Over the Hills and Far Away

By Susan Skylark

This is a book of contrasts, a stewpot wherein anything and everything might lurk with each spoonful a different taste: high adventure and complete nonsense, serious quests and silly meanderings, real poetry and doggerel verse, one moment grave as death and blithe as a lark the next. As in life, the world of story and Faerie in particular is a varicolored, ever shifting landscape of joy and sorrow, laughter and tears, adventure and quietude. Each story is preceded by a bit of verse or a quotation that may or may not be relevant, many of them are inspired by old nursery rhymes as one wonders what came of the original tale beyond the little passed down from time immemorial to the wondering hearts of children through the ages. Life is a story and with these bits and pieces of story, this crazy quilt of whimsy as it were, perhaps it will add a little more wonder to your own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Skylark
• Release date: Nov 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311745651

Susan Skylark

Once upon a time there was a sensible young lady who pursued a practical career, but finding it far less fulfilling than the proponents of the modern fairytale promulgate, she then married a clergyman, much to everyone’s astonishment, including her own, and in proper fairytale fashion keeps house for the mysterious gentleman in a far away land, spending most of her time in company with a very short, whimsical person who can almost speak English. She enjoys fantasy, fairy tales, and adventure stories and her writing reflects this quaint affectation. She considers Happy Endings (more or less) a requisite to good literature and sanity, though real stories never, truly end.

Book preview

For Fear of Little Men

Beatrice was missing, and none were fain to seek her, save her little brother, Tibbin, but could a mere child go where grown men feared to tread? Perhaps only a little child could. She had strayed up into the hills after her father’s missing sheep and none had seen her for a full three days. No one ventured into those hills, for they were haunted by all manner of folk, strange and fey, and it was folly for mortals to tread thereupon. No, the girl was lost, spirited away or bewitched by some fell being, never more to be seen by mortal men under sun and star, at least not in any natural form; her family might as well accept the truth, embrace their loss, and move on with their lives, or so whispered the villagefolk. But Tibbin was not content to lose his sister thus, but loath were his parents to part with their remaining child, so did he make for those forbidden hills without their knowing or leave, save for a brief note of farewell, imparting his fate. Aghast, his parents asked of their friends and neighbors if any were willing to go after. They merely shook their heads and muttered darkly amongst themselves, who would risk their lives when the boy willingly chose his doom? It was not to be helped. The aggrieved couple went home to wait, perhaps vainly, for news of what had come of their children.

Tibbin was a child but he was not a fool, he was young but also sensible. His elders all feared the fairyfolk, mostly because they did not understand them, albeit they had little interaction with that mysterious kindred and only a few old tales, likely flawed, to rely upon for information pertaining thereunto, but they were also small-minded and superstitious, little liking anything outside their ken, which was pretty much anything and everything outside the confines of their secluded village. Tibbin was still young enough to be untainted by their blindness and prejudice; for his were the wide, unguarded eyes of childhood that saw things as they were rather than as the viewer thought them to be. He was a little leery of the fey folk, as all creatures are of the unknown, but he was not paralyzed or handicapped by unmerited terror as his elders were. Thus did he hie himself into those mysterious hills, the only hope for his sister. He took with him enough bread, cheese, and water to last him a week of hard scrabbling over rocky ground, hoping it would be enough. He took no weapons, save a little knife, which was tool rather than implement of death. With his meager rations and a stout, faithful heart did he set out upon his quest, great and daring.

He left at twilight when his parents thought him abed, creeping carefully out of the house and into the brushy waste behind, clambering over stones and thorny scrub by the light of a slivered moon and a few bright stars. He went as far as he could in the wan light, at least far enough that pursuit would not follow, and then laid himself down under a gorse bush to find what rest he could. An impertinent bird started trilling in said bush at an unearthly hour, wakening the stiff, cold hero into a misty world of gold and rose. He smiled despite his discomfort and drank in the beauty about him, like a connoisseur a rare and delicate wine. He stretched, breakfasted, and was soon off into the mysterious, otherworldliness of dawn, feeling that his adventure was well and truly begun. His sister surely waited around the next bend in the path or just over the hill. He whistled as airily as the bird as he set forth.

