2nd Tale in the Tales of Tanglewood fantasy series published!

My second novel is now currently available exclusively on The Tales of
Tanglewood website at a 10% discount!

The Tales of Tanglewood: The Curse of Satyr Stump is the follow-up to The Lon Dubh Whistle, and continues the story of Colin, Blood of the Fey, and his adventures in Tanglewood.

The Tales of Tanglewood fantasy series melds together influences of Celtic and Irish mythology with modern-day folklore. In the second tale, "The Curse of Satyr Stump", Colin, Blood of the Fey, returns to Tanglewood shortly before Sahwen night, a time when the magic of the 'wood has a strange effect on all things within it.

Things have entered the 'wood that should not be there, and the pathways are no longer safe. The blackberries have spoiled, a pooka roams the 'wood, and a strong calling pulls Colin close to Satyr Stump, where Fionn the satyr has been cursed by Grainne, the Grey Lady.

Tasked to face the dark druidess and help break the curse upon Fionn, Colin seeks help from the druid Bairtlemead Muffingrow, the ferrish Ailfrid, and the elfin girl Deidre. But it will be the satyr chieftain himself who joins Colin, seeking to help restore another piece of Tanglewood that has been claimed by deiney corruption.

But the Grey Lady will not yield so easily, and Colin and Fionn are both nearly powerless in her domain. Colin learns very quickly that during Sahwen, Tanglewood can be a very dangerous place indeed.


Book purchased through the Tales of Tanglewood website will be signed and have the option of a personalized message.

The book will also be available shortly on Amazon.com and for the Amazon Kindle, and in regular stores as well.

Chapter Three, Part One

A short while later, their bellies full of roasted
fish washed down with sweetened water, they
had forgotten about the sprites and were
content to walk casually along the bank of Copper
Stream, still savoring the taste of the delicious fish that
lingered on their lips.

During the journey, Colin seemed to have also
forgotten about his parents. Somewhere deep inside
him, he knew there was something he must do, but it
was barely a murmur in his mind, which was loud and
alive with wonder and enjoyment, and frequently
distracted by the urge to scratch at the bites that
irritated his flesh.

At last, Ailfrid pointed to a hut made of wood and
stone, built up against a portion of the bank that sloped
steeply, reaching much higher than the boys. A door in
the hut opened as they approached, and Colin nearly
laughed when he saw the little man scrambling toward
them along the muddy bank.

Bairtlemead Muffingrow was a small, squat man,
barely taller than Colin and Ailfrid. A small set of
round glasses was perched upon a bulbous nose, set
neatly between two large, welcoming eyes of pale blue.

framed overhead by bushy gray eyebrows. His smile was
equally comforting, and long white tendrils of a thin
beard trailed from his chin, nearly to his waist.

Muffingrow’s body was hidden beneath a bundle of
robes, but two large, pudgy hands emerged from the
folds of his clothing to grab a hand each of Colin and
Ailfrid. He shook them both vigorously.

“Come in, come in! Ailfrid, always a pleasure to see
you. And you – hmm, there is mystery about you, isn’t
there?”

Muffingrow’s smile grew nearly as wide as his face,
and Colin would have feared being swallowed up by it,
had it not been so friendly. “Well, come in, won’t you,
and tell an old man why you’ve come to me today.”

They followed Muffingrow into the
hut, which Colin noticed was much
larger on the inside than it had first
appeared. A portion of the druid’s home
apparently extended into the steep embankment.

The second thing that Colin noticed was the myriad
aromas of the many dried branches of herbs that were suspended from the rafters. Indeed, it smelled as though the very essence of the forest were
contained within the walls of the druid’s home.

Muffingrow bade them sit at a small wooden table.

The chairs were also of wood, but had been fitted with
comfortable pillows of brown cloth. Inset into one wall
was a small fireplace with a happily crackling fire, and
near it, what appeared to be a second enclave, carved
directly into the rock, but with an earthen base.

A thick curtain divided another chamber from
Colin’s view. But all about him, he spied numerous
curiosities, most notably a tall bookshelf nearly
overflowing with all manner of jars and boxes and
containers. Many were labeled with the names of various
spices that Colin recognized, many others were either
not labeled or inscribed with strange runes that Colin
was at a loss to decipher.

Muffingrow stood in front of the boys. “Now,
before we talk, I see that you have had a little bug
problem?”

Colin looked down at the many red bumps
decorating his arms and legs, and imagined his face must
look the same.

Ailfrid nodded. “This is Colin. The sprites sent a
nest of black ants after him.”

“Sprites, eh? Nasty little buggers. Well, I have a salve
that should take care of those bites.” Muffingrow
turned and scanned some of the shelves, then clapped
when he spied what he was looking for. He took down
a large jar that contained a dark, mud-like substance,
and offered it to Colin.

“Spread this over those bites, and they’ll be much
better tomorrow.”

