Faery Tale (33 page)

I wondered if they ever remembered, if even just in sleep, the ancient secrets that still lay within them, whispering through their bodies in the deepness of their dreaming.

—THE REV. ROBERT KIRK,
THE SECRET COMMONWEALTH OF ELVES, FAUNS AND FAIRIES

 

 

 

 

S
COTLAND is immense, desolate, awe-inspiring. It rains while the sun shines fifty yards away. There, the faeries are known as the Sith (pronounced
shee
). In lore they reflect the landscape around them. Waterfalls crash down deep splits of black rocks, and the mountains stand like mythic giants, their faces cragged with age, the rock weathered by centuries of wind and rain. Walking the hills, you can feel the ghosts walking alongside you—those who climbed the slopes before, some to feed and shelter their sheep or cattle, some to honor the land that bore them. Here, people remember what they are—human, yes, but in actuality, they remember that really we are all animals. And when you remember what you are, your connection to the land, and to the other animals that we are charged to share it with, your viewpoint changes forever.

I'm not saying that the people of Edinburgh run through the streets worshipping cattle and singing about rainbows and butterflies. Edinburgh has its charms, and in truth it is one of my favorite cities in the world. But it has its share of ghosts. There are haunted tours that take you through dank dungeons and underground communities, bricked up with people alive in them during the plague. Like all bustling cities, there is a certain remove from the natural world. So upon arrival, I sought the remoteness right away. Saying goodbye to Kirsten in Shannon Airport was another tough parting, but there was a freedom in being back on my own, continuing my quest.

From the start, one man's story in particular had intrigued and terrified me, more so than any other. He wasn't a social scientist (like W. Y. Evans-Wentz) or a poet (like Yeats). Rather, Robert Kirk was a humble Scottish minister who had devoted his existence to the pursuit of the faeries. And it cost him his life.

A well-educated man, Kirk served at the parish of Aberfoyle until his early death in 1692. One year prior to his untimely departure, he had taken an interest in his parishioners' fascination with the Sith. He began traveling the countryside, speaking to people who claimed to have encounters, questioning seers about the unseen world, and compiling a manuscript, eventually entitled
The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies.

It's a nonfiction essay on the nature and actions of a people that Kirk describes as subterranean and “mostly” invisible—the faeries. In it, he details both intimate and mundane facts about faeries: how they reproduce, what they look like, what they eat. Shortly after completing the book, his dead body was found on the nearby “Fairy Hill,” where he would often walk while researching his book. He was wearing only his nightshirt.

Villagers believed he had been struck dead by the queen of the faeries for divulging too much privileged information about them, imprisoning his spirit in a tree atop the hill, known today as the Minister's Pine. It was certainly radical for a minister to study the world of faeries. Kirk's successor, Rev. Grahame, wrote of his death, “As Mr. Kirk was walking on a
dun-shi
, or fairy hill, in his neighborhood, he sunk down in a swoon, which was taken for death.” Was
taken
for death. His specter was later spotted at a family christening, a last-ditch effort made by Kirk's spirit to be rescued before he was whisked away for all eternity.

I'll admit it. I was afraid to go walking alone at the place where Rev. Robert Kirk had so mysteriously died. Wasn't I doing
exactly
what had allegedly gotten the man
killed
? That's why I planned this part of my trip when Eric was coming to visit. We were renting a car, and we'd be driving together to Aberfoyle to climb Fairy Hill.

Waiting for Eric at the airport was one of the most excruciating hours of my life. We'd arranged to meet at the hostel in Edinburgh, but as his arrival inched closer, I realized it wasn't humanly possible for me, having not seen him for over two months now, to refrain from seeing him right away. So I wrote down his flight number, kept my secret, and took the bus to the airport to surprise him. At nearly every appearance of close-cut brown hair my heart skipped a beat. I put one leg in front of the other. Now leaned. Pulled out my compact to check my makeup. Put in a piece of gum. Spit it out. Finally, he appeared, with a big pack just like mine. His face broke into a smile of utter delight.

