The Underland

“Food” was virtually unrecognizable. Martin wandered into the room Thrushsong had indicated absent-mindedly looking for a refrigerator. His confusion when he didn’t find one only lasted a moment, and he chastised himself for the mental slip. He shook off the fuzz that had been collecting in his mind since arriving in Underland and learning that fantasy was reality and used the food puzzle as a distraction.

Martin consciously widened his perspective on food storage and began to look around the room. It had a low table, like the ones in the Elders’ nest, with a few cushions on the floor around it for sitting on, though little extra padding was required when the floor was made of springy moss. He began looking for cupboards, or something like cupboards, and managed to find some irregularly shaped panels in the wall that seemed to be made of different material from the rest of the wall. But no handle or grip-groove seemed evident. He reached out and tentatively touched one of the panels. Instantly, the panel stirred and Martin jerked his hand away as an opening appeared in the center of the panel and then quickly grew like the opening of an iris. Martin peeked inside and saw small cubby hole containing a few bowls. He was about to reach out and take one when he realized the panel might close up on his hand. The edge of the opening didn’t look sharp or even hard, but Martin had no idea what kind of force it would exert if it found something blocking its action. He put a hand on the wall near the panel and leaned, thinking. The panel closed slowly. Hmm… Martin touched the panel again, opening it, then he touched the wall beside it, and it closed, this time more quickly and decisively, just as Martin had been. It was fascinating! But Martin was hungry. He opened the panel and grabbed a bowl, then closed the panel again, seeing no actual edible material inside.

Martin opened the other panels, one by one, and found only spoons, jugs, cups and a few more bowls. He collected a cup and a spoon. I might as well be prepared just in case the impossible does happen and I actually find something to put in my mouth. Then he saw a little section of the wall that jutted out, like a counter, with a long, trough-like basin in it. Above the basin were several of what could only be described as the faerie version of beer taps! Martin yipped a short laugh of triumph and hurried to the taps. They were made of some sort of plaster-like stuff, not brass, but he was sure something edible or at least potable would come out of them. He reached out to touch the first one, the one farthest from the drain in the basin, and instantly, he tasted, no, more than tasted, he felt the sensation of water in his mouth. When he took his hand away, the sensation was gone. He tried touching the other taps and the same thing happened, though the taste and feel was different for each one. Some were very sweet and syrupy, like honey, and some were thick and almost buttery, like cream, others were nearly paste-like and had various nutty flavours. He placed his bowl under one of these and tried squeezing a little knobby protrusion on the tap. A thick paste oozed into his bowl like ice-cream from the soft-serve machine at Dairy Queen. He supplemented that with a bit of the thinnest sweet syrup, then filled his cup with water, and sat down at the table to eat.

The food filled Martin up quickly, and he felt healthier after just a few mouthfuls. Even the water seemed more refreshing than Martin was used to. Not a moment after Martin had taken the last draught from his cup of water a voice called out from the main room.

“Martin Bentbrook!” It was not Thrushsong. Martin placed his dishes in the basin hoping that was where they were meant to go when used, and hurried into the main room. The surly guard faerie stood in the doorway. “You are summoned by the Elder Council. Come with me.”

“Where is Thrushsong?”

“Your host’s immediate duties are not your concern, human. Your only concern is not keeping the Elder Council waiting. Come with me.” The faerie stepped to the side of the entrance, giving Martin room to pass through. Martin sighed and obliged. He nearly fell out of the nest.

“Where are the steps? How can I go the the Elders’ nest if you don’t make a path for me?” Martin was about to round on the faerie when he felt two strands of rope snake around his torso, one at the top and one at the bottom, and tighten. Without another word, the faerie pushed Martin out the entry-hole.

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“A pixie?” Martin’s face was a mask of confusion. “Aren’t pixies and faeries the same thing?”

Thrushsong sighed, looking, if anything, more perplexed. “No.”

“But no folklorist I’ve ever read has ever distinguished one from the other. All the pictures show them with wings.” Martin floundered. “Tinkerbell –”

“Martin. You are not making sense to me. You truly saw that the pixie had no wings?”

“Yes! Yes of course, why shouldn’t I?”

Thrushsong lowered himself gingerly into a comfortable seat and indicated that Martin should do the same. After a long moment, Thrushsong inhaled sharply, hesitated, then began to speak. “Martin, it is commonly known among the people of the Underland that pixies are naturally mischievous. They are tricksters, not evil, as such, but they often do much more harm than they do good. Faeries do not travel to the Overland unless there is great need, we prefer to keep to ourselves. Pixies, however, take great pride in their ability to meddle in human affairs and do so on a continual basis. It is a right of passage among them to travel to the Overland and create as large a disturbance as is possible.”

Martin wondered how many times he’d been the victim of a pixie. He wondered what the limits to their effects were; what large disturbances were they responsible for? Accidents? Marriages breaking up? Elections? Wars? He found himself putting pixies to blame for many of his personal complaints in life. He found himself disliking pixies quite a bit.

