Once...

by James Herbert

  ‘Time for you to rest,’ Rigwit said kindly.

  ‘No, no,’ Thom protested weakly, ‘there’s too much unexplained, so much more to know.’

  He was afraid he might never see the elf again should he let him go now. It was frightening, but wonderful too. Awesomely wonderful. Yet he could not prevent his shoulders sagging, his head dropping.

  ‘You’ll sleep soon,’ the elf told him.

  Thom’s eyelids drooped.

  ‘Very soon,’ the voice now inside his head soothed.

  Thom’s weight felt too heavy for his elbows.

  ‘Soon . . .’

  As Thom’s eyes closed the quiet voice said: ‘I am the keeper of this place, Thom. I’ve always been present, even when the cottage was empty. I am here . . . to help . . . you . . .’

  Thom’s forehead was only inches from the table’s surface.

  ‘. . . fight your foe . . .’

  His hair brushed the closed book before him.

  ‘. . . the wiccan . . .’

  He rested his temple against soft, aged leather.

  ‘. . . who wishes you dead . . .’

  Darkness. Friendly darkness.

  AGAIN HE had no recollection of ascending the spiral staircase to the bedroom, nor did he recall undressing and climbing between the cool sheets of the four-poster. He blinked several times, partly against the brightness of the day streaming through the windows, partly to bat away the gluey tiredness that cohered his eyelids. As was becoming usual these days, it was an extraneous sound that awakened him, a light tinkling from downstairs that took a few moments for him to register the doorbell. Although he had not cleared or oiled the bell since his arrival, its tone had lightened, its clunking clumsiness gone as if by . . . magic. There was a clear and musical ring to it now, a happy cadence to its summons. Thom pushed down the top sheet with his feet and rose from the bed. He paused before the small settle on which his jeans were neatly folded, his cleared mind suddenly opened to the events of last night, the beast in his bed, the struggle for his stolen semen – the arrival of the glorious, incredible faeries!

  His hand reached out for the arm of the chair to steady himself, his bent body swaying for a few moments as his legs weakened beneath him. My God, was it possible? Had it really happened? Thom was amazed and frightened by the possibility – no, the actuality! It had happened, right here in Little Bracken. It had not been illusion or an hallucination caused by some kind of brain seizure. It was all true, all real! He gasped at the assertion.

  The bell downstairs again, persistent rather than insistent, its jingle too joyful to be otherwise.

  And the elf! He remembered the elf, Rugwig, Rutwig, Wigpig, whatever its name was. Rigwit, that was it! He remembered their conversation long into the night after the battle between the succubus and himself and the faery hordes, the warning that his life was in ‘peril’. What was that supposed to mean?

  The bell, and its summons, could not be ignored.

  Pulling on the jeans (he couldn’t remember having folded them so carefully), left leg catching awkwardly as he pushed it through the straight-cut leg, he then grabbed a white T-shirt from the sideboard’s top drawer. As he did so, he caught sight of himself in the free-standing mirror on top of the sideboard and paused, surprised to discover that his face bore no marks from the frantic scuffle that had taken place during the night. He distinctly remembered the succubus slashing his cheek with its claws, but there were no scratches or wounds in evidence save for the two thin scars that were already there. With no time to question it further, he padded bare-footed towards the stairs. Descending, he poked his head through the T-shirt’s V-neck and glanced through the window on his left even as he thrust his arms through the sleeves. Changeable weather: dull and drizzly yesterday, today not a cloud in the sky; another scorcher, he reckoned. He pulled the hem of the T-shirt down over his chest and stomach as he reached the landing door, which was ajar, leaving it rumpled around the waistband of the jeans.

  Thom didn’t recall having locked the front door the night before (just as he could not remember going to bed), and he stretched to draw back its bottom bolt. On the other side the bell had stopped ringing as if his visitor had heard his bare feet slapping the wood of the stairs; or had assumed there was nobody home and had decided to leave. Thom suddenly felt anxious.

