Fae and Folly

Part 8

The second I passed the veil into the glade the world around me changed. There was this subtle shift, and the wind turned clockwise – even deep in foliage I could feel the world open up… and breathe. The worries running through my head – fear for what awaited us on the internet, concerns about my trip to Austin, Caleb’s impassive expression of what I could only assume was masked pain behind me – all of it was gone, just for a second.

A Fae glade is enchanted in a very particular way. The energy around it is bound with magick long forgotten by the ancients from whom we descended. The sphere that contains the glade has been called the veil because of the slight shimmer that is left behind moving objects within its field. The tiny bit of gold sparkle accounted for some of the Human stories I’d heard about walking in the woods and becoming distracted by something twinkly which appears and disappears so quickly that it’s written off as a trick of the light. Of course, it was never an illusion; humans have long preferred to believe in the mundane rather than take a chance on believing in the extraordinary.

Before passing the veil I could see no one, just the thick of the forest and something lake-like off in the distance. Suddenly it blossomed, and I asked myself again why I choose to live in the mundane world at all. The glade’s inhabitants were mostly tree Fae, mixed in with nymphs and the occasional leprechaun, species of Fae who only vaguely resembled the human form in comparison. The central lake itself was built up with houses for the water nymphs, while the treetops were connected by a complex series of huts and bridges making up the tribe’s home. The forest floor was the domain of cooks, makers and, of course, the ground-critters, under the command of the Leprechauns.

There was so much to take in that if pressed I would find it hard to describe to a human who had never been within a glade. It was simply life – bubbling and authentic.

My feet touched down on enchantment-soft grass. Caleb lit on the ground beside me, almost completely silent. The moment of peace I’d experienced was gone with a gripping sensation in my throat.

Caleb was a masterful flier, perfect in every stroke. It was as if he became the wind on a glide, his wings the softest I’d heard. It tugged at my theoretical soul-pieces to know that his time in the air was limited, and getting shorter every day.

Then again, that was true for all of us. A rather morbid thought.

“It’s nice,” Caleb said on half a groan, rolling his shoulders.

“Are you-“

“I’m fine,” he glanced at me sharply, and I regretted even thinking of asking. “We’ll need to find-“

“Ah! Starhunter, I’m so happy you made it,” I heard my grandmother’s voice only a second before she appeared seemingly out of nowhere to wrap her arms around me. I smiled, breathing in her scent – she always smelled of lavender, and I never could figure out how she managed that.

I pulled away from the hug and smiled at her, tugging at my jean jacket. We were mirrors of each other in skin and hair coloring, both nut-brown with an auburn mane, yet she stood barefoot in the forest, clad in natural fabrics dyed red with rhubarb. Her long, wide-cuffed robe was traditional for the older Fae in the winter (we tended towards minimal coverings in the warm months).

She looked over me ruefully, her lips pursed in a thin line. For 112 years old, she looked a human’s 50 or 60 years, her skin still fresh and mostly-smooth. “I was so worried for you after I heard the news.”

“It’s only been an hour,” I said insistently, always the youngling in her presence. I cleared my throat, “Nan, I’d like you to meet Caleb McLain, one of my fellow bridgers. Caleb, this is my grandmother, Blackthorn.”