Fair Folk

Listen (20 min) | Short Story | Fantasy | Mild language

“The ring o’ the fair folk, it crept up overnight. No one seen it before. And the little Webster lad, he made for it quick as anythin’. No surprise with his gold hair and blue eyes. Would’ve been the third child to go missin’ in a month if his mother hadn’t caught him.

“Bill Smythe and his men think they can catch and kill the creatures responsible. Too late’s my opinion. Been too late since they started puttin’ in the road. The fair folk are angry and no mistake—all them trees chopped and mounds torn up.

“But the road brings new trade. New coin. P’aps it’s for the best. Certainly for you, ay Frank?” The old man raised his pint toward the barkeep and took a gulp of bitter, yeasty malt.

Frank—short, bearded, red-haired—dried a tankard and set it on the wood counter. “I’m for the road, I’ve made no secret of it. It’s progress. And the other business owners would like to see a little more coin and a lot less credit. Speakin’ of, Thomas Wainwright, if you’re goin’ to sit in my tavern drinkin’ my ale and tellin’ tales, I’d appreciate a settlin’ of accounts.”

Frank shouted the last words. Thomas was grabbing his hat and half way out the door as a party of seven or eight, all soaked, shuffled into the Golden Goblet Tavern out of the late afternoon rain.

A young man, cloaked in gray, rushed to the bar, shaking water off his garments and taking out his purse. “Good day. I’ll have beer and soup for three please.”

Frank stowed the man’s copper in his apron. “Very good, sir. I’ll bring you some bread too, nice and hot.” He nodded toward the mud caking his guest’s hem. “Did your party meet with an accident?”

The man nodded. “I’m afraid so. Something startled the horses, and one of them broke loose a quarter mile down the road. The minstrels sitting outside were thrown to the ground, poor devils. The driver’s taken the other beast to find the escapee.”

The young man slipped Frank another coin. “I’d be grateful if you could hurry with the food. My sisters are wet and tired. I shall be there when all is ready.” He pointed to a table where two young women, one dark and one fair-haired, sat tucked away in a corner near the fire.

An old man in a dark blue coat and a brown cocked hat stepped up beside the man in gray, taking his place. “We’ll have the soup as well, me and the missus.” He thumbed toward the table nearest the bar where an elderly woman in dark green sat, brow knitted. “And cheese instead of bread, if you have it. Her teeth aren’t so good as they used to be, though mind you, there’s nothin’ wrong with her tongue.”

“Peter,” the woman crossed her arms, “there’s others need tendin’. Don’t talk the man’s ear off.”

Peter smirked, dropping the money in Frank’s hand.

“Barkeep, three ales, if you please.” A red-nosed middle-aged man in a waistcoat and patched cloak stood, wheezing and covered in mud. Another man, similarly attired, stood beside him, followed by a filthy, dark-haired boy of twelve or thirteen, buckling under their bags.

The men collapsed at the table nearest the door. The boy squeezed in among the luggage.

Frank waved and dashed into the kitchen.

Cloaks, coats, and bonnets were removed, shoes were placed on the stone hearth before the fire, ladies dried themselves with their handkerchiefs, and men took out their pipes.

The stink of damp and mud surrendered to the aroma and warmth of bread, onion soup, and tobacco.

The boy inhaled his ale.

The men at the table nearest the door opened their parcels, revealing lute and harp, playing homey tunes between gulps from their tankards.

Guests sighed as they sipped the savory, herby broth, mopping last drops with their bread and ordering seconds.

Some sang with the minstrels, and everyone settled back in their chairs.

Shouts outside roused the travelers from their post-luncheon snugness.

The tavern door burst open.

Eight men stomped through the entryway, the leader with his long brown hair wet and stuck to his face. Firelight and amber glow of lamps enhanced the sallow in his cheeks. His height rivaled the doorway.

Frank nodded to him, studying his manner. “Afternoon, Bill. What can I do you for?”

Panting, Bill Smythe stepped up to the counter. “The lads an’ me been trackin’ all day. Ran into the driver of that coach and heard about their little accident.”

The young man in the gray cloak turned to face them. “Has he found our runaway horse?”

Bill shuffled to the man’s table, squeezing the knife handle at his belt. “And who might you be?”

“Simon Davies.” The young man stood.

“And the women?”

Simon clenched and relaxed his hands. “These ladies are my sisters, Miss Agnes and Miss Margaret Davies.”

Bill eyed Margaret. “Your brother and sister have dark hair, but yours is gold.”

Cheeks reddening, Margaret dropped her gaze.

Simon moved to block Bill’s view. “My sister’s hair is none of your con—.”

Agnes grabbed her brother’s arm, encouraging him to sit. “Our mother was the first Mrs. Davies, my sister’s, the second.”

Bill scowled at them as he prowled toward the table nearest the door, shifting his attention to the minstrels. “What about you lot?”

