The Story Collector

“She wasn’t getting much sleep since ‘The Big Bad Thing’ as she now referred to it. Somehow it was easier saying it that way, contained it somehow, so the feelings couldn’t get out.”

Through the capitalized euphemism “The Big Bad Thing,” Sarah externalizes her trauma, treating it as a distinct, but unspeakable entity. This narrative choice illustrates a coping mechanism of containment rather than processing, establishing the central internal conflict that drives her journey. Her struggle is foundational to the novel’s exploration of The Healing Power of Storytelling, a process she initially resists.

“An empty nest; beautifully intricate, made with such care and now cast aside. The effects of the whisky seemed to evaporate all at once. The air became still as she cradled the little home of twigs, moss and cobwebs in her hands. A symbol of everything she’d lost.”

This passage employs explicit symbolism, with the narrative voice directly labeling the empty nest as the representation of Sarah’s loss. The symbol connects the physical setting to Sarah’s internal landscape and foreshadows the nature of her unnamed trauma as a stillbirth. The description of the nest as ‘beautifully intricate’ and ‘cast aside’ functions as a metaphor for thwarted motherhood, prompting a moment of clarity that shifts Sarah’s emotional state.

“Whether by divine intervention (because God knows I prayed for it enough) or pure chance, I believe that Mr Krauss has been sent to our door to help me find Milly.”

This quote from Anna’s diary reveals her primary motivation for assisting Harold, transforming her role from an occupation into a personal quest. Her framing of the event as either “divine intervention” or “pure chance” directly invokes the novel’s thematic interest in The Interplay of Fate and Personal Agency. By choosing to interpret Harold’s arrival as a sign, Anna demonstrates her own agency in pursuing a goal rooted in local folklore.

“Well, I’m not saying you’re mysterious, but you’re an American staying at the cottage, exactly one hundred years later!”

Through Brian’s dialogue, the narrative creates a moment of meta-awareness, highlighting the novel’s parallel structure and thematic preoccupation with history. This statement of coincidence underscores The Lingering Influence of the Past on the Present, positioning Sarah’s journey as part of a meaningful, century-old pattern rather than random coincidence. The line functions as an authorial signpost, prompting the reader to recognize the deliberate mirroring between Sarah’s and Anna’s stories.

“‘They are makin’ a child’s coffin,’ he replied; ‘they already have their body, an’ they’re now nailin’ the lid together.’”

Delivered by a village elder, this line establishes the serious and often grim nature of local folklore. The embedded story functions as foreshadowing, introducing the real-world consequences of interacting with the supernatural and demonstrating that local beliefs are deeply connected to life and death. The simple, declarative dialogue creates a sense of finality, grounding the fantastical tale in a tangible, tragic outcome.

“The book looked antique, bound in cloth boards of a rich forest green. […] it was only on closer inspection that she saw the author’s name. ‘Harold Griffin-Krauss?’ she shouted in amazement. ‘You have his book? How is this even possible?’”

This moment marks a turning point where the novel’s dual timelines explicitly converge. The book, a physical artifact from the past, connects Sarah’s journey directly to Anna and Harold’s, Underscoring The Lingering Influence of the Past on the Present. Sarah’s incredulous reaction suggests that her trip is part of a larger, fated pattern.

“I watched the faces of the young and old gathered around our hearth and could see a tug between heart and mind, the old ways and the new, like two worlds coming asunder.”

Following a story about a man who killed his wife, believing her to be a changeling, Anna’s internal monologue captures a central narrative conflict between cultural mythology and modern understanding and practice. Her observation articulates the tension between tradition and modernity that defines the community’s relationship with its folklore. The simile “like two worlds coming asunder” elevates this struggle into a significant cultural schism, showing how the act of story collecting unearths complex truths.

“Olivia, however, bent down and lifted the stone to make sure the skull was good and smashed. A wicked smile stretched across her whole face and as she rose to follow him, she raised her eyes to where I was sitting.”