  He quickly turned the long key and – perhaps incautiously, given the drama of the night – swung the door wide. And almost took a step backwards in surprise . . .

  It was the girl from the lake. The slim, golden-haired, delicately beautiful nymphet he had caught – he had spied on – by the lake three – no, he had lost one day sleeping, recovering – four days ago. Only now she was fully clothed. Sort of. And still exquisitely beautiful, breath-takingly so. She was alone, no cohorts of faeries around her, brushing her flesh, trilling their ethereal tunes . . .

  ‘I’m called Jennet.’

  Her voice was as light as her stature suggested it might be, its high tone almost musical, yet with a strange kind of faraway huskiness to it that was entrancing as it was spine-tingling. She stood on the doorstep smiling up at him, for she was certainly no more than five feet tall, possibly less. The smile was playful, for it was defined only by its corners, and dipped for a moment, presumably to mock his dumbfounded expression. This day she wore a light green dress, pastel in shade but with shadows of purple within its folds; it was so sheer as to be transparent in parts, its satiny fabric of the like he had never before seen. It might have been spun from spider’s silk, so fine and delicate was its structure. Cut to the thigh on either side, an off-centre front hung almost to her bare ankles, giving the garment a ragged appearance; but the effect was subtly graceful. Like sewn stars, tiny, practically invisible beads in the hem either caught the sun’s rays or were lit from within, and two small elegant knots tied the material over her pale shoulders as if the dress were casually fashioned. The cleavage was cut low, reaching almost to her navel, and purple-bedded folds hid the flesh beneath, lending a false modesty, for the effect was more tantalizing than nakedness itself. Her breasts pressed small but proud against the material and her skin was pale – oh so pale – and unblemished.

  The sun, shining from behind, (so how could the beads catch the light?) outlined her slender figure, the gap between her legs teasingly defined.

  ‘Coming out to play?’ she said and gave a mischievous giggle, the fingers of one hand covering her lips.

  He had no idea how to respond. She remained with her hand over her mouth, her fingers long and thin, delicately pointed at their tips, and he remained rooted to the spot, his own mouth half-open. The surprise was not just because she was unexpected, although that obviously played its part; no, the surprise was mainly because of her waif-like beauty – her doe-like beauty even, for she seemed vibrant and skittish like a fawn. Her golden hair hung in long ringlets, tumbling strands of it almost touching her breasts, but smooth on top, parted in the middle, curls rising at the sides, backlit by the sun. Her dainty feet were bare, toes, like her fingertips, softly pointed; and when she smiled again, her hand dropped to her thigh, so that he saw that her small teeth were also softly pointed, like the elf’s, not in a threatening, carnivorous way, but in an oddly sensual way.

  He still did not know what to say and she inclined her head to regard him curiously, amusement never leaving those eyes and lips.

  ‘Good morning, Thom,’ she said, as if starting again. ‘Are you well today?’

  That distant huskiness in her voice, he realized, was seductive as well as entrancing. Delicate fingers seemed to run up his spine.

  ‘I – I don’t think I know you.’ It was feeble, but all he could manage. Of course he knew her – he had watched her by the lake taking pleasure in her own body in a most innocent and uninhibited manner. And they were both aware of it.

  A little pleasing laugh. She really did find him funny.

  ‘I mean,’ he stammered on, ‘I think I’ve seen you . . .’

>   ‘I saw you, Thom.’ She looked at him coquettishly.

  ‘I . . . How do you know my name?’

  ‘Rigwit told me, of course. He’s my friend.’

  The elf was her friend? Then it wasn’t a case of who was she, but what was she?

  As if reading his mind (there was no sense of invasion) she said, ‘We’re all part of the same big family, Thom. You do believe in faeries, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m not sure any more,’ he replied. It was all too fantastic to accept right now, right here on his doorstep and in the warm light of morning. ‘And if I did,’ he added, ‘they wouldn’t be like you.’

  ‘Too tall, am I?’ She sounded delighted.

  Slowly, he nodded his head.

  ‘Don’t you know about faery sizes?’

  Slowly he shook his head.

