004: Of the Realm of Faerie
They said he was abducted by faeries.
One day he was playing in the meadow behind the village, a golden-haired boy of four or five, picking forget-me-nots and strawberry blossoms for his mother, and the next he was gone, leaving nothing but a pair of slippers in the strawberry-patch.
There was no sign of a struggle, and no trace of wild animals. There had not been a sound.
They came to the only logical conclusion: he had disappeared into the Realm of Faerie.
When a young man stopped by the village fifteen years later, no one thought of the little boy. The young man, golden-haired and clothed in fine velvets and an embroidered cape, held little resemblance to the boy. And yet they wondered when the young man wandered into the meadow and collected forget-me-nots and strawberry flowers to leave at the mother's window, and they wondered when they looked into his face and saw a patch of white skin, like a healed wound, shaped like an eight-pointed star, staring from his brow.
Most of all they wondered that his eyes were covered, but he moved as dexterously as the hunter's son, and was easily more graceful than the most fleet-footed girl.
When he left, they said he must have come out of the Realm of Faerie. They shuddered and went back to their work, but could not shake the feeling that someone was watching them and laughing at their folly.
When the next child disappeared, a five-year-old girl, hair as dark as the night sky, they blamed the faeries and vowed to burn the meadow to the ground, even if it was the last thing they did. None of them survived the winter, and when spring came, a blind-folded golden-haired young man with a white star on his brow passed through, leading a dark-haired girl by the hand. Neither stopped to look at the ruins of the empty houses, nor pause by the graveyard.
The village never saw either again, but if you find the Realm of Faerie, you might see them by a trickling brook, or under the tall trees, singing in a language long forgotten by men.
Written by: Katrine H., with thanks to Lorna Fergusson for her online writing retreat 21.03.2020
One day he was playing in the meadow behind the village, a golden-haired boy of four or five, picking forget-me-nots and strawberry blossoms for his mother, and the next he was gone, leaving nothing but a pair of slippers in the strawberry-patch.
There was no sign of a struggle, and no trace of wild animals. There had not been a sound.
They came to the only logical conclusion: he had disappeared into the Realm of Faerie.
*
When a young man stopped by the village fifteen years later, no one thought of the little boy. The young man, golden-haired and clothed in fine velvets and an embroidered cape, held little resemblance to the boy. And yet they wondered when the young man wandered into the meadow and collected forget-me-nots and strawberry flowers to leave at the mother's window, and they wondered when they looked into his face and saw a patch of white skin, like a healed wound, shaped like an eight-pointed star, staring from his brow.
Most of all they wondered that his eyes were covered, but he moved as dexterously as the hunter's son, and was easily more graceful than the most fleet-footed girl.
When he left, they said he must have come out of the Realm of Faerie. They shuddered and went back to their work, but could not shake the feeling that someone was watching them and laughing at their folly.
*
When the next child disappeared, a five-year-old girl, hair as dark as the night sky, they blamed the faeries and vowed to burn the meadow to the ground, even if it was the last thing they did. None of them survived the winter, and when spring came, a blind-folded golden-haired young man with a white star on his brow passed through, leading a dark-haired girl by the hand. Neither stopped to look at the ruins of the empty houses, nor pause by the graveyard.
The village never saw either again, but if you find the Realm of Faerie, you might see them by a trickling brook, or under the tall trees, singing in a language long forgotten by men.
Written by: Katrine H., with thanks to Lorna Fergusson for her online writing retreat 21.03.2020
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