Beware the Fae in the Forest

Deacon followed a few paces behind Jackson as he picked his way through the trees with only the flashlight setting on his cellphone to light their way, though it did little good. He couldn’t see anything through the ever-present mist, but he trusted the sure steps of his friend to keep him safe along the trail. Although he had no idea what Jackson was looking for, he could feel the almost animalistic need to follow him. It was like something built into his basic makeup, weaved into the marrow of his bones; the instinct to keep Jackson near as they made their way through the trees and underbrush.

After a time, there was a break in the mist and Jackson stopped short, his head cocked at an angle like he was straining to hear something through the eerie quiet. “Jack,” Deacon whispered uneasily after failed to start his trek again. “Jack, what are we looking f-“

Jackson cut him off with a casual wave of his hand. “Just a moment, Deacon,” he replied, his voice pitched low to match the surrounding dark.

Deacon bit his tongue to hold back the slew of questions. He could feel the heaviness of the moment, felt the electricity in the air and the sweetness of something otherworldly slowing overwhelming his senses and setting something primal off in his mind that called out dangerous.

Finally, after what felt like both an eternity and an instant, Jackson took a slow step forward and then another – staggering like he wasn’t the one in control of his movements. “Here it is,” he whispered gently, reverently as he twisted his ring off his index finger and set it down on the ground at his feet. Deacon felt a pang of something resembling hurt as he watched Jackson back away from the gift he had given his friend years before – awkward and stuttering over the made-up reason for the gift – a gift Deacon had never seen him without.

When Jackson stopped moving backward, they were standing shoulder to shoulder and Jackson’s thin fingers wrapped themselves around Deacon’s wrist, thumb resting against his pulse point as if to check that he was still there and still alive. “Your turn, Deacon. We can’t both go in on my offering alone.”

He wanted to ask, wanted to know where Jackson was leading him, wanted to ask what was so urgent that it warranted his friend climbing in through his window at midnight like when they were teenagers sneaking out to get drunk. He wanted to know what caused the wild, almost feral look in his friend’s eye; what was causing the unnatural tilt of his grin to spread across his angular face. Instead, he did as he was asked and stepped forward to take Jackson’s place.

Deacon had no earthly idea what he was supposed to do, what he was supposed to offer up, but a whisper on the still air waved through the trees to curl around him and he suddenly knew.

The chain almost got caught in the tangle of chestnut curls as he slipped his necklace off for the first time since he had to wear it when his ring, a match to the one on the ground at his feet, no longer would fit his fingers. Deacon felt himself kneel on the loamy ground – his body acting unprompted from his mind – and placed his token next to Jackson’s in the center of a Fairy Circle.

The rumbling started almost immediately. Deacon scrambled to his feet and backed away until he was standing next to Jackson again, lacing their fingers together like was afraid they would lose each other while whatever they had just done worked itself to whatever end was coming. Not the end, something answered in his mind, something ancient and powerful, otherworldly and beautiful.

The rumbling built to a crescendo between the space of one heartbeat and the next, and an all-consuming silence followed the deafening boom. For just a moment Deacon feared he had lost his hearing until all the sound came rushing back in a tidal wave of noise.

Without realizing it, Deacon found himself back on his knees, staring up at someone something who was closely inspecting the matching offerings with an alarming amount of focus. Deacon felt a flicker of panic when whatever it was turned its intense gaze his way; like the thing which seemed to be made only of shadows reached into his mind and knew everything about him – even the things he kept hidden deep in his heart and soul – just from the ring which now rested against the thing's chest.

It nodded at him and then at Jackson who, Deacon noticed somewhat distantly as if in a dream, had also dropped to his knees, but was looking at the thing that appeared out of nowhere with a sort of awe Deacon had never seen on his friend’s face.

Having seemingly accepted their gifts, the thing began to change; where once had been just shadows – an idea of a figure more than something solid – now stood something both strange and familiar. They were tall, slender and delicate with long limbs and sharp features. Jewel-bright eyes looked between them; their ruby color reflecting the moonlight, making them seem fathomless. As if it could read Deacon’s thoughts, it smiled showing off a mouth full of needle-sharp teeth like it was pleased with Deacon’s mental descriptions of it.

“Come with me,” the creature lisped around the sharp teeth as if they weren’t used to speaking aloud as if they knew how to speak English in theory but had no practice with vocalizing it.

Correct, a voice echoed in his mind, as if answering his thoughts. It was familiar, Deacon realized with a start, the same voice that spoke to him before. If you prefer, I can speak to you like this as I am doing for your companion. 

