Fabledom of Fae-wrought Stone, Part 1,

by J. W. Cassandra

The story entitled "Fabledom of Fae-wrought Stone" emerges from the mists of time and from Bluebell Pixie's enchanting bag. I will publish this story in episodes, as a grand lore needs time to unfold.

About the translation:

Why "Fae", not simply "Fairy"?

In doing the translation, I try to reproduce the whole story as perfectly as possible in English.

For this reason, I delved into British folklore. The "fairy" of modern tales is often too delicate for the powerful, magical beings of Hungarian folklore. Thus, I chose the word Fae—derived from the Latin fata (fate). This name preserves the mystique that surrounds the enchanted stones, as well.

Why the "enchant"?

While I initially used the words spellbound and bewitching, I ultimately chose enchanted and enchanting to describe the stone of the Fae. These words stem from the Latin incantare— to consecrate via rune or lay, freely: to cast a spell through song. Since the Fae weave their magic through melody and dance in my tale, this term perfectly captures the musical soul of the lore. Moreover, the fairies, namely the Fae in my story, are ethereal, primordial, and majestic beings, with creating might or power. Thus, they are supernatural and immortal, as well. (In Hungarian, everybody knows these shades of meaning.)

What is the first part about?

Bluebell Pixie, on her endless wanderings, chances upon a Fae-wrought stone. The stone plays a cunning trick on her before she reaches the far bank of the river. Not even the Pixie herself but the wreathing smoke of chimneys of the riverside village watches the unfolding tale agape, for its magic is truly boundless...

Follow the journey here and find the accompanying illustrations also in my Facebook and Instagram accounts.

Enjoy the lore.

Bluebell Pixie wandered and wandered on her never-ending wanderings. The enchanting bag beat her shoulder rhythmically, as she skipped on nimble feet and walked, whistling merrily, perhaps not even knowing where her path might lead.

As she was wandering, she suddenly glimpsed a mountain peak in the distance.

"This mountain is mischievous," Bluebell Pixie thought, rubbing her eyes thoroughly, "for this plain lay flat before, there was no sign of a protrusion, let alone a mountain!"

However, she walked on, but now taking her way straight to the mountain. She had already clambered up to the mountainside's waist when she grew weary and cast a glance around. The peak still waited high above her head—so high she could scarcely imagine how to scale it, though all her life she had conquered summits and trodden the edges of precipices and ravines. As she pondered what to do, a playful breeze caught the enchanting bag and began to heave it. Then Bluebell Pixie gave it a playful punch and grabbed its cord to shield it from the gust. At this, however, as if it had only waited for such a chance, the breeze swept her up along with her bag, and—whoosh!—it whisked her upward at a dizzying pace, only to lower her gently onto the very peak.

So here she was, she could look around at last! She took around a long, careful look, and all she saw everywhere was the plain. She saw tilled fields, meadows, a brook, and in the far distance, as if the smoke of chimneys was wreathing toward the clouds to challenge them. But the clouds had no wish to compete with mere wisps and tendrils of smoke, so they became paler and paler, then finally dissolved.

"Bless my soul!" cried out the pixie, "it seems I should have kept straight where the crow flies, and not stray onto this immensely high peak!" With that, she began to cramble down toward the plain, taking her way toward the houses visible beyond the river, where she had seen the chimney smoke wreathing.

As she was descending, she came to a wider upland, where a small brook was trickling and smaller and larger stones gleamed white along its banks.

They beckoned her to sit down and rest a while. But she went on, for a mossy tree trunk at the foot of the trees caught her eye. She went closer, intending to sit on it, but peering at the trunk, she saw it was not a wood at all, but a stone, indeed, a sturdy, standing stone. The stone top gleamed with a luminous white glow, and its sides and bottom were moss-veiled, with dark green moss.

Bluebell Pixie just scraped off some moss from the side of the stone with her fingernail, and what a wonder! Something like braided script or glyphs, curly letters appeared.

She turned to it, scraped the whole moss, and then walked around it. She walked it around once, twice, three times, but that did not make her any wiser: neither could she read the writing, nor could she understand it.

"They must be Fae glyphs, no wonder that I cannot read them!" – she was in a fret, although it was not her habit. She became weary of so much futile misery, and she flopped down on the stone and panted. Perhaps she even slumbered, I do not know for sure, but she dreamt or saw that the white top of the stone where she had sat down had faded in, then the writing began to shine on it all around, and the lay that was written on it resounded to the accompaniment of a soft flute melody. And Bluebell Pixie understood it! At this, she cried out merrily, jumped up, and the dream ended: the song faded away, the stone only shone white, and the dark green moss veiled its sides again. Bluebell Pixie slung the enchanting bag over her shoulder; that is, she would have only slung it over, because it was as heavy as lead: she could hardly move it. With great difficulty and effort, she lifted it, opened the mouth of the bag a little, and then closed it at once, because the stone in the bag or its doubled copy shone white, its side was moss-veiled, and that the braided Fae script or glyphs ran around the moss-veiled stone, Bluebell Pixie was sure.

She closed the bag again, looked around, and found that the odd white stone had been duplicated by some kind of magic. She slung the bag over her shoulder somehow and thought that getting there, she would throw the stone into the brook. She even wanted to throw it into it, but the stone grew into the bag and did not fall out. Nevertheless, Bluebell Pixie fell into the water, which suddenly rose and transformed into a rushing river. The little pixie swam sulking, huffing, and the bag followed her faithfully; it did not sink, no way!

