"You've heard the stories of the trolls, I am sure!" 

"No." I said, "please tell me one." 

"Well they are here, minding their business and all that, but when they see you coming, they quickly turn to stone."

He was a jolly and fat American on holiday with his wife. Together, they were first place shoo-ins for a Mr. and Mrs. Claus look-alike competition. They had stopped us for directions through the maze of stone pinnacles and pathways that was Dimmuborgir.

He was only joking, but the idea stuck - trolls, I thought. Trolls indeed. Much like the ones Bilbo encounters. I logged the thought into memory, along with my own stories - those few precious encounters I have shared with the Hidden Folk of this world. 

. . .

When I was thirteen, I had the gift of clear-seeing. I knew there were fairies in the wind that swept over the paddocks outside my house. I could talk with them, without pretension or apprehension. Nobody had told me otherwise. 

When I was fourteen, I undertook to write a song to the Good Folk. Imperfect and heartfelt, I sang this song at times when I felt the presence of the Hidden Folk.

It was this song that I remembered and drew out of the dusty corners of my mind when we visited Iceland. I felt so drawn to discover the sacred spaces of the Huldufólk: the Elves and Dwarves and Trolls and Lovelings, so I wandered here and there, listening always with both ears. 

. . .

From Álfaborg I heard her soft voice
Saw the sun in her spun gold hair
The Queen under the (tiny) mountain.
And a few of her entourage
Living in the hollows
among the purple heather flowers

MY SONG TO THE FAERIES

sung in a tune
not unlike the old carol
We Three Kings