The Truth about Faeries
by Chris McKenna
Also available in paperback and ebook:
Paradigms
by Chris McKenna
In Scotland, in the years after an apocalyptic disaster, the surviving people have reverted to clan life and are living off the carcass of the old world. But not everyone has forgotten the technology of the past and not everyone has forgotten the mystical secrets of the ages gone before. Propelled by an act of compassion, Malcolm, a young clansman, finds himself lost in a land of physical and metaphysical conflict that has changed far more than anyone realised. But which path is the right one? Which Paradigm is real?
The Truth about Faeries
by Chris McKenna
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2011 Chris McKenna
All art work copyright © 2011, Frank Gaddis
www.mckennastories.co.cc
Names, characters and events depicted in this eBook are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.
No part of this eBook may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including, but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from the author.
Thanks
There are a lot of people who have helped with this book and this work is as much theirs' as it is mine – lucky it's a free book so I don't have to pay them.
A big thanks to Laura Gaddis and Deborah Mantle for their editing, proofreading and helpful suggestions. Deborah's book, “Changing Women” will also be available in the near future.
An additional thanks to Laura for fixing my attempts at using the Scot's language.
And special thanks to the whole Gaddis family for helping with art work – not Philip though, he just caused trouble. You will be able to find some of Franks award winning photography online in the near future.
Contents:
Away with the Faeries
Pot of Gold
Cassocks and Armour
The Brownie and the Baker
Gone Fishin
Behind the Veil
NB: The narrator, while a qualified little fellow, writes in Scots. You can find the translations after the original if you find reading his own words difficult.
***
Gettin things straicht.
Hullo, welcome tae ra truth aboot faeries. It isna really a “story book” ken in the strict o’ senses. It's mare like “Wikileaks” o ra wurld of ma kind. That's richt am a faerie, and no, a umnae ra gay sort niether – nothin agin ‘em folks, but I've no really understood ra comparison, ye ken?
That's whit this book is aw aboot. Sortin a misunderstunin. That ‘n’ me and ra writer huv made a wee deal on ra side – but wull come tae deals wi ra fae efter. We've got some oither stuff tae be sortin oot first.
Lets staurt wae how we're gonna dae this. Ma folk are no ra best at talkin in straicht lines. So there's nae point in me pratlin on – ye’ll just no get it. So insteed um gonna gie ye some stories from yer ain folk. Stories fae a few of ye who seem tae really ken what ra fae are awe aboot, efter each yin a’ll gie ye a wee insicht, richt? A wee bit of a fae perspective, if ye ken whit a mean? How about that eh? Aw richt?
The translation:
Getting things Straight
Hello, welcome to the truth about faeries. It isn't really a “story book” in the strictest of senses. It's more like “Wikileaks” of the world of my kind. That's right, I am a faerie and no, I'm not the gay sort – not that I've nothing against them , but I've never really understood the comparison, you know?
That's what this book is all about. Sorting a misunderstanding. That, and the writer and I have made a little deal on the side – but we'll come to deals with the fae later. We've got some other stuff to be sorting out first.
Lets start with how we're going to do this. My people are not the best at talking in straight lines. So there's no point in me talking on and on – you’ll just not get it. So instead I'm going to give you some stories from your own people. Stories from a few of you who seem to really know what the fae are all about, after each one I’ll give you an insight, okay? A fae perspective, if you know what I mean? How about that? All right?
***
Away with the Fairies
'Are you away with the fairies again?' asked Erin's mother, as she sat down on the little chair beside the cot. It was a phrase she said often to her child, little Erin always smiling back at her when she did so.
The young mother had blazing red hair that she left flowing down her back, never failing to catch the eye of passers by on the street. Erin had inherited her mother’s colour and everyone knew that when she grew up she would be just as striking.
'Us red heads know all about the fairies, don't we?' asked her mother, curling the tufts of hair that grew on her daughter’s head with her fingers.
Her mother was right. Despite her young age, Erin knew the fairies well. Every night the young woman would sit next to Erin’s cot and read from a big bright book of fairy stories, losing herself in the tales she read. Erin never really understood the words, but through the melody of her mother’s voice, she was always able to feel the story. The impish creatures that her mother softly spoke of were more lively and bright than any of the silver winged sprites that adorned her wall.
So that night, when the fairies appeared at the window she was not at all surprised. Laughing as they peeked through her window, the fairies slid the glass open and pounced on the book laden shelves. There were three altogether: a green one with leafy hands; a blue one with shimmering wet skin and a glowing red one, whose colour reminded her of her mother's hair. Wingless, they danced and pranced across her room. The green one leapt effortlessly on to the mobile that swung above her bed, twisting its head sideways and comparing itself to the dancing, spinning, silver winged sprites that matched those on her wall.
The other two were in the cot beside her, the blue one whispering a strange language through its toothless mouth, while the red one rolled itself in her hair, rubbing it lovingly against its own skin. The sensation tickled and she couldn't help but laugh, even louder than she had before.