Colin wasn’t certain he wanted to smear the foul
looking slime onto his body, but he felt he could trust
the druid. Unscrewing the lid, he smelled the contents
first, and was surprised to find it rather pleasant,
reminiscent of berries, and a hint of smoke and ash. He
cupped a small portion of the salve in his palm and
proceeded to apply it to the bites.

Muffingrow nodded his approval. “Good, good. Rub
it in.”

Colin did so, and was happy to discover that the
salve began to blend nicely with his own skin, almost as
if it were being infused beneath his flesh, while still
managing to conceal the bites.

“Now,” the old druid said. “To business. Ailfrid, I
see you’ve brought blackberries. I presume you want
some tea?”

Ailfrid nodded enthusiastically. “I most certainly
do!” He handed the clutch to Muffingrow, who took
them and placed them into a large black pot already
filled with water. The pot was set on a pivoting arm,
which allowed it to be moved over the fire. The druid
then proceeded to gather together a small batch of
additional ingredients. A handful of dark leaves from an
old tin, some dried herbs and spices, and what looked
like some dried berries of another sort all went into the
pot. Within seconds, the hut was filled with a savorysweet
aroma.

Colin sniffed the air, breathing deep the scent of the
brewing tea, and found his nerves instantly relaxed.

Ailfrid was also enjoying the wonderful fragrance,
but then he turned his attention to the druid and more
serious matters.

“Bairtlemead, Colin followed the stones to
Tanglewood.”

The druid seemed taken aback by this at first, and
peered at Colin over the rims of his glasses, and then
moved in for a closer look.

“At first I thought the sheehogue magic that separates
the ‘wood from the kynney deiney was weakening, but then
I thought…”

Muffingrow’s face brightened. “Ah, I follow your
reasoning, and you are correct, Ailfrid.”

Ailfrid seemed surprised. “I am?”

“Yes, most definitely. It’s the Blood of the Fey. Just look
at that skin, almost as fair as the soft snow that covers
the ‘wood in winter. And those fingers, thin and nimble
as an elf ’s. And hair as black as pitch. But the real proof
is in those eyes! They sparkle with an inner fire I’ve
rarely seen. Almost as if the light of Alastar were
contained within. Blood of the fey indeed. There is
much to this boy.”

Chapter Two, Part Three

They followed the path in silence for a while,
content to listen to the peaceful calls of songbirds and
mourning doves, and the buzzing of colorful dragonflies
circling the banks of the pond. Then, the trees suddenly
thinned on either side, revealing the open forest once
more, and Colin spied a small bridge ahead, which
crossed over a stream that branched off from the pond.

“Copper Stream,” Ailfrid said.

As they approached the bridge, Colin saw that the stream
was aptly named. The water, which babbled happily by, was
nearly golden-copper in color, brilliantly reflecting the
sunlight. Throughout the water, Colin spied several large
fish, also of a copperish hue.

“Does the stream have a story?” he asked.

“Everything in Tanglewood has a story to tell. But the
tale of Copper Stream is a tale for another time. Now, we
fish! A big fat fish, cooked over a fire!" Ailfrid grinned
from ear to ear. “How does that sound?”

Colin’s belly rumbled, and he realized he was
starving. He hadn’t eaten anything since his supper the
night before, and the thought of freshly roasted fish set
his mouth to watering. “That sounds really good.” He
nodded and grinned like a fool.

Ailfrid placed the blackberry branches on a log that
lay along the bank, and produced a tangle of fishing line
and a crude hook from his pocket. “I’ll catch us a fish
or two. You can relax on the bridge.”

Colin doubted he could relax, not when he was
famished. Still, the placid, serene waters of the pond
were a calming sight, and the sun glancing off Copper
Stream was warm and soothing at his back. He sat
himself down on the wooden bridge and quickly lost
himself in the tranquility, while a short distance away,
Ailfrid troubled himself with untangling the fishing line.

Colin closed his eyes and felt the breeze tickling the
back of his hair. He opened them again and squinted
against the rush of dazzling sunlight, which set the
whole pond to glowing. Wildflowers of all sorts grew
along the shore of the pond, tall and luxurious. A short
distance to his left, he could see the shafts of sunlight
streaming in through the thick trees of Root Path,
highlighting the floating motes of dandelion spores that
hovered peacefully in the air.

Colin smiled, feeling deep contentment. This place was
truly magical, and he was a part of it. His allowed his mind
to wander, much in the same way the dandelion spores were
spending their time on this summer afternoon.

The stream glided beneath the bridge as smoothly as
fine silk. Colin eyes followed the gentle waters as it they
passed beneath him. Glancing down at the bridge, he
spied a large black ant emerging from the space between
two planks of wood. It was steadily making its way
toward him.

Casually, Colin drew back a finger and proceeded to
flick the ant across the wood, where it disappeared into
the thin shadowy chasm between the planks.

Satisfied, Colin turned to look at Ailfrid, who
appeared to be deeply concentrated on the surface of the
pond. He had apparently managed to untangle the line
and fasten it to the end of a stick, which he dangled
over the water. He slowly reeled in his line by hand,
hoping for a hungry fish to nibble on the bait.

