Pixie-Led

Content Warning: Adult subject matter.

Kyle knew he was lost. He checked his watch, shaking it back to life. Really, it could not have been too long since he had first entered the forest. At most an hour or two had passed. Looking at his map, he could not locate any recognizable landmark to tell him where he was. The books and notebooks he had equipped himself with were no use at all and he was not much of a hiker. He had foregone much in life to make room for his current occupation: that of Kyle Peterson, Oxford PhD student of anthropology. And a believer in faeries.

Several radical thinkers had tripped their way down this hazardous path of love and obsession over the centuries. Robert Kirk had been spirited away after composing his journal and was dubbed “The Fairy Minister” of Scotland. W.Y. Evans-Wentz wrote his comprehensive work The Fairy Faith after delving into the beliefs of Celtic spirituality. And Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had been seduced by the so-called plausibility of those Yorkshire photographs produced by two young girls at the end of the Great War. Now armed with the same knowledge, like good friends acquired over time, Kyle had set out to uncover the truth with his ongoing thesis writing itself.  

The woods provided a perfect setting to continue his quest. So far, he had gathered several tales from nearby towns and villages of changelings and hapless mortals abducted to the realm of Faerie. While sightings of diminutive beings with fiery red hair in the throes of their wild and hypnotic dances were abundant. He wanted to prove that his successors had been right all along. That would show his fellow colleagues and professors at Uni that he was doing something worthwhile, not only for the study of folklore but for humanity at large. To think, if he discovered that faeries were real it would shake the very foundations of all religions and world beliefs. He would be hailed as a hero in a world that needed them most. Unfortunately, his personal tutor did not share the same opinions as him for he laughed right in his face after relating his travel plans for the Summer.

“Come now Kyle, be reasonable. You surely don’t believe that faeries exist, do you?” The wizened professor had taken off his glasses, rubbed his forehead and replaced the spectacles again at the tip of his nose. “They are great stuff to write about, with so much of the literature readily available to us, but to prove they are actually among us. That there are indeed flesh and blood creatures who use their Glamour, sour people’s milk, lead others astray with floating balls of light and cavort at all hours on auspicious nights of the year?” He was silent for a long time, sighed heavily, then spoke again. “Well, you’re not the first person to do this, nor the last I must say. I wish you the best of luck my boy and hope that you will not be disappointed in the end.”

Disappointed. How could he be disappointed? Kyle knew there were faeries. They had made their presence known to him. He was five years old wandering about his parents’ garden on a bright Summer afternoon when it had happened. Around a small flower bed, his ear caught the sound of something strange, disembodied yet somehow familiar. Laughter. Melodious laughter. Crystal-clear waters flowing down a waterfall. The tinkling of silver wind chimes in the breeze. They had visited him. That was for certain. That was his truth. Now he just had to let the rest of the world know it too.  

Beyond his schoolwork, Kyle dedicated himself to learning more about faeries and their reality. As a boy, he spent many hours at the public library reading any book he could find on the subject. Twilights were more magical as he would spy shimmering beings out of the corner of his eyes. Before going out for tricks and treats on Hallowe’en night, he would first check for signs of any goblins lurking about. And thunderstorms roiling across dark night skies shapeshifted into the Wild Hunt led by the nightmarish Faery King in all his unholy glory. So, while most children his age were out playing with their friends and competing in football tournaments, Kyle could be found late into the night pouring over the pages of fairy tales within his bedroom. The spirits of the past became his most intimate of companions.

He studied English Literature as an undergrad, completed his Masters in Cultural Anthropology and dove straight into his PhD research concentrating on the lore of the British Isles. A year later, he was traveling around the small tight-knit communities of his native Devon, Somerset and Cornwall learning of each county’s peculiar cast of beings from knockers and hell hounds straight from the Otherworld. A stint in Glastonbury over May Bank Holiday, performing Beltane rituals atop the conically shaped Tor, thrilled him beyond measure. The southwestern corner of England seemed to possess countless beliefs in the faery folk, or “piskies” as they were called in Cornwall, for the West Country was the last remaining vestige of Celtic culture in all of Britain. Apart from the Isle of Man which was his next destination after this “brief” sojourn. And he would not stop there.

But that was in the future. Right now, it was Midsummer’s Eve and he was alone in the midst of a vast woodland in search of Faery Hill and its Faery Tree well-documented as sites of heightened spirit activity. Priding himself on his ingenuity, Kyle had remembered to pack some necessities. His backpack contained his scholastic pursuits, bags of crisps, some biscuits and a water-filled thermos. A crystal talisman hung about his neck. With a compass in one hand and a map of the area in the other, he drove east from St. Nectan’s Glen, parked his car and trekked through Dartmoor National Park. According to the map and local guide book he had purchased, he only had to hike about a few miles into the forest until he reached the mystical grove of the Tree and Hill. Yes, this would be the perfect place to encounter the “Blessed Race”, he was sure of it.  