“It is much to my people’s chagrin that every pixie has a charm placed over him at birth,” Thrushsong continued. ”The effect is that to human eyes, a pixie will always appear as a faerie, with wings exactly like ours. That way, we are blamed for their mischief. Long ago, we were an equal target for their pranks. They were so disruptive that my ancestors actually declared war on the pixies. As far as we are told, no battles were fought, but a treaty was signed that dictated no pixie was to interfere with faerie affairs. The penalty for such interference is one thousand moons of servitude. The pixie you saw in the elders’ nest is serving his punishment.”

“I see. So, why didn’t I see the wings that all humans are supposed to see?”

“That is what puzzles me, and I’m certain it puzzles the council as well. Perhaps it is because you are here, in the Underland, perhaps the charm only works in the Overland. So few humans come here and so few faeries go there that such knowledge has never been uncovered to us. Two other possibilities are left to us, one is that the pixie’s charm has failed him for some reason, although I find that extremely unlikely, pixie magic does not fail. The other is that you are special in some way. I believe the latter explanation is the true one. There is something special about you, Martin Bentbrook, what is it?”

Martin had no desire whatsoever to discuss the possibility that he was special in any way. He wanted only to be seen as a human being who had stumbled mistakenly into a strange land, worth only the effort of sending him home. He left Thrushsong’s question unanswered and changed the subject. “One thousand moons of servitude, did you say?” He did some quick arithmetic, That’s more than eighty years! ”That seems an awfully long time, how long do faeries and pixies live anyway?”

“Some longer than others. All much longer than most humans. I have seen one thousand, four hundred and seventy-three moons. The eldest faerie, who lives far from here, has seen over five hundred-thousand moons. Some say she has discovered the secret of eternal life. Pixies live much shorter lives, typically, because they are so reckless in their ways. Most pixies live only to see ten thousand moons.”

Martin’s mental calculator worked in overdrive to keep up with the figures. Thrushsong was one hundred and twenty-two years old, pixies’ average life expectancy was over eight hundred, and the eldest faerie was well over forty thousand years old. Martin found himself so overwhelmed by the scale of comparison to human life-expectancy, that he had to get up and move around. He walked again to the window that looked out toward the ruined castle. The sky had darkened and he could see no trace of the stones, yet he stared anyway.

Something struck him about what Thrushsong had said. “Thrushsong you said that faeries and pixies live longer than most humans. No human lives longer than one hundred years and change. What did you mean by that?”

Thrushsong opened his mouth to answer but another voice interrupted him.

“Thrushsong!” The voice came from a faerie, hovering outside the entrance to Thrushsong’s nest. It was the guard from outside the elders’ nest. “The council summons you immediately. Leave the human here.”

Thrushsong turned to Martin, “I must go now. You will be safe and comfortable here. Seek out food in the room yonder if you grow hungry.” He pointed through a doorway and was gone without another word.

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The walk back to Thrushsong’s nest had been silent. Martin stewed in his own nerves and embarrassment. He’d made a braying ass of himself in front of the council of elders and he knew it. But it was shocking, and, Martin hadn’t fully decided how he felt about it, but probably inexcusable for the faeries to keep a human being as a slave. And if he was not a slave, if he was merely a hired servant, why parade him in front of Martin like that? Were they meaning to intimidate him, to give him a glimpse of what was to become of him if he made a wrong step? Martin grumbled, frightened and appalled. Thrushsong walked along a few paces ahead, leaving Martin to his own internal discourse.

News, apparently, traveled fast in Ciltandoor. Every window and doorway of every nest Martin passed, a pair of faerie eyes stared out at him. Martin was still embarrassed by his outburst in the elders’ nest, but even though he knew he didn’t know all the facts, allowed his outrage to boil over his shame and he glared back at as many faces as he could as he and Thrushsong made their way home. Thrushsong remained oblivious to the stares and Martin’s reaction to them, or at least, he pretended to remain oblivious. There was no way to tell.

When they arrived at Thrushsong’s nest, the faerie seemed almost relieved, as if a difficult ordeal had been surmounted. He stood to the side of the entrance and let Martin go in ahead of him. Thrushsong followed quickly, and once they were both inside, took a deep breath and began, “Martin, I –”

“What kind of people are you?” Martin rounded on Thrushsong almost as soon as they were both through the doorway. “You keep humans as slaves? Is that it? Was that man a slave? What did he do to your people? Is that what will happen to me?” Martin stopped when the look of bewilderment on Thrushsong’s face finally registered with him. “What? What’s the matter?”

“Martin, I do not know what to tell you, except that,” Thrushsong fumbled with his thoughts for a moment, something faeries rarely do, “the servant you saw was not a human being.”

Martin stared for a moment. “What do you mean ‘not a human being’? He certainly looked nothing like a faerie, from what I’ve seen of you people. He was pale and dark-haired and he looked nearly ill, with sunken eyes. Every faerie I’ve met has looked tan and fair-haired and the picture of health. Oh yes, and let’s not forget the complete and utter lack of wings!” Martin’s passion was picking up again, “how do you explain that?”

