12th November
There are now two Hrafnsviks in my mind: the one that existed before Wendell’s injury, and the one in which we found ourselves afterwards.
We have entertained a steady trickle of visitors over the past few days, so many that I have had little time for either journaling or venturing up to Poe’s spring for a visit. They come with offers of food and assistance, but also with stories of the Hidden Ones.
“I suppose it is because Aud pities us now,” I said. “They all do. We have proven ourselves inept at the basics of existence in this place.”
“Oh, Em,” Wendell said. “It has nothing to do with pity. Aud has forgiven you because you let her help you.”
“She helped you,” I pointed out, but he shook his head as if I were being
obtuse.
“Why did you offend her initially?”
“Because I did not ask her permission to interview the villagers.”
Again he shook his head. “That was part of it, perhaps, but also you refused to allow her to treat you as a guest. If you do not admit kindness from others, you cannot be surprised when they fail to offer any.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with your arm,” I muttered, more to end the conversation than anything. To my surprise, he did not persist in arguing the point, merely gave a breath of laughter and went to fix tea.
Within the span of a single day, I learned more of the ways of the Ljosland Folk than I gleaned during the entirety of my research heretofore.
In the space of two weeks, I may have gathered enough material for not only a chapter, but an entire book.
To summarize broadly: the interactions of mortal Ljoslanders with the common fae follow established patterns seen on the continent. Offerings are left for them, most often in the form of food; those with wealth and status are expected to leave trinkets, with mirrors and singing boxes being especially favoured. Mortals will sometimes enter into bargains with the common fae—like my bargain with Poe—but this is seen as dangerous given their unpredictability, and a road taken only by the desperate or foolhardy. None of the common fae of Ljosland dwell within households; that is the key difference.
As for the courtly fae, they are wholly unique.
They are, above all else, elusive. Few mortals have laid eyes on them— of the villagers of Hrafnsvik, Thora alone makes that claim, and she only spied them once from a distance a very long time ago, whilst playing with her schoolfellows in the woods. Their courts move with the snows, and they dwell for much of the year in the mountainous north and interior of the country, where winter never rests. They love music and hold elaborate balls in the wilderness, particularly upon frozen lakes, and if you hear their song drifting on the icy wind, you must stop your ears or burst into song yourself, or be drowned by it and swept insensible into their realm. For they are also hungry.
They have a particular fondness for youth in love. Those who are drawn into their dances are invariably found wandering alone the next day, alive but hollow. It was not always so; it is said that the courtly fae of Ljosland were once a peaceable people, if somewhat standoffish with mortals. No one is certain when the change occurred, but this behaviour has persisted for many generations.
Auður is the only living victim of the courtly fae in Hrafnsvik. But another boy was taken last winter, two girls the winter before that, and three years ago, a child of fifteen. Victims of these Folk are continually drawn to the winter wilderness after their abduction, and will wander into the night in their shifts or shirtsleeves when their guardians are distracted, to be found frozen a little distance from town. The “tall ones,” it seems, have no interest in taking them back.
It seems clear these creatures are increasingly drawn to Hrafnsvik, though it is unclear why. Until recently, the village had not lost anyone to their bizarre vampirism in more than twenty winters. Their stories reflect this; it is said in many villages in the south and west of Ljosland that the “tall ones” take from every generation one youth (naturally this youth is said to be of surpassing beauty and/or talent, particularly musical talent, a feature that will not surprise scholars even superficially versed in folklore).
Yet here in Hrafnsvik, five have been taken in the last four years.
I mentioned stories, and I will turn to those now. Most, unsurprisingly, concern encounters with the common fae. I have thus far recorded a round dozen, some fragmentary (perhaps part of a larger saga?) and others filling multiple pages. I will summarize here those that I find most intriguing— later I will choose one of them for my encyclopaedia.
The Woodcutter and His Cat
(NB: I have been informed that this is the oldest folktale of Hrafnsvik origin, though one villager argues that it drifted here from Bjarðorp, a village ten miles to the east. The story follows a familiar pattern in folklore: faeries often aid mortals in roundabout ways, and their generosity is instantly turned to vengefulness if their gifts are unappreciated.) A woodcutter dwelt at the edge of the forest in a tiny hut that was all he could afford, and he could barely hold body and soul together. In his youth, after a night of drinking, he became lost and wandered into the mountains.
