Olivia was ironing in the living room, stray strands of limp gold brushing at her cheeks like pixies. She had switched on the news, searching for scraps of information about the fae, curiosity lifting her eyes from the iron.
The TV footage showed a serpentine queue of people in evening wear, lifting sparkling shoes and skirts to step over protruding roots. Mud caked their feet and rain fell in a glistening haze all around them as they ascended Doon Hill, a woodland hike on the edge of Aberfoyle.
Every Friday was the same. Every Friday for six months. The fae would invite the wheat of humanity’s harvest to cross the gate to Elfhame and savour the delicacies of their court.
The old stories of the fae were soaked in grief and loss, lined with grave dirt. Parents taught children to leave saucers of milk, hammer horse shoes and speak of the Kindly Ones, all to avoid evoking their ire. But time softened the edges and weakened superstitious fears.
The only fairy Olivia knew as a child was Tinkerbell – a bad-tempered sprite who was as harmless as a bee. Olivia liked to dress in fairy wings when she was little, tapping objects with her plastic wand and turning them into pumpkins.
Life was simpler back then.
The footage cut to the morning, coral streaks spreading across the horizon. The dishevelled crowd were stumbling home, their eyes as glossy as marbles, teeth flashing with laughter. A woman lay curled on the ground, blood trailing down her wrist.
Some people just can’t take the pace.
In the studio, Reeta Chakrabarti said that there were increasing reports of people needing treatment after visiting Doon Hill. Doctors from the minor injuries units in Stirling and Alexandria, speaking like priests in a pulpit, decried the lack of government concern for the population’s safety.
I’ll take a few cuts and bruises for one night away from this.
Olivia switched off the TV. Fifteen minutes until she had to collect her daughter from nursery; three hours until the school run. She hadn’t showered and her hair was a knot of grease. Instead of eating lunch she had inhaled a chocolate bar, praying for the sugar to kick-start her brain cells.
She rushed to complete just a couple more chores and left later than she should have. The air brushed her cheeks like sandpaper and her lungs filled with ice. Her daughter emerged from nursery all bundled in layers, to greet Olivia in an open jacket with no scarf. Their fingers twined together and they set off home.
“Mum, is it still winter just now?”
“Yes, dear.”
“But Mum, when will it be spring?”
“Not for a while, dear.”
“Mum, when it’s spring, we’re going to go back to the woods and cycle all the way. And then we’ll be hungry so we can have some lunch with the fairies.”
“Maybe, sweetheart, we’ll see.”
Olivia gazed absently at a robin alighting on a bare branch. She couldn’t recall what she had planned for dinner, hopefully they didn’t need anything from the shops. Whatever it was, it would be a paltry feast, unworthy of the calories, to those dining in Elfhame.
#
Olivia’s husband was working late. Got to pay the bills, he said, but it often seemed a convenient excuse to avoid the chaos of bath and bedtime. Once she was free from the children, she curled up on the sofa with a glass of red and a tub of raspberry ripple.
There were several shows queued on the TV, awaiting her attention, but she couldn’t find the energy to choose one. She unlocked her phone and swiped through updates from her friends – another birthday; grinning children; holiday snaps – but soon found herself scrolling the video feed, snacking on bite-size stories while the TV played in the background.
Her socials were filled with videos of ceilidh dances, make-up tutorials and fairy cosplay. Influencers, white rings of light circling their irises, leaned into the camera and whispered the delights of dancing with the fae.
Olivia wished she could join the queue to the gateway, inhaling the air of anticipation, intoxicated on the promise of dreams made flesh. Her heart would spring to life at the reveal of the Scots pine at the top of the hill, bathed in spotlights and draped in strips of cloth: an arboreal gatekeeper to a far off realm.
The metal scrape of key in lock turned her head. Her husband shuffled into the living room, eyes dipped and cheeks flushed from the wind. “God, it’s been a long day.”
He trudged through to the kitchen and rescued a bottle of beer from the cold. Olivia rose and followed him, wine in hand, propping her hip against the counter. “Did you see the news about Aberfoyle?”