His sister was not over the next hill, but a short, stocky man with a prodigious beard sat upon a stone in the thinning mist, smoking his pipe. Asked the boy of the stoic figure, have you perchance seen or heard of a young girl roaming these hills within the last sevennight, good sir?

The dwarfish gentleman smiled broadly at the lad’s boldness, withdrew his pipe, and exhaled thoughtfully, aye lad, aye. Not a rabbit goes through these hills without my knowing it. How is it you have the courage to come when none of your elders would bestir themselves?

Said the boy with a shrug, none would come, so there was only me. Please sir, have you seen my sister?

The man nodded sagely, she’s taken up with a few of the pixies that haunt meadow and lea, dangerous consorts for a mortal lass.

The boy paled, have they harmed her or is she in great peril?

The dwarf laughed, aye and nay, lad, aye and nay! Those fairies are as feckless and giddy as any lass your sister’s age, but they never grow up nor wiser, and neither do they age nor die. They will not hurt a mayfly or aught else, but rather delight in all that is pretty and ephemeral: flowers, butterflies, robin’s eggs, and the like. They have no use or comprehension of the greater, eternal things but are like a brook’s laugh or a dancing little wind in their seriousness and wisdom. The danger lies in the fact that Time and Death mean nothing to them. Your sister, if she is not careful, may get so caught up in their whimsical nonsense that she forgets such things herself and by the time she remembers them, may find herself a very old lady with naught of life left to her. It is a tricky thing when mortals think to involve themselves in matters beyond their ken and natural sphere. Your kind is made for eternity, but must enter it through the proper door, not try to sneak in the window.

The boy was silent for a long while as he contemplated the little man’s words, and finally said, can I draw her back?

The man nodded, aye lad, if she will come, but she may be so entranced with the merriment and giddiness of her companions that she will yearn to stay. If she will not go of her own will, no power on earth or beyond it will move her. Take heed to yourself, that you not find yourself also caught up in things beyond your natural sphere. Someday perhaps, such or rather far greater shall be your lot, but do not be tempted into seizing it ere it is time for only trouble will come of it. The boy heartily thanked the old man and hastened in the direction he was bidden. The dwarf watched after and wondered what would come of the lad and his sister, silently shaking his head at the recklessness and abandon of those silly pixies and the inadvertent havoc it could wreak upon a mortal creature.

Tibbin had not gone far when he spied a rather curious creature crouching in the shade of a great oak. It appeared to be a lad his own age, but his full height would only reach his father’s knee; he was light of build, eye, and hair and his ears were slightly tapered. He winked at the staring boy, motioned eagerly for the lad to follow, and vanished into the hedge of roses at the base of the tree. Tibbin took two happy steps after the fairy creature but then froze, his quest was his sister, not to be caught up in a fate like unto hers. He sighed heavily but turned staunchly back upon his original path and intent. The little creature watched after, for a moment a little disappointed, but then some other amusement soon caught his fancy and his lost companion was immediately forgotten.

By the time the sun was on its downward journey, Tibbin had come to the little meadow wherein the dwarf said his sister and her merry companions might be found on occasion. He settled down in a thicket of young birches to await their coming. Neither was the wait to be tedious, dull, or lonely. The world, in itself, was young, spry, pleasant, and full of the wonders of spring, and those hills were haunted by all manner of folk and creature unknown to the children of men, and in this varied parade, Tibbin found endless marvel and interest. Most ignored him, some were openly scornful, but a few asked him to follow in their merry wake, but ever he sat and awaited the coming of Beatrice and her fairy companions. So did he wait for three full days, eating from his scant provisions and refreshing himself in the ever singing brook by which he sat, finally on a night of mist and moon and starlight, five bright figures came laughing and dancing into the water meadow, Beatrice as radiant and blithe as her companions.

