Dancing with the Fairies:

A Retelling of Common Welsh Myths

Mom always used to tell me the scary stories about fairies. If I’d done something wrong, I’d always hear about the fairies that used to steal bad children away in the middle of the night, the evil rituals with the fairy fires that lured travelers away from the paths. All of my friends heard these too, and when we were little they were all afraid of the lake the fairies lived under. We heard if you went out late on a full moon night and saw its reflection in the lake, the beauty of it would drag you under and you’d be trapped forever, dancing with the fairies until you wasted away. None of my friends ever went out at night, but I was never scared of the fairies.

My grandmother would come to my room after every one of mom’s stories and renew my love for the fairies. She would light a candle and tell me the most beautiful tales of the parties she had supposedly gone to with them. Their kindness, their wild dancing that never made you tired, the beautiful inked designs in their skin--these stories seemed so real I almost believed they were true. I spent many nights in the woods on the edge of the lake, hoping that my cynicism would be proven false and I would get a glimpse of these ethereal creatures. During the full moon I was the most hopeful, but I was too young to stay up that late. I would drift off early on in the night before the moon was even high enough to cast a reflection into the lake. My dreams were always vivid, taking me several moments after waking to realize that’s all they were. In them, the fairies would come out of the moonlit lake and light a fire to keep me warm. I would talk with them in their language, listening to their stories and singing together until the sun was almost risen. When I woke, long after sunrise, there would be no sign of a fire.

My grandmother died yesterday. I didn’t cry, I knew she was satisfied with her life and was ready to pass on. She hadn’t spoken in several years, but we were still close. I spent many nights with her, retelling the stories she had told me when I was a kid. I knew they made her happy, even if I added a spark of my own to them. They weren’t real anyway. A week before she died, she pressed a small ring into my hand. It was scratched and worn, definitely pure gold. There was writing carved into the inside of the band in a foreign language, and I guess that it was her wedding ring. It was barely large enough to wear on my pinky, but I slipped it on when she died. It makes me feel as though a part of her is still with me.

The moon will be full tonight. I’m seventeen now--old enough to know now for sure fairies aren’t real, young enough to wish they were. I told mom I was going to walk to the lake and she didn’t even glance up from the fire. She is grieving grandmother more than I am. Perhaps she thought grandmother would live forever. I remember when I used to think that. The door closes softly behind me, and I hear a gentle sob from inside. Mom needs to be alone.

I retrace the steps through the woods I used to take so often when I was younger. The path is more overgrown now, and the moss has completely enveloped the trees. It’s more beautiful than I remembered, but the silence has a scary edge to it that isn’t familiar. I feel like an intruder in this place that used to seem like a second home. In front of me, I see the widening of the path that opens out to the lake. The moon is rising slowly above the hills, much bigger than I’ve seen it in the past. I promise myself I will stay awake this time. I don’t understand it, but it feels wrong to sleep here now, where my grandmother imagined her best days.

Following the edge of the lake, I see a small circular clearing with a flat stone in the middle. I sit down, staring at the moon and waiting for that magical reflection to appear in the water. Brushing my fingers through the grass, it feels soft and ashy. It looks gray, but in this light it’s too hard to tell. Maybe some travelers spent a night in this same spot, enjoying the beauty of the lake as I am now, lighting their fire as the fairies used to in my dreams. I enjoy this fantasy for a while, seeing the travelers enjoying a meal by their fire and laughing at each others’ tales of strange villages. My fantasy fades as I feel the coolness of water lapping at my feet. I neglected shoes when I left the house, there seemed no reason to wear them on such a short walk to the sandy shore.

Looking down, I’m glad I did. The lake has risen a bit since my mind began to wander, and it’s a gentle call to reality. The moon’s reflection is fully visible now, and I finally understand why everyone is so drawn to it. The light bounces off the water in a way that creates the illusion of a diamond in an endless saphire sea. The brightness fully illuminates the shore of the lake, and I notice in passing that the grass I thought surrounded me is indeed ash. My gaze drops to grandmother’s ring on my finger, and the light bouncing off it is so intense it seems to have a glow of its own. I take it off for a moment to hold it up to the light better, and the inscription seems to flare brightly for an instant before the ring drops from my tired fingers.

