Page 4

Bambleby then went on at length about the most recent meeting of the dryadology department faculty, to which I would not have been invited, being only an adjunct professor and not a tenured one, including many entertaining observations about how prettily the light caught at Professor Thornthwaite’s new hairpiece and asking whether I would agree with his theory that Professor Eddington’s relative silence at such convocations suggested a mastery of the open-eyed nap. I did find myself smirking a little as he rambled on—it is hard not to be entertained by Bambleby. It is one of the things I resent most about him. That and the fact that he considers himself my dearest friend, which is only true in the sense that he is my sole friend.

Part of my reason in writing, my dear, is to remind you I am worried for your safety. I speak not of whatever unusual species of ice-encrusted faerie you may encounter, as I know you can handle yourself in that regard, but of the harshness of the climate. Though I must confess a secondary motive in writing—a fascination with the legends you’ve uncovered about these Hidden Ones. I urge you to write to me with your findings—although, if certain plans I’ve set in motion come to fruition, this may prove redundant.

I sat frozen in my chair. Good God! Surely he was not thinking of joining me here? Yet what else could he have meant by such a remark?

My fear ebbed somewhat, though, as I sat back and imagined Bambleby actually venturing to such a place as this. Oh, Bambleby has done extensive work in the field, to be sure, most recently organizing an expedition to investigate reports of a miniature species of Folk in the Caucasus, but Bambleby’s method of fieldwork is one of delegation more than anything else; he settles himself at the nearest thing that passes for a hotel and from there provides directives to the small army of graduate students constantly trailing in his wake. He is much praised at Cambridge for deigning to provide co-author credit to his students in his many publications, but I know what those students put up with, and the truth is that it would be monstrous if he did not.

I was unable to convince even one of my students to accompany me to Hrafnsvik, and I very much doubt that Bambleby, despite his charms, would have much better luck. And so, he will not come.

The remainder of the letter consisted of assurances of his intention to provide the foreword to my book. I felt a little ill at this—a combination of relief and resentment—for though I do not want his assistance, particularly after he scooped me on the gean-cannah changeling discovery, I cannot deny its value. Wendell Bambleby is one of the foremost dryadologists at Cambridge, which is to say that he is one of the foremost dryadologists in the world. The one paper we co-authored, a straightforward but comprehensive meta-analysis of the diet of Baltic river fae, earned me invitations to two national conferences and remains my most cited work.

I tossed the letter into the fire, determined to think no more of Bambleby until the arrival of his next letter, which would no doubt be swift if I did not reply with a haste sufficient to his self-regard.

I turned to Shadow, curled at my feet. The beast had been watching me with solemn dark eyes, concerned for my well-being in the wake of my panic. I discovered another chilblain upon his paw and fetched the salve I had purchased specially for him. I also took the time to comb through his long fur until his eyes drooped with pleasure.

I removed my manuscript from my suitcase, carefully unfolding the protective wrapping, then laid it upon the table. I flicked through the pages, savouring the crisp sound of the heavily inked paper, ensuring they were still in order.

It is a heavy thing, presently totalling some five hundred pages, not inclusive of the appendices, which will likely be extensive. Yet within these pages, like specimens threaded with pins and trapped behind glass in a museum display, is every species of faerie yet encountered by Man, from the mist-dwelling bogban of the Orkneys to the ghoulish thief known as l’hibou noir by those inhabiting the Mediterranean country of Miarelle. They have been alphabetized, cross-referenced, and paired with figures where available as well as a phonetic guide to pronunciation.

I let my hand rest briefly on the stack of pages. I then set atop the manuscript a paperweight, one of my faerie stones[*4] —devoid of magic now, of course. Beside it, at a right angle, I placed my favourite pen—it bears the Cambridge crest; a gift from the university when I was hired—ruler, and inkwell. I surveyed the tableau with satisfaction.

Now, with the world swathed in the total darkness of provincial villages, and my eyelids growing heavy, I am off to bed.