Suddenly, the ferrish dropped the stick and sniffed at
the air, glancing about furiously. He settled his
measuring gaze on Colin.

“Did something just happen?”

Colin shook his head. “Nope. I’ve just been sitting
here.”

Ailfrid remained silent but sat with a furrowed brow.

He did not remove his gaze. Colin was about to inquire
of Ailfrid what had him worried, when he was
distracted by a subtle whispering, very faint, but
growing steadily louder by the second. It was coming
from beneath the bridge.

Ailfrid’s silver eyes grew wide. “Colin! To your left!”
He pointed.

Colin turned his head and shrieked, scrambling to his
feet.

A thick tide of black ants was streaming up through
the slats of the bridge, so numerous they began to cover
the expanse of wood like a rapidly growing fungus. The
whisper of hundreds of thousands of tiny legs and black
carapaces brushing against each other was like the
rustling of dead, dry leaves.

The army of ants was headed directly for Colin,
forming bridges across the spaces between the planks of
wood for the main bulk of the insects to scurry across.
They were moving fast.

Colin turned to run, and beheld a similar scene on
the opposite end of the bridge. Another force of ants,
rapidly closing the distance.

Ailfrid was running along the bank of the pond, and
shouting at Colin. “The water! Jump in the water!”

But Colin was frozen still with shock and fear. His
mouth was incapable of screaming or shouting; only
frightened breathing managed to escape past his lips.

Then the tide of ants were upon him, swarming over
his feet and up his legs, wriggling their way under his
pajamas. He felt the itching of a hundred thousand legs
thoroughly covering his skin. He found his voice again
and shrieked when they began to bite.

He was dimly aware that Ailfrid was still shouting
something, but then the ants invaded his ears and tried
to get into his mouth and nose. He was forced to shut
his eyes and end his flailing about, in order to keep his
hands over his face. Completely covered by the thick
mass of ants, he sank to his knees and curled into a ball,
his whole body twitching, his flesh reeling under the
onslaught of a thousand tiny pinpricks.

Despite the shell of ants that covered him, he
somehow sensed that the air about him had suddenly
gone dry, and now his skin tingled not with the bites of
ants, but with a static charge. A series of loud pops, one
after the other, echoed across the pond, and Colin felt
several tiny shocks along the length of his body.

He thought perhaps he had been electrocuted, and
the strong scent of sulphur filled the air. He felt
Ailfrid’s arms about him, helping him to his feet. The
ferrish was also knocking off the blackened crust of
thousands upon thousands of dead ants. Still
smoldering, they fell onto the bridge in large, crackling
clumps.

“Damn sprites! Got nothing better to do than pester
us with your tricks!” He helped Colin shake off more of
the dead insects. They fell upon the bridge by the
hundreds, fused together in brittle masses. Ailfrid
kicked them into the water.

“It was pixie magic that did this. They were angry
that I led you away from their hole earlier. They don’t
often get the chance to claim a deiney plaything, and I
ruined it for them.”

Colin, visibly shaken, scratched at himself furiously.
His skin was alive with bites, and it still seemed as if the
ants still surged over his flesh. He noticed his pajamas
were slightly charred.

Ailfrid saw Colin’s concern. “Sorry about that, but it
couldn’t be helped. I’ve got a bit of magic myself, and it
was the best way to get the little buggers off you. Hope
I didn’t hurt you?”

“No, I’m okay.”

“Good. I would have tried to blast them before they
got to you, but I was too far away.” Ailfrid looked
about. “Damned intolerable sprites! I’d blast them if
they’d the courage to show themselves.”

Familiar laughter sounded from the undergrowth,
and it was not at all pleasant. Colin and Ailfrid scanned
the bushes and the trees, but saw nothing. Ailfrid
scowled.

“I sensed them. Or their magic, rather. It has a scent,
like honeysuckle. If you are alone and you ever smell
that, you better run, until you don’t smell it anymore.”

Colin nodded.

“Well, they’re likely gone back
down their hole now. They made their
point. Come, sit by me over there.

We’ll have that fish soon enough.”

They ambled back over to Ailfrid’s
fishing spot, but neither could mask
the concern that clouded their features.

They still felt as though they were
being watched, and they both
wondered what other tricks the sprites
would cast their way.

Chapter Two, Part One

When Colin woke, he expected to find himself
tangled within his blankets, but it was a
bundle of leaves that he clutched in his
hands. And instead of the familiar sounds of breakfast
being made and the smell of sizzling bacon, he woke to
the haunting call of a mourning dove, and the scent of
pine and oak and other earthly aromas.

He sat up with a start, and found himself not in his
bedroom, but somewhere in the woods, surrounded by
trees and bushes and a wide-open sky, rather than four
walls and a ceiling.

His first thought was that he had been sleepwalking,
but then he spied the smoldering remnants of the
bonfire and the wooden mask beside him, and
remembered his dream.

