Story for the Day: The Phuca
The Fey of Frewyn have many different factions, made up of several different species. There are pixies and nixies, were-folk and lesens, but the most interesting of all the Fey are the phucas. Their females are small and sweet, timid and tremulous, and while they are consider entirely harmless, their males, especially when looking for a mate, are nothing to cavil at.
Sounds of distress drew her attention from the bean beds. Cries
came from farther afield, and Baba’s ears twitched as she turned toward the
sound, smiling and murmuring to herself, “Well, now, seems
like I caught one,”
before hastening toward the western rows as quickly as her stone-filled apron
would allow.
At the
very end of Baba Connridh’s land, where the southwestern border met an old
stone wall, was a whitethorn, old and gnarled, its boughs low and languid from
the burden of age, its remaining haws dwizzened and dispirited from the change
in season, its new leaves only just beginning to bud. A family of thrushes made
their home in the hollow, and sitting at the roots below, whimpering in quiet
aguish, was a small phuca, its eyes wide, its small and slender frame clumpst
and shaking. It was looking down at its leg and tugging frantically at a fetter
clamped around its ankle, desperately trying to break itself free. It cried and
moaned, straining away at the chain holding it down, its long fingers trying to
pry the lock mechanism apart, but the chain would not give away, and the phuca,
with head bowed and eyes low, wept in despondence, resigning itself to
confinement at the foot of the tree, where it sank down amongst the roots,
pulled its vulpine ears over its eyes, and sobbed outs its sorrows, wondering
whether anyone would ever come and save her.
“Hush
up all the bellyachin’. That trap ain’t hurtin’ you none.”
The
phuca’s ears perked and flickered frantically toward the voice. It quickly
wiped its eyes and looked up, finding the an old and haggard face of Gran Mara
Connridh looming by, her jowls joggling, her lips tucked toward one corner of
her mouth, her aspect thoroughly unimpressed.
“What’s
all this here hollarin’?” Baba snuffed, jutting her chin toward the phuca. “I
don’t see you bleedin’ none. That trap wasn’t made for hurtin’, just for catchin’,
and you got caught. Shouldn’t be any o’ this here cryin’ and carryin’ on how
yer doin’.”
The
phuca, fraught with sudden terror, scampered away and wiped its cheeks with the
back of its hand, staring at Baba from the shade of a low bough. A moment
passed, the old woman looking as though she were waiting for the phuca to
tranquilize and understand that she was not come to harm her. It peered out
from under the bow, hesitant and demure, but as Baba stepped forward, the phuca
shrank back behind the tree, winced in concentration, and her hands began to
glow. A verdant mist spread over the tree roots, a gale came and went, but the
fetter around the phuca’s ankle tightened, the mist dissipated and dispersed,
the glow faded, and the phuca made a defeated sigh.
“Ha! No
use tryin’ to change and hop away whilst I’m watchin’,” said Baba, nearing. “That
trap won’t let you shift, nor’ll let you wisp outta here how you folk do. Beagin’s
got her eye on you anyhow.”
The cat
leapt out from behind Baba’s legs, and the phuca yelped and ducked behind the
tree.
“Save
yer hollarin’,” Baba declared, waving a hand at the phuca. “She’s not gonna do
anythin’ to you while yer in this form. You’re too human-like for her to think
of chasin’ you. Come on out here now, and let’s have a look at you. I ain’t
gonna bite. Don’t got half my teeth anymore anyway.”
There
was a pause, and the phuca gradually crawled out from the shade of the tree,
approaching Baba with hesitation, its large amber eyes spying the old woman
with cautious curiosity.
“No use
tryin’ to pull outta that,” said Baba, nodding at the chain. “Enchanted silver.
Keeps any Fey what get caught it in from usin’ their abilities to escape. Made
it myself. Got a lot o’ Fey to contend with, havin’ this aul’ tree on my land.
All you Feyfolk like comin’ and goin’ in and outta it like it’s a door to a
tavern. Don’t mind most o’ you, so I leave the tree where it is, long as
there’s no ruckusin’. Also be bad luck liftin’ out trees what have been in the
ground so long, even if it means I gotta see a few Fey on my land once in a
while. The wisps are good for the marsh and the nixies are good for the ponds, and
the brouneidhs are alright when they do what they’re supposed to and look after
my bean crop. Never had no phuca on my land before,” eyeing the Fey at her
feet. “Well, not that I know of anyway. You folk usually keep to yer forests,
changin’ into all sorts o‘ things so’s you can hide from the hunters. Don’t
keep the trap for you folk. Keep it for things bigger’n you what might make
mischief o’ my fields. Usually, you wee-folk’re sharp enough not to get caught,
so what’re doin’ here, girl? Ain’t yer forest a mile aff south? Ain’t nothin’
here for you to eat besides. Don’t even have my carrots in yet.”
