Fae in Plain Sight

Written by Rebecca Carlyle

What do you think of when you hear the words fae or faerie? Let me guess—you just thought of a tiny, pocket-sized, glowing, winged person. With a wand. And lots of glitter. We’re not like Aurora’s fairies where each of us only dresses in one particular color. How impractical is that? No. We fae blend into society much easier than those whimsical ‘fairies’ do. We don’t turn into light-filled orbs that float through the air. We shapeshift to blend in and walk among the mortal folk. We’re much more common than you’ve been taught to believe. 

The Seelie court—sound familiar?—is more well known. Those fairies are known for guiding children and protecting the innocence of youth. Pfft. If only you knew how they were dying out. There have always been fewer of them, but they have grown weaker and come out of hiding infrequently. The use of steel in the structure of modern homes has kept us out of mortal houses. But we can still be found in villages with original buildings. Those old wooden structures do nothing to ward us off. Only a few of the village folk remember that salt lining their window and doorframes will keep us out. 

For the most part, we do as we please. I live just outside of one of these villages, past a so-called “fairy mound” and around the bend. We are said to dislike running water, but that is not so. How could we? Running water is a part of nature, streams and rivers running through forests and highlands. It would be hard to avoid for a creature who is born of nature, doncha think? My legs take long strides and carry me down the path, past the curve in the road, past the well that has sat unused for hundreds of years, and past the newly built Welcome Center. I never understood the need for these. What exactly does a Welcome Center do that the town tavern can’t? You’ll find just as much knowledge of the place and more by sitting at the bar and listening to the locals. 

My worn brown boots lightly smack the packed dirt streets as clouds roll in and mist kisses my skin. The patisserie stands on my left and I can’t help but enter, cringing at the bell that clangs as I open and close the door. These two myths are true—we don’t like bells so much, but it won’t deter us from our mission and our love of sweets will pull us to bargain with anyone. Glass display cases protect fresh baked goods from the touch of grubby customer hands. I can’t help but salivate at the scent of brambocks and whiskey truffles in the air. Celtic knot cookies with crystallized sugar sprinkled on top, scones with freshly sliced pears and honey dribbling down the edges, and apple tarts with a sprinkling of cinnamon. Traditional shortbread with green sprinkles, mini rum cakes, and layered Bailey’s cream parfait with chocolate shavings atop the whipped cream swirl. So many sweets and so little time! 

A  teenage girl with big round glasses emerges from the kitchen with flour splattered across her apron. She wipes her hands on it, smearing butter into the flour, and leaving grease stains on the fabric. 

“Cad a gheobhaidh mé duit?” The girl's voice lilts as she picks up a wooden tray with tongs and slides the glass case open.

“Rum agus crack cácaí le piorraí agus mil.” 

My Irish is better than hers, with more of a Gaelic accent than what she’s used to. Her head tilts slightly, a curly red braid coming to rest on her shoulder and spilling over the front of her torso, flour tickling the tips of her hairs. She plucks a small paper bag from underneath the counter and deftly picks out the plumpest rum balls. Placing this on the counter behind her, she then digs under the display case for a food container. She plops a large scone in it and then pulls a fresh pear from the fruit bowl on the counter. With practiced fingers, she slices the pear on the butcher wood top and places the slices delicately across the top of the scone. Then a jar of fresh honey is produced from the cupboard and she spoons that atop the pear slices. The box is then closed and slid into a larger bag with the small bag of rum balls on top. 

“An mbeidh sin go léir?” The girl places the bag of sweets on the counter between them and hovers in front of the cash register, poised to type in the total.

My eyes dart to the case taking in the cream parfaits one more time and holding back the urge to lick my lips. I agree, yes, that was all, and pull some euros from a pouch tied to the belt at my hips. I can’t help it, some habits won’t die. The girl's eyes light up at the tip that I left her, unaccustomed to tips—that’s an American thing, doncha know?   

“Bíodh lá iontach agat!” She calls after me as the bells clang above my head once more. 

She won’t wish me well when she checks the register again in an hour or so. When my magic wears off those euros she’ll find nothing more than scraps of paper and pebbles. See? If I was afraid of running water would I have been able to pluck pebbles from the babbling brook? Of course not. 

With treats in hand, I continue on my way. Time to cause a raucous. The tavern is just a block further down the lane with a weather-beaten oak sign hanging above the arched doorway. Ivy crawls up the walls, almost consuming the building entirely. I pause and take a deep breath of the ocean air, the salt stinging my nose slightly. Then I push the heavy door forward and into the darkly lit room. 

Lanterns dot the walls all around casting a yellow hue about the room. I perch on a bar stool—the most comfortable seat for my wings. Yes, we have wings, so translucent that mere mortals cannot see them. I could tuck them against my spine and take a chair with a back to it, but it just isn’t as comfortable as sitting at the bar. I get faster service here anyway. As if on cue, like he’s been waiting for me all day, the barman turns his attention to me. To be fair, it isn’t busy, nothing but two middle-aged drunks who find themselves here every day complaining that they have nowhere else better to be. 

I order a whiskey and once the bartender turns away to get a glass, I pull out the rumballs, the powdered sugar leaving a white dusting on my long, deft fingers. A glass tumbler is placed in front of me, the golden brown contents lapping around the square ice cubes. The bartender fades away and my ears tune into the conversation behind me—disagreeing over something trivial. I ache to participate, to knock them over the edge on which they sit. 

My fingers twitch but I push my palms into the walnut bartop, the dark wood a stark contrast to my pale skin. I focus my energy on keeping my fingers splayed flat, feeling the grain of the wood, energy flowing from the pores. 

A raised voice was all it took though. Without faltering for even a moment, I lift a hand and snap my fingers a single time, sparks flying from the tips. One of the men stands brusquely, the chair toppling over. A glass shatters and the two are at each other's throats. The bartender comes running from the kitchen to see what all the commotion is about. I don’t even look, choosing instead to pop another rumball into my mouth, flicking the white powder into the air.