Chapter 6

Culhain's Story

Making her way to the Peverel Arms as fast as her arthritic legs would carry her, Peggy climbed up the two steps and into the old pub with its dark, low beams, imperfect with age. There was a fire in the old stone fireplace, unchanged for centuries.

All was as normal except, thought Peggy, for the tall figure standing at the bar with his back to her. As she watched, he slowly turned around to face her, As was usual, she only got an impression of his face. The same face she had seen and yet not seen, for years. The hood was still pulled up and around him and no one else in the bar seemed to think this was strange at all.

She shuddered but despite this, she stepped forward to have a word with him. Then she saw his head turn swiftly towards the closed outer door. Seconds later it opened and Flora walked through, an anxious expression on her face. Peggy closed her eyes. It was too late now. Things were already set in motion.

She walked to the furthest corner where she could keep an eye on Flora. She had promised Sybil that she would do just that. She was doing this for her friend's sake - and for the village.

She saw Flora go up to the bar and watched as her worried face slowly changed its expression and a smile passed over it. Mary might be a featherbrained chatterbox most of the time but she introduced normality and put you at your ease. She noted the similarity in looks between the two young women, apart from the hair colour and wondered if there was any truth in the persistent rumour of ‘goings on' between Mary's great-grandmother and Flora's great-grandfather. This sort of thing went on and at one time was the norm in close-knit, isolated villages.

Mary nodded towards the table in the corner near the fire. Peggy made her way to the back of the room, making sure she could see both Flora and Culhain without Flora noticing her. In any case, Flora's attention was focused on the meal, which Mary had now put in front of her. As she ate the last mouthful, Peggy saw Flora's head turn towards the hooded man as he knocked loudly on the bar. He took a drink from the horn cup he carried with him and without further introduction, began to speak.

*

‘The day was misty.' he began ‘Light rain fell from the skies, much like today' . Flora frowned and a man from the next table leaned over to her . ‘ The Storyteller' was all he said, as the hooded man continued to speak in his low mesmerising voice. ‘This unnamed settlement was in its infancy and life was going about its daily grind. The farmer collected his crops with the help of the local people. The women brought their baking to the communal oven. The water was collected from the well and the wise woman collected her herbs for the healing of the people. The Elders gave advice and held ceremonies. Men and women met for their gathering once a week to discuss their business.

The settlement held itself apart from other communities, with good reason - its very isolation made it unique. Yet in a time of scattered settlements, this place was special. Its connection to nature and the elements was strong, stronger than usual. Beyond the natural and into the supernatural. The reputation of supernatural entities in the place was such that outsiders kept away and it was left to its own devices.

On the rain-sodden moor surrounding the settlement, a stone portal had pushed through the peat. An entrance to another world – a Faerie world. Not a world of tiny creatures with gossamer wings and a magic wand – but another race of beings from a different plane of existence.

The Fairy Stone was what this village was named after. Farstone Village and Moor get their names from the Fae.

The Fae had the ability to appear right next to you and disappear just as quickly. When they let themselves be seen, the ordinary settlers were in awe of them. Their otherworldly looks, their superior knowledge and their ability to perform magic set them apart.

The Druids were the only ones brave enough to communicate with them and they spent hours in discussion with the Fae, gaining much of their knowledge from the Fairy Folk. This gave the Druids their reputation of wisdom and sorcery.

As time went by, although the Fae still had a presence in the village, they found themselves fading from the outer world. This was mainly because of stories of villagers' babies being snatched at birth and replaced with a Fae baby. The villagers said they could tell it was a changeling because the baby left in its place was ugly and nothing like their mother or father. As you can imagine, there were many reasons for them to use this excuse…

The storyteller sounded like he would have raised an eyebrow at this point if any eyebrows could be seen.

‘Later, as the wise women took over from the Druids, who had almost disappeared. The Fae started to communicate with those women, who still believed in the Fae and happily existed alongside them. They all lived with the stories, true or not, of travellers disappearing and babies being snatched because, as both the Fae and the wicce knew, travellers and babies disappeared more by human hand than at the hands of the Fae.

Hilde the wise woman was the last great communicator before the Fae almost withdrew from this world – mostly just an unseen presence. Farstone was one of the last places left to them because of the belief of the people. They couldn't live in a world where times were moving so quickly that it didn't include them anymore - because the human brain refused to accept anything that it couldn't understand.

There was another pause

‘But who am I to say there is no such thing as changelings or even halflings, which are half-Fae and half-human? Listen to my story and make up your own mind.

*

One day not so very long ago as Fae years go, a simple woman with no husband lived in the village. We shall call her Belle. When she was found to be with child, she swore a fairy lover had visited her as she slept on the moors. Most of the people in the village still accepted the Fae's existence although, knowing the woman, they doubted her story.

When the time for the birth arrived the midwife attended her. It was a difficult birth and both the mother and baby were almost lost. The baby was put to her breast to suckle but exhausted, the woman wanted nothing to do with it. So the midwife, who was also the foremost wise woman of the village, made up a life-preserving potion for the babe until he could be taken to a wet nurse.

The midwife left the room to let mother and baby sleep. She talked to Belle's mother who was worried about her daughter. Though never too bright, the pregnancy had made her state of mind worse. No, she had no idea who the father was either as the girl didn't mix with other people. As the mother had an inherited belief in the Fae's existence, she too was beginning to believe that the baby's father was from the Fae.