The woods became darker as the trees stretched their thick arms to block out the sun. A growing sense of dread crept over him as he saw shapes in the trees, moving and swaying in unnatural ways. Something, he was sure of it, was floating in and out of his vision. Bright one minute then dull the next. One thought occurred to him which he could not shake off. Was his mind playing tricks on him or was he in fact being led astray, “pixie-led” as the locals called it? He continued on.

Bright green moss hung from the trees that surrounded him on all sides. Gnarled roots wrapped themselves around large grey boulders protruding out of the earth like the foundations of an ancient and secluded temple dedicated to some local deity. He entered into the hollow with reverence and apprehension. Crunching leaves and dirt underfoot, Kyle was the only living being that made any noise. Everything was silent. No birds or even the slightest hint of animal life disturbed this sacred space. A copse of trees proved challenging but he managed to finally break free. Emerging from the hollow, he stopped and stared. Before him lurked a gigantic black shadow. Carefully, he headed down a grassy pathway towards it and the darkness thickened about him. The trees crowded in. The stones huddled together. And soon he was at the foot of Faery Hill, a large and shapely earthen mound or “Sidhe” from the Irish.   

It was exactly as he had pictured it. Tall, imposing and mysterious. Kyle strained his neck to see if he could make out the top, allowing his feet to move around one side of the mound. He keenly noted how the trees inside the grove radiated out from the Hill like rays of the sun stretching to other parts of the woods. Kyle leaped over a small hole in the ground, fell and tangled himself in some weeds. He looked up. A small pair of green eyes glowed at him. He froze to the spot. The eyes continued to stare, flitting in and out of the glen they inhabited. As he approached, two fireflies suddenly flew away and relief swept through him. Once around Faery Hill, Kyle made another startling discovery. For there stood another giant of the grove, a proper Tree of Life if ever he saw one.

The Faery Tree towered over all. A being in and of itself, its many branches were like the tentacles of a monstrous creature which writhed in all directions. A hawthorn to be precise, but one he had never encountered before. The bark was a pale color and every vein pulsed with its own stream of bloodlike movement. Over his shoulder, he spotted wide-girthed oaks, slender birches and two bulbous yews that stood to either side of the grove acting as sentinels to their king and queen. Before placing his hand on the Tree, he sensed it was alive with otherworldly energy.

From the sheer height to the shadowy interplay of leaves among the thousands of branches, Kyle could not wait to uncover the secrets that the Tree kept to itself. He took several steps back to admire both the Tree and Hill together. A twig snapped under his boot breaking the silence and he stood as still as a scarecrow. He sensed there was something near but continued walking about the grove with his back to the forest. Kyle had read that both the Tree and Hill were in perfect alignment with each other and considered taking out his copper rods to dowse for adjoining ley lines.

His camera ready, he started taking pictures wherever he walked. Kyle was so absorbed in his photography that he was unaware of a dark form silently observing him from afar. As he came back to the Tree, reviewing the pictures he had taken, Kyle halted in his tracks. In one, no, in many of the photos there appeared a strange image out of focus. He looked around. Only the Tree and Hill as before. Then he heard a soft, commanding voice greet him.

“Good day, young sir.”

 The camera dropped, softly landing on the grass below him. Kyle turned with a jerk. A figure stepped out of the shadows into the dismal light of the grove. It barely made a sound as it parted the trees, merely detaching itself from the rest of the surrounding woods. Its skin was like the scales of a shimmering green snake, taking on different colors as it moved. Sometimes the skin appeared like a watery blue, other times as a bright as a golden carp. Similar to an exotic fungus, the skin seemed to glow with a strange bioluminescence. Kyle studied the figure while trying to suppress the absolute panic growing inside him. Words gurgled up into his throat.  

“Yes… it is. I hope you…find it well…too?” he managed to stutter.

“I do indeed, thank you. It is a fine day. I am just curious how you found your way here?” said the figure, covered in its illuminated pallet of labradorite hues. Its hair stood up from its head like twigs floating on the still air. The ears pointed upward, stretching vertically like two antennae on either side of the head. Its feet were unencumbered and bare. It wore a loosely fitting loincloth that blended in with the rest of its chameleon body. Its neck, chest, arms and legs were all well-muscled and rippled through the waters of its blue green skin.  

Kyle eyed the wave of the figure’s curve flowing towards him as easily as a river visiting the woods on its long journey to the sea. The motion was effortless.  

