Dancing with the fay on May Day morning

Brother Walter kept me company on my journey to Bethlehem this morning. The brethren at the farm have the cough and I took them a caudle to sooth their sore throats and chests. The hob was more than usually fidgety as he rode behind me on Joseph the donkey's back. He twitched and muttered until my patience wore thin. Joseph rolled his eyes and bared his teeth at the fuss.

'Perhaps you should walk, Brother,' I told him, 'before Joseph throws us both to the ground. What is the matter with you today?'

'I am listening for the bells,' the hob said.

'The abbey bells? Why?'

'Nonono, the Seelie queen's bells, on her horse's harness,' he said. 'It's Beltane, the time of the Seelie fays,' he added. He must have seen my puzzled look, and explained what he meant. 'The Unseelie fay hunt and ride in the forest and the fields from Samhain to Beltane, because they are winter fays. The Seelie court are Summer fays. This is the beginning of their time and the queen likes to come to the forest when the trees are coming into leaf and blossom.' He held up a paw and his ears twitched. 'Listen!'

I sat quite still on Joseph's back but could only hear birdsong and the first cuckoo of the year, calling from Foxwist Wood.

The hob smiled broadly. 'The queen's bells,' he whispered, but the magic was his alone to hear and I felt an odd regret not to have heard the bells for myself.

'Well, we call this May Day,' I told the hob as we rode on. 'When I was a boy, my mother would gather may blossom, rowan branches and marsh marigolds and hang them over the windows and doors. She said they would please the fair folk, but the rowan was there to stop anyone with mischievous intent from coming into the house and stealing the freshly churned butter.'

The hob smacked his lips at this. 'Mmm, butter! Your mother was a wise woman,' he said, nodding.

We passed the lane leading to the holy well in Framlinghoe wood.

'People from Yagleah still go to the well and leave offerings on May Day,' I said. 'They have been doing so for hundreds of years and show no signs of stopping, in spite of the warnings on Sundays in church against such a heathen practise.'

The hob nodded again. 'I have seen them, washing their faces in the water. Some drink it too.'

'They believe the water will make them handsome to look at.'

The hob snorted and patted his hairy little face. 'It might make them cleaner!'

'I often used to wonder what I would see, if ever I went into the forest on May Day morning,' I said, gazing along the path through the blackthorn thicket.

'Fays,' the hob said. 'All shapes and sizes, some uglier than others and all dancing and singing, happy that summer is here at last.' 

We rode on, along the track to Yagleah and the grange at Bethlehem. As we left the forest behind, I looked back and just for a moment, I thought I caught the last snatch of someone singing sweetly and the faint ting of a harness bell.