The hag stone and the hawthorn tree

Issue five: short fiction by Alison Colwell

The legendary Scottish ballad of Tam Lin, which takes place in Carterhaugh, tells the strange love story of the titular Tam Lin, and his courageous, resourceful, and resilient love, Janet. A key element of the ballad is Janet’s insight and courage in rescuing her enchanted and imprisoned lover from the Queen of the fairies. But what if your lover had gone willingly into captivity, deserting his pregnant wife? Alison Colwell’s heart-wrenching story reimagines this antique love story in an elegant and engaging story. Prepare to be enchanted …

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One for sorrow

Deidre stared at the solitary magpie rapping its sharp beak on the glass. The black head and tail looked almost purple against its white chest. Was that an ordinary bird amid the geraniums and pansies in her window box? Or was it some other world messenger? The bowl of cream she left for the house hob was licked clean, but had she forgotten some other task?

The magpie wasn’t the only thing worrying her.

Thomas hadn’t come home last night.

It had happened all the time when they were at university. He stood rounds for pensioners in oak-beamed pubs, plying them with pints in exchange for their oldest stories. Stories of Maab and Cuchulainn and Bran the Blessed whose head rested under the tower. Sometimes he’d follow a good story home and spend the night on a threadbare couch in a remote farmer’s croft. Thomas would do anything to hear a new twist on an old tale.

She hadn’t minded his fact-finding trips, because she had her painting, and without his interruptions she could lose herself for hours in the dream worlds she created. She’d always found pubs slightly terrifying, never quite understanding the push and pull of conversation. People were hard. Staying home was easy.

But that was before.

Deidre rested her hand on her enormous belly, feeling the kick of her baby as the magpie rapped on the glass. Thomas had promised he wouldn’t leave her alone anymore.

She watched as the magpie spread its wings and flew away.

‘One for sorrow,’ she breathed. He hadn’t planned on going to the pub last night. Instead, he’d invited her to the hawthorn tree on the edge of the moor. He’d needed her second sight, as unreliable as that was, and been cross when she refused to go with him. She had pleaded morning sickness, which still lingered into her seventh month. She’d been sick, truly. But the moors at night terrified her. At least in the city, the dangers were human, but Thomas said his research meant they needed to be here.

Now she stood alone, looking out at the world, unable to paint.

Deidre knotted the belt of her long, green wool coat over her belly as best she could, then glanced down at her phone, considering the woman labeled ride or die. No, Thomas was Deidre’s problem to solve. She couldn't call Kate yet.

Grey clouds blotted out the weak sunlight, and the wet grass soon soaked her shoes as she followed the well-trodden path towards the edge of the moor. When she reached the hawthorn tree, with its twisted trunk and clusters of blood-red berries, she saw Thomas’s backpack resting against the trunk, his plaid blanket spread out beneath the gnarled branches. His thermos and a half-drunk cup of cocoa sat on the blanket along with a worn hag stone. There was scum on the cocoa, a dead moth floating on its surface. She glanced back at the dry-stone wall that marked the edge of the moor. The bare branches of the birch trees drew black scratches on the grey sky as Deidre called his name.

There was no answer.

The older constable patted her arm and fetched more tea, the scent of chamomile doing nothing to relax her tight nerves. She’d called the police in a panic before collapsing on Thomas’s blanket. Once they’d arrived, the police had searched the area beyond the hawthorn tree but had found no evidence of foul play. Thomas was just gone. Eventually, the officers had brought her home.

‘And your boyfriend is the father?’ asked the constable, glancing at her belly. He looked old enough to be retired, with thick white hair and a bushy moustache.

‘Thomas. Yes.’

‘James McFetrick’s boy, right? There was talk in the town about him moving back. His mom must be right pleased at him finally settling down. He was a wild one when he was younger. I could tell you stories that would curl your hair.’

‘He’s changed now,’ Deidre said, thinking of all the ways her best friend Kate would likely disagree.

‘Must be, to have a nice lass like you waiting at home for him.’

The constable frowned as he studied her latest painting, which was propped on the easel in the kitchen where the light was best. The portrait showed a mustached walrus head emerging from the stiff collar of a military uniform. It’s just dreams, she wanted to tell him, but didn’t. She was unconventional enough already.

