The Fae Market | Dark Fairytale Sleep Story

Enter the whimsical marketplace of the Fae Folk in tonight's fairytale-inspired bedtime story.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy-inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel,

And I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

Follow along with my voice for as long as it serves you,

And when you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and surrender to sleep.

If you're still awake at the end of the story,

You can settle in for a brief meditation and reflection.

In tonight's story,

You've struck a bargain with Babichka,

The mysterious wild woman of the swamp.

She sends you in search of an item found only in the Fae Market.

In this whimsical bazaar,

Frequented by the Faerie Folk,

Goblins,

Pixies,

And pookas,

You learn that the rarest treasures have an unusual price—stories.

Before our story begins,

I invite you to look within.

Ask yourself,

What is the dearest desire of my heart?

What is the life I long for?

The future I wish to create?

It's okay if you don't know the answer right away.

Just breathe and consider.

And imagine what your life looks like once you've achieved that dearest desire.

How do you feel?

How do you move through the world,

Having achieved it?

Now,

See if you can craft that feeling into an intention or a deep resolve.

A short,

Simple sentence that can function as a mantra.

It can be as general as,

I am happy,

Or I am connected.

Or it can be more specific,

But speak it as if it is already true.

Say it three times,

Silently in your mind.

If it serves you,

You may wish to return to that mantra at times within the story.

But for now,

Let it settle in your mind,

Visualizing yourself burying it like a seed into the soil of your unconscious,

Where it can be nourished and grown.

Breathe,

And let it go.

And we'll begin our story.

You pick the last of the poppy seeds from underneath your fingernails,

Sprinkling them into the jar by the hearth.

The robin rests upon your shoulder,

Puffing his feathers and giving them a good shake,

Getting free of the soot that blackens the white feathers of his belly.

Have we done it,

You say,

A mix of relief and uncertainty coloring your voice?

Little robin redbreast utters a squeak in response,

Which you take in the affirmative.

So,

You've taken to speaking to birds.

Well,

It could be worse.

Not that there's anyone else to speak to in this place most of the time.

There's only one way to find out,

You continue,

And the little bird hops into your open palm.

You look him in his black and beady eyes.

She'll be back any minute,

You'd better be off,

Thank you.

With a charming cock of his head and a look you take for compassion,

The robin takes wing,

Disappearing fleetly in a flash of rust and brown through the open window.

You silently hope you'll see him again,

So you might show your gratitude for his help with the task.

You retrieve the jar,

Peering inside at the tiny black seeds painstakingly separated from the soot and ashes in the hearth.

Robin Redbreast helped ensure you found every last one.

When Babichka returns,

She'll have to see you're worthy.

You've managed every task she's given you,

No matter how impossible they seem.

This time,

She'll have to give you what you want.

Still,

You keep your hopes and expectations in check,

For it seems that every time you cross off the last item on her magical list,

Another task appears.

There was the time you revived her prize roses by sprinkling them with water from an enchanted well,

Which you found by following a white deer at sunrise,

Capturing the water in a vessel swindled from the Toad King's horde.

When you showed her the thriving roses,

All thorns and red velvet,

She simply pursed her lips and said,

Hmm,

As if to shrug off your efforts as ordinary.

The next day,

When you were sure she'd finally honor her side of the bargain,

She instead read off another task on the list,

One you're certain wasn't there a moment before.

This time,

To make her a palette of paints with every color of the swamp,

Using only items found about the house and gardens.

It's gone on like this for months,

And if you're honest,

The old woman might be losing her edge.

This latest task,

To separate poppy seeds from the ashes in the hearth,

Is a far cry from capturing the egg of a cockatrice or bottling the sound of a mandrake's cry.

You suspect she's drawing things out unnecessarily,

Realizing she can squeeze the details of your contract into a few weeks of free domestic help.

But now,

Fingers sooty and jar filled to the brim with seeds,

You have to believe you're nearing the end of this engagement.

If she tries to pull another task on you,

Well,

You'll simply refuse and demand she honor her word.

You've toiled in Babichka's service this long,

Putting up with her strange assignments,

Because she's the only person in the world with the power to give you what you want.

You traveled halfway across the world to her remote hermitage in the somnolent swamp to strike a deal.

There's always a price,

You were warned.

Babichka always honors her word,

But she may try to trick you.

You must close any loopholes.

You took these warnings to heart,

But your desire overpowered caution.

If you could make a bargain with Babichka,

The wild woman of the bog,

And if you could muddle through her conditions,

She would grant you your heart's deepest wish.

When at last you found her,

It took some negotiation,

But the old woman was willing to bargain.

All you need pledge,

She said on that fateful day,

Is dedication.