This flashback provides a concrete example of the Hawley twins’ cruelty, shifting their villainy from local legend to observed fact. The graphic imagery of the smashed skull and Olivia’s “wicked smile” characterizes her as malevolent, grounding the supernatural changelings motif in recognizable human evil. By having Olivia notice Anna, the narrative creates a direct, personal conflict that foreshadows future danger.

“She could feel herself slipping into that ‘right-side’ mode of thinking, which wasn’t like thinking at all. […] But that was the beauty of losing yourself in a task such as this; you reverted to that childlike state that only concerned itself with the here and now.”

This passage details a step in Sarah’s recovery, where she uses the creative act of sketching to manage a panic attack. The text links this artistic process to a therapeutic escape from the logical, language-based “left side” of the brain where her trauma resides. This moment underscores the novel’s thematic emphasis on The Healing Power of Storytelling, demonstrating that creating a narrative, not just consuming one, can be a path toward managing grief.

“‘You’re making light of this now, but I know his type, Anna. Men like him have a talent for breaking hearts,’ she said in a way that made me wonder if she was still talking about Master George.”

Anna’s mother’s warning serves as foreshadowing of the danger George represents, establishing a conflict between Anna’s romantic naivete and a rigid social hierarchy. Anna’s internal commentary suggests the warning stems from her mother’s personal experience as a woman in the world, hinting at The Lingering Influence of the Past on the Present.

“‘If we lose our stories,’ he wrote, ‘we lose ourselves.’”

Harold’s academic thesis provides a direct articulation of the novel’s thematic focus on The Healing Power of Storytelling. The epigrammatic statement distills the philosophy behind the story collecting motif, arguing that personal and cultural identity are inextricably linked to narrative. By placing this discovery in Sarah’s timeline, the text forges a thematic bridge between Harold’s quest in 1911 and Sarah’s journey in 2011.

“‘As she passed through the gap, I tried to grab her, but I found myself frozen to the spot,’ he declared, tears forming around his wrinkled eyes. ‘I was struck down with fear looking at her; her mouth opened as if to scream, but she made not a sound.’”

This excerpt from an embedded narrative, told by a villager about his bride’s disappearance, uses sensory imagery (“frozen to the spot,” “mouth opened as if to scream”) to create a moment of horror. The scene blurs the boundary between a folkloric encounter and a psychological manifestation of grief, exemplifying the story collecting motif by showing how local tales can serve as vessels for processing trauma and loss.

“As I have come to understand it, ‘Fairyland’ is a realm or a place containing the souls of the dead, in company with all other manner of spirit, demon or god. An invisible world.”

In this dialogue, Harold moves from story collector to interpreter, offering a thesis that frames the novel’s supernatural dimension. His definition of “Fairyland” provides a framework that is simultaneously scholarly and mystical, elevating local belief beyond mere superstition. This explanation gives intellectual weight to the narrative’s magical events, suggesting a universal history that connects the living world to an unseen spiritual realm.

“But you: you are part of this place and its secrets live within you. You walk through this landscape, as I walk through it, but you are as much a part of it as the leaves on the trees. You don’t need to try to understand because the knowledge is already in you.”

Harold’s words to Anna contrast his academic, outsider perspective with her innate, cultural connection to the land and its folklore. The personification of the place (“its secrets live within you”) and the simile comparing Anna to “the leaves on the trees” emphasize her organic sense of belonging. This distinction highlights the idea that deep cultural understanding comes from lived experience, positioning Anna as a living repository of the stories Harold seeks.

“I went outside and took the thread and my old cotton dress down from the rafters in the shed. They had dried beautifully and were just waiting to be spun into a fairy-tale gown. I held them in my hands and felt like the sorriest girl in the world.”

Anna’s transformation of a plain dress into a “fairy-tale gown” emphasizes the disconnect between Anna’s desires and her reality. The juxtaposition of this seemingly magical object with her feeling of being ‘the sorriest girl in the world’ creates situational irony, as the dress represents a fantasy at odds with the social realities and dangers she faces.

“‘You have the stench of death on you,’ she said. ‘I see blood. No heartbeat.’”

