Faery Tale by Signe Pike Page B

hard.
    I must have sat there on the side of the road for ten minutes as the cars whizzed by, just thinking about life, and my father, and what a good driver he used to be, before he had trouble driving, and faeries, and wondering why, if I had come all this way, the freaking faeries couldn’t just flit out from behind a tree or something and take care of this whole driving thing. Meet me halfway here, faery folk. Finally, I took a deep breath, and gathering every ounce of courage within me, I waited for a break in the traffic and swung the car around.
    Chagford, here I come. Just please let me make it there in one piece.
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    British people drive fast, very fast. Of course, I wasn’t expecting this. After all, the Brits are such an incredibly buttoned-up and well-mannered folk. But their blinding fury of flashing lights, horn leaning, and zooming past me at nearly one hundred miles per hour sent me a helpful message about the rules of the road, and after a few close calls I was getting the hang of things.
    Before I knew it my lovely electronic navigator was announcing, “Please take the next exit, off the motorway. Take the exit, now.”
    The scenery had surely sprung from the pages of a picture book. As I wound my way toward Chagford, I could hardly believe my eyes. The verdant green fields were dotted with butter-colored wildflowers, and tall, ancient oaks towered, casting shadows on the asphalt in the late afternoon sun. The road slimmed, as if to be less intrusive, from two lanes down into one. Now high boxwood hedges and stone walls lined the narrow lane, and when a sign for the village led me to the town center, I delighted in seeing a beautiful old church, a stone-walled graveyard, a dairy shop, cheery pubs, and a few small shops.
    Finally arrived, I parked and lifted the heavy iron knocker on the door marked “Cyprian’s Cot” and was met by the proprietress, Shelagh Weeden, who instructed me to wait in the back garden for tea after I got settled in my room. My home for the next few days was perched at the top of a narrow flight of stairs where two twin beds with flowered comforters were nestled between two large windows and a sloping roof. I had my own private bathroom with an electric shower, small sink, and toilet. It was simple, clean, perfect. Downstairs I stepped over the terrier gate propped up in the hallway, through a small covered courtyard, and out an open door to the back garden.
    â€œYou’ve got to be kidding me,” I murmured. Before me was a series of gentle hills that rolled into the distance as far as the eye could see. Beyond Shelagh’s fence more than fifty sheep were grazing, and I could hear the long, plaintive calls of a lamb, his mother drifting too far in her search for tender spring nibbles.
    The sun warmed me, but there was a soft breeze blowing the flowers about on their stalks in Shelagh’s garden, tumbling swaths of purple, pink, white, and green. I moved toward a picnic table and sat, as Shelagh’s two terriers, Nutmeg and Spice, wiggled their Tootsie Roll bodies around my legs. Every stress, every doubt, every minor trial and tribulation from the day melted away as I sat and stared out into the beautiful countryside of Devon. A shuffle of feet announced Shelagh, who came bearing a tray of hot tea and freshly baked brownies. I gave her a grateful smile—I couldn’t imagine a more beautiful place to begin.
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    That night after dinner at the pub, two patrons perched at the bar asked me what brought me to Chagford.
    As I sat talking with Ed and his friend Jo, both locals, I told them about the book. Ed looked amused; Jo looked somewhat consternated.
    â€œIf you’re interested in faeries,” she began, “have you been out to the stone circle in Scorhill?” Of course I hadn’t. I’d been hoping to see a circle or two in England because they fascinated me, though I had to admit that despite my love of history,