And with a flourish,

She brought forth her list.

You will complete every task on my list,

And when you are finished,

You will have your heart's desire.

You tried to read the items on the list that day,

But Babichka held the scroll just beyond your focus.

In your eagerness to obtain your goal,

You neglected to close the loopholes.

You signed Babichka's contract,

Eyes filled with the promise of your heart's wish.

You think of that wish now,

That thing you yearn for,

Burn for,

With every breath and beat of your heart.

You visualize your life,

Your existence,

Once it's granted,

That shining possible future,

Bathed in the bright light of your heart's desire.

Closing your eyes,

And dropping your shoulders,

You inhale,

And on your satisfying exhale,

You speak that wish into existence,

And then you speak it again,

And again,

Like a mantra.

A spark of hope to carry you through Babichka's impossible tasks.

You repeat the wish until it blends with the beat of your heart,

And the thrum of the swamp,

Beyond the cottage doors.

And then,

Among the croaking of frogs,

And the swirling of water,

And the whispering wind through the trees,

There comes another rhythm,

The quiet thud of Babichka's walking stick on the soil.

Then,

On the step,

She's come home.

She enters the cottage to find you kneeling at the hearth,

The jar of poppy seeds clutched tightly in your hands.

She pulls the scarf from around her head,

And hangs it by the door.

With a clunk,

Clunk,

Clunk,

She moves toward you.

It was always funny to you,

Well,

Perhaps not funny,

But ironic,

That this unassuming old woman,

Low to the ground,

And rounded like a bread roll out of the oven,

Finely wrinkled at the eyes and mouth,

Always leaning,

Asymmetrical,

Upon her stick,

Should be the bearer of such cosmic power.

For a moment,

She looks down at you with a blank,

Unreadable expression.

Her eyes flick to the jar,

Then the pile of ashes.

She squints,

Then grunts a perfunctory mm,

And a clunk,

Clunk,

Clunks away toward the kitchen.

You get to your feet,

Holding the jar out.

When you speak,

You do your best to keep the edge of annoyance and pleading out of your voice.

Babichka,

You say,

It's done.

I've finished your last task.

And,

Mustering additional courage,

You add,

I want what I came for.

Babichka is rummaging in the cupboards now,

Moving items around.

Still not speaking,

She moves back over to you,

Takes the jar from your hands,

And pushes it into the newly rearranged cupboard.

Babichka,

You say,

Cursing the begging quality of your tone.

One more task,

She says with a sigh.

You begin to protest,

But Babichka produces her list yet again and points to the bottom.

You can make out the words at the bottom which detail the poppy seed assignment as the stroke of an invisible quill draws a line through the words.

The scroll unrolls itself another half inch or so,

Revealing yet another line of text.

You don't even want to see what it says.

You want what you came for,

What you've worked and schemed and risked life and limb for.

And this,

You begin to say to the old woman.

But she stops you,

Holding a hand up next to her face.

This is the last one,

She says,

And the most important.

Without it,

I cannot hope to grant your request.

You say every task is the last one,

You argue,

But Babichka sets her feet and glowers.

For such a small and frail person,

She can command a room,

Bringing down storm clouds.

You shrink and grow quiet.

Just one more,

She repeats,

And then it's done.

You stifle a sigh,

Then,

Resigned,

Ask,

What must I do?

At sunrise next,

You pack a satchel with drinking water and bread.

The journey might be long,

Babichka warned,

Or it might be short.

The destination moves around.

Either way,

Best pack provisions.

She's sending you to market to purchase an important ingredient for an elixir.

A strange request,

You thought at first.

Babichka visits the market frequently enough,

Coming home with all sorts of bits and bobs.

Why must she delegate this trip to you when you've grown used to feats of strength and wit and guile and tasks for nimble fingers and a spirit of nothing to lose?

Can't she procure this object herself?

Ah,

Babichka said last night,

A glint in her eye that hinted at some air of romance in her you've rarely seen.

This is no ordinary market.

This is the marketplace of the Fae,

And those who keep it do not trade lightly.

She went on to explain that this phantom bazaar lies beyond the veil of this world and is frequented by all manner of unlikely beings.

It's a meeting place for goblins hawking their fruits,

For the Trixie Tull with Teg,

For Hobbs and Brownies and Sealy Whites.

To barter with these folk of the Fae wilds,

You must carry unusual currency.

So why then would Babichka send you with no gold,

No goods,

Nothing to trade,

Only water and bread for the journey?

When you find the item I desire,

The old woman explained,

You will understand.

Look for the puka.

The last I saw it,

It was among his treasures.

And so,

This morning,

Short on answers,

But with renewed energy and spirit,

You prepare to set out.

