#fairies
Illustration by Ida Rentoul Outhwaite
Tragically, both of her sons died in action in World War II, and she did not publish again after the war ended, saying that “the war stopped the taste for fairies – in parents anyhow – and the fairies fled, appalled at the bomb”. (The Art of the Australian Fairy)
*this is not entirely true - she did publish again, just nothing about fairies. Pixies, yes. Guineapigs, sure. Fairies, no.
#art #illustration #watercolour #ink #Australia #fairies #fae
A short story from a few winters ago
Wassail
I should have known better than to accept the drink. It all began when I went for a walk in the woods that clear winter’s day. When I heard some rustling noises, I stepped off the path and peered through the bare bushes to see, well… a fairy party. They were talking, drinking, dancing around a small tree, ignoring the cold. I pushed through the dry branches, and was immediately spotted. I was welcomed. There was soft piping music, and I soon found myself dancing with them, among them, surrounded. When a steaming drinking horn was handed to me, I couldn’t refuse. The warm murky liquid smelled like mulled cider. I drank deeply, and immediately my limbs felt heavy and immovable as stone. I dropped to the ground and fell asleep, still smiling.
I woke up slowly, stiffly, surprised to find myself standing up. It was dark and the party had changed. I felt something warm and wet…
Wait.
A man was pissing on me.
What?
I tried to move, to shout, but couldn’t. Then a drunk woman staggered and vomited on my foot.
No, not foot, I…
Wait.
Someone was pouring something on me. It was blood, my blood. No…
Wait.
Roots, it was my roots the woman had…
Tree.
I was a tree, the apple tree in the clearing. But these were not fairies, they were…
Wassailers.
Humans wassailing, waking me up. Ribbons on my branches, urine and cider on my trunk and roots, drunk singing. It certainly woke me.
The days passed quickly; or maybe I was slow. I felt my roots, my dry branches, my sap pulled in from outer limbs in the cold. Then the days grew longer until spring came, and I reached out, growing leaves, then flowers. Sap rising. People and animals came and went from the clearing. No fairies though. Summer filled me with life, and I formed fruit. Sunlight, warmth, soft showers, a lovely season. The sun peaked and the days slowly shortened. I pushed life into the fruit and it grew and ripened, was picked by hands and pecked by beaks. Autumn saw the last fruit ripen, fall, rot, as strong winds tugged me. After the last apple, I dropped some small branches too. As winter began, I pulled life inward, and slowed once more. The dark and cold saw the clearing mostly empty, and I nodded off one frosty night.
I woke up again, it was quiet, clear and dry, but cold, the sun low in the sky. I stretched and…
Wait.
I had arms and legs.
Eyes and ears.
I’m Human.
I stood up slowly, and looked around. It was late afternoon, I was alone in the clearing. Had I slept for an hour or a year? Best get out of the woods before dark, worry about the strange dreams later. I took one step and kicked something. I looked down – it was a drinking horn. A slight smell of apple and spice lingered in the air.
#wassail #wassailing #winter #pagan #fairies #writing #stories
Richard Doyle (1824-1883), "Dreams of fairies and mythical creatures" [+]
This leaf is from one of Richard Doyle's nonsense sketchbooks. There are three recorded similar nonsense sketchbooks which were sold after his death: there are now in the Victoria and Albert Museum. Another eight leaves are known, now in an institutional collection, which are similar to this present sheet and all are watermarked 1843.
#RichardDoyle #drawing #fairies #art