‘Not all men are excited about becoming fathers, said the constable. ‘Especially the wild ones, I’ve noticed. Means they have to grow up, see? I’m sure Thomas will be back once he’s had a think about it.’

He thought Thomas had abandoned her. But hadn’t she wondered the same thing? They hadn’t planned on getting pregnant, but when it happened, Thomas had reassured her he wanted a family with her. And in the first few months, it had been magical. He’d fetched her tea, pulled her feet into his lap so he could massage her arches. They’d even talked about baby names, and what kind of parents they would be. But gradually he’d lost himself in his research and things had gone back to normal. Normal was fine. He was the life of every party, chatting up complete strangers, while she never left the wall. Deidre had never figured out what he saw in her. Only her second sight, inherited from her Welsh grandmother, made her special. But the sight had never felt like a gift to Deidre. Only a source of fear.

Deidre locked the door after the police left and lay down on their bed, the hag stone clutched in her hand.

‘Thomas, where are you?’ she whispered, though it didn’t feel like the right question. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see anything or anyone flickering at the edge of her vision.

Two for mirth

Four weeks had passed since Thomas’s disappearance, and now there were two magpies on the fence. She didn’t think they could see her through the glass, but her skin itched with the sensation of being watched. She wanted to run from the kitchen, robe flapping behind her like a goshawk, and scare them away. Instead, she laid her hand protectively over her belly.

She’d forgotten to leave out a dish for the house hob last night. The last few nights. Anxiety was making her forgetful. She needed to take better care. Not everything in the borderlands was benevolent. Her paintings, her dreams, were proof of that. She wished they’d stayed in the city, with its bright lights and anonymity, but they’d moved to the village of Haworth where the moors and Thomas’s absence surrounded her.

A yellow Fiat swung off the road, scattering the magpies as it pulled into her drive. Kate. Deidre stepped back into the shadows, hoping she would go away and leave her alone.

‘Let me in, Deidre.’ Kate banged on the front door, then banged again when Deidre didn’t respond.

Deidre opened the door a crack, the scent of early autumn mixing with the linseed oil smell inside the cottage. ‘What’s the matter? Why are you dressed up?’

Kate wore a red houndstooth jacket over a crisp white shirt, and she had polished her Doc Martens to a shine. Even her black jeans were folded neatly at the hems.

Kate rolled her eyes when she saw that Deidre was dressed in the same shapeless cardigan and maternity jeans she’d been wearing the last time Kate had stopped by. ’Did you forget it was your opening?’

‘I can’t go,’ Deidre replied. She had forgotten. But she couldn’t face people, not without Thomas beside her, smoothing the way. Everyone would notice she was alone. She couldn’t bear it.

‘Of course you can.’

‘But Thomas—’

‘This is your opening. A year’s worth of your work. You can’t let Thomas take that away from you.’

‘You don’t understand what it’s like,’ she protested. ‘You never liked him.’ She stepped back from the door to let Kate in, suddenly wondering if she was the one who didn’t understand. Had Thomas left her?

‘It wasn’t a question of liking. He wasn’t good enough for you.’ Kate sat down at the kitchen table and stared at the new painting. It was a tattooed woman, in a white silk robe with short goat's horns visible through her long hair. Katie was silent as she scrutinized the picture. ‘Those square pupils make me want to sprint, not run. Dee, you’re an amazing artist. That man never even noticed what he had.’

‘Come on,’ said Kate after a moment, shaking her head. ‘We’re going. Put on your prettiest tent, and we’ll go mingle with the glitterati of Leeds.’

Hawthorn tree (Crataegus monogyna)

Kate dragged her through the front door of the gallery, which was in the Leeds old Corn Exchange, and the owner took over from there. Deidre would have bolted if it hadn't been for the two of them, chivvying her along.

‘I’ll stay with you,’ Kate said, touching her arm. ‘Try to breathe. The baby needs oxygen, even if you don’t.’

Deidre smiled as Kate handed her a glass of orange juice, and tried to be brave, tried to pretend it wasn’t so hard.

Four hours later, she stood in the center of the gallery, eyes scanning the walls. She had been feted all evening. If the interest of the patrons filling the gallery, sipping cheap champagne, included a hint of the voyeuristic, she could hardly blame them. Reclusive artist, eight months pregnant, abandoned by her partner; her life was the stuff of tabloids. Still, red dots adorned every painting.