Frank cleared his throat and raised his voice. “Would you mind tellin’ me what it is you want, Bill?”

One of Bill’s men, stinking of sweat and manure, moved to block Frank in behind the counter.

Bill ignored the tavern keeper, his eyes fixed on the minstrels. “I asked you a question.”

The red-nosed man hugged his lute. “John Campbell. This be my brother James, and the lad’s our apprentice. Name of Arthur Hall.”

James Campbell watched the men through his harp strings.

Arthur Hall kept his eyes on his third tankard of ale.

Bill smiled, yellowed teeth protruding, and sauntered to the table nearest the bar.

The old man stood. “I’m Peter Randall, and this is my wife, Edith, just up from Exeter. We’re goin’ to see our first grandchild, in Plymouth. Little lad’s already walk—.”

Striding past the Randalls, Bill faced the guests. “We ain’t here to be sociable. We been lookin’ for someone, and maybe you folk can help us find ‘em.”

The group shook their heads, shrugging and mumbling.

Simon answered. “We’ve seen no one since the accident. We all came straight here to wait for the driver.”

Bill looped his thumbs in his belt. “That so? Was everyone here in the coach with you all the way from Exeter?”

Simon glanced around. “I believe so, yes.”

“Anyone disappear from the party, even for a moment?”

Peter chuckled, chewing on his clay pipe stem. “We all answered the call o’ nature a time or two.”

Simon stood. “Mr. Smythe, unless you have the legal authority to question us in this manner, I’d ask that you leave us in peace.”

The man blocking Frank turned his eyes to the exchange, and the tavern keeper dashed to slip out the back.

Bill called to him. “Won’t do no good Frank, goin’ for the constable. I’ve got a man at the kitchen door.”

Frank cursed and returned to his counter, glaring.

The room erupted, but Bill raised his hands for silence. “Some of you may be aware that this road you’re on is rather new. Since it came, there’s been one disaster after another—children disappeared, workmen killed, fallen trees, rock slides, bridges collapsed, bogs springin’ up. Lots o’ folk in town think it’s more than coincidence.”

Agnes Davies knitted her brow. “You mean sabotage.”

Bill grinned, licking the blood from his chapped lips. “I do, ma’am.”

Edith Randall scowled. “What’ve any of us to do with all that?”

Bill’s hand returned to the knife at his belt. “My suspicion, ma’am, is that one or more of you may not be what you seem.”

Frank pounded a fist on the counter and pointed. “I’ve had all I’m goin’ to take, Bill. I’m givin’ you one last chance. If you and your lads don’t leave now, you’ll never be steppin’ foot through my door again.”

The man watching Frank grabbed the tavern keeper’s shirt collar and shoved him to the stone floor.

Bill spoke. “I’m truly sorry to hear that Frank, but we’re too close now, and we’re goin’ to see this through.”

He addressed the group. “We’re not lookin’ for a human. We’re huntin’ the fair folk.”

The party bubbled. Guffawed. Snorted.

Peter laughed, pointing at Bill with his pipe. “He’s cracked his pot.”

Simon’s mouth hung open. “You can’t be serious. You’re holding us unlawfully, because you think—.” It’s ridiculous. It’s absurd.”

Unsheathing his knife, Bill held it above his head. The room went silent. He walked past each table, displaying the blade. “I want you all to see this ain’t no ordinary knife. The blade is pure iron. O’ course it’s no good for keepin’, it’s already begun to rust, but there is a particular kind of creature that it has a very nasty effect on. One poke is all it takes.” He held the metal under his nose and breathed in the smell of it.

John Campbell trembled. “Y—You’re not stickin’ me with that thing. I’d die of lockjaw.”

Voices rose, but Bill called for quiet. “The other folk who submitted have fared well.

“Now, you want to be on your way, and I want to find these creatures. You say you all rode together from Exeter, but the creatures I’m lookin’ for can change their shape, and the fair folk are known for their love o’ music,”—he frowned at the minstrels—“laughter,”—he pointed the knife at Peter Randall—“and gold hair,”—he nodded at Margaret Davies.

“I could waste a lot o’ time askin’ questions, tryin’ to reason it out, but there’s no point. Any one, two, or three o’ you might be them. So, we’re goin’ to make sure.”

Thumbing toward the party, he addressed his followers. “Hold their arms steady.”

Simon Davies jumped up, swinging and hitting the nearest man, knuckles to teeth.

Edith Randall pummeled the heads of the men restraining her husband.

John and James Campbell used their instrument cases as shields.

Arthur Hall dove under tables and between legs, crawling toward the exit.

Frank roared for the men to stop.

With a bang, the door flew open, and the rain-scented air rushed in. Two men in black hats entered, glowering. Frank recognized the constable and one of the night watchmen.

The constable strode toward Bill. “What’s goin’ on here? Frank, that coachman outside said he was refused entry.”