  ‘Well, they come in all shapes and forms and dimensions, but there are only three kinds of height. The tiny ones you’ve seen, the medium ones – you’ve met Rigwit – and my kind.’

  ‘Your kind?’

  ‘Almost human, Thom. In many other ways too, actually, and it’s because of it that we have to be extra careful when we hide.’

  ‘From . . . us?’

  She nodded. Then: ‘Thom, why don’t we walk? I’ve lots to tell you.’

  She reached her hand across the threshold. And Thom – tentatively yet irrevocably – took it.

  Both barefoot, she led him away from the cottage, into the woods.

  In which we meet the

  Faerefolkis of the forest and Good

  confronts Evil when the greatest

  Demon of all is disturbed.

  THOM KNEW this part of the woods she had led him to, but he had never known it like this.

  Colour, smell, the very nature of the woodland itself, was more alive than he remembered or could ever imagine. Flowers seemed to vibrate with their own power, while other plants bristled with some unknown and unseen force, and their perfume assailed his sense of smell with such power and definition that his head felt giddy with it. Each single blade of grass was vibrantly individual, in perfect tune with its neighbours, existing apart from them yet remaining part of the whole. Trees, although motionless, sent out waves of energy that were so palpable he thought he could stretch a finger towards them and feel the currents separate and flow over his arm like a breeze; and he knew his skin would absorb some of that energy and he would be invigorated by it.

  Even the animals appeared to have lost their shyness, for the rabbit, the fox, the vole and the woodmouse, all gambolled and ran around him, with no enemy lines drawn between them. The badger too had been persuaded from daytime slumber to observe Jennet pass by its sett. And then, there were the deer.

  My God, he had never realized the woods were home to so many deer. Families of roe deer sauntered past, the buck leading the hind and kids. He even glimpsed the much larger red deer, with its long, twisted antlers, through the trees some distance away. Thom was thrilled by it all – by the tawny owl on a tree branch, who benignly watched their progress, by the young fawn that ate berries from Jennet’s hand, and by the song thrush and chaffinch, who alighted on Jennet’s shoulders to chirp in her ears and tug at her hair. It seemed that none was afraid, neither of him and the girl, nor of other species in the near vicinity.

  Birds were everywhere, swooping and singing, disturbing the flights of fluttering butterflies, teasing animals on the ground, then soaring off high into the sky, as if celebrating the day.

  But all this was later, for their stroll had began quietly, with no indication of what was to come. The two of them had moved further into the forest, following a trail that was not at first apparent to the eyes, while Jennet talked in her gently husky, way, explaining to Thom all that he might understand of faery life. She had spoken of their many forms, of ethereal queens and mystical enchantresses – neither one of which was she, Jennet insisted. She told him of the tiny spirits who lived among the fauna, in the undergrowth, or under mushrooms, in the hollows of trees, especially the older oaks, in the meadows, on the hillsides; she told him of creatures sinister and magical, secretive and mischievous, of elves and nymphs, gnomes and sylphs, elementals and earth-dwellers, all of whom existed in the mystic half-world just beyond human perception.

  Some enlightened but, unfortunately, still misguided humans thought that the faerefolkis’ habitat was somewhere between the paradise of Eden and the depths of Hell, between Light and Darkness, and this was wrong, for there was no such place. Rather, faeries dwelt within the spirit of Nature itself, a place imperceptible to mortal man, but nevertheless, very real (although she emphasized that reality was, itself, a false concept). Only a chosen few among humans – those with special ties, or a certain sensitivity – were allowed glimpses of the faery world. More often than not, most of those ties eventually were broken, or deliberately forgotten.

  Of course, humans have always been aware of the existence of faeries – their mention in scholarly and religious works, in fiction or folklore, in Arthurian legends and fantasy tales, in poetry and soliloquy, philosophical treatise and contention, in alchemical explorations and in Jungian dreams, all bears witness to this fact. And even though no physical proof has ever been found, or at least, disclosed, the intuition that the faerefolkis exist lies deep within the human psyche.