He realized that this time, it had not been a dream at
all.

He had shown no fear in the night, but that emotion
suddenly tumbled forward. Now that this was real, he
was not entirely certain he wanted to be here. Not if the
creatures he had seen in the night truly did live in theforest. And he thought of his parents, who would be
extremely worried if they found him missing. He
couldn’t imagine what sort of punishment they might
hand him when he returned home.

Rising to his feet, he surmised that finding the way
home would be another large problem. But he was eager
to leave the woods, for he felt eyes upon him. The
creatures he had glimpsed last night in what he had
believed to be a dream could be anywhere, and while
they had shown open friendliness then, he was not so
certain that courtesy would be further extended today.

He started off in a random direction, and nearly
shrieked when a boy stepped from a large grouping of
bushes. “You’re awake!” the boy said, clapping his
hands and hurrying toward Colin, who abruptly took a
step back. “Don’t be afraid,” the boy said, continuing
closer. “I gave you that mask, remember?”

Colin looked down at his hand, surprised to find
himself holding onto the mask. “I don’t want it,” he
said, handing it out to the boy. He shivered when he
spotted the small sprouts of horns atop the boy’s head,
peeking through tufts of sandy hair.

“Don’t be silly, it’s a gift. Keep it. You’ll need it at
nightfall, to see in the dark.”

Colin certainly had no intention of spending another
night out here. And the mention of eyesight drew
Colin’s attention to the eyes of the boy standing before
him, and just like in his dream (which wasn’t a dream,
he had to keep reminding himself of that), they were
pure silver, with no pupils. They stared at Colin in a
way that made him feel especially uneasy.

“What?” the boy asked. “I
though we had fun last night.
Didn’t we?”

Colin had to admit to
himself that it was fun. The
memory of the dance thrilled
him, and he felt some of his
fear slipping away. And the
boy wasn’t all that frightful.
Except for the horns and eyes,
he looked very much like an
ordinary child.

He was dressed in a loose-fitting shirt of a very light
material, and green breeches that seemed woven of heavy
cloth. His feet were barefoot and dirty. He had an old
tattered satchel slung over his shoulder.

Colin was slightly ashamed to still be wearing his
pajamas. “We have a gathering like that every new moon.
You were lucky to come when you did. Otherwise you might
have been wandering about Tanglewood, and who knows
where you would have wound up?”

Colin looked around. “I’m not really sure how I got
here in the first place. I thought I was dreaming.”

“You found us because you passed through the
Gateway. It is a secret pathway, and the kynney deiney
can’t find it. Only the fey can show you the way.”
The boy smiled.

“What are the fey?” Colin asked.

“I am of the fey, as are all my sheehogue brothers and
sisters in Tanglewood. Fairykind has many forms, but
we are all creatures of the fey.”
“I see. I think.”

“The magic of the fey keeps Tanglewood safe.
Otherwise we’d likely have all sorts of kynney deiney
tramping through here, and that wouldn’t be good at
all.”

“Oh, I guess not. But you didn’t show me the way in.
I found it myself.”

The boy stared, his expression painted with
confusion and mild shock as he thought of something.
“You’re right, I didn’t show you the way. And you’re
certain you followed nothing else, not even a butterfly
or a bird?”

“Nothing,” Colin nodded. “I was walking in the
woods, and I found a path of glowing rocks that led to
a bunch of trees that formed an archway. I passed under
– what?” Colin paused when he saw the boy’s mouth
pop open.

“You saw the rocks?” the ferrish boy asked,
stammering.

“Yes, and something written on the trees.”

“You should not have been able to.”

“Well, I did,” Colin replied, started to get frustrated.

“But, but–you shouldn’t have. Unless…” The boy
trailed off, appearing lost in thought. Then he simply
stated, “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” Colin dared to ask.

“To see Bairtlemead Muffingrow.”

“Who is that?”

“A friend. A druid. Most of the younger sheehogue call
him Doc Muffingrow.”

“What’s a druid?”

“You might say a druid is a friend to the forest. But
more importantly, Bairtlemead is wise, one of the wisest
humans any of the fey have ever known. He came to
Tanglewood long ago, and has been here ever since. He
has no use for the world of kynney deiney. By the way,
how are you called?”

“My name? Colin.”

“Colin,” the boy repeated. “I’m Ailfrid. Say, Colin is
a good name.”

“Why, what does it mean?”

“Never mind that now. We’ve got a lot of distance
to cover. We have to follow the Root Path almost all
the way to Fallen Tree, then at the bridge, we follow the
Copper Stream. Muffingrow lives along the bank.

When we get to Muffingrow’s, we’ll see what he has to
say. It could all just be nothing.”

Prologue Pt. 2

Although I saw no other fey on my journey to the home of Monohan, I did behold the phenomenal beauty of the forest, brilliant with light and flushed with color, truly a wonder of nature rarely glimpsed by human eyes.