Thrushsong furrowed his brow and blew some air from his lungs, as if he were confronting a tricky puzzle. “You really saw no wings?”

“Don’t patronize me, Thrushsong, you know he hasn’t got any wings. What is he then if he’s not human?”

“He is a pixie.”

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Martin expected to come face to face with a tribunal of hoary, wizened and stern looking faeries, all lined up at an enormous table, or perhaps arranged in a circle of throne-like chairs. He did not expect what he did come face to face with when he entered the elders’ nest. There was no tribunal, no panel, not even a circle, and the only tables in the room were low coffee-table-like pieces. The whole place looked very much like the common room of a posh college dormitory except with that springy moss floor and a lot more flowers. The elders (Martin assumed they were the elders, anyhow) were scattered about the room on very comfortable looking chairs in groups of two or three, chatting and drinking from simple wooden cups. Although most of them did have hair in various shades of gray, they were neither wizened nor stern-looking; there were twenty-one of them.

Martin softly stepped a few paces into the room (an easy feat on the mossy floor) and quietly cleared his throat. His cough drew a glance from the nearest faerie elder, a woman dressed in a pale green linen garment cut just as simply as Thrushsong’s clothes had been. She excused herself from her little group of three and stepped gracefully toward Martin, her rice-paper wings waving lazily with each footfall. Her hair was short and colored a dark shade of gray, shot through with streaks of lighter gray. It was arranged in a feathered up sort of do, which gave the impression that she’d frozen a roaring fire solid on her head and it had turned gray. Her face gave Martin no clue as to her age. She might have been forty, or four-hundred, though Martin suspected it was more toward the latter. Her deep, chestnut eyes betrayed her centuries of acquired wisdom, and along with it, a deep sadness, though her face was bright and smiling.

“Greetings to you, Martin Bentbrook.” Her voice was clear and musical. She took Martin’s arm and wrapped her own around it before he could offer his hand to shake. “I am called Willowbreeze. Welcome to the Underland, and to our village, Ciltandoor.”

Martin found he was being led to a small sofa, built for two. Willowbreeze sat him down and then seated herself beside him. She held up a hand showing two fingers, and Martin saw a younger faerie (Ha! That could mean he’s only three-hundred, for all I know) emerge from a shadow near the wall and dart out of the room. There was something different about him, but Martin couldn’t place it. He let the thought leave his mind. “Thank-you, Willowbreeze. It’s an honor to be received with such … familiarity by the elder council of a faerie village.”

Willowbreeze laughed, a sound like little silver balls tumbling across a xylophone. “I hope you are not offended. We do not stand on pomp and ceremony here in Ciltandoor.”

“Oh no, I’m not offended at all, in fact, I was terrified that I was going to have to face some sort of faerie tribunal!”

“Well, in a way, you will face a tribunal. I will be your host and guide you among the several groups of elders. You will tell your story. You will tell how you came here and why, and the elders will ask their questions of you. You will have to repeat your story several times, but I’m sure you’ll find this preferable to addressing twenty-one utterly foreign beings all at once, mmm?”

“Most likely,” Martin admitted, though he saw through the scheme. Each repetition would bring different details to light, especially if the faeries were asking tricky questions. Willowbreeze would hear it all, and though she had mentioned no judgment, he was sure there was to be one, and he was doubly sure it rested primarily with her. He smiled at her, a knowing smile, the kind an easy-going and rich gambler gives the dealer when he knows the house has rigged the game. Martin was worried about what they might discover, worried that his story would land him in the faerie version of prison or worse, in the faerie army or something equally as deadly, but he wasn’t about to let anybody see that he was worried.

At that moment, the young faerie appeared before them and offered them each a wooden cup. Martin took his and so did Willowbreeze. “It is a mixture of nectar from various fruit blossoms,” she explained.

Martin looked at their server closely but still could not find anything specific that was odd about him other than darker hair and paler skin than he’d seen on any faerie. But then again, he hadn’t see very many faeries at all. The problem stuck with him this time, and nagged away at the back of his mind for the duration of the meeting. Willowbreeze, true to her word, never left his side as he was paraded around to each little knot of elders. She did everything she could to make him comfortable and easy, she smoothed conversation where it became confusing, broke ice wherever it formed, and introduced him cheerfully to each faerie that he met. He remembered only one of their names, however, Oaknut. Oaknut was the only elder that was not attached to a group. He was alone, sipping his nectar, with a slightly sour look on his face. “He is called Oaknut,” Willowbreeze had explained as they approached him, “because he is hard, like and acorn, and, also like an acorn, bitter inside.”

The sour look had only increased its intensity when Martin and Willowbreeze approached. At first Martin had left the banshee and her prophecy out of his story, saying only that he’d gone down to try to get rid of the druids and had been accidentally drawn into the ball of light they had created. It was Oaknut who had asked him what could have possibly provoked him to rush into the middle of a group of druids, was he really that stupid? Martin objected, foolishly, to Oaknut’s choice of words and before too long the sour faerie had extracted the greater portion of the truth from him. From that point on, Willowbreeze had been a little less friendly, and Martin just told everyone the whole story, including the bits Oaknut had missed. This made Willowbreeze a bit happier.

