short story: the mind is all clouds
~1k words
nature, fae fantasy, folklore
Listen.
Every day my mother says to me, “Be careful on the path today, and keep a watchful eye for faeries; they may lead you astray.” Every day I respond, “Fear not, Mother. I will let no spirit touch me.” However, as the days roll up into piles of sevens and thirties and three hundred and sixty fives, my words become more and more hurried. I know not to be foolish, for I have heard several tales of what may happen to reckless travelers in the wood of the fae. However, those tales could not possibly apply to me. As my cousin always says: interesting things only happen to those who are peculiar in some way—those possessing some special talent or beauty, which I do not. Growing up, I convinced myself I had nothing to fear. In doing so, I made myself peculiar.
The fae of the wood like to watch. So long as they do not leave the trees, it does not matter if you catch their curious, glittering eyes. I, of course, do not speak from personal experience, as the fae never seem to show themselves to me. I do not expect the day of my nineteenth birthday to be anything different: I will make the walk from home to the town well, fill my bucket with water for the day, and return to complete the rest of my daily chores.
I often practice whistling or singing as I walk, to fill the air and the time. I did not always do this. When I was younger, and my mother’s warning rang more loudly in my head, I walked as though even my lightest footstep might crack the ground beneath me and cause reverberations to shatter the world for miles. Now I swing my empty bucket and look for birds along the way. I do not see any birds today. I do see something flash; I look again. A small pair of eyes, dark and shining, stare back at me.
I am frozen. I stop breathing for a moment. I mentally pass over every muscle in my arms, my legs, my chest, my shoulders. Each one of them stays obediently in place. I squint slightly. Perhaps it is only a rabbit looking back at me. Perhaps, if I am gentle, it will not startle.
(Something inside me knows that it is not a rabbit. I refuse to be afraid. I unstick every muscle in my arms, legs, chest, shoulders. I take a step forward.)
The eyes move. In a sunspot I catch sight of a delicate hand, placed lightly on the bark of a tree branch. I take another step toward the town. The eyes pause. The tiny hand clenches in on itself. My stomach does as well.
Below the eyes, a hint of teeth appear, bright even in the shade. The grin broadens. I inhale, exhale. I blink. A strand of hair brushes my nose. The bucket slips from my loose fingers and I startle.
When I look back, the eyes are gone.
It is fine for the people of the wood to watch us. They only want to know what we are doing. Watching them back, however, is warned against. They like keeping secrets. Even knowing this, I could not have dragged my eyes away from theirs without the interruption of the bucket falling.
Once I have recovered from my frozen state, I lean down to pick up the bucket. I look around and see nothing but the trees. When I face toward the town once more, something lies in my path. On the ground, a ring of brightly colored mushrooms—sprouted in the middle of the path where none existed moments ago. I look around again, but still I only see the trees.
An unearthly call flies over my head, but there are no birds in sight; there have not been for several minutes. I shiver and walk forward.
The ring of mushrooms spans the entire path. If I wanted to go around it, I would be forced to enter the wood. This is not an option. The trees are the domain of the fae. Entering them means that one has no guarantee of safety. However, something about the ring of mushrooms makes me uneasy. Perhaps it is the fact that they materialized from nothing.
I peer into the trees. I see no eyes, no sharp, secretive grins, but I feel them. I feel the eyes on me. I step forward over the mushrooms.
I do not feel my body hit the ground.
- - -
Later.
The path has been swallowed back into the trees, reclaimed by the deer and rabbits and fae. A small body jumps from one branch to another. Golden light filters, thick as dust and almost as touchable, through the leaves above. No human foot has touched this grass and moss for time immeasurable.
Years ago, a family lived at the edge of the woods. Years ago, a young child traveled the path every day to fetch water. Years ago, the fae noticed that there was one who was not afraid. So they made her afraid.
Years later, the path is gone. Only a small break remains for deer to leap through. But look. Listen. Only a few inches away, a hand rests in the brush. Moss and weeds and ferns curl around it. An inchworm makes its way up the forearm. A small nest of twigs and grass rests in the hollow of the throat.
The glassy eyes are closed now. The chest expands slightly. The soul has grown tired. The mind is all clouds.
Those animals and sprites that live in the area know this creature only as the sleeping one. They marvel upon its strange, alien beauty and its preserved youth. One day, they whisper, a hero will rise, and the sleeping one will wake. For in all of the human stories, it is a faerie who ensorcels a human away. But in this one, it will be a resting human who enchants the fae.
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