Lhiannan
Shee
By Cillabub
**author’s note: This story, which begins
on the Isle of Man, revolves around a mythical Gaelic creature known as
lhiannan shee. This is a type of parasitic fairy that sucks
the soul from its intended victim (usually by way of excessive sexual intercourse),
and leaves them as an exhausted husk of a man. The victim usually
then dies in a very short period. The fairy itself is often regarded
as a sort of “dark muse” that derives particular pleasure from targeting
poets, artists, and writers, and gives them the gift of inspiration before
destroying them. William Butler Yeats refers to these fairies in
the appendix to his book
Folklore and Fairy Tales of Ireland.**
*****************************************************
“I beg your pardon.”
The farmer turned towards the road to face the person who now addressed
him. Slowly, in the unhurried manner typical of his class, he wiped
the sweat from his brow and leaned against his spudº.
“Somethin’ I can do for ye, young fellow?” The small eyes of the farmer
narrowed slightly as he examined the stranger. It was not often that
a traveler passed through this area of the countryside; after all, there
wasn’t a town within miles. Furthermore, this one was a foreigner,
with a strong accent and a neatly pressed coat. He was a young man,
his dark hair pulled back from his face and crowned with a beaverskin hat,
and gray eyes that seemed a bit too intelligent for the farmer’s liking.
Clever people were generally objects of suspicion among the simple people
of this countryside, whose hearts were fraught with superstition and distrust.
“If you please”—the stranger paused, wetting his lips—“could you tell me
what lies on the other side of those woods?” He indicated the forest that
fringed the farmer’s fields. “Where does this path lead, that it need run
through the woods?”
The farmer’s dark eyes narrowed even further, almost disappearing in the
folds of weathered skin around them. “There be no need for good an’ sensible
folk to go wanderin’ in them woods. There be strange and magicked
things abound in there.”
“Aye, so I have been told.” The young man adjusted his small spectacles.
“And yet, my path leads me straight through them.”
“Do as ye will, but any fool’d warn ye ‘gainst it. ‘Tis well known
that th’ spirits’ve got more than a touch o’ use for anyone fey enough
to venture them woods.” The farmer turned back to his work, ignoring the
‘fey’ stranger. Seeing that he would glean no more from the man,
Etienne Combeferre turned away as well with a sigh, starting back down
the muddy path leading into the wood.
During the sixty yards or so that he had left to walk in order to reach
the first trees, the student pondered the warnings he had been given.
No one at the Sorbonne had ever warned him of a situation like this when
he had declared that he wished to study ancient cultures. Years later,
he had begun to travel, and now found himself in yet another strange land,
rich in lore. And, ever sensible, Combeferre believed not a word
of these ancient curses and superstitions, although they did seem to him
an interesting manifestation of the human spirit. He had come here
to study the traditions of this reclusive Manx people, and found that their
ways could not be referred to as ancient; they were very much alive in
the minds of the people he had met, walking from town to town on foot,
with nothing but a notebook and pencil to his name. An ardent student
of folklore and a talented artist of wildlife besides, Combeferre had an
imagination that had seemed outrageous to the proper bourgeoisie of Paris,
but here, among these people, he was considered not cautious enough
of the supernatural world.
Now, approaching the darkness of the trees, he glanced quickly back over
his shoulder, and noted the farmer watching him closely as he went.
He sighed again, adjusting his satchel on his shoulder and pressing forward
with renewed determination. Someone should show these people that
the time of the elves and hobgoblins has passed, he thought with a
shake of his head. To think, in this modern nineteenth century,
these people still fear to venture into a clump of trees, that they might
be attacked by some creature of mischief.
He ducked to pass under the boughs of the first trees, and was assaulted
by a gust of foggy air, obscuring his vision momentarily. Ignoring
the mist, he continued along the path, and was presently aware of quiet
footsteps behind him. He stopped walking. The footsteps stopped.
He began walking again, and the footsteps waited a moment before also starting
again. As he went, hearing the steady soft tread behind him, Combeferre
racked his brain for a piece of advice, a lecture, or something,
given to him by his professors for exactly this sort of situation, but
he drew a blank. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tightened
his grip on his thick, oaken walking staff. Without warning, he whirled
around, raising the staff threateningly like a club. A stiff breeze
knocked against him full force, sweeping the hat from his head. However,
Combeferre was half-disappointed to find before him no fairy, but only
another traveler, a youth who was now holding his hands up in a nervous
gesture of peace.
On second glance, the boy was astoundingly beautiful, his flaxen hair shining
even in the gathering gloom of the forest, his eyes bright and blue.
He seemed only on the cusp of manhood, his face still impossibly youthful
for a person of his mature height and stature. Combeferre took note
of the contrast between the boy’s drab clothing, all in shades of brown
and mossy green, and the radiance of his pale skin. The student lowered
his staff.
“Forgive me for startling you,” the other boy said quickly, his voice low
and musical. He stooped to pick Combeferre’s hat up off the ground,
brushed it off, and offered it to the student.
Combeferre brushed back his dark bangs, taking the hat from the other’s
hand and replacing it on his head. “’Tis excusable. My nerves are
just a bit on edge, I expect.”
“Ah. You have heard the legends surrounding this wood, I take it?”
The younger man smiled, running his fingers through his fine hair.
Combeferre followed this gesture with his eyes, unable to tear his gaze
away. “I dislike to spoil your imaginings, but there is no credit to those
fairy stories, my friend.”
“Oh? Isn’t there?” Combeferre began walking again, and the other
boy fell into step beside him. “What is your name?”
“Some call me Enjolras,” the youth replied.
“You are a Frenchman?” Combeferre was pleased. He had not met another
of his countrymen for many miles.
“Oui, peut-être.” The boy quirked the slightest of
smiles. He adjusted the dusky-brown scarf around his neck, watching
Combeferre out of the corner of his eye.
They walked in silence for a few moments, and the darkness did not seem
as threatening to Combeferre as it had a half-hour earlier. He walked
with a lanky stride, hands shoved in his pockets, chin tucked into his
scarf, and every once in a while he chanced a glimpse at his companion.