During an encounter with a local seeress, this dialogue serves as an external manifestation of Sarah’s repressed trauma. The sensory language (“stench of death”) and fragmented imagery (“blood. No heartbeat”) give voice to the unspoken tragedy of her stillborn child. This supernatural confrontation forces Sarah’s private grief into the open, linking the narrative’s folkloric elements to her psychological state and advancing the theme of The Lingering Influence of the Past on the Present.

“You know, we don’t have to take sides, Anna. My job is to document these stories and present the facts. All you’re doing is helping me to shine a light on this place; it’s not up to us where the shadows will fall.”

Harold’s statement to Anna highlights the novel’s story collecting motif. His philosophy positions the storyteller as an objective observer whose role is to illuminate truth, not to pass judgment. The metaphor of shining “a light” that will inevitably cast “shadows” suggests that storytelling is an act of revelation that exposes both admirable and sinister aspects of a culture.

“He raised his head and it took me a moment to recognise him. His eyes had become large and almost black-looking and his beautiful mouth had changed utterly. […] Maggie Walsh’s shocking words returned to me: ‘a changeling.’”

Here, Anna’s description of George blurs the line between psychological horror and supernatural myth. The dehumanizing imagery describing George’s transformation—his “beautiful mouth” changing “utterly”—provides a physical manifestation of his monstrous nature. By directly referencing the changelings motif, the text gives Anna a folkloric framework to comprehend an otherwise incomprehensible human act, suggesting that myths can function as metaphors for real-world evil.

“There was something unnatural about her skin; it shimmered pale green, then yellow, then white, like the bark of a silver birch. And although she sat perfectly still, she was moving. No, it was not she who moved, but tiny, winged creatures, fluttering about her.”

Following her assault, Anna’s vision of her deceased sister, Milly, is described with imagery that merges the human with nature. The simile comparing Milly’s skin to “the bark of a silver birch” and the description of her being covered in “tiny, winged creatures” signal her transformation into a nature spirit. This fantastical moment provides Anna with a form of supernatural protection, suggesting that folklore and nature can offer a system of justice outside of human law.

“‘My daughter,’ she said, her voice finally giving way. ‘My daughter,’ she repeated, louder now. ‘I feel like I can’t even say I had a daughter! It’s like everyone wants me to forget about it, just move on like she never existed. But she did; I carried her for seven months.’”

In this moment of catharsis, Sarah’s verbal repetition of “[m]y daughter” serves to reclaim a truth she feels has been silenced by social discomfort surrounding stillbirth. The scene directly emphasizes The Healing Power of Storytelling, demonstrating that the articulation of Sarah’s pain is a critical first step toward processing her grief.

“Who would believe that an army of fairies set upon Master Hawley and drove him into the silent river? I couldn’t even tell my family, for the mere mention of Milly would cause them all to fear for my sanity.”

This rhetorical question from Anna’s perspective encapsulates the tension between the novel’s supernatural events and the social reality its characters inhabit. The contrast between the folkloric truth of the “army of fairies” and the rational fear of being judged insane highlights the powerlessness of an individual whose experience defies conventional explanation. This internal conflict demonstrates how folklore can provide a framework for understanding traumatic events, even if that understanding isolates the believer.

“I know I told everyone I came to Thornwood to see the hawthorn tree, but that wasn’t true. I came here to grieve. I lost my daughter, Emma. She died in my womb.”

Sarah’s confession marks a significant evolution in her character, as she moves from the euphemism of “The Big Bad Thing” to direct, factual language. By linking the symbol of the hawthorn tree to her secret purpose, the quote demonstrates how a folkloric quest has provided a path for her to confront a personal tragedy.

“Well, according to my grandfather, boat tickets arrived from America every year until the war, but Anna never collected them.”

Delivered through oral history, this statement provides a conclusion to Anna’s story that subverts the expectation of a romantic reunion. The detail of the recurring tickets symbolizes Harold’s enduring hope, while Anna’s refusal to collect them underscores the pull of family duty and circumstance. This resolution complicates a simple narrative of fate, suggesting that personal agency and historical forces combine to shape a life’s outcome.