by A. J. Elwood
It was the door to Charlotte’s room. I went towards it, and when I reached the opening I realised she was standing there, quite silently, staring out. Both her eyes were unblinking and fixed; none could have said that one of them was blank.
I began to apologise. I thought I must have frightened her, that she had heard some sound after all, and was looking out in terror of what might have come for her. But she leaned out and thrust something towards me. I closed my hand upon it; I did not at first recognise what it was.
‘I saw them.’ She spoke in a low voice, little more than a whisper, and yet it was full of a hoarse wildness. ‘They took her back. I witnessed their solemnities.’
I opened my mouth to question her, to calm her, but she stepped inside and closed the door in my face. I stared at it; I thought I heard a bedspring settling. I decided it was best to leave her. I went to my room and lit the lamp at my bedside. It was only then that I made out what she had given me: it was the little cloth-bound volume, The Science of Fairy Tales: An Inquiry into Fairy Mythology. I had not even known she was reading it.
I leafed through it before I slept, finding within a peculiar mixture of curiosities. Some were obviously fiction, some intended to be fact, and some consisting of rather fantastical conclusions. Indeed, it should not have surprised me to discover a chapter headed ‘Savage Ideas’.
I did not examine the book again until the morning. I slept ill – I think the odd thoughts it conjured had followed me into sleep. Still, I opened it the next day and confirmed my night-time impression of there being some very strange matter within. Have you read it? I wish I could ask directly – but no mind. I shall relate some of the phantasmagoria which passed before my eyes.
There are stories of midwives summoned to mansions filled with singing and dancing, to ease a fairy birth; others of the perils of eating fairy food, lest travellers in their realms become trapped there for ever; of the fluid passage of time in Fairyland, with a minute spent there taking years in the human world, or the opposite; and tales of terrible revenge for some accidental slight. Still more tell of changelings – children or adults carried away into Fairyland, replaced by worn-out fairies or stocks of wood, even fairy children, bewitched to resemble the stolen person. And there are stories that speak of the fairies’ dislike of being observed, and their various retaliations.
And here is the point. Sometimes the person prying is magically deprived of their sight; sometimes the fairy plucks out their eye or pokes it out with a stick; others blow a mysterious powder into the face. Sometimes, however, that aim is accomplished by the fairy spitting in their eye. ‘All water is wine,’ they have been reported to say, ‘And thy two eyes are mine.’
Whatever the means, it all has the same awful effect: the unfortunate person can see no more.
You will realise why I do not know what to think. Surely such benevolent creatures as we have seen would do no such thing. And what of Elsie Wright? She claims to have often met and played with them in the fairy glen. I wonder why such never happened to her?
But the same book tells me that fairies can choose to manifest themselves to humans. It is where people spy upon their private affairs that objection is encountered, and perhaps that is what we did, upon seeing the little dead body. I would that I had never taken it! It is possible that we have been punished – though the curse has not fallen to me or Harriet, but her mother.
Despite all, I continue to feel the loss of the little skeleton. It is like a constant ache. I wonder and wonder what became of it. We three – and you and Sir Arthur – are the only ones to know of its existence. And I think of the words that Charlotte whispered to me in the dark: ‘They took her back.’
Perhaps the fairies did indeed break their bounds and trespass into the human world; and yet if so, the time of reclaiming the little maid is precisely when they have chosen to deal out such terrible punishment for her loss.
There is an image I carry in my mind: the prone body in the midst of all her fellows, moving in stately array in whatever rites and ‘solemnities’ they may possess. Perhaps they have ushered her into the next world – or welcomed her into their own again.
On a smaller matter, I am reminded that some odd happenings about the house could almost make me believe we are subject to some continuing fairy mischief. With more momentous issues to face, I had rather put them from my mind until this moment. You will notice, for example, that my letter is rather disfigured with blots. I have had much cause for my hand to shake, but I do not believe it to have done so to excess, and yet the ink constantly drips about. It is a disgrace next to your own type-written communications, and I cannot account for it at all.