The boy was quite pleasant to look at, his golden hair falling in strands
around his angelic face, his tall stature bringing him to a height just
above that of Combeferre. He walked with a lightness, the stride
of a velvet-footed cat. There was a certain irresistibility to the
younger traveler, an aura that Combeferre could not place.
Before long, a tiny structure appeared through the trees, built of rickety
wood. Streamers of moss were strewn over the roof, lending an earthy
quality to the dwelling. Combeferre viewed it with some surprise.
“Who would construct a home here, in the midst of what is considered to
be a haunted forest?”
His companion shrugged, giving him a charming smile. “Who can say?
There are odd people everywhere. ‘Tis certainly the easiest way to
have solitude.” He gestured to Combeferre mischievously. “Care to discover
what sort makes their home out here?”
Combeferre hesitated for a moment, but his curiosity conquered him. “I
suppose.”
The younger boy approached the shack on padded feet, and nudged the door
open gently. He stuck his head in, glanced around, and gestured to
Combeferre. “Nobody home, I guess. After you.” They entered single-file,
and Combeferre gave his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim light.
Enjolras moved to the table, lighting a half-burned candle that rested
there.
“Care for an apple?” He smiled, indicating a bowl next to the candle, filled
with the pretty red fruit.
Combeferre nodded. Under ordinary circumstances, he would not make
himself at home in someone else’s house, but he had not eaten since late
the previous day, and he knew not where his next meal was coming from.
Biting into the fruit, he was struck by the extraordinary sweetness of
its taste.
“Where do you suppose these came from?” He indicated the two apples remaining
in the bowl. “The Isle of Man is not known for its apple crop.”
The boy shrugged again.
One bite. Two bites. Three. Combeferre felt a little
light-headed, and the other boy laid a steadying hand on his arm.
“Are you well? You do not look it.” He pulled out a chair from the
table. “Do you need to sit?”
Combeferre raised his eyes to meet Enjolras’s,
and felt a shiver run through him from the roots of his hair to the tips
of his toenails. “I feel strange…”
“Oh?” Enjolras’s eyes brightened in intensity, and Combeferre felt even
dizzier; the blond traveler’s hand felt as though it was burning his arm.
Enjolras seemed to become a mirage before the student’s eyes, shimmering
brilliantly until the entire room was as bright as daylight.
“What are you…?” Combeferre was drawn inevitably to the light.
“You’ll see,” the golden youth promised with a resplendent smile. “I hear
you are an artist, Combeferre.”
“How…how do you know my name?”
Instead of answering, Enjolras leaned forward, pressing his mouth against
Combeferre’s with an almost violent passion. The student struggled
slightly, unconscious of the hat falling from his head to the floor.
The brightness overcame him, and he melted into the younger boy’s embrace.
Combeferre’s scholarly conscious mind, stronger than that of the superstitious
peasants of the surrounding area, suddenly rebelled.
“Are you a spirit?” He pulled away slightly, reeling from the contact.
“If you are, I should tell you that I do not believe in spirits.”
“You do not believe I am real, then?” The being laughed softly. “Men fear
me, Combeferre. They call me a demon, a vampire.”
“Are you?” A thrill of fear, accompanied by a twinge with desire, shot
through Combeferre.
“No.” Enjolras smiled. “I am one of the fey people. Some call me
a muse; others call me a curse. I can be both to you. I can
set you aflame, but I will leave a charred husk behind.”
“That is not encouraging.” It was too late. Combeferre’s breath was
quickening with his need, and he was completely unable to escape the lures
of the supernatural. “Take me. Things have gone too far…I am caught
in your web like a helpless fly.”
“That is true. If I were to release you now, you would die of longing.”
The golden-haired fairy smiled again, and this expression seemed cruelly
beautiful to Combeferre.
The student groaned. “I can stand this no longer! I am only mortal.”
“I know,” Enjolras murmured. “Do not fight it. Come to me, my Combeferre.
I can give you everything, but it will cost you everything.”
“I don’t care…I am beyond caring. Take me, fey.”
Enjolras’s smile melted into a dark gaze, his blue eyes sparkling dangerously.
He undressed slowly, almost methodically, and without ceremony. In
the shadows, a shimmering behind the fairy caught Combeferre’s wide-eyed
gaze. Dark, gossamer wings were slithering free of the skin at Enjolras’s
shoulder blades, flexing powerfully.
“Is…is that part of being a fairy?” Combeferre asked in wonder, gasping
for air.
“Aye.” Enjolras fixed his eyes solemnly on the mortal’s gray eyes, half-hypnotizing
him. He took the boy’s hand, pulling him against his body with a
cat-like grin.
For Combeferre, an ordinary mortal who had never slept with more than two
or three girls in the course of his entire life, the thought of making
love to a fairy had been all but laughable until about half an hour ago.
It still felt unreal, to be clinging to the naked shoulders of this ancient,
beautiful creature, feeling those silky wings, the pink satin lips caressing
his neck. Combeferre wanted nothing more than to be able to reciprocate
these touches, to prove to this fairy that mortals could be powerful beings
as well, but he felt helpless in this embrace. His body was limp,
as though he were a broken toy, and Enjolras did not seem to mind taking
control of the situation. So Combeferre relaxed and allowed himself
to be laid down on some sort of mattress, the weight of Enjolras’s body
on top of his chest feeling as light as if a child lay there. The
fairy glowed ethereally, and now the light grew in terrible intensity,
seeming to exert a physical pressure on Combeferre, who groaned beneath
the combined pressure of the light’s power and the searing heat in his
own body, a natural sign of mortal desire.
Finally, just as Combeferre feared he would faint, the light engulfed him,
and he threw back his head with a sort of strained cry. Stars exploded
in his line of vision, and the entire history of the world flashed before
his eyes, too quickly for his mortal senses to detect individual events.
The faces of artists and poets, destined to eternal fame and abbreviated
lives, swam through his brain—Keats, Burns, Caravaggio. The light
soon embraced these images too, erasing everything from Combeferre’s mind
but a purely ecstatic sense of being, and the student wondered if this
was perhaps the nirvana of the eastern religions. Finally, pitch
black came to vanquish the light and, entertaining a brief sense of weightlessness,
he fell into a deep, blissful unconsciousness.
