The Wild Hunt

by David Newkirk

Table of Contents

Table of Contents
parts 1, 2, 3

part 1

In the end, you might say that it was the books that betrayed Sampson Philpot. They, those tempters and temptresses, those sirens who sang from the shelves of his simple shop. They, who were copiously consigned to corners in each of his crowded rooms, even that of his daughter. The blue ones, the new ones, the gold ones, the old ones.

Especially the old ones.

They made him long for the world outside his village of Ruehaven. They made him dream of a life that involved more than caring for his daughter and mending the clothes of the people who really got to see the world, people who led large, loud lives that were exciting, at least sometimes.

Be cautious, it is said, about what you wish for. Be cautious indeed.

It was a book that he brought home for his daughter Rebecca that began the Philpot family’s flirtation with the fairies. At ten years old, Rebecca’s taste in the stories Sampson read her every night was changing. The nightly stories that made her life without a mother easier for her. The nightly chore, just one of oh so very many that he endured for the sake of raising her alone.

“Daddy,” she said one night, “I don’t like ‘Timmy the Talking Train’ anymore. That’s for babies.”

“But my dear,” he said, “Timmy is toot-toot-toot terrrrrrrific!”

“Stop it,” she said, giggling in a gentle glissando. “You’re not Timmy. And I’m toot-tootin’ tired of him. I’m tired of Henrietta the Hog, and Cyril the Circus-boy, and Sally the Spider. They’re all for babies. I’ve heard them a hundred times. I’m ten now. I want different stories.”

“Then you are in luck tonight, my dear,” he answered. “Dr. Donaldson came in asking if he could trade me two old books for a small mending job. They’re all about the fairy folk. When I saw that one of them was especially for children, I said yes.”

“Ooohhhh!” Rebecca answered. “Can you read me that one? Please? Please? Please?”

“I can, my dear, and so I shall,” Sampson said. He reached down and picked up a slim volume.

The book had been modestly manufactured; its pulpy parchment pages placed between crumbling clapboards. Its cover bore an inscription, haltingly penned in pencil by a child’s hand, reading “Property of Priscilla Pemberton.”

It’s a miracle, Sampson thought, that old lady Pemberton’s childhood book has still held together all these years. Poor Miss Pemberton had been nearly eighty when she passed away the year before.

Still, if he read this one to Rebecca, she would go to sleep. And he, free from the day’s difficult demands, could read his book. He smiled at Rebecca. “This one is called Field of the Fairies. It’s about a girl named Fiona Featherington and the fairies who grant her wish!”

He began to read:

In fairy-realm doth Queen Mab rule
her court of summer-bright.
Her castle is a shining jewel
that glows with inner light.

Her subjects slip from world to world
aloft on fairy wings
that glitter in the sun unfurled
as dew to flowers clings.

A crafted circle of small stone
will soon their presence draw.
The Queen may even leave her throne
to fill young eyes with awe...

Rebecca listened raptly as he read on, barely moving under her copper-colored cotton covers. But soon, her eyelids drooped drowsily downward. Sampson closed the cover of the book. “It is late. It is time for you to sleep,” he said softly. He kissed her forehead, then caressed the cascading curls of her chestnut hair. He did love her. If only she were easier to care for. If only her mother were still here.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “There will be more stories tomorrow.” And feeding, and cleaning, and cooking, and coal to stoke, and paying for Rebecca to go to that friendly Mrs. Hawkins’ house school, and caring for Henry the horse. And work. So much work.

Sampson blew out the candle and went back downstairs. Now that Rebecca was asleep, he was finally free to finish his own reading. The desert sands of Araby awaited him, courtesy of a penny dreadful called Knight’s Honor that he had begun the night before. It told a story of nimble knights battling nefarious Nubian nomads. Knights whose hands swung swift swords, not darning needles. Knights who bested burly brigands, not buttonholes. Knights who fought in places far, far from the frosty rain that fell forlornly outside, flowing down his window like tears.

