FAIRY DOOR

V. A. Boston

Copyright © 2019 by V. A. Boston. All rights reserved.

Botulf Stone Press, United States

Chapter 1

Midmorning sunlight, tinted with the heat of early summer, cast shadows between hills made green from the work of a storm-filled spring as Eibhlin made her way to the nearby town. Wind passed through her hair and danced between flowers that poked through the grass like drops of dye on a rumpled, green rug.

Eibhlin herself lived in a cottage along the eastern edge of the hills, built there by her great-grandfather before famine drove her grandparents from that home, and before her father brought her mother away from the gray mountains in the north back to that green-clothed country and its little town. The same little town where, three months ago, a thunderbolt had set thatched roofs to fire. No one died, but trades and treasures were lost, and many gained scars. Even the church now wore black on its stones, though otherwise it had been spared.

Her father had left early that morning to join the repair crews as he did every day, so he probably hadn’t eaten. When she woke to her father’s absence, Eibhlin had quickly tended to the chickens, packed a bag with biscuits and fresh boiled eggs, and left the house. She would have reached the town already had she used the path, but Eibhlin loved the rustle of grass and the rise and fall of earth beneath her feet. The dirt path curved around the hills before breaking two ways, one to the forestlands spreading up toward the Great Northern Mountains and out to the distant east, and the other path to the west where the White Cliffs loomed over ocean waves before swooping down to port towns and coastal villages. Eibhlin’s goal, however, was the tiny town nestled between the hills and the forest.

Filled with no more than thirty families, it was more a village than a town and did not have a name. Most who passed through called it “the border town,” as it lay near the river Lúrin that ran through the forest—the border of that country of Enbár—as well as near the White Cliffs, the border of the land itself. To the locals, it was one more border, that of between the hills rolling south to the lowland settlements and cities and the forest.

Townsmen called the woods magic, frequented by the fairy folk. Stories flew around of hearing fairy laughter or seeing dancing figures from the Fae Country between the trees. Some spoke of fairy help while others spoke of curses. Eibhlin believed every story. From the hilltop, she looked to the trees forming a line between land and sky, but a voice from below brought her back.

“Eibhlin, good morning!” called the voice. It belonged to an older man standing on the path with a bulging bag hanging from his shoulder.

“Good morning, Dr. Brien,” said Eibhlin as she left the hill to join him. “How’s the weavers’?”

“Nearly done,” said the doctor. “Just the roof and the door and a few things left. Then it’s on to the next one.”

“Do you think they’ll finish today?” she said.

“Probably not,” he said. “But even if they do, I’m not sure what to do about the weavers’ tools. Just about everything burned. The big caravans won’t be through for a few months, but even when they do come, they won’t have much to offer them. And it’s not just the weavers’. Even if everyone pools their resources, we’ll still have to hope things don’t get too tight before next spring.”

Eibhlin nodded in understanding.

As they came into town, folk greeted them from doorways. Eibhlin gave quick replies to each knowing nod at her satchel. They came into the main square where every available man carried, chopped, sawed, tied, or nailed lumber or did anything he could to keep busy. Women slipped between the chaos, children at their heels or infants slung across their backs as they filled whatever role they could.

One woman turned and saw Eibhlin and the doctor approaching. “Welcome back, Brien,” she said. “Did you find much? And good morning, Eibhlin.”

“I had to go farther south than I’d expected and had to use the road on the way back, but I found enough herbs for today,” said the doctor. “How are things here, Leana?”

“And have you seen my father?” added Eibhlin.

“There’ve been so many accidents already today, I might need to run back to the house for more thread,” said Leana, looking through her husband’s bag. “As soon as one injury is fixed, another two pop up. And your father is over there, helping thatch the weavers’ house.”

The once de-fleshed house was near healed. All around, men, women, and children bundled the dried reed into thatching and prepared the wooden spars used to bind it all together. One group of men lifted rough-cut beams to a pair standing on the walls where the roof would eventually be. Eibhlin called up to the pair balanced on the newly built walls. “Papa!”