"I swear by the fleeting dreams of poppies, I do not understand this odd stone!" The little pixie panted with effort, then slapped her forehead: "Oh, fool that I am! After all, I have gone and sat on the Fae's enchanted stone! Yes! I was sitting on the Fae's enchanting stone [1] when sleep overtook me, and meanwhile, the stone doubled by some magic, and one of them slipped into my bag! But what should I do with it now?" She pondered.

As she was puzzling, suddenly the lay in Fairy-tongue somehow escaped from the enchanting bag and flew through the countryside singing toward the chimneys emitting billowing smoke. Bluebell Pixie, with her bag on her shoulder, clung to the melody and found herself with incredible speed in front of the neat homes that housed the smoking chimneys, where the song descended and laid Bluebell Pixie on the grass.

Here she soon realized that she had to let the Fae's enchanted stone out in front of the merrily jumping and chasing circle of children, and it would tell a story to the children.

And so it happened: Bluebell Pixie gathered the children together, then opened the mouth of the bag and shook the Fae's enchanted stone out of it. Well, wonder of wonders! The stone was no longer wedged into the bag, but fell out onto the grass neatly and properly, then came to a halt, and the Fabledom of Fae-wrought Stone began, which even Bluebell Pixie only stared at in wide-eyed wonder.

Once upon a time, there lived a poor widow's son. His humble cottage stood somewhere beyond the Seven Kingdoms, from where he would set out for the fair, hoping someone might take pity on him and grant him a day's toil, so he might earn his daily bread. This lad had something else besides poverty, if not wealth: he was also taking care of his bedridden, seriously ill mother, and he could hardly think of changing their fate. Though he toiled ever tirelessly, the pittance he had scrimped and saved would slip through the holes of his tattered bag – the lad just could not get ahead. Lest I forget, the widow's son had a secret betrothed, the orphan of the village, who used to go to the draw-well to draw water, washed and ironed until late at night, and fulfilled the wishes of her stepmother all day long. However, her tattered, threadbare dress, her coat nothing but patches, nor even her worn-out shoes could hide her beauty. The villagers called her Hearstease.

It so happened that the lad known as True-hearted Mick for his diligent toil, was hired at the fair for a great task: whatever wood he could fell in a single day, the gentleman would buy, for the lord intended to build a palace and to sheathe it with timber, behind which he meant to hide his glittering and shimmering hoards of gold, silver and diamonds.

True-hearted Mick set out for the mountain peak, for lofty pines and stately trunks towered there, whose felling might finally make him and his mother wealthy, and he could even take the village orphan to his wife!

In a trice, he scaled the mountain top!

His heart soared with eagerness, buoyed by the anticipation that the lord who wished to sheathe his palace in timber had entrusted him – and him alone - with the felling of those stately trunks. Snatching up his axe to strike it into the trunk of the thickest tree, he stumbled upon some sort of stump. He looked at it in wonder: it was indeed no stump, but a stone; its top was gleaming with a luminous white glow, but its sides were veiled from end to end, in thick, darkening moss. Without a second thought, the lad scraped away the moss from a small patch to make himself a comely seat; down he sat. Meanwhile, something suddenly glinted on the patch where he scraped away the moss, and it would not let him rest. He kept on scraping, even walking all around it, in the very same way Bluebell Pixie had done with the other stone. As soon as he finished cleaning the stone, it began to glow, and a scroll, reminiscent of a braided ornament, glinted in a golden hue all around it. Then at first softly, then with growing strength, a sweet, enchanting melody rose from somewhere within the golden braids. The melody floated sweetly, got stronger and stronger, then jingled; suddenly, tiny points of light flashed and danced among the trees, so that the lad's eyes were dazzled by the sight. Then they transformed into veiled, airy, graceful, and wondrous creatures, dancing around the white-topped stone – and around the speechless marvelling lad too, as he was already there...

Words failed him in his boundless wonder, yet his wit was keen: "These beings must certainly be the Fae, and the mossy stone from which the lay floated out, must be the enchanting Fae-stone!" He thought. Then it flashed into his mind that long ago, when he was but a slip of a boy, there lived an old, withered grandame in the village, who knew the lore of the Fae-wrought stone. She knew all the secrets and legends that had ever existed under the sun, and all that would remain hidden until the end of days... It was this old, withered grandame who told how, in time of yore, the Fae descended from the mysterious Fairyland to take the Earth as their dwelling place. In those days, the seeds of envy began to sprout among men; thus, the dwarves, elves, and goblins had already vanished from their sight. The dwarves withdrew to the tunnelled veins of the deep mines, the elves to the hearts of the forests, and the goblins to the covert of bush and tree, all to shield themselves from the gaze of envy. This envy was so dense at that time, like the fog. And it stirred such evil and perilous passions in the men of old that even the giants could not endure it. Though a giant fares ill at hiding—being so vast of stature—even they recessed from the sight of men. With a single stride, they stepped over rushing rivers, mountain peaks, and trackless wilds; they crossed the very seas in one step, withdrawing to such a distance that the men of that time could never reach them.

It was to such a land that the Fae descended.

To be continued.

[1] You can find out why I chose this name for the stone in the introduction. In the course of the tale, as I referred to it in the introduction, I sometimes use the name from the title, other times I refer to it as an enchanted stone, sometimes as an enchanting stone, according to its features, because the stone was charmed by the Fae on the one hand, and on the other hand, the stone itself is capable of charming. Moreover, the word I was searching for in my translation has to express the origin of the spell: it has its origin in the Fae's lay or song because they create singing, and that is why I chose at last these words to describe the Fae-wrought stone. I delved into the etymology of the word 'enchanting', and its Latin origin means 'song, singing'.

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