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The loveliness of the view outside stopped me in my tracks. The mountain fell away before me, a carpet of green made greener by the luminous dawn staining the clouds with pinks and golds. The mountains themselves were lightly ensnowed, though there was no threat of a sequel in that cerulean canopy. Within the hinterlands of the prospect heaved the great beast of the sea with its patchy pelt of ice floes.

I set off with a light step, much heartened. I have always loved fieldwork, and I felt that familiar rush of excitement as I contemplated the field in question: before me lay uncharted scientific territory, and I the only explorer for miles. It is in moments like this that I fall in love with my profession all over again.

Shadow ambled along at my side on our way up the mountainside, sniffing at mushrooms or the melting frost. Sheep eyed me with their characteristic look of incurious anxiety. They danced a little at the sight of Shadow, but as he only lumbered contentedly by, his snout more engaged by the earth than the familiar woolly boulders that dotted the fields of his stomping grounds in the Cambridgeshire countryside, they soon ignored him.

The forest slowly folded me into itself. The trees were not all stunted, and in places they formed a dense, dark canopy over the narrow path.

I spent most of the morning surveying the perimeter, wading in and out of the trees. I noted mushroom rings and unusual moss patterns, the folds in the land where flowers grew thick and the places where they slid from one colour to another, and those trees which seemed darker and cruder than the others, as if they had drunk of a substance other than water. An odd mist billowed from a little hollow cupped within the rugged ground; this I discovered to be a hot spring. Above it, upon a rocky ledge, were several wooden figurines, some half overgrown with moss. There was also a small pile of what I recognized as rock caramels, the salty-sweet Ljosland candies that several of the sailors had favoured.

After taking some photographs, I dipped a hand in the spring and found it pleasantly hot. The temptation arose in my mind, for I had not bathed properly since leaving Cambridge, and I felt the salt of the journey upon me still like a second skin. Yet it was dismissed quickly; I was not about to go frolicking about an unfamiliar country in a state of undress.

A small sound came then from the wood behind me, a sort of pitter-patter not unlike the continual drip of wet from the forest boughs. I was instantly alert, though I gave no sign. Shadow raised his head from the spring to sniff the air, but he knew what was expected of him. He sat himself down and watched me.

Some people think that the Folk announce themselves with bells or song, but the fact is that you will never hear them unless they wish to be heard. Should you be approached by an animal, you will likely notice the rustle of leaves, the snapping of twigs. Should you be approached by a faerie, you may hear nothing at all, or only the subtlest of variations in the natural soundscape. It takes years for a scholar to master the necessary powers of observation.

Affecting a weary traveller’s appreciation of the view, which did not require much effort, the weather continuing fair, I ran my gaze along the forest’s edge. I was not surprised to find no evidence of any observer, apart from the chitter of a squirrel and the runic scatter of bird prints.

To continue the pretense, I slid my feet from my boots and dipped them into the spring. I took a few moments to review my mental catalogue of alpine brownies, particularly those who dwell near springs, with an eye to behavioural patterns.

I reached into my backpack, where I keep a variety of trinkets I’ve gathered over the years. But what to choose in this case? Some gifts are favoured by the Folk of different regions, while others give offense. I know of a French dryadologist who was driven mad by his research subjects after presenting them with a loaf of bread that, unbeknownst to him, had begun to mould. Their malice when insulted is nearly as universal as their caprice.

I selected a little porcelain box which held an assortment of Turkish delights. Tastes vary greatly among the Folk, but I know of only one recorded instance of an offering of sweets going awry. I set the box upon the ledge; for good measure, I placed atop it one of my few jewels, a diamond from a necklace I inherited upon my grandmother’s death. Such gifts I reserve only for very special cases—some of the common fae covet jewels; others don’t know what to do with them.

I began to murmur a song.

They are the night and the day,

They are the wind and the leaf,

They lay the snow upon the rooftop and the frost upon the landing.

They gather up their footprints and carry them on their backs.

What gift is greater than their friendship?

What blade cuts deeper than their enmity?

My translation is clumsy; I’ve no ear for poetry. I sang it in the tongue in which it was composed, that of the Folk, which prosaic scholars simply call Faie. It is a rolling, roundabout speech that takes twice as long to say half as much in English, with many contrary rules, but there is no lovelier language spoken by mortals anywhere in the world. By some curious quirk—one which has caused much consternation among those adherents to the Hundred Islands Theory[*]—the Folk speak the same language in every country and region where they are known, and though the accents and idioms differ, their dialects are never so variable as to hinder understanding.

I ran through the song twice, which I had learned from a hobgoblin in Somerset, then let my voice fade into the wind. I had performed the necessary introductions, so I put my shoes on and departed.

Skip Notes

* The theory that each faerie realm exists on an entirely separate physical plane. Folk might travel from one realm to another on rare occasions, but otherwise scholars argue that the realms have historically had little to do with one another. I myself see this as narrow-minded nonsense, yet the theory remains popular among the older generation of dryadologists, those who tend to sit as department heads and write the most heavily referenced textbooks, and thus it will likely be with us for some time.

21st October—evening

Shadow and I left the Karrðarskogur behind and headed into the fells. A rough road wound its way up into the mountains north of the village, which I followed until it petered out—likely it was only a track used by sheep farmers. I carried on, though the ground was boggy in places from the melting snow. Eventually my determination was rewarded as I crested the summit of one of the lower mountains.

Beyond, my view was largely obstructed by another, much higher range of mountains, a great convocation of them jutting messily from the green earth brandishing their glacial raiments. Ljosland is a labyrinth of mountains, you’ll understand, as well as fjords and glaciers and every other sharp-edged formation most hostile to Man. Between the peaks, the landscape was crushed down into what I supposed were valleys, chasmed and boulder-strewn.

I paused at the summit—partly to bask in a sense of accomplishment—to write in my journal. The Folk do not confine themselves to forests alone, and I know from my correspondence with Krystjan that many Ljoslanders believe the volcanic boulders that jut out of their landscape serve as doors to their realm. I recorded the largest of these as well as those that piqued my interest for sundry reasons, whether by dint of their elaborate peaks or the telltale presence of running water or fungi.

The day was done. I was muddy, chilled, and thoroughly happy. I had established what I considered a useful boundary within which to conduct my research and made contact with one or more of the common fae. It was, of course, possible that the brownies of Ljosland subsisted entirely off sea salt and leaves; found the sight of jewels as offensive as iron; hated music with every fibre of their beings. But I theorized that this was unlikely, and that furthermore they would share commonalities with the Folk of other northerly latitudes—the mountain alver of Norway, for instance. Bambleby was sceptical on this point. Well, we will see which of us is right.

I would gladly have sent my excuses to Finn and the headwoman, but my rambles had left me very hungry. And so, my happiness dimming somewhat, I directed my steps towards the village.

The tavern was well-situated in the heart of the village, though this characterization was debatable given the jumbled nature of Hrafnsvik, its dishevelled scatter of homes and shops. A group of men clustered outside, smoking. Two of these were Krystjan and Finn.