Young Writers Society

We call it the Road, but it’s a path more than anything else. It’s not signposted, because even the littlest kids in the village know where to find it. They’re told to stay away, but they never do. They make a beeline for the bloody place, high on sherbet and giddy with danger, and dare each other to run across it, walk across it, stand still on it for a full minute. Most of the time, nothing happens to them.

Most of the time.

I was part of that rabble once. Someone dared me to uproot a foxglove from the path, and I did it, because I didn’t want to look chicken in front of the blue-eyed boy with the cool Heelys. Gran smacked me over the head when she found out. Mum went as white as the china stacked in the cupboards, but didn’t say anything.

Until later, when she came into my room.

I dust that memory off. Downhill I go, with the sun pouring slantwise through the canopy, a breeze stirring dust on the path. I pause at the left fork halfway down, which veers on towards Gran’s house. I imagine her tone: brittle, biting, doubtful. Finally found your backbone, did you?

I turn right, plunging deeper into the trees.

Within a minute, I’m no longer in almost-woods, but fully-fledged, moss-olive-jade-emerald-orange-brown forest, which blocks out most of the light and suffuses the rest of it with green. I bat midges away from my face and smack my own nose. Twigs crack and snap under feet that aren’t mine, and shadows move at the corner of my eyes. I make a point not to look at them directly.

And then the Road appears.

It’s always in the same sort of place, but it does seem to shift about when nobody’s looking. I’ve seen this stretch of it before, but further downhill - the Road swings in a curve, barely two feet across, a patchwork of engraved stones fringed with foxgloves and snapdragons. A sluggish stream crawls alongside it, home to clustered water-lilies and a monument made of old sandstone. Its features are eroded, but somebody has painted it a new face in black and white.

I step onto the path, breathing in the fug of vegetation and stagnant water. A quick bow to the monument, a penny tossed into the stream, and then I turn, adjusting the straps of my bag, and start to walk.

-

There’s a knack to it, Mum once told Violet.

It’s like those magic eye pictures. You’ve got to get yourself into a sort of between state. If you look too hard for the Faerlands, alert to every change and twist and unfamiliarity, it’ll never appear. But that’s not to say you shouldn’t search for it. You need to find the places on the Road where things are not quite normal, and ease into them.

I’m crap at magic eye. It fits that I should be crap at this.

I walk until night falls, until I’m sweaty and thirsty and aching, folded well into the arms of the moors. The forest closes over my head, then opens, then closes again, but I know in my marrow that I haven’t moved out of Dun, even if the trees are thick with whispers and movement and misty figures. I try listening to Bowie as I walk, hoping it might distract me just enough that I’ll look up and find myself somewhere completely unfamiliar, but the only changes are to my phone battery and my patience.

I slump on a felled trunk, sipping water from my canteen and staring up into the leaves. I think of Lewis and the others, lolling in cinema chairs and stuffing popcorn into their faces by the handful. I try to will myself there – salt stinging on my lips, a choppy camera, Lewis’s hand dancing close to my knee.

I wish I was anywhere else.

I scoop Mum’s notebook out of the bag with numb fingers, leafing through it for pointers. I click my phone torch on. Two pages in, I stop, looking at three words near the bottom of the page.

that's the problem

They’re part of a longer sentence,written in black ink – something about the myths and misconceptions of faer food. Only those words are underlined.

In red ink.

A chill passes through me. I put my fingertip to the line; still wet.

My thoughts echo. I wish I was anywhere else.

that's the problem.

My heart is thudding. An urge rises - drop the notebook in the mud, stamp stamp stamp, then run until I heave. But a hint is a hint. I close it up and slot it back into my bag, getting shakily to my feet. I walk for a little longer, keeping my eyes forward, listening as best as I can to the rustling of dry stems.

Then, when a shadow moves in my peripheral vision, I turn to look at it.