“I knew you'd be here,” he murmured into my hair.

“I couldn't wait,” I explained.

“Neither could I.” He grinned.

I took him on a mini-walking tour of Edinburgh, and we dined on fish and chips and sticky toffee pudding. The next morning we took a cab to the rental car place and were on our way to Aberfoyle. It was to be our first and only stop on our way up to the Scottish Highlands.

We checked into our B and B, borrowed a hiking book from the proprietors, and set off for Doon Hill, otherwise known as Fairy Hill, home of Robert Kirk and his eternal tormentors.

“E, listen,” I began. “I know you're . . . on the fence about this stuff, but I just want to stress: a man studying faeries
died
here.”

“Okay . . .”

“So, it wouldn't hurt to be a little extra careful, you know, show some respect.”

“Okay,” he said patiently. “Like what?”

“Well, like you know how you always spit a lot when we hike?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Well, don't do that. Or if you do, warn them in your head or something.”

He took my hand and raised his brows at me. “All right. Ready?”

“Yes, ready.”

We began our walk through the woods. It was evening now, but the sun would be up for another three hours at least. The woods below the hill were peaceful, and airy, the ceiling of trees was high above, giving the forest beautiful light. There was something about the place that made you want to walk softly, to whisper.

“It feels . . . enchanted,” Eric said.

“I am so writing that down. That you said that just now.”

He laughed. “Well, it does! There's just something about it.”

There was no one else in sight. We had the hill and the surrounding forest all to ourselves as we climbed. The hill was broad and steep. I wondered for a fleeting moment whether we were tramping on top of the home of the faery queen, in her subterranean kingdom inside the hollow hill.

After being apart for so long, just walking through the woods together was wonderful. Soon I could see we were reaching the top of the hill. I didn't know what to expect. But I think it's fair to say that we were both utterly blown away.

As we crested the hill we entered a clearing. The first thing I registered was a towering pine tree front and center, with a wide ribbon around its trunk and dozens of scraps of brightly colored cloth tied to it. In the next second I saw a little red-breasted robin on the ground, a butterfly fluttered in front of us, and there were dragonflies
everywhere
. The entire hill was one huge, human-decorated tribute to the faery kingdom.

“Wow,” I whispered, just as a dragonfly alighted on Eric's arm. I heard a buzzing and looked up.

Flying just above the level of our heads was a tripod of buzzing insects, exactly like those I'd seen in Vicky and Tad's ruins.

“Holy shit,” Eric said. “Look at this place!” Every tree, every bush, every sapling was covered with colorful offerings. To my right was a tree, the length of its trunk tied with shimmering ribbons of gold, white, pink, and silver. At the base of the pine, delicate figurines of faeries were placed lovingly amid the moss. In each spot was a different gift to behold—a bracelet, a miniature car, a few squares of beautifully patterned cloth. On a piece of lined paper I peeked at a child's secret wish to the faeries:
I wish I had a Lego Batman.

“These represent hundreds of people's wishes and prayers,” I explained to Eric. “Each one of them probably asked for something, and in exchange, they left a gift.” Just as I finished speaking, I felt something brush my neck and spun around. Hanging from the tree behind me was a key chain depicting the Vesica Piscis symbol—the same one I'd been wearing around my neck since purchasing it in Glastonbury.

We wandered around the hill for almost an hour before our stomachs started to gnaw at us, and we decided it was time to head home. But not before Eric pointed something out to me. “Look,” he joked, “faery goo.”

All along the moss on the trees throughout the forest were delicate, sparkling crystals, catching in the glow of the evening sun.

As we headed back down the hill, I looked over my shoulder at the tree. Was the spirit of Rev. Robert Kirk really somehow trapped inside? The hill felt like a place of beauty, peace, hope, not torment. I smiled and nodded my respect to this faery queen, whatever or wherever she may be.

