by Peter Beagle
So, what is your vice? That is what I ask, always, as I study the people I meet. Are you vain? Are you greedy? Do you let your resentments fester? Do you lust after what is not yours? His was not readily apparent, which made things more complex. After all, if he abused his animal, I could simply switch his and the donkey’s souls and call it a day. Or just trade their heads. I’d done it before, though, and was bored with the idea.
He led us off the road, and soon we were under shade, near water. I watched him avidly, but he watered his animal first, then let him crop the grass. The land was not well grazed, which made me wonder if many people knew about this spot.
I waited for him to settle down, slipping a short distance away. I changed my hair color to a bright gold, but I let it be matted. My face was pretty, delicate, but my body was thin, my clothes old and worn. There was just enough dirt to make me look poor, impoverished, but not disgusting. Pathetic was what I was looking for.
I ran through the trees, and then tripped and fell into the clearing only a few feet away from my quarry.
I made a little, terrified squeak of horror.
He’d jumped up and drawn a knife when I fell into the clearing, but now he looked at me, trying not to laugh. “Tis all right,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.”
I gave him a doubtful look, but then I turned my attention to the feast he had set out on a cloth, as if unable to maintain my suspicion in the face of food. Fresh brown bread, a half a wheel of creamy white cheese, preserved sausage. “Please.” I said, and then I swallowed. “Please, sir…can I have…I am so hungry, sir.” I looked up at him with huge brown eyes, silently begging. He looked back at me. I saw his tongue touch the corner of his mouth, and I thought, Aha. How easy and predictable men are. I was tempted to heave my chest a little, but I didn’t want to encourage him further. Men were perfectly capable of falling all on their own. And his eyes did fall, to the torn blouse, that revealed just on the edge of too much, then back up to my face. He winced.
“I certainly have enough to spare,” he said, and turned, kneeling. He cut a generous piece of the bread. I did not need to look into the future to know already what it would be. He would give me food, ask me questions, I would tell him the same story I told everyone, and he would ponder what, if anything, he should do for me. The danger, such as it was, had passed.
When he turned, smiling, his hand filled with bread, I was gone.
“Girl?” he called. “Girl? I promised. I won’t hurt you…” He looked around for me, but I was gone.
I remained on that part of the road for several days, half waiting for him to come back through. The blue birds were leading me to the next destination on the path of my life, but I was dawdling on purpose. Many years ago I’d been in a battle, one so furious that I’d had to retire to the trees and sleep. The last full moon had seen me rise again at last, but I still felt odd. The magic that makes up who I am seemed to be leaking out of some small hole in me, like fine sand through cloth. Perhaps, I am fading at last, but I can’t just yet. Not until I have done that one thing that I must.
The farmer was in a better mood when I next saw him, and I knew his business had gone well. Who should I be, this time? A crone, of course…is there anything else? I made myself ugly, misshapen, one eye milky, the other seeming to wander of its own accord. Soon I was making my way up the road toward him, leaning heavily on my stick. He passed me without looking at me, and I knew I was disturbing, but a truly good soul would not care. “Sir,” I called in my twisted voice, “Sir, I am so hungry, do you have bread to spare for an old woman?”
He sidled closer to the donkey. “I am sorry…I have nothing.”
“But you are just back from town. Did you not do well in the market? Did you not pack something for your journey home? I do not ask for much, just a crust…”
“I told you, I have nothing!” He quickened his pace.
“But you had plenty when you thought I was young and beautiful.” My voice changed before my body, so he turned and looked. Confusion becoming revulsion, as I changed before his eyes, warped into a delicate, golden-haired urchin. “You even thought about bedding me, did you not, for the price of my supper?”
He stepped back again, hand on the cart wheel. He was still afraid, and he was wise to be so. “Yes. For one moment I did, but I wasn’t going to. And I mean it. I have nothing…”
“Don’t lie to me.” I sniffed the air, tilted my head. “You have two…no, three wheels of cheese in the back, a basket of preserved honeyed apples, three barrels of decent ale…on your person, there is ham and bread…” I met his eyes. “Winter provisions? Something to give you warmth and joy during the bleak, hard winter? But there are real people with nothing in this world. What about the old ladies and homeless maids? What about the men who can no longer work or the abandoned mother? What joy or warmth do they get?”
He looked ashamed, I’ll give him that.
“I’m not expecting you to lead a crusade, Farmer, for we all hurt the world though our own selfish natures. I just expect you to do good when the opportunity is presented. Now, what shall I do to you?” I squinted at him, pointing a finger, rotating it, considering his fate. “How shall I make an example of you ?”
He did not plead. Usually they do. They beg, they make promises of varying grandeur.
He did not.
He did not try to reason, as often happens. Nor explain why he had done what he had done, or to prove that really, it was a mistake, and in general he was a pretty decent man.
He did not.
He did not try to bribe me. Some do. They try to show me that they are my friend, and that they are willing to give or do something to help me, just make it all go away.
He did not.
What he did was meet my eyes, levelly, with some little bit of resignation, another twist in the road of life, to be accepted and lived through.
