The Wild Hunt

by David Newkirk

Table of Contents

Table of Contents
parts 1, 2, 3

conclusion

Rebecca Philpot was worried. She had gone to sleep, still waiting for her father to return from the Pemberton’s house. And now, as the rays of the morning sun sparkled on the still snow that serenely sat upon their simple yard, he was nowhere to be found. Henry the horse, still sporting his now soggy saddle, wandered outside of his fence. The only footprints in the snow were Henry’s heavy hooves. Where was he? Why had he not put Henry away?

She searched the house, calling for him again and again, then put on her coat and searched the yard. He was not there, either. Not by the yew stump, not by the well pump. Not by the fence line, not in the dense pine. Nowhere. She needed help. She climbed aboard Henry and hastily headed for Mrs. Hawkins’ house, goading the horse to swiftly speed down the snowy lanes. When she arrived, she leaped off and pounded on the door.

Mrs. Hawkins, wearing a bright blue brocade bedgown, answered the door. “Rebecca Philpot! What on earth is this! The sun has barely come up!” she said.

“My father! He didn’t come home last night, but our horse did, without him!” she answered.

“Oh my,” she said. “Let me dress and I will help you look. He’s a dear, sweet man. I hope no harm has befallen him.”

They rode quickly to the house, both on Henry’s back, but to no avail. “I fear,” Mrs. Hawkins said, “that he may be in trouble. He would not simply leave you. I know him and his gentle spirit. He would not do this. Something has happened.” She paused. “I will ride your horse into town and fetch the constables. They can start a search. You must stay here in case he returns.”

Rebecca searched again after Mrs. Hawkins left. Nowhere. He was gone. She sat down, crying. Then, with the suddenness of a dreamer awakening from a doleful dream, there was a red flash. Her father stood before her. She looked up and ran to him. As she tried to hug him, he looked at her, confused.

“Who are you, child,” Sampson said, “and what are you doing in my house?”

“Daddy!” she said. “It’s me! Rebecca! Your daughter! Don’t you remember me?”

Sampson looked puzzled. “But...” he said, “I have no daughter. My wife, she died, and I was... somewhere... somewhere like a nightmare. They took me, I remember that. Now, I am home.” He looked at her sternly. “And I do not know you. Why are you in my house? You must leave, you do not belong here.”

“Daddy! It... it’s... me!” she said, choking back tears.

“I will say it again.” he answered. “I do not know the nature of this... this... prank, but you must leave. Go back to your home, wherever that may be.”

Rebecca ran from the room. He doesn’t know me, she thought in a panic. He doesn’t know who I am! Something was wrong with him, something that she didn’t know how to fix.

But maybe, she thought, I do know how to fix this. She ran outside without even bothering to put on her coat or gloves. She cried as she brushed off the snow that covered the stone circle, her hands freezing and her breath condensing in the crisp cold air. She stood and recited the words again, this time saying them in the most earnest manner of any words that she had ever spoken:

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.

The cold gave way to the warm breeze. The cinnamon and sugar smell. The gentle sounds. Yes, she thought, come! I need your help! And with a blue flash, they were back. Dozens, smoothly swirling around the snowy circle. Rebecca sobbed sorrowfully as she saw the spinning swarm.

“Child,” Queen Mab said, floating toward her. “You are deeply troubled! Your aura is disturbed and dark! What has happened?”

“It’s my father,” she said, still crying. “Something happened. He was gone all night, then there was a red flash, and he was back. B-b-but...” She looked at the fairy: “He doesn’t know me now!”

“Oh, child,” Queen Mab said, “I am sorry. But a red flash, you say? I believe I might know what has happened. Did your father have other books about fairies besides the one you used to summon us?”

“The house is full of books,” Rebecca answered. “But there was an old one he got at the same time.”

“And a red flash when he returned?” the Queen asked. “The color is quite important.”

“Yes,” she answered, “red.”

“He was taken, captured by the wild hunt, and taken to the Court of the Unseelies,” the fairy said. His escape must have come at an awful price.”

“Taken? He was taken... to where?” Rebecca asked.

“Where is not quite the right question, child,” she answered. “As it is with us, the Winter Court is indeed a place, yet not as your kind might think of one. It is difficult to explain. It is true, the Unseelies are also of our realm. But not all who dwell in Fae are like us. We seek only to do what is most needed and most right. We charge no price when we choose to grant a wish to a child. But there are others of our realm, the Unseelies, creatures who hunt men. By the great treaty, we cannot stop them. But sometimes, afterwards...”

Queen Mab paused. “I speak too much of arcane aspects of things that you need not know. Child, what is your wish?”

“I want him back!” Rebecca said firmly. “I love him! I lost my temper with him yesterday. I was acting like a baby. I want him back! I want him to remember me!”

“Now that, child,” she answered, smiling, “is a serious wish. Yes. Yes, I will grant your wish.”

The fairies around the circle began to spin faster and faster. There was a whispering sound of many voices, but mainly those of her and her father. Images flowed out of the circle toward the house: her father stroking her hair, her father holding her as a baby, her father hovering over her bed as he read.

And suddenly, with a silver sparkle, it stopped. “It is done,” Queen Mab said. “What was wrong is now right. What was dark is now light. Run to him, child. He remembers his love.” And with a blue flash, they were gone.

Rebecca ran to Sampson’s arms. They hugged tightly, both crying.

“I remember,” he said, gently holding her face. “I remember it all. I never want to leave you again. I never want to go anywhere that isn’t by your side. I have had enough adventures for a lifetime. You, darling daughter, are my adventure.”

* * *

When Mrs. Hawkins returned, they were still in a tender embrace. “Mr. Philpot! Sampson... You gave us quite a fright! You gave me quite a fright! The constables are coming. I thought that highway men might have... might have... .murdered you! Where in the name of heaven were you!”

“I was... taken,” he answered. “Taken to a place that I did not believe existed. That I did not believe could exist. You will think I am quite insane, but I was taken by fairies! Evil ones!”

Mrs. Hawkins looked at him. “I do not think you insane, dear man. When I was a young girl, I saw fairies once, I think. Somehow, I knew that they were good ones. Ones that seemed as kind as the kindness that I see in you. What is it that Mr. Shakespeare’s play said? ‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy?’ I believe that. Why would God make just one world? Why would good and evil not battle in many places?”

“I swear to you,” he said, “it happened. I thought that I would never see Rebecca again. And I almost did not, not in the same way, anyway.”

“You poor, sweet man. The important thing is that you are here, now. You have been given a new beginning.” She paused and smiled.

Mrs. Hawkins set her jaw and stared at Sampson. “Sampson Philpot,” she said, “you are seven years without a wife, and I, ten without a husband. I know your loneliness, your longing and love lost, for I feel it, too. Tomorrow — now that the storm is over — you and Rebecca must come to my house for dinner. I have a fine chicken that I can stew, and maybe even a bit of wine. You can tell me all about what happened, and we can talk.” We can talk,” she said, “of many things.”

“Yes,” Sampson Philpot said. “I would like that. I would like that very much.”

* * *

In the end, you might say that the books betrayed Sampson Philpot. But that would not be entirely true. Perhaps, instead of a betrayal, you might say that they, those teachers of the truth of the tender togetherness of family, took him through a tribulation that taught him that a father’s love is its own adventure.

Perhaps they were his path to the realization that the familiar joys of hearth and home, actually lived, can hand one a happiness higher than words on paper, merely read. Perhaps they led him from loneliness to love: one love now newly remembered and appreciated, and another love freshly found.

And, if it is right to say that, then it is not always true that you must be cautious about what you wish for.

Just ask the Philpot family.