The old man called out certain areas to me as we passed by them or over them. Root Path, Copper Stream, Satyr Stump, Fallen Tree, and others. But I paid little attention to the names. Instead, I concentrated solely on observing all I could. I wanted to hold tightly to these beguiling visions of woodland splendor and the broad spectrum of color that no painter could ever hope to reproduce.

My body felt young again, and my energy seemed infinite, despite how far we had walked. The complaints of old bones were gone, replaced by vigor and determination.

The home of Monohan was hollowed out of a huge and ancient tree, easily fifteen feet across the trunk. The bark was rough and gray. A mass of thick branches reached high into the sky and across the earth, but bore no leaves.

I saw no entrance to the tree at first, but the outline of a door appeared when the old man knocked upon the thick bark. The door, a section of tree as tall as Monohan and myself, slowly swung open of its own accord, and the old man bade me enter.

“This tree was once mighty and powerful, long ago,” Monohan explained, as I stepped into the tree. “But, as with all things, his time was soon to pass, and when I happened upon him, I asked if he would share with me the space within his giant form, so that I may have a home.”

Remarkably large yet equally cozy, the hollow of the tree was yet another sight to take my breath away.

It was as if a storybook image had come to life before my eyes. All of the furniture that lay within; the large table, the chairs, the shelves and cabinets, and the narrow stairway that wound its way to another floor higher in the tree – they all appeared to be fashioned from the substance of the tree itself. In fact, the legs of the table sprouted from the floor as though they had been grown, as did the railing on the stairs and the stairs themselves. The floor was smooth and solid, and detailed the pattern of the tree’s long life.

“The tree obliged me,” Monohan continued, motioning me to be seated at the table. “I have lived here ever since, long after the tree gave its final breath to the sky.”
Lavish tapestries adorned the walls, depicting images of elves and fairies and other creatures I did not immediately recognize. A small fire blazed at the opposite end of the hollow tree in a small enclosure, with the smoke dwindling up into an unseen chimney within the outer shell of the trunk.

The scent of herbal incense also hung heavy in the air. I found it all very pleasant and soothing, and immediately felt at home within the tree.

Monohan leaned his staff against the wall and proceeded to take a small teapot off a shelf, and hang it from an iron hook, suspended over the fire. “Blackberry tea is best served hot.”

As the old man busied himself with the teapot, I took in some of the finer details of his home. Strange runes and symbols were impressed within the inner shell of the tree and along the table, reminiscent of Celtic design.

Various nooks and flat protrusions in the tree formed crude shelves, on which all manner of items were stored. Small candles placed thereabouts further illuminated the inside of the tree, casting the hollow in an amber light.

My eyes wandered over the tapestries, and I took notice of a small representation depicting a tall, thin being that I first thought to be an elf, but something told me that despite the elfin features, this fey was something different. He stood within a ring of other creatures, and possessed a regal look. His stance set him apart from the depictions of the other fey that regarded him. They seemed awed yet warmed by his presence. A subtle smile on the central fey’s lips revealed a multitude of characteristics; kindness, understanding, strength, confidence, and more. I do not know how I was able to discern all that from the tapestry, and Monohan interrupted any further thoughts of it.

He sat himself down across from me. I noticed then that Cluny was gone. He must have flown off at some point during the walk, but I was too lost in the wonders that surrounded me to have noticed.

“Now, while that tea is getting hot, let’s talk.” He clasped his hands in front of him.

“Alright,” I said. “Why have I been brought here then?”

The old man’s face brightened, and he smiled. “Ah, good lad, now you are asking the right questions.” He paused, and then grew very serious.

“You’ve been brought here,” he said, “to tell the tales of Tanglewood.”

He smiled again, but I was merely confused.

“You don’t look pleased,” he said.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I replied.

“You are a writer, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Well, I mean, I used to be.”

“Nonsense! There is no such thing as used-to-be. You are a writer, whether it has been ten minutes or ten years since you’ve picked up a pen. Look there, on the shelf.” He pointed.

The shelf he indicated held a large stack of parchment, and several quills and bottles of ink.

“They are yours,” he continued. “To write the tales of Tanglewood.”

He said this matter-of-factly, as though everything should have been understood.
It wasn’t.

The old man spoke. “Much has happened in the ‘wood these many years past. Much that needs telling. It has been my charge to record the events of the ‘wood and instill them within the Well of Knowledge, but I have fallen behind in my task, as I was busy with other matters, and will soon be called away again. So I entrust this chore to you. You need to write, and the ‘wood needs a suitable scribe.”

He rose from the table and proceeded to take two wooden mugs from a small nook.
“I wrote stories,” I explained. “Fiction. And sometimes newspaper articles. But I was never a famous writer. Why me?”

“Why? Because you believe. And also, because when you wrote, you wrote from the heart. You wrote with feelings and emotion. You let it flow from your heart and soul, to your pen, to the paper. You have a magic in you that can manifest itself in the words you write, should you choose to let it out.”