We stared at each other a long time. I kept trying to think what to do, but nothing came to me. Nothing I could bear doing to him. “Are you sorry?”
He blinked, and then said, after a moment, “I am, yes. Not because you’ve told me to be so, but because I think that you have a point.” There was a bit of pride in those words, but I let them pass.
I folded my hands, slowly, over my waist. I let go of the spell, and he saw me as I am. As tall as he, slender, darkened from long days in the sun, hair a sun-streaked brown with a little green. “I think I’m changing.” I said, and I was frightened.
“I suppose we all must.” He said his words carefully, as if talking to a wild horse. “Where are you going? Do you wish a ride?”
I shook my head furiously. I’d lost the heart for it all. I should do something. People didn’t leave my presence unscathed.
“Be good.” I said, fiercely. “Be good.” And between one blink and the next, I was gone.
I tried to forget him as I followed the path through the forest. My blue-feathered companions fluttered impatiently ahead of me, leading me to the bank of a wide river. They did not cross yet, nor did they lead me to a suitable crossing, so I conjured a small boat. A bird settled on the bow, a tiny blue speck of body and long, curled feathers of red.
He and I floated down the winding river, the forest fading into a new kingdom. High on a hill, a castle overlooked the river and city. The city gave way to villages, villages spread out into what looked like rich farm land. It was cupped in a valley formed by mountains. I thought it beautiful but familiar, though after all this time, my destinations always looked familiar.
It called something inside of me, as I stepped out of the boat and up onto the bank. The bird flew three circles around me, and then took off, showing me that I truly was at my destination. The boat disappeared with a word, and I stretched. Truthfully, I had been wandering for so long I scarcely remembered what the place I had started from was like, but as I picked my way down to the main road, I realized it did not much matter. I had my job ahead of me, the familiar, endless task. There were two peop
le to find, to be brought together.
To find her is not hard. You listen for the tales of a girl who is kind. She rarely, if ever, has a mother. Usually the father, if he is still alive, has remarried.
To find the man is even easier. Find the handsomest one. The wealthiest, the highest of the nobility, and you’ve probably located him. It has even been so, and will be, time and again, until the end of the sun.
Forgive me if I sound bored. I have lived this story so many times, the search, the hope, the sorrow. I know the ending already. It is etched in my bones, and I am not certain how to stop it.
Although the players in this tale are easy to recognize, sometimes it is almost as if they are purposely hiding from me. Stone is no friend of mine, so I cannot feel for her through the cobbles that make up the path toward the town center. My steps were taking me to where the village lapped up against the city, where tall walls surrounded homes. I was tired, but I wanted to find her ere I took my rest.
Listen, I told myself, breathe and listen.
Your voice, to me,
is the sweetest wine.
I long for to hear it.
It brings me joy…
She had a sweet singing voice, clearer than air, more delicate than a nightingale. It came from the other side of a courtyard wall, so I followed it, hoping the gate was open. It was, and the dark iron, open on each side, framed a young woman hanging laundry, shaking sheets out with a snap, and then pinning them into place. I leaned against a tree, begging for strength. My eyes closed, and I felt for the reassurance of the wood.
A damp, cool hand touched my brow. I looked at her.
Eyes like the sky.
“Are you all right?” She held a cup out to me. “Here, I have drawn you some water. Take it, you will feel restored.”
“This is the second time,” I wanted to tell her, “That you have offered me water.” Instead, I took the cup, and drank. “You are kind,” I said. “Thank you.”
She smiled and patted my arm. “I am happy to help. Come, sit in the courtyard. The family is not home, they will not speak against it.”
I allowed myself to be led to a bench, and I watched her, feeling myself warmed by her spirit as if by the sun. Through the years, I’ve grown to love her. There has never been a time—not once—when she has not been kind. I have been in a million forms, and always she has been a friend. It is a bittersweet love, for it stabs me every time I see her, yet I am drawn to it.
“What can I do for you, my child, in return for your kindness?” I fall back into my habits, to save me from thinking too much.
She knelt by a large, wooden bucket. A cauldron was boiling on a fire, and she used a smaller pail to scoop some of the water out and pour it on the laundry. “Tell me a story? As you can see, I have much work, but a story would make it go much faster.”
I drank some more, and then said, “I will tell you a very, very old story…”
She smiled, tucked soft, golden hair behind one ear, and resumed her work, listening as I spoke.
This is what I told her, with a little less honesty.
“Once,” I said, “There was a woman. She had no real home, for her people lived in the trees of the forest. They slept snug and safe in the very fibers of the wood. And this young woman had a favorite place to go, deep in the heart of the forest…”
In this forest, there is a tree so huge and so great with age that it takes time to walk around it, and a dozen large men joining hands could not circle it. It was large when I first knew it, and my parents, my little sister and I could clasp hands around it, but the last time I saw it, it was practically a fortress.
As I tell her the tale, I long to I sink myself into that tree, allow myself to move into it, my body becoming wood grain, my blood becoming sap. It is a dangerous tree, because it is so very deep that you could get lost in it. The further you go in, the more isolated from the world you become. The deeper you sink, the less likely you are to notice the passing of days, the flight of the birds, the presence of a man sitting at your base, taking his ease.