Tibbin rose from his place with a joyous shout and for a moment the pixies quivered like frightened birds, but soon they arrayed themselves about him in a merry dance of welcome and curiosity. Beatrice at first did not know him, but as his song joined in their lilting chorus, his beloved voice broke the thrall about her and she joyously left her place in the circle and flew into her brother’s arms with tears of unspeakable longing and delight. The piping and cavorting of the fairies increased tenfold at such mirth and delightedly did they share therein, but soon they tired of the newcomer and were rather perplexed and no little troubled by the strange sobbing that now wracked their once gay companion. For nothing did they know of sorrow or death. With a merry call, did they bid Beatrice to flit off with them anew, careless once more, but she smiled sadly, wiped a mysterious moisture from her eyes and cheek, and shook her head adamantly. The pixies shrugged indifferently and capered off into the creeping mist to join the dance of the fireflies, their companion utterly forgotten. Beatrice shook her head ruefully, took Tibbin’s hand, and returned to his place amongst the birches. They slept soundly until roused by the zealous chorus of a spring morning. Hand in hand, they left that lovely meadow and turned their steps and hearts longingly towards home.

They met the little man, still sitting on his accustomed stone and smoking his pipe, perhaps as he had done since the first morning of the world. He smiled joyously at them, waved enthusiastically, and then vanished. They shared a mystified smile and continued on their way. They might have slept another night in the bush but knew their parents were mourning their presumed fate and were eager to turn their weeping to joy. So it was that joy came with the morning. Their father stood aback the house, staring morbidly off into the hills, grey in the mist, and thought himself in a delirium when he glimpsed his lost children walking blithely back from the land of things forgotten and unknown. He trumpeted his wonder and joy so loudly that the entire village was roused. His wife came disbelieving from the house, took one look at what had so disquieted her husband, and added her own shriek of pure joy to the cacophony of laughing welcome and wonder.

The grim eyed, fretful villagers gathered round the happy little foursome and muttered darkly about curses, possession, and worse. A few even clutched a kitchen knife, pitchfork, or wood axe in nervous dread. The now grave father stood forth and asked of his disturbed folk, my children have returned unscathed, why do you not rejoice?

Said one distrustful old man, who are you to say they are unscathed? Who knows what terrible curse might have been laid upon them? None venture into those hills and returns unchanged, if they return at all. They are a threat and a danger to us all as long as they remain among us. Send them back or send them away lest evil befall us all, else we will take matters into our own hands.

The man shook his head in grim disgust, but before he could reply to this nonsense, Tibbin took his hand, looked gently into his eyes, and said with a wisdom far beyond his years, heed him not father, he knows not of what he speaks and no words of yours will change his mind. Unchanged indeed! The man smiled down at this young sage, caught the eyes of all his dear ones, and then looked once more upon those mysterious hills.

A brilliant flicker of gold and white upon a far hill, like a distant star, filled all his vision and called bewitchingly to his very soul. Said Tibbin with tremulous, but joyous finality, come, come away! He took his father’s hand, his mother and sister joined theirs also, and the entire family boldly made for that distant vision, the flummoxed villagers parting before them like water around the bow of a boat. They vanished into those wondrous hills and were seen in that village no more. Many and dark were the rumors of the witchery that had taken an entire family and the grim fate that had undoubtedly befallen them, but I can assure you, they were all of them wrong.

The bridge will only take you halfway there,

to those mysterious lands you long to see.

Through gypsy camps and swirling Arab fair,

and moonlit woods where unicorns run free.

So come and walk awhile with me and share

the twisting trails and wondrous worlds I've known.

But this bridge will only take you halfway there.

The last few steps you have to take alone.

~’The Bridge,’ Shel Silverstein~

Here There Be Dragons

‘Here There Be Dragons,’ read the sign, but no one who was not standing right in front of it and looking directly at it would notice, for it was small, faded with age, and mostly obscured by an exuberant growth of wisteria which was far more attractive and would almost certainly draw one’s attention away from the forgotten wooden sign. The girl glanced quickly from side to side, but no one seemed to be paying any particular attention to her, as usual, and then darted into the curious little shop adjacent to the sign. A little bell tinkled overhead as she disturbed the dusty gloom within, her eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light, wondering what she would find in such an enigmatical place, the proprietor would be a gnome no doubt or perhaps they’d sell her a veritable key to fairyland.

