Faery Tale (36 page)

But how could I put that all to use? If I was going to achieve what I set out to achieve, Findhorn was my last chance to find a way. I'd booked a room with a woman named Lini who lived in Findhorn Park, as it was called, right on the foundation grounds. Lini drove into town to pick me up, something no other B and B owner in the United Kingdom would ever have done. I liked her instantly. She was smart and sweet-tempered with ginger-colored hair and warm brown eyes. We talked easily as we drove alongside the ocean, finally coming through the gates and into the park. So this was Findhorn. I let my eyes soak it in. Everything was bursting with flowers! We passed the funky and cool-looking Phoenix General Store, driving on a small lane filled with houses, all looked to be eco-friendly and each one was unique. And when we reached the B and B, Lini offered to take me for a tour. “I've got nothing else to do,” she said with a smile. “I'd like to take a walk anyway.” As we strolled side by side, Lini pointed out the Findhorn meeting center, dubbed Universal Hall, with its tall, wooden doors carved with huge faerylike wings, the organic café, various meditation rooms and sanctuaries, and the barrel houses—little hobbit-looking houses at the edge of the woods, made from recycled whiskey barrels. Everything in Findhorn was sustainable. At last, we stopped for a moment, looking around. “This place was nothing but gorse and sand.” Lini shook her head as we looked out over the gardens. “Forty years ago this place was begun by a partnership with the nature devas. Of course, as time goes on, a community is going to grow and evolve. Stretch away from its roots. But you don't have to dig very deep to find that all of that is
still here
, under the skin of things.”

She was right. Everything was done with thought, intention, and care. And the last stop on our tour was my favorite—the Boutique. A small shack with neatly ordered racks and shelves, the Boutique was Findhorn's free store. People brought the items they no longer wanted—clothes, books, jewelry—and could take what they liked. After traveling all summer, it was like paradise. I left a sundress and picked out a beautiful skirt, handmade in Guatemala.

Back in my room, I saw that Lini had set up a table by the window for me to write. Stacked on it were no less than ten books she thought might be helpful in my search for the Findhorn faeries. I didn't have the heart to tell her there was no way I could get through all of them; I was only staying for two days.

So I decided to stay for four.

It was a good thing I did, too, because the day after I had been planning on leaving, there was a talk and group meditation scheduled on trolls and gnomes. I hadn't really given much thought to either trolls or gnomes since the Alux in Mexico—the former were scary, the latter wore pointed hats and lived in trees—but now I would get the chance. I spent the day walking the grounds, observing, and exploring all the way out to the Moray Firth, where a path through the sand led to the beach. The dunes were a fragile area and protected, so aside from the walking paths they were entirely wild. I walked along the beach as far as I could go. On the way back, as I reflected on the lack of faery presence in recent days, I gazed across the landscape. Gorse and prickly bushes grew in almost anything, here, in sand. But there were some pretty areas, too—pines and grassy slopes at the back of the dunes, between the Findhorn property and the beach. I was just about to head back onto the main path when I got a very distinct feeling. More of an order, really. And it was a voice in my head, though hard to explain, I had grown familiar with.

Go over there
.

A voice or an impulse—I couldn't really tell. But it was the same impulse that I had been listening to all summer.

Go over there!
it insisted. I followed my directions over to a small, circular clearing, inaccessible from the pathway due to a thick hedge of prickly gorse and shrubs that encircled a ring of grass. Feeling silly, I stood there, looking into the hedges.

Okay. Now what?
I thought, somewhat sarcastically.

Say hello
.

Say hello? Say hello to who?
This was crazy. This was what happened when I indulged my imagination. I started giving myself directions to do stupid things out of complete boredom, it must be.

Say hello. Introduce yourself
.

Okay. Know what? Fine. I'll do it. Because I am just
that
crazy. I am just a crazy faery lady in the middle of Scotland, and who cares anyway?

Hello
, I said in my head,
I'm Signe. I'm here because I'm researching a book on faeries. Any experiences that I'm granted I would love to be able to share with my readers. And my friends. And my future husband. And my family. All of whom are beginning to think I am certifiably insane.