Skip Notes

*1 There are, of course, detailed compendia pertaining to specific regions, e.g., Vladimir Foley’s Guide to Russian Folklore. And Windermere Scott has her I’ll Take the Iron Road: A Rail Journey Through the Otherlands, but this is a narrative account of her travels and highly selective in nature (Scott also undermines her credibility by including ludicrous accounts of ghosts).

*2 Esther May Halliwell’s Essays on Meta-Folklore includes an overview of how our thinking has evolved on this subject, from the scepticism of the Enlightenment, in which faerie stories were viewed as secondary to empirical evidence in understanding the Folk—if not completely irrelevant—to the modern view of such tales as elemental to Faerie itself.

*3 Here of course I refer to Wilson Blythe’s Wilderfolk Theory, widely accepted by dryadologists and often referred to as the Blythian school of thought. Numerous guides have been written on the subject, but essentially Blythe views the Folk as elements of the natural world that have gained consciousness through unknown processes. According to Blythian thought, then, they are tied to their home environments in ways we humans can barely hope to grasp.

*4 Faerie stones can be found in a variety of regions, being particularly common in Cornwall and the Isle of Man. They are unimpressive in appearance and hard to recognize with the untrained eye; their most distinguishing feature is their perfect roundness. They seem primarily to be used to store enchantments for later use or perhaps for the purposes of gift-giving. Danielle de Grey’s 1850 Guide to Elfstones of Western Europe is the definitive resource on the subject. (I am aware that many dryadologists today ignore de Grey’s research on account of her many scandals, but whatever else she was, I find her a meticulous scholar.) A faerie stone with a crack down it has been spent and is thus harmless. An intact stone should be left untouched and reported to ICAD, the International Council of Arcanologists and Dryadologists.

21st October

Normally, I sleep poorly in foreign accommodations, but I surprised myself by resting soundly until Finn’s promised knock came at half seven.

I rose from the straw-stuffed bed that took up nearly the entirety of the little bedroom, shivering in the cold. The only fire was in the main room, and it was down to the embers. I threw a robe over my nightdress and padded to the door with Shadow at my heels.

Finn greeted me with the same formality into which he had retreated yesterday, setting upon the table a tray of bread—still warm despite the chilly walk from the farmhouse—as well as a bowl of some form of quivering yogurt and a disturbingly large hard-boiled egg.

“Goose,” he said when I enquired. “Did you not bank the fire last night?”

I confessed that I had little idea what this signified, and he kindly demonstrated a particular method of stacking the wood and raking the coals within the fireplace that would ensure a long, continuous release of heat as well as easier re-ignition come morning. I thanked him with perhaps an overabundance of enthusiasm, and he smiled with his former warmth.

He enquired after my plans for the day, and I stated my intention to become acquainted with the surrounding terrain.

“Your father informed me in his letters that within the Karrðarskogur can be found a variety of brownies, as well as trooping faeries,” I said. “I understand from my research into the scant accounts of your Folk that the courtly fae are more apt to travel with the snows, from which I gather that sightings of their ilk will be unlikely for some days yet.”

Finn looked astonished. “Did my father use those words?”

“No. Brownies and trooping fae are the two largest subcategories of common fae invented by scholars—your people, I believe, refer to the common fae as ‘little ones’ or ‘wee Folk’ when you make the distinction at all. They are, as you know, usually quite small, child-sized or less. Brownies are solitary and are generally those faeries who involve themselves in mortal affairs—thefts, minor curses, blessings. Trooping fae travel in groups and keep mostly to their own.”

Finn gave a slow nod. “And I suppose, then, that you have a separate word for the tall ones?”

“Yes, we place all humanlike faeries into the category of courtly fae—you understand, then, that there are two main groupings of Folk, courtly and common. As far as the courtly fae are concerned, there are too many subcategories to list, and I’ve little idea whether any of them will apply to those you call the ‘tall ones.’ ”

“We rarely call them anything,” Finn said. “It’s bad luck.”