It could have been a bookshop or perhaps an antique store, for the innumerable shelves were lined with old and curious objects and leather-bound tomes beyond count. A grey tabby cat blinked at her like an owl from a shelf far overhead, as if he were the master of the place and all others merely his servants or patrons. She smiled impishly, bobbed a proper curtsy to the true master of the shop, and giggled like an overly amused pixie, only to gasp in surprise as she turned and found the gnome, or rather a man so bent and wrinkled that he could well pass for one. A smile both warm and curious graced his aged face as he said, well met, lass. How may I be of service to you?

Immediately at ease with this genial old man, said she, I saw your sign and had to come in.

Ah! said he with a chuckle, Few are they that ever have eyes to see my humble signage. Pray tell, how is it you are not too busy or preoccupied or important to notice?

She laughed like mirth itself, why sir, I am Nobody in Particular and therefore always have time and eyes to see just such curious sights. The world is so full of wonders that a lifetime is not enough to glimpse a fraction of them, yet most people find themselves bored silly if not busy with some task or other or diverted by some electronic device.

You are a strange lass for this day and age, said the man with a secret smile.

Quite, said the girl with a sigh, I have often wondered if I wasn’t born in the wrong century.

Where and when you are born are no mistake lass, whatever your preferences to the contrary, said he with a mysterious smile.

Her eyes narrowed, how is it you can so boldly proclaim that I am not a mistake, sir? You neither know me nor aught of my life. It isn’t as if life is some grand story and each of us are characters, vital to the plot.

But in that you are happily wrong, lass, said he, his enigmatic smile deepening, life is a story and you have your own part in it.

But how can that be? said she with a sigh, my life thus far has been so drab and dull and pointless, what kind of a story is that?

He chuckled, a proper beginning, me thinks. He motioned towards the books surrounding them, I take it you are a connoisseur of stories? Perhaps fairytales in particular?

She cocked her head at him, a curious smile on her face, perhaps you know me after all, sir. Do not the best of tales begin in an ordinary place and time, nay a setting so dull and familiar the reader might well drop the book in dismay did he not know a surprise waited a few pages over. What then is the plot twist, sir? Show me your dragons, if you will!

Dragons indeed, said the man with a laugh, legend holds that ancient maps were adorned with just such a proscription, though there is little enough evidence of that. It is a catchy phrase regardless, however and one does wonder if the world were not a better place ere it was round.

I’ve always wanted to sail a ship right off the edge of the map, said she with dancing eyes.

Off the map?! said he with a laugh, Ah, no lass, this adventure will take you right off the page, out of the very book in which we currently find ourselves and into a library so vast, eternity itself would not be long enough to peruse its contents. Your vision is far too small.

Well, said she, intrigued, I am always happy to expand my horizons. Tell me this tale too large to fit properly in a book.

Aye lass, said he with a smile, that I will, but you are correct, for that tale is so grand that ‘were every one of them to be written, I suppose that the world itself could not contain the books that would be written.’ Now let me see... he trailed off, mumbling to himself as he fetched a ladder from the shadowy recesses of the little shop and climbed upon it, looking for a certain volume. She and the cat watched him curiously as he rummaged, a strange eagerness growing in her breast. At last he descended, a dusty, dog-eared volume bound in leather with flaking gold leaf, in hand. He flipped it open, pointed to a passage and said, what do you think of that, lass?

She squinted at the words for a moment as she tried to read in the dim light but began, aloud, and the great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world—he was thrown down to the earth, she paused, looking up in perplexity at her companion, who only smiled like an imp and urged her to continue reading further on in the passage, whispered she, therefore, rejoice, O heavens and you who dwell in them! But woe to you, O earth and sea, for the devil has come down to you in great wrath, because he knows that his time is short!

She looked up from her reading, an unspoken question in her eyes, the old man’s smile deepened and his eyes seemed to sparkle in the ambient gloom, what is it lass? I thought you believed in fairy tales, for that is the grandest one ever told, at least to the knowledge of mortal men.