Finally, Martin had spoken with the last of the elders, and Willowbreeze took him back to their original seat. It took Martin’s last bit of energy to avoid collapsing heavily onto the sofa. When he did ease himself into the seat, he felt every muscle melt into jelly and he sighed.

“It was a trying ordeal, was it not?” said Willowbreeze. “Every tribunal should be. I am glad you told the truth. Things do not go well for those who lie to the elder council of Ciltandoor.”

Martin smiled weakly, aware that she had just been mocking him. He was also aware that everyone in the room was talking about him in whisper soft voices.

“Do you have any questions of me?” Willowbreeze said.

“I have a lot of questions. But I’m too tired to ask all of them. What’s going to happen to me now?”

“You will go back the Thrushsong’s dwelling and stay there with him for the night. We will decide what is to become of you and you will be summoned here again in the morning. Is there anything else?”

“Yes, actually, is it possible for me to have another cup of nectar? I think I might need it to get me safely to Thrushsong’s nest.”

“Nest? Ah, you have given our dwellings a name. It is a good name, fitting.” Willowbreeze raised her hand and raised her index finger. The pale faerie emerged from a shadow and went to fetch Martin his drink.

Martin shook his head, trying to clear the tired fuzziness from it. He wanted to get a very good look at the pale faerie this time. The drink was brought, and Martin’s eyes never left the server. This time, he watched as the faerie bowed and walked away.

“He’s got no wings!” Martin blurted out. The server glanced back and shot Martin a scowl. All the conversations in the room ceased abruptly, then started up again, the whispers even quieter and more intense than before. Only Oaknut, still alone at the edge of the room, peered at Martin with a new, amused interest.

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“Martin!” Thrushsong said for the third time, raising his voice a little to see if that would have any effect. His wings fluttered in agitation. “What is wrong?”

Martin was staring out the window at the ruin of the castle, his castle, the one he’d rented out for the previous night. It had been in pretty good condition then; a long way from the jumble of fallen stones and creeper vines that it was now. Something tugged at Martin’s brain and the last minute or so of auditory information (which had been stored in some sort of memory buffer) came streaming in. He realized that Thrushsong was practically shouting at him. His trance was broken and he turned to the faerie, embarrassed and more than a little worried.

“That castle wasn’t a ruin last night. It wasn’t brand new, but at least it was in full form. What happens when a person comes to the Underland? Do they travel forwards in time?” Martin’s voice shrank, “can they go back?”

Thrushsong sighed. “I do not know the answers to your questions, Martin. I am sorry. No one has visited us from your world in my lifetime. I am but a youngster, you see. Perhaps the elders will have better answers.” Thrushsong put a hand on Martin’s shoulder and turned him away from the window. It was an awkward gesture for the faerie, as if he did not know how to handle a human, though he was slightly more comfortable now that the sword had been put away safely. “I am sorry that the view disturbed you so greatly. But put aside your fears, there is great power in the Underland. I am sure all will be set to the curves of the flow.”

Martin’s brow furrowed. “You mean ’set to rights’, don’t you, as in right angles, plumb and level, like in a house?”

“No! To wish such a thing would be to go against nature.” Thrushsong shook his head, horrified at the thought. He led Martin back toward the door. Martin glanced around the room again, and noticed that there wasn’t a single right angle in the place. It truly looked as though it had been grown on the side of the tree.

“Of course,” Martin muttered, it was his turn to shake his head, he’d once again reminded himself of how alien he was in this place.

Thrushsong leaned out the doorway and placed his palms on the bark of the tree once more. The creaking sound returned, and so did the stairs. Martin waited for Thrushsong to lead the way, but instead the faerie took flight. “I must go ahead and prepare the elders to receive you,” he said. “Go, now, follow the steps, they lead only to one place.” And with that he fluttered off.

This time, the journey was a more lateral one. Martin followed the stairs around one of the tree’s trunks and on to a branch. He tried very hard not to look down. Thrushsong was not there to catch him if he fell this time and although Martin was a fairly sure-footed man, the utter lack of any railing made him a little uneasy. He settled on a steady pace, and noticed that the stairs disappeared behind him at the same slow rate. He slowed down even more, and so did the stairs. Martin shook his head ruefully, Thrushsong had played a joke on him. Payback, Martin thought, for creeping out the locals with my “iron”.

In a few short minutes, Martin saw that the stairs ahead of him had reached their destination, which Martin hoped was his destination as well. After the stunt Thrushsong had pulled with the magic stairs, Martin didn’t trust him not to send him on a direct path into some woman’s bathroom while she was bathing. As Martin approached the nest (he’d decided to call them that) – it was a large nest, larger than most of the others – to faeries came out of the main entrance. One of them was Thrushsong, who looked a little bit uncomfortable and nervous, and the other appeared to be some sort of guard. Whoever he was, he wore a short weapon at his side. It looked to Martin like it might be a sword, but it was wrapped, rather than sheathed, so it was impossible for him to be certain. The armed faerie glared at Thrushsong, then at Martin, then back at Thrushsong. Thrushsong seemed to shrink a bit where he stood. Martin, however, squared his shoulders and kept walking toward the nest. He knew he would have to walk right by that guard, but he had done nothing wrong. He let that fact spread confidence through his mind and body. He had very little idea of what to expect.