My magnifying glass continues mysteriously vanished, as do a few other sundry items; flour is constantly spilt about the kitchen; and the milk rapidly turns sour, although it has not been left out, and the days have not been so very warm.
But these small inconveniences might somehow be the result of Charlotte’s poor sight, and the anxious condition of her mind that must necessarily follow; and I can only apologise if my old hands are in a more agitated state of vexation than I am fully conscious of.
It only remains to sign myself,
Very sincerely yours,
Lawrence Fenton
* * *
28th September 1921
Dear Mr Gardner,
Thank you for your last. Yes, we continue as well as could be anticipated, although in spite of all our wishes, the sight in Charlotte’s right eye has not returned.
I have considered very carefully your suggestion that my daughter-in-law may have taken some hint from Mr Hartland’s book. I suppose it is possible that some fancy has taken hold of her, resulting in a real impediment to her vision. It is the perennial question, I suppose, of which came first, the chicken or the egg.
After much thought, I rather decided it was beside the point. There is much supposition in these parts and beyond that fairies are the mere invention of children, yet I have held the little skeleton in my hand, and felt its weightlessness. I cannot doubt them to be real, and that being so, what other mysteries may exist?
The only point at question, then, is whether they are wicked and vengeful or innocent of wrongdoing. I would wish to hope – being part of God’s creation, as I like to assume – they are blithe and good and mean us only well, but I wonder. Indeed, Hartland’s book describes beings that are not purely benevolent but composed of ‘caprice and vindictiveness, if not cruelty’. But how would he know? Perhaps they are neither good nor bad, being of some alternative line of evolution as you have proposed, and have no more morality than does an insect or a bird.
On another point, I can assure you that Charlotte’s blindness is quite genuine. In order to do so, I have been sure to watch her carefully. Her eye looks perfectly normal, but I have many times seen her tilt her head and squint to see better with her one good eye, or to reach for some object and misjudge its distance without the aid of the other. If it is a pretence, it is a good one; and really, I cannot suspect her of any deception. She is of a steady, upright, honest, sober character, and I know if you saw her and conversed with her that you could not consider there was any trickery in it.
You mention that if there is no possibility of human falsity, you would be pleased to rearrange your visit. You ask if you may speak to her and examine her eye. She would pass any test, I am certain of that, but she remains reluctant to speak of the little folk or even hear anything said about them. She has undergone a dreadful experience, and I cannot at present subject her to it.
Perhaps a few more weeks will see her settled enough to consider it again. I am sure the results would be worthy of your patience. Though it strikes me that Sir Arthur is a trained ophthalmologist, is he not? If there was any medical advantage that may be gained, I could try to impress upon her the importance of a visit from you both. I am sure the thrill of meeting such a personage would outweigh any difficulty.
But we do continue a trifle unsettled.
I have mentioned before some small incidents that, whilst of a mere domestic sphere, are really rather inconvenient. They have not ceased; if anything, they have worsened since my last. Charlotte cannot set down her needle without it seemingly vanishing into the air, and neither can she sew for pricking her fingers. Harriet constantly complains that her books have been moved or her place lost, or the pages spilled upon, even torn out. I know that some would raise their eyebrows and blame the child for the mischief, but really, she has never been prone to naughtiness. Besides which, she treasures her books, and I am sure she would do no such thing to any in her possession.
The dinner is often spoiled. Charlotte says the range can no longer be trusted. Sometimes it will not boil a kettle; at other times it will not draw and chokes us all with smoke. The smuts go everywhere, blackening our clothing and the walls. One can even taste it in our bread. It is most unpleasant. I see Harriet pulling faces over it, though bless the child, she eats it anyway, casting glances about the room as if concerned who might be watching.
Of course, all such things are explainable. I do not claim any particular supernatural agency; I have no reason to believe it to be the folk. And yet I wonder, and I have cause, as I will relate.