He lost his right hand to frostbite and was terribly disfigured.
The woodcutter struggled in his work, naturally, and was sometimes forced to borrow money from his brother, who never missed a chance to rail against his foolishness, though the brother was a rich man whose larder was always full.
Near the woodcutter’s house, along a path that was sometimes there and sometimes not, was a faerie tree. Its leaves were red and gold no matter the
season, and abundant even in winter, and it was huge and hoary, with knots like windows for the Folk to peep through. Though lovely, it was an off- putting thing, for the sun never touched it, and its boughs were cold and clammy, the ground sodden with dew.
The village priest often visited the woodcutter to complain about the tree. This was in the days when the Church tried to stand against the Folk and sent dozens of poor priests on doomed missions to kill or convert them.
But the woodcutter was too fearful of the Folk to cut it down, and the priest went away disappointed.
One winter’s eve, after a particularly frustrating argument with the priest, the woodcutter decided that he might as well see if the faeries would help him—if not, he would consider cutting down their tree, just to silence the tedious priest.
The woodcutter travelled along the path that was sometimes there and sometimes not. The faerie tree was all aglow in the darkness, its golden light spilling over the snow like coins, and the woodcutter heard the distant sound of bells and the clink of cutlery. He knelt and asked for the faeries to give him a new hand. He waited for a long time, but there was no reply; the music played on, and the Folk attended to their dinner. The woodcutter went away disappointed.
In the morning, he woke to find a white cat seated at the foot of his bed.
The cat was beautiful, with strange blue eyes, but it would not let the woodcutter touch it. The woodcutter knew that it was a present from the Folk, and while he was disappointed they had not given him the hand he had asked for, he knew that it was dangerous to scorn a faerie present.
As the days wore on, though, the woodcutter grew less patient with the cat. It followed him everywhere, even into the woods, watching him all the while with its unnatural eyes, and it ate all the woodcutter’s food. One night, it gobbled down the lovely ham his brother had given him, leaving only the bone. The woodcutter grew so frustrated that he threw rocks at the cat and chased it into the forest. The next morning, he woke to find it perched at the end of his bed, watching him. The woodcutter’s brother laughed at his predicament, and the priest lectured him even more for
keeping such an unnatural beast around, and altogether the cat brought the woodcutter nothing but woe.
The woodcutter’s mother died after a long illness and left him a little money. Shortly after, the woodcutter’s childhood sweetheart, whom he loved despite her vanity and selfish ways, decided she was no longer disgusted by his scars or one-handedness and agreed to marry him. She and the cat did not get along. It was always hissing and scratching her, and if she left any knitting around, it undid every stitch. Eventually, the cat drove the woman mad, and she ran back to her own village, where she hid at her parents’ home and refused to speak to her husband.
The woodcutter was so enraged that he picked up his rifle and chased the cat into the forest, where he shot it. The next morning, though, he awoke to find the cat at the foot of his bed, watching him.
The woodcutter realized that something drastic had to be done. He took his axe and went into the woods, pretending to go about his usual business.
The cat followed him, as it always did, purring. Once the woodcutter had reached a quiet spot, he split the cat in two with his axe.
The next morning, there was no cat watching him from the foot of the bed. Feeling pleased with himself, the woodcutter took up his axe and travelled along the path that was sometimes there and sometimes not. He planned to destroy the faerie tree, just as the Folk had destroyed his happiness. But no sooner had his first stroke resounded through the woods than he heard music in the distance. It was not the song of the simple Folk who dwelt in the tree, but the music of the tall ones, and they were calling him. Terrified, the woodcutter tried to stop his ears, and then he grabbed hold of the tree like a drowning man, even as his feet started to move towards the song.