It was somewhat heartfelt, somewhat sarcastic, but I thought it anyway, with a smile. Never hurts to be polite when having imaginary conversations. I stood there hopefully, waiting for a few long moments. At times, I thought I saw the bushes move, but it could've been a bird. I was, after all, only a few hundred yards from the ocean. Shrugging my shoulders, I headed back to my room and my cozy stack of reading.

 

That afternoon the sun was out and it drizzled, creating the most decadent rainbow I'd ever seen. It arched across the park, and people came out from their houses to gaze up at it and say good evening. The people of Findhorn were certainly magical. But were there faeries here? Lini and I'd been spending quite a bit of time together, so I was thrilled when she grabbed an umbrella and walked the puddled path with me to the trolls and gnomes extravaganza.The session that evening was held by a Swedish woman named Marie Soderberg, with the assistance of a man named John Wragg. We made ourselves comfortable and looked around to see it was only a small group of us who'd gathered that night.

“Good evening, everybody,” Marie began. “I was walking in the woods of Sweden when I began to have . . . weird experiences. I'd always been interested in esoteric subjects, and growing up in Sweden, gnomes and trolls were actually a big part of our culture. But I'd never truly given them much thought. Until one day, as I was sitting quietly in the woods, I felt energies approaching me. And as I ‘tuned in' to them, I realized—these were gnomes!”

I waited, as images of gnomes carved in wood flashed on the projector behind her. “They told me that I was supposed to help them. That I'd been chosen to travel around and be . . . well, like the gnomes' spokeslady, really. And they told me something else. That they actually work in partnership with the trolls.”

According to Marie, every house or property had a gnome that looked after it—and if they were lucky, it looked after the human inhabitants as well. They knew what was going on with each plant, each tree, they oversaw everything that flourished on the property. They worked in concert with the nature devas of each plant to ensure that all the flora were growing as designed by the divine spirit that is life. The trolls, Marie explained, were in charge of harnessing and directing the energy. And thus, the two worked hand in hand. Trolls containing and amplifying energy, the gnomes focusing it to achieve the ultimate goal: natural perfection.

The idea of little dudes with pointed hats and gray beards, for me, felt inauthentic. But Marie reminded us that when we “see” the faery kingdom, they're at a disadvantage—they must use our thought forms to communicate with us. So they appear in archetypes, how we want to see them, or perhaps the only way we
can
understand what we were seeing. Since Brian Froud had mentioned this to me, I'd read further that faeries often grow fond of the image they project, and they might stick with the same one for many years—brown hair, green eyes, blue clothing, whatever—perfecting it over their lifetimes, which were rumored to span centuries compared to ours. Human beings, apparently, are just a flash in the pan.

I tuned back in to Marie, who was talking about a man who'd visited the previous week and given a tour of various faery sites around the park, such as he saw them. Two in particular. And both of them were located in the dunes.

Now she had my attention.

“On the tour, we were led to this spot,” she said, clicking a slide projector to a photograph of a clearing with bushes surrounding it.

“He called this place the Amphitheater. Our guide said that this was like . . . oh, how can I explain it . . . like the faeries' parliament. Faery creatures of all types come here to discuss issues, or just to generally convene.” I squinted at the photo.

Could that be?
No way.

“If you'd like to go there and check it out, here's where it is on a map that John and I put together.” She clicked to a hand-marked drawing. “They're actually two of them. One here, and one here. The faeries use them both.” It was exactly where I'd been. This couldn't be real! I shook my head in disbelief.

“Maybe the next time you guys are out walking, you can stop by and say hello!” she suggested cheerfully.

Just say hello
.
Introduce yourself
. I sat in stunned silence. I couldn't be making this stuff up—I'm not freaking . . . psychic! Maybe I really had been standing in front of a parliament of faery creatures. In retrospect, it might've been wise to be less sarcastic. There was a definite pattern that had emerged on my journey. If I was open, and I listened, I'd be given something—a clue, an instruction. If I chose to act on it, there
was
a verification. I was still reeling when Marie requested we get comfortable to prepare for our guided meditation. I closed my eyes, slowed my breathing, and focused on her voice.

