Faery Tale (11 page)

“Well, really,” she said simply, “It's entirely about trust.” I waited for her to continue. “You're here searching, for what? I don't think you're really sure. But you're here, and I think that right now, you're having to teach yourself how to trust again. That's where the real magic lies. To find what you're looking for, you've got to learn to trust.”

 

The second night in London I dreamed of my father. He was leaning against a column in my mother's living room, waiting for me to notice him. He looked just as he did before he died—some gray-white stubble beginning to show on his usually clean-shaven cheeks, his peppered hair thinning at the scalp. He didn't speak, but just looked at me, imploringly, sadly. He closed his eyes a moment, as if to show me how good it felt to rest. He looked tired. I understood what I was supposed to do—but all I could do was clutch him, lean my face into his as my stomach seized and I began to cry uncontrollably, tears streaming down my face. I could only say,
I miss you so much, Daddy, I just miss you so much that I just can't get over it
, as I wailed against him.

I knew he was asking me to let him go.

I just couldn't.

While in London, I was staying with Rebecca Campbell and her husband, Anthony McGowan, in their three-bedroom flat in West Hampstead. Becky now ran a fashion company full-time, but her novel had been one of the first I edited in my career, and over the years we had become closer to family than friends. Their home proved be the perfect nest from which to prepare my first steps into the world of faery.

Back in New York I had come across a documentary entitled
The Fairy Faith
, by John Walker. Walker's search felt very similar to my own, and we shared a similar sentiment, that the belief in faeries has been with humans for thousands of years. From the Greeks to the Romans, from the Japanese to the Celts, most cultures known to us believed in some sort of faeries. However, “in the past several generations,” his resonant voice boomed, “we seem to have abandoned them, relegated them to the nursery. Science has turned an ancient belief into superstition.”

In Devon, England, Walker had interviewed a man who explained that faeries can affect our minds as well as our imaginations. In other words, faeries can control what we see, and, therefore, they can control whether we see them or not. The idea that faeries could control or, in the very least, hold sway over our imaginations intrigued me—especially after my experience in Mexico. But what really blew me away was Walker's interview with Brian Froud. Together with a man named Alan Lee (now the Oscar-winning conceptual designer for the
Lord of the Rings
movie trilogy), Froud wrote and illustrated a book entitled
Faeries
in 1978. It was not only a
New York Times
bestseller, but it would become a classic that ultimately launched Froud's career. When Jim Henson discovered Brian Froud's work, he took a trip out to Devon to meet him. Before long, Froud was the conceptual designer for two of the most memorable cult classics for my generation:
Labyrinth
and
The Dark Crystal
. He was the mastermind behind the characters that had ignited my imagination as a child. Who doesn't remember the peaceful, hump-backed Mystics? I'd watched enraptured as they ceased their daily duties to raise their head and, each in their own tone, call out that long, deep note that summoned the One destined to find the missing crystal shard. Who doesn't remember the nasty, vulturelike Skeksis, with their Yodalike “Mmmmhm! Gelfling, mmmmh!”

Brian Froud was the faery godfather of our imaginations. He was also the author and illustrator of nearly every faery book that had caught my eye in a Barnes & Noble long before I ever really gave faeries a second thought.
Lady Cottington's Pressed Fairy Book?
Brian Froud.
Good Faeries/Bad Faeries?
Brian Froud. His books have sold more than eight million copies worldwide, an impressive feat by any standard. But most alluring was one simple little fact: Brian Froud absolutely and unequivocally believed in the existence of faeries.

Thanks to John Walker, I had rediscovered the legendary Brian Froud. And by some miracle, after a brief introductory phone call, the quiet, magical man had invited me to come to Devon to meet and interview him and his wife, Wendy. Wendy Froud herself is an internationally renowned sculptor and puppetmaker. Known for her work on
The Dark Crystal
,
Labyrinth
, and the sculpting of a little character from
Star Wars
we like to call Yoda, she is no small potato in the fantasy world, either.

I would be traveling by train to Heathrow Airport, where I would pick up my rental car and make my way to Chagford, the nearest town to the Froud's home, a seventeenth-century thatched-roof cottage called Stinhall, located a mile or so from the village.

With Becky, Tony, and their two kids, I was properly marinated in a general feeling of safety, relaxation, and love, so the drive from Heathrow to Chagford was seeming somewhat less terrifying.

Sitting aboard the train, I was struck with a wave of gratitude for it all, and quite unexpectedly, I found myself suddenly close to tears. Twelve hundred thirty-three days ago I had lost my father. Twelve hundred twenty-four days ago I had gone back to work, walking the streets of New York City like a zombie for months on end. Seven hundred thirty-two days ago I met a man with a dimple in his left cheek named Eric at a party in Brooklyn. Thirty or so days after that, I decided I wanted to write a book about faeries. The weight of being here, on a train in England, settled in like ten pounds of gold, and my heart welled with it. I was alone, I was free, and I was here. I was living my dream.

And for the first time, it truly felt okay that I had no idea what would happen when I finally awoke. I only had to learn to trust.

 

 

 

 

T
HE moment I shut the car door and adjusted the mirror of my tiny rental car, my relative calm went right out the window. My budget had forced me into a manual transmission, and the stick shift was on the left. I am miserable at doing
anything
with my left hand.Toss into the mix driving on the “wrong” side of the road, the twisty English roadways, my debilitating lack of a sense of direction, and little gifts from Satan called roundabouts, and you've got one hell of a recipe for disaster.