Babichka strings a charm along a chain and hangs it around your neck,

Bidding you tuck it beneath your clothes.

For protection,

She says,

A note of care in her voice.

In moments like this,

Though rare,

You feel a sort of closeness between you,

A tender,

Grandmotherly concern,

Like she's come to feel herself responsible for you.

She is a trickster,

But she is not entirely unfeeling,

And she has fed and clothed you all this time.

You thank her for the charm,

And you go.

But where are you going?

Like everything else associated with this task,

That remains a mystery.

All you know is west.

The fairy hills,

The ballads say,

Lie in the west.

You set off amid cypress knees and bubbling bog under patient sunrise.

An orchid-skinned Rusalka breaks the surface of the water,

Seaweed hair pluming outward as she watches you go.

Purple lupine tickles your elbows,

And bird-song blends with frog-song.

A quivering note pierces the swamp's symphony.

You know that sound.

Robin Redbreast flits through the trees and flutters down upon your shoulder.

You breathe a sigh of relief for the companionship.

You'll find the fairy market together.

The journey is neither long nor short,

But somewhere in between.

You stop to rest upon the remnants of a fallen oak at midday,

Taking a swig from your water-skin and indulging in a crust of bread.

You offer some to the robin,

But he happily pecks at the ground,

More solid in this part of the forest,

For seeds and things.

Once beyond the swamp,

You've found the threads of a river,

And you've chosen to follow this toward the setting sun.

By evenfall,

The river leads you to the foothills of fairy,

And,

Clinging to the charm around your neck,

You forge ahead.

The market lies,

You understand,

Somewhere here,

In the trembling threshold between the two countries.

The entrance should,

You think,

Make itself known.

The robin comes and goes from your shoulder,

As if investigating this unfamiliar place.

There should be some way in,

You say to the bird,

Hoping he can understand you.

A door,

A portal,

I'm not sure.

The robin squeaks from somewhere to your left,

Around a copse of trees.

You follow the little bird's voice,

Then stop in your tracks as you see it,

Wreathed in vines,

All shimmering with the rising glow of will-of-the-wisps,

Where the trees bend together,

There is an organic archway.

Just at its threshold is a sprinkling of toadstools,

And under the arch,

The lingering light seems to bend and tangle,

Warping the vision of what lies beyond.

This must be the entrance to the fey market.

You'd wager anything.

Well,

Friend,

You say to the robin,

As he returns to perch upon your shoulder,

Shall we?

Touching the charm,

And remembering why you're here,

To bring forth your heart's desire,

You step over the toadstools and through the bend of light beneath the arch,

Into darkness for a moment,

And then into a strange and spectral light.

The noise meets your ears before the place comes into visual focus.

Loud chatter and music,

The sounds of bustling bodies,

Fluttering wings,

Coins,

And cups a-clinking.

Watcher,

Comes a gruff voice behind you,

And you leap to the side,

Allowing a cart to be drawn past,

Pulled by a towering figure,

With what look like ram's horns sprouting from his head.

Market stalls line the corridor,

Attended by the most exquisite and eccentric folk.

It's a bustling,

Open-air market,

Though you find it difficult to distinguish due to the unusual quality of the light,

Whether sun or moon shines down upon it.

It's crowded,

But there's room to maneuver,

And,

Not knowing which way your quarry lies,

You let yourself be carried by the flow of foot traffic past the most curious offerings.

There's a merchant selling textiles of glittering silk,

Luminous as if it's spun with fibers of moon-kissed gossamer,

Another hawking plundered jewels.

You pick up bits of conversation here and there,

A customer arguing with an impish little man over the authenticity of the dragon eggs he's selling.

A negotiation between a nyad and a dryad over artisan wares.

Honestly,

This place is full of the oddest sort of people,

Says a clear voice so close to you it makes you jump.

You spin round,

Looking for the speaker,

Ruffling the wings of the robin.

But no one nearby seems to notice you,

Let alone have something to say to you.

Slowly,

With mounting realization,

You turn your head to the right,

Looking to the little poof of a bird who rides along with you.

Did you,

You begin.

Oh,

Thank goodness,

Says the bird,

Finally.

You can speak,

You ask in disbelief,

Though with all the things you've seen these many months in the service of the Swamp Woman,

You really shouldn't find this so surprising.

Of course I can,

Says Robin.

I've been speaking all this time,

Only it seems you've never heard me.

You hold an open palm out for him to hop onto,

So you can converse more easily.

I think it must have been the archway,

Or coming here somehow.

This place can translate me,

Or otherwise help us understand each other.

So you really are a bird,

Right?

You ask,

Considering the possibilities.

You're not a prince,

Transformed,

Or a fairy in disguise?

