Growing Up Fae

Growing up fae

(Volume 1 in the series Living Fae)

Introduction to a faerie story by Harlequin.

Hi!

My name’s Harlequin and I’m a fairy. Oh, not the kind you read about in Victorian children’s literature, although I do have wings as well as horns and claws, and there’s a certain amount of magic involved…

We fae are virtually nocturnal, mostly by choice but perhaps originally to hide our activities from the human world. We’ve been around for a long time, maybe longer than you. Most of the legends are rubbish but there’s a core of truth. There really are fairies at the bottom of the garden, the hill or the forest. I’m one.

If you saw me in Alderley Edge, our nearest village, you’d probably take me for human provided I was wearing a hat of some kind and a shirt or jacket. I’m smallish but not unusually so and I can blend right in.

I look, in fact, exactly what I am: a young adult male. I’m slim, quite fit (that comes from living in a tree and riding a unicorn), quite pretty, according to lovers (of both genders), and invariably horny, in the common human usage of the word.

I speak English. British English, by the way. No American (or any other dialect) here! I speak some French and German as well but that’s a bit beside the point. I like the woods (especially The Edge, where I live), riding, travel, food, alcohol, and sex. See? Typical. I like music too, and moonlight.

I always knew I wanted to communicate with humans. I’m curious, I suppose. I know curiosity killed the cat. But all the warnings in the world won’t stop me. After my little sister wrote to a human child who had left letters to ‘The fairies at the bottom of the garden’, my want became an ache, a longing. Then I found this mobile phone. Yarrow helped me figure it out - he knew how much it meant to me. He’s more technically minded than me, but even so….who invents these things? We managed to spell the battery so that it runs on sun power. We leave it out to recharge while we sleep. Then we had to worry about money. We don’t use it and the pesky phone seemed to want some. We flew over to the goblin market under Werneth Low and swapped some unicorn tail hairs (from Devil's last grooming) for a top-up card the goblins had found in the gutter. We cleaned it up and spelled it. So far so good. Then I put a jacket on to hide my wing cases and a beanie to hide my horns. I went to a supermarket in Alderley Edge village that advertised top-ups. I charmed the check-out girl. (Her name badge said she was Gemma.) She thought I’d given her some money and I spelled the check-out machine so that it thought so too. I got a printed slip to say the top-up was successful - and that I’d paid cash. I doubt if they have a program to deal with dry leaves in the till and anyway they won’t know which transaction they were for. I hope. Then it was downhill all the way - we used the phone to log on to the internet and here we are. Me and Yarrow, that is. We have our own email account and a phone number but we’ve been advised to keep them secret to prevent ‘spam’. So you need to know us to find out what they are. And next time we can top up online - probably.

At first I was looking for some kind of online meeting place where humans might want to talk to me. I was even investigating an online theatrical group. Yarrow says I’m quite dramatic enough without joining a drama club; I don’t think that’s quite what it was but you never know. And I am so not dramatic. Not like my sister Columbine, anyway. She dramatised herself a lot after dancing with Prince Eglantine from Tara at the fairy ring at the summer fair. And then she had the nerve to say he was boring after everyone said he was to die for. Mind you, I danced with him later, partly out of curiosity and partly because I thought he was to die for too, and he was every bit as boring as she said and that’s a huge waste of a beautiful face and body. But I hadn’t been boasting about meeting him. And I’ve only told that he was boring here and I don’t expect many other fairies will read this. (Not many of them have mobile phones). But Yarrow is furious because he didn’t know I danced with the prince and he’s jealous. I forgot I hadn’t told him. And he says it doesn’t matter that he was boring because he might not have been. I shall have to think about that.

Anyway, it turned out that in the drama group you had to pretend to be someone else which was not quite what I wanted. So I went on to investigate writing groups. I didn’t join any but I thought some of the questions or prompts they posed would help to clarify my experiences for human consumption, so I noted a few of the things they asked and used them. It worked to some extent; most of the accounts of my childhood are based on memories that were brought to the surface by just such questions or phrases. But I still wanted to meet people. I love Yarrow and I love my family. But I want more. You, dear readers, are the ‘more’. I hope you appreciate your place in my affections. That’s all there is to it, really. Insatiable curiosity and a desire to make friends. A desire, too, to share fae life with you. So here we are.

Recently, I've been keeping a journal, so that I have plenty to tell you. But that has raised a whole new problem. Fairies are dyslexic. This creates hurdles for human readers. I have thought long and hard about this and have finally found a spell that usually transcribes what I've written into what you can read. Otherwise you’ll all go cross-eyed. As any fairy gets better at fairy spelling, their dyslexia (in human terms) increases. (I have included a sample of untranscribed writing to show you what I mean. Look out for it!) We all learn to spell. Well, duh! We’re fairies! But that makes us all increasingly dyslexic by human standards. I find human insistence on spelling conventions strange. I could look for human editors and ask them to transcribe but they might not get it all exactly right; spells, I think, are more reliable.

