A wise old crone stitches a quilt by the fire, her nimble fingers darting the needle as she sings a long-forgotten ballad. Soon faeries may visit, and she’s brewed an apple cider for hospitality. Often the creatures stay and keep her awake all night, telling one tale after another. Would you like to hear a faerie’s tale of solitude’s wonder? Come, listen.

It’s up to you to find what meaning you will.

 

 

There was an old woman who lived in a faraway cottage all alone. No one knew she existed, and she wasn’t up to travel. She felt rather ashamed that she should end her life in such a way.

Days were much the same until an unusual rash of summer storms battered her faraway cottage night after night. Even stranger was that the storms summoned witches to the forest. At least, it seemed they were witches, as they had such spindly bodies and laughed quite a lot.  

You’d think the old woman would make an introduction of herself and ask questions of women who dance in trees, which is a marvel. But after being alone for so long, she feared she no longer knew how to make friends. 

One night a storm came so fierce that thunder rattled the floor and walls and flue of the faraway cottage. The old woman set down her mug of cider. She stood from her rocking chair to have a look-see out the window, in case there were witches about again. She got a shock.

Two very small blue-ish faces with pinched noses, ears, and chins looked in at her, their foreheads pressed against the window glass. Dragonfly wings fluttered at their backs. 

“First witches in trees, and now faeries at my window!” exclaimed the old woman. She blinked, and the faeries were gone.

Curiosity took hold, just as it should. She opened her front door and traipsed outside to see if faerie footprints might be in the mud outside her window. She wished to see such a thing. As she bent over with a hand to her aching back, the cottage door slammed shut.

The key turned to lock the old woman out.

Now it was she who peeked in the window. And there the faeries were, thin, wearing hardly a stitch of clothing, and grinning like banshees. They held hands and spun in a circle by the fire. Their dragonfly wings kicked up a fine wind through the cottage, scattering trinkets and upending the aforementioned mug of cider to make a stain on the rug.

The old woman howled in upset, but the faeries ignored her utterly. Next they plopped in her rocking chair side by side and picked up her book to read. She watched their heart-shaped lips move and pages turn while rain soaked her through and through.

This is when the old woman was stricken with loneliness to see what must be two very close and not lonely friends.

When the faeries refused to open the door and let her back in, the old woman wandered most dejected toward the forest. She was cold and dazed and at the last moment remembered about the witches.

The spindly women climbed with ease in the branches of lightning-struck trees. Now that the old woman was close, she could see the witches busied themselves splitting limbs to sit upon and fly, spiraling away into the storm with shrieks of laughter. 

This is when the old woman was grabbed from behind. A drink of thick nectar was forced down her throat.

The rest of the night was a dream. There was a ballet without shoes, and kidnapping and stealing. There were poems recited of queens and high towers, fingers pulling at her hair, more drinks of the thick nectar, pinches and dress fittings. When dawn came, the old woman found herself propped against her cottage door and rubbing bleary eyes.

She went inside to find her faraway cottage in shambles. 

The rocking chair was overturned. Onions had replaced feathers in pillows. There was a log from the fire in her stove’s pot, and scorched handkerchiefs atop candles. She found only her most colorful socks tucked into mugs. Not one book was on its shelf—and of course pages had been torn out, as we all know how faeries rip out their favorite parts of storybooks to keep for themselves. 

This is when the old woman remembered that she’d recently been locked outside her home.

“Oh my, was it real?” she asked herself as clouded memories of forest revelry drifted across her mind. Her eyes flew open and she gasped. “Oh my! Did faeries braid my hair?”

Stumbling over the wreckage that was the floor of her home, she stood before a mirror. Indeed, her hair was braided in a breathtaking and intricate pattern, with pink petals tucked in. But that wasn’t all.  

She wore a magnificent white dress of a billowing, weightless fabric stitched with silver thread. The dress was soft and beaded with drops of dew. When she touched it, the scent of sugar cookies filled the air.

Tears filled the old woman’s eyes, for her reflection was like that of a single, beautiful flower.

This is when she remembered the unicorn:

There had been a midnight revelry, a gathering deep in the forest, when a unicorn had appeared. White and glowing like a precious pearl, it had walked through the midst of all manner of drunken fae creatures. Untouched.

The unicorn had been magnificent in its solitude as it passed by to vanish in the forest.

This memory came to the old woman bright and crisp, and it changed her. It became alive in her. From that day on, she never felt shame at being alone at the end of her life in her faraway cottage.

Rather, she felt magnificent in her solitude.

“I am a unicorn!” the old woman often said as she clasped her hands at her chest with the delighted smile of a child. 

Years passed with no more encounters or sightings of impossible things. The old woman became very, very, very old and quite frail. One evening she knew to take out the exquisite faerie dress and put it on.

A knock came. She opened the faraway cottage door to find spindly witches. They seemed very excited and held forth a limb freshly split from a tree. With winks and long beckoning fingers, they turned to look up at the starry sky.

The old woman reached for the limb. Gently, she closed the faraway cottage door behind her.

She felt fresh as a dewy flower. And much, much too thrilled to look back.

 

 

How beautiful is loneliness.

How beautiful is aloneness and being in the countryside.

In the high mountains, up in the clouds,

The monkeys bounce around in the trees and the birds sing their beautiful songs.

Underneath the waterfalls, you can listen to the sounds of the brook.

The cave hangs around in its solidness, and there is sunshine and moonshine.

But who cares?

The only thing I care about is this beautiful aloneness, which speaks for herself,

And is my constant companion in spite of all these happenings. 

~Milarepa, Tibetan poet (1052-1135)

 

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Featured image of unicorn by Anja

(Repurposed) illustration of faeries by Arthur Rackham and edited by Prawny

Image of stars at night by Artbaggage