Young Writers Society

Many people have tried to understand the Fae, and nearly all have failed. There’s something to them that mortals cannot comprehend. They say those that do understand them have fairy blood in their veins. Not many people believe these tales anymore, but in some places, on the doorsteps of old stone houses, grandmothers and grandfathers sit after supper and tell their children and grandchildren stories of the old days. They warn the young ones of stealing the puca’s blackberries, and of ghastly horses wandering through the marsh. They try to imagine what a fierce feist must have looked like, even though those were driven from the green lands ages ago.

Some of the children are truly frightened by the wild tales, and others laugh. Some merely sit and watch outside their windows before they go to bed, hoping to see a shadowy figure glide through the trees. If they stay awake long enough, sometimes they’re able to see one of the wee folk travelling along one of their little mysterious roads through the wood.

One night, in a quiet little cottage on top of a hill, one such young child found she couldn’t sleep after listening to her grandfather’s tales. She sat on her bed that she shared with her sister and looked out through the single pane of glass that separated her from the cold evening mist. Her eyes caught every little movement; from the wind in the trees to the shadow of an owl ghosting over the yard. And yet, nothing fairylike crept from the wood or up from the ditches. No little goblins scampered over the rooftop and no great shadowy thing appeared at the picket gate. She sighed, but didn’t leave the window.

The girl was very thin and pale, and her hair was long and raven black. She had always been a frail creature, and despite the doctor’s efforts, she had never been able to be as strong as her siblings. Much of her time was spent inside reading, and that activity had cultivated a fantastic imagination. She loved stories, especially the ones her grandfather would tell her when he visited for the holidays.

To her, all the imaginary things seemed real. She couldn’t write more than a couple sentences, but she tried her hardest to write down her own stories. She watched through her window, hoping to see a fairy or halfling scurry about in the bushes beyond the little white fence and past the cobblestone path. For the longest time, she saw nothing. She began to wonder if there was anything out there. She rested her head on the windowsill and the twilight of sleep came over her. Her mind had already begun to invent a dream when a movement caught her eye. Instantly her pale blue eyes were wide open, and any hint of sleepiness banished from them.

A little black shape darted through the picket fence and then vanished around the corner of the house. The girl sat up straight in her bed. Her heart began to pound.

Could it be one of the little folk?

Carefully, she slipped out of the bed and put her feet into her sheepskin slippers. Her nightgown, which was just a little too big, dragged on the ground after her. She tiptoed from the room, careful not to wake her brothers and sisters. Without making a sound she snuck down the creaky wooden stairs, her weight hardly enough to make the boards groan. When she was halfway down the stairs there was a dreadful cackling from the chicken coop behind the garden. Her heart leapt into her throat as the dog began baying outside the door. The dog, who usually slept soundly throughout the night, was howling and pawing at the door to get inside.

The little girl froze as the entire house surged awake. Her father, being a hot-tempered man, was the first out the door, ready to beat whatever animal had decided to terrorize the fowls. However, he collided with the dog on the way out and was sent sprawling.

The dog cleared the threshold in one bound and dashed under the stairs behind the stack of firewood and curled up, whimpering.

“Get out there you blasted dog!” Shouted the father, all the more furious from taking a spill down the front steps.

The dog payed him no heed.

“Damn!” The girl watched as her father made out of the house with a heavy stick in his hands. Her grandfather was at the door by now, shouting something after him that the girl didn’t catch. When he turned about, she slipped past him and out the door. Running to the edge of the porch, she watched as her father reached the chicken coop and pounded on the top with the club. Instead of driving the fox or stray dog away, he only succeeded in further terrifying the panicked fowls.

It was then that the girl saw the black shape dart across the yard and through the fence, disappearing into the blackberry bushes. The dog howled from inside the house again and two little beady eyes peeped out from behind the fence.

The young girl saw the creature watching her. It almost certainly wasn’t a creature of this world. Curious, she took a few steps towards it. She later thought to herself, “Why wasn’t I afraid?”. She was never able to answer that.

“I’m Aislin, it’s alright. I won’t hurt you.”

It didn’t move until she was almost upon it, then with a rustle, it scampered away.

“Wait!” Aislin broke into a shambling run, watching the black shadow bound across the pasture and down the lane into the fog. She followed it all the way to the pebbled road where she stopped and peered into the mist.

The road led down into the village, but first it crossed a low brook which trickled down from the hills. It ran beneath the road through a culvert. Aislin could just barely hear the water trickling, but the mist muffled much of the sound. She strained to listen.

Clip clop, clip clop.

