The Truth about Faeries

by Chris McKenna

  Still the Lord had to have a plan. There had to be a reason.

  Turning, he approached the altar and knelt staring up at the pained figure on the cross.

  ‘Lord, I’m sorry for my doubts,’ he said faintly. ‘Please, help me understand, help me know your reasoning.’

  As he prayed, a fly landed on his finger and automatically his hand swatted it away. He hadn’t meant to kill the creature, but the flick had been too strong and the little fly fell limply to ground by the altar. He felt a pang of guilt for what he had done.

  Behind him there was a tremendous noise as the doors of the chapel swung open, revealing a tall muscled figure standing silhouetted against the bright sunlight. Brother Amon, forgetting his prayer spun to face the figure as the doors slammed close.

  ‘You have broken your vow!’ announced the man that approached. He was tall, twice the height of the monk. His body was clad in shimmering silver armour that reflected his green-tinted skin. But most terrifying of all was the huge shimmering sword that he carried in his hands.

  ‘You swore an oath to God to follow the ways of St Francis, yet now, not only do you strike down this poor creature, but you do so on one of his most holy alters!’

  ‘Who, who are you?’ asked Brother Amon.

  ‘Who am I?’ boomed the man. ‘I am Sir Aideen, the last of the fairy knights.’

  ‘The last of the fairy knights?’ asked Brother Amon, cautiously eyeing the sword.

  ‘That’s right. My brothers have all passed with time, each allowing themselves to rust and crumble with the years, but I and only I kept my shimmering armour splendid, only I have continued the great crusade of our Lord.’

  ‘Tell me, what have you done on this great crusade?’ asked Brother Amon, playing for time.

  ‘I have slain blasphemers, vanquished heretics and castigated those who have broken their holy vows. Now I have come for you.’

  ‘Such a holy quest from God, Sir Aideen!’ said Brother Amon nervously. ‘But before you send me to my death, tell me first about when God appeared to you and gave you such a righteous quest.’

  ‘God himself I have not seen. But the great Sir Dylan gave me…’

  ‘Well then, tell me of Sir Dylan’s meeting with our Lord,’ interrupted Brother Amon.

  There was a short pause as it seemed that the glimmer in the fairy knight’s armour seemed to fade somewhat.

  ‘Sir Dylan himself never met the Lord, but…’

  ‘You are telling me that no one in your order has ever communicated with Christ? Then, from where does your great mission come?’

  The glow from the knight’s armour faded completely, turning it to the colour of normal steel．

  ‘From the great King of the fairies.’

  ‘He must be the most wondrous of kings then, observant in all the commandments without fail!’

 

  The fairy Knight remained silent, but his armour and sword spoke for him, dulling further in response.

  ‘I see,’ said the monk, ‘Tell me Sir Aideen, when you look around this chapel, what do you see?’

  The knight turned looking in expectation, but returned to the monk shaking his head. ‘I see nothing unusual.’

  'Then you do not find an empty chapel monastery strange?'

  'I had not considered it so, no.'

  'Well, I have considered it many times in the years that I have been here and I have come to one conclusion. It is not the threats from outside that are leaving these pews empty, but threats from the inside.'

  'What do you mean?' asked the knight, his hands nervously rubbing the hilt of his now rusting sword.

  'I mean once we brought hope to people, we encouraged them, we fed them with the joy of our Lord. Now we have become a people of judgement, a crusade of fear searching for those not following the “rules”. We beat down those people of faith who try to make a difference because they don't do it in our way. We're so busy finding faults in others that we fail to see the faults in ourselves.'

  The Knight looked at his sword and armour, now brown with rust, seeing them in their dilapidated state for the first time.

  'Maybe your fellow knights just realised their weapons were rusty long before you did?' offered Brother Amon.

  The sword and armour crumbled to dust leaving the once knight standing forlorn in a simple white linen tunic.

  'What should I do?' he asked, staring at the dust that surrounded him. 'How can I make amends?'

  Brother Amon walked to the pew and picked up one of the cassocks, handing it to the fairy with a consoling smile.

  'First fix yourself, then you can fix the world.'

  ***

  Lairds n Ladies

  He wis a clever wee monk for sure, wormin his way oot o’a killin like that. Ye wullnie see mony that's as smert. But truth is, folk like ra big knight weel there's a bit of throw back there.

  Aye, there wis a time when we hud kings n queens an a hale muckle faerie court and whit's not, we micht even still do the noo – it no worth botherin’ aboot the day if there is. Oh aye, but back in ra days it wis a sicht to be seein. It wis guid versus evil. Seeile court versus ra Unselie court. It all got a bit borin efter a few hunner years of warin an whit not, un we aw went oor ain ways efter a time, but fur a while ye’d naer seen ra likes o’ it. Or ye’d hae tae be true. Ye see that wus when ye lot really took ra notice o’ us. The Unselie were wantin tae dae ye in so ye seen mer o’ us then than e’r afore – an no a’ways in ra nicest o’ wiys.

  Times huv moved on since then as ye’ll see in oor next wee tale.

