Time moves strangely in Faerie, they say. Bulls**t, he says, and sips a beer.
It’s just relativity. Very special relativity. Magic dilates time just like extreme gravity or light speed travel—you just don’t need an event horizon or Flash Gordon rocket to get there. Faerie’s always closer than you think. Try Dagda’s Cauldron on Bowery and Third and you’ll know what I mean—ask for the Eggshell Brew. I don’t have the heart to tell him we’ve been sitting in Dagda’s for most of the night and it’s nothing to write home about.
The they are “fantasy writers”, he sneers as he rifles through the peanuts at the bar. They can’t bother with honest-to-God research, so they just use “time in Faerie” as a plot device—maybe it moves fast sometimes, or slower, or not at all. This isn’t bloody Narnia, for Heaven’s sake. He finishes the beer with a look of disgust and orders another.
Time moves between the mortal realm and the immortal at a ratio of 34.6 to 1. Yeah, I f**king calculated it. One day in Faerie and a month passes in the “real” world. Yeah, not as dramatic as 100 years for a day, but I just call it like I see it.
And you know what else is bulls**t? If you eat food in Faerie you can never touch mortal soil. I wonder if he’s on his sixth beer or seventh.
Faerie food is just plain better and the buggers don’t want you lot stealing it up.
Foolishly I ask how he knows so much about this stuff. He snorts a laugh and sloshes beer over the table.
Experience! One evening I stumbled upon Dagda’s for a drink. After a few hours of boozing and a few more of sleeping it off in the back—it’s potent stuff—by the time I got home three weeks had passed. Lost my job, nearly got evicted. And I thought, well f**k it. Sold everything and went back to Dagda’s. Every “day” I step out for a bit, withdraw a month’s worth of interest—just enough for a day’s worth of food, bed, and beer—and head back. It’s bloody paradise. No work, no stress, just Friday nights. He looks at his watch and up at me. Hey kid, he says, it’s getting kinda late.