He walked over to the fitting mirror and held in front of himself the shirt that he had made for Dr. Donaldson. His figure failed to fill the flowing fabric, for Dr. Donaldson was a fit man, as thick and muscular as Sampson was slender and soft. And he had seen the world. He and Mrs. Donaldson had ridden a steamer from Liverpool to all the way to Egypt. It had, by all accounts, been a grand and carefree adventure. They had supped in the shadows of the silent Sphinx, overnighted at opulent oases, haggled with high-handed hucksters at Heliopolis, and felt the sunbaked sands of Araby sift between their fingers. The real sands, not just black and white words in a book.

The same sands, he thought, that a widower with a young daughter to care for and a simple shop could only read about. The same world outside of Ruehaven that seemed to say to him, “Not for you, Sampson Philpot, not for you.” The kinds of adventures that he had talked about with his wife before consumption took her during the woeful winter of 1848. He sighed and put the shirt down. Maybe someday, he thought. When Rebecca was older, more self-sufficient, and when he had saved more money. If that was even possible.

Until then, there were the books. Sampson put the shirt down and picked up the penny dreadful. He looked at the cover but then put it back on a teetering tower of books behind a black Bradbury & Co. sewing machine. He could finish that one later, he thought. Tonight, he wanted to look at the other book Dr. Donaldson had traded to him. The adult one. The one that, he hoped, held legends long lost, tales tossed aside, fictions forgotten as the turning tides of time toppled even the memories of them.

He picked up the light-brown colored volume, a book whose loose cover fell off as he attempted to open it. The title page read “The Fae: Seelie and Unseelie. Oxford, Mage &C., MDCLV.” Interesting, he thought, working out the Roman numeral. Published in 1655. The book was almost two hundred years old. What stories it must tell!

Indeed, that timeworn, tattered, tawny tome was the oldest of all his books. And, as he would later find out, decidedly the most dangerous.

* * *

Rebecca Philpot was bored.

Again.

Mrs. Hortense Hawkins’ house school was small, with only ten students: four girls and six boys. Her house — an inheritance from her late husband — was sizeable. She did not need to teach, but the children reminded her of the family that she had never had. And the income came in handy at times.

But Mrs. Hawkins taught alone. That meant that when there were topics deemed appropriate for only the boys — like rhetoric, business, and Latin — the girls were dismissed early. When that happened, Rebecca had no playmates that were her age. Samantha and Sabrina Shea were six and seven summers old, respectively, and Amanda Atherton had almost achieved the age of sixteen, so Rebecca often had to entertain herself.

She had taken Field of the Fairies with her and finished the book in Mrs. Hawkins’ living room after the girls were dismissed. It was cold enough, she thought, that she probably didn’t want to play outside. She opened the tiny tin tote box and picked at the leftovers from her light lunch. She quickly lost interest in the food and sighed. She could always go home. There was always coloring. She put on her coat, returned to the supper room, and silently waved goodbye to Mrs. Hawkins, trying not to disturb her and the boys.

Mrs. Hawkins stopped the lesson anyway. “Goodbye, Rebecca,” she said. “Tell your father hello. He is such a nice man, and I think of him often, all by himself with no wife. And you, poor thing, without a mother.” She paused and then said, “Well then. Enjoy the weekend, and we will see you Monday.”

With her weighty white woolen wrap and matching muffler and mittens, the walk home hadn’t been that cold. But grey clouds had blocked the sun, and the sky spat small specks of sifting snow on her. Maybe, she thought, she’d get to play in the snow tomorrow. Maybe there’d even be a blizzard with enough snow to build a fort.

“I’m home!” she said as she opened the door to the shop.

Alone with his rolls of fabric, spools of thread, and half-finished garments, Sampson sat hunched over an ornate black sewing machine. The Wheeler and Wilson machine in front of him was newer and quieter than the old Bradbury that sat in the corner. But, far from silent, the Wheeler still filled the room with noise, making a whistling whir as white thread wobbled from the whirling bobbin, accompanied by the quick click of the needle as it repeatedly pierced the fabric.

“Rebecca!” Sampson said, pausing. “Is school over already?”