Deacon hesitated, unsure how to respond. Can you hear me like this? he tried thinking towards the stranger who flinched and shook his head.

Too loud. You don’t have to shout.

Deacon winced and attempted to match the mental tone of the voice in his head. Apologies. What name can I call you? he asked, hoping he wouldn’t insult a being who seemed to radiate power and strength.

A feral grin spread across his face, showing too many teeth to be anything more than predatory. Names give power, my sweet. My kind does not freely give our names out, but you may call me Wyatt. I have chosen to use that name while in your world.

Deacon nodded. Despite the ruby-red irises and sharp teeth, having something to call the Fae (for what else could they have summoned from a Fairy Circle?) made everything seem less like a dream. He stood again and reached out to hold onto Jackson’s wrist again.

The touch seemed to startle Jackson and bring him back from whatever had caused the dazed, faraway look in his soft green eyes. “Let’s go,” Jackson said, using Deacon’s grip on his wrist to tug him along so that they fell in line behind Wyatt who was waiting at the mouth of a tunnel of twisted branches that had materialized out of nowhere.

He felt anxiety churn in his cut but he couldn’t let Jackson go off alone. He took a deep, steadying breath and walked through the mouth of the tunnel, burying the feeling of dread deep down where he could ignore it. When they crossed the threshold, he could feel the same thunderous crash of noise, but it was distant like it was happening miles away and not directly at their backs.

Any lingering hesitation evaporated once the round tunnel of twisted branches gave way to an open glad where a gentle mist curled around their feet and warm sunlight filtered through the fall foliage. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Deacon knew he should find the red, yellow, and orange leaves to be strange as it was late May and they were on the verge of transition between spring and summer, but he couldn’t bring himself to care that where ever they had stepped into didn’t match the woods they had left.

Wyatt led them down a natural path across the glade until they reached the foot of a small hill whose top was completely shrouded in mist. Stay, he commanded them while he continued his trek up the hill and disappeared from view.

He used their time alone to turn to his friend, “Jack, what are we doing here?” he asked, unable to hold the questions behind his lips any longer despite the calm that had settled over him like a warm blanket.

Jackson blinked slowly as if waking from a deep sleep although his eyes were alighted with excitement. “I needed to know,” he answered with a vague wave of his hand, his gaze already focused on the spot Wyatt had disappeared from.

As if summoned by the intensity of his gaze, the mist cleared and, in its place, Deacon could see they were not as alone as he had previously assumed. They were surrounded by strange creatures, only some of whom looked like Wyatt; but all seemed to be gathered together for the same reason.

The more the glade cleared of mist, the more comfortable Deacon felt himself becoming, like sinking into a hot bath after a long day.

At the top of the small hill, he saw their guide sitting at the foot of what could only be described as a throne. It had obviously been created from an old felled tree, molded from the roots and what remained of the trunk; both hand-crafted and natural at the same time a juxtaposition of nature and craftmanship that seemed to be created solely for the Fae who was lounging on the seat.

There was something more to this Fae than the others in the clearing – regardless of the casual way he was draped across the throne, with one leg draped over an armrest and his cheek resting against his fist. He was regal in his sprawl and he seemed to know it – unconcerned for any kind of decorum because he was the be-all, end-all of the law. One bare foot was tapping out a jaunty rhythm to match the beat of the pan flute playing somewhere unseen that made the sparkling bangles on his ankle chime like bells. Deacon noticed the sunlight catch on the muted silver of Jackson’s ring as the Fae reached up to adjust a crown of wildflowers and thorns that rested on his head; an obviously calculated move to bring attention to both the new addition of shine, and to the crown.

“My son says you are here for answers,” he said, having more ease than Wyatt, the cadence of his speech more refined by still off somehow.

Jackson freed himself from Deacon’s grip and took a small step forward. “Yes,” he replied with reverence. “I need to know if – “ he paused, as if unsure how to continue.

It seemed the question didn’t need to be finished for the entire glade to understand. When Jackson stopped speaking, all the background noise stopped with him.

A sharp smile cut across the dark red lips of the Fae on the throne, his pointed teeth gleaming in the sunlight. “And you will know, my sweet, but you must first do something for me.” He sat up straight, no longer lounging like an overgrown cat. “Play me something. If you can play on through the night, I’ll answer your questions.”

Something shimmered into existence in Jackson’s arms, solidifying into something closely resembling a violin. 

Jackson nodded but made no move to play, his eyes narrowed as he seemed to be speaking directly to the Fae King.

