Faery Tales & Nightmares

THE SLEEPING GIRL AND THE SUMMER KING

WHEN THE SUMMONS CAME THAT YEAR, Aisling did not resist. In silence, she went to the door.

But Donnchadh, the Summer King, appeared. He clutched her hand. “Stay inside.”

“I can’t.” Aisling glanced out the frost-etched window. Outside, clouds of snow swirled like ethereal dervishes. It was time for Winter to reign, time for Summer to fade.

“You could try … just a few moments more.” He cupped her face, his touch like midsummer sun. “Your sisters fair did not go so eagerly. Bide with me awhile longer.”

Aisling glanced toward the door. The pressure to heed the summons grew like a weight in her lungs, making it difficult to focus on anything else. “It’s time. I need to go.”

“So you’ll abandon me?” He trailed a finger across her cheek. In his eyes were lush forests where they’d wandered along hidden paths.

“I will see you when I wake, Donnchadh.” She opened the door, feeling the release of the tension as she did so. It was harder every year to deny him.

For the first time, Donnchadh stepped in front of her. He leaned down and gently kissed her closed lips.

“Donnchadh?”

He sighed, his breath warm as the last rays of summer drifting over her, and stepped away. “Until you wake then, my foolish girl…”

Aisling stepped outside; frigid white spirals wrapped around her as she called out the same words she had spoken every year: “Have you come to fetch me, Cailleach?”

An old woman stepped from the maze of the ice-laden trees and parted pale lips in a smile. Her face was the clear blue of still skies; her eyes were the blinding white of untouched snow. Though she moved no closer, cold breath brushed Aisling’s cheek. “It is time for Winter, daughter.”

With her face tilted to the sky, Cailleach spun in the wildly blowing snow; her long white hair streamed out like mist. From her pale lips, the weight of winter escaped—sending the thick snows to blanket the earth, releasing the deep cold of true winter.

Then she paused in the storm she had set forth. Clutching her tall wooden staff, Cailleach whispered the dreaded words, “Sleep now.”

And as she had done since childhood, Aisling tumbled to the snow-covered ground to become the Sleeping Girl. For a moment, she resisted Sleep, clinging to the pleasure of winter’s beauty for a breath longer. Aisling turned her face to the ground, sighing at the rare joy of new-fallen snow against her skin.

Too soon, Cailleach was there, sweeping Aisling into her arms, carrying her to the door, where her sisters, those chosen once-mortal girls who had been Sleeping Girls, waited to watch over her during the sleeping months.

She felt herself being handed into strong arms, and then Sleep took her.

Blossoms would not unfold as long as she rested; life would still while Cailleach roamed with her icy breath. So, Aisling slept with the earth, as silent as the creatures hibernating in their dens, as changeless as the buds waiting to wake in the spring.

Months of storm and ice passed while Aisling slumbered.

Finally, in her sleeping world, she heard Donnchadh’s sibilant voice whispering her name; she felt his warm breath slide over her. “Aisling, dream the Spring for us. Awaken.”

So Aisling began to dream slender roots sinking into the soil and furred creatures stretching in their dens. She dreamt fish racing the currents, field mice weaving through the grasses, and serpents basking on the rocks. Then her dreaming body smiled at the new life she called to wake with her.

Thus Aisling woke, looking for him, for Summer.

He was not there.

She opened her door and stepped onto the porch. Sun-soaked wooden planks warmed her bare feet. The white willow beside the pond rustled in the breeze. With each breath, she drew in the fragile scent of spring flowers.

She turned her gaze to the budding trees, seeking Donnchadh in the wood where they would run with the creatures of the forest and seek out the fresh waters of hidden springs. With Donnchadh beside her, they would look on the waking world and rejoice. They would dance on the edge of the overflowing river in celebration. Sometimes her sisters would join them; more and more, though, she was alone with Donnchadh.

But for the first time, he was not there.

Instead, in a shadowed patch of snow—a last breath of winter—Cailleach waited. “Walk with me, daughter.”

As they followed the twisting path to Cailleach’s cabin, Aisling wondered if her sisters had felt relief or despair when they had become too old to be the Sleeping Girl. Did they lament the years of dreaming the world awake or did they rejoice that they were no longer children?

When she’d asked Donnchadh, he would only say, “It’s not for me to speak of.”

Aisling knew she must choose soon. Every Sleeping Girl had to make the choice between replacing the last Cailleach or joining Donnchadh as one of the many girls who frolicked in the sunlight. To be young with him forever or to be apart from him and age—neither answer made her happy. She thought of the beautiful things she would leave behind if she chose the Winter Path, and she thought of the beauty she might finally know if she carried winter’s kiss. And she knew not which answer to give.