As Martin stepped up to the entrance, the guard shifted one step sideways, to block Martin’s path. He eyed Martin up and down, then grunted dismissively and moved aside, clearly unimpressed with the idea that Martin might pose a threat. The guard’s last intimidation tactic didn’t shake Martin, however. He took a breath, squared his shoulders again, and marched into the nest.

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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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Martin had always considered himself to be an adventurous person. After all, he spent copious quantities of money and effort engineering his own forays into the world’s most exciting and magnificent places and cultural experiences. But that was just it, all of his adventures were engineered controlled, created, hardly more exciting than a ride on a roller coaster. Sure, something could always go wrong, but each “adventure” was designed to be safe, and given the appearance of risk. Now, here was Martin, not half a foot tall, in a strange land that may, or may not be Scotland, with a pack of nine druids (druids!?!), powerful enough, at least, to shrink ten people, on the loose, aiming to exercise some monstrous plan to enslave a magical race, and he, Martin Bentbrook, was meant to stop them, five inches tall, with a sword that belonged through an olive in a martini glass. Martin began to understand what the word “adventure” really meant, and then he panicked.

When Martin was on vacation, when he was out in the world where he could make the rules and set the limits, he was brave. He was brave because he was playing a game, and because he was in control. He knew he could back out of anything, at any time. If ever one of his vacations became too much for him, he could just pack up and go home. He called the shots, and he could call it quits. But when Martin was at home, when he was attached to the corporate/consumer machine, he had no control. He had to purchase to survive, and he had to earn to purchase. He was a pawn in the great game of market economics. This vacation was beginning to seem very much like life at home, except now there was real danger, added to the mix. At home he was a pawn in a game of numbers and processes and buying and selling, and the danger was figurative – here he was a pawn in a game of swords and magic, and the danger could kill him.

Why did the banshee, or whatever she was, choose him? He didn’t feel very brave right now. Right now he felt like sitting at a desk in a cubicle and pushing paper around. He crumpled against the thistle’s enormous stalk, and sat motionless, willing himself to wake up from what he knew was not a dream. Before very long, Martin had managed to convince himself that the banshee had singled him out in error. He decided that he would have a bit of an adventure after all, and his quest would be getting back to his own size and his own world (if, in fact he was in a different one, he was still unsure of that). Until he managed that, he would do his best to take what came in stride, and to keep his head down.

Martin got up and stretched, picked up his sword and jammed it through his belt. He looked around, trying to decide what would be the best direction in which to set off, and then he heard a soft sigh. It startled him.

“Who’s there?” he called in a wobbly sort of voice. He looked around in all directions (seeing no-one) and tried to free his sword from his belt.

“Oh, please leave that where it is,” said a voice rather like a child’s. The voice was that of a young boy’s, but as if someone much older was speaking with it. “I’m allergic to it, you know.”

The voice had come from above him. Martin swung his head to face upwards. About two feet up the thistle, a figure was perched in the crook of a large barb, peering down at Martin. His hair was cream custard yellow and his skin was a deep tan. Even from that great distance, Martin could see that his eyes were bright green, and that they sparkled. His clothes were simple, just a sleeveless, white tunic and knee-length honey-colored trousers. His face, well, his face was odd, like his bones had been sculpted by a master craftsman instead of a mere tradesman. Martin stared and let his sword slip back into the belt. The strange man (boy? Martin was unsure) smiled.

Martin cleared his throat, “What, um, who are you?”

“Ha-ha, it is rude for the visitor to demand information before offering any himself,” the smile remained intact – he wasn’t really offended, just making manners into a game.

“I’m sorry. My name is Martin Bentbrook. I came here by accident, I think. I was in Scotland, you see, and, well, this sounds silly … I, I fell on a light.”

“Ah. A light. That is troubling.” The blond man frowned slightly, then the smile returned. “But we can speak of such things later. For now, you must consider yourself lucky to have stumbled upon Underland. I am called Thrushsong, Martin Bentbrook. You will come with me to my home? I will show you some hospitality before you go back to Overland.”

“Um, certainly. It’s lovely to meet you, Thrushsong. Do, do you need any help coming down from there? How did you climb up there without me noticing, anyway?”

“I did not climb.” Thrushsong stood on the thistle barb and two paper thin wings unfolded at his back. Without any hesitation, he leaped from the barb and glided down in a lazy circle to meet Martin on the ground. Martin stared. He had not expected that.

“I’m a faerie, you see. I do not need to climb.”

