#alvy

When the murmurings started, Alvy sighed. She knew barely a dozen words in the language of her homeland. Still, she heard “love” and “friend”. It seemed her offerings were welcome. So she downloaded duolingo and spoke to her advisor about picking up a class or two in the language and culture. It was the least she could do, really.

The language the hidden folks spoke was garbled, but they told Alvy such secrets. She left a gap- just a hair’s breadth of space in the line of salt across her window, and they told her such wonderful stories. She learned to braid her hair before she slept (no one liked elf locks, after all) and she dropped her beginner Icelandic course. It was so much easier to learn from native speakers.

The people in her dorm never paid much attention to the strange girl with a three story birdhouse and tangled hair. There were more interesting stories. No one really noticed when things changed.

Alvy has always thought of the hidden folk as something different. They were a comfort, and a remnant of a homeland that she had never seen. They were dangerous, of course they were, but they were so small. Ultimately, it was a harmless dalliance. Slowly, she abandoned her iron trinkets and let the salt lines wear away.

It never occurred to Alvy to ask what made the hidden folks different from the rest of the good neighbors. Why would she? Clearly, they were different. The hidden folk were helpful, even kind to her. They told her secrets and stories. They were her friends.

No one was surprised when the strange little Icelandic Studies major disappeared. They were even less surprised when she returned weeks later with her hair still tangled and an unfamiliar accent on her tongue. Alf, as she now was known, was a lovely girl. She didn’t really go to class anymore, but she always had a story to tell, or a secret to trade.

Any who looked for Alf would find her, smiling and waiting for them. She didn’t offer academic success, like so many others, or promise true love. For the most part, she offered dessert. So few people had ever tasted vinaterta, and wasn’t that a shame? Sit for a while, and share. Others might offer secrets and stories with a high cost, but not Alf. Alfur was a friend. Alfur could be trusted. Alfur was safe. Wasn’t she?