Are you too old for faerie tales? Then you are lost—for Samhain is upon us. The light is fading, and the ancient Guardian Trees sleep. Their slumber allows the walls between the worlds to grow thin. Those twice-blessed—for what is sight but a blessing?—can see the shadows seeping through, feel the frost in their cloaks. We smell the mold of the grave on their breath.

Now, hope and truth must be bound up in words and held like a candle against the dark. Listen: if your heart is young enough to hear the truth in faerie tales, I’ll weave you one to keep you until the sun returns. Until the trees wake and whisper their prayers once again.

Long ago, when dragons slept beneath the hills and faerie folk ruled in woodland and glen, there lived two children in the East country in the shadow of the Great Oak Forest. Loveleaves was as dusky as the dawn; but her brother Woodwender was laughing and fair. The children’s mother was dead but their father, a poor woodcutter, loved them well.

The woodcutter would not allow his children to follow him into the forest for it was dark and drear, but every night when he came home they knew they would find a present—robin’s eggs, or a shy baby rabbit—hidden in his pocket.
One day the woodcutter brought home three pieces of wild honeycomb he’d found in a hollow log and set them on the table.

“We’ll have a sweet supper tonight my dears,” he said. But just as the porridge began to bubble the door flew open and a strange little man stepped inside.

“I’ve come for the honey you stole,” he said. “It belongs to the Forest King!”

The woodcutter pulled his children close. “Take it and begone,” he said.

“Is this all of it?” the wicked dwarf asked, snatching up the sweets.

“Yes,” the woodcutter said, “save one small drop I licked from my finger.” When the dwarf heard that a drop of honey was missing he flew into a rage and with a flash and a rumble he stole the woodcutter away.

The children waited a night and a day and a day and a night for their father’s return. When he did not come they set out to find him down paths where deadmen’s bells and goblin’s thimbles grew.

They had not gone far when they heard a merry tune, and following it they came upon a fiddler. He swayed to his music like a tree in the wind, but he did not dance, for his long brown toes dug into the earth, holding him down. The hair that hung to his waist was as green as new leaves on a willow and his face was long and glum.

“Good fiddler,” Woodwender asked, “How can your tune be so merry when your face is so sad?”

“I play a merry tune,” the Fiddler said, “to give my poor self courage. Many years ago as I was traveling these woods I happened to meet the Forest King. He asked me whither I went and why my step was lively. I told him I was off to fiddle and dance at a wedding. The Lady of the Wood was to marry my lord, a noble knight. The king smiled at my words, a terrible smile that made my kneecaps quiver.

“‘Stay, fiddler, ’” he said, “‘you may as well grow roots! There’ll be no such wedding, nor dancing, nor mirth, not as long as I walk to or fro upon the earth!’

“He must be walking to—or possibly fro, I know not which—but I know he walks, for from that day until this I have not taken a single step!” A tear rolled down the fiddler’s cheek. He brushed it away with his knobby hand and said, “Now children, why are you wandering this sad wood?”

When the children told him their story, he said, “Alas, I cannot help you. You must look for the Lady of the Wood. To find her you must walk down paths both dark and deep.”

The children thanked the fiddler and went on their way. Soon they saw that his words were true, for the trees leaned close about the path until even the sunlight grew dim and green. Spriggans snatched at their hair from branches overhead and Phookas blew icy breath on their necks, but Woodwender whistled the fiddler’s tune and they went on.

In the green forest twilight they came upon a doorway in the trunk of a mighty rowan tree and through the door they saw a lady stitching tiny pearls onto a veil. Ivy twined her long black hair and flowers hemmed her dress.

“Why do you stitch your veil alone?” Loveleaves asked. “Is there no one to help?”

“No one,” the lady said. “For I am the Lady of the Wood. The Forest King stole me when I was just a babe. I was to be his bride. For six years and ten this was my home and then by chance I met a young knight in the wood. We agreed to meet again, and soon we fell in love. My knight promised he would love me as long as his heart beat; I vowed I would wed him and no other. But on the day we were to wed he did not come to our meeting place. I waited all day and then came home to wait some more. To wait, and stitch my wedding veil. It was here that the Forest King found me.

“‘You must finish your veil, my love,’” he said. “‘The false-hearted knight has broken his promise, forgotten your vow, but I will make you a promise and never forget. I promise you will be my bride. And this will keep you safe until our wedding day.’”

“He gave my cheek a cold, cold kiss, and whispered in my ear, “‘Stitch and sew, sigh and weep, but in this hall each hour keep—until your veil is done.’”

“With those words he bound me. Only when the veil is finished will I be free to search for my love. Each day I stitch until my fingers ache. Each night the king’s wicked servants come and my work is all undone.” The Lady sighed and lay her stitching down. “But tell me children, why are you wandering this wood?”

 When the children told her their story, the Lady said, “Tonight when the servants of the king arrive we may hear news of your father. But you must hide, for it would not go well with you if you were found.”