  ‘But you must beware of us,’ Jennet had continued. And, when he asked why that was so, she replied, ‘Because some of us are playful and some of us are wicked. The worst of us mean you harm.’

  Again, Thom asked: ‘Why?’

  The answer was as simple as the question.

  ‘For fun,’ she said.

  Further they journeyed into the woods and Thom soon realized he had lost his bearings. He had thought he was familiar with every inch of his woodland home, but now he found himself practically a stranger. Perhaps he had considered this part of the forest too dense to explore when he was younger; yet Jennet was leading him along an almost imperceptible path that was nearly as straight as it was true. A heavy clump of shrubbery ahead seemed to have an invisible path through it, the leaves easily parted, the roots set wide on either side; a fallen tree with a barrier of branches was easily cleared in three short steps; what appeared to be thick bracken was casually pushed aside with each footstep forward. Sometimes he had to follow close behind the lithe girl, but mostly they walked alongside each other.

  ‘Sprites and goblins are the worst,’ she advised him as they went. ‘Try to avoid them, they’ll only cause you trouble. Not all of them, mind.’

  ‘How will I know the difference?’

  ‘By their smiles.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Brownies or elves are always helpful and usually good-natured. Rigwit is really a brownie, but he doesn’t mind being called an elf.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to him about me?’

  She nodded, but continued as if it wasn’t important. ‘Brownies like looking after homes for people, especially when the owners are away a lot. They like you humans. But look out for the elves called cacodemon, afrite, deev, bogle, dwerger, pigwidgeon and flibbertygibbet – they can be very nasty. And also bogeys, boggarts, buccus, bugaboas, clobbies and kelpies are bad spirits especially to be avoided. Fortunately, you’ll rarely meet them, because they’ve been banished by our queens.’

  ‘You’ve got more than one queen?’ A few days ago, Thom would have felt foolish asking the question, but events had changed everything.

  ‘Oh yes, lots. In these woods, it’s Aeval, who used to be queen of Munster – that’s in the country you call Ireland – but she left because of the Disharmonies and came here. Faeries just hate wars and famines because disbelief and lack of faith always abide with them.’

  ‘And d’you have a king?’

  Her expression became sad. ‘Not any more. He and Aeval had their own disharmonies and, because her power is stronger, he was deposed. No one knows where he went. It all happened over a hundred years ago, long before my time.’

&
nbsp; ‘Really? So, how old are you, Jennet?’

  ‘Our years aren’t the same as yours. To be truthful, we don’t even have them. Time isn’t the same for us.’

  ‘But you just said your king went away over a hundred years ago.’

  ‘Yes, in your time, not in ours. I’m trying to make things easy for you to understand, Thom. A lot of what I’m saying would make no sense at all if I didn’t interpret it for you.’

  ‘Ah, so this is meant to make sense to me.’

  ‘Your own insights are helping. And our minds are working together so that you can sense my meaning, because my language is not entirely like yours.’

  ‘I seemed to tune in after a while to the elf, this Rigwit.’

  ‘You learned quite fast, actually. Mostly, you were remembering.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You played with the faeries all the time when you were a child. Bethan allowed you to.’

  He stopped dead among a group of tall ferns. ‘My mother knew about the . . . the . . .’ he could not help but stammer ‘. . . the faeries? She let me play with them?’

  Slightly ahead, she turned to face him.

  ‘Oh Thom, I didn’t realize. It hasn’t occurred to you yet, has it? Bethan was only part-human. She came from us and her lover caused her to change. It was of her choosing, but she really couldn’t help herself. She was so much in love with your father.’

  He almost sank into the ferns. ‘That’s impossible. I would have known, I would have remembered.’

  ‘You did know, she kept few secrets from you. And you were too young even to question it, it was all perfectly natural to you. Before Bethan died, she made sure that all memory of that part of your life was erased.’

  ‘Then she knew – ?’

  ‘Your mother was on limited time once her lover, your father, was gone.’

  He shook his head vigorously. ‘No, that’s impossible. It just couldn’t be.’