My dearest friend,
You are probably wondering where the rest of this correspondence is, likely urging your assistant to look for the pages I owe you, the final draft of the interview that would make our careers — mine as the first journalist to have ever interviewed a Fairy, and yours as the brilliant publisher who was brave enough to grant me this chance. But within this light, wrinkled envelope, you will find no such thing. The papers have not been lost in the railway lines, nor has the postal coach misplaced them. You needn´t yell at your assistant, the boy´s nerves shall be spared. The lack of weight to this correspondence is entirely my fault.
You believed in me, and I failed you. All those days we spent preparing for this, the research, the drafts, the hopes and dreams we shared in the darkest hours of night, while indulging with your most expensive brandy, were but for not. Although I have managed to find and indeed speak to the fairy — and will recount what I heard and saw — I fear we won’t be able to publish it. I do not wish to risk you, my dear friend, being ridiculed for my incompetence. My hope is that, as I narrate the mishaps of my journey, you will come to understand.
However, I should also warn you that I do have an ulterior motive for writing to you today. There is something I must tell you, something I have discovered and that is, perhaps, even more valuable — or at least that is my hope, I won’t know until my return. But I beg that you endure my clumsy ramblings before I can manage the words out and onto this parchment.
I do hope you understand.
It took me weeks to locate the brook of trees marked on the map. I travelled from village to village, collecting stories from innkeepers, bakers, blacksmiths, butchers, maids, until I finally found the path into Fae: a narrow stone lane between an Ash tree and a Blackthorn at the top of an ancient barrow in the country. I was very lonely walking the enchanted trails of the woods, with only the trees and the flowers and the knowledge that you were waiting eagerly for my return keeping me company. When thirsty, I found a bubbling brook which got me on the right track. Then I sat by the waterfall and waited.
I don’t know what I had expected, but surely it was not what I found. As dusk fell over the forest, casting the sky in purple light, the fairy approached me with suspicion. I held my breath under their scrutiny. Skin as black as the midnight sky, eyes as bright as the most radiant star. The fairy was tall — not like the pixies drawings we had dug up in that old library — and watched me through slit pupils, like a snake. He wore a frock coat and a cravat, and I felt quite inadequate in my light lounge suit. His dark indigo vest reminded me of the one you wore when we said our goodbyes. I could go on, his appearance was rather striking, but suffice to say he dressed as fashionable as us gentlemen would dress at the Queen’s Yule Ball — that is if I, a modest journalist! were ever invited. But upon further observation, I noticed the garments were not made of fabric or wool — but woven from leaves, and twigs, and flowers, and precious gemstones. He greeted me in a language I did not understand.
I introduced myself nevertheless and disclaimed my intentions. His thin lips parted in a snarl, pointy teeth bared. I feared for my life then — feared never seeing you again — but as you wisely advised me before, I quickly offered him a trinket, a gold teaspoon, as a gift and token of my good intentions.
Good morrow, he said upon accepting the present, his accent foreign but clear to my frightened ears. Master Lore was his name, and he agreed to answer the questions you and I had prepared together: what his occupation was, where he lived, what was magic like to him, where his wings were (for I could not see the set). But for each question, I got a slightly different response, and never the one I was hoping for. Even though his grammar was perfect by all standards — even yours, the best editor of the kingdom! the man behind the first and most successful occultism bulletin! — his answers barely made sense. You will see what I mean.
He said his occupation was fairying, a full-time position he did with pride. What did he mean by fairying? He meant being, and breathing, and living. What about those deals we so often hear about, could he offer me the world in exchange for something as trivial as my soul? What would he do with my soul? he asked, and then offered me his instead. Did he have a soul at all? He couldn’t recall, but if so, he had no use for one. He would very much like another trinket though.
Lore lived in that very forest, under the bubbling brook I had stopped earlier for a drink. Was it damp and cold and lonely? Yes, he said, the loveliest place indeed. His family often visited; they had parties that lasted centuries under the starry endless night. Centuries? I gasped. Oh yes, indeed, he assured me, he and I had been talking for years already, time slips by fast when one is having fun. I shuddered then, dreading that I might find you, my dear friend, an old man upon my return. I know now that is not the case. I came back to the Inn but a week after my departure. Master Lore seemed to have a different understanding of time than we do.
To my astonishment, the word magic was foreign to him, his tongue stumbled over the syllables drawing giggles from his throat — giggles that sounded eerily like bells. What did magic mean? I told him about the spells, the rituals, the potions, the abracadabra incantations we so often see in tales of his kind. He still didn’t understand. I breathe, he said, and the realm breathes with me. That was the most coherent sentence he could manage about the topic.
