No one asks the fae to start Spring, they simply do, the same way nettles sting or clouds forget to stay put. It begins with a giggle in the mud, low and wet, like a hiccup from the earth’s belly. They do not walk; they flit, cartwheel, sneeze. And where they go, things grow. Too fast, too much. Violets spill from gutters. The wind forgets its direction. A toddler eats a dandelion and suddenly speaks fluent bee.
The fae are not kind—not exactly. One may lay buttercup petals in your shoes, while another pinches the back of your knee, making you crumple into a patch of stinging grass. But when you smell like soil and your fingernails are green, you’ll find yourself laughing for no reason at all.
Persephone stops by, dragging the scent of pomegranate and the hush of deep places. The fae tie cherry blossoms into her braid and tickle her until she sneezes out a thunderstorm. She doesn’t mind, she dances barefoot through the wind’s tantrum, arms full of crocuses.
This is how it is every year. Jackets on, jackets off. Mud in your socks. A warmth on the back of your neck that feels like maybe, just maybe—someone is watching from the hedge.
To me, Spring is baffling, a whirlwind of confusion. An uncomfortable limbo. This is because of these self-important fae running around doing whatever they please. In an attempt to circumvent their hijinks and the unnecessary bits of this not-quite-proper season, I’ve crafted this guide for those that are too exhausted from the long winter to deal with spring’s antics.
And thus I present to you…
A Field Guide to the Springtide Fae: as compiled (and survived) by one formerly sensible soul
briar
aka: first prickle of spring
preferred flora
- marigold – grief, pain endured
- lavender – devotion (to trouble, mostly)
- rosehip – wounds hidden by sweetness
habits:
briar is the first to stir when frost turns to fog. he trails brambles in his wake, tangling hair, laces, and logic. he delights in minor inconveniences: misbuttoned shirts, skipped record tracks, dreams that nearly make sense. he will not harm you (he can’t). he simply disorganizes you. if your morning socks don’t match, it means you’re briar’s latest mark.
thwart:
compliment him sincerely. this confuses him. say something like, “i admire how your thorns catch the moonlight.” he’ll blush magenta and vanish for a week. for longer lasting results, offer him a comb. he won’t know what to do with it, and will spend hours upon hours trying to charm it into a weapon.
sightings:
seen most often in early march, crouched in hedges, braiding twigs into traps. smells faintly of burnt toast and sap.
thistle
aka: one-eyed summer
preferred flora
- thistle (of course) – pride, defiance
- snowdrop – hope, too early to be safe
- forget-me-not – true love, or something like it
habits:
wherever thistle goes, the weather follows on a leash, and others steer clear. she arrives with wind that forgets itself, sunshine that blinks, and that kind of thunder you can feel in your molars. thistle makes dares feel like destiny, though she never means to. if you’ve ever kissed someone at the wrong time, blame her. she is the arbiter of false spring, and you will always fall for it, year after year.
thwart:
sing off-key. she’s tone-sensitive and will retreat if subjected to poorly sung sea shanties. alternatively, wear entirely neutral tones: beige socks, oatmeal shirts, khaki of soul. she cannot abide un-whimsied humans.
sightings:
often seen twirling under rogue rainclouds, umbrella open (but thrown to the side), single eye shut. known to eat hailstones like candy. might try to kick up a dust storm in your winter-sullied lawn.
echo
aka: bloom in the ear
preferred flora:
- larkspur – lightness, fickleness
- begonia – rumors and warnings
- sweet pea – goodbye, or sometimes ‘i told you so’
habits:
echo is a shapeshifter of no fixed form; sometimes a cat with a crooked smile, sometimes a tulip with teeth, sometimes you, saying something you definitely didn’t say. their joy lies in collecting half-truths and releasing them into the wild like spores. they don’t lie—they just report prematurely. your secrets are safe with them for approximately 14 minutes.
thwart:
speak only in riddles or legal disclaimers. if you manage to confuse them, they’ll assume the secret is cursed and won’t risk repeating it. failing that, plug your ears with lilac petals (first steeped in tea). it’s not proven to work, but they find it ‘theatrically exhausting.’
sightings:
rarely seen in the same form twice. may be the breeze that rustled your journal pages open. may also be the journal.
nettlejack
aka: ow! fuck! don’t scratch it, it’ll make it worse!
preferred flora:
- leadwort – pain, but also protection (as is so often the case)
- burdock – touch me not
- anemone – forsaken
habits:
nettlejack doesn’t hate you, he simply believes every mortal deserves to be reminded of their fallible bodies through the medium of rash. he targets the undersides of knees, the back of your neck, and those three square inches under your shirt you can’t reach. a master of timing, he waits until your arms are full before unleashing the swarm.
thwart:
carry oatmilk soap and pretend you’re a healer—he’s terrified of medical intervention. or simply endure, he respects resilience, and may offer you a single perfect primrose if you don’t complain (out loud).
sightings:
slender shadow with sparkling sharp fangs seen darting behind garden fences. smells of vinegar, damp socks, and black pepper. often accompanied by helio, who likes to layer his burns on top of nettlejack’s bites and rashes, just to be cruel.
valerian
aka: drowsy dew
preferred flora:
- gentian – sweet be thy dreams
- huckleberry – simple pleasures
- poppy – eternal sleep, imagination, oblivion
habits:
valerian doesn’t cause spring fatigue—they are spring fatigue. you yawn in the afternoon? that’s valerian, brushing their soft velvet fingers across your forehead. they nest in hammocks and patches of sun, exuding a wind chime lullaby in soft waves. they leave circles of flattened grass in parks and are known to steal time (and memories). any naps snuck in under their influence may last hours or lifetimes, depending on humidity.
thwart:
i don’t care to evade valerian’s gambits, i welcome the odd catnap while a breeze trickles in through my window. i suppose if you were so against rest you could opt for caffeine or loud music. you ought to move briskly and with purpose. if you must negotiate, offer him your worst insomniac memory. they’ll take it in trade and leave your limbs your own again.
sightings:
seen curled beneath the shelter of willows, mouth slightly open, pollen rising and falling with their breath. harmless if you don’t linger too long in the shade.
cress
aka: overgrowth
preferred flora:
- wisteria – obsession
- bindweed – intrusion, entanglement
- rhododendron – beware
habits:
cress often creeps. she is not seen so much as felt: vines tightening around porch railings, weeds sprouting in your path overnight, tiny green things in places green things should not, can not, be. it is beautiful, at times, how she springs something from nothing. when the concrete is brightened by a yellow dandelion. she will be here long after we are all gone, engulfing what is left behind.
thwart:
to avoid a mess of weeds in your garden bed, prune decisively. it unnerves her. paint a white picket fence and keep it immaculate, for she will not cross a border with no crevices. if you must speak to her, do so in latin. she believes it’s a plant language and will be too flattered to respond.
sightings:
leaves wet footprints shaped like fern fronds. occasionally spotted weeping over a henbit she accidentally suffocated. do not pity her. that’s how she gets you.
You won’t always see them, but you’ll know where they’ve been: in the scuffed knees, the moment you forgot what you were worried about, the ants in your pantry despite your best efforts. They are the itch and the balm, the reason your shoes are grimy and your soul slightly less grey.
Remember: they don’t care whether you’re ready. Spring never asks permission, and neither do its keepers.
If you’re lucky, you’ll only lose time. If you’re unlucky, you’ll gain a secret name, and something green will start growing in your coat pocket.