It is strange to say, after everything that has passed, that Harriet has begun to speak to me of returning to the glen. It very much surprised me at first, and I did not like to re-awaken her fears by questioning the wisdom of it, but I did ask whether she very much wished to go.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘I think we must, for Mama’s sake.’
I did not like to probe her meaning. I suppose she wished to show her parent she was not afraid, but then she said, ‘We need to stop them from being angry about the house.’
I gathered myself to respond, but she added, ‘They don’t really like us. They don’t want to play. They don’t really know how to dance. They only wish to make us want to be where they are.’
‘And where is that, child?’ I asked, but she would not say, or indeed utter another word. She continued silent all that afternoon, as if afraid of having said too much.
I cannot help thinking of Elsie and Frances, who loved to ‘tice’ the fairies and played so gaily among them, just as one imagines children doing. But Harriet has always been such a funny little thing. She prefers her books to the company of others, and then, she has found no suitable playmate. If I had not seen the fairies myself I could easily imagine her to have invented little companions to meet the deficiency.
Such is all my news.
Yours sincerely,
Lawrence Fenton
12
Indistinct forms pass through the rain running down the window. I see the red of a coat, the black whirl of an umbrella, tiny distorted faces. They merge and separate and I can’t make them out with clarity. It’s difficult to judge scale. The rain changes everything; those figures could be anything, even not quite human. Lawrence Fenton had said that his fairies were minuscule, smaller than the ones in the fake photographs. But if they stole people away and left changelings in their place they would have to be humansized, so that no one could tell the difference. I suppose it is a part of their nature to be tricksters, always one step beyond our reach or understanding. Are they good or wicked? Angry or indifferent? Unhappy and sullen or gladsome and full of secret joy?
I remember Harriet’s words: They don’t really know how to dance. What did that mean? And shouldn’t a child know the fairies best of all?
Perhaps they weren’t fairies at all, not as we think of them: not the gauzy creatures of Disney movies or even a young girl’s photograph – unless they chose to appear that way. But what if there was something? Fairy stories of all kinds have been told across the world for hundreds of years, and they hardly ever have little winged creatures in them. Perhaps they are not so much stories as clues, snatches of something glimpsed and never really understood. The stories simply recount them in ways that people can understand, in accordance with their own beliefs or superstition or need, the particular shape of their fears.
Some thought of them as angels or demons. Some even conflated fairies with the spirits of the dead – all a part, perhaps, of Doyle’s spiritual realm.
The little beings that live all about us and are usually unseen, which we have been pleased to name ‘fairies’.
It strikes me that ‘fairies’ is a stupid, too-light name for them. There are other names that don’t quite fit, other descriptions, but none that really encapsulate what they are. Perhaps there is no name that can do that. The way we see them now, light and gauzy, sweeter than sugar, beloved of children – safe – is perhaps the most cruel deception of all.
I shake my head. Whatever they are or were or are meant to be, they are always and ever a mystery, and surely the better for it. If there ever was a skeleton, it was much better lost. Some answers shouldn’t be found; once they are, the magic would surely be gone.
I rest my chin on my hands. My head aches and images flit through my mind: Charlotte, my Charlotte, returning to the glen, witnessing the solemnities. Picking up the little body when the fairies aren’t looking, cradling it to her breast like an infant. Stealing away with it, treasuring it, possessing it. Caprice and vindictiveness, if not cruelty. Those words certainly apply to Mrs Favell. Or is it only that she too has no more morality than a bird?
A soft beep calls me back to the present and I grab my mobile phone. There’s a text from Paul: Hi Mummy, it begins, and I banish it with a quick swipe. Then I turn it off. I start the engine and run the windscreen wipers, revealing people; just men and women after all, some alone, some in little huddles, all of them hunched against the rain. People who are travelling through a world much like Paul’s, having kids, raising them to be like them, to believe in the world they can see and nothing more.