  The Translation:

  Lords and Ladies

  He was a clever little monk for sure, worming his way out of being killed like that. You won’t see many people that are that smart. But truth is, faeries like the big knight in the story are bit of a throw back.

  Yes, there was a time when we had kings, queens and a whole big faerie court: we might even still have these days – it's not worth paying attention to if there is. Oh yes, but back in the days it was a sight to see. It was good versus evil. Seeile court versus the Unselie court. It all got a bit boring after a few hundred years of warring a what not, and we all went our own way after a time, but for a while you'd never seen the likes of it. Or, if fact, you had. You see that was when you lot really took notice of us. The Unselie were wanting to kill your people, so you seen more of us then than ever before – and not always in the nicest of ways.

  Times have moved on since then as you'll see in our next little tale.

  ***

  The Brownie and the Baker

  Opening a bakery in New York had seemed like a good idea. Billy was a good baker; there was no question of that. But he hadn't been prepared for all the other problems that came with running a business.

  When his father was a baker back in Wales, it had been simple: you got up early in the morning; you baked what you wanted to sell that day, and then you sold it. But things had got much more complex since his father’s time. Now you had to organise the tax forms; you had to deal with the banks; you had to make sure that all stock you needed was ordered in weeks before. Hardest of all for him, you had to turn a profit.

  For weeks now he had been running at a loss and his funds were starting to get low. What he couldn't understand was that the shop was always busy. People loved his recipes and he was by far one of most popular shops in the entire neighbourhood. Yet there he was in red, while Mr Bruno, the owner of the empty Italian bread place across the road, was driving around in a brand new station wagon.

  Billy'd got so desperate that he'd even asked Mr Bruno for advice on what he was doing wrong.

  'It's not about the bread,' the elderly Italian had told him. 'It's about the books, learn to balance the books.' Billy wished he could say Mr Bruno was wrong. The truth was he was a baker, not a manager.

  Billy was lying in bed thinking of the shame of returning back to Wales a failure when he heard a knock at his door. Pulling on his
dressing gown, Billy fumbled to get to the door in time. On opening the door, he was surprised to find a little man, his head barely reaching Billy’s waist, standing in the doorway.

  The little man wore a pinstriped suit and carried a little black cane at his side. Billy tried not to stare. He had been raised well and knew it was wrong to stare at the physically disabled. But it was rather hard not to when they were standing in your doorway, at close to midnight.

  'Uh, can I help you?' asked Billy.

  'Oh no,' said the little man in a Welsh accent. 'But I can help you!'

  'Isn't it a little late to be out selling door to door.' asked Billy, suddenly aware of the Welsh still present in his own accent. Since coming to America, he'd tried to fit in by toning it down as much as he could. But it always seemed to roust itself every time he spoke to someone back home on the phone.

  'Oh dear, what have you done to your beautiful accent?' asked the little man.

  'Name’s Brenin and I'm not here to sell you anything. I'm here to offer the services of me and my kind.'

  'Eh, your kind?' asked Billy, as sensitively as he could, 'you mean Welsh or.... um, small people.' The little man gave a booming laugh so long and loud that Billy began to worry about the landlady who lived just across the hall.

  'Hehe, you think I'm some kind of midget? Haven't you ever heard of Brownies before?' Billy had heard of Brownies when growing up. He had learned something about them at school and he certainly didn't believe in them.

  'You mean Brownies, like the faeries? The shoemaking kind?' he asked.

  Brenin simply nodded.

  'But I thought that you didn't like people looking at you?'

  'Well, we've found that we have to move with the times. So that's where I come in. I am the front man for a group of dislocated Welsh Brownies currently looking for employment.'

  'I see,' said Billy, 'well, I'm sorry to tell you that I don't need any shoes made right now. But maybe if you come back in a few weeks’ time.'

  'Oh no, we're not just into shoes. We can do all manner of things. Baking for example,' said Brenin, twirling his little cane. 'Us Welsh look after our own, don't we? We know you're having troubles. It's part of our skills to smell when people are getting desperate, and you my boy, are desperate!'

  Talking to strange men that turned up at his door was not Billy’s usual way of doing business. But with a week left to go before he was completely broke, there was no harm in hearing the little man out.

  'So what are you suggesting?' asked Billy.

  'Well, to start with, I bring my boys in to do all the night-time work. They're not as fond of the limelight as I am, so you'll have to stay out of the kitchen when they're there. Then there is the matter of wages. We shan't be negotiating on salary.'

  'Salary? How much?' asked Bill sceptically.

  'Two cookies, a carrot and a glass of milk per man. We'll go no lower than that.'

  'Hmm,' said Billy, now sure he was being taken for a ride. 'So when do you want to start?'

  'Now!'

  'What right now?'

  'Yes, right now, come on man.' Without waiting for a response the little man wandered off down the hallway. Being in his nightclothes Billy didn't dare follow. Closing the door, he walked back to his room and got back into bed.

  Brownies, he thought to himself smiling. To think I even considered it!

  In the morning when Billy arrived at the shop, he was surprised to find the door already open and the smell of freshly baked breads wafting from the ventilation. At first he thought his assistant must have arrived to make an early start. And then Billy remembered that he’d had to let his assistant go a few days before to give the place another week of life.