*************************************************
When Combeferre next awoke, the dimness of the dwelling had not altered
any. He suddenly wished he could see the dawn, but he feared that
he might be disappointed, for even its light could never compare with the
immeasurable beauty he had seen the previous night. He was conscious
of his own tiredness, a lead-like feeling weighing on his limbs.
He was lying on a mattress of some sort, feather-light, and as he slowly
opened his eyes, he was aware of someone sitting beside him on the edge
of the bed. It was Enjolras, fully clothed, in human form.
He was smiling, a gesture that he often indulged in, a slight tugging at
the corners of his lips, and his wide, innocent-looking eyes were busy
examining Combeferre.
“Sleep well, I take it?” Without looking straight at the student’s face,
the fairy had guessed that he was awake.
“Aye,” Combeferre said softly. “But I can hardly move now.”
Enjolras glanced up sharply at that. Surely the curse had not
been worked too fast…He should not be feeling the effects so soon…
Combeferre watched the other’s reaction carefully. “Is this what you spoke
of last night?”
“’Twas not last night,” the fey answered absently. “You have been asleep
for a week. Your mortal mind simply cannot grasp the sense of the
passage of time here.”
“A week?” Combeferre struggled into a sitting position, ignoring the groans
of his muscles. “I have been here a whole week? In that case, I have
no more time to spare here, Enjolras. I must be going.”
Enjolras smiled, a bit sadly this time. “You do not understand. You
are mine now; you can do nothing of your own accord.” He stood from where
he had been sitting. “You will get dressed now, and you will return to
Paris. I will accompany you. In fact, I shall accompany you
until the end of your days.”
“I will not live much longer, will I?” Combeferre asked with a twinge of
bitterness. “Like the artists…in my vision.”
“They saw me also. I gave them my gift, as I shall give you.” Enjolras
held out a pile of clothes to Combeferre and waited in silence while the
student dressed painfully, forcing his body to move. The more he
moved, the easier mobility became, he found, and soon, there seemed hardly
a trace of the affliction left in his joints. He slipped on his glasses,
and Enjolras took his hand, pressing a small object into it. Combeferre
held it up, noting that it was a long strip of scarlet velvet.
“For your hair,” Enjolras explained with an almost shy note to his voice.
“I thought it would compliment it well.”
“Thank you.” Combeferre used the ribbon to tie his hair back into its customary
ponytail.
“She nyn meaº.”
“You speak the language well,” Combeferre commented in surprise, having
only heard the Manx dialect spoken from the coarse mouths of peasants,
and not being very familiar with the language.
“I should hope so,” Enjolras answered with a shrug. “I’ve had hundreds
of years to accustom myself to it.”
“Could you teach me some?” Combeferre was curious. He had always
been fascinated by this culture in particular, but there were very few
resources to be had in France that concerned the Isle of Man, which, as
any proper Frenchman knew, was a land of witchcraft and pagans. Combeferre,
determined to dispel this supposition, had set out on the adventure that
had brought him here.
“What do you want to know?”
“Well…” Combeferre considered for a moment, then, with a hint of a blush:
“What is your word for what we had las—I mean, a week ago?”
“Ah, that?” Enjolras grinned boyishly. “Raght ard-reamaghº.”
Combeferre repeated the words softly, his pronunciation faltering and his
accent atrocious, but the sheer emotion in his words making up for their
technical defaults. Enjolras shook his head slightly.
“No, no. Like this.” He took Combeferre’s jaw gently in one hand,
helping him to form the vowels as he repeated the phrase more slowly. “And
this”—he released Combeferre’s chin—“is the word for perfection: slanejeantys.”
Combeferre repeated it, his pronunciation markedly improved. He looked
hard at Enjolras suddenly, the wondering look fleeing his face like a sunbeam
passing behind a cloud. “And what do they call you and your kind, Messieur
Enjolras, in your own tongue?”
Enjolras hesitated a moment, then replied almost inaudibly, “Lhiannan
sheeº.”
Combeferre felt suddenly ashamed at being the cause of the fairy’s crestfallen
expression. “I believe I shall call you Enjolras instead. Unless
you have a fey name you prefer…?”
Enjolras winced. “My Manx name is Sheadane Bwoyaghº.
‘Tis an odious name, and I would much prefer Enjolras, although ‘tis not
my true name.”
Combeferre nodded, not knowing what else to say. He had to admit
that he was fascinated by this ancient, ethereal being, but also horrified
by his own helplessness in the face of such power. And yet, in this
form, with his child’s face and his wide eyes, it was difficult to be angry
with Enjolras. Combeferre was also somewhat disgusted with himself
for the womanly emotions tugging insistently at his heart, which overwhelmed
even the outright lust that he felt for the fairy. After all, was
it truly possible to love a creature so cruel?
Enjolras leaned forward, touching Combeferre’s cheek with a sudden grin.
“Surely a mortal like you has a beloved somewhere. A pretty girl…in
Paris, perhaps…?”
“Girl? No.” Etienne sighed. “I have never been in love before.
Besides, if I did, I don’t think it would be with a girl.”
“Oh?” The fairy laughed aloud. “Don’t humans frown on that sort of thing?”
“Most do,” Combeferre smiled. “Most would have pushed you away, you know
that.”
“I am not so certain of that.” Enjolras stood from his seat on the bed’s
edge and stretched languidly. “’Tis difficult to resist any fey creature.
It would take an almost inhuman effort. I do not know if mortals
are capable of that level of strength.”
“We are capable of things you immortals do not give us credit for,” Combeferre
answered frostily, also standing.
“Yes, yes, of course.” Enjolras waved it off, stroking Combeferre’s hair
lightly, as though the student was a child. Combeferre pulled away,
slightly irritated but hopelessly seduced by the fairy’s gentleness.
Enjolras just smiled and shook his head at that, murmuring, “You must learn
not to fight me, Etienne. Your destiny is now inextricably tied to
me.”