“Imagine yourself in a home. It doesn't have to be the home you live in now, just a place you love or have really loved.”

The image of our house in Charleston was a cozy one—I'd go with that.

“Now step through the door. Imagine it is winter, and there is a fire crackling in the hearth. There is a spirit that guards and protects every home, and
you
. Pick a place you are most comfortable and sit down there. See if he or she will come to you.”

I imagined myself walking past the kitchen toward the sunroom. And in that moment, I was surprised to see a little gray-haired gnome, about three feet high, with a pointed green hat, walk in from the patio. He didn't notice me, just plodded through, with a little bit of a waddle. He was instantly endearing: old, rather innocent-looking, and sweet. I somehow understood without thinking about it that he knew I was there, but he wasn't acknowledging me because
he
was used to not being acknowledged, and it made me so sad. Sensing my gaze, he turned to look at me, and his face grew . . . wise. Hoping to communicate with him, I moved outside and sat cross-legged on the patio where he plopped down across from me. “Now you can ask him anything you want,” Marie suggested.

I considered him a moment.

Are you happy that Eric and I live here now?
I asked.

He smiled. I didn't hear him speak; instead, I saw scenes flash in my head. Eric and I viewing the house when it was for sale. The backyard with the majestic red pine and the sweet little shed with the black shutters. I saw Eric working in the shed with lawn equipment and me on my hands and knees, gardening. We were happy, smiling. I got the feeling that he had somehow
brought
us there, that he would hold us, and I saw a nest. I understood. He wanted to always make this a good nest for us. Then I felt a surge of love coming from him, and it was for me and Eric. He loved us. It was very fatherly. Like he was proud of us.

“Now, ask him if there's anything that he would like for you to do,” Marie instructed. Immediately, before even formally asking, I saw our neighbors' houses, the bits and pieces that we can see from our yard, covered by a fast-growing plant.
I get it
, I thought.
You'd like us to plant more green things, plant more trees.
Then he showed me the shed. And I got the sense that the shed was important to him, and that we should keep it nice, organized, orderly, and give it a use. Right now, it housed empty, ,rusted paint cans and expired fertilizers. It was weird how I felt these things to be true, what he was communicating. It was utterly vivid.

“Now it's time to thank your gnome and say goodbye for now. If you'd like, you can establish a time to meet with him or her again, in an actual place, or through meditation.”

I'll see you when I get back to the house
, I thought.
I'm so excited to know that you're there.
I sent him warmth, gratitude. He showed me an image of Eric sitting on the couch watching TV, with the cat asleep on the arm of the couch beside him. The gnome was standing there, looking at them, guarding them. It was surprisingly moving.

“Next,” Marie's voice came, “we're going to meet some trolls!” I jerked partway out of my meditative trance. No way did I want to meet a troll. But I tried to calm myself. I'd had such a good time using my imagination to meet our friendly house gnome. Maybe I should just relax and give this a shot.

“You find yourself out in the woods,” Marie intoned. “They can be woods that you are familiar with, or just a really beautiful grove of trees.” I pictured myself walking through Palmetto Islands County Park near our house, surrounded by tall palmettos and southern brush.

“Find a small clearing,” Marie said, “and sit down on the ground or on the trunk of a tree.”

Ha! Fat chance in Charleston. Unless you're fond of getting swarmed by fire ants. But luckily this was meditation, so I sat, suspending my disbelief. “Now you may become aware of a troll energy.” I became aware of a small creature, about a foot and a half tall, who resembled a darker, long-haired orangutan. It was peeking at me from behind a nearby tree. It was so sweet-looking and shy, and it seemed so lonely, I couldn't help but feel a wave of sympathy. It came close to me then, and I wasn't afraid. It sat down next to me, and the next thing I knew, it had leaned its little head against me. It looked up at me with tender little eyes, and then surprised me by reaching out to hold my hand.