  He burst into the empty kitchen to find all the baking trays stocked and ready for the day's sales. Picking up a little bun that lay on the shelf, he put it into his mouth and savoured the delicious flavour. Made using his own recipe, it was baked to perfection.

  Suddenly he heard a noise from the tiny office at the back of the kitchens. Forgetting the bun, he ran to the room and opened the door to find Brenin sitting behind the desk.

  'Ah, you finally made it,' said the little man; he didn't look any worse for having been awake a night.

  'Shame you didn't make it down last night. But we got started anyway.'

  'But, we didn't agree to anything,' said Billy.

  Brenin's face turned from a bright smile into an aggressive snarl.

  'You mean you're not going to pay us?' he snapped.

  'Of course I'll pay you, just carrots, milk and cookies right?'

  The little man's smiling face returned.

  'That's right. Now we have to have a little chat about these books.'

  Spouting numbers, figures and tax laws, Brenin went through the book. He took notes at the side of all the mistakes that Billy was making. He tore up the tax forms that had already been prepared and started them again from scratch. Next, Brenin completed the order form for the following week. In less than an hour, he already had the shop breaking even for the week.

  'Are you remembering to factor in the milk and cookies costs?' asked Billy jokingly.

  'Those are your job,' said Brenin seriously.

  'Then I better go to the shops and pick some up now.'

  Things went well after that. The following week the shop made its first profit, and by the end of third month Billy was able to start paying off the debts which had been mounting. Each time he came back to the office, Brenin had found another way to slash a little more off from their operating costs. The brownie had already contacted all the suppliers and renegotiated the rates at which they would be buying. Billy hadn't even realised that would be possible.

  The week after that Brenin asked Billy to redesign the recipes so that they used only locally available produce, again slashing huge amounts from their outgoings. Billy didn't mind, it gave him a chance to be baking again and he loved coming up with new recipes. He even made a point of baking huge over-sized cookies for the brownies each day.

  He was just about to leave the office one day when Brenin stopped him.

  'I can't cut any more, without cutting quality, that's it.' he said.

  'What?' said Billy with a smile. 'You've already saved this place with all you've done.'

  'There is still one big expenditure left.' said Brenin, not taking his eyes off the book.

  'What’s that?'

  'You!' said Brenin, his face dark and menacing before breaking into a big booming laugh. 'Just as well you keep those great cookies of yours coming!'

  ***

  Barginin’

  Makin a deal wae a fae is a serious joab. Fer yer Welsh lad there it a’ worked oot a’right, but it's no e’ways ra case. Ye need to be watchin ra wordin, ‘though yer Brownies like a guid bit o’ work so they dae. Stupid wee buggers if ye ask me. Wits the point in workin when ye can jist nick stuff?

  Mind you uv got masel a wee job here, don’t a? Me un ra writer, we made a wee bargain. I say “writer”, but he's more of a fae than me a think. Never writ a bloody word, just left me tae dae it a’, then sticks his name on ra front – lazy bastard, ye hiv goat tae admire him. That said if he goes messin wi’ oor deal then there'll be a price for him to pae fur sure. Never brek a promise wae a fae, that's asking fur trouble, so it is.

  The Translation:

  Bargaining

  Making a deal with a fae is a serious business. For the Welshman there it all worked out all right, but it's not always the case. You need to watch the wording, although Brownies do like to work - stupid little buggers if ye ask me. What's the point in working when ye can just steal stuff?

  Mind you I've got myself a little job here, don't I? Me and the writer, we made a little bargain. I say “writer”, but he's more of a fae than me I think. He never wrote a single word. He just left me to do all, then put his name on the front – lazy bastard, you've got to admire him. That said, if he goes messing with our deal then there
will be a price for him to pay for sure. Never break promise to a fae, that's asking for trouble, that is.

  ***

  Gone Fishin

  Ivy loved her garden. It wasn't particularly large and the flowers that grew there were not in any way distinctive. Especially when compared to the foliage of the neighbouring gardens. But what made her place distinctive from all the others were her gnomes. For the twenty five years that she had lived in her little home, gnomes had been in the garden.

  By her fifties, the gnomes were well into their dozens and came in all shapes and sizes. A standard gnome with a bright red hat and garden rake was always the first that caught people’s eye. This was mainly due to his impressive size. 'The big man,' as she called him, stood off to the side of her little lawn, his back resting against the fence that stopped him from blowing over in the wind. But he was not her favourite.

  Hidden amidst the leaves of an overgrown spider plant that she never had the heart to trim was a little family of gnomes: mother, father and three children, each in matching yellow shirts and pointy, purple hats. Only the most observant of passers-by ever spotted them. But they, too, were not her favourites.

  By far the most unusual of her gnomes was the pot-bellied, sarong wearing gnome that her friend Martha had bought her as a gift from Indonesia. So un-gnome like was he that Ivy had thought twice about putting him in the garden at all. But she didn't want to hurt Martha's feelings - though he was definitely not her favourite.