‘Waking nightmares,’ one art critic had labelled her style.

‘Heathcliff’s ghosts come to haunt us all,’ said another.

Some of her paintings came from dreams, and some were the creatures she saw out of the corners of her eyes: the woman with dragonfly wings and writhing serpents falling from the pattern in her red skirt, or the witches perched on mountain tops, wearing long black dresses with the sorrowful heads of Nubian goats.

The red dots meant she didn’t need to worry about money for the next year. She’d manage just fine without Thomas’s research grant.

Three for a funeral

A week later, Deidre hesitated in the doorway of the old village church. Thomas’s mum, Janice, hurried over. She glanced past Deidre, failing to hide her disappointment when she saw that Thomas wasn’t there.

‘I’m so sorry about John,’ Deirdre said as she unwound her red scarf. The entire village seemed to have crowded into the small church, throwing Thomas’s absence into sharper focus.

‘Come. Sit with me.’ Janice attempted a smile as she tugged Deidre across the red and black chequerboard tile to the front pew.

‘I truly thought he’d be here.’ Deidre felt unaccountably ashamed as she settled into her seat. The announcement had been in every paper. Abandoning her was one thing. But to miss his own father’s funeral? Perhaps he really was dead at the bottom of a gully somewhere on the moors. Perhaps that would be easier.

She’d met Thomas at university. They’d both been so young, and though they were an odd match, she’d believed he loved her. She’d been sure of it.

’Your time is so near, and he’s excited about being a dad. He’ll come back,’ Janice insisted, her tone a little too sharp.

A throat cleared at the front of the church. The vicar stood behind the pulpit in his violet vestments and black gown, hands on the lectern. For the first time Deidre noticed the embroidery hanging from the pulpit. It depicted the crucifixion scene. She closed her eyes, holding back the tears. Three distinctive embroidered birds stood at the foot of the cross. Could she never get away from them?

Four for a birth

The four magpies perching on the fence cawed and fluttered, demanding Deidre’s attention. ‘Quiet,’ she cried. She reached for the cottage’s doorknob, wanting nothing more than to hide inside. Beyond the house and the surrounding garden, the skeletal branches of the birch trees strained upward as though trying to break away from the moor. No. No. No. Deidre’s hand paused mid-turn as a damp patch spread down her maternity pants, coating her shoes and the ground beneath. Please, not now.

She wasn’t ready to be a mother, not on her own. Getting by was one thing, even talking to strangers in a gallery, but a child? With only her to take care of it? She’d never get it right.

The birds’ caws transformed into a chorus of high-pitched screeches. Deidre watched as the birds launched from the fence and wheeled away towards the moor.

How could Thomas do this to her? To their child? Didn’t they deserve more? Over the last few weeks, Deidre had felt her grief transforming into rage. It felt as if he’d made his choice before she’d even understood there were options he was considering.

Deidre was sitting outside on the front step, eyes closed, focused on her breathing, when the ambulance arrived. The overnight bag Kate had packed and placed in the hall cupboard weeks ago sat beside her. The paramedics helped her into the back while Deidre apologized for calling them, apologized for needing help.

‘It’s alright. That’s what we’re here for,’ the driver said. She thought she recognized him from the village shop. ‘What about Thomas? Isn’t he coming?’

Deidre clamped her lips together as a contraction shuddered through her body, then took a deep breath. ‘No. I’m on my own.’

‘Alright, lass. Can we call someone?’

Looking down at the worn overnight bag, Deidre was surprised at how much she wanted Kate here. She needed someone who believed she was capable of anything. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

No one had warned her how tiring a baby was. Gwen was less than a month old, and already Deidre’s eyes felt dry and dusted with sand.

She’d named her baby after her grandmother. Gwen meant ‘Blessed’, which was how Deidre had felt the moment they put her tiny daughter into her arms. Kate had stayed with Deidre for the entire nineteen hours she had laboured, until the two of them looked down at the newborn Gwen in stunned disbelief. Gwen returned their stare with Thomas’s blue eyes.

The constant crying had only started once they were home. Were all babies like this, Deidre wondered? Or had Thomas’s absence somehow affected their child?