Some warnings are probably needed before you read further.

Fairies are not often sure how old they are. They count the spring equinox as their birthday so if, for example, they were born on 19th March they’d be one year old almost before they’d opened their eyes. At the same time, they hibernate quite often. They hibernate if the temperature drops below freezing during daylight. They hibernate if there’s a war in the vicinity. Or a rumour of war; even a fairy war. When they hibernate, time and age stand almost still. I have no idea when I was born because we don’t count years. For human readers I have given ages that correspond to what we look or behave like in human terms and to what we style ourselves at the Spring Fair. It doesn’t mean anything. I know a fairy who hibernated through WW2, the Falklands war, the Gulf war and the six day war in Israel. He looks about forty but is probably nearer ninety if you’re counting from the day he was born. He’s an unusual case, but I’m sure you can see what I mean.

This casual attitude to age may, in some cases, offend. I am told that in parts of America a human must be eighteen to have sex without breaking the law and twenty one to drink alcohol. And yet... here, in UK where I live, humans can marry and have legitimate children at sixteen and can drink whatever they like at eighteen, or earlier if they are at home and not in a pub or restaurant. Anyway, in accordance with my own country’s laws I have not written about sex involving under-sixteens. I’m not sure about sex involving under-eighteens. Probably not in the case of the fae but I didn’t demand to see the birth certificates of the humans I write about. And in UK an eighteen-year-old might well be at school and living with their parents. So the lines are blurred. Yes, I’ve met humans offline, and yes, there has been sexual contact. This is the fae we’re talking about. Think of all the legends you have ever heard... But we don’t usually seduce children for sexual purposes, whatever some writers might have suggested. And we make some attempt to stay within the law, not from any innate goodness but because we prefer to stay in the shadows so far as the authorities are concerned.

Fairies can be less than sweet. If you are looking for a warm and fuzzy story you are in the wrong place. And whilst most of the sourness relates to fairies other than myself, I am not always an angel, despite the pretty wings and an incident that I will relate later. Yes, there are some dubious scenes. I don’t approve of them any more than you do but this is a true account - no holds barred, as they say. I don’t think there’s any rape, or any serious violence without good cause. But consent is not always obtained fairly; the fae excel at glamour and deceit.

On reading through my entries I have realised that at times I am very cavalier in my approach to allowing humans to know about the fae. Fairy children are, of course, taught to keep our existence a secret. Adults are sometimes given more leeway and might be trusted to make decisions that depend on the human and the circumstances. Sometimes we depend on the human propensity for disbelief. In a way, this whole book breaks the rules. But what we must never ever do is let any human know exactly where we live or how to find us. If they do, whether by accident or intent, we must spell their memories into confusion.

When I began my journal, I gathered together all the responses I’d written about my childhood, my family and my friends. I dated all the entries but the dates only refer to the time of posting to the journal - they are nothing to do with the content which is mostly in chronological order but not posted at the time of the events. I have given chapter headings to keep you unconfused (I hope) in the first part of my life story. It even confused me at first and I lived it. But I hope I’ve sorted it all out satisfactorily.

Oh, and before I forget - you will find various poems scattered at appropriate points in the story. Fairies like poetry and I like writing it as well as reading. If you don’t, ignore it. It illustrates the accounts rather than moving them forward.

Here - have an untranscribed poem to start your journey through my life:

Blaend Drunc

Th blckburys wre good ths yur, sueet flsht and plump wth joose.

Th brndy brimmd in th dryed gurds and stayned mi mowth.

I rollt intu a hedgpigs denn and drnc mi filll

Thn rowlt hoem tu mi tre agen with a flasc at mi belt to swil.

I klimd up tu mi faverit bransh and dranc to the stars in hevn

And ons agen in honer of Pan, hoos bownti this shoorly woz.

I slipt fromm thu brnansh wen thu son rwos and slept on the mosss,

Unabel to c thu starz nou nd owtof thu werld for ours.

And with that as an introduction, here you are: an unexpurgated account of growing up fae, plus the trials and tribulations (and joys) of adulthood.

Growing Up Fae Part 1. Learning to be fae.

Chapter 1: About me.

Entry posted 4th April 2005. 11.00.p.m.

I’m an adult, male fairy. About twenty-two but fairies aren’t good at time. Sometimes we hibernate and time slows and gets all out of kilter so we don’t bother much. I look and feel about twenty-two anyway, and it relates to my brothers’ and sisters’ ages quite well.

A writing group prompt suggested exploring ‘the character’s archetype and the role he plays within the story.’ This was my response.