In the morning, when her mother returned, she found her daughter’s corpse in the cot. Crying at the sight of the little laughing face, she clawed the walls tearing at paper sprites with her nails.
She should have known better. For the first and last time, Erin really was away with the faeries.
***
We're no nice folk!
Ye see, that's whit the big red haired yin didney get. Wu're no yer best pals! Wu're no yer wee pets neither! Ye see, yer kin, way back, used tae ken. They kept an eye oot fur the bad yins. They taught their wee bairns tae be careful like. A few uf ye wur even smart enough tae find ways to protect yer wee boys n girls. They stuck bits o iron up so we didne steal um – an we didney like Iron one bit.
Ye see, yu've got tae be careful, ma people live a lang time - way langer than yer kin. But barin... babies. We canny have em say aften as you lot do. So a few of the bad buggers used tae... borrow yer young and give em an auld fae in its place. Ye have tae keep an eye oot fur that. It disney happen as aften, but every noo an again yell get one ay ma folk that doesny realise it's nay allowed nay mer.
An that's no tae say we're aw like those fower buggers in ra story there. They yins were some bad wee beasties. But at ra end o ra day, wu're jist folk ilka abody else.
The translation:
We're not nice people!
You see, that's what the big red haired one didn't get. We're not your best friend! We're not your little pets either! You see, your people, way back, used to know. They kept an eye out for the bad ones. They taught their children to be careful. A few of you were even smart enough to find ways to protect your little boys and girls. They stuck bits of iron up so we didn't steal them – and we don't like Iron one bit.
You see, you've got to be careful, my people live a long time – a lot longer than your kind. But children ... babies. We can't have them as often as you do. So a few of the bad buggers [fae] used to... borrow your young and give them an old fae in its place. Ye have to keep an eye out for that. It doesn't happen as often, but every now an again you'll get one of my people that doesn't realise it's not allowed any more.
An that's not to say we're all like those four buggers [fae] in the story. Those ones were some bad faeries. But at the end of the day, we're just the same as everyone else.
***
Pot of Gold
'Is your entire country a tourist trap?' asked Michael as he sat the empty pint glass in front of the barman. There were still traces of white froth along the wall of the tumbler which slowly sank their way downwards. The barman gave him a conciliatory look.
'Would you be wanting another Guinness then?' he asked picking the glass up and dropping it in a pile with the others.
'And the Guinness, my God, I'm Irish, but I'm sick of the stuff.'
'No offence like,' interrupted the barman, 'but you don't sound like much of an Irishman. More like an American, if I'm not mistaken. I'd even go so far as to guess you as a New Yorker. Am I right?'
'Well, yes, I'm an American, but American Irish.'
'Ah I see,' replied the barman clearly trying to suppress a smile. 'Here to find yer roots are ye?'
'That was the plan: a fortune on flights, an over-priced Mercedes rental, insanely-priced, tiny hotel rooms, and for what? Identical little villages? Ubiquitous Guinness? Non-stop bloody rain?' He looked up at the barman, remembering he was in one of the little villages he’d just slurred. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'it's nothing personal against your little pub here, it's a nice place, just not what I was hoping for, you know?'
'No worries,' replied the barman, ' The wee undines have certainly been havin their way of late.'
'The undines?' asked Michael.
'Yeah, the undines, the water sprites, pretty little things made out of water. They love to go dancin in this sort of weather. Keep your eyes peeled when your passing a river or stream, you might just see them dancing. They might even dance with you if you’re lucky. Though a taken man like yourself should be careful.' He motioned to the wedding ring on Michael’s hand. 'Many a man has lost his marriage dancing with the undines.'
'Yeah, right,' replied Michael, 'ran out of Leprechaun merchandise have you? Decided to try and sell me something else?'
The barman gave a little shrug then motioned to another table on the other side of the room where four people sat cheerily playing cards. They were swamped in a deluge of green tourist trinkets. 'They seem to be enjoying it well enough,' he said sitting another full glass of the famous stout in front of Michael who, despite not having ordered, drank it anyway.
'Yeah, but it's people like that who've turned this country into the place it is. I mean, really, is that the depth of Irish culture, some stupid hats and some shamrock pins? I was looking for more that. I was looking for, I don't know, just some deeper connection to the place. I wanted it to feel like a homecoming rather that just feeling like another tourist.'
'It's still there if you know where to go lookin,' said the barman. 'I'll tell you what, give me your map there and I'll mark a route you can take in the mornin. It's a wee bit off the beaten track like and well out the way of your usual tourists. You never know, ye might just find what you’re lookin up that way.'
#
In the morning Michael left the pub having had to stay there the night before. The bar man had got him too drunk to drive, forcing him to rent a room in the floors above. He cursed himself for falling for another trap. At least the prices hadn't been as over the top as they had been in other villages.