“I was just taking a stroll and happened upon this spectacular view,” Kyle said. “And you?”

The figure smirked. “This is my home. And I know very well why you are here.”

Kyle felt his body shaking, sweat trickling down in rivulets. He could not help himself; it was an entirely new sensation making impact on his now glistening flesh. The figure coming towards him was…beautiful.

“You are here, kind sir, as you wish to gain more knowledge about my race of people.” The figure regarded Kyle too, staring him down without breaking its gaze. Then it lowered its illuminated eyes to him. “Is this not true?”

The ground seemed to vibrate under Kyle as the figure approached him. His heart beat its drum-like rhythm while he felt the slightest, imperceptible shifting inside his trousers.

“Aren’t I what you are seeking? An interaction, a communion perhaps, with beings who have lived here since time immemorial and will live on when humanity is on its last limbs?” The figure cocked an eye at Kyle. “Oh, don’t give me that. I have seen that look before, mortal. You think you know me, but I know far more about you and your kind than I wish to tell.” The figure came right up to his face and smelled him. “But what I like about your kind is just how willing you are, daring enough to take chances to get what you want. That is one thing that does not separate us from you. But for the moment,” and the figure grabbed Kyle by both shoulders, “I desire you.”

The two melted into each other. He did not know how long it lasted but it seemed as if an eternity passed between them. “I sense the darkness in you. And longing. It oozes out of every pore.” The figure looked deep into his green eyes. “You want to become us. Be accepted by us. Be us.” Kyle could scarcely breathe, let alone keep from giving in. He wanted this so badly. “I can make it all come true.” And the figure slithered his hand down between Kyle’s thighs and found the bulge rising from the pouch, stroking it playfully. “Just say the word and I will make it happen… my sweet Kyle.”

Kyle was surprised by the intonation of his own name. He felt like he might collapse again into the arms of the figure and remain there forever. Slowly, he let his heavy backpack drop from his shoulders, one strap falling off and then the other. The camera lay in the grass where he had left it, now dead to the world. His shirt evaporated along with every button as if they were never there. His trousers unzipped and slid down his two moist legs. Then his shoes sucked into the ground leaving him standing on his large and padded bare feet. He looked up at the figure with a new spark gleaming in his eyes. Kyle felt invincible.  

“Now,” he said, pulling the figure towards him. “Take me.”

The two embraced. Their passion reverberated throughout the woods as they continued, heaving their smiling appendages up and down, rising again and again to greet one another. Nothing else mattered, nothing else was important. Their mouths tasted each other, intoxicated by one another. Their hands moved across each other’s bodies, feeling warmth and sensation pulse through their fingertips. Kyle let the figure take lead until his back was pushed against the Tree. The branches and the mighty trunk brightened and flared scorching the entire grove until suddenly the light burst through the tight, leafy canopy above. The two then relaxed as one.   

The skin of Kyle’s body shifted in his dull tanned features. Soon it started to peel, fleck and molt away, breaking free from his body like paint from a decaying building. Underneath his mortal coil glowed a bright blue-green, matching that of the perfect being that held him tenderly. Kyle wrapped his new snake-skin arms around the neck of his beloved who picked him up just as easily as if he were a new-born infant. The Hill gaped open to reveal a womblike void in the deep, dark world below. A multitude of voices urged and beckoned them on. The two lovers were swallowed up, leaving the forest, Hill and the Tree to return to their twilight state of inertia.

Kyle did not make his appearance come Michaelmas Term. In fact, no one had seen or heard from him in months. After the police launched an investigation into the young man’s disappearance, he was eventually presumed dead and the case was closed. Magdalen College decided to create a special award in his honor. In later years, students who excelled in anthropology would thereafter be gifted the Kyle Petersen Award for their hard work and dedication but never could remember its namesake. Kyle’s mum and dad had a grave marker erected in the churchyard of St. Walpurga near their home. They made a conscious effort to visit his uninhabited grave every day until they too joined their son in his presumed afterlife.

Fifty or so years later, a strange rumor started to circulate around a remote village of the West Country. A haggard old man with blood-shot crazed eyes and a snow-white beard had been seen stumbling out of the woods. He kept on insisting that he had only come into the forest a few days prior to complete his research and had not realized how much time had passed here on earth. With his last dying breathe, this old man claimed to have been the mortal lover of a faery. He was in such a state of wild elation, his hair tossed in disarray and drool forming at the sides of his mouth, that everyone denounced him as having completely gone mental. And then he keeled over and died, the poor devil.  

A few villagers quickly buried him in an unmarked grave and went about their day as if nothing extraordinary had happened to them. Suffice to say, no one had believed him.