It began on a rainy day in June, with the world all aflutter with the sudden cooling of the warm day and the fading of Spring.  The birds, particularly, seemed delighted.  The water soaking into the soil would surely bring up the worms, and a free and easy meal would soon be theirs.    

I stood in the Payne’s Gray world around me, moderately sheltered under the old Maple at the edge of our driveway.  I pulled up the collar of my jacket against the occasional wet blast from the branches above.  The tree was mischievous that way, gathering rain in its leafy nooks till they were full and fat enough, then released them, like small water bombs on those below. 

It was unsettling. You never knew when or where they’d strike.  At least if I’d chosen to stand out in the rain, I could have adapted to the constant barrage.  But this pause, pause, splat, pause, splatter was disturbing.

But if my small experiment was to work, this was where I needed to be.  Where I could watch the brambles that edged our long driveway near the main road.  This was where I’d seen it.  Where, truth be told, I’d only GLIMPSED it, if more than once now. And I felt confident that if I held still, breathed quietly, and waited, I’d see it again.  And not as just as a flash at the edge of my vision, if my plan went right.

In the evenings, after the second time, when I began to suspect that it wasn’t a trick of light and shadow, I’d began googling the web for any information about what it might be.  I scanned pages on Aliens, and Ghosts, and Shadow Creatures.  Finally settling on pages that spoke specifically about the Fae. 

What I read was enthrallig.  They spoke in almost poetic verse about how embracing the Fae would bring magic into my life.  That they could be guardians, if I approached them properly, or teachers that would help me find my true path.  All one needed was a heart full of wonder and a spirit free from superstitious fears. 

I decided that I must be brave.

So, on the ground, close to where I’d last seen it, I had left a small collection of offerings: a dish of honeyed milk with a bread roll, a small gold-colored ring, and a harmonica.   I had no idea what it might like, or what exactly it was, and had decided to play it safe.  My offering, I hoped, would cover all the bases.

I stood, waiting, excited but determined to be calm, and bearing up pretty well against the occasional wet, splat-bombs until a pine cone hit me on the head. 

Startled I looked up, and suddenly there was a rain of them, dozens of pine cones, all striking me with amazing accuracy.  And smarting, quite a bit, until all I could think to do was to sprint for the house, and the safety of the porch.  Once there, panting more from startlement than anything else, I tried to catch my breath.  What the hell?  What the hell was that then?  I’d been hit by a pine cone before, thrown by an angry chipmunk, but what the hell was that?

Angry now, I stomped down from the porch and walked determinedly back out to the tree.  No evil, punker chipmunks would deter me from my plan to find out what lived in our thicket.  

But when I got there, all my offerings were gone.