Frank sighed. “Not by me, sir. Bill and his lads been questionin’ my customers.”

Simon Davies shoved a man off him and wiped the blood from his own mouth. “More than question. They were going to jab us all with that rusting iron blade. Says he’s looking for fairies.”

The constable faced Bill. “Smythe, I told you and this lot to stop botherin’ folk. Hunt what you like, but leave the rest of us out of it. I hear one more time that you’re disturbin’ the peace, and—.”

A young man in a worn brown cloak ran in, shouting. “Bill! Bill! Little Tilly King’s gone missin’. There’s a new ring popped up near the King place. Weren’t more than an hour ago the girl vanished.”

Bill Smythe ground his teeth.

He and his men followed the messenger outside, passing the coachman on his way.

The coachman stepped in and removed his hat. “Ladies and gentlemen, the horses are in place, and we’ll be on our way shortly.”

The party exhaled, jumping from their seats and gathering their belongings.

Calling the coachman over, the constable spoke. “Smythe and his men will also be takin’ the southwest road. Watch yourself.”

Thanking the constable, the coachman departed, followed soon after by his passengers.

Day waned and night stained the sky. It was the quiet time of evening when children were sent to bed. It’d be an hour before men emerged, thirsty for drink and company.

Frank slumped on a stool in the common room, alone before the fire, guzzling his best clove whiskey from a golden goblet, loving the warmth of it in his throat.

The door creaked open and slid shut.

Frank kept his eyes on the fire. “Come have a sit”—he hoisted the half empty bottle—“and somethin’ to warm ya.”

The minstrels’ apprentice, Arthur Hall, flopped down on the stool beside him.

Flickering, the light of the fire licked them, whisking away clothes and bodies.

Where Arthur had been, crouched a small, naked, green-brown creature with a large belly and a frog’s mouth, smelling of tree bark.

Sitting in Frank’s place was an old man, three feet high, with a red beard, a red hat, and a red suit of clothes.

They appraised one another.

The little old man spoke. “Where are the others?”

The naked creature croaked. “Drowned in a bog. Horses got upset again, all that rain, all that dark. Pity, pity, poor things.” He cackled.

“And Smythe?”

The creature’s eyes glinted. “Dead. Him and his lads. Went into the mud with ‘em.”

The old man took another drink. “You pixies are making it damned hard for the rest of us.”

The pixie growled. “It wasn’t us that started it, and we’d finish it if you traitors would get off your arses and remember where you come from. Or is the promise of gold too much for your kind?”

Handing the bottle to his guest and running a thumb over the rim of his goblet, the little old man’s shoulders drooped. “They’ll be digging up the gold soon enough, and I plan to take it back any way I can. You can’t stop them. Stronger and stronger they get, more than we can fend off.”

“We’re fending them off.”

“For how long? How much strength have you used playing all your little tricks?”

The pixie’s head jutted toward his host. “No more than you when you cursed hunter Smythe and his dogs. You told ‘em.” A giggle gurgled in his throat. “Pointed your finger and said, leave now or you’ll never step foot here again. They went down the bog’s throat easy as fresh milk.”

“What do you know about fresh milk? Who leaves it, or the honey, or the whiskey for you anymore? We’re being forgotten. Even I’m not what I was, and they give me their gold, their”—he snatched the bottle back—“whiskey, and still I feel my power waning.” The little old man poured more of the spicy liquor into his goblet and took a swig.

The pixie wiped his lips and belched. “They give Frank Jones gold, not you. That’s why you wither, but not me. I’m strong. I’m the one who scares the horses. I was strong enough to pull young singer Hall into the mud when he was thrown from the coach and take his place, even with Smythe chasing me.”

“There’s more where Smythe comes from.”

“Then they’ll think twice dearie, oh yes they will. Wants to kill me with his filthy blade, so I kills him first. Right where the road is weak and steep, I scares the horses, all the horses, Smythe’s and his lads’. Down, down, in the dark and rain, screaming and clawing all the way.” The pixie wheezed with laughter, clutching his stomach, his clove and sour breath blowing in the old man’s face.

“Then, you’ve postponed what’s got to be. Have the land for another fifty years, if you can hold it, but they’ll come back. Mark my words. They’ll come with contraptions that do the chopping and tearing and tilling for a hundred men and horses. Dead, unnatural things without minds to play on, machines like a wall around them to keep you out. And then what will you do?”

The pixie frowned. “Then we watch. We watch the dead things and wait for the big folk to forget. We get hungry. Weak. But one day they open the door. Willing. Easy. We’ll feast like the old days, never hungry again, and they won’t know they let us in.”

The little old man grinned—“I’ll drink to that.”—and drained the last drop from the bottle.

END

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This is a retelling of The Twilight Zone episode “Will the Real Martian Please Stand Up?”

Photo by Stéphane Juban on Unsplash