If I Could Hold Anything in my Hand, it Would be a Real Faerie

These magical creatures have been my passport to another world–an enchanted land that watched me and waited. This promise lingered in my dreams, forever tattooed on the skin of my life. Meanwhile, the faerie folk mopped my tears.

The faeries coated my days in a honey-coloured veil, like the evening sunlight that streams through slatted blinds. That same light filters through trees like angel hair, and splays out over a forest floor before sundown. When that light shone brightest, they were the most visible: the faerie folk. I only had to squint, and their dancing would thrill me as I watched with both longing and fulfilment. I pondered on what it meant to be home.

These gentle beings dwelt behind mini arched doors, in tree hollows, weaving time, weaving existence in their tiny cosy living rooms, supping warmed dew drops from acorn cups. I would whisper quieter than a thought, “It’s OK, I won’t tell them. Your secret is safe with me”.

“Stop mooning”, my teachers would admonish me in the classroom; but faeries don’t like fractions or algebra. Why didn’t anyone understand? How could they know I was an imposter in their world? They would never experience the promise of magic, the frisson of a secret world. Their gaze would never fall upon the crackling fire in the corner, lighting up the cobwebbed veins in a faery’s wing. They would miss the cheeky glint in the elf's eye as he chased his brothers. Oh no, they would be blind to the elderly, but kindly, tree spirit sitting on a couch of moss, weaving mini baskets from fallen leaf stems.

The earthy aroma of roasted hazels and sweet scent of rosehip syrup would not reach the nostrils of mere mortals. For this was not their world. This world opens only to the open, beguiling those who look between breaths and raindrops, and beneath the facade of reality, to where Gaia’s truth unfolds. You know that place between awake and asleep, or when your eyes are wide but you are not present–at least not in this world?

I had simply lost my way; until I found it again.

One charged summer evening I played outside, while indoors the radio had been turned up. The top of the whiskey bottle sat discarded on the day’s tabloid–or perhaps yesterday’s. A faded picture of another world hung on the wall above the table; a matador’s eyes appeared to survey the scene in the room, rather than watch for the bull, lowering its head, nostrils flaring, about to charge. A bank statement lay open, and the odour of nail varnish lingered, thick in the heavy heat of the afternoon; my mother flapped her hands like a chick attempting its first flight. Yet again, I heard raised voices from inside–white noise.

Best to keep away, I thought, then busied myself with an activity that would attract the least attention and render me invisible. Bending over the vegetable patch, I began to weed; an innocuous activity, unlikely to provoke trouble. Forget-me-nots had grown amongst the neatly planted vegetables, and I feared they had to go. They were weeds, or so I’d been told.

How could I convince them that these delicate blue flowers clothed my faerie family, or that they grew for me?

“Forget-me-not.” I heard the crescendo in their haunting song as I gathered a clump in my hand and froze. I couldn’t do it; I couldn’t pull them out. Then I saw a shaft of light cutting through the invisible wall that separated our worlds, rays of alchemy from a powerful wand. An irresistible force pulled me to my feet and, looking up, I saw them! Faeries sliding down the rays, their laughter tinkling in my ears and their anticipation now unmistakable. They were waiting for me.

As I made to follow, I found it was easy to fly. My pumps lifted off the ground and, weightless, I floated up and rode the summer breeze. The faeries gripped my hands and up we flew, the familiarity of their kisses surrounding me. Their world was also mine; it was like my old world, but devoid of all unease and separation where I wanted to shrink. Here I was, me, immersed, tending to leaves, petals, butterflies, and bathing in nectar. I slept in a tree-hollow lined with moss, and every morning I inhaled the earthy scent of fungi and the fresh aroma of green, just green.

I made beautiful things from fallen foliage and forest gifts: leaf-stem mats, sumptuous beds from pieces of abandoned fur left behind by woodland creatures scurrying too hastily, dresses made from petals, and I mended wings with spider silk and leaf vein. This was the world of enchantment, where faery folk dwelled and made nature happen.

I would love to explain what coming home feels like, what it is to experience simultaneously, exhilaration and rest, peace; a life designed for someone like me. If only I could explain what I always knew; home is that place where you are never afraid to dance naked.

“Happy 21st my dear”, a voice from a forgotten place tried and failed to intrude.

“I think she can hear you, but she hasn’t spoken a word since she was nine,” my mother explained to the new neighbour.

“Really?” the neighbour’s question was probing.

“Yes”, my father said, “she’s away with the faeries.”