Alas,

Robin says with a little bird sigh,

I am but lowly Robin Redbreast,

At your service.

You smile.

It's a nice thought that this little companion,

Through your latest tasks,

Should prove a true confidant.

It makes you feel so much less alone.

They are odd,

Aren't they?

You say covertly,

Looking around at the buyers and sellers of the Fey Market.

But I've just got to get one thing,

And then we can get out of here.

Avichka said I should look for the puka.

Any ideas?

The puka,

Robin says,

His tail flicking involuntarily.

Yes,

I know the sort.

Shapeshifters,

Though.

We could be looking right at him and not know it.

What did she send you to fetch?

It's a sort of resin,

You say.

She said it would look like a stone,

Or a crystal even.

But it's really a dried sap from a tree that used to grow in Ferry a thousand years ago.

The tree is long gone,

So the resin is really rare.

And why does she need this rare sap?

Rare resin,

Robin inquires.

It's supposed to be an ingredient,

Or,

You think of how to explain it.

Avichka said it's like a catalyst.

It's the last thing she needs to make the elixir that grants my wish.

The bird makes such an expression at this that you'd swear if Robin's had eyebrows,

He'd be raising his high.

You're about to make a jab at him when a silvery voice cuts through the clamor.

And at once,

Your senses sharpen,

Honing in on the sing-songy cry of the merchant.

Apples and quinces,

Lemons and oranges,

Plump,

Unpecked cherries,

Melons and raspberries.

You look around for the source of the voice.

It winds and twists like the bends in a river.

It isn't coming from a stall.

It's moving further away from you.

Forgetting your conversation with Robin,

You follow it,

Single-minded.

Bloom-down-cheeked peaches,

Sword-headed mulberries,

Wild free-born cranberries,

Crab apples,

Dewberries,

Pineapples,

Blackberries,

Apricots,

Strawberries.

The little bird whizzes about your head,

Asks where you're going,

Whether you've spotted the pulka.

But you tune out his tittering.

All you hear,

All you want to hear,

Is the voice.

All ripe together in summer weather.

Mourns that pass by.

Fair eves that fly.

Come by,

Come by.

Our grapes fresh from the vine.

Pomegranates full and fine.

Dates and sharp boluses.

Rare pears and green gauges.

Damsons and bilberries.

Taste them and try.

And there he is,

The crier.

Carrying a low-slung basket of bright,

Fresh fruits.

Ripe and rippling the air behind him with their sweet scent.

Your mouth waters.

All you've had to eat in hours is that crust of bread.

How satisfying it would be to bite into the flesh of a fig.

Or drop juicy grapes into your mouth.

Or feel the bursting of pomegranate seeds on your tongue.

You reach the fruit merchant,

Who whirls round to meet your eyes.

Grinning and halting his call.

Robin,

Dodging ogres and elves,

Comes to land once more next to your ear.

Well,

Says the fruiterer regarding you.

Human.

He says this with amusement,

Like you're just what he's been looking for.

Fancy a taste?

In your ear,

Robin Redbreast whispers.

Goblin.

I'd be wary of taking anything he's offering.

The goblin merchant reaches into his basket and pulls forth a shining pear.

It's plump and green,

Same color as his eyes.

He's not what you pictured a goblin would look like.

Smaller than most humans,

Surely.

But you'd be forgiven for thinking he was one.

Save for the pointed ears and long hands.

He holds the pear out,

Inviting you to take it.

You can smell the fruit from here,

Like honeyed florals.

You want to take it.

How much?

You ask.

Oh,

Nothing really,

Says the goblin slyly.

I'd only ask a small token.

A lock of hair,

Perhaps.

Or,

He narrows his eyes.

That thing you've got round your neck.

Your hand instinctively flies to the charm Babichka gave you,

For protection.

I can't give that,

You say,

Holding your ground.

Though inside your resolve wavers.

Why can't you trade the charm anyway?

It's only a bundle of herbs.

Well then,

The goblin says.

He draws a bit closer to you,

Lowering his voice so that if anyone were listening,

They mightn't hear your conversation.

I'll tell you a secret.

The fruit I carry isn't ordinary fruit.

One bite,

For a price,

And you'll achieve whatever it is you desire.

Your deepest longing shall be yours.

And all I want is what the wild woman gave you.

Robin is whispering in your ear that you should go.

Find the puka,

Get the resin,

And go.

And on some level,

You know he's right.

But the pear in the goblin's hand looks so appetizing,

And your stomach growls with hunger.

And then,

There's the promise that this fruit will cut through all the toil,

All the tasks,

All Babichka's trickery,

To give you what you want,

Once and for all.

And what if this is the puka?

What if it's all another test?

