of vigour and glowing radiantly, lights flaring outwards from their wingtips in fantastic fireworks displays as they achieved orgasm, all giving out
their tiny ecstatic shrieks full of verve and melody. And although Thom’s face reddened and his jaw dropped in momentary shock, he realized that, as orgies go, this was as innocent and joyous as could be.
Ruefully, he turned to Jennet, who gave him a beaming smile.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she said.
He could only nod his head in exaggerated fashion.
Further on, a bald-headed gnome sat in the middle of a stagnant shallow pond, his doleful eyes watching their approach, just his head and shoulders visible above the slimy surface, a single dewdrop hanging from his long, sharp nose; as Thom passed by an ivy-bound tree, a green face smiled out at him, only a slight movement and widening mouth revealing its presence; a creature with an extended snout for a nose and high-peaked ears, its head, neck and back bristling with quills so that it resembled a hedgehog, scurried across their path; more blue-coloured faeries, bodies sleek in their nakedness, played among a carpet of bluebells, while others, pink, silver, and purple, sat watching contentedly on plants and leaves, jabbering in their high-pitched but beautiful voices, many of them greeting Jennet with excited waves of their hands or fluttering of gossamer wings; there were even more in a vast golden glade they reached, both brilliant and pastel colours everywhere, some faeries wearing rich vibrant crimsons and mauves, others attired in graceful and transparent shifts, pixies and elves dressed in leather or cloth jerkins, while imps went about entirely clothesless, with inconsequential – and pointed, Thom noticed – genitals exposed to the air, no body hair on them at all save for long, unkempt tresses hanging from head to shoulders.
Jennet called out to all and sundry, reeling out their names to Thom as she indicated each one – Srehto, Cigam, Hanoj, Obidiah, Titus, Rial, Ulick, Toby, Star, Enirhs, Noom, Philibert, Niamod, Rufus, the list seemed endless and most of the like he had never heard before – Osric, Erhclupes, Rovivrus, Troth, on and on it went, until he could only shake his head in defeat.
‘Just don’t ask me to repeat them all,’ he said, holding up his hands.