At that moment, the white cat stepped out of the shadow of the tree. The cat told him that it had protected him all along. When the woodcutter’s brother, tired of charity, had poisoned his food, the cat had eaten it. When the woodcutter’s wife had taken the woodcutter’s money in secret and gambled it away, the cat had chased her out of the house. And every time the woodcutter had gone into the woods, the cat had protected him from the
tall ones, muffling their song with its purring. But now the cat was dead, and it could no longer protect him.
The woodcutter was never heard from again. Though the faerie tree still stands, the path that is sometimes there and sometimes not has closed to mortals, and it may never be found again.
The Tree’s Bones
A successful whaler lived alone at the edge of a bay. Much of his success [*] came from his fjolskylda,who had sworn to protect him from the tall ones and other wicked faeries in exchange for habitation of his house during the new moon. The whaler found this an advantageous bargain, for he needed to travel to town once a month anyway to sell his catch.
The whaler’s path into town ran through a forest inhabited by a great many Folk, who never gave him a lick of trouble. One day, though, as he neared the halfway point of his journey, he came upon a strange white wolf, larger than any he had ever seen, standing in his path. The wolf gave a howl, and more wolves appeared, each one larger than the last. Terrified, the whaler mounted his horse and fled back home. He was so afraid that he forgot all about his bargain with his fjolskylda and ran inside just as they were sitting down to dinner at his table. Instantly, the faeries vanished.
From the shadows, a voice scolded him: “Never again will we dine here, and never again will you have our protection. You need not have run from the wolves, and thus you have betrayed us twice over—in distrusting our promise to you, and interrupting a fine banquet.”
The whaler cursed his mistake. He delayed his next visit into town, and delayed it again, until he had to choose between taking the forest path and starvation. So, he set off along the path, full of weariness and worry, and sure enough, as he neared the halfway point, he met the white wolves again.
This time, they chased him into the forest along a faerie path until they
came to a huge tree. Its bark was as white as the wolves, and it was fat with blossoms and green leaves, though it was then nearing the start of winter.
The whaler gave a cry. Hanging from the branches was a gruesome assembly of corpses—the skeletons of other travellers, as well as animals and birds. The wolves threw off their wolf skins, revealing themselves as Folk, and commanded the whaler to bring them the bones of his next catch.
The whaler went away weeping. He knew that the faeries must have some terrible reason for what they were doing, but without his fjolskylda, he was powerless to deny them.
The next month, he brought them the bones of three whales. The faeries strung them up in the tree beside the other bones. The whaler noticed that the faeries hung the bones on one side of the tree only. When the whale bones had been hung, the tree gave a tremendous groan and leaned a little to the north. The faeries ordered the whaler to bring them the bones of his next catch.
The next month, the whaler brought the faeries the bones of four whales.
These they hung from the tree, and when they did, the tree gave another groan, and leaned farther to the north. The whaler grew afraid. He realized that this tree must be the gaol of the faerie king, who had gone mad many years ago and been locked away by his subjects. The faeries ordered the whaler to bring them the bones of his next catch.
The whaler begged his fjolskylda for help, but none would heed him— none except the most elderly among them, a faerie woman whose head came up only to the whaler’s belt, who had grizzled hair so long it trailed behind her and gathered all manner of leaves and mud. The faerie promised to help him only if he agreed to marry her. The whaler shuddered in disgust, but he gave his word nevertheless, for he feared the mad faerie king above all else, and knew there would be great woe throughout Ljosland if he were allowed to escape.
The faerie took the whaler to her family graveyard, where they dug up the bones of the dead. Then they snuck through the forest to the white tree and buried the bones under the boughs. The next month, the whaler brought the faeries the bones of seven whales. As before, they hung them from the
white tree, but this time, the tree gave no groan, nor did it move. Furious, the faeries ordered the whaler to bring them the bones of his next catch, as well as the bones of the whaler’s horse.
The next month, the whaler brought them the bones of ten whales, as well as the bones of one of the faerie horses buried in the graveyard. The faeries hung them from the tree, but again, the tree neither moved nor spoke. The faeries turned on the whaler, convinced that trickery was afoot, but before they could reach him, the bones of the dead horse gave a whinny.
