Reagan Brady-The Erl Queen

It was as big as the sky was blue, and when the clouds grayed, the house, too, would shut up its doors, fold in its walls. I would drink hot drinks and read books, gathered up in covers, safe from the dangers outside.

But other times, I would run, barefoot, without a care, spinning and laughing even as rain sliced my skin. It was so cold, that I was sick with pneumonia soon after. But it was a piece of freedom, of childhood, that I will never be able to get back.

My grandmother told me stories of fairies, of how they lived within the hollows of trees. We had an expanse of forest just behind a gurgling creek, and there I would climb, up into this giant tree, who had a long, thick branch extending down against the ground. It was as though it was an arm reaching, inviting. My greedy fingers dug into the bark, and I would climb up on all fours, before perching myself like a bird, waiting on the company of the fae.

I do not know why I longed to be whisked away by tricky, fantastical creatures, with their glittering wings and beady eyes. All I know is I was a kid with scraped knees and bruised arms, who never quite learned to brush her hair, a wild child, who never, truly, felt like she belonged, except for when I lounged in the trees and read adventurous stories of a life I’d never live.

We lived in a sleepy, New York town, a place where not many tread. And so, this woman, with her Southern accent, was as out of place as a pecan in an apple field. She was thin as a reed, or the harmonicas we played in class. Her bones were as skinny as a heron’s, with their long, winding necks, and looked about as fragile.

I didn’t know who she was, not at first. I hadn’t seen her in five summers. And I was only 7, so that was practically an entire lifetime.

Thanksgiving came, and she stayed. My grandmother busied herself in the kitchen, and the whole house smelled of cookies and pies, of corned beef, and candied potatoes. Even my father, who worked most of the week states away, was with us. We ate until we were overflowing, I ate until I was sick.

She began to read to me, in the widow’s watch, just above the attic. An entirety of earth sprawled out beneath us, frost fogging the glass. I always loved stories.

Christmas came and went. We had a tree large enough to brush the ceiling, nearly scraping at the chandelier. The whole house smelled of pine. And the needles couldn’t be swept up for weeks after the fact.

I remember hiding behind the rails on the balcony, looking over the living room, and hearing my father argue with my blonde-headed aunt about whose present was whose.

Santa wasn’t real that year. But my sister got a beautiful doll, as tall as she. I didn’t breathe a word to shatter her excitement.

Our house was huge, with rooms as countless as dwarves’ caverns, the same I read about in a book. Or as many as there were gold pieces in a dragon’s lair.

One of my favorite rooms was the one that belonged to my aunt Gillian. She had a waterbed, and at times, when she wasn’t there, I would go and play on it. I’d jump and shake, feeling the mattress sway and bob beneath me. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend that I was surfing the waves above a thousand bloodthirsty sharks or curious dolphins. I imagined fish, with fins bright as gems of turquoise, ruby, and emerald, and reefs that bloomed on the seafloor like flowers.

The balcony, the same one from before, was also where I raised my moths. We had chickens, too, and I would tend to those as well. We had to ensure they had their heat lamps to keep the snow from eating their toes. But moths were a gentle sort of thing, a transformation.

We’d order cocoons from some faraway place, and there I would sit, cross-legged, anxiously awaiting splendid green wings unfurling from their resting place. It would take days. Weeks, even. But I kept a careful watch over each one, tidy and safe within their enclosures. And when the time finally came, I dubbed each a name.

I remember a certain day, a specific day, but only in flashes. A day that disrupted the normalcy I’d become adjusted to, with the lady that read me books and would cuddle with my sister and I each night. She was our mother, though I was hardly sure I knew that yet.

I was checked out of school and awaited her in the office, my legs swinging in a chair. My feet couldn’t touch the ground unless I scooted unnaturally down. I sat there in confusion, watching my legs swing, my pink sneakers scuffed, and laces untied.

I knew what she meant, of course. The St. Patrick’s Day Parade was a yearly event for my Irish Catholic family, though it was all the way in Boston, and we lived in upstate New York. Even I knew that the distance between the two places was considerable.

I followed her out to the car. It was a silver sedan, with a man in the driver’s seat. I’d seen him once, a few months ago. He stayed with us briefly. I didn’t think it strange; my grandparents had so many friends, and many people would visit for holidays; I couldn’t possibly remember all their names or who they were.

My sister sat in the back, a Barbie in each of her small, pudgy hands. Her hair was as blonde as the woman’s. Mine was darker. It always had been.

I didn’t know that all of our clothes had been packed into the trunk. How could I have?

We would drive for hours after that. There would be stops for bathroom breaks and stops to get food. And we stopped, for a night, at a hotel to sleep.

My mother removed two clunky black batteries from the back of two phones, hers, and the man’s. I didn’t think to ask questions. Why would I have?

After that stay in the hotel, we stopped less frequently. I didn’t recognize anything; a uniform stretch of highway yawned out before us. I traced shapes on the window when my DS finally died. Never had we driven so long before that it had died.

I thought it was strange. But I was a good child with learned obedience. I didn’t question. I just nodded off to sleep.

