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| Detail from "A Visit to the Witch," by Edward Brewtnall, artmagick.com |
Editor's note: At last, the catch-up begins with a big batch of stories and poems. Fanni starts us off with an intriguing tale of what happens when we "fall" into a story.
The old witch was almost feeling the witch hunters' angry
panting on the back of her neck. Their heavy ironed-boots were squeaking on her
porch and their arrows were trembling impatiently in the quiver. The witch was
staring into the orange flames in her fire place and was seriously
contemplating giving up escaping. The log on the fire was slowly turning black and
the teeth of the flames bit golden runes on its body. On the pyre, she could be
like that log; peacefully sleeping, warm in her heart at last. Her soul would escape the cage of her body
and soar to the sky with eagles. These were all futile phantasms. She couldn't
run away from her fate and couldn't hide for much longer either.
Though she wanted to stay dead silent, a bitter
laughter escaped from her throat. Strangely, it was not the crooked snigger of
an old hag but the silvery giggle of a young maid. It came from a memory from a
long time ago. She was an apprentice and
on a lavender-scented summer day she wandered into the labyrinth of the
library. She had not been so happy before: The smell of mahogany and
parchments, the ancient paintings on the ceilings and walls and the whispering
books which spoke of great deeds, dark secrets and the promise of immortality.
She was naive back then, a girl of seventeen. What did she know of the
treacherous workings of the world? She stroked the velvety spines of books and
marvelled at the golden lettered titles. She was looking for something,
following the call of a sweet voice whispering in her ears.
"Come to me, dear Hecate and I will unravel to you the
mystery of your life and the flow of your future."
She found the book in the furthest corner of the
library; it was sitting alone on the shelf and the title page read "The
Grimm Tales of the Truth Brothers." She sat down leaning her back to the
bookshelf and began reading. As she turned the first page a frantic whispering
began behind her begging her to close the book and run away until she still
can. But she laughed at the voices; no harm had ever come to anybody from
reading and she was captured by the tale: A beautiful princess, her skin as white as snow and her lips as red as
the blood, springing from your fingers if the needle of a spinning-wheel stings
you. Or as red as the coat of a girl who is taking crispy bread and white wine
to her grandmother and doesn't notice the danger eying her from the shadows.
The words and sentences were reaching out to her, tangling around her as the tendrils
of briar rose or the sun yellow hair of the girl in the tower. Hecate's heart
was floundering in her chest because she felt her soul was there in the stories. It was about her. She was to be a princess rising from the ashes to wear
dresses of glass and shoes of lace or to be woken by the first kiss of a prince
and rule over a kingdom. The books behind her back were already screaming and
screeching but she didn't hear them because she was charmed by the song of a
piper. She didn't know how much time had passed by the time she reached the
last page. There was a letter addressed to her which talked about her fate,
which she sealed by reading the book. She wanted to run but the spindles of stories
were twisted around her wrist, ankle and neck. She was lured into a trap by
promises of happiness and riches and a royal marriage.
"We
promised you nothing, silly witch, just a role in the tales. And your role you
shall have. Nothing more and nothing less," whispered the pages.
Hecate found herself standing in front of an aquarelle
castle in a black wedding dress holding the hand of an old king and feeling the
hate burning her from the eyes of his motherless daughter. Hecate wanted to
love the child but her words were stuffed into her mouth and her movements were
pulled by strings. She tried to kill the girl with an apple, but she failed.
The witch hunters were after her but just before the
first arrow reached her, she dived into the book which she always had on her.
She was inside and outside of the book at the same time, a little Chinese box
of stories and illusions. When she opened her eyes she was wearing a rich
silver fur and was living in the resin smelling pine forest. She was a witch
and she was a wolf. She was lurking among the trees and watching a girl and her
grandmother. She wanted to like the old lady, because she reminded her of her
grandmother who she will never see again. But hunger was roaring in her mouth
and her movements were pulled by instincts. She tried to kill the old lady with
her teeth, but she failed.The hunter threw her in a river but she managed to
open the book before water rushed into her lungs.
She took a deep breath and
her nose filled up with the sweet smell of gingerbread and the sticky scent of
cotton candy. She saw a boy and a girl wandering in the forest. She wanted to
love them because they were driven away from home just as she was, but her words
were baked for her and her movements were pulled according to ancient recipes.
She tried to kill them with her sweets but they ran away and the witch hunters
were on her trail. They were already rattling with the lock. She had no more
time to lose. It was written that she had to climb into the book again and
again to play all the roles she was given. The lock fell to the floor and the
biscuit door flung open with a creek. The witch had a last message which she wrote
on the floor with melted chocolate just before she threw herself into the
pages. The leader of the witch hunters arrived in the room with the bow ready
in his hand. The old hag was nowhere, but there was a strange sweet smelling
scribble on the floor. It said "Burn the book!' and there was an ancient
volume lying on the floor. Her codex of witchcraft, he thought but when he
looked at the cover he saw a beautiful young girl of midnight-hair reading, her
back to a bookshelf and the magical touch of words was weaving their fetters
around her.
"This is wonderful," he sighed "but of
course that pitiable old hag is trying to destroy all beautiful things. Why
should I destroy it? Maybe it will explode if I threw it on the fire or who
knows what evil trickery might happen. No. I will take this book home to my
daughter, my little princess, she is always delighted with presents and anyway
no harm has ever come to anybody from reading."
Fanni Sütő is an enthusiastic young poet/writer who enjoys
experimenting with magical realism, urban fantasy and reused fairy tale
materials.
