by Signe Pike
This was a topic that Peter and I would debate. But in my opinion, KP and I were sleeping at the foot of a 300-million-year-old mountain that had most likely been worshipped by the ancient Celts. I wish I’d known that at the time. It would have made being there so much more poignant, and so much less . . . frustrating. And perhaps I would’ve further explored my vision of the lines of ancient people. It was just one more part of my experience that was validated when someone or something deemed the time was right.
Even though we were physically and metaphorically in the dark, it was magical. Outside the tent the stars were bright, and I was aware of how amazing it felt to have all that beauty hovering up there, directly over our heads. I let out a soft sigh and tried to adjust my bumpy “pillow.”
“Signe?” Kirsten whispered.
“Yes?” I whispered back.
“Do you think we appreciate Dad more now, now that he’s dead?”
I thought for a moment. “Yes. I think it’s a very hard thing, sometimes, to appreciate people while they’re here. Especially, for some reason, family.”
We were quiet for several breaths, both locked in memory.
“Kirsten?”
“Yes?”
“Do you ever . . . sense him?”
“No. Well, I mean, just in the same way I did when he was alive. When I was doing something outdoorsy and cool, I would always think, ‘Dad would totally love this.’ It’s just that now I can’t tell him about it. But I guess I take a lot of comfort in one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, there’s half of Dad in you, and there’s half of Dad in me. So when we’re together, we make one whole Dad.”
Tears sprang to my eyes, and for a moment the lump in my throat kept me from saying anything at all.Taking my silence as non-agreement, she whispered it out for me, in typical KP logic. “You know . . . Dad is fifty percent of the genetic material that created me. So technically, he is half of me, therefore, if I am hiking, then he is there, enjoying the hike.”
I bit the edge of my lip to keep from laughing. She had actually just used an “if/then” statement. Leave it to my sister to describe her philosophy of our father’s presence using conditional predicate logic.
“You know, in a literal sense,” she continued in a low voice, “because your children technically are you. So . . . maybe I feel him. But maybe it’s just me, so . . .”
“No, I get it, I get it!” I laughed.
“Kirsten,” I said after a long moment.
“Yes?”
“Can I ask you another question?”
“Mmm?”
“Why are we whispering?”
She paused a moment, then whispered, “Uh . . . I don’t know.”
It was one of those moments, like you have in sleepovers when you’re little, where one person starts laughing and soon no one can stop. The tent exploded with our laughter, which grew into irrepressible cackling. We laughed until we cried, until our stomachs cramped, futilely trying to muffle ourselves in our slightly damp, irregular pillows.
More than a hundred years ago Yeats wrote, “In Ireland there is something of timid affection between men and spirits. They only ill-treat each other in reason. Each admits the other side to have feelings. There are points beyond which neither will go . . .” As I traveled Ireland it seemed this mode of thinking, this close relationship between man and spirit, was a thing long forgotten in the collective consciousness. I was following such a cold trail in trying to find people who still viewed the world in this way—as sentient, and reached out to it with a spirit of collaboration, a spirit of respect.
One hundred years’ time and a girl comes to pick the threads. If only I could have plucked one thread that could take me back to the source. I guess that was the saddest thing about Ireland. It was such a beautiful, paradoxical country where faith in God coexisted with a belief in faeries. Each was a part of the other. And there was suffering then, terrible suffering. Poverty that would rip your guts out it was so pervasive, so unjust. But they had something then. They had their beliefs, and they had their stories. They could have one loaf of bread to their whole family, and they would still leave a few crumbs for the Sidhe; they would still leave a few crumbs for the good people. An old peasant woman in Yeats’s time said, “The faeries are always looking out for the poor.” And who’s to say they weren’t, in whatever way they could?
