12th November
There are now two Hrafnsviks in my mind: the one that existed before Wendell’s injury, and the one in which we found ourselves afterwards.
We have entertained a steady trickle of visitors over the past few days, so many that I have had little time for either journaling or venturing up to Poe’s spring for a visit. They come with offers of food and assistance, but also with stories of the Hidden Ones.
“I suppose it is because Aud pities us now,” I said. “They all do. We have proven ourselves inept at the basics of existence in this place.”
“Oh, Em,” Wendell said. “It has nothing to do with pity. Aud has forgiven you because you let her help you.”
“She helped you,” I pointed out, but he shook his head as if I were being obtuse.
“Why did you offend her initially?”
“Because I did not ask her permission to interview the villagers.”
Again he shook his head. “That was part of it, perhaps, but also you refused to allow her to treat you as a guest. If you do not admit kindness from others, you cannot be surprised when they fail to offer any.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with your arm,” I muttered, more to end the conversation than anything. To my surprise, he did not persist in arguing the point, merely gave a breath of laughter and went to fix tea.
Within the span of a single day, I learned more of the ways of the Ljosland Folk than I gleaned during the entirety of my research heretofore. In the space of two weeks, I may have gathered enough material for not only a chapter, but an entire book.
To summarize broadly: the interactions of mortal Ljoslanders with the common fae follow established patterns seen on the continent. Offerings are left for them, most often in the form of food; those with wealth and status are expected to leave trinkets, with mirrors and singing boxes being especially favoured. Mortals will sometimes enter into bargains with the common fae—like my bargain with Poe—but this is seen as dangerous given their unpredictability, and a road taken only by the desperate or foolhardy. None of the common fae of Ljosland dwell within households; that is the key difference.
As for the courtly fae, they are wholly unique.
They are, above all else, elusive. Few mortals have laid eyes on them—of the villagers of Hrafnsvik, Thora alone makes that claim, and she only spied them once from a distance a very long time ago, whilst playing with her schoolfellows in the woods. Their courts move with the snows, and they dwell for much of the year in the mountainous north and interior of the country, where winter never rests. They love music and hold elaborate balls in the wilderness, particularly upon frozen lakes, and if you hear their song drifting on the icy wind, you must stop your ears or burst into song yourself, or be drowned by it and swept insensible into their realm. For they are also hungry.
They have a particular fondness for youth in love. Those who are drawn into their dances are invariably found wandering alone the next day, alive but hollow. It was not always so; it is said that the courtly fae of Ljosland were once a peaceable people, if somewhat standoffish with mortals. No one is certain when the change occurred, but this behaviour has persisted for many generations.
Au?ur is the only living victim of the courtly fae in Hrafnsvik. But another boy was taken last winter, two girls the winter before that, and three years ago, a child of fifteen. Victims of these Folk are continually drawn to the winter wilderness after their abduction, and will wander into the night in their shifts or shirtsleeves when their guardians are distracted, to be found frozen a little distance from town. The “tall ones,” it seems, have no interest in taking them back.
It seems clear these creatures are increasingly drawn to Hrafnsvik, though it is unclear why. Until recently, the village had not lost anyone to their bizarre vampirism in more than twenty winters. Their stories reflect this; it is said in many villages in the south and west of Ljosland that the “tall ones” take from every generation one youth （naturally this youth is said to be of surpassing beauty and/or talent, particularly musical talent, a feature that will not surprise scholars even superficially versed in folklore）。 Yet here in Hrafnsvik, five have been taken in the last four years.
I mentioned stories, and I will turn to those now. Most, unsurprisingly, concern encounters with the common fae. I have thus far recorded a round dozen, some fragmentary （perhaps part of a larger saga?） and others filling multiple pages. I will summarize here those that I find most intriguing—later I will choose one of them for my encyclopaedia.
The Woodcutter and His Cat
（NB: I have been informed that this is the oldest folktale of Hrafnsvik origin, though one villager argues that it drifted here from Bjar?orp, a village ten miles to the east. The story follows a familiar pattern in folklore: faeries often aid mortals in roundabout ways, and their generosity is instantly turned to vengefulness if their gifts are unappreciated.）
A woodcutter dwelt at the edge of the forest in a tiny hut that was all he could afford, and he could barely hold body and soul together. In his youth, after a night of drinking, he became lost and wandered into the mountains. He lost his right hand to frostbite and was terribly disfigured.
The woodcutter struggled in his work, naturally, and was sometimes forced to borrow money from his brother, who never missed a chance to rail against his foolishness, though the brother was a rich man whose larder was always full.
Near the woodcutter’s house, along a path that was sometimes there and sometimes not, was a faerie tree. Its leaves were red and gold no matter the season, and abundant even in winter, and it was huge and hoary, with knots like windows for the Folk to peep through. Though lovely, it was an off-putting thing, for the sun never touched it, and its boughs were cold and clammy, the ground sodden with dew.
The village priest often visited the woodcutter to complain about the tree. This was in the days when the Church tried to stand against the Folk and sent dozens of poor priests on doomed missions to kill or convert them. But the woodcutter was too fearful of the Folk to cut it down, and the priest went away disappointed.
One winter’s eve, after a particularly frustrating argument with the priest, the woodcutter decided that he might as well see if the faeries would help him—if not, he would consider cutting down their tree, just to silence the tedious priest.
The woodcutter travelled along the path that was sometimes there and sometimes not. The faerie tree was all aglow in the darkness, its golden light spilling over the snow like coins, and the woodcutter heard the distant sound of bells and the clink of cutlery. He knelt and asked for the faeries to give him a new hand. He waited for a long time, but there was no reply; the music played on, and the Folk attended to their dinner. The woodcutter went away disappointed.
In the morning, he woke to find a white cat seated at the foot of his bed. The cat was beautiful, with strange blue eyes, but it would not let the woodcutter touch it. The woodcutter knew that it was a present from the Folk, and while he was disappointed they had not given him the hand he had asked for, he knew that it was dangerous to scorn a faerie present.
As the days wore on, though, the woodcutter grew less patient with the cat. It followed him everywhere, even into the woods, watching him all the while with its unnatural eyes, and it ate all the woodcutter’s food. One night, it gobbled down the lovely ham his brother had given him, leaving only the bone. The woodcutter grew so frustrated that he threw rocks at the cat and chased it into the forest. The next morning, he woke to find it perched at the end of his bed, watching him. The woodcutter’s brother laughed at his predicament, and the priest lectured him even more for keeping such an unnatural beast around, and altogether the cat brought the woodcutter nothing but woe.