She smiled ruefully, I did say that, didn’t I? I had just hoped, well, I guess I thought your dragons were maybe, well, not evil, that’s all.

Ah, said he with a laugh, not quite what I thought you’d take amiss about that particular passage, but what should I expect from a generation weaned on animated tales of varicolored dragons whose main personality trait can be summed up with the word ‘fun.’ Yet what do the old tales say, those written before zombies and vampires and werewolves became creatures to be emulated and admired? Back in the ancient days when a girl yet dreamed of falling for a Prince rather than the undead.

She smiled at her own shortsightedness, Sir George rides out to slay the dragon, as does Beowulf. The ancient wyrms were evil embodied: greed, cruelty, and viciousness in corporeal form. She laughed merrily at her own deception, but it was so romantic to think of dragons as wise, benevolent creatures, impatient to carry a human upon their back for some unfathomable reason.

The man joined her mirth, for there are so many counted wise among men who are equally zealous to do just that! Professors line up just for the honor of giving piggyback rides to their pupils. They were both lost to the incongruity for some minutes thereafter and unable to maintain either a straight face or a conversation. At last he continued, now don’t get me wrong lass, there is nothing wrong with those sorts of stories, dragons being mythical creatures, can be reimagined in any number of ways and the result can be quite splendid, but it is this modern trend of taking what once was considered evil or bad or wicked and making it over into something else altogether. Since when are the villains now the heroes and vice versa? ‘Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness, who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter!’ Such is sadly the nature of the age, lass.

Said she thoughtfully, now that you mention it, anything of modern origin seems to get it rather backwards: Dracula was never the hero, but a monstrosity to be destroyed, yet the popular novels now envision vampires as the boyfriend of choice. It is rather strange at that! She glanced again at the old book and said with a frown, in this the dragon is called the deceiver of the whole world! She shook her head adamantly, but the fairy tales can’t be true, not really?

He smiled slightly and said, some of them lass, for at their heart, many of the best tales are simply retelling a part of that which has already been told.

She raised an eyebrow, so there is a dragon in this tale of ours, have we not a hero to slay such a beast? If this is a proper tale, as you insist.

Oh, there’s a hero alright, said he with a grin, a right and proper hero, with an ancient lineage and prophets foretelling his coming from the very foundations of the world, but first let us look at another old legend. We’ve met the dragon, enter the unicorn. He picked up another book, a relatively new production with colorful pages of various famous art pieces meant to be displayed prominently and consumed at leisure, warm beverage in hand.

She eyed him speculatively as he presented her with a certain page, said she in delight, the Unicorn Tapestries!

Aye lass, chuckled he, there is no young girl on the planet that those old weavings do not fail to delight or intrigue. Know you aught of them?

Not much, said she thoughtfully, only that they were discovered some years ago in an old barn wherein they had been used to cover crates or some such and were woven by person or persons unknown many hundreds of years ago. I know the meaning behind them is much debated, especially in academic circles.

Exactly, chuckled the old man, a perfect example of ‘your great learning has driven you mad,’ as it were. Only in modern universities can you find folk so learned they can look at the obvious and come up with a theory so outlandish it makes the strangest fairytale look sane by comparison.

I love the depiction of the unicorn in the garden, but the betrayal and murder of the poor creature are so sad, said she quietly.

Can you think of any tale equally tragic? asked he. She looked a question at him, knowing he would not leave her guessing long, and he did not disappoint, continued he, the tale that inspired these tapestries, at least as one now quite unpopular theory goes, is the very answer to our dragon and it truly happened, right here, in our very own tale.

She looked again at the majestic creature resting quietly in the garden, triumphant over death itself, sighed she, if only it could be true! Suddenly her mouth quirked in an ironic smile as she quoted,

‘the lion and the unicorn were fighting for the crown,

the lion beat the unicorn all around the town.

Some gave them white bread, some gave them brown,

some gave them plum cake and drummed them out of town.’

Is it not so, sir?