Combeferre said nothing, only lifted his pack, slinging it onto his shoulder,
and gripped his staff in his right hand. He waited patiently as Enjolras
slipped on a long greatcoat, dark brown in color, the hem of which just
barely brushed the ground as the fairy walked. As Enjolras slipped
a pistol into the deep pocket of this coat, Combeferre spoke up quietly.
“What is that for? I had presumed that you were immortal and need
not fear dangers presented by men.”
“’Tis for your protection only, my love, your protection only.” Enjolras
brushed a dark curl out of Combeferre’s eyes, handing him his hat.
“How thoughtful of you,” Combeferre muttered, jamming the hat on his head.
“Don’t be cross,” the fairy admonished, sliding out the door and holding
it open for his companion.
Combeferre grumbled something inaudibly as he followed Enjolras down the
path. The two travelers passed most of the journey to the edge of
the woods in silence, pierced only by Enjolras’s deep, gentle voice, taking
the time to indicate a particularly interesting species of flora or fauna.
Combeferre’s foul mood gradually smoothed itself out, listening to that
hypnotic voice, the words that so interested him. He marveled at
the fact that the fairy seemed to instinctively know that he was intrigued
by wildlife.
When the daylight finally reached his eyes, Combeferre was surprised to
see that they had followed the path right back to where he had first entered
the woods, a week earlier. He gazed questioningly at Enjolras. “Wh…?”
“We are bound for France, no?” Enjolras blinked at him coyly from behind
his scarf. “Well then, we ought to take the known path.”
“Well, I suppose so, but—“
“Come along,” the fairy said briskly, taking hold of Etienne’s sleeve gently
and leading him down the path towards the farmland stretched out below
them for miles and miles, as far as the human’s eyes could see. A
voice hailing Combeferre shocked him out of the reverie-like thoughts that
his inactive mind often drifted into.
“Hi there! Yes, you, boy!” The farmer saluted Combeferre with his
spud. “Didn’t expect t’ see ye again. Figured th’ spirits would’ve
gotten ye by now.”
Combeferre cleared his throat, drawing closer. “No, messieur. The
only thing of interest I found in the woods was this boy.” He gestured
at Enjolras, who drew up beside him with a knowing smile.
The farmer blinked, one bushy eyebrow raising slightly. “Eh? What’s
that? I see no boy.”
“Right here. This one right here.” Etienne turned to glance at Enjolras,
and stopped short at the silent laugh that played on the fairy’s full lips.
The farmer just narrowed his eyes, scratching his head and staring at the
empty space next to the student.
“There’s not a soul there, m’ boy.”
Enjolras burst into outright laughter, the baritone peals of his voice
carrying in the clear air. Iridescent tears streaming down his cheeks,
he managed to gasp out to Combeferre, “I am invisible to all but you, you
ninny.”
“What?” Combeferre just looked at him blankly. He shifted his gaze
back to the farmer, who was now backing away from him.
“Did I not tell ye? I warned ye, but ye wouldn’t lissen t’ an old
man. Them woods’re witched, I says, an’ now, ye return with tales
o’ boys that disappear an’ reappear…” His hoarse voice was now little more
than a terrified croak. “An’ now you’re fey an’ magicked, and you’ve come
back t’ haunt me!” He brandished his spud threateningly, and Enjolras was
suddenly between his lover and the farmer, acting as Combeferre’s invisible
shield.
“You will not touch him!” the fairy cried, his voice more animal than human.
Although it was certain that the farmer had not heard his words, he seemed
to suddenly waver, and finally dropped his tool, turning and running in
the opposite direction through his fields. Shocked, Combeferre stared
after him over Enjolras’s shoulder. Angrily, he whirled Enjolras
around to face him.
“You fool! Why didn’t you tell me that you were invisible?
And why is it that only I can see you?”
“Because you are my chosen one.” Enjolras, unperturbed, brushed Combeferre’s
hands from his shoulders as if they were weightless. “I am visible exclusively
to my lovers and intended lovers.” He flashed a brilliant grin, running
one velvety fingertip gently over Etienne’s bottom lip.
“Why do you always have to be so damned charming?” Combeferre sighed in
defeat, his anger having melted away.
“It comes naturally to me,” the fairy answered cheerfully, adjusting Combeferre’s
glasses from where they were slipping down his nose. And, changing
the subject as he began to walk again down the path, he referred to the
delicately-framed glasses that Combeferre constantly wore. “What are those
for anyway?”
“Do you mean to say that of all your lovers, none have ever worn glasses?”
Combeferre fell into step beside him.
“Not around me, at any rate.”
“Well, you see, I am near-sighted.” Etienne thought for a moment. “And
far-sighted, now that I think of it. Well, anyway, the eyes are another
mystery of humanity.” He cleared his throat, preparing for a lecture on
optical anatomy. “Far-sightedness is caused by an inability of the eyes…”
***********************************************
“Writing again?”
Combeferre jumped in his chair, startled by the low voice behind him.
He recovered quickly, dipping his pen back into the inkwell and scratching
out more words in his gently scrawling script. Enjolras watched silently
for a moment, reading over his lover’s shoulder.
Finally, utterly annoyed, Etienne half-turned in his chair. “Do you mind?
Have you even the slightest notion of how irritating it is for you to be
there, reading over my shoulder?”
Enjolras ignored him, stroking Combeferre’s dark hair fondly. “Not bad,”
he murmured, his eyes flicking over the page, reading quickly. “Not bad.
What is it?”
“I am writing a book, recording the myths of the Manx peoples.” Combeferre
shifted the papers on the table, showing Enjolras the many pages he had
already written.
“Very interesting,” the fairy purred, shuffling through the papers himself,
and reading each one with supernatural speed. “Very accurate,” he added,
obviously impressed. “Would you like me to tell you some more tales to
add to your collection?”
Combeferre replaced the pen in the inkwell and smiled excitedly. “I would
like that very much.” He tried to stand, but found himself nearly unable
to do so. He gazed imploringly at Enjolras. “Help me to my feet,
if you could. I wish to sit out on the ship’s deck.”
