On the Edges of Elfland
A Fairy-Tale for Grown Ups
David Russell Mosley
On the Edges of Elfland
A Fairy-Tale for Grown Ups
Copyright © 2016 David Russell Mosley. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.
Resource Publications
An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers
199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3
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paperback isbn: 978-1-4982-7933-8
hardcover isbn: 978-1-4982-7935-2
ebook isbn: 978-1-4982-7934-5
Manufactured in the U.S.A. 08/11/16
To the men and women of the British Faërie Tradition,May I have written a work that you would have wanted to read.
And I serve the fairy queen.
—William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream Act I, Scene I.
Preface
This book began nearly ten years ago as a project for a class taught by my friend, Cliff Wheeler. Now it has evolved and hopefully matured. Along with thanking those who have made this book possible, I want to take a brief moment to explain this book’s substitle. I have called this book A Fairy-Tale for Grown-Ups, borrowing, in part, the oft forgotten subtitle to C.S. Lewis’ That Hideous Strength. We have come to a point, really this began at least during the Victorian Era, where fairy-tales are considered to be stories for children. While someone like J.R.R. Tolkien would rightfully explain to us that this is untrue of the traditional fairy-tale, it is certainly what the Disneyfication of so many tradiational tales have come to be. This story, therefore, is a fairy-tale for grown-ups, for people who used to read fairy-tales as children but have since stopped; for people who never picked up a fairy-tale thinking them childish fantasies. This is a fairy-tale for grown-ups and that does not mean it is full of sex or ambiguity. Rather, I hope, it is a reminder of the truths that fairy-tales can teach us when we listen. In any event, I simply hope you think it a good story and one worth reading.
David Russell Mosley
The Feast of St. Mary Magdalen, 2016
Acknowledgements
There are so many people to thank for the publication of this book. I must, of course, first thank my friend, Cliff Wheeler, for being the first reader of the early versions of this story. I also thank the small group of writers that met not long after I first began this story who heard early chapters and commented on them. Without the encouragement of Caryn Collins, my wife’s former Head Resident in college, I do not think I would have attempted to finish this book the first time around. I also thank those who read later versions of the story both in private and online who gave me hope that this was a story worth reading. To my parents, who always encouraged their strange son’s strange writing, I too must say thank you. I must also thank my wife who supported me starting this story over again when I was in the second year of my PhD. I thank also my children who helped inspire me to publish this book so I could have something to pass on to them. I also thank God Almighty, the Poet who inspires us, who desires us to imitate him as sub-creators for whatever gifts I have with the proverbial pen.
Chapter 1
In the village of Carlisle, which is located in the depths of modern England, near the summit of the mountain Dweormount, and surrounded by a wood called Fey Forest there was born a boy called Alfred Perkins. There was nothing particularly remarkable about Alfred’s birth. He was born on 25 March with no pomp or circumstance. There were no shining stars in the sky that day that ought not to have been there. Nothing particularly special happened in the village to signify the birth of this boy. No, he was born like any other child.
His parents’ named him Alfred after stories an old man in the village told. They loved this old man, a certain Mr. Oliver Cyning, and made him Alfred’s godfather at his christening. The priest who presided over the christening was an elderly man, a certain Fr. Nicholas. He was aided by his curate, Fr. Stratford. Fr. Nicholas, bathed the boy Alfred and blessed him. Alfred’s parents then held a celebration at their home.
The Perkinses were the landlords of an old fashioned style inn, which was well known for the quality of its beer and the scrumptiousness of its food. The Broken Spoke, for so the inn was named, did not have any of those trendy things one finds in pubs throughout the rest of England, or that can be found in nearly every bar in America. It lacked televisions, gambling machines, and loud music (unless it was one of the local bands who played there on occasion). The layout was more like a mismatched home than a restaurant and that is just how George and Jessica, Alfred’s parents, liked it.
Most nights, if you were to enter The Broken Spoke, you would likely hear Mr. Cyning telling one of his stories. They were typically stories of the fantastical and dealt with local myths and legends. As Alfred grew into boyhood, he came to love these stories. Most days would either find him sitting in the pub listening to Mr. Cyning or running about in Fey Forest pretending he was having his own adventures.
Typically when he returned from these jaunts he would make his parents and godfather sit down and listen to his stories. One day, when Alfred was about ten years old he came home with a rather different story. He gathered his parents and godfather into one of the rooms of the pub and began: “You’ll never guess what I saw today.”
“A bird,” said his mother.
“A deer,” said his father.
“A mushroom,” said his godfather, “as big as your head.”
“Nope,” he replied, looking pleased that they had not guessed. “You’ll never guess.”
“Well then, tell us, Alfie,” his mother replied.
“Today, I saw a fairy or maybe it was a pixie. I don’t know the difference yet, but I saw one all the same. It was taking care of some wild flowers in the forest. It had tiny little wings and very long arms.”
“Did it, now?” his father said with a grin.
“What did it say, Alfie?”