The ancient gnome chuckled appreciatively at her playful wit, but said quite seriously, nay lass, it is nothing of the sort. This is no fight for the crown of a mortal Kingdom but rather a war that spans all of space and time and the realms beyond, involving every soul in and beyond creation with eternal repercussions to all. The good news is that the Unicorn has already won, hence the Dragon’s wrath. The bad news is, we are living in the very midst of that war and that old serpent, full of wrath and fury, is prowling about even as we speak.

What is to be done? asked she in trepidation.

He smiled grimly, take up your sword and join the fight.

Deep the silence 'round us spreading

all through the night.

Dark the path that we are treading

all through the night.

Still the coming day discerning

by the hope within us burning.

To the dawn our footsteps turning

all through the night.

Star of faith the dark adorning

all through the night.

Leads us fearless t'wards the morning

all through the night.

Though our hearts be wrapt in sorrow,

from the hope of dawn we borrow

promise of a glad tomorrow

all through the night.

~‘All Through the Night,’ Traditional Lullaby~

A Sleeping Beauty: The Rest of the Story

Wake up, you sluggard! rang a strident voice at an hour at which even the earliest bird in the entire history of avian things had never considered waking. Prince Bryant blinked blearily awake and flinched to see a slight, spritely woman with a very impatient and quite determined look upon her face crouching beside his bed, washbasin in hand, but as she saw him stir, she relaxed significantly and sighed in relief, ah, that’s better then. She set the basin aside, still full of water, and addressed his groggy Highness, do you want to rescue a Princess, Sire? He blinked noncommittally at her, more out of bafflement than out of any reluctance on his part; that’s what Princes did, in those days at least. Seeing his perplexity, she plunged onward, I am sure you have heard of the tragedy that has befallen the only child of the King of the neighboring realm?

The boy nodded, coming more awake by the moment, who had not heard the tale? Had not every noble hearted lad who had heard the girl’s plight plotted how he might rescue the ensorcelled Princess? There was only the rather insignificant matter of the Hedge, as it had come to be called, the great thorny expanse of black roses, stinking of death, that had grown up around the palace wherein slept the enchanted maiden; it bore thorns long and sharp as daggers, the merest scratch of which would render the unfortunate hero as insensate as the Princess he intended to rescue, already a half dozen Princes, heroes, and noble sons of Bryant’s acquaintance slept ignominiously beneath the world’s unruliest hedgerow. There was no way to break through the Hedge and disenchant the Princess, along with all the castle’s inhabitants and her would be rescuers. Only the King and Queen had escaped, now bereft of their Kingdom and daughter, they were forced to wander the world as royal refugees, telling their grievous tale in any and every land that offered them succor, hoping someone, somewhere might break the spell.

It had begun, once upon a time, as all the great tales must, but not so long ago at that. The Queen had given up hope of ever having a child, but amidst her deepest grief, the unthinkable happened and a little girl was born. In an ecstasy of joy, the Kingdom celebrated as never before, even inviting the local fairies to partake in the festivities, a thing unheard of in the histories of mortal men, for who dared meddle in things so far beyond our ken? But meddle they did and at first, it seemed the blessings far surpassed the risks, for each merry lass of fairykind gifted the child with some wondrous trait or charm in her turn, but alas, came the Bane. Either out of oversight or intentionally, for none knew of a certain, this particular fairy had not received an invitation to the party of the century, and as her name suggests, she was neither of a genial nor forgiving nature.

The doors at the far end of the ballroom flew open of themselves, the candles guttered in the ensuing wind, and the enraged fairy burst upon the unwitting assemblage like a sudden storm on a fair summer’s day. She pushed aside one of her goody-goody cousins, the last waiting to bequeath her gift to the child, and stared down at the infant in her cradle and then glared at the King and Queen on their thrones, said she in tones dark and cruel, and here then is my gift upon this auspicious day. This child will grow into the fairest and sweetest of maidens, but at the peak of her beauty and charm, she will prick her finger upon a spindle and die. The assembled company drew a collective gasp of horror, as the wind gusted anew as the Bane vanished, extinguishing every candle in the cavernous room and plunging them all into impenetrable darkness, but a faint light flickered forth, a wan hope on the verge of utter night.

The sole remaining fairy, from whence the radiance came, took the hands of the