Enjolras took a moment to examine the student. Combeferre’s deep
brown hair lay loose in thick waves on his shoulders, unhindered by a ribbon.
His face had grown more gaunt, his back more curved; the gray eyes were
dark with weariness. Walking had become more and more arduous for
him over the past few weeks, ever since he had first met the supernatural
face-to-face in that Manx forest. Once the two had reached the port
town of Douglas, they had managed to secure a cabin on a ship headed around
the south end of England, bound for Brest, on the French western coast.
Combeferre spent most of his time bent over his writing, in the cabin or
on the deck, occasionally taking time out of his work to watch the sun
set. Lately, he had been writing with a furious fervor, and he had
weakened to the point of almost being unable to physically move without
the assistance of his companion.
Enjolras had watched his plunge into darkness with growing sadness, painfully
aware that he himself was the cause of Combeferre’s pitiable condition,
as well as his spells of feverish writing. What was perhaps even
more unbearable for the fairy was that, when Combeferre glanced at him,
he sensed that the student knew full well why he felt this weakness.
It was certainly true that as soon as they had reached Douglas, Combeferre
had scoured the town for books or first-hand accounts of Manx lore, including
descriptions of various types of fairy and sprite, and these books and
manuscripts had hardly left his side since they had boarded the ship.
Enjolras often shuddered at the looks that his human lover shot him, those
looks that stated plainly that Etienne was all the more aware of his own
mortality. Enjolras wished that he could reassure the young man,
tell him that everything was going to sort itself out in time, but he could
not, knowing perfectly well that time was the one thing Combeferre did
not have.
Now Etienne gave him another of these soul-piercing glances as Enjolras
helped him to his feet. “How long until the end?” the dark-haired youth
asked.
“The end?” Enjolras ignored his companion’s flat, hoarse tone of voice.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” Combeferre leaned heavily against Enjolras’s
slender body. He changed his line of questioning, asking instead,
“Will I have time to finish my folklore manuscript?”
The first response that flashed through Enjolras’s head was If you work
quickly enough, but he did not voice his thoughts. “Most likely,” he
answered noncommittally.
“Then I am going to die?” Combeferre sounded a little too apathetic
at the prospect.
Enjolras choked down the instinctive denial, and muttered again, “Most
likely.” He set his light burden down into a chair set out on the ship’s
deck for just that purpose. As far as he was concerned, a change
in conversational topic was absolutely necessary. “Is there anything or
anyone in particular you would like to seek out when we arrive in Paris?”
The student licked his dry lips. “It is essential that I find the friends
that I had known in my schoolboy days. I wish to see them before
I go for good, and besides, they will know how to contact my family when
I am gone. Besides that, I can think of nothing else that I want
to see. I am done with the Sorbonne; I do not wish to go there.
Not that I could make it there in my condition.” He shook his head with
a shaky sigh.
“I will help you find these friends.” Enjolras settled himself on the deck
beside Combeferre’s chair. “Can you give me any names?”
“Jean Prouvaire,” Etienne murmured, his face creasing into a gentle smile.
“That sweet boy; he was so fanciful. He called himself Jehan.
Oh, and Courfeyrac. He was always the vivacious one…I do not think
he will believe me when I tell him of you.”
“You are going to tell them about me? I fear they will think you
insane.”
The student gave a weak, barking laugh. “If they do, they do. I will
run that risk. I cannot take this to my grave.”
“As you wish…” Enjolras was in no mood to become engaged in a contest of
will. He forced a grin. “Go ahead and attend to your writing, Etienne.
I can see you practically twitching to get to it.” The fairy leaned back
to watch the sun dipping towards the waves, and beside him, the gentle
scratch of pen nib against paper was once again heard, soothing his troubled
soul.
*************************************************
“…And we traveled by carriage the remainder of the way, with as few delays
as possible. The state you see me in now is substantially worse than
it was even at the beginning of my return journey to Paris.” Combeferre
broke off, gazing solemnly at the youth seated in the chair at the end
of the his bed. Etienne’s gray eyes blinked slowly. “I’ve missed
you, Courfeyrac. ‘Tis merely a shame that I did not have a chance
to see you again until it was nearly too late.”
Courfeyrac bowed his head, blissfully ignorant of the invisible fairy seated
on the floor beside the bed. “I know,” he replied. “I’ve missed you, too.”
Suddenly, he smacked his fist angrily against his other hand. “I warned
you. I told you, Etienne, not to go. I knew that God-forsaken
island was only going to end up hurting you! It’s probably some dread
disease you caught there—“
“Have you heard nothing I have been saying, man?” Combeferre burst out,
his voice cracking under the strain of raising it. “I have told you already,
‘twas a fairy that was my eventual downfall!”
Enjolras winced ever-so-slightly, and Courfeyrac just shook his head adamantly,
strands of his black hair falling into his eyes. “Forgive me, mon ami.
I simply cannot believe that.” Combeferre, seemingly weakened by this denial,
closed his eyes, releasing a frustrated breath in between his teeth.
A heavy silence fell in the room, smothering Combeferre mercilessly and
giving his erratic breathing a muffled ring to it.
Jean Prouvaire peered meekly into the well-lit bedroom and, seeing him,
the black-haired young man sitting in the chair near the bed stood in relief.
As he passed Prouvaire in the doorway, Courfeyrac clasped the poet’s shoulder
for a moment, muttering, “See what you can do for him. He’s driving
me
to madness with his ranting, and it seems as though it won’t be long now.
I just wish there was something I could do to help him.” He slipped out
the door, leaving Jehan to advance slowly into the room, eyes fixed on
the frail young man resting against the bed’s pillows.
Prouvaire knelt cautiously by the bedside. “Courfeyrac seems to doubt your
sanity.”
“I know.” Combeferre coughed, doubling up in pain. Prouvaire glanced
around and, noting the glass of water on the side table, he helped his
friend to drink from it. Combeferre relaxed a little, wiping his
mouth on his sleeve. “Are you here to tell me I’ve lost my mind too?”
