The Story Collector

by Evie Woods

in the middle of this site grew a gnarled old hawthorn tree, a fairy tree, and ’twas said that misfortune would befall any man who so much as scarred the twisted bark. A seeress from the locality warned the Master not to touch it, saying that The Good People would have their revenge on anyone who tampered with their dwelling place.

when a mother did not recognise her own child, it could only mean one thing: a changeling. The Good People had finally exacted their revenge by taking the human children and replacing them with evil, sickly souls.

Daoine Maithe, The Good People,

‘Isn’t it a funny coincidence all the same?’ ‘What is?’ ‘Well, I’m not saying you’re mysterious, but you’re an American staying at the cottage, exactly one hundred years later!’

We alter together with each season, transforming, yet always staying true to our nature.

‘So, people think that Lady Hawley’s death was some kind of revenge by the fairies?’

They’re not like us; I can tell you that for nothing. They don’t think like us, nor do they feel the way we do. It could be why they’re so drawn to the human world, interfering and trying to capture what they cannot have. Don’t go messing with them fairy folk, tell him that now, Annie!’

But my mother would argue that to lose one’s intellect is akin to letting seeds wither and die in the dark ground, and she routinely wins the argument.

It felt as though she could disappear into the woods, without a trace. The tranquillity of the forest always drew her in. She would take her sketchpad and a collection of pencils and begin the almost hypnotic task of rendering the intricate lines on a piece of bark. There was something spiritual about trees that seemed to bring about an inner calm.

She wasn’t sure if she could ever believe in the existence of fairies, but she was a firm believer in synchronicity. She had experienced it in her artwork.

A truly creative life demanded a kind of blind faith in signs, hints or nudges towards a certain direction, from which things would inevitably flow organically.

‘Hushabye, my child, asleep without any care, On the roof of the house there are bright fairies, playing and drinking under the gentle rays of the spring moon; here they come, to call my child out, wishing to draw him into the fairy mound. My child, my heart, sleep soundly and well; may good luck and happiness forever be yours; I’m here at your side praying blessings upon you; Hushaby, hush, you’re not going with them.’

A Little Princess, by Frances Hodgson Burnett.

Be sure that if you ever witness the leaves whirling or the air fizzing with noise, you are in the presence of the fairies and you would do well to tip your hat and say, “God bless them”.’

She remembered learning in art class that the right side of the brain was like the artist’s eye. Unlike the left side, it didn’t deal in logic or language, but simply interpreted form, perspective and spatial awareness.

But that was the beauty of losing yourself in a task such as this; you reverted to that childlike state that only concerned itself with the here and now.

I have never felt so enamoured of any boy in my life and here she was, ruining it.

Each generation passed along an ancient knowledge and a solemn respect for the land. Tracing these beliefs back hundreds, possibly thousands, of years, made them all the more believable in Sarah’s eyes. Were we really sharing this earth with other ancestral or spiritual beings?

‘If we lose our stories,’ he wrote, ‘we lose ourselves.’

Tis true, they say that if you have many friends deceased, you have many friendly fairies,’ she agreed, nodding her head. ‘Then it’s equally true that if you have many enemies deceased, you have many fairies looking to do you harm.’

‘You know what a changeling is, story collector? The Good People steal a healthy human child and they replace them with one of their own. Sickly things they are, always hungry, always bawling, never thriving. Local women know to put irons above the crib for protection,

The only way to get rid of a changeling is to put it in harm’s way. The fairies won’t see their own suffer. They’ll come to claim their changeling and return the human baby.

Now, telling the bees was a custom in which the bees would be told of important events in their keeper’s lives, such as births, marriages, or departures from the household. If the custom was omitted or forgotten and the bees were not “put into mourning”, then it was believed a penalty would be paid.’ ‘What kind of penalty?’ Hazel asked. ‘Oh, such as the bees might leave their hive, stop producing honey, or even die in some cases.

In ancient times, the bee was believed to be the sacred insect that bridged the natural world to the otherworld. There are stories that the fairies would have commanded the bees to do their bidding.’

‘You mean, the fairies could control the bees; use them to … attack someone?’ ‘Indeed yes, i...

‘Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.’

‘I understand; you end up saying what you think they want to hear. There’s a fear in all of us, that we’ll lose the relationship. But I suppose we end up losing ourselves instead.’

Grief is like a hard lump inside of you,’ she said, tapping her gut. ‘It will stay there, hard like a rock, unless you begin working to soften it.’

‘It will never go away completely, but instead of a hardness, it can become a tenderness. Your heart will make room for your memories and you won’t be afraid of them any more.’

‘Indeed, the rose has always been associated with matters of the heart and the white rose signifies the end of a life.’

‘Rose petals help with insomnia, too. They calm the nerves. Roses can open the heart and prepare it for a new beginning,’

‘They are the manifestations of all that is unseen in this world, Jack, they’re not meant to be supermodels!’