Something silent in the woods, or maybe something singing. A haunting melody that drifts through the trees, up and around the bones of something more. Fair folk, the Sidhe, Huldufólk. A wild, dark, sharp thing, or maybe something sweet and childish. Maybe it’s just a small child running around barefoot in a mudstreaked dress, eating berries and clover.
I’ve always been interested in fairies and their stories, as a small child and even now. It didn’t matter what kind; it could have been anywhere from the Pixie Hollow books to The Spiderwick Chronicles. I believed in them too, but I didn’t see them as little people with wings. I saw them in the flowers, in the swarms of dragonflies near the end of summer, as their beautiful gossamer wings beat furiously in their search for mosquitoes. I like to think that fairies, along with other creatures and stories from European folklore, have been a major player in how I see the world. When I was younger, I would take naps on sunny patches of moss, unbothered by the bugs who called it home. I stopped other kids from stepping on spiders, choosing instead to take them outside. When I found out that clover and dandelions were edible, I would pick and eat them anytime I got hungry at recess. While some of these things just sound like child antics, I never stopped embracing the wonder that was nature.
The story of Tamlin, one of my favorites growing up, taught me of feminine strength. The story follows a woman, usually named Janet, as she tries to free her true love from the clutches of an evil fairy queen. Janet must pull him from his horse and hold him tight, even as he transforms into various beasts. Eventually, he turns into a burning coal, and she must push him into a well to set him free. The story showed me that the hero isn’t always a knight in shining armor, and that sometimes, the knight himself is the one who needs saving.
While most little girls love and believe in fairies, not all know how to be scared, either. Yes, it’s true that I love them, but I also understand how terrifying they were for people before their stories were seen as just that. Stories. There was a time when the things that went bump in the night were fairies. While it’s true that something can be seen as beautiful, there is also a strange beauty in terror. It’s like the sublime, something so grotesque that it consumes you and you can’t look away. I love them all the same, no matter how elegant or ghastly. To me, it’s like loving someone at both their worst and best selves. Stories are meant to teach us lessons, and in these stories I’ve learned how to be kind, how to love everything around me, no matter how small or scary. I think we could all use that lesson.