Would that I had sunk ever so deep into the center of the tree the day he came. Would that we had never seen each other at all.
But no. Back then, I liked to be able to open my eyes, take a peek at the world around me. I was young, and did not need the solace of the very center of the tree, did not need the comfort, the energy of the earth pumped right into my heart. And one time, when I opened my eyes, I saw a young man, a hunter, with strong limbs, and pale eyes, and hair like the sun.
He was sitting against my tree, carving away at a chunk of fallen wood, cutting away the bark, the weathered skin, bringing up pale, clean flesh. He smoothed it gently as he worked, creating subtle, smooth curves. I stepped out of the back of the tree and leaned against it, looking over his shoulder. “What is it?” I asked. “Is it a shoe?”
He jumped quickly, the knife readied to carve into me. I hid my face against the rough bark of the tree, and smiled coyly at him.
“Where did you come from?” he asked, relaxing his stance, but not, I saw, his eyes. He was ready in case I had friends about to attack.
“Not far from here.”
I stepped away from the tree, dressed in a long dress of cloth only a little finer than the rough fabric that adorned him.
“I still call my father’s hearth home. He lives up there.” I pointed with my chin.
It wasn’t really a lie. My people gathered there from time to time.
“And you? Where do you come from?” I stepped closer, and he let me.
I put my hand on his warm skin, and he did nothing but watch me, warily. “So warm,” I muttered, and partly closed my eyes, like a lizard on a rock. I wanted to get closer to that sun-blessed skin.
He looked down at me, his eyes studying my face, a bemused look edging his expression as I made myself look beautiful to him, as I subtly changed myself to match what seemed to be found pleasing in his eyes.
Do you know the myth, that one should never eat the food of faery, or be forever trapped? That is true, in its way. To eat or drink of the things of faery is to taste of something so uncommon, so blessed and lovely, that one is forever spoiled. Mortals who taste of us either stay with us forever, or spend their lives wishing for what they’d experienced. They search for the taste, the feeling, the joy, but find them not in human things. Some are fortunate enough to find one of us who will take them into service, but most of them pine away, unable to enjoy what they have for the longing of what they do not.
It is the same with lovemaking between faery and human, which is why we are forbidden to touch their kind. I will not lie to you. I knew that. I looked into his eyes, and into that face that rivaled even my own kind for perfection…and I forgot.
“She doesn’t sound like a very nice lady, this faery,” she said, scrubbing a muddied hem. I blinked at her, and then drained the cup.
“I don’t think she was intentionally cruel,” I said. “I rather think…I think she just didn’t understand herself. Anyway, it’s just a story. What’s your name?”
She stopped, and I wasn’t certain if it was because she was surprised at the abrupt change in topic, or because she wasn’t sure if she wanted to say.
“Eleanor.” She stood and shook her skirts, and then took the empty cup from my hands. “I need to fetch aught from the house…may I bring you anything? I should like to hear more.”
I shook my head, and watched as she went into the house. I still could not believe I had allowed the farmer to pass and worried about what it meant. I consoled myself that his sin was not so great, but in truth I knew I had failed in my task. Failure was not a new concept, but usually it wasn’t something I could help. I was getting weak. Perhaps I was fading, after all, to become nothing but the whisper of wind through the trees…if I was lucky.
She came back out, her arms full of cloth. After a moment of settling in again, she asked, “So, what happened to the man? Did the faery free him?”
“She
could not. But one cannot think of the man she had taken as her lover without thinking of another woman that, by doing so, she had wronged…”
My clearest image of her is this: standing by the road, hugely gravid, the wind playing with her pale gold hair and rough spun clothes. Her feet were bare, as an unmarried woman’s would be. She looked to the left, and the wind pushed her hair into her eyes. Her hands shook slightly as she pushed the strands back. He comes around the bend, but he is different. Hunger and anguish and longing had brought winter to his summer far too soon. His face is gaunt, and though she steps out onto the road and waves to him, calling his name in a hopeful voice, his eyes look right through her.
The mother of his child watches, her face turning like a flower to the sun, her hair streaming behind her.
I was there, forced to stand and watch by my father, who was furious at me for what I had done. They had sent physicians and magicians alike after him, to break the bond between us, to cure him of me, but it could not be done.
I did not try to speak to my father. I had already discovered that he would not allow it. After she gave up and began to wander down the road, he grabbed my arm and took me into the forest, and I turned one last time, and looked at her. “At least do something for her,” I said. “Let me try…”
My words were cut off as I was thrown into the tree. It closed around me, gentle, as if it understood that I was not such a bad person, but firm, for it would not let me out of my punishment.
I was trapped there when he died—of starvation, or exposure, or madness, no one ever told me.
But I was told that he died, and more, for my father leaned against the tree, and spoke to me. He spoke of one night, when the sky was filled with stars, of a pregnant young woman going for a walk. Her eyes fastened on the bright shining lights above.
She looked neither left nor right, but kept walking, her night-dark eyes reflecting the cosmos above. She walked up a hill, a place that chieftains often used as a look out, for it was a tall place, and the view was far.