Cailleach paused on a flagstone path leading up to a rough-hewn cabin. “We’re home.”

A dark wood porch curled around the small building; a single weathered rocker sat on the splintered planks. Hand on the heavy black door handle, Cailleach glanced at Aisling. “Are you ready?”

Mouth too dry to speak, Aisling nodded.

Cailleach pushed open the thick wooden door; its swollen wood creaked in objection. In silence, they crossed the threshold, and Cailleach went toward the single source of heat in the room, the cooking fire.

Although tiny, the main room was well-kept. Worn furs were folded in a corner; colorful rag rugs covered smooth floorboards. Across the back wall, a shelf overflowed with leather-bound books.

Aisling turned to follow Cailleach, but a massive gray wolf blocked her path—ears back, tail wagging.

“Faolan,” Aisling murmured. Though she’d seen him watch her from the distance over the years, this was the closest she’d ever been to Cailleach’s companion. She held out her hand, palm up. “Will you let me sit with your mistress?”

Faolan pressed his nose into her palm, breath warm on her skin. He opened his mouth wider, exposing the rest of his strong white teeth, and licked her hand.

Humming softly, Cailleach stirred the contents of an iron kettle over the fire. Pausing, she lifted the ladle to taste the spice-scented stew. “Not much longer.”

Aisling thought of the sweet berries she’d expected to have this day and said nothing.

Cailleach stepped closer. Steadying herself on the scarred wooden table that took up the bulk of the area, she looked over at the wolf. “I told you it would be today, Faolan.”

The wolf tilted his muzzle and yipped.

“Hmph!” Cailleach snorted. She set out a plate of bread and a crock of honey, pausing to wipe her hands before continuing, “Maybe she’ll realize how well your hide would line a new cloak, hmm?”

Faolan huffed, licked Aisling’s hand again, and turned away. After much scuffling on the worn floor, he settled with his tail end facing Cailleach.

“Big beast forgets his place. You’ll need to remind him who’s master here.” Cailleach settled into her chair and nudged the wolf with her foot, tucking her bare toes under his side and smiling at him. “He’s a good listener, our Faolan. And he’ll keep you safe in the bright season, when the air is too warm for you to leave the cabin.”

“I haven’t decided,” Aisling murmured.

Cailleach smiled. “I know, but I am hopeful.”

With a steadier hand than she’d expected, Aisling lifted a piece of still-warm bread. “How long do we have?”

Cailleach glanced out the window, squinting as she faced the spring sun. “A few more days.”

Over the next days, Aisling’s doubts and desires flourished.

Each evening, when Cailleach slept, Aisling explored with Faolan, settled on the wolf’s strong back when the terrain was unsteady.

Each night, Donnchadh called to her, “Aisling, I miss you…. Come with me.”

And she went. She spent her nights lost in dance with him, barefoot on the soft mosses of the forest, tempted by his constant whispered flattery. Refusing the lure of Summer himself was not easy—nor what she wanted.

Each dawn, she sat with Cailleach, listening as the old woman shared her knowledge.

And all the while, Donnchadh beckoned from the wood. “Aisling, the daffodils are blooming. Come.”

Finally, one morn when Aisling returned from her nocturnal wandering, Cailleach stood in the clearing beside the cabin. She leaned heavily on her staff and gazed into the wood as sunrise broke.

“Cailleach?” Aisling ran to her. Cailleach could not face the full warmth of the sun without feeling ill, not for long.

“Once, long ago, my name was Glynnis.” Cailleach stooped by the not-yet-blooming hawthorn bush and laid the staff under the shrub. “I now ask to again be only Glynnis.”

Faolan moved to stand beside Glynnis. She placed a pale hand on the wolf’s head for support as she stood in the center of the clearing.

Aisling felt the pull, the insistence that she pick up the staff. She stepped forward.

Donnchadh’s voice whispered through the trees, “Deny her. Deny the cold.” He eased from the shadows; still-wet mud caked his bare feet. “Would you give up our dances beside the river?”

Like a hare in an open meadow, Aisling froze—going neither toward the shrub nor toward the trees.

Donnchadh edged closer. “Did you enjoy feasting on dew and berries under the warm sun?”

Aisling nodded.

“There’s much I can show you now that you’re too old to Sleep; there are pleasures in the sunlight that you’ve yet to know.” Donnchadh, the Summer King, knelt in front of her and held out his fawn-colored hand. “Stay with me, my Aisling.”

Her sisters drifted into the clearing behind Donnchadh. “Listen to the Summer King: come with us.”

“Each Sleeping Girl since Glynnis has chosen to stay with me in the sunlight.” Donnchadh glanced briefly at Glynnis, his eyes wistful. “Glynnis chose to take the staff; she carries the cold. You do not have to.”

