I take a quick cut to my right, and plunge into the sanctuary that is the Forest, relishing in the knowledge that now, all eyes are off me. I breathe in, and out, let my body reconnect with the world around me. Now that there is no longer thick concrete and brick blocking me from Nature, I can feel it all again. The earth pulses beneath me, the heartbeats of the worms, the roots– the sheer volume of life around me is overwhelming. I want to close my eyes, but I cannot, yet, for the image around me is sublime; sloping paths giving way to towering trees, plants of all sizes vie for dominance across my view, my eyes snagging on the few trees whose fall colors are beginning to be revealed. The itching of my wings begs to be set free from the confines I must keep them in. Every day I worry, I wonder– do they suspect? Do they know? It’s not on anyone’s mind, I’m sure, no one here thinks the Fae are real, we’re all just an ancient story to them.
It is worth it, the discomfort, the pretending that must be done so often. It is worth it, to be here. This land is special, its importance reverberates down my spine, spills raindrops in my hair. I was upset before, but now I’ve forgotten why, nourished by the landscape before me. I take my time walking, alternating keeping my eyes open and closed– I’ve done this walk a thousand times, I know where each small bridge and protruding tree root sits in the path, know every bend and fork, so it doesn’t matter, just different ways to take it in. Eventually I get to a spot deep in the Forest, where off the path’s side there lies an old, decrepit manhole cover ensconced in concrete. It is covered in moss, and mud, and dirt, with a heavy rusted padlock sealing it forever shut. Or so it seems. After a quick glance around, I approach with my key, and easily slide off the lock before gently pushing the door up, revealing the fresh hydraulics inside and a well-lit ladder, the outside all the illusion of paint. Entering, I am sad to feel the dirt on my shoes turn to metal rungs, but happy to know that I am home.
Insulated by the ground and the pipes, I remove my coat and shoes at the entrance, now in my warm cocoon. It wraps around me, yet I am a butterfly, and with my coat off now I ease my wings open, stretching them and rolling my shoulders. Tunnels aren’t where I ever planned to live, where any Fae was ever meant to live, but nevertheless it is home. The walls are still grimy, discolored, the pipes clamor and shake, and there's an aggressive damp smell we know we’ll never get out, but it’s home. Odd rugs line the floor, an overlapping patchwork telling the stories of all the house-tunnel’s inhabitants; all the places we’ve lived, people we’ve loved.
I wish we could raise these tunnels up, network them through the trees above. It’s the first place that’s ever been ours, and that sense of ownership is electrifying, the allure of control glimmering around me, hiding the mold and rust and rot, banishing the sounds and smells to the back of my mind. We came here out of necessity, but it's become so much more, our safe haven against the world. Our dining table is a log, pulled from just outside. We’ve begun to carve it, in spare moments; flattened the top, began making legs appear from the dense wood. Our chairs all mismatched in a perfect way, like most of our things, an amalgamation of ten lives; things given, purchased, stolen, donated- all collected here, safely stored away in the Tunnels. We are proper Fae, collectors, living communally– but not quite in Nature.
We should be resting high above, wings wide to catch the sun as we bask on the open arms of trees, but those days are gone now. The Forest is protected, its wildlife safe from harm. But we are not included in this vow. Instead, while the plants and the small animals get to go about just as they always have, we must relocate, and learn to live with the humans. I say this as if it’s recent. It’s not. We’ve been at odds with the humans for centuries, starting for my family line in the Middle Ages, where Monks and Friars began prowling the land, evicting all of Faekind to the margins.
The trees told us of the Tunnels, and we moved in as soon as we could. To say it is a perfect arrangement is to undermine the difficulties we face, but it is indeed the best we could hope for. The stress of it all, though, haunts me. Someday, they will find out. It’s happened before, in other areas, and my friends, my roommates, aren’t known for their subtlety. I had a long day, and so did everyone else in the Tunnel household, so after dinner we go for a frolic. Donning our most inconspicuous clothes, we all ascend to the surface, delighting in the dark shroud around us. This is the only time we trust, our night vision and knowledge of the Forest is far higher than any human, so we feel it is a time we can finally be truly ourselves. Wings out, we take to the sky. We can’t go far, but rejoice in a game of tag, or a race between the branches of the trees, always avoiding spots of light from nearby buildings. Someone hits a branch, we laugh, then all remember we must be quiet, must make only the sounds of the animals– what laugh comes from fifty feet up?
After some time, the Moon now high in the sky, we retire, one by one folding our wings to descend into our subterranean dwelling, so strange and yet so fitting for us. I am the last one, intending to do up the lock behind me, a simple trick of air magic I happen to have a better handle on than the rest. They disappear beneath the surface, and I am left alone, pausing for a moment to take it in. I connect to the person I was coming home today, feel the same thing she felt, entering the Forest, and then see the differences, how the soundscape has changed in the switch to nocturnals. Trees rustle, far off a small waterfall crashes, and nearby– a twig snaps. A large one. I open my eyes wide towards the sound, and realize my wings have flared in alarm as I move swiftly to hide them, seeing a humanoid shape begin to materialize on the path. I turn, but it is too late– they would see me close the hatch, they know, it’s over.
The shadow solidifies, and I realize that while its silhouette is mostly a stark contrast to the surrounding landscape, off of the shoulders, there is something murky that moves with it. Closer it comes, they come, and I can make out the shapes, on either side, transparent membranes that flutter in the cool midnight breeze as the unidentified Fae comes up to me, close enough now the little light that spills from the open manhole reveals them to be– a normal person. Someone I’d seen nearly every day, for months.
“So, I’m not the only one.”