Hey! What is this? I’m not a ‘character’! I’m me. Definitely me... I am not an archetype. At least I don’t think so. What is an archetype? There aren’t any round here. (Here being Cheshire, UK). Are you sure they exist?

As to the role I play in the story . . . It’s my story, isn’t it? The story of my life. As told by me. To you.

I think they were looking for fiction, not autobiography.

Entry posted 4th April 2005. 11.30. p.m.

I’m very pretty. This isn’t me, boasting. Well, it is, but I’m just saying what everybody says. Dizzy. Everybody says that, too. Bisexual. Willing, that is, to relate sexually to anyone who takes my fancy.

But if you’re talking long-term relationships, there’s my boyfriend/live-in lover, Yarrow. Can you use the term live-in when what you’re living in is a tree? It’s a very nice tree, by the way.

It’s a beech tree, very tall and straight, with the palest green leaves in spring and a glow of tan and orange in autumn. There’s a carpet of bluebells in May and there are mossy patches around, too. It’s not too hard to reach the lower branches by jumping and grabbing, and then it’s an easy climb to where we’ve plaited some branches into a platform. We lined the ‘floor’ of our den with lichen and moss. Some of it died and crumbled into a soft powder that evens out the surface. The rest ‘took’ and decorates our room with whorls of gold and grey and green. We keep stuff on adjacent branches. Not that we go in for possessions but there are a few things - drinks, goblets, some culinary needs, curry combs for the unicorns, what little jewellery we possess and a few changes of clothing.

There are birds. Sometimes they sing to us and sometimes to each other. And sometimes just for the joy of being alive.

There’s a squirrel family too, and their dray is up higher than we ever bother to climb. They’re quite good neighbours, really, except when they drop nuts on our heads. I don’t think they do it on purpose unless we’re being noisy.

On our tree there is a branch. On that branch there is a nest. On that nest there sat a bird.

She sang us to sleep in the morning; she woke us with song in the evening, her eggs warm.

In our wood there’s food for birds; on our branch, a hungry bird; in that nest a pair of eggs.

She swooped to the woods in the morning. She hoped she could catch her food flying, eggs still warm.

The cuckoo came.

On our tree she saw a branch. On that branch she saw a nest. In that nest she saw the eggs.

She laid her own egg between them, hoping her baby would throw them from the nest.

On our tree there is a branch. On that branch we made our bed. From our bed we saw that bird.

I climbed up to snatch the intruder; I gave the strange egg to my lover, still quite warm.

We cooked the egg.

On our tree there is a branch. On that branch there is a nest. In that nest two fledglings sit.

They cheep us to sleep in the morning. They cheep us awake in the evening. We sleep content.

Entry posted 5th April 2005. 3.00. a.m.

Our tree is in a wood. It’s quite a small wood and I know everyone here. My sister, Peasblossom, has a tree not far from ours. She lives there with my younger brothers and sisters. I have two brothers and four sisters. Only Peasblossom is older than me. Mother left home some time ago, leaving me and Peasblossom to bring up the babies. When Yarrow appeared on the scene, I left home, too. Columbine, who’s a bit younger than me is thinking of getting married soon and moving away. And her head’s full of weddings and suchlike so she isn’t a lot of use to anyone. Nothing’s finalised yet but you all know what weddings or even thoughts of them do to the participants. So Peasblossom does her best with my brothers Cobweb and Willow and my other two sisters Moth and Briony

Peasblossom is a wonderful cook and I can usually smell delicious aromas as soon as I start to approach. Soup and pancakes and dumplings and stew and jam and herb teas and sometimes brewing wine or beer. She’s a skilled herbalist, too and often there are trails of vapour scented with coltsfoot and comfrey and foxglove. I don’t know how she learnt all this; our mother was rarely around.

The wood’s on Alderley Edge, a hill or escarpment in Cheshire. It’s a famous ‘beauty spot’ and there are humans all over the place in daytime, especially in summer, but we’re asleep in daytime and our trees are not on the main pathways. Legend has it that Arthur and his knights lie sleeping under the Edge, waiting till England has need of them. I doubt that, but it’s a pretty story.

The Edge has a darker aspect. It has mines beneath it where humans have stored chemicals from wartime ammunition-making. They’re dangerous, unpleasant tunnels, and I can’t see any self-respecting knights staying down there. But you never know. And there is access to lower levels. Fairies are not the only non-human or fae beings in England. And their lives are not always easy. There are tommy-knockers in the lower levels and they are hostile to most other fae.

Home has to have trees. Home has to be quiet and reasonably human-free at night. Home has to have a generous supply of foodstuffs; fruits and berries and fungi are staples and we catch small creatures too. Home has to be within reach of the fairs, the fairy gatherings. It has to smell of green and sound with birdsong. It has to taste of the first primroses and the last hazelnuts. But mainly, for me, it has to have Yarrow in it.