The skeletal hands of the dead faeries rose up out of the dirt and strangled the servants of the wicked king. They had been holding on to the roots of the white tree, preventing it from falling over and releasing the king from his prison. The whaler, much relieved, hung the dead bodies of the king’s servants from the south side of the tree.
The whaler married his faerie bride, and though she remained as shrivelled and unlovely as ever, the whaler never broke his vow to his wife, and she rewarded him with three strong children who drew whales out of the deeps with their beautiful singing. And the whaler died an old, rich man, quite content.
The Ivory Tree
(NB: I include this particular story in part because it falls outside the usual patterns. I hypothesize that it has either been purposely truncated or is so new that it has not yet been worn and smoothed into a more pleasing shape.) There was once a young girl of such surpassing beauty that all her neighbours whispered she had faerie ancestry. Her golden hair turned white when the winter sun touched it, and she sang so sweetly that even the wind upon the mountaintops quieted its howls to listen. Her mother had been just as lovely, and when she died in childbirth, the midwife swore that half her
body had simply melted away, leaving only the skeleton behind. And so she must have been half fae through her father, for his identity was unknown.
The girl wished to marry a carpenter, a handsome young man much respected in the village, but he was afraid of her. The young man was also afraid of offending her, given her faerie ancestry, and so he gave her an excuse, saying that his wife must have a sizeable dowry. He knew that the girl, an orphan dependent on her uncle’s charity, was penniless.
The girl was a friend to all the simple Folk, and often ran with them in the woods, particularly after fresh snow had fallen, for her feet left no prints in fresh snow, only that which had breathed the air of the mortal world. One day, she came across a faerie she had never seen before. He had no body, only two black eyes and a swirl of frost where his cloak should have been.
The other Folk warned her not to speak to him, but the girl did not heed them. The bodiless faerie led her deep into the woods, where they came upon a beautiful white tree with bark smooth as bone. The faerie told her that such a dowry would greatly please her beloved, who could surely hew wondrous treasures from bole and bough alike.
The girl hesitated, for she knew it was a great crime to cut down a faerie tree—which surely the white tree was—but she was too in love to resist.
She took up an axe and began to chop. But before her third stroke fell, a great wind went up, and the tree’s leaves dropped upon her. The moment they touched her, she went mad. She returned home, donned her uncle’s sealskin cloak, and packed a bag as if for a journey into the mountains. The carpenter, a vain young man who enjoyed revelling in the affection of one so beautiful as she, though he had no intention of marrying her, came to pay a visit and caught her in the act of fleeing. He tried to stop her, but she killed him with a touch that froze his heart.
When the townsfolk found the carpenter’s body, they pursued the girl with dogs and horses and sleighs. They found her eventually, still marching doggedly into the wilderness, her eyes alight with madness, and shot her dead.
—
Now, I have paired these last two stories because it is a common belief in Hrafnsvik that the white tree that drove the girl mad is the same tree from the tale of the whaler, which held a faerie king. What’s more, some of the older villagers are convinced the tree can be found in the Karrðarskogur. Thora swears she stumbled across it once, in her youthful trapping days, and has offered to provide directions.
When I informed Bambleby of my intention to search for the tree, as I desperately wish to photograph it for my encyclopaedia, he was full of arguments. Naturally, he assumed I would drag him along, which was indeed my intention, as nothing could amuse me more than watching Bambleby slog through miles of snow with nary a nap in sight, though I had little interest in arguing with him about it. I left him to his blustering in the cottage, where he was supposed to be drafting our abstract but kept wandering off to make tea or stand by the window and expostulate about the cold. I grow increasingly convinced that he obtained his doctorate by means of faerie enchantment, so difficult is it to imagine him applying himself to anything resembling work.
SKIP NOTES * A charming Ljosland term that can be loosely translated as “family,” used to describe a bond formed between mortals and brownies. Brownies in Ljosland, as in other countries, sometimes attach themselves to one household, and exclusively provide magical services to its inhabitants.
Often they dwell in a rock feature somewhere on the property. The bond seems to be generational, though further research is needed to determine whether this is a variable thing, as it often is on the continent (cf. Northern Italy, where the brownies choose a favoured mortal with whom to bond, but often abandon any offspring upon his/her death).
