Three days.

      I hope you’re satisfied.

      I’m not sure that I’ve learned anything but how empty one can be when one’s life is taken away. I don’t think that’s all I am meant to learn, for I haven’t found the Piper again yet. I’d like to think he lied, and he’ll never give back what he took from me, even if I learn what he expects me to learn. But I know such thinking is not true.

      These last three days, I have wandered aimlessly over the land of the Wild Faerie, seeing nothing and thinking little. I know I will find nothing this way, but I cannot seem to help the apathy that has taken over me. Why bother? it whispers, late at night when I cannot sleep. What good will it do? Why does it matter? I know that these questions are merely my own foolish doubts, but somehow, they seem to be much more than that. Ah, when tested, why am I such a weak-spirited creature?

      At last, on the fourth day, I stop letting my doubts lead me, giving that task to my feet instead. I walk alone and silent all day, passing through the old and musty forests, moving alongside rushing rivers, resting in sun-drenched clearings or beside hidden springs. It is beautiful, this land I live in, I realize, perhaps for the first time. It is a good place to live: fair and free, as wild as the folk who inhabit it. This is a precious place, and, with mild surprise, I realize that, at last, I think of it as my home.

      At dusk, I reach the border, where the lands of the Seelie and Wild Faerie meet. For a long time, I stand on my side of that border, seeing the me of four years ago as she hesitates to cross, s she realizes that crossing that unseen line will mean freedom from the person who stole her from her home. I watch that young girl square her shoulders, take a deep breath, and, with the faintest of smiles hovering around her lips, she steps over that boundary and into a new life.

      It is a shock, now to recognize how naïve and hopeful I was then. Where did that girl go? I wonder, but for a moment only. Taking a deep breathe and pushing down my fears, I step over that invisible line, into a past that has become the present.

      Standing on Seelie land feels no different from standing on Wild Faerie land. I don’t know why I had the childish expectation that it would. Perhaps because I have dreaded ever returning here, dreaded meeting her on her land. And it is a fearful thing to return to a past that one loathes; every memory is detested for the pain it brings; every sight, every sound brings a darkness to the heart. And so I have feared coming here; perhaps my desperation has overridden my anxiety.

      It is night, and although I am safe from such terrors as the sluagh, the restless dead, while on Seelie ground, it is wise to find a place to stay, for there will be little tolerance for a strayed Wild Fae caught wandering on Seelie land at night. I will not go to her, that much I know, and so I set out for the dwelling of the only Seelie friend I ever had, praying that he still does dwell there.

      He does. Or at least, wood smoke wisps from a chimney that juts out from the side of the hill in which the home is built, and a light shines through the windows. With apprehension and hope, I move toward the concealed wooden door and timidly knock. I wait for some time, so long that I fear I was mistaken, but at last, the door swings inward and a voice is heard.

      “Who is it?” it demands irritably, and I sigh with relief upon hearing that familiar voice. All might be well. Might.

      “Arin Lee,” I answer, then pause. He never knew me by that name. “Um. You knew me as Maviel, four years ago. . .” I nervously trail off, suddenly wondering if it was a mistake to come to this house, to come to Seelie land.

      “Maviel?” He seems almost shocked, and, as the door opens wider, I see at last the face of Scathelocke, my old teacher. He looks the same, of course; the Faerie age slower than any mortal ever has. A shock of dark hair, streaked here and there with silver, sharp features and deep-set dark eyes, canted ears. . . I know now that I have missed seeing this face. “Maviel. I would not have expected you to turn up at my door after running away four years ago.” Those dark eyes look over me sharply, and I worriedly tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “You will tell me later, yes? I assume you want to come in.” The door opens all the way, and he stands aside to let me in.

      The place is much as I remember it to be from the years when I came here for lessons. Those lessons were my only happy times while I lived amongst the Seelie. I find it comforting to be in this place again, this warm, secure place, where thoughts of her rarely cast their dreary shadows over my mind.

      Scathelocke leads me to a small sitting room, a familiar place. The wood and fabric of the chairs is comfortably worn with years upon years of use; the soft, pale browns are touched with gold by the fire in the small hearth, giving the room a feel of pleasant safety.

      He watches me as I sit cautiously on the edge of one of the chairs, then takes a seat for himself. “I suppose that now you will tell me why, after four years of silence, you come knocking at my door with not a word of warning, wearing apprentice greys and without Westlin at your side? Or must I drag the tale out of you?”

      I blush with a bit of shame at that, and look down at the rough weave of the grey trousers and shirt that I now wear. “I. . . I needed somewhere to stay, before. . .” I trail off, unwilling to say before going on to see her. “Before I move on. So much has happened. . . you see. . .” I cannot hold back the truth of what has happened, not from him, and before I can no longer hold back the tears, I relate it all to him in a rush.

      Once I have finished, he sits silently for some time, contemplating my story. The soft snaps of the fire are the only sounds in the room; even the breeze outside has died away. I tug lightly at a loose thread in the hem of my shirt, trying to guess at his thoughts, a difficult task due to that unreadable face. Horror? Surprise? Did he expect this? Did anyone expect this? Anyone at all?

      At last, he sighs and runs a lean hand through his hair. Looking into the fire, he says quietly, “I did not think such a thing would ever happen to you. But I am not surprised that it did.” He turns his sharp, dark eyes upon me. “A gift is a heavy burden, isn’t it?” He looks back to the fire as I consider what to say.

      “Often it seems more a curse than a gift; I do know that I treasured it even as I chafed at the restrictions it imposed.” I release a sigh of my own, my gaze fixed upon the floor. “I miss it more than I ever thought I would, so much I almost question the necessity of its loss. But,” and I shrug wearily, “something will come of this. I think. I hope.” Words desert me then, and I move my eyes to my hands, folded in my lap. A musician’s hands, both Father and Scathelocke told me. Small hands with slender fingers. Hands full of life and music, I tell myself. Music? an inner voice mocks. Now?