Rev. Robert Kirk was a silly man
, I heard on the breeze. Or was it only in my head? I was so spaced-out, I barely registered Eric calling to me, “Watch out!”

“What?”

“Look!” He pointed to the ground, right where I was about to step. The road was covered with hundreds of tiny little frogs, the size of our thumbnails, moving off into the underbrush.

The next morning, as we set off into the Highlands, I stopped at a local shop called Fairy Rade & Pet Trade. Pushing open the door of the tiny store, I wasn't quite sure what to expect. A woman with long brown hair streaked with gray stood behind the counter. At first glance, I wasn't sure she looked like a faery type. Then I observed her feet: Birkenstock sandals with socks and a skirt. This lady might have something to tell me. I perused the shop for a few minutes. It was quite an interesting combination of merchandise. There were racks of T-shirts depicting, alternately, painted faeries and wolves, backs arched, howling at the moon. The shelves were stocked with faery figurines and ceramic dragons. On the other side of the store were pet collars, leashes, bowls, eating mats, and sweaters for toy dogs. Diversification, I guessed.

I took a breath and introduced myself. Her name was Diana Carmody, and she was the owner. Originally from Kent in England, she'd now lived in Scotland for almost thirty years.

“People here in town don't like to talk about the faeries,” she told me, leaning over the counter, her voice low.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Well, they don't believe, first of all. When I came here and opened this shop people were angry. They'd come up to me and say, ‘What do you think you're doing opening that silly store?' But I've always been interested in these things, and there are plenty of people who come to Aberfoyle and want to take a little piece of the faery world back with them. That's why I'm here.”

“They come to visit Doon Hill?”

“Yes,” she said, “of course. Have you been?”

“Yes, it was incredible. We went last night.”

“I've been up there,” Diana said, “at night. Three of us decided we'd go up there at midnight. It was something, really something. One of my friends claimed to have seen faery lights, but I didn't see them. I had a different experience,” she paused, a little uncomfortable.

“What was it?” I nudged her.

“I can't explain it, but I felt something that wasn't
good
back in the bushes on the far side of the great old pine,” she said, a little vacantly. She shook her head, as if to shake herself awake. “I'm an investigative type of person, always exploring. But I'll tell you, I wouldn't go wandering about in that area behind the tree, and especially not at night. I just didn't like the feel of it; there was something off about it, something . . . not good lives there, I think.”

“Did you see anything else that night?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “In fact, we did. Just as we were leaving, we saw a bright ball of light go streaking through the trees in the clearing, so fast that none of us could begin to explain what it could have been.”

Thanking her, I found Eric and we climbed into the car, ready to head into the hills. As we maneuvered the twisting road toward Glen Coe, I ruminated on our visit to the faery haunted hill. Sure, the sheer force of faery faith present on the hilltop had been astounding. That Diana from Fairy Rade had seen lights atop it was not surprising. More than that, it was the shape of the hill itself that still haunted me—the way it rose so quickly up from the ground. Just like Glastonbury Tor.

There was a similarity, a tie, that I couldn't quite isolate. And yet I felt in my core I was on to something very real. I hoped, if my faery friends wished it so, that I'd discover the connection when the time was right.

—CHARLES DE LINT

 

 

 

 

T
HE Highland faeries seem to have their own reputation. I remembered reading something in old Scots-Gaelic that translated roughly, “Don't you call me a faery, 'cause if you do, I'll smack you in your freaking head.” I'd learned of course that people in Ireland, the Isle of Man, Scotland, and Wales didn't like to call faeries “faeries.” They were “themselves,” “the fair folk,” “the good folk,” “the blessed folk.” Apparently Scottish members of the faery world were particularly sensitive on this topic. The more I understood about the vast possibilities of species of beings in an unseen world, the less the term seemed adequate. It'd be kind of like an alien race coming to earth and insisting on calling every creature on our planet “cats.”