About the Faery, What is the Faery?

The Faery is a wildness, a wilderness, a forest without end. The deeper one ventures, the wilder it becomes, the trees, the creatures, the magic. It is a place where anything is possible, all things are possible. It is where dreams come awake, where shadows dance, and spirits talk. It has a life of its own, an awareness. Deep within are creatures and incarnations unknown, mysteries and wonders. To wander in the faery is to lose oneself, and find others. It is the home of the fae, and where fairies live.

Most fairies live near the edge, close to the world of men and their gentle beasts, predictable ways. Too far in the Faery and one chances losing one’s way, becoming lost and disoriented, vulnerable to the Magicks within, home of the other fae. At the edges things are gentler, the magic lighter, where laughter and lightness fill the airs, as fairies flit and fly, and meet and share, and good things and thoughts name the day.

And the edges are the places of Fairs, gatherings of the folk, to share jest and drink potions, marvel at tricks and surprises, and most of all, to listen to the stories. It is a weakness amongst, shared by all, the fondness and fascination of this and that, to hear adventures and other things from each other, from travelers, and especially from those who wander. It may be about the discovery of a hidden wellspring, or secret from a bird, or encounter with an elf, or sprite, or even a man. Stories can be about cooking a mushroom in the sun, or eating the wrong mushroom, always a favorite and common, or riding a hare, anything to share a laugh, or hush of breath, and wideness of eyes and hysterical laughter.

Then there are the other stories, unexplainable apparitions, dark eyed animals, whisperings from the wind and other such tales, some dark and foreboding, others nonsensical and gibberish, others frightening but fascinating. And then there are the tales from the Wanderers, those that go deep into the dark forest and unknown reaches of the Faery, who travel for longer, who wander lost and return, or not. Sometimes they tell stories like no others, of dangers and darknesses, things not meant to be seen, or known of, or even dragons. Some drifters visit the Fairs and say nothing at all, will sit and watch, rest, drinking a mug or eating a meal, trading exotic bird feathers or raw diamonds or other some such things for silvers. They be thickly dressed in forest colors, drab grays and muted blacks, able to blend most anywhere, hide in plain sight. Some have an aura that makes everyone shy away, make way so they pass. Others look haunted, and some look enchanted, a strange warmth or tingle around them, and some radiant. Other stories they tell, of rich lands and kind witches, of other fae with special powers, trolls good at making wands, pixies that could disappear, inexplicable kindnesses or rescues from hideous beings, places where nothing was what it seemed to be.

Such are the Fairs, filled with chatter and giggles, and smells and sights, of trade and gifting, and a thousand stories to be told. And such is the Faery, an invisible world, a shadowed world next to the world of men, with a depth unknown, with riches and dangers and impossibilities. And such is the forest, the home of the fairies, the place of the fae.

Another story by Fia describes the Faery in a different way, and as follows. Once, one time, Fia had a Wanderer that she knew visit when I was there, staying as I did sometimes, when it happened. Evie, that was her name had shown up quiet, startling even Fia who knew and felt her treehouse intimately. But after her initial start, had laughed, apparently delighted to have been thus surprised. Fia could feel a mosquito from 30 arms away. Anyways Evie had stayed for three days, resting, sharing small stories and intimacies between her and Fia. Apparently they had known each other a long time.

At first Evie had said nothing to me, but after a day or so and me not doing or saying anything except staying quiet, had finally looked at me directly and said, “You are charmed,’ and nothing else. Fia laughed. I was confused, and Fia had said delighted once again, “My spell!” which they both giggled about. “He thinks he is dreaming” she added. I glanced at both back and forth and finally just showed my open palms and that was it apparently. Evie started talking to me too.

Over tea she talked about winds, and frightened elves, of rumors in the clouds, and a strangeness upon her skin. She had found a wounded sprite deep in the forest, rare and green and utterly harmless, with gashed wings and claws marks on its leg. She’d carried it some long ways to a witch she knew of, who had no explanation but immediately took it to heal. It was unsettling for Evie, but she’d known something was amiss. But she also talked about beautiful cloudscapes, and a walking plant that made Fia laugh, and a rabbit she couldn’t sneak up on, most unusual. Her stories went on, and she asked much of Fia, but little of me, letting Fia explain. And after three days she was gone, very early one morning with few words, a gentle touch to Fia’s cheek and turned and left.