For the last few weeks Deidre had walked Gwen from one room to another. Whenever Deidre stopped moving, Gwen cried. Only constant motion quieted her sobs. It seemed unfathomable that such a tiny creature could contain so much sorrow. Kate helped far more than she should, but she had her job in the city, and Janice, despite all her grandmotherly love, was grief stricken, unable to manage even getting dressed most days. Meanwhile, Deidre’s clothes were covered in spit up. She smelled of stale milk and worse. If Thomas had returned, at least she’d have had a target for her rage. Why had he pretended he wanted a family? Had he ever loved her, or was it only the hints of second sight that made her useful?

One morning, pacing led her to Thomas’ study. When he’d disappeared, he’d left the door locked. The key was missing. In his pocket, she assumed. He could be private about his notes. But now the door stood open. Deidre glanced around for a glimpse of the house hob. This must be their work. She wasn’t sure if she was grateful or anxious about finally being able to look over Thomas’s notes.

The moment Deidre stepped into the musty room, Gwen stopped crying and dropped into sleep with the speed of a stone hurtling down an empty well. Deidre held her breath as she slowly sat in Thomas’s leather chair, arms aching, eyes burning, careful not to jostle Gwen. She was so tired. Perhaps she could sleep here, with Gwen cradled in her arms. But they’d both sleep better if she could get Gwen into her crib. Still, she didn’t move. Exhausted, Deidre blinked her eyes and started reading the papers scattered across the desk instead. The words ‘Thomas’ and ‘disappearance’ snagged her attention. But as she read more, she realized he hadn’t been planning his own disappearance. He’d been researching an older mystery; the ballads of Thomas Rhymer and Tam Lin.

Maybe she was making connections that didn’t exist, but somehow the idea of the fairy queen stealing Thomas spread like a poison—or was it a cure?—taking over her brain. This would explain everything. Not that she’d forgive him for leaving her and Gwen, but at least her sense of not being enough would be gone. How could she, or anyone, compete with the queen of fairy?

Five for heaven: Six for hell

Over the next two weeks, Deidre returned repeatedly to Thomas’s study. Kate warned her she was becoming obsessed, but Deidre wanted answers. She read every paper, every annotated copy of the ballads. Thomas had been trying to pinpoint the location of the Eidon tree where Thomas met the fairy queen. He had been trying to find the road into fairy. His final notes made one other fact clear: he thought the giant hawthorn tree on the edge of the moor was the beginning of the path. That’s why he’d wanted her to go with him that night. He’d hoped she would be able to see the way.

She woke face down on Thomas’s desk to the sound of Gwen crying. Hurrying to her daughter, Deidre stopped when she saw the hag stone lying in the crib. It hadn’t been there when she’d put Gwen down to sleep. Deidre scooped Gwen up and hurried to the kitchen. Thomas frequently drew hag stones on the edges of his notes, and a mottled grey hag stone had been left on his plaid blanket the morning he disappeared. Some people believed you could see fairies if you looked through a hag stone’s hole. Was that what Thomas had tried?

There was a quiet knock at the front door, followed by the sound of the latch.

‘Hello?’

It was Kate.

Deidre let out a slow breath and stepped into the hallway.

‘Come here, my sweet baby,’ Kate cooed at Gwen, handing Deidre a small paper bag. The smell of fresh baking covered the scent of baby as Kate took the hiccupping Gwen from Deirdre’s arms and followed Deidre into the kitchen.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Kate said as she bounced Gwen on her hip.

Deidre tried for a smile. ‘I think I know where he went. I know it sounds crazy, but I think he found the path into fairy.’

Kate’s expression was suddenly fierce. ‘It doesn’t matter where he went. He still left you and Gwen. Dee, he doesn’t deserve you, not after that.’

Deidre shook her head impatiently. ‘Of course, he doesn’t. But Gwen should get to know her father.’

‘Why? It seems to me you’re doing a pretty good job by yourself.’

‘I’m not totally alone, my friend.’

‘You remember that, Deidre Lockwood.’

The silence stretched between them as Diedre filled up the kettle and set it to boil. She needed tea. And sleep and answers. Maybe not in that order.