As midnight crept through the forest and into the hall, she hid the children behind a tapestry. No sooner were they out of sight than in walked Jenny Greenteeth, who drowns travelers in bogs.

“Good-evening, Lady!” said Jenny Greenteeth. “Good-evening!” said the Lady. “What news of the deep pools and marshes?”

“Not much,” grumbled Jenny Greenteeth, “only the eels are growing very slippery—one can’t catch above three a day. And when will you marry the king?”

“When polliwogs weave and turtles sing,” the Lady said.

The great tree-hall soon filled with Bogies and Boggles and Goblins of every sort. Each one greeted the Lady and asked when she would wed the king, and when she said that she would not, they went about making mischief. The last to come was the very dwarf who had stolen the woodcutter away.

“Good-evening, Lady!” said the dwarf.

“Good evening, dwarf,” said the lady. “What news of the deep halls and the hills?”

“Not much,” said the dwarf, “only in a hundred years or so we shall need another name for Bald Top—the trees will be so thick.”

“How is that?” said the lady.

“Oh!” said the dwarf, “have you not heard? The king laid a spell on a woodcutter. Day and night he plants acorns on the hill. If the spell isn’t broken by Midsummer’s eve, the woodcutter will go on planting forever! And when will you marry the king?”

“Not today and never tomorrow,” the Lady said, and as she said it the first rays of dawn chased all the kings servants away.

Loveleaves wept to see the veil all tattered and torn by goblin fingers, but the Lady gave her a kiss and said, “Never mind. Go quickly, and let nothing stop you, for today is Midsummer’s morn. To find Bald Top you must travel paths that rip and tear.”

Loveleaves and Woodwender hurried away. They soon found that the Lady’s words were true, for the path was choked with briars that caught their sleeves and pockets; but remembering the Lady’s words, they pressed on. Their clothes were soon no more than beggar’s rags but as evening drew near they came to a hill where the oak trees grew thinner as they went up, like the hair on an old man’s head.

On the very top the children found their father planting acorns. They ran to him and covered his hands with kisses, but he neither looked at them nor spoke their names. He only dug and planted as if he were working in his sleep. When they had done all they could think to do to wake him from his dream, the children sat down beneath a thorn tree and began to cry.

“Children,” a strange voice said, “Why are you crying?” Looking up they saw a raven bound by golden chains. The thorns grew sore about it, piercing it wing and breast.

“Poor raven,” Woodwender said, “Who chained you in so cruel a place?”

“The Forest King bound me here,” the Raven said, “when these thorns were not so long. But it is not chains that hold me—only love. The moment I forswear my love, these chains will fall away; if I do not forswear it, this thorn will pierce my heart.

“For many years I have been silent, fearing that if I opened my mouth I would cry out and in my pain betray a promise. I feel the thorn’s bite upon my heart even now. My life is done; my fear is gone. I know at last that while this poor heart beats I will keep the promise I made to the Lady of the Wood.”

As the raven was speaking there came through the trees a king more handsome than any earthly man. He carried a wooden staff and his dwarf walked by his side.

“How now, children?” The king said. “Why are you wandering my wood?”

“We are the woodcutter’s children,” Woodwender said. “We have come to break the spell.”

“You come too late.” The king said. “The midsummer’s sun is setting. All hope is gone.”

“Liar,” the raven croaked. “Have I been silent so long that even you have forgotten me? I was here when you cast the spell. I heard how it could be broken; plant mortal blood in Faerie ground and there a rose will grow. The spell will break when the woodcutter looks upon the bloom.”

With a cry of rage the king struck the raven with his staff, shattering the chains and dashing the poor bird to the ground, but Loveleaves pulled a thorn from the tree and ran to her father. Pricking her thumb, she let the blood fall and up grew a bush. Even as the sun disappeared one blood-red blossom bloomed. The woodcutter blinked like a man newly awakened, then gathered his children in his arms.

“My dears,” he cried. “What are you doing in the wood? Why are you dressed in rags?” Before they could answer they heard a groan. Turning, they saw that where the raven had fallen there lay a knight. Emblazoned on his tabard was a raven in flight and as they watched he stood to face the king.

“Courage, faithfulness, and love have proven stronger than your magic,” the Raven Knight said. The Forest King trembled at his words, but the knight stood straight and tall. “Your spells, O King, have come undone!”

The dwarf screamed; the very stones beneath their feet shivered and began to crack and the Forest King fled into the darkness below. A horrible cry rang through the woods as the Bogies and Boggles, Phookas and Goblins all followed their king away. Then, with a snap and a crunch, the rocks shut up around them.

The Lady of the Wood and the Raven Knight were married the very next day. Everyone danced to the fiddler’s tune and the fiddler’s own steps were the merriest of all.

Loveleaves and Woodwender went happily back to the cottage with their father, but every Midsummer’s morn they ran down paths where primroses and lady's slippers grew to visit the Lady and her Raven Knight in the deep green heart of the forest.