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Alasdair
It has taken me a few days of research to find answers to the questions that have been nagging me since Ella and I came together under the waterfall. I was somewhat familiar with the legends and stories for which I sought, those of the faerie People—the Fey. They were said to possess exquisite beauty beyond ethereal. It was often irresistible to humans, or it was a dark magic created by the devil to lure innocent humans to the depths of hell—a clear indication the church did not approve.
I found two very detailed descriptions of the Fey. Their physical characteristics were human, and most of the illustrations depicted them as such. Yet, what differed were their natural gifts or abilities, many of which the average human did not possess: the “sight,” the ability to look into the future, to know things before they happened; their healing abilities, extensive knowledge of the plants that cured each disease and a healing touch that could be powerful enough to knit bones back together in a day; their extraordinary beauty with an inhuman, intriguing aura about them; their connection to nature, gaining strength and vitality when outdoors surrounded by trees and plants and water and clean air; and their sensuality, which ensured their health and wellness and a long joyful life.
It was said that coupling with a Fey, male or female, was dangerous because the pleasure was so intense that nothing could satisfy your desire again, and your life would turn to despair as you withered away, longing for what you could not have. But there were also stories of happy endings, lifelong love and partnership, even marriage, where a Fey and a human mated for life and inevitably had children. These Fey-human offspring were said to carry many of the gifted traits of their mythical parent and, more interestingly, have handed them down through countless generations, a truly fascinating concept.
It was in the last book, the one I was reading when Ella came into the library. It had a brief mention of what I was looking for: the story of a traveler who got lost in the forest for weeks. One day, he came upon a couple making love under a willow tree, next to a stream. He was surprised to find people that far into the wood, and though he wanted to leave and give them their privacy, he was transfixed by their glamour and unbridled passion.
She rode him, controlled the momentum with the rolling of her hips. Their pleasure was palpable, reaching outward like a vibration in the air until finally when they reached the pinnacle together, she opened her eyes and they glowed with a blue so bright, I wondered if she was blind. But when the man opened his eyes, I saw the same glow, and when they both called out, the unmistakable sound of sexual climax, a soft light haloed around them. I felt like I was witnessing something sacred. I became overwhelmed with a sudden urge to cry and found the strength to run away.
Even though it is the recollection of only one individual, it is enough to reassure me that what happened at the waterfall was no coincidence. If my theory is correct, my wife is more extraordinary than I already knew, and the more I think about it, the more it makes perfect sense. Her uncommon beauty, that genuine connection to nature, her innate sensuality, and the connection between us—all seem to be scripted by fate.
The temperature drops as we enter the forest, the sound shifting to the subtle voice of the trees as they mingle with the plants and the breeze, occasionally highlighted by the call of a bird or the scurry of a rodent.
I sense Ella’s excitement even before she speaks.
“Oh, Alasdair!” She stops to turn a full circle, eyes bright with emotion. “This is incredible! It’s so different than anything I’ve experienced. It even smells different. You are going to have a hard time keeping from this place.” She declares as she turns to me, her face brightened by a smile that knocks the wind out of me.
My God! How I love you, Ella Stewart. I could never imagine this kind of emotion to be real, the love I’d read about a thousand times from the fanciful minds of a poet or playwright, an author with fictional ideas of what love should be. What I feel for Ella goes well beyond that.
“Tapadh leibh Dia,” I whisper as her smile fades.
“What does that mean?”
I pause to silently debate telling her the truth. “It means ‘Thank you, God.’”
“Oh. What are you thanking God for?”
“You.”
We don’t move or say another word. Just look at one another, letting the threads of our connection continue to weave the tapestry that is us.
“Come. I want to show ye something.”
We continue down the well-worn trail in silence, the heavy weight of curiosity surrounding us, each wondering what the other has on their mind. The newness of our union and the lingering tension from our introduction leaves us both unwilling to speak our hearts, and it is creating a maddening frustration within me.
“Here. We are stepping off the trail fer a bit. If ye continue going that way, ye’ll come to a clearing that overlooks the Firth of Clyde from the high perch of a clifftop. ’Tis quite stunning, but first, I want to show ye this.”
After wading through and around the pillowing ferns of the canopy floor, we come to one of the older oaks on this side of our land. It is a proud historical relic that knows the secrets of the forest and likely those of man. This is the perfect place to test the rest of my theory.
“Alasdair, this tree! It is magnificent!”
“Aye, it is. Something else I knew ye would appreciate.”
“I love old trees!” She walks up to its trunk and places her hands on the rough surface. “You will think this is strange, but I feel something when I am near them. It’s like a tightening in my stomach, and then my hands and feet feel cool and light. Then, my throat fills with the urge to cry, but with joy, not sadness.” She pauses to stay with it for a moment longer before turning to me to say, “That’s silly. I’m sorry, you must think I am addled.”
“Stop. Look at me.”
She does, and I watch as she tries to blink away her tears.
“There is nothing strange or silly about what ye feel, Ella. And ye will’na shy away from being open about yerself wi’ me. Understand?”
“Aye,” she replies with a hint of brogue and a mischievous smile.
“Ye’ve no shortage of charm, Lady Stewart, and ye’ve got a damn good sense of humor,” I say as I grab onto her arm and pull her to me, “Now come here and let me taste it.”
Our mouths come together with the leftover zeal of our earlier kiss. Our physical desire for one another is insatiable, but she needed a break these past two days to recover physically. If she is not fully enjoying herself, I cannot enjoy myself. But she is eager now, as I knew she would be.
