I read the old fairy stories, and in them I find a world that stirs my heart. As I turn the pages of that book, a longing long buried deep within my soul rushes to the fore of my mind. My intellect, my will, my affections, they are all overcome by a conviction that *that* world, the one of the fairy stories, is the *real* one. The air in that land smells more real than our own. The bells ring forth truth. The waters pulse with life. I feel I know that realm better than my own, even though many places there are shrouded by dark clouds or illuminated by unapproachable light. I expect mystery there. One time, I turned down a path and discovered some well of blessed water. That was truly a delight. Often I’ve entered the hall of the King and eaten at his table while his bards tell stories of ancient and mighty deeds. Faery is a perilous place to sojourn: one goes there and comes back changed. Wounded, more often than not. I went, only to have an intoxicating desire aroused, and then I had to close the book. Now, I sit here in my room, returned from a land of light and enchantment, back in a world that, I am told, lacks the wonders of Faery.
And yet, what if there really are holy waters and enchanted bread and elixirs of life? What if ordinary things can be caught up in Mystery and used for purposes beyond what we’ve imagined? What if the things of Faery were actually the echoes, the shadows, hints of our world?
I think they are.