He cast her an apologetic smile. “Can you tell me later? I need the loo and I’m knackered.”
She nodded. Her wine swirled like a whirlpool, drawing her inwards. “Yeah, okay.”
But once he was gone, she headed to bed. When he reached under the covers to brush her thigh, she feigned sleep, too tired to engage any further.
#
Olivia met one of her old colleagues for a playdate later in the week, an outing to fill the infinity that wasn’t covered by government funded nursery hours. Their toddlers threw themselves at padded surfaces while Olivia sucked in the smell of coffee and the sounds of adult conversation.
“Did you hear about Aberfoyle?” Jenny asked.
“The injuries?”
Jenny lifted a hand, as if to wave away Olivia’s negativity. “There’s a first aid tent set up now for people who need it.” The hand moved to her mouth, concealing her words from those around them. “There’s no entry restrictions from this weekend. And it’s free.”
“Oh.” A jolt of excitement pulled at Olivia’s lips. “Really?”
They would need to queue for hours if they wanted to reach the front before the gateway closed at midnight. Jenny was certain it was worth it.
Olivia’s first instinct was to decline, despite the butterflies dancing in her chest. This was Cinderella’s ball and she had no fairy godmother. She had two children who needed their teeth brushed, their hair washed, their pyjamas sorted. Midnight was only ever seen through the glow of a nightlight as she settled someone to sleep or led them like a zombie to the toilet.
But yet…
She could almost feel the beat of club music vibrating through her body; the sheen of sweat from dozens of dancers all pressing at her sides; the smell of floral perfumes mixed with alcohol and pheromones. The brush of a hand against her hip and a drunken bloke dreaming of sex while offering her a drink. Maybe she could be that woman again, even just once.
“Yeah, alright. Let’s do it.”
#
They joined the queue, winter chill wrapping its tendrils around their limbs. The weekend away was a victory in itself. Olivia had to bite back a scream when her husband asked who would look after the kids. He was likely at the pub already, leaving his mother to put them to bed.
Olivia stood cocooned in a thick coat but Jenny used gin to ward off the cold. Around them, was an array of fashion icons and influencers, livestreaming their journey up the hill. Olivia felt like a lumbering ape in a field of wildflowers.
After hours of stopping and starting – anticipation always on the edge of climax – they reached the pine tree. A towering sentinel in the centre of a clearing, draped in decades of rags, a plea for good fortune from faithful visitors. Olivia’s breath puffed into the air and shone like fairy dust in the overhead lights.
The man who stood before them moved with the grace of a tiger, his slit pupils expanding as his mouth opened in a hungry grin. “Welcome, my ladies, to the court of Elfhame.”
He swept his body forward in a bow so reminiscent of a cobra strike that Olivia jumped backward. Jenny giggled like a hyena, the gin in her hip flask sloshing around the rim. Olivia was bidden to remove her coat, exposing a jade cocktail dress from a wedding three years past. It clung to her like seaweed, each pregnancy having increasingly turned muscles to marshmallow.
The man’s hand swept past the tree, as light as a zephyr, directing them through a shimmering portal. The journey into the fae realm was like diving into a heated pool, a rush of force throwing their hair from their faces.
They stepped into a frenzied dance, hands pulling them into the circle. Lights sparkled from above like stars and the walls shone in luminescent green. Huge arched windows opened out into a world lit by watercolour splashes of red, orange and yellow; emerald trees lined the grounds, stretching up to meet the sky. The ballroom was a racing heartbeat, every body moving with the pulse of the music. It vibrated across every wall and through the floor, possessing Olivia’s limbs and willing them into movement.
Her first partner had skin the colour of moss and his scent crashed over her like a wave of damp soil and lavender. A spiral of limbs and hair and flowing dresses led to her next partner. The deep brown of an ancient oak with the heady scent of honeysuckle. Endorphins razed her inhibitions as she succumbed to the rhythm of the song. She melted into her partner’s arms and would have stayed forever, but the dance was unrelenting. She spun ever onward.