He made his way out the door, throwing himself into the lashing rain and heading toward his car. Even in the short distance he could already feel the rain trickling down the back of his neck.
'God damned undines,' he said, remembering his conversation from the night before. Then shaking his head and cursed himself for the foolhardiness of the trip; why hadn't he just spent the two weeks working? It certainly would’ve been a lot more fulfilling, not to mention a lot less expensive.
Once sheltered in the car’s interior, he opened his map to decide the route he was going to be taking that day. To his surprise, the barman had been true to his word, marking off a minor road that ran away from the recommended tourist sites. After a glance at the next intended destination, another 'quaint' village, he decided that the barman's route couldn't be any worse than what awaited him down the main road.
Following the map, he drove up into the hills, winding along a farm road that seemed to be as much water as it was mud. He had to admit the view was far better than anything he had seen along the coast road. The hills rose up in large, rolling, emerald waves, dotted with sporadic woodland and roaming sheep. He watched the grazing animals as he drove and admired them for being so resilient to the constant rain.
'Well, if they can handle it,' he said to himself, 'then I guess I can make the effort as well.'
For the first time he realised that he had no idea what his family had done when they had lived in Ireland. He had always assumed they were farmers; weren’t most people who fled to the States? But what kind? Watching the fleeced animals he decided that they must have been sheep farmers. He had no evidence for it, it just felt right. The thought cheered him up as he continued along the makeshift road.
After about an hour, as the car turned a sharp corner, the rain let off. A beam of bright light erupted from the skies above; he was sure it was the first time he had seen the sun on his whole trip.
'Well, thank God for small mercies!' he said to himself before pulling up at the side of a little stone bridge and getting out of the car.
The place was completely deserted, but for him and a few of the bleating sheep that he had found kinship with. He looked around, breathing in the fresh crisp air and examining the old bridge on which he stood. It was old, probably from a time long before his family had left for America. In fact, but for his car, the place must have looked almost the same as it had all those years ago. Had his family once walked the very same bridge?
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the gushing stream which ran below his feet, telling him it was happy to have been fed by the day’s of rain. Inspired by a flash of childhood, he walked to the edge of the bridge and carefully made his way down onto the slippery green banks, heading towards a large clump of boulders where he could sit. The rocks were wet and he had to fumble in his pocket to find a used plastic bag to sit on.
As he sat watching the fattened stream, all at once it came to life, three beautiful dancing Undines rising up from the depths, their feminine bodies of pure crystal water, dancing, spinning and twisting across the surface as gracefully as ballerinas.
One of the trio spotted him, dancing towards him with effortless grace. He was too in awe to feel afraid. This was what he had come here for, this was his connection to his forgotten past. He reached out his hand to touch the Undine, her own hand reaching to touch his in response. But on seeing his wedding ring, she flinched back, as if the very sight of the cold metal pained her.
Seeing her reaction, he took the ring from his finger, placing it carefully on the rock beside him. He reached out to her again. Their hands met momentarily, the elemental's fingers flowing around his own.
He was so engrossed, that he didn't see the leprechaun behind him. Dressed in green
and no bigger than a cat, he looked like a miniature version of the barman from the day before. With quick, quiet steps, the little man crept to the boulder's edge and with a little wink to the Undine, snatched the ring and thrust it into his pocket.
That pot of gold's got to come from somewhere.
***
Stealin
Alricht, this book is a aboot ra truth and that. So to be totally straicht, its far mair like ra workings o’ra faeries than they nasty types we've saw afore. Y’ed be hard pressed tae fun a fairy these days that'd steal yer bairns and what not, but ye'd be even harder pressed to find yin that wouldny steal yer wallet. It's no that we're bad...it's jist oor way, like and t’ be fair, he wis a Yank... But its no alw’ys ma folk that gets ra upper haun.
The translation:
Stealing
All right, this book is a about the truth and that. So to be totally honest, this is a lot more like the workings of the faeries than those nasty types we've seen before. You'd be hard pressed to find a fairy these days that'd steal your children and what not, but you'd be even harder pressed to find one that wouldn't steal your wallet. It's not that we're bad...it's just our way and to be fair, he was an American... But it's not always my people that get the upper hand.
***
Cassocks and Armour
Brother Amon neatly laid the three cassocks out on to the front pew of the chapel. Taking each one, he folded them into neat little bundles, palming out any creases on their earthen coloured surfaces.
‘Fewer and fewer every year,’ he whispered to himself. How were they going to survive? He thought back to the grey clad heads waiting in the cloisters. Most were now well past working age and the monastery was beginning to look more like retirement home that a place of prayer; it was far removed from the refuge he had came to in his youth. He looked down at the cassocks that waited on their new owners. Not even one of the hopefuls was under forty. Was this how their order was to end? Over their history they had faced lootings, burnings and forced conversions and for what? To drift from history in an apathetic breeze? Somehow it seemed a crueller death than those they had ever been threatened with before.
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