The May sun is warm upon my bare back, with wind rustling the blue satin of my dress, the lace of its trim. As I walk farther through the grassy fields of Spoutwood Farm, I find myself surrounded by women with the most elaborate of gowns, delicate wings sprouting just beneath their shoulders, surrounded by men painted fully in green, twigs and leaves concealing all but their eyes. And around me I can hear the jingle of a gypsy’s hips as she dances past, the sound melding with the swish of her skirts and the patter of bare feet.
Further through the Fairie Festival I walk, finding myself soon within a woods, the sign hung upon a branch marking the entrance to “Fairie Village.” And tucked beneath fallen twigs, sheltered underneath the shade of flowers, lies a civilization tiny enough to rest in the palm of my hand, with minuscule houses made of wood, rocking chairs and china cups left abandoned after an afternoon tea.
And it is only the promise of music that draws me away from the shade of the trees, tempting me to double back so that I am at the bottom of a hill, standing just feet from a stage.
There is a crowd resting along the length of the hill, content upon watching the band from afar. But there are gypsies and fairies moving their bodies at the base, belly-dancing, hips swaying, arms raised in the air before everyone.
And for once, unafraid, I gravitate towards the masses, moving myself to the psychedelic beat of Telesma, dancing before a crowd of strangers who no longer feel so strange. I close my eyes and letmy body loosen as those around me, knowing that though I am still in disguise, I have never felt more sincere.