Glynnis said nothing, but her whitening fingers tightened on Faolan’s pelt.

In a voice like sunbeams Donnchadh asked, “Is this what you would choose, to carry winter’s chill? To vanquish me every year?”

Aisling wavered, looking at the face that had greeted her each previous waking for as long as she could remember. She’d thought about the things she would know if she stayed with him, the laughter and the dance, the kisses she’d seen him bestow on her sisters. She wanted that. She lifted a hand, her fingertips almost brushing Donnchadh’s face. To wait inside the warm cabin with her sisters guarding the next Sleeping Girl through the winter, watching the snow fall; to spend the warm seasons with Donnchadh for eternity—these were fancies she’d pondered in silence for many years.

He held her gaze. “Stay with me in the sunlight.”

Behind her, Cailleach Glynnis was silent. She did not remind Aisling that a new Sleeping Girl would not yet be old enough for several seasons. She did not whisper the weighty truth: that winter’s snows could not drift deeply unless the Cailleach carried the cold. She did not admit that she was weary.

Glynnis did not say a word.

The beauty of Winter would be forever lost to Aisling if she chose to go with Donnchadh. Those brief moments when snow cloaked her would be forgotten in time. The freedom to walk where she chose, the privacy she’d known: these would be gone. She would only walk where Donnchadh chose; she would be as one with her sisters, but not her own person.

In that instant Aisling knew she’d made her choice. As a girl, she woke the earth; as a woman, she would drape the earth in her cold blankets. “I will feel the kiss of Winter, not wait and watch from inside the cabin.”

Quickly, Aisling leaned down and wrapped her arms around Donnchadh, embracing him one last time.

Then she walked over to the hawthorn and grasped the staff. “I am Cailleach. As those before me, I will carry the wind and ice.”

Ripe with sorrow, Donnchadh’s voice carried on a warm breeze, “Fare thee well, Aisling. I shall think of you and what could have been.”

Black clouds gathered and ripped open, drenching them.

Aisling lifted Glynnis in her arms, cradling her.

The old woman rested her head on Aisling’s shoulder and closed her eyes. “Thank you, daughter.”

Aisling lowered Glynnis to the ground as the earth opened, accepting Glynnis into the soil she’d tended for so long. “Be at peace, Glynnis.”

Then—eager to be out of the growing brightness of the sun—Aisling wrapped her blue fingers around the staff and walked away from the Summer King.

Clutching the silk-smooth wood of her staff, Cailleach Aisling walks among the trees. She taps it, sending freezing fingers into the soil, the first taste of the winter that will soon follow. Beside her, Faolan lopes, waiting to carry her on his great back when they cross the river.

Aisling pauses and murmurs, “The snows shall fall heavy this winter.”

Faolan nudges her with his massive head, keeping her on the path. Silently, Aisling crosses the growing carpet of white, peering into windows, her cold breath leaving frozen snow flowers on the glass.

Finally, she reaches a house outlined by the moon’s silvered light. Inside, a girl waits, restless in her bed.

Tilting her face to the gray sky, Aisling opens her mouth. Winds shriek, chilling those slumbering under warm quilts. She spins in the swiftly spiraling snow, and icicles gather on the branches above her.

Frozen tears of joy clatter to the ground as Aisling looks on the winter beauty. The trees shimmer under starlight. White puffs drift in the crisp air as Faolan huffs beside her. And the earth—the waiting soil—is covered by downy snow, unmarred by track or furrow. There is beauty here that she’d once only imagined.

The girl steps onto the porch. She is but a child, hair in braids, but she comes as the Sleeping Girl must. She whispers, “Do you summon me, Cailleach?”

Aisling answers, “Not yet, little one. Sleep now.”

The girl tumbles to the soft snow, and Aisling gathers the child in her arms.

She carries the girl to the cabin, where the Sleeping Girl’s sisters wait. They accept the Sleeping Girl from her and carry her farther into the house.

As he has every year since she became Cailleach, Donnchadh stands at the threshold. He brushes his warm fingers over Aisling’s cheek. “I thought of you these long months. It is strange pleasure to look forward to the snows.”

She holds her breath as he brushes his lips across hers. The moment before vanquishing him is still new, will always be new—but it must come. Winter must end Summer, just as the Sleeping Girl must call him back in a few short months.

Gently, Aisling whispers, “Donnchadh…”

And at the touch of her icy breath, he vanishes.

“Until spring,” she whispers into the empty air.

So Cailleach Aisling turns back to the frozen night; she has much to do before the new Sleeping Girl wakes the earth and Donnchadh reigns again.