Perhaps there was an exchange there, a kindness, in thanks for being recognized and remembered. Perhaps then, if they had a chicken, it would give a few more eggs every once in a while, but it was those extra eggs that gave enough to keep the family fed. Perhaps if they had a cow, it gave sweeter milk. We don’t yet know, and may never yet know, the ways in which their world reaches out to us. But I had begun to see it. I had begun to understand that when the worlds intertwined, the faeries’ touch was subtle. And in that subtlety we always have the right to choose. We can choose to believe or not to believe. I only knew that the stories of fear and dread and violence that made up our folklore hadn’t shown themselves to me. Instead, I found that the more I was willing to walk toward belief, the stronger my own intuition got, and the more gifts and kindnesses I received, even if it was only because I was now more aware, faeries or no.
But thinking back over my path, thinking back to where it had led me in that very moment, sitting in Shannon Airport, waiting to board a plane, I knew that my journey since undertaking this book had been nothing short of miraculous. In carefully picking up my own thread in the faery story, I saw that there had been signs all along.
They were silly little things. The ease with which I met my book agent, how quickly the project sold, Eric and I finding the one little house in our suburban neighborhood with a wild, almost mystical backyard—at a price we could afford! All of the incredible people I’d met who had accompanied me on a piece of my journey so far, each one contributing something to my search for the meaning under everything, each one of them magical in their own way. This was the enchantment I’d found in following my own faery path, whatever that meant. And I couldn’t help but wonder what the people of Ireland were losing in leaving theirs behind. I’d quizzed shopkeepers, bartenders, patrons. Children, mothers, bus drivers. I’d spoken to more than a hundred people in passing through Ireland asking them all the same thing: Do you believe in faeries? The answer had been no.
In Ireland, the storytellers cling to the dusty fabric of the old days even as the new generations absentmindedly sweep everything under a new three-thousand-euro rug. They don’t wonder what will happen to their culture when there is no one left to tell its stories. They don’t wonder what will happen to Eddie’s treasure—his trove of tapes—when he is no longer alive to protect them. Would they forget altogether? There were struggles in the newspapers between believers and local government, when they wanted to chop down sacred faery trees to build the new highway to Shannon Airport. But the new generation beats back the magical mist from their shores with every “I don’t believe” that’s uttered from their lips.
I envied them their enchantment even as I watched them ignore it. I had heard it stirring in the untamed echoes of a night’s entertainment, in the haunting whistle and frenzied bowing of an evening’s music session. In hearing and in dancing, it was enough to make me wild with it. To be Irish, with that ancient Celtic drumbeat thrumming through your veins, thousands of years of connection within you, between you and the land, the land and its spirits. I felt a pulse buried beneath it all, and it gave me hope. The Shining Ones have slumbered for hundreds of years, relegated to a forgotten corner in the country’s collective nursery, but perhaps there was still a chance that once again people would stir them, reigniting the mysticism of ages past.
I wondered if they ever remembered, if even just in sleep, the ancient secrets that still lay within them, whispering through their bodies in the deepness of their dreaming.
SCOTLAND
21
The Faery Queen of Aberfoyle
The good people . . . are said to be of a middle nature betwixt man and angel . . . of intelligent, studious spirits and light, changeable bodies (like those called astral), somewhat of the nature of a condensed cloud and best seen in twilight.
—THE REV. ROBERT KIRK, THE SECRET COMMONWEALTH OF ELVES, FAUNS AND FAIRIES
SCOTLAND is immense, desolate, awe-inspiring. It rains while the sun shines fifty yards away. There, the faeries are known as the Sith (pronounced shee). In lore they reflect the landscape around them. Waterfalls crash down deep splits of black rocks, and the mountains stand like mythic giants, their faces cragged with age, the rock weathered by centuries of wind and rain. Walking the hills, you can feel the ghosts walking alongside you—those who climbed the slopes before, some to feed and shelter their sheep or cattle, some to honor the land that bore them. Here, people remember what they are—human, yes, but in actuality, they remember that really we are all animals. And when you remember what you are, your connection to the land, and to the other animals that we are charged to share it with, your viewpoint changes forever.