That’s not the sound of water.

As she listened, the dull clopping of unshod hooves grew closer. She stepped back onto the grass to let the horse pass by, and out of the mist trotted a short, fat, shaggy pony. The most peculiar thing about the little horse was that it had no rider.

Strange, he must have hopped the fence of some farmer’s yard.

“Here little one, come here!” The girl reached out her hand to pat the pony’s muzzle. It pulled away from her and squealed, shaking its ragged mane.

“Don’t be frightened, I’m not going to hurt you.”

The pony pawed the ground and shoved its head against her chest. It lipped her small hands with its velvet muzzle and whickered, seemingly calmed by the girl’s words.

“Aislin?”

The girl turned around, but there was no one there. “Yes?”

“Aislin…” The horse butted her with his head again.

“Are…are you…talking?” The girl looked the pony in the eye. His eyes were unlike anything she’d ever seen. Rover the dog had brown eyes, and some of the sheep had blue eyes, but no animal she knew had bright, golden eyes.

“Get on.” The pony whispered, nudging her.

Aislin stared at the pony for a moment, supposing she must be dreaming. At this moment, a second quartet of hoofbeats sounded from the bridge down the lane. Unlike the plodding thuds of the pony’s hooves, these clip clops were sharp and clear. They rang through the mist with a sound not unlike a blacksmith’s hammer.

The pony raised its head and its little golden eyes seemed to emit sparks of anticipation. Without warning it charged Aislin, who reeled backwards in surprise. Like lightning, the pony threw its head between her legs, causing her to slide down its neck onto its back.

The distant hoofbeats grew closer. Aislin clung to the pony’s mane, a sudden fear coming over her. She’d never ridden before, and despite how short the little horse was, falling was still vastly undesirable.

The pony reared and whirled to face the oncoming horse. Surprisingly, Aislin found she had no trouble staying on. The horse, Aislin could see, had a rider. Or at least, she thought it did. It was hard to make out the form in the moonlight. The pony reared again and screamed like a wild horse of the moors. Aislin buried her face in the pony’s mane in terror, her little heart pounding through her chest. The other horse roared in answer and broke into a gallop, sparks flying from its shod hooves.

The small pony whirled again and sped away. Aislin almost began to cry, but seeing she was still astride the pony, swallowed her tears. As long as she didn’t fall off, she would be safe. Besides, she was almost certain that she was too frightened to utter a sound.

They galloped down the road, sending pebbles skittering into the grass on either side. Dogs howled as they raced past a group of houses. Aislin could hear the cracking of a whip behind them and only clung tighter to the pony’s mane. She thought of throwing herself of and into the soft grass on the shoulder of the road, but the speed at which they traveled and the fear of being trampled by the horse behind them erased the thought quickly.

The black rider thundered after them. The pony took a sharp turn and leaped into a cornfield. The tall stalks completely hid the shaggy animal from view. The horse jumped the gate behind them and followed, tearing through the field like a hurricane.

“Stop! Please stop!” Cried Aislin, holding her cheek after being lashed with a corn stalk. If this was a dream -which she hoped it was- it was a very bad one. She tried unseating herself as the pony slowed, but to no avail. To her astonishment, she found she couldn’t dismount. She felt the pony buck beneath her as if to scold her for trying to leave. Aislin threw her arms about the pony’s neck and hung on for dear life.

The pony sped on.

She felt the pony gather beneath her and gasped as it leaped almost straight up into the air, clearing a fence that stood taller than its own head. Breathing raggedly, the pony galloped on, heading towards a clump of trees not far away. Once it reached the trees, it stopped.

Aislin listened. The pony listened. All was quiet.

Clip, clop.

The pony whirled, Aislin with it. There before them stood the tall black horse, with a deformed rider astride it.

The rider was tall and cloaked in grey, worm-eaten cloth. Aislin nearly retched when the smell of rotting flesh reached her delicate nostrils. Where his head should have been, there was nothing but the stiff collar of his coat. Both the horse and rider were emaciated almost to the point of translucence. Aislin wondered how the bony animal could have kept up with them. The horse took one step forward and Aislin could see the sunken pits where the animal’s eyes should have been. Instead of puffs of moisture coming from his tattered nostrils, the horse panted smoke.

In one hand the rider bore a whip of bones, in the other, some object that resembled a human head. Was it his own? Aislin looked again to the empty collar and her white cheeks suddenly donned a shroud of deathly grey.

Shrouded in smoke and mist, the demon stood still. Aislin was frozen in terror, and even to this day she can’t fully recall what the creature looked like.

