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Great Missenden, Buckinghamshire, UK
1st of July, 11:45 a.m. (GMT+1)
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Wilson had spent most of the morning gathering the materials he would need for the summoning. Ironically, the hardest to find was actual chalk from England. It was one of the many quirks about the fae—summoning circles would only work if they were drawn with the chalk of their native land. This was one instance where modern globalization was a bane to practitioners of the arts, because most of the materials called chalk aren’t actually chalk. Wilson needed real calcium carbonate, not the calcium sulfate of sidewalk chalk, nor the magnesium carbonate or titanium dioxide of the two most common sports’ chalks. Eventually, he had given up on finding a place that sold real chalk and instead drove to one of the modern chalk figures that dotted the hillsides. Using his Vauxhall’s tire iron, he had mined his own.
Clark had willingly offered him use of her shed for the summoning, provided he let her watch—she had lived long enough to sense an opportunity. Wilson hadn’t been pleased with the stipulation, but there wasn’t anywhere else as secure and he could not be interrupted during the summoning. Reluctantly, he had agreed, but with his own set of rules—she would say nothing and do nothing during his preparations and the summoning itself, and whatever happened would stay between them. Once she had sworn agreement to his terms, he began in earnest.
Wilson took his purloined English chalk and laid down the circles on Clark’s slate-covered dais, meticulously making sure each point made contact. As a general rule, he disliked summoning the fae—give him a malignant demon any day—so he decided to make his inquiries among the weakest of them: the rat riders. Rat riders were small faeries, no greater than the size of his pinky, and as their name implied, they rode rats. They were also terrible gossips and easy to attract and appease—a chunk of cheddar placed in the center of the small summoning circle would suffice.
He looked to the side and found Clark sitting against the wall, watching intently. They exchanged nods, and Wilson kneeled on a cushion and positioned the unguents on either side of him, careful that nothing touched the circle. He removed his shirt, and Clark concluded that Damon Warwick was more than he appeared to be. She would have never guessed how muscular he was under his clothing—he was a small man that didn’t go out of his way to draw attention to his physique. Then there were the scars of past injuries scattered over his torso and arms, but the line of knotted flesh on his left side took the cake. Whoever Damon Warwick was, clearly he had been in the thick of it.
Wilson started chanting, and his melodic voice filled the shed. Faeries were a musical folk, and song was needed to call them from their realm through the Magh Meall, and then into the mortal realm. He smeared a long diagonal mark of rowanberry and thyme paste across his chest after the third repetition and again after the fourth, forming an X. After the fifth and final verse, he encircled the X in paste and amassed his will. He extruded his power around the summoning circle until it fully encompassed; only then did he bear down, pressurizing the circle until it felt like it was under a mile of water.
Clark felt a change in the air and her clinched hands stiffened, like how all her friends described arthritis. Wilson pressed harder and harder until a palpable pop emanated from the circumference of the circle and the barrier fell. Clark stifled her gasp when a tiny humanoid with butterfly wings fluttered within the circle, appearing out of thin air.
“Welcome to the world of the mortals, grand fae,” Wilson intoned, as if the miniscule creature was the grandest potentate of its realm.
The creature ignored him and started on the hunk of cheddar. Wilson waited as it ate—it would address him when the offering was fully accepted. It didn’t take long for the winged being to finish the cheese, despite the fact it was at least four times its size. Sated, it turned its tiny multifaceted eyes toward the one who’d called it.
“Why have you summoned me, mortal?” Its voice was high in the human register and luxuriously soft. Its unearthly beauty nearly brought tears to Clark, who imagined that was what angels sounded like if they were real.
“I seek information on the state of your domain; how goes it in the lands across the Magh Meall?”
The faerie flew up, laboriously circling within the bounds of its summoning circle—rat riders could fly, but not very well nor for very long—until it was at eye level with the kneeling Wilson.
“Are you a good druid or a bad druid?” it intoned.
“That depends on what you mean by good or bad,” Wilson replied guardedly.
The fae let loose a lyric laugh and declared, “You are a cautious druid.”
“That I am,” Wilson affirmed.
“But are you good or evil?” it reiterated persistently.
“I like to think I’m good, but there are those who would think otherwise,” he responded simply.
“And would they be wrong?” the tiny creature pressed, faceted eyes reflecting light from all directions.
After a long pause, Wilson acquiesced, “They would not be wrong.” This was why he hated dealing with the fae. The truth—as well as the magician could understand it—was the only safe way of communicating with them. If words were hedged or meanings blended, they would find a way to twist it. Ambiguity and ambivalence were where fae thrived, and a lack of self-awareness was the great danger when dealing with them. Wilson much preferred devils and demons; even though they employed similar tactics of semantic manipulation, it was possible for a magician to get somewhere with them without telling them a lot, much less the truth.