“Magic? I don’t think so. I imagine I would have been more successful as a writer if that were true.”

“You were not meant to write for the ‘kynney deiney’. You were meant to write for the ‘wood. Until now, your magic has been suppressed. Here in the ‘wood, it can be free.”
Monahan rose from the table but continued talking. “You feel it now, don’t you? You feel it stirring in your heart, like a sleeping beast that has been dreaming for very, very long, and is only now opening its eyes to a new world. No doubt there is a flurry of words and sentences and descriptive passages already forming quite a storm in your head.”

Monohan removed the teapot from the hook, and poured each of us a steaming mug of dark purplish tea. The sweet scent of blackberries and various other spices wafted through the hollow of the tree. It smelled absolutely heavenly as I breathed in deep the steam that rose from within the mug.

“Not just anyone can write these tales,” he continued, seating himself at the table again. “But you have always been a Soul of the ‘Wood, even if you were never actually in the ‘wood”

“Soul of the ‘Wood?”

The old man looked at me, his eyebrows furrowed. “You like repeating after me, don’t you? Well, to answer your question, a Soul of the ‘Wood is one who has always believed, one who has always had the wild spirit of nature contained within. You are at peace in the forest, and a friend to animals. You find the beauty in nature, and your soul is open to the magic of the world. That, my good man, is a Soul of the ‘Wood. Now, drink your tea.”

I did, and the sweet-hot liquid was like nothing I’d ever tasted. Its warmth enveloped me in a comforting embrace, while my senses were affected by a rushing wave of sprightly exuberance.

Tasting of ripe blackberries, woody herbs and sharp spices, I felt as though the spirit of the ‘wood itself was contained within this magical elixir.

It tasted familiar. It tasted like home, a home I had never seen, but at last returned to.

My mind was a flurry of ideas, and I looked at the parchment and quills, suddenly eager to begin work on these tales of the ‘wood.

I had denied myself the comfort and thrill of writing for far too long.

“These stories, these tales of Tanglewood you wish me to write,” I said, taking another healthy sip. “Who will tell them to me?”

Monohan sipped his own tea and smiled.

“Listen to the trees, my friend. The trees will tell you the stories, and perhaps much more.”

I listened, and the whispering wind rustled the leaves of the trees. The very air had found a voice, deep and ancient. There were no clear words, but rather a weighty moaning that penetrated my mind. From this engrossing chant I could discern a meaning.

Behind my eyes, I beheld new images of the ‘wood, places I had never been to, and strange creatures I had never seen.

The voice of the ‘wood suffused itself into my soul with startling intensity. It spoke as though it were just another part of myself, familiar yet detached, muted as though immersed under water, a rumbling echo within a deep cavern.

The great trees had witnessed much in their millennia, and had an abundance of stories to tell. But they chose to speak to me first of a little boy named Colin, who reminded me much of myself when I was his age.

But Colin had found Tanglewood much faster, much easier than I did…

Prologue Pt. 1

When I was a young boy, the world outside my house was a magical realm. My yard was full of clover and toadstools, which I spent considerable time looking through on sunny afternoons, searching for evidence of fairies, pixies or elves. I made sure never to step on the bright green moss beds that hugged the base of the trees. The soft moss was fairy carpeting, and I wanted the fey to have a comfortable, inviting place to relax, should they ever decide to visit my yard.

Many summers came and went, and my view of the world began to change. Distracted by homework, and video games, and mundane tasks and chores, the yard slowly transformed from something mysterious and magical to just your plain, ordinary, everyday backyard.

I had begun to grow discouraged after never finding any sign of the fey. But an advantage came with being older; I was now allowed to enter the woods alone. A small forest bordered the yard behind my house, and it was there, I thought, that I would stand a better chance of meeting a creature of the fey, for the woods were their true home, where they likely lived in abundance.

Every hidden pathway was an adventure leading to secret places, every knothole in a tree a possible lair for sprites, every clearing a possible meeting ground for elves. I walked the paths until I knew them all by heart, and watched and waited and listened, and I never found any sign of the fey.

Several more summers passed, and the woods, though undeniably beautiful, no longer seemed a haven for mystery and myth. The forest was home to typical woodland animals such as raccoons, squirrels, birds, and the occasional fox or owl, but little else.

I gave up my quest to find and meet the creatures of the fey. I had other things to be concerned about now anyway. College, a girlfriend, a job, followed by a house, a wife, a career. The magic of the world and my memories of the woods faded away to a far distant place, overtaken by real world technology. Steel and glass and concrete and plastic began to replace trees and grass.

All about me, the world changed at the hands of my fellow man, intent on removing all that was once bright and magical from the earth. Once, acres of farmland, and endless miles of woodland dominated my hometown. Now, most of that was gone, replaced by obscenely large cookie-cutter homes and unnecessary shopping malls boasting rows of cookie-cutter shops.

Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall; the changing scenery repeated itself in a constant cycle, and I grew older still, watching with detachment. I grew bored, restless, and saddened by the state of the world and what it had become. I realized that a world without magic, whether real or imagined, is not a fun world at all. And if you can no longer find any magic in the world, then you must find it within yourself.

And so it was that one day, when I was very old, I decided I would take a walk in the woods once again. Away from the cities, technology still had far to go before it could completely erase every patch of nature from the world. I had moved far away from my old home and my old hometown, but here in this new town where I resided, there was a large area of woodland just within walking distance, and I felt a renewed sense of childlike energy as I approached it.

It seemed funny that I had never really paid attention to the woods that I had likely driven by so many times. Had it really been so long ago that I wandered a simple dirt pathway looking for fairies and elves? Had my childhood been abandoned and forgotten so easily?
As I walked through the woods, I appreciated the beauty of the trees, the serenity of nature, and the warmth of the powerful sunlight that split the trees. Fey or no fey, I found magic in the woods once again. I had to stop and pause a moment, to simply bask in the moment of peace that had overcome me. It was the peace of being a child, of having no worries or concerns. Such trivial things had been left behind at the border of the woods, and I stood here now with a happy heart, the heart of a child finding wonder and magic for the first time.

The moment had captured me so completely that it took a few minutes to notice the butterfly circling lazily before me. It was a colorful splendor of purples and yellows, and appeared to be dancing in the air just for me. I smiled and observed the small insect that seemed to mirror my happiness.

I held out my hand, and the butterfly lighted upon it, and I marveled at the insect, which was casually staring back at me, slowly waving its antennae. Then it caught a breeze and flew before me again, remaining close. I strode forward to continue my walk and the butterfly moved forward with me, ahead of me.

If it hadn’t been such a crazy notion, I would have thought that I was supposed to follow the beautiful insect. Since I had nothing else to do with my time but enjoy all that the woods had to offer, if they offered me a butterfly to lead my way, then I would follow.

We walked for some time, the butterfly and I, down a path that narrowed considerably, and into an area where the trees grew thick and the sunlight struggled to penetrate the canopy of leaves overhead. Still, I was certain that I could find my way back at ease, and I was enjoying the camaraderie of the butterfly in this enchanting environment.

The butterfly picked up speed, darting through a small tunnel of birch trees, and I followed.

Emerging from beneath the archway, the forest suddenly changed. It wasn’t something immediately noticeable in appearance, but rather a subtle feeling that enveloped me gracefully.

Though I had already been walking for some time, the weariness was gone from my bones, chased away by a sudden onset of vigorous anticipation.
My skin tingled.

I began to notice small differences in my surroundings. The forest was radiant; bright beams of sunlight trickled through the leaves to kiss the ground below, and cast a lustrous glow about the forest. The very air seemed to shimmer excitedly and the leaves and the grass sparkled with fresh morning dew. The twittering of woodland birds was musical, and the wind rustling the leaves of the trees and tickling my hair was a soothing, comforting whisper.

The butterfly still fluttered by, and I glanced at the insect suspiciously. I suddenly wondered if perhaps there was real magic to be found in the woods after all.

The rational part of my mind wanted to dispel the silly idea, but the child in me was wholly stronger here. Fueled by memories and desires of childlike longing, I easily dispatched rationality to a faraway corner where it was unable to cause any trouble or sway me from continuing.

I could taste the very essence of the forest on my tongue, a morning mist of earthy flavor. The aroma of the woods was fresh and primal; I could sense the richness of the deep earth beneath my feet, and the scent of pine was seductively inviting, mingling with subtler notes of clover and sweet honeysuckle, orange blossoms and wild berries.

My ears were wide open to the welcoming song of the birds hidden within the surrounding trees. The woods were lush with color; a bold array of greens, majestically strong browns, the effervescent glow of sunlight glancing off patches of delicate, golden-white flowers.

The whispering wind hinted at secrets and assured me that the magic I was feeling was real.

The forest was alive, and for some reason, the butterfly had led me here, to the heart of it, to witness these sensations for myself.

I was gazing at the woods around me in silent admiration, when a quiet voice startled me.

“I wasn’t sure you would come,” the voice said.

I whirled, frightened to find myself suddenly not alone. Had I not been so old, I might have run.

When I saw that the owner of the voice that addressed me was an old man, much older than myself, I realized there was no need to take flight. He was likely just another old soul out for a walk in the woods, and our paths had crossed. My heartbeat settled back to its normal rhythm.

I had not immediately considered his words to me.

I then noticed his appearance and strange manner of dress.

He wore a shirt of a roughly woven green cloth, and brown pants of a similar material, reminding me of something you might find in a thrift store back in the year 1500. The legs of his pants were folded over a pair of pointed brown boots of worn suede or leather, hardly what I would call a comfortable walking shoe. A tall, wooden walking stick, smoothed and topped with a gnarled clump of a head, was clutched in his hands.
His hair was cropped short, mostly white with the slightest tinge of red, and his beard was straight and long, framing a softly wrinkled face. His eyes, however, were not soft. Though seemingly kind, they were also hard and strong and lively. They watched me intently.