“I don’t know,” Prouvaire replied honestly, rubbing the back of his neck
in bewilderment. “Etienne, if what Courfeyrac has told me is accurate,
you are speaking of the stuff of children’s tales, and I hate to say it,
but you do tend to have an overactive imagination…”
“I’m not crazy, Jehan!” Combeferre glared at his friend. “Fairies exist.
I have seen one.”
“I told you they would not believe you,” Enjolras said softly, from where
he sat cross-legged on the floor beside Prouvaire.
“Shut up, Enjolras.” Combeferre lay back on his pillows, exhausted.
Prouvaire blinked, glancing towards the empty spot next to him that Combeferre’s
rebuke had been directed towards. He looked back to his friend, the
worry plain on his face. "Are you certain you’re all right?”
“No. I am not certain of anything anymore.” Combeferre did not look
up as he said this, but if he had, he might have been frightened by the
sudden gleam in Enjolras’s eyes. The fairy leaned towards Prouvaire,
examining him closely from every angle.
“A poet…?”
Jehan started, whirling to face Enjolras. “What--?!”
Combeferre looked up in excitement, seeing how his friend’s gaze was fixed
on Enjolras. “Do you see him, Jehan?”
Prouvaire scrambled backwards, away from the fairy. “I do,” he replied,
his voice little more than a strained whisper.
Horror dawned over Combeferre suddenly. “Prouvaire, have you a cross on
your person?”
“Oui, on a chain about my neck.” Prouvaire could not tear his eyes
from Enjolras, who crept closer to him like a panther stalking prey.
“Cling to it, mon ami! Show it to him!” Combeferre cried,
trying weakly to grab at Enjolras’s sleeve.
Jehan, with trembling fingers, fumbled in the front of his shirt, pulling
out a small silver cross. He slid the chain off from around his neck
and held it before him like a weapon. The fey drew back, cringing.
“Never part with that cross,” said Combeferre, panting slightly from exertion.
“He is only visible to his present or intended victims. If you should
ever be caught without a symbol of Christianity on your person, he will
ensnare and destroy you, just as he did to me.”
The poet nodded shakily, and Enjolras sighed. “You cannot hide behind your
Faith forever.”
“Yes I can.” Jehan caught his breath, slipping the chain back over his
head and leaving the cross resting prominently on the outside of his shirt,
where it twinkled mysteriously in the lamp’s light every time he moved.
“Then it is you who is killing him, fey, just as he claims?”
“I must.” Enjolras’s words were sharp. “I am sorry.”
“You think that being sorry makes up for all?” Prouvaire glared, rising
to his feet and brushing off his clothes.
Enjolras stood as well. “We all must survive somehow.”
“Yes, but most of us do not feed off of the spirits of others. You
do not know him, so naturally, you care not what happens to him!”
“Do not say that!” Enjolras was splendid in his sudden fury. “I
know him better than you shall ever know him! I have seen him open
before me like a book! I have seen everything that has ever befallen
him, in every one of his lives, this one and past ones. All you know
is the frail outside shell. I know his soul.” The fairy broke off,
his anger spent, and Jehan stared coldly at him.
“Then why do you torment him? If you knew him so well, you would
see what a beautiful person he is.”
“I have already said.” Enjolras sat on the edge of Combeferre’s bed. “I
have no choice.”
“And if you had a choice, might things be different?” Combeferre asked
weakly.
Enjolras was silent for a moment, then reached down to take Combeferre’s
hand in both of his. The effect was immediate; the young man began
to cough helplessly. Enjolras released his hand with a shudder. “Do
you see? Everything I touch withers and dies. I would wish
you to live, Combeferre. Surely you do not think me heartless…?”
“Sometimes I just don’t know.” Combeferre sighed. He turned his head
slowly to face Prouvaire. “Jehan…bring me the book from the table.” He
pointed with a shaky finger. Prouvaire propped the book up next to
his friend, where Combeferre could leaf through it. “Open it.” Prouvaire
complied, and the philosopher proceeded to flip through the pages until
he found what he was looking for. He indicated a passage. “Read that
aloud, if you please.”
Jehan obeyed, although bewildered as to Combeferre’s reason for asking.
“‘Lhiannan shee: A malignant fairy that makes its home exclusively on the
Isle of Man. This fairy attaches itself to one mortal in particular,
seducing him until he caves to her will. She then drains him of all
energy until he is little more than an empty husk, upon which the victim
dies, and the parasitic fairy moves on to its next victim. Has been
known to favor artists and writers as victims, helping them to achieve
immortality through art or verse before claiming their lives.’” He looked
up in confusion. “But, Etienne, what has this to do with anything?”
Combeferre sighed again, and replied with exaggerated patience, “That is
what he is.” He nodded in Enjolras’s direction.
“But it says ‘she’.”
“I am the only male of my kind,” Enjolras cut in softly.
Combeferre turned his gaze to the golden-haired fairy. “Why did you choose
me, Enjolras? Why, when you could have attached yourself to anyone
on earth?”
“I don’t know.” Enjolras lowered his eyes. “A fairy does not know why they
are attracted to a particular mortal. We simply…are. From the
moment a fairy lays eyes on a certain human, they become infatuated with
that person, and will not rest until they have this person completely under
their control. You see, it is inevitably about power.”
“So you were…infatuated…with me?” Combeferre’s face fell.
“’Tis a fairy’s duty to its species and its own survival to never feel
more than lust for their victim.” Enjolras glanced from the floor, to Prouvaire,
who stood in the corner watching silently, and back to Combeferre. “But
you—I never counted on you. I can speak no more on this. Do
not force me.”
“I won’t.” Combeferre allowed his body to sink back onto the pillows, the
weakness overwhelming him for a moment. His wheezing breaths were
the only sound in the tomb-like room for the next several minutes.
Pale gray eyes stared unblinkingly from his haggard face, and Prouvaire,
suddenly worried, fell to his knees beside the bed, taking his friend’s
cold hand.
“Etienne…?”
The dark eyelashes fluttered painfully closed. “No, no. I am not
yet gone. Just a bit longer, mon ami, and then I can go.”
“I don’t want you to go, ‘Tienne.” A warm tear rolled down Prouvaire’s
cheek, and he brushed it away quickly.