The
phuca glanced at the chain and seemed quite embarrassed. Tears descended, and
its lip quivered, preferring to somber reflections to speaking.
Baba
exhaled. “Cryin’ enough to sour yer porridge—what’s all these tears about now,
girl? You after waterin’ my fields?”
The phuca
sniffed and pulled at the chain. “I-- I cannot get out.”
“Aye,
shouldn’t think so,” said Baba, raising a brow. “That’s what a trap is for. So
what gets in it don’t get out.”
“But I
must get away. The longer I stay in one place, the easier it is for him to find
me. If I am still too long, he will come! Please!” the phuca cried, raising its
hands in supplication. “Let me go! Let me go or he will come!”
“Who’s
gonna find you, girl? Ain’t no one here on this land but me,” and the two Gods,
but they could be anywhere at any given moment, attending parishioners and
visiting devotees whenever their names were spoken. “Who’s gonna find you here
that ain’t me? The brouneidhs? Let ‘em come so. Been waitin’ for those wee
mites to show up. Gonna give ‘em a right wallopin’ for cursin’ my beans.”
“No—please,”
the phuca pleaded, her voice tremulous. “Please, let me go—you cannot have an
idea—“
“Oh, I
got a few, girl,” Baba fleered, folding her arms. “Bet you’ll find me real
willin’ to listen to yers though. G’wan, girl, amuse my ear and pull my leg a
bit. Tell me what yer doin’ on my land and I’ll let you out.”
The
phuca tugged anxiously on her ears and pulled them down to meet her frown. “The
brouneidhs—“ she began, with looks of speaking entreaty,“—it was they who got
me caught in this trap. They had been pestering me for days about wanting to
attend your Brigid’s Day festival—I know we are not allowed to interfere in
Frewyn affairs, but I wanted to go—and I thought that if I was disguised, no
one would know the difference—and I would not be hurting anyone if I went—I
only wished to hear the music and see the dancing. We do not have anything like
your holidays and celebrations in Mlys, and I very much wished to see it—I
always hear the music from the squares and taverns whenever I am near Sethshire.
The woods are quite close to the town that I can hide in the shrubs and listen
for a while. It’s easy for me to hide at night when no one is out hunting—but the
brouneidhs—they saw me leaving to come here, and as a cruel trick, they put
this trap right at the foot of the tree and waited for me to step in it. I know
you will say I have no right to be here when I should be in Mlys, but—“
“Wouldn’t
say that,” Baba interposed. “Much o’ this land we used to share between us.
Don’t mind if you folk’re here, just don’t want you makin’ a noise or pullin’
up my onions while you’re passin’ through.”
“Well,”
the phuca sniffed, “as it is, I missed the Brigid’s Day celebrations. I’ve been
trapped here all day, and now I will have to wait until next year to see them.”
“You
ain’t missin’ much, girl. Been to ‘em a few times when I was younger. Just a
whole lotta ruckusin’ and rollockin’. Nothin’ to cry over, sure. Here,” said
Baba, waving her hand over the chain, “let’s get you outta there now.”
The fetter
clinked, the chain glowed and rattled, and when its settled, the trap opened by
itself, and the phuca was free. “Thank you, good woman,” said the phuca,
rubbing her ankle.
“Aye,
sure, I’m all over scarlet for you,” Baba grumbled. “Just call me Gran, none o’
this good woman nonsense. Why’re the brouneidhs so interested in stoppin’ you
from goin’ to a celebration? Not like they don’t come over here whenever
they’re wantin’.”
“I—I
cannot say,” the phuca mused, its ears wilting. “I have no idea why they should
take such an interest in what I do. They never did before, except to tease me.
I have visited Galaeshield near the forest without their bothering me, but
perhaps they did not know about my visits there.”
The
phuca seemed quite embarrassed, its ears pinned back, its cheeks colouring, and
Baba could not but smile.
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