Chapter 1- Whimsical Faerie Bookshop

The seasons went by like a snow drift in the upper North side of the mountains. As far North as you may go, time stood still and drifted us back to the faeries where the land was glimmering with trinkets of crystalline light and fair dust. Time had slipped by like there was nobody watching, it was the stillness of it all. I guess that’s what happens when you stop paying attention. Humans from the other side like to pay too much attention. That is what most of the world did by now, they stopped paying attention and they allowed their dreams to bring them to a different realm. We took a walk and our lives were never the same again. We started seeing life in nature and dismantled the illusion. There’s no illusion here where you take the walk. It’s dreamy. It’s real. It’s magical. It’s a breath of fresh cold air. The kind of air that fills your lungs up and makes you feel breathless for a few seconds, to stop and think of how magical life can be as we gathered at the bookshop.

Winter. Spring. Summer. Fall. Here we are again, back to the evergreens, sugar plum faeries and all the fairytales that become real. The seasons here may change, but the only change we see is the perception of it. The one’s that lasted forever. There’s the smell of that banana bread again. I knew I was home, but I wasn’t. It was different. There’s freshly baked sourdough too, dusted with a coating of magic. One bite and you were drawn in.  A blanket that I started crocheting was sitting by my chair waiting to be finished. My coffee had gone cold. I’ll have to make a fresh one. The nights were long and the days were even longer in this quaint little side of town where the bookshop resided. The aroma of coffee and herbal teas filled the village at night where everyone gathered around to talk about their day. The little book shop was where we all met and that is where stories were told, that’s where the magic happened. That is where the fae landed for the night and gathered with us as we sat there for hours, sometimes days on end, although that is how it felt, anyway. It ended when everyone felt the need to get some rest. Rest was needed. We had to revive our souls. Time was always on our side. We never watched a clock, we just knew. When the sun rose, we woke and when the day started to end, we wind down with it. We kept older minds going and younger minds full of whimsical wisdom. The kind of wisdom that you only received in this part of town. The energy was felt and only heard by the littles, who have become our teachers of magic. Many years ago they tried to take away our magic, our ancestors fought to bring it back. Dragons in the night slaying away to revive what they knew was lost. There was fairy dust all around and dustings of their whereabouts. It was mostly a feeling and you knew when they were there. They were there to remind us of what was and what is. They brought a certain kind of magic to this town, the same magic we felt and saw when we were children. Innocent, blissful, and playful.

Imagine a bookshop tucked away between an ancient oak tree and a silver stream, mushrooms were growing everywhere and little moss-filled trees where the birds would come to spread their news was where the bookshop was located. It does not appear on any map and it only appeared when the moon was in a certain position. The only ones who found it were those who still believed that stories can open the doors to a new world. The messages sent were always from the other side of town. There was no good versus evil, rather lightness and darkness. Where we were from was all light. The ones  who refused to pass down the darkness from their ancestors resided on this side of town. We traded and bartered, lived and loved. There was no such thing as illusion, we left that where it came from. Because, everyone knew that once you joined in on this side of town there was no going back.

Alongside, there were ancient books, glowing lanterns, secret shelves, and stories waiting to be discovered. The roof was covered in moss and flowers that ran all along the siding. The windows glowed in the night filled with light that sparkled like fireflies. The inside was magical. Every book contained real faerie stories and you didn’t have to choose what book you wanted, your thoughts chose the book for you. Each book shelf ladder had a mind of it’s own. They moved swiftly through the store just waiting for the moment where someone needed the perfect book. The magic of the bookshop only appeared for those who believed. If your belief was strong enough, you may even find yourself in one of the stories. This was a special situation and they had rules. Once you were brought into the story you had to keep the secret of the faeries. They were private little beings and only spent their time with those who carried the same frequency as they did. The shopkeeper knew secrets about the faerie kingdom and held those secrets near and dear. If you believed you knew them too. The bookshop welcomes all beings. Faeries, elves, woodland spirits, talking animals, and even the occasional curious human who had wandered a bit too far from the ordinary world. No one was turned away for being different. In fact, the shopkeeper believed that the most interesting stories belonged to those who had never quite fit into the world outside.

Behind the counter there was a small brass bell shaped as a mushroom that had never been touched by a hand. The magical spirits that came through and were powerful enough were the ones who chanted the sounds of the bell. It rang whenever someone entered and had a story of their own.

There was a shopkeeper, an elderly faerie named Seraphina Dewdrop, she always knew when the bell would ring. She would look up from her enormous leather bound book, adjust her glasses as such, and smile as though she had been expecting that particular visitor for a long time. Ah, she would say softly. There you are! I have been waiting for you to come in. She knew deep within that this particular person was here to find the magic in everything that the bookshop held.

No one knew exactly how long Seraphina was tending the bookshop. Some say she has been there for over a hundred years. Others had spread whimsical rumors around that she has been there since the very first story had been told under the moon. And, no one knows when that was. The theories were never corrected and Seraphina would just smile each time she heard of a new theory that was called upon. New theories and new beliefs only meant that there would be endless stories to go around and endless thinking to be done. She would simply just continue to dust the book shelves as the ladder would follow her around in case she needed to reach something higher than her fragile wings would allow her to fly softly through. There was always something to do around the bookshop. The floorboards were covered in little flowers that grew in between and beneath the floor, and eventually they grew so much they would just seep through. The flowers were made up of pastel colors that matched the wings of the faeries that flew by. Her favorite job of all was making sure that each story written and told found it’s way to the right reader. Once the story found you, you knew that you were in the right place at the right time.

There was only one rule that was written above the shopkeeper’s desk:

A story freely given must never be used to harm another. Beneath it, in much smaller lettering stated…

And the secrets of the faeries must remain amongst those who understand them.

Most of the visitors who came into the bookshop never really noticed the words. And, anyone who did usually found themselves standing a little closer to the shelves, wondering why the words would only glisten in the eye of the beholder, in the eye of the magic seeker. Those who carried the enchantment within them noticed. And, on quiet evenings when the stars appeared and the moonlight lit across the wooden floor , the bookshop would become even more enchanted. The candles would suddenly brighten and the wings amongst the most highest vibrational faeries would brighten. The flowers would magically open their petals and somewhere there would be an enchanted melody flowing through, yet there was never a musician or a sound box to be found. And, this is where the most amazing stories began. Once this all happened that is when a book would magically find it’s way to someone. Not because they were clever or more important than anyone else, it was the belief within and the magic that was held inside. No one looked for adventure, adventure found you. The book found them because somewhere deep inside they still believed that magic was real. And, once the book had chosen you, there was no telling where the pages would lead.

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