I arrived at my first British roundabout to discover that all common sense had left me. I knew I had to drive on the left, but should I go
clockwise
or
counterclockwise
around the circle? Lord help us all, I was unknowingly ill-prepared for roundabouts! Taking a deep breath I pulled out on the left-hand side of the road, heading counterclockwise. Directly into oncoming traffic. I must have screamed. What had been an empty roundabout a split second before was now a major thoroughfare of flashing metal and blaring horns. Terror struck, and I did what any sensible person would do. I froze. And the car stalled.
Shit, shit, shit!
What would Lynda Carter do? Starting the engine again, I worked my foot on the clutch as I struggled to find first gear. And instead shot backward at top speed. I slammed on the brakes and finally managed to pull over. How on this sweet earth was I going to drive the three hours to Chagford? I was going to kill half the population of England.

I wanted, so badly, just to smack myself, really, really hard.

I must have sat there on the side of the road for ten minutes as the cars whizzed by, just thinking about life, and my father, and what a good driver he used to be, before he had trouble driving, and faeries, and wondering why, if I had come all this way, the freaking faeries couldn't just flit out from behind a tree or something and take care of this whole driving thing. Meet me halfway here, faery folk. Finally, I took a deep breath, and gathering every ounce of courage within me, I waited for a break in the traffic and swung the car around.

Chagford, here I come. Just please let me make it there in one piece.

 

British people drive fast, very fast. Of course, I wasn't expecting this. After all, the Brits are such an incredibly buttoned-up and well-mannered folk. But their blinding fury of flashing lights, horn leaning, and zooming past me at nearly one hundred miles per hour sent me a helpful message about the rules of the road, and after a few close calls I was getting the hang of things.

Before I knew it my lovely electronic navigator was announcing, “Please take the next exit, off the motorway. Take the exit, now.”

The scenery had surely sprung from the pages of a picture book. As I wound my way toward Chagford, I could hardly believe my eyes. The verdant green fields were dotted with butter-colored wildflowers, and tall, ancient oaks towered, casting shadows on the asphalt in the late afternoon sun. The road slimmed, as if to be less intrusive, from two lanes down into one. Now high boxwood hedges and stone walls lined the narrow lane, and when a sign for the village led me to the town center, I delighted in seeing a beautiful old church, a stone-walled graveyard, a dairy shop, cheery pubs, and a few small shops.

Finally arrived, I parked and lifted the heavy iron knocker on the door marked “Cyprian's Cot” and was met by the proprietress, Shelagh Weeden, who instructed me to wait in the back garden for tea after I got settled in my room. My home for the next few days was perched at the top of a narrow flight of stairs where two twin beds with flowered comforters were nestled between two large windows and a sloping roof. I had my own private bathroom with an electric shower, small sink, and toilet. It was simple, clean, perfect. Downstairs I stepped over the terrier gate propped up in the hallway, through a small covered courtyard, and out an open door to the back garden.

“You've got to be kidding me,” I murmured. Before me was a series of gentle hills that rolled into the distance as far as the eye could see. Beyond Shelagh's fence more than fifty sheep were grazing, and I could hear the long, plaintive calls of a lamb, his mother drifting too far in her search for tender spring nibbles.

The sun warmed me, but there was a soft breeze blowing the flowers about on their stalks in Shelagh's garden, tumbling swaths of purple, pink, white, and green. I moved toward a picnic table and sat, as Shelagh's two terriers, Nutmeg and Spice, wiggled their Tootsie Roll bodies around my legs. Every stress, every doubt, every minor trial and tribulation from the day melted away as I sat and stared out into the beautiful countryside of Devon. A shuffle of feet announced Shelagh, who came bearing a tray of hot tea and freshly baked brownies. I gave her a grateful smile—I couldn't imagine a more beautiful place to begin.

 

That night after dinner at the pub, two patrons perched at the bar asked me what brought me to Chagford.

As I sat talking with Ed and his friend Jo, both locals, I told them about the book. Ed looked amused; Jo looked somewhat consternated.

“If you're interested in faeries,” she began, “have you been out to the stone circle in Scorhill?” Of course I hadn't. I'd been hoping to see a circle or two in England because they fascinated me, though I had to admit that despite my love of history, I didn't have much of an understanding as to what exactly they were. But to my delight, Jo offered to give me a personal tour.

“If there are faeries anywhere”—she smiled—“you'll find them on Dartmoor.”

We swapped numbers, and I agreed to call her to set up a meeting for my last full day in Chagford.

Leaving the pub that night, I could hardly wait to do some reading up on the area. What exactly
was
a stone circle, and what did we know about the people who had made them? Hill forts, passage graves, stone circles, barrows, and henges. I let the new vocabulary flood me as I read through a stack of books that Shelagh had left on the living-room table. Dartmoor was really just a large, open plain in Devon, a “moor,” in addition to being a national park. What I hadn't realized was that the Dartmoor area was known to be one of the richest prehistoric areas in all of Britain. Evidence of human habitation there dated back as far as 8000 BC, and I got the impression you couldn't walk very far in Dartmoor without tripping over an ancient stone site. The majority of the sites were Bronze Age burials (2000-500 BC), passage graves, which were essentially large tombs made from huge blocks of rough stone. The tombs themselves were buried after construction, and marked with giant stacked stone markers aboveground. Aside from the gravesites, there were, I learned,
twelve
stone circles on the moor. One of the most impressive, interestingly, was at Scorhill, where I would be visiting Jo in two days.