1st January—Late #4
I turned back to the cottage, feeling as if I were in a dream.
It was winter, but this was Ireland, and one of the southernmost counties at that, so everything was still very green.
I was not cold in my cloak, though a scarf would have been nice, for the damp breeze had a chill.
My initial thought was that the countryside reminded me a great deal of Wendell’s realm, but with fewer trees and a welcome sense of the mundane about it.
Oh, it was beautiful, but the trees here were trees, not leering monstrosities, and none of the landscape features seemed inclined to change position on a whim.
It was coherent, unambiguous, and immensely restful to my eyes.
Moving slowly, I made my way up the path to the cottage.
A dry stone wall enclosed a little garden—a vegetable patch and a few clay pots of flowers, leafless and slumbering in the January evening.
A mountain range loomed in the distance, snow adorning a few of the higher peaks.
Far gentler than the towering heights of Austria, of course, but pretty in its own way.
The door was unlocked, but as I turned the knob, I had a moment of misgiving.
Someone was moving about within— Iheard a clanking sound, then a series of thumps, as if they were in the process of preparing a meal.
Had Wendell installed a fleet of servants in the place to cater to my whims?
It seemed likely, and I wondered if it would be possible to send them away; cooking my own supper would be preferable to being waited on and having to work out their expectations of me, where I would no doubt fall short.
I looked over my shoulder, and for a moment I considered simply going back.
It was not only the idea of servants; I did not like that there was now a world between Wendell and me.
It filled me with a foreboding that I did not care for, though I could not guess what it signified.
In addition to that, Wendell’s realm was still a threat to him, with enemies everywhere, and I had little faith in his sense of caution.
The faerie door glimmered faintly—with damp, a mortal would assume, but I knew better. I turned from it with a sigh. I did not want to spurn Wendell’s gift, particularly given the thoughtfulness behind it. I would remain in the mortal realm for an hour or two, then return to Faerie.
I pushed the door open. Warmth and light spilled over me, together with the smell of stew and baking bread.
The main room of the cottage was low-ceilinged and cosy, a fire burning merrily in the hearth, before which were several comfortable armchairs.
On the other side of the cottage was the kitchen, and through the open door I saw a pretty, dark-haired woman with a curious scar upon her forehead.
She was chopping carrots at the table, pausing occasionally to tuck her hair behind her ear or toss a comment over her shoulder at her companion, whom I could not see.
The cottage was full of their voices and laughter.
I removed my cloak and boots, my hands trembling slightly, and hung the cloak on the hanger by the door. Then I stepped into the kitchen.
Margret looked up from the carrots and gave a cry. Lilja, who was peering into the oven at a tray of buns, let the door swing shut with a bang.
“Emily!” she exclaimed, springing upon me with a delighted laugh. Margret circled around the two of us, alternately patting me on the back and crying, “Let her breathe, dear, let her breathe!”
I drew back, half convinced I had stumbled through yet another faerie door. “What” was all I could get out.
“Oh, dear.” Lilja guided me over to a chair. “Wendell said he wanted to surprise you—I see he went through with it.”
“Here, drink this,” Margret said, pouring me a cup of tea, then adding a liberal splash of something from a bottle. “You look like you need it!”
I took a sip. The something turned out to be rum. I downed the lot and set the cup back down.
“There we are,” Margret said with a laugh. I laughed along with her. Now that my shock was fading, I realized how happy I was to see them.
“You’d best explain yourselves,” I said. “After the day I’ve had, I’m afraid I’m ill-equipped to deal with surprises, even agreeable ones.”
“Wendell wrote to us, of course,” Lilja said.
“When was it? November, I think. He wished to know if we would like a little holiday—how did he put it? Oh, yes: ‘Where winter is a peaceable, rainy season, and one need not insulate oneself with dead animals to venture out of doors.’ You know, I don’t think he will ever take to Ljosland. ”
“He might also have mentioned that you would be visiting us from time to time,” Margret said, poking the silver-threaded lace on my gown playfully. “When you desire a reprieve from running a faerie kingdom. We arrived last week, and I believe we shall remain for another month or two.”
“We never had a proper honeymoon,” Lilja said. “We’ve simply been too busy—it’s a great deal of work, running one’s own house! So we couldn’t possibly have said no, particularly when we heard we would see you again.”
“And—” I glanced about me, taking in the shelves of neatly stacked pots and pans, the brushed stone floor and the vases of flowers on the windowsills. “And this place is—?”
“It’s a mortal cottage, not something faerie-conjured,” Lilja said.
“Wendell told us it was abandoned long ago, and that Folk would stay here sometimes when they visited the mortal world. It was in decent shape when we arrived, just a little musty. We’ve done some cleaning and minor repairs—the villagers lent a hand there.
And Wendell came by last night and did—well, I’m not sure what.
He only swept the floor and did a bit of tidying up, but afterwards it seemed a new place.
” She pointed to a vase of lilies. “He also brought these—they’ve not lost a single petal. In fact, I think they’ve grown bigger.”
“I quite like it here,” Margret said. “It’s ever so peaceful not having relatives knocking on your door at all hours, and the village is only a short stroll away.
And there’s a lovely path up to the waterfall; you must join us for a walk in the morning.
Lilja was chopping wood in her shirtsleeves yesterday—not once have we needed to shovel any snow. ”
They chattered on about their stay thus far—evidently, it was the first time either of them had ventured beyond Ljosland, and they were almost as awed by the experience as I had been by my first visit to Faerie.
I had the sense that they had a great many questions they wished to ask, but also that they were holding back, allowing me the respite of sitting quietly and listening, voicing only murmurs of interest or agreement.
“Well, what do you think?” Lilja said, flashing me a smile as she rose to remove the buns from the oven. “Do you like what you’ve seen of the place so far? Wendell seemed anxious that you should be happy here. He asked me to make note of anything I thought could be improved.”
“Yes,” I said, mostly succeeding in hiding the wobble in my voice. “I like it quite well.” And we tucked in to our supper.
Skip Notes
*1 This I found more concerning than anything else, for clap-cans carry their bells wherever they go, and are said to protect them with their lives.
*2 Naya Kaur, “Towards a Less Anthropocentric View of Faerie Governance: Examples from Wallonia,” Journal of Social Dryadology, 1905.