‘You know, when my dad left, I was only four. I thought it was my fault. That he didn’t love me anymore. It changed me.’

‘Dee—’

‘One day Gwen is going to ask what happened. I want to offer her something better than I don’t know.

Deidre carried the two mugs of tea to the table, cradling hers as she held Kate’s gaze. ‘I’m going to look for him.’

‘What answers could he possibly give that would make up for missing all of this?’ Kate burrowed her nose into Gwen’s neck with a chomping sound; Gwen waved her fists in delight.

Deidre felt something inside her break. It felt like the loss of her last illusions. Thomas would never have played with Gwen in just that way.

‘Could you just stay here and look after Gwen? I’ll be quick.’

Kate nodded. ‘Whatever you need.’

This was how families were supposed to behave.

Seven for a secret never to be told

There were magpies in the hawthorn tree. Deidre tried to count them, wondering if there were five or six. She raised the hag stone to her eye and looked out at the moor. Colors changed; it looked like one of her paintings, both impossibly detailed and slightly askew. Through the stone, she could see three paths leading away from the tree. Patches of blackberry and gorse hemmed the path on the right. She imagined the thorns scratching her skin. Heaven, she decided. The left path was broad and smooth, worn down by many feet. Deidre knew how the ballad went. The easy path was the road to hell.

The mischief of magpies surged out of the tree with a clattering cry. They took the center path, a narrow grassy trail leading down a steep slope. With a deep breath, Deidre followed them.

The air grew thick against her shoulders, as if she were walking through a blanket. Her steps slowed. For Gwen, she reminded herself. When she glanced back, thick mist shrouded the hawthorn tree. She’d crossed into fairy. The path wove down a green hill where wildflowers bloomed out of season. Back in her world, red leaves blew into drifts and carved pumpkins decorated porches, but here it was spring. Bluebells and daffodils danced in the weak sunlight. Tiny winged creatures flitted between the blossoms. At home, she’d only ever caught glimpses of these creatures, now the dragonfly women that dashed away from her in alarm were solid.

It felt as if she’d been walking for hours beneath the strange blue sky. Her breasts ached with milk; her arms felt empty. From up ahead, she heard music. Suddenly, she desperately wanted to flee. Answers didn’t matter. Gwen needed her mother more. Deidre stepped off the path and ducked behind an apple tree, its boughs heavy with bright green fruit and white blossoms. She could feel the petals falling on her hair.

A troop of fae were headed toward her. Solemn women with the heads of Nubian goats, wearing long black dresses, led the procession. Their broad spiral horns forced them apart on the road. Beautiful girls in silk robes followed. Blue tattoos covered their arms and faces while goat horns poked through their wavy tresses.

She’d painted these creatures from briefly glimpsed visions. But here they were exquisite in their otherworldly beauty. Her fear strangely muted, Deidre edged around the tree to get a better look. Smaller creatures capered madly with drums and pipes, weaving between the hooves of the two horses in their midst; some of the musicians had bat wings, some saffron skin, some had pointed ears and sharp horns peeking through thick black curls. Behind them all, at the very end of the procession, strode four powerful creatures, their walrus heads rising above stiff scarlet uniforms. Each held a corner of a linen sheet, the material bowing toward the ground as if it contained a heavy weight.

Deidre’s attention narrowed on the beautiful woman—no, the fairy queen—who rode in the middle of the procession. Her horse’s great hooves shook the ground, a pounding counterpoint to the drums of the little folk. Ribbons fluttered from the braids in her long silver hair, matching the ribbons woven through her milk-white horse’s mane. The queen’s pale face glowed and Deirdre flinched, feeling the pull of the music intensify. She closed her eyes and pictured Kate and Gwen waiting for her at home; the desire to join the dancing abated.

Deidre forced herself to focus on the second horse, a glossy bay, that walked just ahead of the walrus-mustached soldiers. She gasped. Thomas sat astride the horse. He looked no different than he had when she had last seen him. His clothes were spotless, a dreamy expression on his lips.

How could he?! How dare he! Her heart pounding its own tattoo, Deidre rushed from her hiding place and pulled on the bay horse’s reins, forcing it to a halt. She grabbed Thomas’s leg with shaking hands and yanked him from the horse, watching as he landed hard, then lay silent and unmoving on the path. He hadn’t even attempted to break his fall.