What if he can free you from your bargain?

Babichka said it was the final task,

Then it would be done.

But can you trust her?

After so much disappointment,

Can you trust her any more than a nameless goblin in the fey market?

You feel your hand reaching out toward the fruit,

Almost outside your control,

As if you are watching yourself do it.

Your lips part.

You imagine your life,

Once you've bitten into the pear,

And achieved your deepest desire,

Your most heartfelt wish.

You ache for it.

No more tricks.

But then,

Just as your fingers are about to close over the ripe fruit,

Another voice pierces through the haze.

It's low and grumbling,

But with the faintest hint of humor about it.

I don't think you want that,

It says.

And at once,

Whatever hold the goblin fruit has on you dissolves.

You look up at the speaker,

And up,

And up,

For he is very tall.

And indeed,

It's the same figure who nearly ran you over with his cart mere minutes ago.

You'll be off now,

The figure says to the goblin,

Who grimaces and slinks away.

The creature is like nothing you've ever seen before today.

From head to toe,

He's covered in sleek,

Black fur.

As you noticed before,

He boasts two twisted horns like a ram's,

But also large,

Pointed ears like a horse.

Perched atop his head is a tiny bronze crown,

So small it's almost comical.

And his face,

Also covered in black fur,

Is something between that of a dog and a wizened old man with kindly eyes and a crooked smile.

It's the most unusual combination of features,

And though his stature is intimidating,

You find the whole impression rather charming.

You can't explain it,

Like he's a lovable old beast or a retired warrior who's hung up his weapons and taken up knitting.

Thank you,

You say genuinely,

Feeling a sense of relief and embarrassment at the goblin's departure.

Think nothing of it,

Says the beast,

Re-hoisting his cart and turning to lumber away.

Robin whispers in your ear,

Now that's a puka,

If I ever saw one.

Wait,

You call after the puka.

He stops and slowly turns to look at you over his massive shoulder.

I think you have something I need.

If someone had told you when you awoke this morning that only hours later,

If time works the same way in fairy,

That is,

You'd be conversing with a puka and a talking bird over steaming mugs of tea,

You'd have laughed in their face.

But here you are,

Squeezed into a corner table at the fay market's most popular and possibly only tea shop.

The puka insisted you join him there as he'll only negotiate over tea and cakes.

And they'll taste a right bit better than whatever that goblin had for you,

He chuckles.

It looks good,

But goblin fruit is all show.

It tastes like ashes.

These,

Meanwhile,

The shopkeeper places a tray of dainty tea cakes before you,

Then bellows at a table full of rowdy leprechauns to keep it down.

Evidently,

The puka comes here often to strike his deals,

As no one has said a word about him hauling in the massive cart,

Overflowing with various odds and ends.

You begin to tell the puka what it is you're after,

But he stops you,

Gesturing to the cakes.

Go on,

He says.

Never bargain on an empty stomach.

You've set one of the cakes in front of Robin,

Who pecks at it gleefully,

And you take one for yourself.

At the first bite,

You must stifle a moan.

The flaky,

Buttery pastry melts in your mouth with just a hint of sweetness,

Like lavender honey.

It's heaven.

You wash it down with a slow sip of dandelion tea,

And you feel yourself loosen,

Relaxing.

You let go of all the stress and worry you carried into this hidden place,

Unclenching your muscles and softening altogether.

So,

The puka says,

Once you've made your case,

You've come all this way.

He begins to rummage in his cart,

With one enormous paw,

Tossing aside jeweled crowns and heavy tomes for this.

And he produces a rough and rugged rock of ambery hue,

Setting it between you on the table.

How funny you think that an object as rare and sought after as this should be clanging about at the bottom of his cart like it's nothing special.

The last task.

The last boon.

What's your price?

You say eagerly.

Slow down,

He says,

Taking another of the cakes and popping it into his mouth.

You say Babichka sent you,

The wild woman.

You nod.

I don't know why she couldn't come herself,

You say,

But I've got to do what she says.

We've made a bargain.

You seem very willing to leap into such bargains,

The puka observes.

I'd be careful if I were you.

Such deals are laced with tricks.

Robin looks up from his cake long enough to make a snide remark about your familiarity with tricks,

And the puka laughs,

His belly and shoulders shaking.

But Babichka does keep her word.

She continues,

Even if it's not in the way you expect.

You want to ask again about the puka's price.

You want to take the artifact and go,

Finish the list,

And get your heart's desire,

And go home.

But you hold your tongue,

And you sip your tea,

And eat another of the cakes.

You slow down.

I know why it is that she sent you,

Says the puka.

She cannot pay my price,

But perhaps you can.

I have nothing,

You say,

Nothing of any worth,

At least.