The silent conversation was over in moments, and before Deacon could say anything, a warning caught in his throat, Jackson rested the instrument under his chin and drew the bow across the strings. The melody that began was hauntingly beautiful, Deacon could feel the tell-tale burn of tears in his eyes – something that would happen often when Jackson would play – but there was something about this that felt like more. It felt like being lost, like the crushing feeling of being alone was overcoming him.

The tune didn’t stay melancholy for long, transition smoothly into something livelier that soon had every creature dancing. It seemed like the glade came back to life the longer Jackson played.

Deacon could only sit and watch in mute horror as their surroundings changed the lower the sun sank behind the trees. As the shadows of the trees grew and sneaked across the clearing, the darker everything got – like a façade being stripped away with each note Jackson played.

When the moon reached its zenith, it bathed the dancers in silvery light, the illusion of beauty for earlier completely erased and the reality of where they were taking its place. Gone was the wildflowers, gone was the sweet smell of honeysuckle, gone was the illusion of serenity. In its place Deacon could see the bare forest floor, dark and shimmering with something, the sweetness on the air was replaced with something cloying like rotting fruit. But what was worse was the shining, hungry eyes gleaming in the darkness. The Fae King, still on his throne, was leaning forward, ready to pounce if Jackson stopped playing; as if he was hoping it would happen.

Deacon felt the tears fall the same time the first drops of blood wept from the mangled tips of Jackson’s fingers. But there was nothing except peace in his posture, his face serene as he continued to play through the night.

The sun rose an eternity later, with the splashes of pinks and oranges breaking through the trees, the altered state of the clearing starting to fade as the near frantic pace of the music slowed to something gentler and sadder again.

“Enough,” the Fae King called out, disappointment replacing the ravenous look in his eyes – fathomless like his son’s but black, no jewel-like color to hide the malicious glint. He clapped slowly as Jackson dropped the instrument and fell to the ground right after as if he was a puppet whose strings had been cut. “You did well, my sweet. I’ll grant your wish.”

Deacon did a double-take, his red-rimmed eyes widening in fear as the Fae who had been dancing along to Jackson’s songs all night descended on him like a pack of hungry animals. When they dispersed Jackson was still there but he seemed wrong, something in his face was different. “Jack?” Deacon rasped, his voice hoarse and grating like he hadn’t used it in months, and he realized how thirst he was – but like the instinct of danger he had ignored until it had been too late, he knew not to take anything the Fae offered him. Nothing here would quench his thirst or ease the emptiness in his stomach.

“Thanks for coming with me, Deacon,” Jackson said, his eyes never leaving the Fae King even as he spoke only to Deacon. “I needed you with me so I could be brave enough to get my answers, but you have to leave now.”

There was an icy look Jackson’s face, as cold as the chill that settled in the clearing, as cold as the answering look from the Fae King. “A deal is a deal,” he ground out through his pointed teeth like it physically hurt to speak the words.

Deacon decided he didn’t like the sound of that and scrambled over to Jackson who was still staring, unblinking, at the Fae King. They were speaking, Deacon realized belatedly. “Jack, what did he mean? What deal?” he asked while he struggled to get Jackson to look at him, to answer his frantic questions.

Jackson turned his head, finally breaking eye contact with the Fae King. “It’s not important, but you need to go now.” A single tear slipped down his cheek as he reached out with bloody fingers to trace something on Deacon’s face. “Sleep now, and when you wake up, this will all just seem like a bad dream.”

There was so much wrong with the sad glimmer in Jackson’s soft green eyes – the color growing sharper the longer Deacon fought the urge to sleep. This felt too much like a goodbye, his heart broke as he felt himself losing his battle against sleep. A voice whispered I love you in his head as his eyes closed on the distorted image of his best friend’s face.

---

Deacon startled away, his heart racing while the disorientating feeling of being pulled out of a dream too soon faded. Bits and pieces of his dream came back but were fading the harder he fought to remember them. They only thing for certain was that he needed to speak to Jackson – just to know for sure it was all a dream.

In a daze, Deacon grabbed his phone from its place on his bedside table and thumbed through his contacts. He hesitated before he connected the call, a sinking feeling in his chest. The feeling only intensified when the automated voice answered:

“The wireless caller you are trying to reach is currently outside the coverage area.”

Deacon felt his heart break. “Not a dream then.”

No, a voice answered with a cackle as the wind began to howl outside his bedroom, loud enough to drown out the sobs he couldn’t stop. Breathless, he hit the call icon, again and again, the recorded message the same, until finally it no longer rang; a resounding silence only broken by the shattering of his heart and his tears cutting a clear line through the ancient and bloody rune on his face, unseen for the time being, but significant as his only real proof it wasn’t just a dream.