The Veil of a Deer: original folktale

She adjusted her flower crown in the reflection of the river, thin pink ribbons dangling over her loose waves of hair. Laughter and music from the festival echoed in the distance and a tightness clutched her chest from the inside. Her fingers pressed into the land and gripped a fistfull of grass and flora in an attempt to calm her body and her nerves. After a moment, she stood up slowly, her image growing larger in the river’s reflection.

She wore a dress that seemed to be spun by Spring herself; light and white as the morning’s mist, with fabric that moved like a runaway stream through the tall grass. Wildflowers and bits of herbs clung to the lace trim as she passed through the brush, choosing her rather than being placed.

The abundance of the dress created the appearance that she was floating through the field of freshly blossomed bluebells. But in reality, she was nervously rushing to the Wishing Well, positioned just within the grove of hawthorne trees.

Something about the well always seemed to soothe her nerves, and she longed to tell the waters of her troubles. She leaned over the thick stone wall of the well, peering into the darkness.

I truly did enjoy being the May Queen, but I am so completely distraught by everyone’s eyes on me.

Through the bright green leaves she could see large white spots against soft brown fur. Her mother always warned her against following fawns into the wood, especially when the veil is thin, but thought removed itself, replaced by intuition.

The little fawn watched her approach slowly and then turned away and she knew that meant to follow. Up ahead, she could see a cluster of fallen tree branches that had been propped up in such a way that created a circular doorway. Even though the wood seemed to continue just the same beyond the wooden circle, she knew this was a portal. It could have been the honey wine impeding her mother’s advice, but she followed the fawn into the fairy portal, the sound of twigs crackling beneath her feet as she pressed them into the earth.

As predicted, the environment shifted as soon as she planted her feet firmly on the other side of the portal. She adjusted to her new reality slowly, and then all at once. But was she leaving a dream, or entering one?

She was still in the hawthorne grove, but she was no longer alone. Standing around the Wishing Well was her former self, aged eight. The child was dropping hawthorne petals into the well just as she had been doing moments before, and for many years. Before, her chest felt like a pile of knives, but at the sight of her child-self, she felt like a breeze: light enough to move through anything. Light enough for anything to move through her.

She walked towards the girl, and by this time the fawn had disappeared. Of course the girl could not see her, she was too busy softly singing Merry Little Fae to herself.

Oh my merry little fae,

I love you so,

Won't you come to play?

I brought you sweets

On the first of May.

So won't you come to play?

My Merry Little Fae

When she arrived alongside the well, she slowly reached her hand over, to touch the back of her inner child’s hand. She was sure the memory would disappear, or the girl would react, but instead the moment continued. And the warmth that she had felt while gazing at her inner child, grew so deeply so quickly that she was transformed by the feeling itself. She felt as though her entire body was vibrating with the abundance of the Earth. And even though the little girl did not react, she knew she could feel it too.

She looked around the hawthorne wood, thinking surely she couldn’t be the only witness to this moment. But only the trees peered on, their branches lifted towards the sky.

When she turned back to Wishing Well, the little girl had disappeared. She gazed around the wood, looking for the fawn to lead her back to reality. But after a moment she realized she knew the way. She found the portal made of branches and firmly pressed her feet into the earth on the other side.

She could hear laughter and music in the distance once more and knew that she had successfully returned to the present day. The knives in her chest had been replaced by a deep well of warmth.

Was that a dream? She wondered.

On her left forearm were three small white spots, positioned in a way that formed a triangle. She rubbed her index finger over the skin, reliving the moment as a memory.