I must disagree,

The puka says.

You wonder if he,

Too,

Will ask for the charm round your neck.

It seems to be the only thing you carry that's worth anything at all.

But that wouldn't explain why Babichka couldn't bring it herself.

The price I require,

Begins the puka.

Your ears perk up.

Is a story.

A pause in which the rowdy leprechauns across the cafe are the only sound.

A story,

You repeat,

Unsure if you heard him right.

The puka leans back.

I have little use for gold,

He says.

I take what I like,

Without trouble.

And people like to leave me butter and honey in exchange for looking after their homes.

I have my heart's desire and more.

But the one thirst I cannot seem to quench is the thirst for a thrilling tale,

A ballad,

A romance,

A myth.

But surely Babichka has more tales to tell than I do,

You protest.

Living in that swamp,

Striking her bargains,

She must be a hundred years old,

She'll have countless stories.

Ah,

You might think that.

The puka sighs.

She's the keeper of many a tale.

You should hear the one about how she came to live on the somnolent swamp,

And how she chased away a whole horde of kelpies to build her house there.

But countless,

No.

The last time she came to see me,

In search of this very thing,

And he taps the resin with a sleek paw,

She realized her well had in fact run dry.

She ran out of stories.

The puka nods.

No story.

No deal.

So all I need to do,

You reason out loud,

Is tell you a story you've never heard before,

And the boon is mine.

The puka nods again,

And gives a gesture to indicate that you should give it a go.

Do I have to tell it well?

You ask hopefully.

Only I'm not really good at this sort of thing.

But he just looks at you expectantly,

Waiting for you to begin.

You rack your brains for a tale to tell,

One you've committed to memory enough to do justice to.

Perhaps a ballad,

Or a chanson de geste.

I'm sure you already know the ballad of Tam Lin.

The puka nods.

You think some more.

Sir Orfeo?

Or the tragedy of Tristram Minnesota?

The Fairy Queen.

Nothing.

But the puka has heard all of these and more.

You run through every ballad,

Every legend you know,

Praying that one of them is unfamiliar to him.

Even Robin offers a suggestion or two,

Tales he's heard on the wind through the swamp.

But nothing the puka hasn't heard before.

You begin to understand how Babichka might have run out of stories to amuse the puka.

You begin to lose hope that you'll be able to win the artifact after all.

Sensing your distress,

The puka softens.

Slow down,

He says again.

And remember,

There are more stories in this wide world than those told at firesides and bedsides.

Look within.

You breathe,

Sip your tea,

And try to calm your racing thoughts.

The puka is right.

He's heard all the legends,

Of course.

But there are more stories than this,

Going untold every minute,

Every day.

You have a story.

Your own story.

Just like the ballads you love,

It's one full of fairy bargains,

Unlikely friendships,

And magical guides.

It's a tale of desire,

Adventure,

And endless toil.

And no,

It doesn't have an ending yet.

But why does a story need an ending at all?

You look around the tea shop.

The boisterous leprechauns have settled down and are now quietly chatting over cups and cakes.

A nixie and a kobold play at cards in a corner.

The shop's mistress arranges a fresh batch of biscuits in the display.

Once upon a time,

You begin.

There was an adventurer who desired above all else in the world.

And you tell your story.

It unfolds from your tongue,

Effortlessly,

For it is the tale that lives in your bones and your memory and the ashes under your fingernails.

The story flies on robin wings,

Singing as it goes.

You tell of your perilous journey to the somnolent swamp,

Of the bargain struck with the mysterious wild woman of the bog,

Of the infinite list of impossible tasks and the will to achieve them.

Through briar and bramble and cockatrice nests,

The hero of your story winds,

Drawn along by the strength of their passion,

Their desire.

Do they stumble?

Yes.

Do they show a somewhat naive willingness to enter into rash promises with supernatural beings?

Yes.

But do they ever give up in the pursuit of their heart's desire?

As you tell the story,

You watch the puka's eyes.

They brighten and soften with each twist of the tale,

As if he's taking the journey with you,

Absorbed and excited by it.

And you realize,

Little by little,

With every word,

That you admire the hero of your story.

That they are everything you want to be.

Loyal.

Persistent.

A tad too trusting for this world,

Perhaps.

Creative.

Quick-witted.

Your heart softens toward yourself in a way it never has before.

You feel a deep well of tenderness and love for you.

That is the power of stories,

You suppose.

They bring us closer to others and to ourselves.

They give us fresh eyes to see more clearly and renewed hearts to love more deeply.

They make us feel less alone.

It starts to make sense why the puka collects them instead of gold.

And then the story winds through the fey market into the thrall of the goblin merchant and at last into the corner of a sweet fairy tea shop to a table laden with cakes and dandelion tea.