I’m not saying that the people of Edinburgh run through the streets worshipping cattle and singing about rainbows and butterflies. Edinburgh has its charms, and in truth it is one of my favorite cities in the world. But it has its share of ghosts. There are haunted tours that take you through dank dungeons and underground communities, bricked up with people alive in them during the plague. Like all bustling cities, there is a certain remove from the natural world. So upon arrival, I sought the remoteness right away. Saying goodbye to Kirsten in Shannon Airport was another tough parting, but there was a freedom in being back on my own, continuing my quest.
From the start, one man’s story in particular had intrigued and terrified me, more so than any other. He wasn’t a social scientist (like W. Y. Evans-Wentz) or a poet (like Yeats). Rather, Robert Kirk was a humble Scottish minister who had devoted his existence to the pursuit of the faeries. And it cost him his life.
A well-educated man, Kirk served at the parish of Aberfoyle until his early death in 1692. One year prior to his untimely departure, he had taken an interest in his parishioners’ fascination with the Sith. He began traveling the countryside, speaking to people who claimed to have encounters, questioning seers about the unseen world, and compiling a manuscript, eventually entitled The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies.
It’s a nonfiction essay on the nature and actions of a people that Kirk describes as subterranean and “mostly” invisible—the faeries. In it, he details both intimate and mundane facts about faeries: how they reproduce, what they look like, what they eat. Shortly after completing the book, his dead body was found on the nearby “Fairy Hill,” where he would often walk while researching his book. He was wearing only his nightshirt.
Villagers believed he had been struck dead by the queen of the faeries for divulging too much privileged information about them, imprisoning his spirit in a tree atop the hill, known today as the Minister’s Pine. It was certainly radical for a minister to study the world of faeries. Kirk’s successor, Rev. Grahame, wrote of his death, “As Mr. Kirk was walking on a dun-shi, or fairy hill, in his neighborhood, he sunk down in a swoon, which was taken for death.” Was taken for death. His specter was later spotted at a family christening, a last-ditch effort made by Kirk’s spirit to be rescued before he was whisked away for all eternity.
I’ll admit it. I was afraid to go walking alone at the place where Rev. Robert Kirk had so mysteriously died. Wasn’t I doing exactly what had allegedly gotten the man killed? That’s why I planned this part of my trip when Eric was coming to visit. We were renting a car, and we’d be driving together to Aberfoyle to climb Fairy Hill.
Waiting for Eric at the airport was one of the most excruciating hours of my life. We’d arranged to meet at the hostel in Edinburgh, but as his arrival inched closer, I realized it wasn’t humanly possible for me, having not seen him for over two months now, to refrain from seeing him right away. So I wrote down his flight number, kept my secret, and took the bus to the airport to surprise him. At nearly every appearance of close-cut brown hair my heart skipped a beat. I put one leg in front of the other. Now leaned. Pulled out my compact to check my makeup. Put in a piece of gum. Spit it out. Finally, he appeared, with a big pack just like mine. His face broke into a smile of utter delight.
“I knew you’d be here,” he murmured into my hair.
“I couldn’t wait,” I explained.
“Neither could I.” He grinned.
I took him on a mini-walking tour of Edinburgh, and we dined on fish and chips and sticky toffee pudding. The next morning we took a cab to the rental car place and were on our way to Aberfoyle. It was to be our first and only stop on our way up to the Scottish Highlands.
We checked into our B and B, borrowed a hiking book from the proprietors, and set off for Doon Hill, otherwise known as Fairy Hill, home of Robert Kirk and his eternal tormentors.
“E, listen,” I began. “I know you’re . . . on the fence about this stuff, but I just want to stress: a man studying faeries died here.”
“Okay . . .”
“So, it wouldn’t hurt to be a little extra careful, you know, show some respect.”
“Okay,” he said patiently. “Like what?”
“Well, like you know how you always spit a lot when we hike?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, don’t do that. Or if you do, warn them in your head or something.”