Enjolras was silent.
Combeferre coughed weakly. “I wish it would end. I cannot bear the
waiting, the weakening. I cannot bear to die this way.”
“I can end it for you.” The fairy finally spoke, his voice no more than
a hoarse whisper.
Prouvaire leapt to his feet, grabbing Enjolras by the lapels and giving
him a violent shake. “You will not touch him, demon! Haven’t you
done enough damage?”
Enjolras refused to struggle, as though his strength had left him.
He stared emotionlessly back at Jean Prouvaire, and the poet released him
with a disgusted shake of his head.
“Beast. You feel nothing. You have not the capacity.”
“Enjolras. Finish me.” Combeferre’s murmur broke through Jehan’s
tirade. “I am weary of all this. Perhaps I am a fool, but I prefer
to die by your kiss than by this slow torture.”
Prouvaire bowed his head in defeat. He understood suddenly, hearing
the desperate accent in the philosopher’s voice, that Combeferre wanted
to leave this world, and nothing he could say or do would change that.
Instead, he just sat on the edge of the bed, where Enjolras had been a
moment earlier, and taking his friend’s hand, he raised it gently to his
lips.
“God, am I going to miss you.”
“Do not cry.” Combeferre forced a slight smile. “Jehan, listen well.
In the top drawer of the desk in the corner, there is a stack of manuscripts
tied with a ribbon. Fetch it, would you?”
Prouvaire opened the drawer, pulling out the thick stack of papers.
“Those,” Combeferre continued, straining his voice so that the poet could
hear, “are my life’s work, my opus, if you will.”
“‘The Myths and Mysteries of the Isle of Man and its Supernatural Inhabitants’,”
Prouvaire read from the top page on the stack.
“Aye.” Combeferre smiled as Prouvaire returned to sit on the edge of the
bed again. “It should be well-written; ‘twas inspired by a muse.” He looked
tenderly at Enjolras, who was standing facing the wall with crossed arms.
“I would be greatly pleased if you made an attempt to get it published
posthumously.”
“I shall try,” replied Prouvaire sincerely.
“That is the only request I have of you. And the only advice I have
for you is to never find yourself without your cross, unless you relish
the same fate that has stalked me these past few months.”
Jehan nodded, fingering the crucifix about his neck, feeling the coldness
of the metal with a shiver. “I shan’t forget you, or what has befallen
you.”
“And one thing more—find it within yourself to forgive him.” Combeferre
indicated Enjolras, who flinched but did not turn around. Jehan squeezed
his eyes closed, and Etienne felt compelled to add to those words. “Do
not harbor hate for him, Jehan. I pity him. He has no control
over who or what he destroys.” With that, Combeferre called gently to Enjolras.
“Come, fey. Take me as you did that first night; only this time,
there will be no tomorrow for me.”
Enjolras turned slowly, and approached on padded feet. Prouvaire
relinquished his spot on the bed, choked with tears and hugging himself
tightly. He sat cross-legged on the floor, unable to watch.
The fairy sank to the bed, one hand reaching out involuntarily to stroke
Combeferre’s cheek. He leaned forward, lips just beside the student’s
ear, and tried to form the right words. A quiet Gaelic phrase was
all that his tongue could find.
“Graih firrinaghº. I love you, I think.”
“Can that be?” Combeferre murmured.
“I had never thought so. But perhaps…perhaps there are many more
mysteries in this world than even an immortal can decipher.” Enjolras kissed
the boy’s cheek, and Combeferre groaned, feeling his life force ebbing
slowly away. Suddenly struck with pity for the suffering student,
the fairy slid his lips to Combeferre’s, drawing him into a deep kiss,
the last of Etienne’s life. Even as Enjolras sucked gently on Combeferre’s
bottom lip, he felt those lips become unresponsive and cold, and the philosopher’s
body had gone limp. Enjolras gently laid the young man’s body back
on the pillows, brushing an errant strand of the boy’s dark hair away from
his sweat-beaded forehead.
“Slane lhieuº, Combeferre.”
“Au revoir,” Prouvaire added brokenly from the floor.
And this was still the state of things when Courfeyrac entered the room
an hour or two later. He took in everything—Jean Prouvaire sitting
on the floor like a broken-hearted child, his tears darkening the wood
of the floorboards, while Combeferre lay alone in the bed, his eyes closed
and his hands arranged neatly on his chest as if for a funeral. A
large stack of papers sat beside Prouvaire and a thick, dusty book was
beside Etienne. Nothing more.
Courfeyrac hesitated, not wishing to frighten Jehan, who still had shown
no notice of his entry. “Is he…?”
Enjolras glanced up from where he had been sitting, unmoving, bent over
the body since its last moments. “Answer him, Prouvaire.”
“He’s gone,” the poet choked out, glancing not at Courfeyrac, but at Enjolras.
As Courfeyrac approached the bed with trembling knees, Enjolras stood,
retreating to the far side of the room. Prouvaire was suddenly and
painfully aware of just how much he resented the fairy at that moment,
seeing Enjolras’s dry eyes and the hard set of his pretty, feminine mouth.
“I had no chance to tell him goodbye,” Courfeyrac mused, his voice detached
and hollow. Jehan did not answer, his burning gaze fixed on Enjolras.
He rose to his feet, advancing on the fairy.
“I hate you,” he said softly, intensely. “I hate you.”
Enjolras turned, blinking in surprise at the poet. “I beg your pardon?”
he said, as though unsure that he was being addressed.
“You heard me.” Prouvaire was inches from him, glaring up at him.
Over on the bed, Courfeyrac was tensed in frightened confusion, staring
dumbfounded at Jehan.
“Prouvaire? Jean Prouvaire? Who are you talking to…?”
Enjolras turned away from the mortal again, shaking his head as though
Prouvaire’s presence was like that of a gnat—merely an unavoidable irritation.
“Do not frighten your friend.”