When we had finally arrived and I stepped out of the car, I was shocked at the heavy warmth of early March. There was little bite to the air.

And the house was unlike anything I’d ever seen. It was built like a castle, a majestic rock structure. Behind the house were expansive green hills, rolling out farther than I could see. And there were cows—cows!—that roamed about, their black hides shiny in the late afternoon Sun.

“There are lots of fairies here,” my mother said, taking my sister’s hand in hers. She pointed off into the distance, at a winding trail that led off and into a thicket of trees. “Look, see? There’s a fairy walk.”

My sister nodded, her thumb in her mouth. She’d always had such big, round eyes, such a deep blue they looked as though they were going to overflow with tears.

We went inside the house. I was struck by the sight of a grand staircase that curled around and around. My sister hovered beside me, ever my shadow.

I almost missed the woman who stood at the base of the stairs. She regarded my sister and me with a dismissive look and instead stared behind us, at the woman. The same who’d read me so many books.

The man, who I’d nearly forgotten about, pulled the sharp-boned woman aside. She looked as though if she sneezed too hard, she would break right in half. They talked in hushed voices, things I couldn’t hear, because I was soon led away.

I thought of my father. Of my grandparents, the chickens back home. Who would take care of my moths with me gone?

If I asked about the parade, about where we were, I was met with nothing but silence. It was as though I hadn’t spoken at all.

My sister slept beside me each night. When she asked me questions, I didn’t know what to tell her. I would wander outside to explore.

I’d feel the grass between my toes, and my fingers, too, when I reached down, pressing the blades between my thumb and index. It was too cold for frogs most the year in New York. But we weren’t in New York anymore.

There was a pond out back of the grand rock house and a pool and a pool house, with its own bedroom, kitchen, and living area. I wasn’t interested in swimming or lounging on the chairs by the poolside.

I crouched down at the base of the pond. Mud squelched under my feet. It was chilly, but I was used to colder. I waded farther into the water, soaking in it up to my knees, my pants growing soggy in the murky green.

There were massive bullfrogs, tiny tadpoles, and turtles lazying about. I scooped up a few tadpoles in my hands just to watch them, water puddling in my palms. I was quick enough to catch a few frogs, their slimy skin slick against my hands. They had great, big eyes and warty bodies, with yellowed underbellies.

I held each with great care before allowing them to slip back beneath the depths.

I didn’t talk much to the man or the other, bony lady. But I wandered the length of the house and discovered a place fenced-in from the outside with wire screens. Ladybugs swarmed the porch, tiny legs scurrying, clinging to the mesh, an infestation.

Their red shells were like little beads in the dying light, the black spots on their backs staring at me, a thousand judging eyes.

I could’ve reached out and crushed them, felt them crunch between my fingertips.

Patiently, all I did was watch. The air was almost sickly with their stench, a sort of nauseating sweet, or like candied nuts.

A boy approached me. He was younger than me but older than my sister. He had a round face. I’d seen him around the house, before. I didn’t know who he was, but I’d helped myself to some of his toys.

The last day at that house, all was still. My mother was bundled up in blankets, asleep. She was sick, the man had told us, my sister and me. I thought it odd, but didn’t say a thing.

My sister and I found Sharpies and walked up the grand staircase. We uncapped our markers, mischievous grins on each of our faces. Together, we scrawled all over the pretty walls, covering them in indiscernible black scribbles. Those would stay forever, or at least until they were painted over. We’d left our mark on this place, at least temporarily.

If we were scolded for that, I don’t remember. Because all too soon afterward, there was a commotion outside. I peeked out one of the many windows, pulling apart the curtain.

Black cars and vans crowded the driveway, swarming like nasty, black beetles. But with their flashing red-and-blue lights, I knew immediately what these were.

I got my sister, and together, hand-in-hand, we hurried down the stairs toward the mile-long driveway, which had made me feel so far away. People with vests exited their cars, their vans. They’d stirred up dust, and I blinked it out as I watched, moon-eyed. The glaring sirens seemed to fade to a hum in my ears.

I didn’t fully understand what happened after that. My sister and I were hurried into a van by people with guns at their waist. If I looked over their broad shoulders, I could see my mother, though I wasn’t sure I knew it then. She was talking to a similar officer, if you could call it talking. She was only placidly nodding. Her face was hollow. Her eyes were empty.

My father awaited us at the end of the driveway. I hadn’t grasped what had happened, young as I was, but I accepted his hug all the same. He didn’t let us go for a long, long time.

Older now, I know things I didn’t back then. Fairies don’t exist. Magic isn’t real. But if an odd woman beckons you forth—even if it’s your own mother—don’t you follow, lest you, too, be swept up by The Erl Queen.

My name is Reagan Brady. I am a 20-year-old English major who lives in Georgia. I have lived across the East coast, from New York to Florida. "The Erl Queen" is a story very dear to my heart due to it being so personal. I enjoy cats (I live with 6!), reading, writing, and playing videogames with friends. I currently work as a barista and at my local college as a teaching assistant.

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