Story & Illustration by Isabel Zermani
Published in Salt Magazine, September 2016
The last time the British pound was this low my family went on holiday to London. We traveled by guidebook, to the pubic gardens in Hyde Park. The lack of swing sets and tire chips did confuse me. To the British, park means glorious English gardens, free to the public.
The guidebook listed “Elfin Oak”: fairies and magical woodland creatures “in a stand of wood 900 years old” that “only children could see.” American fairies seemed unlikely, but this was England: home of C.S. Lewis, Peter Pan, Midsummer Night’s Dream. What more could two girls — myself, 6, and my sister, 8, — want?
The map wasn’t specific about the location of this crop of forest in adjacent Kensington Gardens, so we set off in that direction. You may think Hyde Park isn’t that big until you walk across the entire thing. My mother, a late-blooming gardener, had recently become obsessed with tuber roots. This slowed us down. Look girls – a tuber root!
Convinced we’d walked enough, we began to search nearby oak trees for fairies and elves. Are we there yet? Notoriously deceptive, we expected a challenge. We examined each tree trunk, going over knots that resembled faces with our fingertips, comparing potential elves between sisters.
Flashes of light would catch our eyes from across the lawn — this was it — we’d dash over only to remain outfoxed. We expanded to all trees, not just oaks. Our parents were no help; we constantly reiterated the one specific point guidebook did make: only children can see them.
We studied moss for tiny footprints. We hid and whipped around tree trunks to outwit spying elves. I could feel their presence.
We expanded the search to include garden beds, peaking under mushrooms, daylilies and dahlias — more tubers! — hoping to interrupt a tiny fairy tea party. Through the pergola in the rose garden is just where I’d want to flit, if a nymph myself. I crept through, but the rustle pebbles gave me away.
Hours passed, miles, immersed in exploration. My parents began to tire, but my sister and I were so desperately close to experiencing real magic that, at times, we were sure we already had. I defended a stick that resembled a gnome as if my lawyer father, “This is a nose and this is a hat.” We couldn’t just give up.
Finally, my mother called out. Not another tuber…she had found Elfin Oak. A single stump carved with magical creatures — mainly trolls, if memory serves — not hidden at all, visible to all ages. It was imprisoned behind an iron fence, enshrined in mulch and bore the sign that crushed all children’s spirits: “Do Not Touch.”
We all needed a trip to Harrods after that to stomach the disappointment. I felt so misunderstood. I wanted to look for magic, not find it. Once found, it thins.
But something was awoken. Hyde Park introduced me to the subtle mysteries and energies of flora and fauna, my almost-fairies and maybe-elves. The presence I felt was genuine and unnameable.
These days, I revive that quiet seeking at Airlie Gardens or Greenfield Lake. People think I am birdwatching. Maybe I am. But I still approach each dew-laden leaf, each twisted branch, with light footing — upon what magic do I sneak?