      Scathelocke has been silent so long, lost in preoccupation, and myself lost in my own doubts, that for a moment I forget my location and companion completely. When he draws in a tired breath, I start nervously, then settle back down into my chair. “You should stay the night here, I suppose,” he says, in an absent way that suggests his thoughts are still wandering. “I’m sure you’ll be visiting your father. Will you visit your mother, too?”

      The breath rushes out of me as his words strike a blow to my frightened heart. “She was never my mother,” I reply shortly. My hands tighten around one another until my fingers ache.

      He glances at me sharply. “She birthed you,” comes his reminder.

      “And that is all she ever did for me.” My fearful anger flees, leaving me tired drained in the spirit. “I. . . I am weary. Forgive me.”

      He nods, knowing that my sharpness comes from more than exhaustion. “And that means you’d like to take up that offer of a place to stay, hm? Come, then.” I follow him as he rises and moves down the hall, then opening a door into a small room, furnished in warm, polished wood. It looks as though it hasn’t been used in years. “You can stay here, as long as you need to.” A troubled expression crosses his face. “You must not be afraid of living without your gift, Ma-” he catches himself. “Arin Lee. And you must not be afraid of your past, either.” After a moment, I nod.

      “I’ll try.” Though it will be hard, harder than anything I have done before.

      “Good.” He sighs, and exits the room. And it is a long time before I can fall asleep.

      My sleep is restless tonight, troubled by dreams and periods of anxious thought. Not long before dawn, I at last fall into an untroubled sleep.

      I awaken with a start and a gasp, as though from a nightmare, yet I cannot recall what it was I dreamed. Several minutes pass before I can remember where I am, and then I sigh wearily. “I can’t do this,” I tell the ceiling. “I can’t. I’m not as strong as I should be.” Tears burn in my eyes, but I blink them back fiercely. Arin Lee does not cry. Does she? I shake off the doubt and rise, looking at my clothes, wrinkled from having been slept in, with dismay. “Yes, Arin Lee, your father and all who see you will be quite certain you can take care of yourself.,” I murmur disparagingly. Taking a comb from my pouch, which I left on the table last night, I unbraid my hair and untangle it; but when I go to rebraid it, I stop, suddenly, looking at my face in the looking glass, my hair loose around my shoulders. That braid is of Arin Lee, Maviel, and perhaps a thing so little as unbraided hair can help me find me more swiftly.

      Apprehensive as to what the day may bring, yet hopeful at the same time, I leave the little room, finding Scathelocke in the nook that serves as his kitchen: a tiny wood-stove and a set of cupboards tucked into a corner. He looks up as I enter, regarding me sharply; I’ve no doubt he sees my unease, and the weariness of a near-sleepless night, but he simply nods a welcome. “Good day.” With a faint smile, he adds, “I was beginning to wonder if dread held you captive in your room. It’s almost noon.”

      I blink, surprised, for I had not realized how late it was. “Oh. No. I. . . did not sleep well,” I reply, taking the seat he indicates, joining him at the table.

      He pushes a mug of tea toward me, giving me another of those considering looks. “It’s cooled a bit, I’m sorry to say,” he remarks, then adds abruptly, in the same light tone, “You need not fear your mother or your past so much, Arin Lee.” I stiffen, hands wrapped around the mug, clinging to it as though it is my only lifeline to safety in this mad mess. And Scathelocke notices; swiftly, he changes topic again. “I have wondered, today, if it is your. . . unique. . . heritage, as well as your difficult past, that has affected you so.” I nod stiffly, requesting him to continue. “To have a soul that is both of human and Faerie worlds. . . It cannot be easy. Conflicting passions, beliefs, desires. . . you see?”

      I mull it over, looking into my mug, and, at last, nod slowly. “I had not thought of that, but,” and I sigh, “it could very well be true. Or it could be another reason why I cannot seem to find me.” Once said, that seems to sound rather foolish. But he could be right. . .

      I say no more, and Scathelocke watches me for a moment longer before he rises abruptly, pushing his chair back. At the sound of its legs scraping against the floor, I start and look up sharply before easing back into my chair. He smiles with faint amusement and says, “I must be off, for now. I’ll be back by sunset, perhaps before. I expect you’ll be doing some visiting, yes?” His words are more than lightly hinting.

      I nod, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Oh, certainly. I’m feeling most social today,” I reply, with a lightness in my tone that I do not feel. “Simply must decide where to go first.” I lose my bantering tone and rest my head in my hands. Deciding what to do next, where to go, is like trying to see through muddy water. No matter how hard I try, I cannot do it. “Remind me that hardship is good for the soul, would you?”

      I hear him walk around the table, and the silence as he pauses behind me. His hands rest gently, soothingly on my shoulders, and he murmurs, “Ghosts can frighten you, Arin Lee, but you must remember they are insubstantial. Look past your fear and realize they cannot truly harm you.” With that, he turns and leaves the room, several moments later, I hear the door close behind him.

      I wonder if he is right, if what I fear is as intangible as phantoms and mere memories of pain. If they cannot hurt me. . . I recall the Piper, and wonder, But can they teach me, if they cannot touch me? And in my head, I can hear Scathelocke retort, You won’t know unless you try.

      And I know that I must try, if I wish to reconcile my faerie and human blood, if I wish to learn what I must learn to regain my gift. But without the armor of my music to hide in, I am so terribly afraid of continuing. This road. . . this rope that I am walking, it frightens me. . . I cannot see my way. I am blinded by my fears.

      And yet, I shall journey on.

Continue to Part III

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