The next moment, a piercing scream came from Belle's room. Her face was white with terror. ‘No no, take it away. They have stolen the baby and left the spawn of Cernunnos in his place. He has marked it. Take it away' she screamed

Cernunnos was known to be the King of the Fae around these parts. He was a god in Celtic culture but existed long before then, when the Earth was young, in times lost to us. Each class of Fae had its own King or Queen. Cernunnos was the horned King, a pair of antlers on top of his wild hair. He was most extraordinarily handsome. He was very tall, had jet black hair and eyes so black they pierced your soul. He had white skin and a robustness that put the old stories of gossamer-frail fairies to rest.

The midwife had to admit that the baby had all these physical attributes, apart from the horns – and it had already started to rally. Fearing what Belle would do to the child, she put him in a box, packed with blankets and took him into the warm kitchen where she too slept overnight.

Sometime later, the midwife awoke to find the baby had disappeared. She roused Belle's mother and after they realised that Belle had gone too, they went in search of the girl and her baby.

The mother knew that Belle often roamed the moors and they soon found her. She was on her way back to the farmhouse. She had been exposed to the cold and windy moors all night in her weakened state. All that she could say was she had left her baby on the moors for his father to look after.

Her mother half-dragged and half-carried Belle back to the house while the midwife went on searching for the baby. She knew there wasn't much chance of finding it alive but her compassion kept her searching.

Eventually, she came across an outcrop of rocks. The rocks formed a shelter and just inside that shelter, she found the baby. Incredibly he was alive and - the word came back to her from earlier – robust, as its cries on being picked up were enough to wake the Fae. Though they didn't. No Fae appeared.

The midwife worried that she shouldn't interfere in case it really was the son of Cernunnos. Worried that her beliefs would condemn a blameless human child to death, she made her decision. Her calling meant that she should preserve all living things if at all possible.

She returned with the baby to find that Belle had died ten minutes before. The child was brought up by Belle's mother and no further evidence apart from the physical resemblance ever linked him with the Fae.

However, it is said that Cernunnos regretted giving up his son, as he saw him grow into a healthy young man and not sickly like his mother. For the whole of the child's lifetime, he kept watch on his son at least once a year.

Even now on nights such as that of the boy's birth, with the mist rising from the ground, you will hear hoofbeats pass by you and see a fiery horse, flying furiously across the ground with the red-eyed, demon hound following.

Do not meet the eyes of the rider, the Fairy King. If you see him turn towards you - run – and keep running… or he could take you to the land of the Fae in place of his son. And you will be lost from this world forever.

*

As the storyteller finished his tale as abruptly as he started it, he turned to drink the dregs of his ale from the horn cup, which he then put back in one of his oversized pockets. His body turned towards Flora. She could see the glint of his eyes. She tried to see the rest of his face but at that moment the man made an ironic bow in her direction and then left the inn. Already shaken from both the encounter on the moors and the storybook equivalent she had just heard, she went up to the bar for liquid fortification.

‘A bucket of white wine please' she said to Mary, who laughed. She probably was no younger than Flora herself- very early 20s perhaps- but she had the air of a mischievous child.

‘Who was that ?' Flora continued, giving an involuntary shiver.

‘Colin' smiled Mary, who always seemed to be happy. ‘Well really his name is something foreign-sounding but I can't pronounce it, so I call him Colin.'

‘He's a little scary' Flora offered. ‘He looks like a Jawa from Star Wars with his raggy clothes and big, hood and just a pair of eyes peering at you.'

‘A what?'

‘What?'

‘You said he looks like a…something.'

‘ Oh, Jawa. You know? From Star Wars?' but from Mary's expression, she obviously didn't.

‘He's a storyteller?'

‘Yeah, comes here quite often and tells a few different stories. We think maybe he travels around the country, but nobody really knows. Brings that horn cup of his, fills it with ale twice, downs it, tells his story, then he's off. He doesn't pay for the ale, dad reckons he's earned it from his stories.'

‘Does he often tell the black horse and rider tale? With a dog following it?'

‘ I think he's told it before? I don't actually listen to them now.'

‘Only I've just seen him. The King of the Fairies. On his horse. With his dog. Looking for his son.' Flora shuddered. It just seemed too much of a coincidence, this story coming straight after she'd seen the rider. There must be an innocent explanation.

Flora's eyes were open wide but Mary's eyes were like saucers.

‘You didn't ! No wonder you looked scared when you came over. I would be too! Was he on a jet black steed, like Colin said?'

‘It was a black horse, the rider had black hair, the dog was… No, the dog wasn't black but it was huge. sort of grey-coloured.'

‘ Oh, tell you who that could be then. The Folklore Man. Handsome as the Fairy King himself, rides the moors as fast as lightning. Still scary though.' Mary thought for a minute, ‘Well he scares me anyway.'

‘The Folklore Man?' Flora whispered to herself as Mary turned to serve another customer. These local legends were going to take some getting used to. Witches, Fairies, Storytellers, The Folklore Man, Demon Dogs... She might have to drink another large wine if she was going to sleep well tonight.

Peggy slipped out behind Flora, unnoticed by her. She overheard her telling Mary about her encounter on the moors. Interesting. She wasn't sure how she should feel about that. Pondering this, she stepped out and down onto the pavement. She was suddenly aware of a figure at her side.

‘Blessed be' she addressed it.

‘All is well?' asked Culhain.

‘ As can be.'

The figure paused in thought, then nodded.

‘ Things are as destiny intends' he said ‘and the boy?'

‘There too. Content. Enough so to be left to himself.'

‘Still searching?'

‘He'll always be searching -but in vain. For the best.'

Culhain sighed and then said,

‘Yes, for the best'

Peggy nodded.

Culhain added, as an afterthought ‘And the girl?'

Peggy smiled. ‘You saw. It is good.'

‘All will be well. The world is turning as it should be.'

And without her even noticing, he was gone.