The headless man opened his mouth to speak a single word. The sound came from his right side, where his fallen head was cradled in his arm. The hand that held the whip reached out as if to grasp Aislin by the throat, and with a horse, guttural whisper the creature said…

“Aisl-”

The pony uttered a bewitched cry and reared on its hind legs, its bright eyes glowing a radiant gold. Aislin couldn’t help but notice that its teeth shone a golden-white in the moonlight, and that its hooves glittered a brilliant aurum. On its hind legs, the pony danced forward, challenging the massive animal before him.

It was the demon’s turn to cry in terror. The eyes in his head responded violently to the bright golden light before them and rolled backwards into the creature’s decapitated skull. With a crack of his ghostly whip, the monster whirled his horse and galloped away, vanishing into the mist and screaming undistinguishable words as he fled.

Aislin was still frozen in shock when she felt herself slipping down the pony’s side. She landed in the dew-soaked heather beneath the tree.

The pony turned and nudged her with its head, then trotted off.

“Wait! Take me home!” Aislin cried, but her voice was lost in the mist.

Nothing. She was surrounded by silence. She hugged her knees to her chest and sniffled. Her hands were trembling, and her face was pale. She felt as if she might faint.

“Are you frightened?” Came a small voice from behind her. Aislin turned around and saw a black fox, with his white tipped tail curled around his feet, sitting behind her.

“Y-yes.” She whispered.

“There’s no need to be, you’re safe. The horseman is gone.” The fox said.

Aislin raised her head and looked at the fox. Her eyes met his, which glowed a soft gold.

“Who was he?” Aislin asked.

“One of the Unseelie. A dullahan by title, but do not say that name again. It bothers the very earth beneath us to speak of him.” The fox blinked and looked down the road from the direction Aislin and the pony had come.

“He was a fae?” Aislin finally said, her curiosity overcoming her fear. “Are you?”

The fox was silent for a moment, then he spoke.

“I am the mischief maker, the thief, the prankster, the guardian of the blackberries. It was I who tore up your chicken house and sent the dog into a panic.” The fox laughed. “But I finished hanging the tools in the shed that your brother left out. And I stacked the flowerpots that your sister forgot. And I didn’t break a single egg.”

“Why?” She questioned.

“It’s rude to ask, why.”

“I’m sorry.” She said. “Was the pony a fae too?”

“You don’t know the stories? I’m surprised you haven’t guessed who I am by now. I was the pony. I am the fox in the henhouse, the wolf in the sheepfold, the rabbit in the garden. The helper in the toolshed.”

“Then why did you help me get away from the…unseelie?”

“Because it makes him very angry when I frighten him with my gold teeth.” The fox grinned, and his fangs were indeed gold. “I need no reason for what I do. I am not bound by rhyme or reason!” The fox suddenly sprouted an enormous pair of raven’s wings, just as shiny and black as Aislin’s hair.

Aislin scooted backwards, a little unsettled by the site. The fox laughed.

“I am a terror, a demon, but I can also be good if I like. I just…like being bad better sometimes.” The fox’s wings disappeared.

“Do…do you have a name?”

The fox snapped his teeth. “Oh no you don’t! That’s also rude, little one. You’ll not be a snitch and get my name so easily. You’ll need to learn some manners if you’re ever to speak to a fae.”

Aislin sniffled. “Sorry…”

The fox didn’t answer. He looked over the hill. His ears twitched, as if picking up some far away sounds that fought their way through the fog and the cornfields.

“I must go. But take this, little one.” He reached out a paw and handed her a gold pin. “If that nasty ever comes back, wave this at his ugly head! He’ll scream like a child and run away. Just don’t prick your finger.”

Aislin carefully took the pin in her hand. When she held it, she felt a warmth go through her body that eased her aching muscles and the scratches on her arms and legs. The scrapes seemed to vanish without a trace. It even warmed her cold little feet, which had lost their slippers long ago.

She looked up, and the fox was gone. Clutching the pin in her tiny fist, she curled up against the tree. She couldn’t hear as well as the fox, or else she would have heard her name being called from over the hill.

-

From the house, Aislin’s family had heard the horse’s screams. Her mother, thinking it the cry of a child at first, began to fret and called the names of her children. All but Aislin answered, and after further inquiry, it was found out that she was not there.

That information sent the entire house into a panic. Her grandfather, who never suspected for a moment that the horse’s cries were human, but instead suspected them of the Otherworld, was the first out the door. Her father who was already outside ran down to the road and called her name. Her mother was very pale.

