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Between Worlds

They say it is neither safe nor wise to dwell near Faerie.

I say things are never that simple.

There is an invisible line between one world and the next, and my family lives on the sliver between them.

Mother would say one can live in a fortress and still be unsafe if it is not where one is meant to be.

She has strong notions of things being meant or not meant to be.

She speaks as though life were a kind of assignment, written in mysterious words rather than plain speech, like the pages in the book she studies, kept on the highest shelf of our cottage.

It is the only one my sister and I are not allowed to read. We call it The Book .

I often pondered such things as I sat in my treetop den, a large shelter of silver-willow sticks woven between the curving branches of the ancient guardian tree.

My sister and I called it our palace, and spent hours playing in it as children.

She was always the princess, and I, being younger, was either her long-suffering lady’s maid or the prince.

I sometimes “spoiled the game,” when the prince refused to dance at the ball and ran off to slay dragons instead. If my sister was being particularly bossy I would be the dragon and burn up the ballroom altogether.

I came alone when we outgrew those games, and my sister said that climbing trees was only for children and hoydens.

From my den I looked down on the thatched roof of our cottage. My sister was in the garden, looking more like a child again from this height, instead of the tall, slender maiden that she is.

Beyond our cottage, a break in the ash and oak trees reveals a stretch of the road to the nearest town, several miles away. There is no other road, for we live at the farthest edge of our kingdom. The road dwindles to a bridle track as it passes our cottage and journeys on to the border of Faerie.

It all began as any other day. There was an inkling of change in the air, but I put it down to the shifting of the seasons, as we teetered on the cusp between spring and summer.

I fed our animals, loosed the hens, milked the goats, and gave the donkey a back scratch.

Then I drew the day’s water from the spring.

We called it the Faerie Fountain as children, a small underground spring bubbling out of the ground at the edge of the woods, flowing into a gentle stream that we divert through our vegetable garden and along the roots of our rose bushes.

A larger stream runs a little way from our cottage, ending in a pool where we like to bathe in the summer.

It flows from Faerie, and sometimes I find things floating in the pool from over the border, usually only leaves and twigs or unusual fish, but sometimes more curious things, like the shed horn of a juvenile unicorn, or an elven ribbon as fine as cobweb but strong as hempen rope.

With the morning’s chores done, I climbed the guardian tree, leaning into the cradle of woven willow to close my eyes, letting the gentle sway of the branches lull me into that sweet place between waking and dreaming.

It is then that the shushes and swishes of leaves form words in my mind, like a song or poem that makes no sense when I return to the waking world, yet seems full of wisdom while I doze.

My sister could never hear the leaves or the winds talking, or the birds, but I have always heard them.

But that day I was awakened by the excitement of the squirrels and birds. I sat up to peer through the branches. It was just as my fellow creatures warned—there was a stranger coming along the road.

I took the shortcut home across the stones in the stream, hitching up my skirts to splash through the shallows for the last few steps. Up the bank I scrambled, then down the lane to our cottage.

“Here she comes! Here she comes!” squawked the jackdaw in the wild cherry tree, announcing my arrival as I unlatched the garden gate and dashed up the path, through the open door, then skittered across the floor and tumbled over a chair.

“Lily!” cried my sister, looking up from her cleaning and glaring at my wet and dirty footprints. “I have just polished that floor!”

“I know,” I gasped, picking up the chair I had knocked over. “I wish you wouldn’t wax it so thickly, it’s as slippery as ice! ”

“If you were walking like a lady instead of careering about like a—”

“There’s a stranger coming!”

“Oh.” Her cross expression vanished. “So soon? Mother said it would be another week at least. Is he alone?” She folded up her knitted duster.

“I think so. Unless others are following behind.”

“On horseback?”

“No. On foot.”

“Tansy flew over the fence again.”

“Wretched bird! I’ll have to go and find her!”

“Wait!” said my sister, leaning out the open window to reach a white rose clambering around the frame. Taking out her pocket scissors, she deftly cut the stem and stripped off the thorns.

“I should get more,” she murmured, pushing the stem through my tangled locks. “Stay still. Let me weave it in, or it will fall out.”

“It’s only one man on foot,” I argued, impatient to run and find Tansy before the stranger did. A stray chicken made an attractive supper to a hungry traveller.

“Hurry back,” my sister called after me. “Don’t let him see you!”

She could not see my grin as I dashed away.

It was sport to me to evade strangers. I had years of practice in dodging mischievous, and sometimes dangerous, folk from over the border, so a mere mortal man would be easy to avoid.

But I felt better with one of my roses in my hair.

It was my protective helmet, like the ones the ill-fated knights wore when they passed by each summer.

Besides, I thought as I ran nimbly through the trees, searching all of Tansy’s favourite spots, an adventurer who arrives a week early is not very clever .

“There you are, foolish girl,” I scolded when I eventually spied my coppery hen roosting under a bush.

“Come on. Out you come.” She blinked at me with her yellow eyes and did not move.

“What do you think you’re hatching now?” I grumbled, forced to scrabble on my knees as I strained to reach her.

“I shall leave you here. And if you end up on a spit, it will not be my fault.”

“Can I help you?” said a voice.

I bolted out from under the bush, jumping to my feet, pushing back the tangled strands of my hair to stare at the stranger. I instinctively reached for my head, even as my gaze fell upon the white rose lying on the ground, pulled loose by my scrambling through the undergrowth.

“Is there someone under there?” the stranger asked, stepping forward.