It curls its narrative fingers round an amber stone,

A hunk of resin,

An artifact that promises wealth and magic and the heart's desire.

Such a little thing and such a long journey to reach it.

You pause,

Taking a breath because you don't know what happens next.

No one does.

The silence crystallizes around you and your companions.

I'm sorry,

You say to the puka.

I'm not sure how to end it.

He furrows his brow and considers.

No,

He says.

I think I like it as is.

Anything could happen next,

Couldn't it?

You smile.

I suppose so.

Parched,

You sip your tea.

In the time it took to weave your tail,

Robin has eaten through about half his cake,

Nearly eaten his weight in pastry.

He looks round and sleepy there on the table.

You stroke his feathers and he coos in response.

Well,

The puka grins.

You've certainly held my attention.

My favorite part was the appearance of the big,

Brutish beast who turned out to be a tea-sipping sweetheart.

You've given me a worthwhile gift,

Young adventurer.

And he extends one heavy paw to push the resin toward you.

You take it in your hands,

Marveling at what you've accomplished.

This is it.

If Babichka holds up her end of the bargain,

Then you'll finally get your wish.

This is what it was all for.

But you do not rush out the door.

Not yet.

You take the time to finish your tea in the company of the puka and Robin,

Savoring these moments when you and your bird friend can converse in the same language.

There's always time for tea and cake and stories.

And when it comes time to depart,

For the tea shop owner is eyeing your table as more patrons squeeze into the tiny cafe,

You find it hard to say goodbye to the puka,

This friendly giant.

Tell you what,

He says,

Hoisting his cart,

The tiny crown atop his head brushing the ceiling.

It's been too long since I paid a visit to my old friends in the somnolent swamp.

Fancy a lift?

Puka,

Pukas are shapeshifters,

Robin had said when you first arrived.

And now that power becomes apparent as the puka takes a new form,

His long black fur shortening to a satiny coat,

His horns vanishing and his body lowering to all fours.

The horse ears remain and are joined by hooves as he takes the form of a magnificent black stallion,

A blaze of white across his face.

You scoop up Robin,

Still drowsy from overindulging in cake,

And tuck him tenderly into your breast pocket,

Where he can poke his little head out.

You climb aboard the saddle on the puka's back and grip the reins and you're off.

He moves as swiftly as the wind through marketplace and toadstool arch over hills and through forest glades where dryads dance and pixies play.

Chasing the sunrise,

You reach the boundaries of the somnolent swamp,

The familiar gurgle of frogs and marsh wrens.

When Babichka's cottage comes into view,

It almost feels like coming home.

You dismount and the puka shifts again,

Becoming a black and gleaming fish.

He leaps into the air and lands with a splash in the water where you hear the musical giggle of the resident Rusalka.

Robin,

Who has been snoozing peacefully in your pocket all the time,

Wakes with a squeak and flits to your shoulder.

You cannot speak each other's tongues on this side of the archway,

But you understand each other on a deeper level.

You're part of each other's story now and together you'll face whatever comes next.

You'd be forgiven for thinking the expression with which Babichka greets you is one of warmth.

She's relieved to see you,

Happy even.

It hasn't been so bad,

You suppose,

Working for the old woman.

She's given you a story worth telling,

If nothing else.

Inside the hermitage,

She has a full breakfast waiting for you.

You sit down,

Grateful and eat.

Your body at once ready to succumb to exhaustion and too exhilarated to sleep.

You wonder how long you've been gone.

It feels like only a day and night,

A single arc of the indomitable sun.

But Babichka looks older than ever.

And the fairy wilds are known to mess with time.

Once you've feasted,

You produce the resin from your satchel.

Here it is,

You say,

Wild hope in your voice.

What I promised,

The last thing.

Babichka gives her characteristic hmm.

But the glitter in her eyes betrays her nonchalant exterior.

And she produces her list.

The stroke of an invisible pen crosses out the final task.

And you hold your breath.

Waiting for another item to appear.

But instead,

The scroll of parchment in her hands slowly dissolved,

Consumed as if by inner flame,

Curling with embers at its edges.

Then it's gone.

You've really done it.

You've finished the list.

Tonight,

She says,

After some consideration,

We'll have it done with tonight.

For now,

You should rest.

She'll need the day to gather her materials and ready for the spell.

It's best done in moonlight anyway.

You are grateful,

Actually,

For the pause.

Robin returns to the trees for now,

And you retire,

Curling up beneath the blankets of your bed.

You slip in and out of a sweet daytime sleep for who knows how long.

When Babichka comes to fetch you,

The moon is already risen.

A single day in the company of the Fae,

And you've become nocturnal,

It seems.

