The Underland

Up to this point, Martin had not felt like an outsider. He’d felt as though all that had happened had been happening to him, as though it was a dream that only he was experiencing. That all changed when Thrushsong led him into the faerie village. The village looked like nothing Martin would have conjured in his mind when he thought about the word. There were no quaint houses, no town square with old men smoking pipes and playing checkers or backgammon. The village was, in plain and simple terms, a tree. An old, twisted and gnarled oak, with a thick bole that split into many impressive trunks that were the bases of an uncountable number of strong branches. The tree was massive, too big to even guess what its relative size would be if Martin was his normal height. He recognized it as the faerie village immediately, not by sight but by a feeling. Before he saw any faeries, Martin felt their eyes, watching him. He could feel their wariness and distrust. The steel broadsword at his side began to feel like a burden, a weighty mark of an alien.

When they had passed a few feet under the oak’s majestic canopy, Thrushsong had told Martin to “Wait here,” and then flown up towards the center of the tree. Martin watched him go, and followed his course through the air. Then he saw the village. The bark of the oak was dotted all over with nest-like pods, completely enclosed. The pods, which were the faeries’ dwellings, looked as though they were made of scraps, little bits of wood and leaves, all held together and attached to the bark by an epoxy of tree sap and resin. Some were adorned with flower blossoms. Each faerie house had a few openings just big enough for a faerie to slip in and out of with ease. Nearly every single hole had a head poking out of it, looking at Martin with the type of guarded curiosity of a group of campers, watching a grizzly bear ambling toward their campsite. At that moment, Martin understood that this was all real, that he was, for the first time in his life, truly in a foreign land, out of his element, at the mercy of the natives. He nervously shifted the sword in his belt, trying to hide it behind his body. That turned out to be a mistake, he realized, as he watched many of the faerie faces flinch and turn a little more hostile than wary. He immediately removed his hand from the sword and folded them in front of him, sitting cross-legged on the ground. The faerie faces relaxed, but only slightly.

After what seemed an eternity, Thrushsong returned. Martin saw him flying back down toward him with a large bundle in his arms. Thankful for something other than the staring faces to focus on, Martin turned his attention to Thrushsong and stood up to meet him as he alighted a few paces ahead of Martin. Thrushsong held out the bundle for Martin to take and Martin saw that it was a scabbard for his sword, with a twine peace-bond, and a bulky length of cloth to wrap it in.

As Martin sheathed and wrapped his broadsword, Thrushsong filled him in on the result of his scout into “town”. “The elders have agreed to let you stay with us and help you go back to your world. However, I am responsible for you, and you must remain with me at all times. It seems the timing of your arrival is unfortunate; nine other human men passed by our village several minutes before we arrived. They failed to notice my people or our homes, but it was very clear from their, shall we say, demeanor, that they intended no good towards this land. If you know anything about these men, it would be wise to discuss it with the elders. I will take you to them as soon as you have stowed your iron in my house.” Thrushsong said this last bit in a way that made sure Martin knew the personal sacrifice he was making by keeping iron in his home. He continued in a voice that was slightly colder, “You may want to explain in a little more detail just how you came to ‘fall into a light’.”

Martin nodded humbly, and his heart sank a little. He had hoped to avoid the topic of the druids and their plan. He wished to leave Underland quickly and without any more notice than was necessary. Now he was to be questioned by the faerie village council. This is not good. I’ll have to tell them about the banshee and what she said to me.

Martin followed Thrushsong closer toward the bole of the towering oak. When they reached it, the blond faerie put both hands against the bark and whispered something Martin could not hear. What Martin did hear was a loud creaking sound, not high and squeaky, but deep, like big pieces of lumber shrinking or expanding in spring or winter. Martin’s eyes nearly popped and his jaw dropped as he watched a perfect staircase grow against the side of the oak’s trunk. He watched it form all the way around the curve of the tree, out of sight.

“Climb,” said Thrushsong, “the steps will not last long.”

Martin climbed, and Thrushsong followed. Several times, Martin looked back and saw that the steps behind the faerie were creaking back into the tree, the only way was up, and they had to move quickly. There were no turns or forks, only one stairway formed, and according to Thrushsong, it would lead them straight to his house. Martin now saw several faeries fluttering from house to house, somewhat less nervous now that his sword was peace-bonded and wrapped, spreading the word of who the strange visitor was and what the elder council had determined to do with him. Who needs mobile phones when you can fly to your friends’ house and chat? Martin thought, with more than a touch of envy.

As promised, the stairs led to a large faerie house, adorned with several yellow blossoms of a flower that Martin didn’t recognize; he did notice, however that they were the same hue as Thrushsong’s hair. Thrushsong led Martin through the entrance, conveniently located near the edge of where the pod was attached to the bark. The interior was beautiful. The floor was covered in a springy moss that made Martin want to take off his shoes and wriggle his toes. Tiny flowers of all colors grew in clumps near the rounded walls; faerie sized flowers, Martin noted, that would be too small to see if he were his normal size. Cloth of all colors was draped in a swooping pattern, criss-crossing along the walls. The light seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, but then, upon further examination, Martin discovered tiny glowing orbs embedded in the walls and the floor and the ceiling. They glowed a soft blue-white, then all changed to green-white, then purple-white, and went on cycling through the entire rainbow, and all the bits in between.

“Here, put your iron inside.” Thrushsong was holding the lid of a large chest open in the corner of the room. Martin pulled himself away from marveling at the fantastical decor and stowed his sword obediently. Thrushsong closed the chest, never touching the bundle, and pushed it into the wall, apparently where it had come from.

“We are due for an audience with the elder council in a few minutes,” said the faerie, “but we have time enough for me to show off the view from my windows.” He led Martin to one such opening, and the lights in the room seemed to dim automatically, making for a clearer view out the window. There was no glass, but the round portal was sealed by some transparent membrane that Martin could not identify. He was about to ask what it was, and then go on to ask what the lights were, and how the flowers could grow so small, but what he saw out the window took the questions from his mind.

There, what Martin guessed was a little under a mile away, was the castle he’d been spending the night in. He recognized it, barely, for what had been a well maintained relic of times past, was a ruin, stone walls crumbling as if it had been untended for centuries upon centuries. It was overgrown with ivy and other plant life, and most of the towers had fallen. Martin closed his eyes, unwilling to consider the implications of what they told him.

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