Deirdre felt disgust mingle with panic as she tried to drag him off the road. Had he always been this useless? How was she supposed to get him home? What kind of a father could he possibly be?

Deidre closed her eyes and took a breath. She’d never forgive herself if she didn’t try, if only for their daughter’s sake. Once again she grabbed his arms and shook.

‘Thomas,’ she cried. ‘Help me.’

The drums fell silent as the white horse stepped directly in front of Deidre. With rising panic, she looked up into the ice-blue eyes of the fairy queen.

This was fear.

‘Well met, Deidre of the Sorrows.’ The queen’s voice hummed like a hive of angry bees.

Deidre of the Sorrows. Her grandmother had called her that. A heroine from Irish myth. Deidre lifted her chin and faced the queen.

‘You stole my partner. I need him back.’

The queen glanced down at Thomas, who peered up blindly at the cloudless sky. ‘You need him? Truly?’ The queen mocked her. ‘You understand, I gave him the choice?’

Deidre wrapped her arms around herself. She’d known since she read his notes that he’d been searching for the queen for years. Did he know how much time had passed? Or where he was? Did he even remember his child? Deidre wanted to ask, but didn’t.

The queen shrugged. ‘The human joined our feast. As a scholar, he should have known what it means to eat or drink in fairy.’

Deidre could no longer deny it. Thomas had chosen to abandon her and Gwen. Her heart ached with sorrow for their daughter. ‘I want to talk to him, at least.’The queen considered Deidre, then waved a dismissive hand. ‘I would have returned him to you eventually.’

‘Seven years is too long to wait,’ Deidre said. ‘Our daughter would grow up without knowing her father.’

‘Is that such a bad thing? He’s a dull creature.’ The queen swung her leg over the saddle and slid gracefully to the ground. Bells rippled on her clothes as she stalked towards Deidre. There was something mesmerizing about the way she moved, sinuous as an adder. Her eyes were the ice blue of a glacier, her skin pale as winter frost. Deidre felt every pound of her unshed baby weight, her unwashed hair, and stained clothes. Still, she drew back her shoulders and met the queen’s cold gaze.

‘A challenge then,’ the queen said. ‘If you can hold him, you may keep him.’ Her smile was as cutting as a knife.

‘No.’ Deidre took a step back. Thomas has made his choice. He isn’t my responsibility.

‘Perhaps I was mistaken in you, Deidre of the Sorrows.’

Deidre watched with a growing sense of unease as the queen gestured with those long, elegant fingers, so different from her own nail-bitten hands. The scarlet-uniformed soldiers carrying the blanket stepped forward, lowering it so that Deidre could look inside.

‘No.’ The guttural cry felt ripped from Deidre’s throat.

Kate lay curled on her back inside the blanket, eyes closed, Gwen nestled beside her. For one horrible moment Deidre saw nothing but their unmoving bodies, the subtle rise and fall of both of their chests, then she forced herself to face the queen.

‘Send them back,’ Deidre growled as she tried and failed to control the quaver in her voice.

‘Of course.’ The queen smiled again, a slight movement of pale pink lips. ‘If you can hold him, you may keep them all. It is an honorable offer.’

Already, the little people were forming a circle around her, their expressions eager. She’d run out of options.

Thomas let out a pained moan.

She turned to face him. ‘Thomas?’

Only his clothes remained. She let out a startled cry as an orange-bellied newt crawled out of one sleeve. The mucus on the skin of such a newt was toxic. Potentially deadly. Quickly, Deidre bent and grabbed Thomas’s shirt, wrapping it around her hands before lifting the creature from the ground.

It had all happened in less than a minute.

Deidre glanced towards Kate and Gwen and felt something inside her ease. Though the fairies were known to be treacherous, they both seemed unchanged. Perhaps she could win this game. Still clasped within her hands, the newt shuddered and writhed. She held on tightly as the long, muscular body of an adder erupted from the shirt, leaving tatters in its wake, and curled around Deidre’s arm. Scales slid along her skin, its tongue flicking perilously close to her neck.

‘It’s not real,’ she whispered. ‘Gwen is real. Kate is real. This is not real.’

Somehow, she didn’t let go.