They immediately began a search, first of the house, and then of the yard, and then again down to the road. There they found one set of hoof tracks leading north. The mother brought to attention that Aislin could have been kidnapped by a mysterious rider. Her grandfather, without saying why he did so, agreed this was possible.

With great haste the father and grandfather set off down the road, both calling out little Aislin’s name. Soon, they came to the cornfield and could see a clear path through the tall stalks where a horse – albeit a small one – had run.

“Do you think she could have been taken through here?” The father asked, looking at the tracks.

The grandfather shook his head and scratched his salt-and-pepper beard. “It seems so. But be careful lad, I…”

“Leave your old ghost stories until after I find my daughter, Da.” The father snapped. He continued shouting Aislin’s name and jogged off through the field.

The grandfather shivered in the cold and shoved his hands into the pockets of his massive coat. The coat smelled of the sweet Irish tobacco and the dust of the road. It was a comforting smell. The coat was an old one and had been patched several times, but it still had years of life in it. It was one of little Aislin’s favorite things about her grandfather; the smell and warmth of his big checkered coat. The grandfather chewed his lip worriedly. He loved that little girl, but he feared that the spirits had finally come to claim her gentle soul.

“Poor little lassie…” He murmured. “If only she hadn’t left the house. Poor girl…”

Psst…

The grandfather turned his head. The whisper seemed to come from behind him, but nobody was there. He scanned the field for any sign of movement. With a worried mutter he fingered the golden ring on his left hand, the only thing he had left to remember his late wife by.

Psst…old crow!

“Who’s callin’ me ‘an old crow?” Now a little concerned, the grandfather peered into the mist that shrouded the next hill. On top of the hill, a small cluster of trees was barely visible. He wondered why he hadn’t seen these before.

After a short pause, he carefully began to make his way up the hill, constantly looking about him to ensure he wouldn’t be ambushed. It was bad luck to meddle in the ways of the fae.

When he reached the top, he saw a little white bundle at the roots of a scraggly hawthorn tree. Afraid of what he might find, he crept closer, always looking over his shoulder and peering suspiciously into the fog.

The bundle was breathing. Not only that, it appeared to have long, dark hair. When the grandfather came to the foot of the tree, he saw that the bundle was actually a child. Not only that, it was little Aislin.

“Aislin?” Her grandfather’s voice quivered and was barely loud enough to break the silence.

Aislin moved. She opened her soft blue eyes, confused as to why her grandfather sounded so terrified. It was as if nothing had happened.

“Grandfather, why are do you look so frightened?”

“Good God, Child. How can you ask such a thing?” Her grandfather picked up the small girl and bundled her up in his cloak. He called his son’s name and was answered with a shout from somewhere in the cornfield.

“Don’t you ever go running off like that again.” He said.

“But I didn’t run off…” Aislin’s eyes fluttered. She began to drift off to sleep in her grandfather’s arms.

With a sigh, the grandfather stood up. He heard soggy footsteps as his son trapsed his way up the hill to meet them. Even though he had a temper to rival the wildest Irishman, Aislin’s father had a good heart. The angry look in his eyes immediately melted away when he saw his little girl alive and peacefully sleeping.

“She’s alright?” He asked, taking her from his father.

The grandfather nodded. “As far as I can see. There’s not a scratch on her.”

With a bewildered look on his face, Aislin’s father turned to walk back towards the cottage. “How in Hell’s name did she get all the way out here?”

“You know what I think about it, but I doubt you’ll listen.” The grandfather smiled wryly.

“They’re just stories, Da. Only stories. Nothing more.” He shook his head. “And I don’t want my little one believing it’s alright to go chase down imaginary creatures. She’s already got a big enough imagination without you encouraging it.” He turned his back to his father and continued down the hill.

“Some will never change.” The grandfather murmured.

Psst…

Something small scampered into the hawthorn tree behind them. Her grandfather glanced back and saw a fox perched in the topmost branches peering down at him. Its bright golden eyes pierced through the fog, creating an eerie feeling that there was nothing they couldn’t see.

Instead of being frightened, the grandfather stood there for a moment and looked at the fox. Finally, he tipped reached up and tipped his cap to it.

“You’re welcome to my blackberries any time, rascal. Just please leave the hens alone.”

Old crow! They were mine to begin with!

With a hoarse cackle, the fox scrambled down from the trees and vanished into the mist.

The grandfather watched it go. He had a feeling that wouldn’t be the last of the creature, for once a fae has stooped to involve itself in the fate of a human, they seldom abandon them.