nonetheless. The whole forest seemed full of it.
Alfred proceeded as quietly as he could, moving ever closer. He began to make out the forms of those speaking. They were the beautiful people from his dream. He was staring in disbelief as he continued to edge closer when suddenly SNAP. Alfred trod on a small twig. The torches disappeared in an instant and everything went dark.
Alfred awoke on the ground, once again next to a circle of mushrooms. He was feeling himself to make sure no permanent damage was done when he heard a voice nearby. At first he thought it was Mr. Cyning. “Thank goodness,” he said aloud. “I thought I would never find you.”
“I’ve been here the whole time.”
“Well, at least we’re together again. Maybe now we can find our way out of the blasted forest.”
“Oh I don’t know about that. Who would watch over my mushrooms?”
In horror did Alfred turn around to see the thing to which the voice belonged. It was the talking mushroom again. “B-but—” he stammered.
“You’re not going to knock my hat off again, are you, my son?” asked the mushroom.
Alfred’s head was swimming. A blackness descended on his eyes. He could just hear the voice saying, “Goodnight” as his head hit the ground and Alfred knew no more.
Chapter 4
Alfred woke slowly, barely opening his eyes, too afraid of what he might see. Once they were opened, he was relieved. He was no longer in the forest. He was in what looked like an old cottage. “Good, you’re awake. You gave me a right turn, boy,” said a voice in the distance. This time Alfred was quite sure it was Mr. Cyning’s voice. This, however, gave no immediate reassurance. Alfred’s mind was suddenly flooded with questions: Where was he? How did he get there? How long had he been unconscious? All of these questions he put to Mr. Cyning.
“One thing at a time, boy. Here, drink some of this.” He handed Alfred a glass. It tasted like wine but was earthier and drier than any wine he had ever had before. Alfred drank quietly, hoping Mr. Cyning would answer all or any of his questions. Mr. Cyning went out back, into what Alfred could only assume was his garden. Alfred sat looking around, trying to take in his surroundings. He was on a couch in what looked like the sitting room of an old stone cottage. The walls were lined with bookshelves, there were even books on the mantlepiece over the fireplace. Books of history, philosophy, mythology, fairy tales, medieval manuscripts, old books of theology, even some fiction and children’s stories seemed to be included in this antiquated library.
Whatever it was Mr. Cyning was doing in his garden, he came back in smiling, but there was a concerned look in his eyes. “Well, boy, how are you doing?” was all he said. Alfred’s head began screaming with questions. Again he tried to get Mr. Cyning to answer them. The old man seemed reluctant, as if he wished not to say too much or too little. Alfred looked at the old man, pleading for answers with his eyes. “It’s time you know,” Mr. Cyning said slowly. At last, Alfred was going to get some answers.
“Come with me out into the garden, bring your wine,” he told Alfred. They walked outside, the sun assaulted Alfred’s eyes. “Passing out two days in a row isn’t helping you keep your feet, is it?” said Mr. Cyning as Alfred stumbled.
“I’m fine, just a little weak still.”
“Well, keep drinking that wine.” Mr. Cyning produced a loaf of bread and the two of them sat out in his garden under the shade of a large weeping willow facing Fey Forest. In the distance Alfred could just make out the mountain rising high above the forest. Mr. Cyning produced a pipe, tobacco, and some matches from his various pockets. Puffing slowly he turned to Alfred, “It’s all true, boy.”
“W-what do you mean?” asked Alfred terrified of the answer.
“The dreams, the ancient one you’ve met in the forest, the torches, all of it is true. I know, it sounds ridiculous, but it’s true all the same. Faërie is all around us. The world is so much bigger than you’ve dreamt of. It’s like what Hamlet told Horatio, there’s more in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophies.
“Look, Alfred, I’ll be honest with you, elves, gnomes, dwarves, goblins, giants, dragons they’re all real. The ones who are good are better than you could ever imagine, but the wicked are darker than anything. Most people live their whole lives thinking Faërie is just another word for imagination or the supernatural. They never get the chance to see. Ah, we’ve been cursed with blindness for so long now. Not that Faërie has ever been easy to see, far from it, but we weren’t meant to be completely ignorant of it. Arthur knew Faërie, this wood was named after his half-sister, you know. Morgana was, well, she was confused she was. Robertus Kirk, MacDonald, Chesterton, Lewis, Tolkien, they all understood, they believed in Faërie, even if they infrequently got into it, they knew it was there. You’re lucky, well, maybe that’s the wrong word. You’ve been given a gift, you’ve spent your whole life on the edge of Elfland, as it were, and now you’ve stumbled in.”
Alfred did not believe what he was hearing. Faërie? Elfland? Goblins, dragons, gnomes? No. He lived in a world where science had dispelled all those old beliefs. There was no way this could be true. Alfred was just about to say so when he noticed a ring of mushrooms right next to weeping willow. He let out a shriek he would have normally been ashamed of as suddenly an enormous mushroom from the centre of the circle began walking towards them. It removed its cap and wiped its brow, “Told him the truth at last, eh, Oliver? I told you you should have done it years ago. He would have believed you and I could have been left out of it.”
“I know what I’m doing. I’ve been at this a long time, Balthazar.”
“Of course, sir.”
Alfred was still staring, though the horror he felt at first was beginning to transition to curiosity. Hadn’t he always loved fairy tales and legends when he was a boy? It was at university he began to despise them in a fashionable exercise toward popularity. “What’s going on? What, or I suppose I should say who, are you?”
“Balthazar Toadstool, historian and mushroom shepherd, which is to say a gnome, at your service.” The gnome gave a bow.
“Alfred Perkins,” Alfred mumbled out, still somewhat in shock.
“Gnomes are among the wisest creatures in Faërie, Alfred” said Mr. Cyning. “And old Balthazar here is accounted wise even by his own kind.”
“You do me honour, sir,” was the gnome’s reply.
“What I really want to know,” said Alfred, “is what the devil is going on?”
“You’ve been having dreams, haven’t you, my son,” said Balthazar. “Dreams about a wondrous folk in the forest. But your dreams have turned darker, haven’t they? It’s no surprise. Evil never really goes away, we’ll never truly see the end of it in this life. You have been given a gift, my son, the gift of the second sight. All humans can see Faërie, or Elfland as many of us call it. They work at not seeing it. Even you tried not to see it, explaining away your dreams and the two times we have met, but unlike most humans you cannot not see Elfland. More than that, you have dreams of the goings on of Elfland. There’s a darkness brewing, such as we have not known for a long age. It’s been plaguing your world more than our own. All these wars you have been having, the hatred of
