Locking my door in the evening is a simple procedure. I turn the small brass knob and the bolt slides into place, becoming a sign of protection from the outside world. It is a nightly ritual, which gives me a great sense of peace, and tells me false guarantees of safety. My lock cannot keep out those who truly want to get in. It is seventeen years old, weakened by time, and holds together two older, flimsy, wooden doors, that would not deter a sincere assailant. More than that, my brass lock, wooden doors, and crumbling brick house cannot keep out the Fae.
Those who are not of our realm, whose ethereal beauty will drive a mortal mind insane, whose music captures the ears and causes you to dance until the feet bleed, break, and rot, making you laugh and sing the entire time. The Fae curdle the milk, rot the crops, and hide your socks. They steal the baby, steal the maiden, steal the youth, with no respect for humanity, and drive you to madness, just for amusement. Older than time itself, and living in their grand courts in their fairy world, a human life to them is faster than a sip of air, and quicker than a fleeting beat of the heart.
My temporal brass lock means nothing to the Fae, who will slip in through the walls and cracks and dreams, but ancient methods have been known to work. A line of salt on the windowsill, with iron figures standing sentential, will stop them. A door marked with blood and a chant of protection will stop them. Dream catchers above the bed, and knives under the pillows, protect my slumber, while an iron charm, and a pocketful of bread protect when I venture outside my sanctuary. I turn to these archaic customs for help, because they came for her.
It was a day filled to the brim with sunshine, the clouds puffed along the sky, and the soft summer’s grass bounced under foot. My sister Stella and I were on the edge of maturity and enjoying the last summer of youth. A pack of them, or a herd, a flock, a murder, came out, emerging from the dapples of shadow on the forest floor. Moving in a dance across the wooded clearing, they came into the space in front of us, examining my sister. The Fae are like little children, always wanting what they do not have, and mortals are their favorite toys. They had seen Stella and desired her for themselves, as a Queen, a Lady, a Servant, a Slave, a Pet. We were frozen in disbelief at the sight, the images from our folklore and fairytales coming into reality for our ruin.
Stella, my comely sister, is gone. Her hair seemed to be transmuted into precious gold, and her fair skin was as smooth as silk. Her slightly crooked teeth and ears that were just a tad too large were considered not as flaws, but as character. Her laugh had pealed and chimed, like church bells, a sound that made the day lovely. She had stormy moods that darkened her brow, which struck all those around her. Her eyes sparkled and shined, two ever-bright stars that twinkled in feeling, whether it be glee, joy, rage, or boredom. They were windows not to her soul, but to the sky, where galaxies of emotion and passion lived. The Fae took her for the galaxies in her eyes.
They were long beings with stretched limbs and bodies, giving them the image of grace and elegance. Skin in the richest tones varied from the palest parchment to the darkest ink. Their hair, worn long by male and female alike, fell in strokes and waves and whorls to their waists, in colors that earthly jewels weakly imitate. Their faces held faultless features, carved from perfection. They were dressed in the finest fabrics; a variety of out-of-date fashions, extending from royal dresses to little else than a loincloth. The most glaring article of the Fae were their eyes, which held no empathy or emotion, but were pits of primal shadows, without the sparks of passion and humanity to light them. These creatures of alien splendor saw Stella not as a person, but as an animal, plaything, and object of celestial beauty, to be used and discarded as the mood struck.
So they came, waiting there in front of us as we stood frozen, watching them. And they began to whisper and croon a song, a chant, a spell, of music to enthrall, ensnare, and capture. It slid into our ears, and fogged our minds, painting pictures not of their foreign danger, but of joy, riches, and grand celebration. These pictures promised to us the shine of the sun, the pleasure of a fire, and the strength and immortality of the mountains. With our minds swaddled in the clouds and pictures, we rejoiced, for we had the song and its promises. I grinned, and the passion in Stella’s eyes shone brighter than ever. We looked to the Fae, these saviors from our lives of human drudgery, and we went to them. Walking and skipping and dancing, we went to them. They held out their arms, and they caught Stella, caught her fogged mind, mortal body, and the galaxies in her eyes. But they ignored me.
That was fine though, because I still had the song of clouds and pictures, whispering to me impossible promises. So I watched and grinned and celebrated as they took my lovely sister. They bundled her into their arms, danced with glee at their success, and went back to the forest, back to the shadows, and away to their fairy world. The Fae took Stella as I smiled and swayed and clumsily danced to the tune still ringing in my head. I waited for them to come back and take me to my sister, where we, together, would live forever in glory, and the promises would be fulfilled. But they did not. The bite of the early evening came and cleared the fog in my mind, leaving room for panic, despair, and distress. Stella, my comely sister, was gone.
That was ten summers ago. I still glimpse her sometimes, catching fleeting sight of her in the corner of my eye. At first she would appear bright and shining, dressed in fine clothes and dancing across my vision. As the years went on, she dimmed and dimmed, and the stars in her eyes began to go out, and her clothes began to wear, and her feet began to bleed. Now when I glance an image of her, she is dark and dull, her galaxies are gone, her clothes naught but rags, and she dances no more, but languishes with a mournful smile. So the Fae stole the galaxies in my sister’s eyes.
There is no way to help my sister or save her. She is better off listening to the twisted tune in their world than silence in mine. But I still fear the Fae. They will not come back for me. I have crushed the perverse hope and the dark dread that they might, but they will come back. They will see Réalta, my infant daughter, with her belling laugh and the passion in her eyes. They will come for the galaxies in her eyes, but they shall not get them. My lovely little daughter will never languish in the Fae’s heavenly hell.
So, I will raise her to be wary of the Fae, and teach her the old ways. She will salt her windowsills, gather iron figures, and mark her door with blood and a chant. She will sleep only when protected by dream catchers and a knife under the pillow, and leave her house only with iron charms and a pocketful of bread. I will teach Réalta as she grows and learns and lives. I will help her, and nourish her, and guard her with my love. Those primal creatures will never steal my daughter’s galaxies. I will protect her. And so, I lock my door.