I shake away the ungenerous thoughts. Paul’s a good man, a decent man. I tell myself I love him. I’m no longer a child, clinging to stories; it’s time to grow up. Perhaps my mother had known that. Perhaps that had prompted her to throw away my childhood books. I’m not Little Red Riding Hood wandering in the forest, a lost child trying to find her way, even if I do seem to have missed the path and I’ve already been knocked up by the wolf. Woodcutter, I correct myself. Paul would be the woodcutter, someone fine and noble who wouldn’t abandon a child, and suddenly I’m fighting back tears.
It’s only hormones, I tell myself. The rush of new chemicals coursing through my veins, changing the way I feel and think, changing who I am.
I just need a little more time to absorb the idea of a baby, that’s all. Then I’ll be able to face this. My future self will do better. She’ll have courage, and – and fortitude, as Mrs Favell had so aptly put it.
* * *
I make my way back to Sunnyside before the clock can catch me out and, living up to its name, the sun makes an appearance, though colours are still deepened after the rain, the shrubbery alive with droplets sparkling from each leaf and bud. I rub my face as I walk towards the door. It’s time to stop crying. I’ll put the letters back and Mrs Favell will never know the effect they had on me.
Still, I feel that tug inside, the sadness of letting them go. They’re a little piece of magic in a grey, rain-drenched world, and she surely doesn’t deserve them. But none of it is real. I can’t be like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, seeking after things that never existed.
Surely a child must be miracle enough.
I show my face in the residents’ lounge before heading upstairs. Edie is there, though at first I don’t recognise her, because she’s half drowned in a shapeless cardigan belonging to one of the other residents. Things get mixed up sometimes, in spite of the labels in everyone’s possessions – except, I realise, those of Mrs Favell, who doesn’t seem to need such precautions.
I don’t go over to Edie, pretending instead not to see. I’ll sort it out later; I don’t want to get caught up. I hurry through the propped-open door and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I stop outside room ten. I
raise my hand to knock but somehow don’t move. That sense of watchfulness is back, stronger than ever, boring its way through from the other side of the door.
Slowly, I turn my hand over. I stare at my palm, which is marred by a shadow: the stain of ink ingrained in my skin, marking each whorl and crease, darkening my lifeline, telling its story.
Nothing she can read, I tell myself, and curl my hand into a fist and rap three times. No answer comes. I force myself to push the door open and peer inside, scanning the room twice, making certain she isn’t there.
I shove the door closed behind me. I’ll put the letters on her bedside table. She’s bound to see them there, though anyone else might too – I don’t like to think of the other staff touching them or reading them, but after my earlier intrusion I don’t even want to look at the bureau. Before I put it down, though, I see the ceramic bowl with the key inside it, and next to that, another letter. And so I reach out and pick it up.
* * *
30th September 1921
Dear Mr Gardner,
You will no doubt be surprised to hear from me so soon after my last, and without awaiting a reply in the interim. I shall tell you the reason at once.
I fell into rather a reverie yester-evening, and began thinking again of Elsie and Frances and their gladsome encounter with Fairyland, which seemed to bring them nothing but joy; and I contrasted it with our own household, fallen so deeply into a constant anxious silence.
And I thought how odd it was – now I must apologise, Mr Gardner, and trust you will not think me impertinent, but I only wish to express honestly what I felt – that Charlotte’s photographs appeared so much more realistic than those published in The Strand.
I always thought they appeared rather flat, you see. I know that people wiser than I had examined them and detected signs that the fairies were moving, even your expert in photographic fakery, and yet I never could see it, not really. I blame my old eyes and my ignorance, of course; I am perfectly happy to be guided by wiser men than I. Indeed, I understand you to be the reference for lantern slides and images for the Theosophical Society, but still, I always somehow felt they had rather a cardboard cut-out quality that did not sit well with the living child next to them.