“I see.” Martin found his voice, and his manners. He offered his hand for Thrushsong to shake. Thrushsong looked at it, then his eyes darted to the sword, warily. Finally he smiled, a forced grin and took Martin’s hand, keeping his eyes on the sword. When the handshake was over, Thrushsong stepped back a pace, keeping his distance from the weapon.

“You don’t like my sword, do you? You said you were allergic? I’ve never heard of anyone being allergic to swords, unless you call bleeding when you’re cut an allergic reaction.”

“I am not allergic to swords. I have one of my own in fact. It is the iron I am allergic to – all faeries are. But do not think that you may use that against us, we are not so weak that one iron blade would vanquish us all. We will find you a scabbard for it when we reach the village. The others will be more comfortable around you that way.”

“Thank-you. Does one of your friends know how to send me back to Scotland?”

“You are still in Scotland, Martin, just in a part you couldn’t see before. But yes, perhaps, one of my kin may be able to help you. We shall see. Come now, I will take you to my home.”

Thrushsong began to walk in the direction the druids had gone. That gave Martin a bad feeling, but apparently, his best chance at getting home so far was with Thrushsong. Martin shrugged and followed.

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Martin woke to darkness. Darkness and closeness, and no air. No air and yet … he could breathe. He inhaled deeply and smelled dirt, earth, rich soil. He was in the ground, buried alive! Martin began to panic, his breath coming in short, erratic bursts. He calmed himself down and began to think. That, it turns out, was a mistake. As soon as he began to think about his situation he began to wonder how much air he had left. Then, he remembered that there was no air to begin with, he’d noticed that groggily upon waking up. He thought about what he was breathing if it wasn’t air, and suddenly his nostrils and mouth were filled with dirt and he was suffocating. I’m going to die, he thought.

Desperately, Martin began to dig upward. There was no indication that the direction he was digging was in fact, upward, but Martin had a strange sureness about it. The dirt was loose, and yielded to his pawing hands. He lost his pack and his broadsword in the flurry of activity.

Then, the worst thing that could happen, happened. Martin began to sink. Despite his frantic clawing and climbing, he was moving downward, being sucked farther into the moist earth, feet first. Martin began to struggle harder, but it wasn’t long before the oxygen in his lungs was used up. He began to feel dizzy, up seemed to replace down. He seemed to be falling upward, feet first, through the dirt. Finally, he fainted from the lack of air, and his last thought, strangely, was a rational one, If I am sinking, then there must be something hollow that I’m sinking toward.

Martin’s last thought had been correct. The hollow thing he’d been sinking towards happened to be the open air. He woke a second time, this time on the ground rather than in it, and the first thing he did (because it was necessary for his continued survival) was spit out the dirt in his mouth, inhale deeply, and blow the dirt out of his nose. This took a couple of tries, but he finally got to the point where breathing was comfortable again. He looked about him. The castle was nowhere to be found. In fact, Martin found himself to be in no place that he recognized. At first glance it looked to be some sort of treeless jungle. Thick foliage surrounded him, but instead of the woody boles of trees all he saw were broad, pulpy looking plants, shooting six or eight feet in the air, the shortest of them terminating in points just above his head. He walked past a few of these plants, wondering what they were, and then something caught his eye. It was his pack, and his sword was lying beside it, only a few feet away! How fortunate; now he would at least have a change of clothes to wear (Martin didn’t fancy visiting strange lands in his pajamas).

Martin found a particularly dense cluster of the strange plants and went inside to change, and not a moment too soon. The second he’d concealed himself, he heard footsteps and soft voices. He strained to hear what was being said, and attempted to peer through the foliage at the speakers.

“It would appear we have entered the Underland undetected.”

“That is very good. Although, something strange happened near the end of the traversion. Something prevented the gate from closing when it should have.”

A third voice broke in, “No matter, no matter. Magicks of three threes are unpredictable by nature. We are here and intact, and that is what is important.” Martin caught a glimpse of the speakers. It was the druids from the castle courtyard. Of course, he thought, I followed them here, to the Underland, it is only natural that they would be nearby. I suppose I’m lucky I didn’t surface closer to them.

The first druid spoke again, “Intact yes, but not in stature. It is a pity we were unable to retain our original size, our goal would have been much easier to achieve.” With that the voices and the footsteps faded out of earshot.

Martin finished dressing and puzzled over what the last druid had said. Their goal he already knew, they came here intending to rule and enslave whoever lived here. The banshee’s people, Martin supposed. But what was that bit about size and stature? They looked to be the same size they were in the castle’s courtyard, and Martin’s body had not grown or shrunk as far as he could tell.

He shouldered his pack, rammed his sword through his belt, and stepped out of the copse of pulpy plants, pondering what the druid could have meant. And then he saw it.

Onopordum acanthium is a very long Latin word. It is also the scientific name of a plant more commonly known as the Scotch Thistle. The Scotch Thistle is Scotland’s national flower. It is a green plant, covered all over with prickly barbs and topped with a lovely purple blossom. In a Scotch Thistle’s second year it can grow up to nine feet in height.