I took a step back, ready to run. I had sized him up in a glance. He was young, more a youth than a man, at least a year or two younger than me. With that heavy-looking pack on his back, he would never outrun me.

“ ’Tis a chicken,” he said, crouching down.

This was my chance to go. But I didn’t.

There was something friendly in his voice, and something open in his expression. But I kept my distance. People were not always what they seemed.

He remained crouched, squinting at me through a shaft of golden light falling through the trees. He lifted a tanned hand with ragged nails to shield his eyes, scanning me with evident curiosity, his gaze lingering on my unruly silver-white hair and my homespun gown.

“Are you a faerie?” he asked.

Faeries never answer questions directly. I could not resist dropping my voice into something lower and colder than it truly was, something I thought sounded a little dangerous.

“Who is it that asks?”

He stood, letting his pack slide from his back. I stepped back. My eyes flicked to the fallen rose just out of reach.

I half-turned to flee, but he forestalled me by making a jerky bow and saying, “Beg pardon for startling you, my lady. I am Jack, son of Jago.”

Before he straightened, he spotted my rose near his foot and picked it up.

“It is not a wise man, Jack, son of Jago, who gives his name to the fae,” I informed him.

He winced. “Blast. The first faerie I meet, and I forget all I was told.”

He dropped to his knees, holding up my rose like a knight with a token. “Shall I be bound to your will forevermore?”

I suppressed a smile. “Perhaps.” I studied him. “Why do you wish to be led into Faerie?”

“Didn’t say I did.”

“You lack wisdom, Jack, son of Jago.”

He sighed. “You wouldn’t be the first to say so. But do we go?”

“You are one of those fortune-hunters trying to find the lost treasure.” He did not deny it. “Why?” I demanded.

He blinked. “Why not? Who wouldn’t wish to find the lost treasure? The king has increased the reward.”

“Delightful,” I said dryly. “So there will be more of you than ever.”

“More of me? I journeyed alone.”

He glanced over his shoulder.

I caught the glance, yet I knew he had come alone, for I had seen him on the road, and there had been no travellers following behind.

“It is not merely unwise to try and deceive a faerie, Jack, son of Jago,” I said darkly. “It is absolute folly . Who follows after you?”

“No one,” he said quickly. Then, hesitating, “At least… I lost him a se’nnight ago. My brother. He’s on his way, but I outwitted him.” He looked troubled. “Left in the middle of the night. Took all the supplies. And his boots.”

“His boots?”

“Couldn’t follow me without boots. And couldn’t buy new boots without money.”

“You are a thief.”

“Thief? Nay, do not say so! Not a thief, only a… strategist! I outwitted him! He said I’d never do it.

Said I’m a mooncalf, a tomfool, a nitwit, a jackass.

Got so mortal fed up of names I left him behind.

Going to beat him to the treasure.” He sighed.

“I will share it with him. But I shan’t be a nitwit then. ”

“And how,” I said, “did you think you were going to get into Faerie, Master Strategist?”

“Across the border, like everyone else.”

“And where is this border?”

“I’ve only just arrived,” he admitted. “Was looking for it when I saw you, my lady.”

“And how will you know when you’ve found it?”

“I suppose ’tis one of those things you know when you see it.” He shrugged. “Others find it. Why not me?”

I studied him again. I knew enough to perceive that this youth was truly mortal.

Had he been fae, there would have been telltale signs: the slight shimmer of a glamour would have shown itself by now, and his voice would have carried that subtle, unsettling discord of someone speaking under enchantment.

And no fae would ever call themselves a mooncalf or jackass, for, above all things, the fae are proud.

No, Jack, son of Jago, was exactly what he seemed—a young and green adventurer, with more hair than sense.

But it was still not wise for me to engage with him. I must leave him to his folly.

“I release you, Jack, son of Jago,” I said, plucking my rose from his fingers. “But you shall not find the entrance to Faerie these seven days at least, for it only opens on the first day of summer, and you are too early.”

“A week?” he said, dismayed. “Then I hastened ahead of my brother in vain?”

I almost laughed at his expression.

“And you will not take me with you?”

“Few return from Faerie. Why should such a fate be yours?”

“The treasure will be found one day,” he replied stubbornly. “For the king’s wiseman says so.”

I waved a dismissive hand. “The king’s wiseman says so because the king lives in hope that his family’s rule shall not end. What does the king care if a youth like you sacrifices your life for his lost crown?”

Jack looked indignant. “What can a faerie know of my king and my kingdom?”

“You would not risk all if there were not a vast personal reward offered.”

He did not deny this. But I could see my words had no power to dissuade him.

“I leave you with a parting word of advice.”

“Yes, my lady?” He looked hopeful.

“Do not sleep in the woods. There are trees in Faerie whose roots and branches reach into this realm. They can be malicious to sleeping mortals.”

Jack swallowed.

“Eat nothing foraged from these woods. Keep to the meadowland. And do not give your name to anyone.” Lowering my voice, I added, “And if you come across a cottage with roses around it, stay well away .”

“Why? I passed such a cottage. Looked mortal pretty.”

“Looks are deceiving. It belongs to a powerful sorceress. You shall suffer unspeakable curses should you draw her attention to yourself.”

“Thank you,” he said with a bow of the head. “I was told the fae were proud and rude, but you are very kind. Perhaps I might see you again while I’m here?” he added hopefully.

“You shall not see me again,” I said firmly. “But remember what I have said.”

I pointed behind him. “Look to the west!”

The gullible youth obeyed.

I was gone before he turned back.

I would have to come for Tansy later. Jack, son of Jago, did not look shrewd enough to catch a very stubborn hen.