“Yes, Daddy.” Rebecca took off her coat. “Mrs. Hawkins said that the rest of the afternoon was for boys only. She told me to say hello to you like she always does. Could you take a break and play with me? Just for a bit?”

“I’m afraid not, my dear,” he answered. “Penelope Pemberton ordered three dresses for her and her sisters this morning. It’s a rush. They need them for a fancy dinner tomorrow, and I promised them tonight. I’d like to finish and deliver them before the snow gets too bad.”

“But—” Rebecca protested.

“Perhaps you could play in your room? Or go outside if it isn’t too cold?” he suggested with mild annoyance. “Maybe Henry the horse would like some company. His water might be frozen. You could always pump him a new bucket, you know.”

Rebecca frowned. Hauling a big bucket from the well didn’t sound like fun at all. But then an idea came to her. She could play fairies. She could pretend that she was Fiona Featherington from her book. Some of the gravel from Lower Larkspur Lane in front of their house would do just fine to make a stone circle, just as Fiona had. Maybe she could use it for marbles or jacks in the spring. Even if not, it would be a fun way to pass the time. Better than stupid coloring. It wasn’t that cold yet. She put her coat back on, grabbed the book, and went outside.

It took her two trips, her pockets filled with gravel, to lay the stones for the small circle. The snow was now falling more intensely, and she was finally beginning to get cold. I won’t even be able to see the rocks soon, she thought. Still, she wanted to finish what she started. She found the page of the book with Fiona’s chant. Some words were adult, but they were all ones she knew. She began to read out loud:

Encircled do the stones now stand
placed here by the purest hand.
They call out to the land of Fae
come join, come dance, come play.

Nothing. It was stupid, she thought. The fairies weren’t real. She should get out of the cold. She could always go to the Shea sisters’ house to see if they wanted to play with their dingy denim dolls. Ugh, she thought. But it would be better than nothing. Looking down, she realized she hadn’t finished the page. Just a bit more. Why not? She continued:

Kind fairy, please, I summon thee
to aid me with my plight.
A wish I ask you grant to me
to make my world be right.

It started then. A scintillating shimmer in the sky. A balmy breeze that blew away the wet winter air, softly swirling against her skin and melting the snow that partially hid the rocks. A smell that suggested cinnamon and spun sugar straight from the oven. The tinkling timbre of tiny chimes. And then, with a bright blue flash, they were there.

Dozens of fairies. They floated around her, levitating with luminous wings lit with lush colors. Smaller ones and taller ones, sir ones and her ones. Garlands topped their gossamer gowns, and their dewdrop eyes peered at her. One, no more than a foot tall, who wore a crown above her delicate face, floated toward her.

“I am Queen Mab, ruler of the Seelie,” the fairy said. “and you have called us here with rhyme and stone. We have answered. But I must ask you, child, to what end have you called us this day?”

Rebecca pointed at her and squealed, “You’re real!”

“As real as rainbows after rain,” Queen Mab answered, smiling. “As real as the silent suffering so many of the shattered children of mankind endure. As real as joy and laughter. As real as the healing that my court and I can often offer.”

Queen Mab landed on her outstretched arm. “Now, child,” she asked, “what is your wish?”

Rebecca thought a moment and then answered, “I need someone to play with. My father is always, always busy, except at my bedtime. Always. The children my age are either at boarding school or working. I get lonely.”

“But child,” Queen Mab said, “that is not a truly serious wish. Your aura shows us the way of your world. Your mother is gone, but your father is a kind man. Though he is overwhelmed and sometimes feels burdened, his love for you hugs both your hearts. In time, new friends will come. This is not for us to change. Wishes are for more serious matters.”

“But—” Rebecca began.

Queen Mab smiled. “Remember, child,” she said, “that you are loved. Not all children are. Remember that the very thought of you has the power to light your father’s heart.”

And then, with the same blue flash, they were suddenly gone. The warmth fled like a fleeting dream, felt, then forgotten, replaced by the damp embrace of the chill winter air. The smell lingered for the briefest moment and then disappeared. The chime sound was replaced with the keen of the whipping wind as the snow, now thicker, fell in earnest.

* * *

Proceed to part 2...