The snake shuddered and transformed again. This time, Deidre held a great brown bear that reared above her. Its claws dug into the flesh of her back. She cried out in pain, but didn’t loosen her grip.

‘Not real.’ Deirdre clamped her eyes closed; afraid, so afraid, as she tried to embrace the pain. Pushing herself into the bear’s soft underside, she inhaled the scent of wild mushrooms and rot, the bear’s breath hot against her neck. The creature shuddered yet again, and Deirdre felt cold, human skin beneath her fingers. She opened her eyes, expecting another trick, but it was only Thomas, the man she’d thought she loved, naked in her arms. She stepped away, letting him fall to the road as he blinked up at her in confusion.

‘Deirdre? How are you here?’

Deidre looked toward the queen, whose face had transformed with rage. She suddenly didn’t seem beautiful at all. Deidre stumbled over to the blanket and felt the scratches on her back open as she reached to grab Gwen, pulling her child tight to her chest.

‘Let us go,’ Deidre demanded. She dropped her nose to Gwen’s neck and breathed in the scent of her baby, just as Kate had earlier that day. ‘You gave me your word.’

‘I lied.’ The queen’s smile seemed closer to a snarl, revealing sharp incisors. ‘I’m keeping one, while you retain two. That is more than fair.’

Deidre looked at Kate, who had stumbled to her feet beside her, and then at Thomas, the father of her child. He looked bewildered; his eyes fixed on the fairy queen. Had he even noticed Gwen?

‘Thomas,’ Deidre tilted Gwen towards him. ‘Look. She has your eyes.’

Thomas barely glanced at Gwen before returning his gaze to the queen.

Meanwhile the warm pressure of Kate’s hand on Deidre’s shoulder was a familiar comfort, Gwen safely tucked between them. The watchful gaze of the queen and her fairy procession felt like the air in summer just before a thunderstorm breaks: oppressive and menacing.

Deidre dropped a kiss onto Gwen’s fine baby hair, looking down at her child.

‘Keep him,’ she said at last. ‘He chose you, not Gwen.’ Or me, she thought. But that no longer seemed important. Their love had been built on her weaknesses, but she wasn’t frightened anymore.

The queen nodded and swung up onto her snow-white horse. She yanked the bridle as she led her troop back the way they’d come. Without a backward glance, Thomas stumbled after them. He’d been making this choice for months, long before he’d found the path into fairy. Deidre just hadn’t known it.

’Shhh. Shhh, little one,’ Deidre said, when Gwen started to fuss in her arms. In the quiet of the fairy wood, Deidre and Kate watched Thomas and the fairy troop disappear around a bend, then they turned and headed home.

Cicely Mary Barker’s ‘Hawthorn Fairy’ (1923)

Deidre hung up the phone and stared out the kitchen window. Like so many mornings over the last year, Janice would be stopping by tomorrow to spend time with Gwen.

A shadow passed by, and Deidre looked up to see a flock of magpies flying over the house. She held her breath, but the birds disappeared onto the moor without stopping. She was still staring at the profusion of flowers that spilled from the window box, watching the tiny creatures that flitted between the blossoms, when Kate’s yellow Fiat pulled into the drive. Deidre grinned as Kate emerged with an enormous bunch of flowers and an oversized elephant stuffed toy.

It had been months since their journey into fairy, and their relationship had never felt more precious or more full of love.

In the nursery, she could hear Gwen laughing. She suspected her daughter had inherited her second sight, but the hob delighted Gwen, and Deidre had learned to appreciate its watchful presence. She’d grown to appreciate this house, too, and the moors, and the space they gave her and her daughter to grow and explore. Though she was careful to steer clear of the hawthorn tree.

Gwen was turning one, and Deidre planned to spend the afternoon with her chosen family, just the three of them. Not that Gwen would remember the party, or the cake Deidre had made—a lopsided thing filled with whipping cream and raspberry jam—but she’d remember being loved.

She would know what it was to be chosen.

Alison Colwell is a writer, mother, domestic violence survivor and community organizer. Her work has been published in several literary journals including: The Humber Literary Review, The Ocotillo Review, Roi Faineant Literary Press, Hippocampus Magazine, and Grist. She lives on Galiano Island, Canada. Connect with her on her website: alisoncolwell.com.