Her cheeks flushed pink and her shoes disappeared. The connection of her bare feet with the floor felt like skin to skin contact with her babies, life synchronising with life. In the swirling, whirling pulse of the dance she lost sight of Jenny. Should I look for her? But she was a mere blood vessel in the flow of the song and escape would be like death.
A hand caressed her hip, stroked at her back. The scent of honey encircled her as another partner lowered his mouth to her neck mid-waltz. His teeth felt like needles piercing the surface of her skin. Spinning again into the centre of the circle, honeysuckle and a raspy, feline tongue licking at her wrist. Her vision swam until stars, sky, trees, bodies, music all merged into a kaleidoscope of light and sound.
“You could stay here,” a voice whispered.
“Dance with us, drink with us, let us taste you.”
“Delicious.”
Unbidden, she pictured her husband, football on the TV while his mother listened for the kids. She should have done the laundry before she left: her son had PE on Monday. Her daughter’s face swam into view, creased in a grin, but it blurred out of focus when feather-light lips brushed her own, sending white-hot explosions through her nerves.
The scent of her son’s hair, that first inhale after hours of labour.
Her husband’s voice, lined with disinterest: What am I meant to feed them again?
Olivia started to falter. Each step was just a second off the beat; her movements out of sync with the inexorable current. Each partner’s touch grew more distant and she felt like a damaged toy, cast aside, unwanted. She stumbled, pinpricks of light pirouetting around her vision. Her foot landed on a protruding tree trunk and the pain sent her tumbling to the ground.
The area around the Scots pine was dark and empty, lights switched off and queue serviced for the night. A hint of amber touched the horizon and frost glittered in the twilight. A man knelt at the trunk, nails torn from his fingers. He begged for the door to open, his voice insubstantial against the might of the tree.
Blood trailed from Olivia’s neck, soaking into her dress like an oil spill. Her skin was laced with a tapestry of tiny cuts. She hunched downward, arms wrapped about her body, beginning to shiver. She was an abandoned pet, left out in the cold to die.
But who’ll do the school run on Monday?
She inhaled an icy breath and stood. The uneven earth cut into her feet, a punishment in every step. Tears fractured her vision as she stumbled back to civilization.
#
The first aiders bandaged her wounds but she had no phone and there was no sign of Jenny. A doctor found her husband’s number and asked him to collect her.
He looked her over in barely disguised disdain when he arrived, as if she were a drug addict found collapsed on the street.
They told the children she’d had an accident. Her son spent Saturday offering her water while her daughter drew a ‘get well soon’ card. When it became clear that Olivia didn’t plan on cooking dinner, her husband went out for takeaway.
On Sunday, he left for work and she painted on a smile, pretending her pain away.
#
Jenny never found her way home. Olivia imagined her forever locked in a breath-taking dance. Sometimes she would think of it and her whole body would flush with adrenaline, as warming as a fire after a wet school run. She hated her husband in those moments; hated the chains binding her to the house, the children.
Two other gateways opened soon after Olivia’s visit. Twenty-eight people missing and hundreds more injured, left to stumble home in the dark. The reporter on the news was unfamiliar – is Reeta one of the missing people, lured into the woods to dance?
Olivia’s feed was so full of ballroom dresses, elf make-up and dances for the court, that she gave up looking. Envy wrapped its thorny vines around her heart. She had been rejected. If she returned, would they just reject her again? The thought of standing alone in the cold, once more deemed unworthy, filled her with shame. Tears burned her eyes, quickly hidden from her children.
Her husband said he was thinking about going with his mates.
I wonder if he’ll bother coming back?
Her gaze drifted to the laundry basket and she reached for the remote to turn off the news, preferring silence over reminders of the faraway land, dancing just out of reach.
THE END
About the Author
Caroline Ashley is a clinical psychologist who works for the NHS in Scotland. She primarily writes fantasy with the occasional foray into sci-fi and horror. If she had any free time around work, writing and raising her two young children, she would spend it playing board games.
Visit her website to view her other published work: www.carolineashley.co.uk