Martin found himself standing directly in front of a Scotch Thistle. He’d seen several growing ’round about the old castle on his way in. He knew that Scotch Thistles rarely grew taller than nine feet. This Scotch Thistle towered over him, as a giant California Redwood does over a man. How could a thistle grow so tall? Martin quickly put the pieces together. The druids had shrunk, and so had he. The thistle was not of abnormal size, Martin himself was. And he’d just changed clothes in a patch of grass.

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Martin peeked out the window into the courtyard at a sight he only ever expected to see in the movies. Three groups of three robed figures stood in circles, each group equidistant from the other two. Each figure carried a carved staff in his right hand, raised, and was clutching the staff of the man to his left with his left hand, completing each circle of three. But most remarkable, and frightening, of all was the source of the ceaseless scream. A tenth figure, only vaguely humaniform, was actually swooping through the air among the three groups of … druids, Martin supposed in an incongruous moment of clarity amidst his shock. It was flying about their heads, never touching them, but seeming to pester them. Whenever it neared a druid, he would toss his head and glare at it, sending it swooping off in the opposite directions. The airborne figure was hideous. More ugly than any person Martin had ever seen. It wore loose but clinging dingy robes, betraying an emaciated female form, nearly skeletal. Its hands were exposed, gnarled and heavy-knuckled, each crooked finger terminating in a terrible hooked claw. Its head was worse, a twisted, bony face, with hardly a nose and deep, empty sockets for eyes. Its hair was not hair at all, but a bright orange flame, spewing forth from a mottled, bald scalp. Banshee, thought Martin, and he was unable to look away, horrified as he was at the sight of her.

Suddenly, the banshee became aware of Martin’s gaze. In the midst of her swooping, she noticed Martin in the window, where none of the druids had seen him. As soon as she saw him, the banshee left the druids and flew straight for Martin’s window. He was petrified, unable to move a muscle. He watched as her awful figure approached, her scream filling his ears, her bone thin hips and shriveled breasts, clearly outlined in her clinging garment brought him near sickness, but he could not look away. Then her face, her death’s mask aflame, was framed in the window, her scream pierced his very soul and she reached out with her horrible hands and clutched his face in her mangled claws -

Instantly, a change came over Martin. He was still aware of the castle, of the sword in his hands, and the druids, doing their druidy things in the courtyard. He was still aware of the horrible female form before him, of the feel of her claws piercing his cheeks and the sound of her piercing scream. But layered over those perceptions was a whole other reality. He was standing in a meadow, full of vibrant greens and flowers of every hue. Before him stood a lady, not a human lady – she was more beautiful than a human lady, and she seemed fragile and strong at the same time. Her face was breathtaking and regal, terrible power caged in fine spun glass. Her hair was the fairest Martin had ever seen, and it cascaded down her head, past long, pointed ears, and it was bejeweled with pearl combs. Her dress was purest white, and sheer. Martin could see a curved and slender figure beneath it and he blushed. Her soft hands were holding his cheeks, gently but firmly, and he exulted in the thrill of her touch. Light surrounded her, emanated from her.

The lady was wailing softly, a mournful sound. Her face looked so sad, as if she suffered a great and terrible loss, and would mourn it ceaselessly until the end of time. Martin saw both realities at the same time and he knew, somehow he knew that this goddess before him was the same banshee that clutched his face in her claws and screamed into his ears. And he also knew that beauty was her true form, and her ugliness was a curse she was forced to endure. He did not know how he knew, but he knew. The soft wail continued, just as the scream did, but Martin heard the banshee’s lilting, breathy voice, the voice of the beauty in the meadow, speak into his mind.

“Three and three and three. Three threes go to Underland. They go to crush it beneath their boots; to kill and rule and enslave. They go to kill the light-giver, to blind the all-seeing eye, to sever the life-giving vein. They go to destroy us and make us their own. One must follow, one must go after. One must protect and vanquish. One must save us. You are the one.”

“Yes,” Martin found himself replying, without thinking. He would have agreed to anything this wonder said to him.

“You are the protector, you will follow, go after, protect and vanquish. You will save us. You are the one.”

“Yes!” Martin rejoiced in the banshee’s choosing of him.

“Then go,” her eyes flared and the wail and the scream intensified. “NOW!“

With that, the banshee released Martin’s face and the vision of the meadow and the beautiful lady was gone. The ugly, flying crone, head afire, turned from him and pointed down at the courtyard. The druids had been busy. The whole courtyard was bathed in a muddy light, its source a great spinning ball of light, in the center of the three groups of druids. As the ball spun, it expanded and the light intensified. The banshee’s scream became more horrible and insistent, and Martin, marveling at the wondrous sight in the courtyard, had to drag himself back away from the window. He picked up his pack, and, broadsword in hand, flung himself down the steps at breakneck speed. He crashed through the castle doors, barely breaking his pace, but out of breath already. Martin’s fifty week lifestyle of desk to couch made him fairly soft round the middle, and most other places. By the time he reached the courtyard, the light was just enclosing the nine druids. Then it began to shrink. Fast. The banshee’s scream prodded him on, wheezing as he was. He ran as fast as he could toward the light, carrying his heavy pack and his sword.