A cauldron simmers on the edge of the water,

On the spongy soil of the swamp.

A fire crackles underneath,

And the water bubbles.

You watch as Babichka tosses in the ingredient,

One by one,

An herb here,

An oil there,

The egg of a cockatrice,

Powdered root of mandrake.

She pours in vials of liquid,

Reflecting every color of the swamp.

She crushes the petals of her prize rose between her palms and shakes the drops of oil into the mixture.

She sprinkles in the poppy seeds you rescued from the hearth.

Now you understand.

You want to laugh and cry.

For all this time,

It was you foraging and fighting and working for this.

You gathered every last ingredient on your endless list of impossible tasks,

It was always you.

And now,

The wild woman of the somnolent swamp withdraws the wondrous resin,

That precious artifact bartered by the soul of your own story.

Robin looks on from a low-hanging bow,

The puka and rusalka peek from the water.

Zavichka holds the resin out and it catches a ribbon of moonglow from above,

The way a clear crystal might catch the sunlight and break it into rainbows.

And it reflects the flickering flame from beneath the cauldron too.

This object,

The sap of a tree that once grew in fairy a thousand years ago,

Long gone,

But still part of a never-ending story.

It warms your heart to see that she does not cast it off the cauldron,

But instead uses it as a focus for the light of the moon.

You couldn't bear to see it destroyed,

Only for you to have your wish.

And then,

With the faintest flutter of anticlimax,

Zavichka scoops and stoppers a swig of the liquid in a bottle,

Thrusting it into your hands.

That's it,

You say,

Examining the sparkling elixir.

Mmm,

Zavichka utters in the affirmative Your heart leaps.

One drink and all the effort will have been worth it.

Your dearest desire,

The life you've always wanted,

Is at your fingertips.

You made this from your toil and labor and adventures.

You made this happen.

What a story you'll have to tell when you return home.

The old woman,

Leaning lightly on her walking stick,

Is already headed back inside,

As if she's finished with you.

You unstopper the bottle and lift it to your lips to drink.

But something makes you pause.

Maybe it's the presence of the puka swimming gleefully in the waters.

Maybe it's Robin twittering in harmony with the water.

With all the crepuscular creatures of the swamp.

And maybe it's just a feeling that this is not how your story ends.

Inside the hermitage,

A tea kettle whistles over a roaring fire in the hearth.

Zavichka pours herself a cup of swamp-mallow tea.

You stand in the doorway,

Elixir in hand.

What do you pour me a cup?

You ask the old woman.

She blinks and retrieves another ceramic cup from the cupboard,

Fills it with mallow leaves and pours in the hot water.

The scent is earthy and sweet.

You join her at the table.

Slow down,

The puka said.

And this is what you do.

Aren't you going to drink it?

Zavichka says,

Indicating the elixir.

You consider.

I will,

You say.

Probably.

But first,

You make eye contact with the old woman across the table.

You warm your hands against the outside of your teacup.

Would you tell me a story?

And Zavichka's eyes sparkle in the firelight,

Crinkling at the corners as her face settles into a grin.

She takes a deep breath and begins.

Breathe.

Slowing down,

Calming your thoughts and relaxing the body.

Relax the muscles of the feet and face.

Unclenching,

Loosening,

Softening.

Find peace and stillness here and return,

If you will,

To the intention you set before the story began.

Repeat it in your mind as a mantra.

Recall how you planted this intention in your mind.

You are unconscious.

Visualize the fertile soil in which it rests,

Breathing with the earth.

I invite you to imagine that you hold a small glass bottle filled with a shimmering liquid.

Which changes color and quality depending on the angle at which you behold it.

Every drop of liquid in the bottle is a bit of your story,

A twist or a turn of the adventure of your life.

The work you put in,

The love you give,

The relationships you sustain,

The communities you're part of,

The daily grind,

The above and beyond.

This is your story.

Visualize yourself unstopping the bottle and sprinkling that liquid on the soil where it seeps in and feeds the seed,

The spark,

Your intention,

Your mantra,

Your wish.

And imagine that deep roots begin to grow from the seed,

Grounding your intention,

Anchoring it.

And visualize it sprouting up from the earth,

Alive,

Forming buds and flowers which open and smile on you.

What do the flowers look like?

These expressions of not only your desires but your effort and impact in the world.

You did this.

You made this happen.

You can bring forth wondrous things and you have countless stories to tell.

Bask in the beauty of what you've grown all you've given to get here and let yourself feel love.

Breathe and soften and when you're ready,

Let go of the visualization.

Slowing down your mind,

Dropping down into a softer,

Fuzzier,

Dreamier space.

Let go.

Sweet dreams.