He leaned his staff against a tree and reached into a faded brown satchel that was slung over one shoulder, and produced a wooden flask.

“Something to drink? You’ve walked far to get here, you must be thirsty.”

I was thirsty, but I was not yet ready to accept an odd flask from an even odder man.
“No thank you, “ I replied.

He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Suit yourself. But you’re passing up a fine blackberry tea.”

He put the flask away, and when I witnessed the butterfly set itself down on the shoulder of the old man, it was my turn to raise my eyebrows.

The stranger glanced at the insect on his shoulder, and then returned his gaze to me. “Yes,” he said. “The butterfly is mine. Rather, he’s my friend. You two have already been acquainted, but you haven’t been properly introduced. His name is Cluny. I am Monohan.”

It seemed absurd to introduce myself to a butterfly, but I found myself starting to anyway, out of politeness. “I am–“

“We know who you are, of course. Why do you think I sent Cluny to find you and lead you here?”

This was all getting a little too bizarre for me. I was about ready to turn around and head home.

The old man uncannily sensed my thoughts.

“Don’t go, please. Not after all the trouble I’ve gone through to find you. The ‘wood needs you.”

“The ‘wood?” I asked.

“Tanglewood, to be more precise. This is where you stand now, just beyond the Gateway, the entrance to Tanglewood.” He pointed to the copse of birch trees I had just walked beneath.

“You would not have found it on your own, I assure you. Only the fey can show you the way. That is why Cluny led you here.”

The butterfly left the shoulder of the old man and flew about my head enthusiastically, and then returned to its shoulder perch.

I was more interested in what the stranger, Monohan, had just said, I asked him to repeat it. “What did you just say?”

“I said only the fey can show you the way. No one can get into Tanglewood otherwise.”

All my childhood endeavors of searching for the fey came rushing back into my head, but I forced myself to remember that I wasn’t a child anymore. Old notions of magic and innocence had been joined by doubt and suspicion, and I wasn’t quite ready to believe I was in the presence of a fey. Not yet.

Once again, the old man seemed to sense my apprehension. “You have questions?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather follow me to my dwelling, where we can discuss all this over a mug of fine blackberry tea?”

“No, I’d rather ask them right here.”

Monohan nodded. “Alright. Ask your questions. But leave your heart open to receive the answers.”

Fair enough, I thought. “Okay. Are you telling me that you are one of the fey?”

The man chuckled. “Me, no. I do live among them, however, for quite some time. I have been away from the world of man, the ‘kynney deiney’, for quite a long time indeed.”

“Then the butterfly–“

“Cluny,” Monohan corrected.

“Yes. Cluny.”

“He is a creature of the fey, possessed of intelligence and some minor magics. You’ll find that many of the creatures of Tanglewood, the birds, the foxes, sometimes even the fish, are no ordinary animals. But we are getting off topic. We have much to discuss, so please try to keep your questions related to the topic at hand.”
“I’m not even sure exactly what the topic is.”

“That’s easy. The topic is contained within this simple question. Are you ready to accept that the fey and their magic are real, and always have been?”

I paused, unsure of myself. It was here I knew I had to make a decision. I could dismiss the ramblings of this man as harmless lunacy, or I could accept what he had told me, and follow him to his home, wherever that may be.

A gentle wind caressed the trees once more. Watching with curious perception, listening keenly, I heard the whispers of the woods and the song of the sky resonating within my mind. A primeval feeling of enlightenment overcame me.

I realized then that I had truly never stopped believing, and these extraordinary woods, full of untamed life and strange enchantment, had cast a spell over me.

Monohan took hold of his walking staff and gestured me over, turning toward a path I had not seen before.

With a renewed sense of adventure and my curiosity piqued beyond habitual limits, I eagerly followed.

The Second Tale of Tanglewood will soon be told!

The 2nd book is complete at long last. Just need to do the illustrations, which will be far better than the pictures in the first book, as I'll be pulling my mighty artistic talent of the storage closet. In the meantime, I'll also be submitting the second novel to larger publishers as well, so not entirely sure when the book may be out, but you can always download the preview from the website http://www.talesoftanglewood.com

Irish Fairies

Called by any number of names, whether it be fairy, faery, fae, fey, shee, wee people, and many more, the fairies of Irish folklore have fascinated us through the years.

No doubt as children, many of us searched for evidence of fairies, sprites, brownies, leprechauns, and other fey, in dark corners of our attics, rings of toadstools in our backyards, and secluded areas of woods, all magical places unto themselves.

Whilst writing my own book, I cam across a few tomes that are exceptionally entertaining and instrumental for anyone wanting to learn more about the many fairies of Ireland, and the myths and legends that go along with them. Aside from the more well-known fairy types, these books also introduce you to other fey that are no less intriguing, such as the banshee and the pooka.