Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries (Emily Wilde, #1)(9)
My translation is clumsy; I’ve no ear for poetry. I sang it in the tongue in which it was composed, that of the Folk, which prosaic scholars simply call Faie. It is a rolling, roundabout speech that takes twice as long to say half as much in English, with many contrary rules, but there is no lovelier language spoken by mortals anywhere in the world. By some curious quirk—one which has caused much consternation among those adherents to the Hundred Islands Theory[*]—the Folk speak the same language in every country and region where they are known, and though the accents and idioms differ, their dialects are never so variable as to hinder understanding.
I ran through the song twice, which I had learned from a hobgoblin in Somerset, then let my voice fade into the wind. I had performed the necessary introductions, so I put my shoes on and departed.
Skip Notes
* The theory that each faerie realm exists on an entirely separate physical plane. Folk might travel from one realm to another on rare occasions, but otherwise scholars argue that the realms have historically had little to do with one another. I myself see this as narrow-minded nonsense, yet the theory remains popular among the older generation of dryadologists, those who tend to sit as department heads and write the most heavily referenced textbooks, and thus it will likely be with us for some time.
21st October—evening
Shadow and I left the Karr?arskogur behind and headed into the fells. A rough road wound its way up into the mountains north of the village, which I followed until it petered out—likely it was only a track used by sheep farmers. I carried on, though the ground was boggy in places from the melting snow. Eventually my determination was rewarded as I crested the summit of one of the lower mountains.
Beyond, my view was largely obstructed by another, much higher range of mountains, a great convocation of them jutting messily from the green earth brandishing their glacial raiments. Ljosland is a labyrinth of mountains, you’ll understand, as well as fjords and glaciers and every other sharp-edged formation most hostile to Man. Between the peaks, the landscape was crushed down into what I supposed were valleys, chasmed and boulder-strewn.
I paused at the summit—partly to bask in a sense of accomplishment—to write in my journal. The Folk do not confine themselves to forests alone, and I know from my correspondence with Krystjan that many Ljoslanders believe the volcanic boulders that jut out of their landscape serve as doors to their realm. I recorded the largest of these as well as those that piqued my interest for sundry reasons, whether by dint of their elaborate peaks or the telltale presence of running water or fungi.
The day was done. I was muddy, chilled, and thoroughly happy. I had established what I considered a useful boundary within which to conduct my research and made contact with one or more of the common fae. It was, of course, possible that the brownies of Ljosland subsisted entirely off sea salt and leaves; found the sight of jewels as offensive as iron; hated music with every fibre of their beings. But I theorized that this was unlikely, and that furthermore they would share commonalities with the Folk of other northerly latitudes—the mountain alver of Norway, for instance. Bambleby was sceptical on this point. Well, we will see which of us is right.
I would gladly have sent my excuses to Finn and the headwoman, but my rambles had left me very hungry. And so, my happiness dimming somewhat, I directed my steps towards the village.
The tavern was well-situated in the heart of the village, though this characterization was debatable given the jumbled nature of Hrafnsvik, its dishevelled scatter of homes and shops. A group of men clustered outside, smoking. Two of these were Krystjan and Finn.
“Voilà!” Krystjan said, which drew a laugh from his compatriots. “Good evening, Professor Wilde. On the hunt today, were you? Where is your butterfly net?”
More laughter. Finn shot his father a dark look. He gave me a smile and guided me through the doors.
The entire village of Hrafnsvik appeared to have crammed itself into the tavern. Children tore through the establishment, half-hearted reprimands following in their wake, while the aged clustered about the enormous fire. It was cosy in the manner of all such country establishments from England to Russia, a wash of shadows and firelight, crowded with bodies and cooking smells, its ceiling held up by what looked like driftwood logs. Above the bar, where one might find a pair of antlers on the continent, there hung instead the tremendous mandible of a whale.
Finn went around the room, introducing me, which was easily accomplished as most faces had turned from their conversations to stare at me the moment I entered. I was unexpectedly grateful for Finn’s presence—I despise the awkwardness of approaching strangers, even without language barriers. I had, of course, been teaching myself as much Ljoslander as possible over the past year or so, but one can only progress so far without the tutelage of a native speaker.
“This is Lilja Johannasdottir,” Finn said. “Our woodcutter. She has an alfurrokk behind her house—a door to the faerie world. Several of the little ones have been seen passing in and out.”
The maiden smiled at me. She was broad-shouldered and beautiful, with round red cheeks and a cascade of flaxen hair. “Pleased to meet you, Professor.”
We shook hands. Hers was large and covered with innumerable calluses. I asked after the location of her abode so that I might investigate the feature. She looked startled.
“Aud won’t object, I don’t think,” Finn said quickly.