What about his wings, wasn’t he supposed to have them? Birds had wings, he said, and he was not a bird. Insects had wings too, he continued, and bats and sometimes fish. He was none of that. What was he then? His answer was simple — well, I am, of course! Did he fly? Yes, he said, always, I am flying right now. He was not, his bare feet were rooted on the grainy ground, but he didn’t seem to grasp the difference.
You can imagine my frustration, dear friend. Speaking to him was like speaking to a mad butterfly, and not realising the one mad was me for speaking to a foolish bug. He seemed to enjoy my grievance, noting how beautiful my cheeks and ears had become with all that red smeared over them.
I offered him another trinket, a porcelain doll which belonged to my late mother.
Please tell me about yourself, I finally pleaded, and let him speak freely. He relished the sound of his voice, and I did my very best to follow the winding paths his story took.
He was Master Lore, but that was not his real name. He kept his name in a locked box, lest someone steal it. Lore was a name given by one of our kind, a pretty thing he had for dinner one night, who tasted of apples and heartache. I kept my face straight as he laughed upon remembering he had indeed struck a deal with the little thing — a kiss in exchange for a secret. He could not remember what the secret was, but she left with his kiss and a wholesome heart. I breathed out relieved then, that the girl had survived this eerie encounter, but now that I think about it, I am not entirely sure. Did I misinterpret his story? Was he in fact saying he ate the poor little thing? Perhaps he had her over for dinner, but what did he mean about her tasting like heartache? Alas, I guess I will never know.
His family enjoyed bathing in the sun, he went on, fancied stretching their branches towards the heavens, dancing with the wind, and also running along the shore, wetting the grounds and playing inside animals’ stomachs. They were wicked things, he promised, filled with mischief and murk. He much preferred the umbra, collected them into his skin.
That was when he asked me a question. Why had I summoned him there? I told him about our project, my life’s work! I told him about our deadline, and about you, dear friend, I said you would be waiting for my return.
He asked then if I loved you. The question caught me entirely off guard. What did he know about love? He said he knew it all. Ignoring all my following questions, he played with the trinkets I had offered. The interview would be over, I understood, unless I answered his question truthfully.
We have now reached the part where I tell you what I promised I would. What I hinted at in this letter, what I have struggled to keep hidden inside my heart.
The part where I tell you that I said yes, indeed, I loved you.
Please forgive me if my words bring you sorrow, but I love you, dear friend. I have loved you for a while now, though I cannot say precisely when these feelings began afflicting my troubled heart. But I do. I love you.
He asked if I had ever told you that, and I said no, indeed I hadn’t. He asked why. I didn’t know why.
Was it because I was afraid, because I feared your rejection? Am I the coward I have always believed I was not? Indeed, I think I am.
As I write to you, my dear, dear friend, I consider throwing this letter in the fire, set this clumsy declaration ablaze, and scribble an awkward excuse about how I failed to locate the fairy, how I failed you.
But Lore’s words upon our departure still burn in my mind and chest — what is the point of love if one is doomed to love alone?
And that is why instead of a manuscript, an interview that would set our careers into a shooting success, you are receiving this… love letter. I won’t burn it. I won’t rewrite it. I will fold this wrinkled piece of parchment and have the boy that serves this Inn send it back to you.
I hope you won’t hate me for disclosing my heart, but I will understand if you do. I have but a penny to my name, and nothing to offer you but my heart. I hope that is enough.
I shall arrive in a month, perhaps shortly after this letter reaches you, perhaps without giving you enough time to make up your mind about me. But I won’t come to you. I shall wait for you instead, at the park, on the winter solstice day at noon. If you choose to come, you will find me below the Rowan tree, where we had that pleasant picnic lunch and came up with the idea for this never-to-be interview.
You needn’t come, but I shall wait for you, nevertheless.
Yours truly,
Oliver Quill
END
About the Author
Isa Ottoni (she/her) writes fiction with a spark of magic and fantasy with a spark of reality. When Isa is not writing, she is teaching and putting her PhD in food consumption sciences to good use, even though she would much rather be writing or reading about — you guessed, magic. She believes fantasy is what makes life fun, and that is a hill she is ready to die on. Isa was born and raised in Brazil but moved to Portugal seeking a new adventure. She lives with her incredibly supportive husband and their dog, a mischievous little mutt who thinks himself the king of everything that light touches. Isa doesn’t have the heart to contradict him.
Find More at the links below:
The Fantasy & Sci-Fi Writers Alliance 