You Let Me In - Camilla Bruce Page 0,41
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Dr. Martin came to visit sometimes, drank iced tea in the garden. I remember him complimenting me on my “radiant health” and admiring my “harmonious lifestyle.”
“So close to nature,” he would say, glancing at the surrounding woods with a hint of suspicion.
The closeness to the woods was important, of course, when we chose where we would live. Easy access to the mound and Mara was number one on my list. Otherwise, we decided to keep a faerie-free environment, nothing unusual for our neighbors to see; no overgrown lawn or crowns of twigs, no faerie tea jars on display.
On the surface, everything was clean and untangled, fitting right in with the world around us. In our bedroom, however, or where no one cared to look, in closets and drawers, the nooks and crannies, nature burst forth: green leaves sprouted and moss lined the walls. Spider sisters spun sheets of silk around our bed, toadstools grew in our basement, and in the garden lived a tribe of frogs. That’s what it’s like being married to a faerie; the woods are never far off. Sometimes you have to pluck rowan leaves and hawthorn berries out of your laundry; throw out gallons of curdled milk; nap the fresh sprouts of buttercups or daisies from the sink. There is always debris; leaves and pieces of bark and twigs. Seeds and pollen. Dead things on the windowsills.
Visitors never saw that, though. They only saw our clean and spacious rooms; the cozy blue couch, the white tiles in the bathroom, the dining room set of oak with eight chairs. Barnaby’s locksmith and hardware business was a good trade for a young husband like mine; the money allowed me to stay at home with my typewriter and my tea. I didn’t write to sell yet, mind you, it was only for me and my Pepper-Man to see. My stories back then were just drafts of what was to come; rough coal sketches to the oil paintings I would make later, filling in the blanks with color and emotions. I never wrote about faeries, though. Never wrote about strange creatures living all around us, in the rustle you hear behind you on the street or the draft of icy wind that passes through your living room. No, instead I wrote about sinful seductions, indulgent romance and pi?a coladas, office intrigues and family dramas. That’s what I found in the faerie tea: stories about normal people, about lives I’d never live.
That was exotic to me, you see, human lives without faerie implications. Was exotic to them as well, human lives untainted by death and rebirth—so that’s what’s captured in those jars: stories rife with flavors, scents, feelings, and trivial worries.
Dr. Martin tried a cup once, after we’d discussed them at length. He’d suggested that the faerie tea was nothing but alcohol, and that the leaves and the flowers, the stones and the pieces of bark in the jars, were nothing but various forms of pills. Clearly he thought I was drinking my days away, dissolving pills in vodka and gin. I was horribly offended, of course, and sought to prove him wrong.
It was a lush autumn afternoon, just after my trial.
He was sitting on the porch at the brown house where I had returned to live after my acquittal.
“Tastes like grass and water.” He smacked his lips. “What did you say it was? An acorn and a leaf?”
I nodded.
“Now what then? I go home and dream?”
“No. You just go about your day. The story will come to you; unfold like a flower, subtly—deep inside.”
He claimed it didn’t work, but of course it did. It became Away with the Fairies: A Study in Trauma-Induced Psychosis. I guess it worked a little different on him, being unused to the faerie side of things.
* * *
If I have one regret from our time at the brown house, it’s that we didn’t allow Mara to come inside. Thinking back, it seems harsh, though she never seemed to mind; she was as happy as before whenever I came to visit. This house is different, though, even closer to the mound so she can come and go as she pleases—that is why I bought it in the first place. It was run down and neglected when I got it for nothing, the strip of road was overgrown. But I saw potential here. Saw the lilac beauty it could be.
I had to move, you see. When that wave of curious horror following the trial and