“You miserable creature--!” Prouvaire leapt at him, grabbing him by the
throat and slamming him against the wall with a strength that he had not
suspected himself of possessing. The fairy was shocked, to say the
least, although perhaps not as much so as Courfeyrac. The black-haired
student jumped up, eyes wide, watching as his ordinarily gentle friend
seemed to strangle thin air, maniacally throwing his invisible prey again
and again into the wall until his delicate white knuckles were laced with
blood. Meanwhile, Enjolras struggled fiercely, clawing at the fabric
protecting Jehan’s arms. The poet’s dark blood trickled from his
broken knuckles over the fairy’s neck and down into his shirt.
“Remember…Combeferre…” Enjolras choked out, his bright eyes dimming slowly
as he suffocated.
Find it within yourself to forgive him. Combeferre’s last
request came flooding back into Prouvaire’s head, and the poet was abruptly
ashamed.
Do not harbor hate for him, Jehan. Trembling from
head to toe, Prouvaire released Enjolras, who sank to the floor, gasping
for breath. Jehan also slid to his knees on the floorboards, cradling
his wounded knuckles and breathing through his teeth in agony. Courfeyrac
was at his side in an instant.
“My God! Have you hurt yourself? Here, let me see.”
“Don’t.” Prouvaire shied away. “I have betrayed him; you shouldn’t touch
me.”
“What are you talking about?” Courfeyrac ignored his friend’s protests
and took Jehan’s hands in his, wrapping them with a strip of cloth torn
from the hem of his shirt. “Who have you betrayed?”
The young poet grimaced at the searing pain. “I have already desecrated
the memory of Combeferre, and he has only been gone for an hour or so.
He would be so disappointed.”
“He would forgive you,” Enjolras said softly, rubbing the feeling back
into his bruised neck, wiping Jehan’s blood off of his deathly-pale skin.
“He would forgive you, just as he begged you to forgive me.”
Jehan ignored the fairy, and Enjolras stood, walking slowly to the door.
He turned to glance over his shoulder at the poet and his friend, then
at Combeferre’s fragile body, and shook his head in sadness. Finally,
he slipped out through the door, turning his back forever on the trail
of destruction he had caused.
EPILOGUE—January 1897
Dear Mister Yeats,
I would like to offer my congratulations on the publishing of your latest
collection of Irish fairy tales and folklore. I found it most intriguing,
as did my great-grandchildren, who were positively entranced by it.
I was particularly interested in your appendix to the work, which mentioned
a certain species of fairy that you referred to as “leanan sidhe.”
I suspect that you are speaking of the creature that the Manx people call
the “lhiannan shee,” and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your
warnings considering this being. If only humans had known more about
these fey peoples back in my day, my dearest friend may have at least outlived
his parents. As it was, he passed away in the flower of his youth;
or, should I say, he was murdered, by just such a creature as you describe.
But I do not wish to dwell on such misfortunes. My only concern is
that the world knows the power of malignant fairies, and that there is
nothing sweet or charming about them. And so, I must offer my sincere
thanks to you once more for your efforts to educate the scoffing, thick-headed
public.
Jean Armand-Louis Prouvaire signed his name carefully at the bottom of
the leaf of paper and, folding it with shaking hands, he slid the letter
into an envelope, which he sealed. He bit his lip, staring blankly
at the plain, unadorned outside of the envelope, and finally placed it
down on his writing desk. Prouvaire leaned back slightly in his chair,
pulling his shawl closer around his thin shoulders with a shiver.
His bony, claw-like hands scrubbed in vain at his sunken cheeks, soaked
with the tears left over from nearly seventy years ago.
The door squeaked open on its hinges, and a pretty, blond young woman slipped
in. “Grandfather…?” She approached him slowly. “What are you doing all
alone in here, Grandfather? Everyone else is downstairs now.” She
shivered involuntarily. “Why do you spend so much time up here? It
is freezing.”
“I like it,” he replied softly. “I can be alone with my thoughts up here.”
Seeming to awaken from his trance, he turned a bit in his chair in order
to face the girl and said, not unkindly, “Go back downstairs with the others,
Suzette. Leave an old man to his brooding.”
“Oh, Grandfather!” She had just noticed the tears on his cheeks and the
unshed ones sparkling in his brown eyes, and she touched his arm gently.
“What is wrong? Why these tears?” She followed his gaze to the book
of folklore lying prominently on the desk, side by side with another thick
book, with the words E. COMBEFERRE embossed on the binding. “Are those
the same tears as the ones you shed when we read those old fairy stories?”
Prouvaire gave a sound that was half-sigh, half-sob. Unconsciously,
his fingers strayed up to the chain about his neck, where they brushed
the crucifix that hung there. “These tears are for him. For him,
and for his foolishness, and for the one who loved him but could not save
him.”
“For who?” the girl asked with the sweet patience of someone who was accustomed
to listening rather than talking.
The old man took a deep breath. “His name was Etienne. Many, many,
many years ago, long before your mother was born, after Napoleon and before
Louis-Napoleon, he was a student of civilization and ancient lore.” He
paused, adjusting his shawl again, and gestured somewhat impatiently to
a nearby armchair. “Child, if you wish to hear the tale, pull up that chair,
and I will tell it, as it was told to me. But I warn you, it takes
time, and it takes a suspension of disbelief.”
“But it is a true story?”
“Aye, that it is.” He shuddered. “Very true indeed.”
She settled into the chair, pulling it closer to his, and took his gnarled
hand in both of hers. “Tell me.”
“Good.” Jean Prouvaire cracked a melancholy shadow of a smile. “It all
began one fine day on the Isle of Man. Our hero, Etienne Combeferre,
traveling along the high road, found himself on the edge of a wood…”
*************************************************
Footnotes:
1.) spud: A tool used to unearth potatoes
in Old Ireland, or, in this case, the Isle of Man.
2.) She nyn mea (Manx Gaelic): "You're welcome."
3.) Raght ard-reamagh (Manx Gaelic): "Sublime
release."
4.) Lhiannan shee (Manx Gaelic, lit.): "fairy
lover."
5.) Sheadane Bwoyagh (Manx Gaelic): "beauteous
parasite."
6.) Graih firrinagh (Manx Gaelic): "true
love."
7.) Slane lhieu (Manx Gaelic): "Farewell."
*************************************************
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