Beneath the Knowe: A Faerie Tale by Anthea Sharp

Author:Anthea Sharp
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: coming of age, fae, fairyland, celtic music
Publisher: Fiddlehead Press

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She played the night through as the creatures of the Bright Court feasted and danced. Neither sup of food nor sip of drink did she take, mindful of the tales.

After what felt like hours, when her fingers were flagging and her cheeks sore, Puck swooped in before her, riding a snowy white owl. His eyes were bright, his hair tangled with the white stars of hawthorn blossoms. Jaunty, he leapt from his feathered mount and held a gleaming silver whistle out to her. The length shone like starlight, and a curling design of golden vines was embedded in the metal, each hole edged with a perfect, miniscule leaf.

“My lady bard,” Puck said, no hint of derision in his high voice, “please accept this gift from the Bright Court.”

Maeve reached for it—how could she not?—then hesitated. “Does this change our bargain in any way?”

“Fear not! Tis a gift freely given. Besides, it is for our own selfish pleasure.” Puck winked at her. “We would hear your music played on a worthier instrument than the simple reed you now hold.”

The new whistle was light and smooth under her fingers, and the tone was like honey and sunlight, if sunlight had a voice. The music issuing from it refreshed her, and the court as well, for the dancers swirled with new energy, laughter chiming up to echo in the gemmed branches. Even the king stepped down from his throne to dance with one of his gossamer courtiers.

Through it all, Maeve kept a small part of her aside, watching the blue bundle of her nephew. He was passed from creature to creature, and several times she saw his small fists waving above the blanket. Not once did he leave the confines of the court, and never did she see any ill intent directed at him.

Finally, the king raised his hands. Maeve finished the reel she was playing, and weariness crashed over her in a dark wave.

“My court,” the Bright King said, “our long night of pleasure is at an end. Bring forth the babe, so that this mortal maid can be on her way. The bargain has been fulfilled.”

A tall, willowy creature with pale wings and a sad smile stepped up to Maeve. In her arms she bore the child.

Maeve held out the silver whistle, though her heart ached to part with it. Still, she could not trade her nephew for something so small.

“No,” the king said. “The whistle is yours now, as befits the music singing in your veins.”

Clutching the instrument, Maeve made him a bow. “Your majesty is generous.”

“Perhaps. Though perhaps you will not think so, soon enough.” A hint of sorrow shaded his fathomless eyes. “Now, take the babe and be gone. And perhaps we shall meet again in another time and another place, maiden of Dunkerry.”

As he spoke she felt a pull on her soul, a reminder of the power he held, and her own mortal insignificance.

Hurriedly, she slipped the silver whistle in her pocket, then took the warm bundle from the faerie woman.

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