There’s a handy little acronym for situations like this – JAG. It’s usually meant for tourists, or schoolkids, but I’ll teach you how it works.

J is for Judge. When I clap eyes on the no-longer shadow no longer in my peripheral vision, I take stock of what sort of faer they are. The first thing to note – they’re very human. Adolescent-boy formed, with dark hair and pale, spotty skin. The only thing to differentiate them from a person is the gentle offish-ness of their face and features, which have the look of clothes that don’t quite fit. If the vessel is this uncorrupted, that means they can’t be particularly powerful.

A is for Announce. I incline my head, smile blandly, and push the tremor from my voice. Hi, I say. Nice night, isn’t it?

G is for Gift. I open my bag, then crack open the Tupperware box and bring out a Werther’s Original. I hold it out in both hands, and the faer takes it and cups it in the centre of his palm. He smiles in an over-vigorous way, with all his teeth.

“Tell you what,” he says. “You can have this back, seeing's you were so polite.”

I shake my head. Never accept a favour from a faer.

He looks petulant, but only for a moment, as he stows the toffee away in his jacket. “Where're you heading?”

I hesitate. You also shouldn’t tell a faer what you really want, if you can help it.

“Well, I’m- I’m trying to head home,” I sigh, rubbing my forehead. “I went for a walk after tea and got a bit lost.”

His eyes glitter. “Do you want me to show you the way to the village?”

No specification on which village. It’s a classic faer trick, but poorly done, because he’s practically giggling behind his hands. Even a tourist wouldn’t fall for that.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” I say, “but thank you for the offer.”

I start walking up the Road again – a little faster than I otherwise would, as if I’m trying to get away from him. This works like a charm. He trots after me like a little dog, close to my heels.

“You sure? You might end up in the ‘lands if you don’t go home. It’s getting bad out there, an’ all. People fighting. Someone got their head cracked and all their brains fell out.”

That makes me curious. It has to be true, if a faer says it, but Violet didn’t mention it in any of her emails. I wonder if her deliveries have been affected.

“That doesn’t sound good,” I say. “I’m sure I’ll manage, though.”

“Really? What’ll you do if someone cracks your head?”

I shrug. “Not got many brains to spill, so I should be fine.”

The faer laughs, with a screech like wind whipping through dense leaves. I smile back at him, taking the opportunity to study him further. It’s hard to judge a faer’s age, because it doesn’t necessarily correspond to how they look, but there’s something young about this one. Scrappy, too. His clothes are badly-fitting and there are hollows in his cheeks - hunger is in his movements, in how his eyes dart and his hands fumble together. A body needs feeding, no matter who wears it. This one particularly.

Which means he’s not being clever about all this.

In the end, it only takes twenty minutes. I take care to look more bewildered with each step, harking back to my thespian experiences as Shepherd 2 in the primary school Nativity. He offers once more to take me to ‘the village’, and I decline again, but not strongly. Gradually, the landscape changes. The trees grow older and taller and less familiar, and blue-orange lights glimmer like dew on the bushes, dimming whenever I look at them directly. Even the smell changes – something strong, incense-like, reminiscent of cinnamon. I recognise it from Mum’s workroom – the rack of dresses that came back from the Faerlands, to be sold to ladies in the village and beyond. The smell of enchantment.

To confirm, I say: “Oh dear. I don’t recognise this place at all.”

The faer is shifting from foot-to-foot, almost bouncing. “Warned you, didn’t I? Said you’d end up in the ‘lands if you kept on going like that.”

“I- I didn’t know-”

“Well, it’s hard to get back out, that’s for sure. So how’s about now I take you to the village?”

He’s got a carved-pumpkin grin. I can see how clever he thinks he is. This stupid human, cornered into taking a favour he can’t refuse – and imagine his face when he finds out which village I really mean--

The nervousness drops from my face. I match his smile.

“No need,” I say. “I’ll do just fine out here.”

And before he can retort, I step down off the Road, darting into the Faerlands proper.