Entry posted 7th April 2005. 7.00. p.m.

Most fairies are bisexual. Not all. There are some who simply fall in love and cleave to their chosen partner for always. I certainly cleave to Yarrow whenever I can get hold of him, but I can go for fairy girls, especially really pretty ones, and humans of either sex, and brownies, sprites, nature gods, whatever. I sort of promised Yarrow some time ago that I wouldn’t fuck any other male fairies. He has offered to release me from all promises but it’s still a promise I feel I ought to keep, not least because he can be fearsome with his claws out and his temper up and I wouldn’t want anyone to have to fight on my behalf.

I wouldn’t touch children, of any species, and I wouldn’t couple with animals. A few fairies are not so choosy. You all know about Shakespeare’s Oberon and the princeling, and his queen was enamoured of an ass though I think it was a were-ass and I think magic might have been involved. I’m not sure about were-creatures; if they’re adult and sentient it’s probably OK but I’ve never actually met one.

So almost anything goes, if it’s pretty enough, that is!

Entry posted 9th April. 2005. 4.00.a.m.

I was interested to read how someone else sees me. A friend asked me about the role flowers play in my life and wrote this next piece, about me, based on my reply.

He thinks of family and friends with flower names. Two of his sisters are Peasblossom and Columbine. The first is sweet, apparently delicate but a survivor. The second, a showy beauty, can be dashed in a storm. His best friend Toadflax is reliable and sturdy.

Harlequin has had affairs, not exactly love affairs, perhaps lust affairs, with Forget-me-not and Dogrose. Both girls sometimes look at him askance, even now.

Yarrow, now. Yarrow is his heart’s desire. Strong, medicinal when necessary, healing and loving. But oh, so much more beautiful than the quiet flower that bears his name.

I love them all, fiercely. There are more stories about them in other sections. I would defend them with my life.

This journal will be all about my life. I have adventures. Well, of course I do. Who doesn’t? Almost any facet of life can be turned into an adventure by a writer. I make friends, too. And I’m hoping some of you will be among them. It’s up to you, really. If you want a magical internet friend, here I am.

Entry posted 10th April 2005. 3.00. a.m.

Someone once asked what was the one thing I wanted to know about everyone I met. I can’t imagine wanting to know any one thing. Not about everybody. Especially the same thing. I mean, with attractive members of either sex I’m quite likely to want to know their preferences. With some people the main question is whether they can cook. Children - well, how sticky do they get and does it tend to rub off? With old people I want to listen to their experiences. With casual encounters, I only want to know they aren’t hostile, or dishonest. With humans I want to know if they’d like to talk to me. But I suppose there is an absolute bottom line. Otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this and you wouldn’t be reading it. It’s this: do they actually believe in fairies?

Yarrow says anybody who has read this far will obviously believe but will probably want to know some basic information about fairies in general and me in particular. Well, he’s probably right and certainly practical. He usually is.

Chapter 2: Facts about fairies.

(to be chanted softly with drumming in the background)

When humans invaded the world bringing machines to the bright woods,

The fairies, gathered in council grave, talked of revenge and secret plots.

But the ones who lived in English lanes took themselves to a quiet place

And rebelled against the faerie wyrd, softly, invisibly mingling among

The enemy gardens and orchards brave, till they dropped from sight of the Fair Ones

And lived their lives their own way, while all forgot they had ever been.

And to this day they turn away, from faerie true and faerie wild

And to any who ask they all say, I’m England’s child.

Entry posted 10th April 2005. 3.30. a.m.

In case you’ve noticed the vaguely Shakespearean references, they were intentional. We think our great great grandparents were the prototypes for Midsummer Night’s Dream. Peasblossom thinks we can trace our ancestry to Titania’s attendants when Shakespeare was writing. and that old Will must have met up with them in the woods around Stratford on Avon. Maybe a sixteenth century ancestor of mine wrote letters from the bottom of Will’s garden. We, that is my family and friends, belong to a branch of fairies who have been around in the British Isles for ever (we think). Some human writers seem to have interacted with us and have written fairly sensible things but have passed them off as fiction. Our mother liked the Shakespearean connection and chose some of her children’s names accordingly.

We certainly have a titania and an oberon as our queen and king but these are actually just hereditary titles, just words meaning queen and king. They change their names in the accession ceremony (The current ones were Lady Ivy and Prince Beetle until the prince’s dad faded) and are known by their titles only, from then on. Puck is another title rather than a name. The oberon and titania always have a puck (you would call him a prime minister, I think) to guide them although humans might not always think too highly of the sort of guidance he (or she) gives. Just like human royalty there are factions and family feuds and even civil wars. The oberon before the one