I think I saw a faerie the other day. I wasn’t expecting to, but no one sees faeries by setting out to do so. First I saw only her car: boxy and angular, the white exterior paint dulled slightly with age. A regal anomaly among the sleek, smooth, rounded vehicles that dominate the road. My 1985 Toyota Corolla was of the same generation – a sturdy, reliable, powerful, safe, sure-footed steed.
I had just the faintest glimpse of the driver. Mythical creatures are rarely seen for more than glimpses. She was a white-haired woman, old and angular, in keeping with the white car. Petite, small-boned; her head barely rising above the head-rest. Delicate in a way that belies the strength of victories and survivorship. An aged and ageless pixie. Exhaust fumes melded with the rain to create a shimmering mist as she made her way down the winding road. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had wings.
Like Viviane, the Lady of the Lake, she disappeared into the sea of grey cars, vanishing without a trace. And like any good mortal with the blessing/curse of vision, I remained alone as her witness. I wanted to follow this ethereal pair to the depths of the forest where they live, sit at the white plastic-covered table and dunk freshly-baked gingerbread cookies into a pristine white bone china cup of tea. I wanted to pass long afternoons with the white-haired woman brave enough to glide her boxy old reliable vehicle around town, eclipsed by SUVs and politically-correct hybrids.
I was enchanted with unicorns as a young girl. Not for me Pegasus and winged flight. I was drawn to the one-horned beauties and prayed their magic would rub off on me. I was appalled to come across one now and again based on the body of a goat. For me, the unicorn’s horse-like essence was as essential as its horn. I wasn’t aware then of any sexual longings inherent in yearning for a powerful steed with an additional magic appendage. I was a pre-Avalonian youth, my story not yet retold, not yet powerful enough – in years or gender – to believe power could be mine without relying on the talismans of men.
I am the daughter of peasants, not of King or Queen. My own grandmothers were not delicate. One was sturdy, reliable, more likely to share a slice of doughy, thick pizza than to bake gingerbread, a soft and round woman who drove too fast in her sleek, modern Pontiac, domineering in a way most people forgave. One was thin and angular, distant and cold, a woman you’d follow to the forest only to realize a step too late there’d be no sweet treats at her table. She wouldn’t have eaten me, nor boiled me in a stew with my brother, but she had no twinkle in her eye and it seemed she didn’t like children. This makes her a far darker character in my Father’s story than mine, he living forever outside the realm of her gaze.
I have wandered in the forest for magic and have learned to follow a mere glint or shine, attune to the faintest rustle, happy to believe I will be beckoned forth to a special place. I have been fortunate, and only ended up in the witch’s house a couple of times. My life has more magic in it than most liberal deconstructionist rationalists believe is possible. I never want rationality to win, if it means I would have missed seeing this white lady on her white steed.
I find myself looking for her at the exact same stretch of road, wondering if she will materialize again. I wish the Lady of the Urban Mists well. If I had a book of spells, I’d conjure up the following for her:
May you have loved ones who respect your strength and beauty.
May you still remember your white magic.
May you every so often catch the fleeting glimmer of faerie wings.