I feel my heart drop as I panic for a moment that I lost grandmother’s ring. I spot it quickly, it’s resting in the lake about a half meter from the edge of the water. My heart steadies as I realize how close it is. I shouldn’t have worried about the water taking it away; the lake is so still it could pass for ice. The ring dropping in hadn’t disturbed it even enough to leave ripple on the glassy surface. I step forward and reach for the ring, placing it securely back on my finger. The water isn’t as cold as I expected, the transition into the lake was barely imperceptible aside from the feeling of almost velvety water after the still air above. I take a few more steps in, enjoying the feeling of weightlessness and fluidity from the embrace of the water.

I let my weight sink me down to the silky bottom of the lake, pushing myself up again when my toes hit the sand. The bottom of the lake was deeper than I realized, and I feel a split second of panic before I reach my arms up to propel me to the surface. I push them down, but before I finish the stroke I feel the iron grip of a hand pulling me upwards. I gasp a breath as soon as my head breaks the water, and open my eyes to see this stranger that saved me from completely panicking under the lake standing on the shore still holding on to me.

Her eyes are unreal. They have their own inner light--the one that appeared in grandmother’s ring before I dropped it in the lake. They’re the same shade of gold, too, something I would never be able to imagine if I wasn’t seeing it now for myself. Her skin is incredibly pale and has striking designs covering it, from delicate vines twining down her side to harsh lines slashing across her arms. With a start, I realize she’s naked and consciously move my eyes back to her face. I guess I wasn’t the only one enjoying the lake.

She steps away from me, and my attention finally shifts to the rest of our surroundings. This is definitely not the shore I was spending the night at mere moments ago. There’s still a forest, but the trees are barren and draped in vines that hold small sun-like lanterns. The ash circle on the ground is now a blazing fire and there’s a group of fairies sitting around it laughing. I know, for once, this is not a dream; perhaps they never were. Stepping closer to the fire, I smile along with their tinkling laughter. They’re speaking the language I heard in the past, yet I understand it perfectly. A story about a defeated dragon drifts through the air, and the lights in the trees glow brighter. They dim again in time for the beginning of a story about a massacred village, and a shiver shoots down my spine.

After a while of listening to their tales, one of the fairies rises and asks me to come with him. I can’t wait to see more of this magical world--so far, the fairy world in the lake has only surpassed my grandmother’s wildest stories.

We walk for a few minutes, deeper into the woods. To me it seems like an hour, my anticipation stretching out the time. Suddenly I see a group of fairies, dancing around a fire that reaches past the treetops. Their bodies spin wildly in the light with the most eerie beauty I’ve ever seen. I look at my guide, asking if I can join them. Laughing, he takes my hand and drags me to the other fairies. My grandmother would be so happy to hear about this, if only it had happened sooner. I should have believed her.

Immediately caught in the whirlwind of the fairy dance, my body feels lightened and I lose track of time. The fire seems smaller now, but I can hardly tell. I keep moving with the fairies, so fast the world is a blur. Minutes, hours, days, I can’t remember when I started dancing. Am I happy or am I afraid? Who am I? I want to know, but my words are slipping away with my mind; I have no answers. I’m losing myself, I don’t know where I am. I slip, relieved for a moment that this insane dance is over. My vision is filled with red, I’m swimming back in the lake again, only this time the lake is filled my blood. My lungs are closing. There’s no more fairies. A dead fire. Grandma, your stories only hurt me.

Bibliography

Emerson, P. H. Welsh Fairy Tales and Other Stories. Nutt, 1894.

Most of the inspiration of this story comes from this collection of stories. All other inspiration comes from myself.