Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(36)
The girl hesitated, for she knew it was a great crime to cut down a faerie tree—which surely the white tree was—but she was too in love to resist. She took up an axe and began to chop. But before her third stroke fell, a great wind went up, and the tree’s leaves dropped upon her. The moment they touched her, she went mad. She returned home, donned her uncle’s sealskin cloak, and packed a bag as if for a journey into the mountains. The carpenter, a vain young man who enjoyed revelling in the affection of one so beautiful as she, though he had no intention of marrying her, came to pay a visit and caught her in the act of fleeing. He tried to stop her, but she killed him with a touch that froze his heart.
When the townsfolk found the carpenter’s body, they pursued the girl with dogs and horses and sleighs. They found her eventually, still marching doggedly into the wilderness, her eyes alight with madness, and shot her dead.
* * *
—
Now, I have paired these last two stories because it is a common belief in Hrafnsvik that the white tree that drove the girl mad is the same tree from the tale of the whaler, which held a faerie king. What’s more, some of the older villagers are convinced the tree can be found in the Karr?arskogur. Thora swears she stumbled across it once, in her youthful trapping days, and has offered to provide directions.
When I informed Bambleby of my intention to search for the tree, as I desperately wish to photograph it for my encyclopaedia, he was full of arguments. Naturally, he assumed I would drag him along, which was indeed my intention, as nothing could amuse me more than watching Bambleby slog through miles of snow with nary a nap in sight, though I had little interest in arguing with him about it. I left him to his blustering in the cottage, where he was supposed to be drafting our abstract but kept wandering off to make tea or stand by the window and expostulate about the cold. I grow increasingly convinced that he obtained his doctorate by means of faerie enchantment, so difficult is it to imagine him applying himself to anything resembling work.
Skip Notes
* A charming Ljosland term that can be loosely translated as “family,” used to describe a bond formed between mortals and brownies. Brownies in Ljosland, as in other countries, sometimes attach themselves to one household, and exclusively provide magical services to its inhabitants. Often they dwell in a rock feature somewhere on the property. The bond seems to be generational, though further research is needed to determine whether this is a variable thing, as it often is on the continent (cf. Northern Italy, where the brownies choose a favoured mortal with whom to bond, but often abandon any offspring upon his/her death).
14th November
Today I went to Groa’s shop to gather supplies for our journey to the tree. By Thora’s estimation, the hike will take about three hours each way. The village is carpeted in snow, partially melted by a storm that came in from the sea; I have been assured by Krystjan that the recent fall is but another clearing of the throat by Old Man Winter; when he truly settles himself over Hrafnsvik, I will know it.
Upon exiting the shop with my parcels, I could not help my gaze from straying to the farmhouse across the road. The curtains were drawn as usual, the sheep huddled in a corner of the field. Altogether the place had such an unwholesome air about it that it was hard to look away, dark smoke drifting sluggishly from the chimney like the ooze of an infected wound.
Mord was coming round the front of the house, and he gave me a wave before disappearing inside. I stared in astonishment at the side of his head, which was mottled with bruising, and returned to the shop to question Groa.
For once, the merriness dimmed in her pale eyes. “He was out rescuing his wife the other night,” she told me. “She nearly took a tumble into the sea. He pulled her back just in time.”
“I see,” I replied, and we left unsaid the oddness of a man sustaining such bruises in that scenario. Back at the cottage, I reported the news to Bambleby.
“Well, what did you expect?” He had absconded from his notes entirely and was seated by the fire rubbing Shadow’s ears. “The creature is clearly bent on driving both of them insane. I don’t know who the miserable wretch imagines will care for its needs after its guardians have thrown themselves into the sea. They should kill it now and be done with it.”
“And kill their son in the process?”
“Their son may at this moment be suffering any number of torments. He may never be returned to them. We don’t know.”
He went back to Shadow’s ears while I fumed. I have not been able to convince him to care about Mord and Aslaug’s plight.
“It could be worse,” he said. “Mord and Aslaug are unlikely to fall prey to these snow ghouls when the weather turns. It seems that fate only threatens the lovesick and na?ve, and I’ve no doubt they’ve been disabused of na?veté where love is concerned.”
He saw my face and gave one of his theatrical groans. “Tell them to be kind to it.”
This was the last thing I had expected him to say. “What?”
“They keep the changeling shut away in an attic. Spoiling the brats rotten is the only way to appease them.” He drummed his fingers on his knee. “Like you do with Poe. Really, Em, I thought you would have worked this out.”
I watched him. “And that’s what the parents of stolen children do in Ireland, is it?”