“And you are strong?” the rat rider quizzed him.
Wilson wondered where it was going with these questions. Rat riders tended to be flighty, and its persistence was unusual. Wilson was acutely aware he had an audience—he preferred Clark know as little about him as possible, so he answered obliquely, “What are you asking?”
Wilson didn’t know one could roll compound eyes, but the rat rider managed. “Are you strong?” it repeated itself. “When you test yourself against others of your kind, do you triumph?”
“I have been tested and I’m still alive,” Wilson commented flatly.
The tiny creature struggled to say at eye level as it waited for a longer answer that it was never going to receive. Eventually, it surrendered to gravity and landed gracefully within the chalk circle. It struggled to catch its breath before asking, “Who’s the other mortal?”
“No one of importance to our affair,” Wilson emphatically stated.
The rat rider circumvented Wilson’s assertion and spoke to Clark, “Mr. Fiddles thinks highly of you, bringer of cream.” It bowed deeply, leveling its gossamer wings parallel with the ground.
Wilson looked sidelong at Clark and gave a shake of his head, reinforcing that she shouldn’t say anything—he’d prefer she didn’t place herself in danger. Clark remained quiet—something in his eyes made the hairs stand on the back of her neck.
Wilson redirected the faerie, “As I said earlier, I’m interested in knowing the recent affairs of the land across the Magh Meall.”
“And I am interested in telling you, but fear that were I to do such, I would put myself in danger,” it spoke without reserve.
“I do not wish to put you in danger,” Wilson quickly responded. What could cause a gossip to hold its tongue? “But I, too, am concerned about danger. Mortals under my care have perished at the hands of a fae.”
The tiny fae considered Wilson’s statement. “You are like the flies of May, are you not? Why worry that the inevitable comes one of your eye blink’s sooner?”
“It is the rarity that makes it precious,” Wilson explained, knowing it wouldn’t understand, “and I have sworn a promise.”
“Ah, a promise is another matter,” the creature agreed. “Promises are real.” It sat down on its tiny haunches, holding its head in its hands, elbows on knees. It hummed a tuneless drone briefly to itself before growing silent. “It is decided then,” it said with some finality.
Wilson raised his eyebrows. “What’s decided?”
“You need to come with me to the Magh Meall,” it responded resolutely.
He fought the urge to smirk at the diminutive faerie. “And why would I do that?”
“You want to know the state of the land of the fae, so that means you know that change has come, which means that you have power—perhaps power enough to walk the Magh Meall and learn of the changes where the change changed?”
Wilson was getting lost in the rat rider’s language. “You’re saying that I will learn what I want to know if I follow you to the Magh Meall?”
The little creature stood and bobbed its head.
“I could always force you to tell me,” Wilson threatened.
“And if you did so I would tell you...but then, by knowing, you would know you knew not and would never know,” it replied sincerely.
Damn faeries—not only do you have to tell them the truth, they always seem able to tell the truth without saying anything, Wilson grumbled to himself. “Okay,” he finally spat out. “Where and when?”
The little fae clapped its hands together at Wilson’s concession, and strained its wings to be eye-to-eye. “Tomorrow at the thirteen hour then, druid, under the bells of the worship place. We’ll be waiting for you,” it spoke before popping out of existence.
Wilson exhaled. “It’s over—it’s safe to talk now,” he informed her as he rolled off his knees. “Do you have a towel I could use to clean myself off with?”
Clark moved in stunned silence, rummaging through one of the many drawers in the shed. By the time she’d found an old kitchen towel, she’d also found her words, “That was simply amazing. What’s the Magh Meall?”
“The land between this realm and the realm of the fae,” Wilson explained, angrily daubing the paste off his chest. “It’s sort of a buffer zone that both fae and humans can go to if they need to interact.”
“All of it’s really real, isn’t it?” she marveled. “All the faerie tales passed down—”
“There is a grain of truth in many of the faerie tales,” Wilson qualified as he dressed. “And most of them actually take place in Magh Meall, because if a human were to enter the actual land of the fae, they couldn’t escape without the help of one of the grand faerie—who are generally not the helpful type.”
Wilson looked over at Clark, who still had proverbial faerie dust in her eyes. “They look enchanting and sound beautiful, but they are dangerous. It’s best to avoid them at all costs,” he cautioned. Clark nodded in agreement; she was touched by his warning, which she mistook for concern. Wilson took the rag and wiped away all trace of the chalk—he didn’t want to give Clark any ideas.
Wilson rose and extended his hand. “Thank you for letting me use your shed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to make a call.”