“I’m not going to make it!” Martin was panting. Forty feet to go and the light was less than half the size it had been at its largest. Thirty feet – the light was shrinking fast. Twenty feet – it was the size of a small car. Ten feet – a large beach ball. Eight feet – the light was the size of a basketball. Seven feet – a volleyball. Six feet – a baseball.

Martin leaped. In the air he pitched himself forward into a dive. The stones of the courtyard rushed up towards him and he panicked. Too late! he thought, and tried to curl into a ball so that his arms and legs would absorb the impact. But the impact never came. Instead, he felt a burning in his chest, just a pin-prick, but it grew to cover his whole body in milliseconds. The pain was shocking, every part of him felt as if it were melting. His nerves cried out for mercy, and mercy came. Martin passed out.

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Until this very moment, Martin Bentbrook had been enjoying his vacation. Fifty weeks out of every year, Martin spent his days sitting in a cubicle working through a seemingly ever-growing pile of documents in need of processing; he spent his evenings alone, sitting in front of his television, a barely thrown-together meal of mostly unhealthy food laying half-eaten and growing cold on the sofa beside him. On weekends Martin would sometimes go out to the park and fly a kite. He used to like to build kites, and he had plenty of them just lying dormant in a closet. He rarely flew his kites anymore, and he hadn’t built a new one in over three years. Martin was basically lonely and unmotivated for those fifty weeks. But for two weeks, two gloriously liberating weeks, Martin went somewhere on vacation.

Martin was an unremarkable man, neither tall nor short, with dull brown hair and grey eyes. He wasn’t particularly handsome (although if he wore his hair differently, he might be considered passably good-looking), and his personality didn’t really make up for it. He knew a lot about a lot of things, most of them things that very few people cared about very much, so Martin didn’t have any really good friends. In fact, Martin didn’t much care for his regular life. That is why every year he saved up his money so he could go somewhere wonderful and do all the interesting things to do there. He’d been to Greece and climbed Mt. Olympus, just to see for himself that there really was no pantheon at home. He’d been to Africa, to Congo, and been guided on a safari through the jungle to see a temple that was older than human civilization, the proportions had seemed wrong, he’d noted. He’d been to Japan, and was taught to wield a katana by a real samurai, a wizened old man with chestnut skin and a wispy beard down past his waist. He’d been to Egypt, and climbed the Great Pyramid of Giza (you weren’t technically allowed to go near the pyramids anymore, but enough cash in the right hands could buy a spot on an archaeological team for a day). This year he was in the United Kingdom of Great Britain, taking a tour of all the oldest castles. It had been his goal for this trip to spend the night in a castle, and not one that had been fitted as a hotel, but a real stone castle, without a wait staff or television set, on a straw pallet with a broadsword laying beside him. Surprisingly, it had taken quite a lot of work to accomplish this. But after many a trans-Atlantic phone call, he was finally able to find a castle, located just north of the Scotland/England border, about halfway between Edinburgh and Glasgow, that was privately owned, and whose owner was friendly enough, or bankrupt enough to let him spend the night on his own, with a weapon, for the meager fee of one thousand pounds. Martin would, of course have to supply his own food, water, bedding and broadsword. The sword had not been a problem, as Martin possessed one of his own (the customs fees for traveling with it were a bit steep, but cheaper than buying a genuine one in the UK). The bedding, oddly enough, proved the most difficult challenge of all. In addition to the three hundred pounds the seamstress had charged him for the pallet, he’d also had to bring an entire suitcase full of American beauty products with him (which, of course, meant more costs at customs). Once he arrived at Heathrow, everything had gone perfectly. Another vacation expertly planned and executed.

It was Martin’s final night in the UK, the night he was spending in the castle. He had picked up his pallet, bought some provisions, driven to the castle in a rented car, met the owner at the gate to be given the key and be shown where to leave it in the morning (the thousand pounds had been pre-paid, of course), set up his bedding, shadow-fenced with his broadsword a bit, and finally laid down to sleep on the straw pallet. That brings us up to the moment in question, the very moment when Martin Bentbrook stopped enjoying his vacation. Martin heard a scream. Not just any scream either. Not the scream of a raucous teenage girl, not even the scream of a woman in distress. Not the scream of a person suffering violence either. It was a scream that did not seem to come from a human throat at all, and it frightened Martin quite thoroughly. For five minutes the scream carried on, fading slightly, then coming closer. Five minutes without pausing for a breath. Martin lay quivering on his pallet, clutching his broadsword to his chest.

At last, Martin could bear it no longer, he steeled himself by remembering stories where a sleeping person is frightened by an unnatural sound, and upon investigation, discovers it is nothing more than a creaking gate, or a tortured engine trying to turn over, or a lost animal, or some other such mundane and non-threatening thing. He picked himself up, held his sword in both hands, and moved toward the window of the room in which he’d chosen to sleep. Nothing Martin had ever seen, heard or done in his life could have prepared him for what he saw in the castle’s courtyard.

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