He took my hand and raised his brows at me. “All right. Ready?”
“Yes, ready.”
We began our walk through the woods. It was evening now, but the sun would be up for another three hours at least. The woods below the hill were peaceful, and airy, the ceiling of trees was high above, giving the forest beautiful light. There was something about the place that made you want to walk softly, to whisper.
“It feels . . . enchanted,” Eric said.
“I am so writing that down. That you said that just now.”
He laughed. “Well, it does! There’s just something about it.”
There was no one else in sight. We had the hill and the surrounding forest all to ourselves as we climbed. The hill was broad and steep. I wondered for a fleeting moment whether we were tramping on top of the home of the faery queen, in her subterranean kingdom inside the hollow hill.
After being apart for so long, just walking through the woods together was wonderful. Soon I could see we were reaching the top of the hill. I didn’t know what to expect. But I think it’s fair to say that we were both utterly blown away.
As we crested the hill we entered a clearing. The first thing I registered was a towering pine tree front and center, with a wide ribbon around its trunk and dozens of scraps of brightly colored cloth tied to it. In the next second I saw a little red-breasted robin on the ground, a butterfly fluttered in front of us, and there were dragonflies everywhere. The entire hill was one huge, human-decorated tribute to the faery kingdom.
“Wow,” I whispered, just as a dragonfly alighted on Eric’s arm. I heard a buzzing and looked up.
Flying just above the level of our heads was a tripod of buzzing insects, exactly like those I’d seen in Vicky and Tad’s ruins.
“Holy shit,” Eric said. “Look at this place!” Every tree, every bush, every sapling was covered with colorful offerings. To my right was a tree, the length of its trunk tied with shimmering ribbons of gold, white, pink, and silver. At the base of the pine, delicate figurines of faeries were placed lovingly amid the moss. In each spot was a different gift to behold—a bracelet, a miniature car, a few squares of beautifully patterned cloth. On a piece of lined paper I peeked at a child’s secret wish to the faeries: I wish I had a Lego Batman.
“These represent hundreds of people’s wishes and prayers,” I explained to Eric. “Each one of them probably asked for something, and in exchange, they left a gift.” Just as I finished speaki
ng, I felt something brush my neck and spun around. Hanging from the tree behind me was a key chain depicting the Vesica Piscis symbol—the same one I’d been wearing around my neck since purchasing it in Glastonbury.
We wandered around the hill for almost an hour before our stomachs started to gnaw at us, and we decided it was time to head home. But not before Eric pointed something out to me. “Look,” he joked, “faery goo.”
All along the moss on the trees throughout the forest were delicate, sparkling crystals, catching in the glow of the evening sun.
As we headed back down the hill, I looked over my shoulder at the tree. Was the spirit of Rev. Robert Kirk really somehow trapped inside? The hill felt like a place of beauty, peace, hope, not torment. I smiled and nodded my respect to this faery queen, whatever or wherever she may be.
Rev. Robert Kirk was a silly man, I heard on the breeze. Or was it only in my head? I was so spaced-out, I barely registered Eric calling to me, “Watch out!”
“What?”
“Look!” He pointed to the ground, right where I was about to step. The road was covered with hundreds of tiny little frogs, the size of our thumbnails, moving off into the underbrush.
The next morning, as we set off into the Highlands, I stopped at a local shop called Fairy Rade & Pet Trade. Pushing open the door of the tiny store, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. A woman with long brown hair streaked with gray stood behind the counter. At first glance, I wasn’t sure she looked like a faery type. Then I observed her feet: Birkenstock sandals with socks and a skirt. This lady might have something to tell me. I perused the shop for a few minutes. It was quite an interesting combination of merchandise. There were racks of T-shirts depicting, alternately, painted faeries and wolves, backs arched, howling at the moon. The shelves were stocked with faery figurines and ceramic dragons. On the other side of the store were pet collars, leashes, bowls, eating mats, and sweaters for toy dogs. Diversification, I guessed.
