Land of Salvania

  Fairy-tale Logic BY A.E. STALLINGS Fairy tales are full of impossible tasks: Gather the chin hairs of a man-eating goat, Or cross a sulphuric lake in a leaky boat, Select the prince from a row of identical masks, Tiptoe up to a dragon where it basks And snatch its bone; count dust specks, mote by mote, Or learn the phone directory by rote. Always it’s impossible what someone asks— You have to fight magic with magic. You have to believe That you have something impossible up your sleeve, The language of snakes, perhaps, an invisible cloak, An army of ants at your beck, or a lethal joke, The will to do whatever must be done: Marry a monster. Hand over your firstborn son. Art by Mickey Kulp, August 2022

  Of fairy sisters, I know three: Solarn, Treelass, and Lauralee. They were born like you and me, But grew up wild and running free. Each had a house in forest green With rivers running cold and clean. Like weeds they grew, tall and lean, And ripe wild fruit was their cuisine. At night they danced around the fire; With laughing spells, they sent it higher. The flames curled round like twisted briar. Sizzle and snap: their forest choir. The midnight mist came rolling in To calm their mood and quiet the din. Drinking deep from one wine skin They laughed as dreams began to spin. They stumbled off to home and bed With wobbly feet and drowsy head To dream all night without a dread Of forest green and berries red. More fabulous fey poetry in my latest book ‘ Wishes Cost Too Much ’ from Rochak Publishing.  /// Copyright Some art elements based on results from Wombo AI.

  Farsinger hopped off his shoulder and walked among the forest floor's shadows. "The trees are whispering," she growled in Ravenspeech. The bard gripped his little wood chopper as if it could offer any protection from the horrors known so well by the village grannies. He had grown up with their stories of pixies that stole your memories and fairies that enticed and enchanted the unwary. "They say the forest has grown darker," Farsinger said. "They don't like it." "My Nan said to sit quietly at sunset of the full moon to see the fairy people. If you were worthy, they might grant a wish." Farsinger croaked in laughter. "The Folk are already watching you. The trees have already announced our visit." The bard sat still anyway, still gripping his hatchet. Maybe the fairies would visit him. "Your Nan was not wrong," Farsinger said. "But the Folk will not give you a boon without something in return." "L

The village shaman stood before the bonfire in the cleared center of the pine grove. The crowd hushed in expectation; even the wild fae-folk, eyes glittering orange, listened from the forest shadows. He started tapping a small drum and chanting about the wheel of turning seasons and of the balance of light and dark. "Today is the ending of the equinox, the Alban Elfed. Now comes the waning of the day as the night takes her due. We mark this moment to give our thanks for the blessings of abundance." As if on cue, a new baby cried, and the assembly giggled politely. Smiling, he continued. "But we also have another blessing: the blessing of change. As the darkness grows, let us leave her with the things we discard. Bad habits. Sadness. Sickness of spirit. All of these, she will take, and gladly." He removed a piece of broken stalk, the chaff of the day's winnowing, and tossed it into the flames. "So I give my sadness to the night. So may we all.&qu

  "Why must I wear this?" Ulrich asked as the Yunni shaman handed him the bear skin headdress. "It has been part of the seeking ceremony for centuries. The first seeker saw it in a dream from the Star Bear," the shaman said, then he smiled. "And the faeries like it." The massive Northman, his hand big enough to almost encircle the tiny Yunni's head, put it on. "Ridiculous." "It is no different from the many images inked all over your body." Ulrich shrugged. "Maybe so. Now what?" The shaman leaned toward his fireplace and ladled out a steamy liquid into a wooden cup. "Drink this and lie down. The doorway will open when it wants. You must be patient." Ulrich swallowed the liquid. It tasted like simple beef broth, salty and mushroomy. He reclined on his back and stared at the cottage rafters hung with garlic and other drying herbs. "What if I go to sleep?" "Feel free," the shaman said.