The Season of the Wish, By Kelly Jarvis

Editor's Note: We have a delightful essay on wishing today by our very own Kelly Jarvis. She does a deep dive into wishing in popular culture.

Wishing is always in season. When my boys were little, they would run through the fields of late spring and early summer gathering fistfuls of dandelion stalks to use for wishing. Once they had plucked all they could carry, they would blow on the stems, sending their wishes into the air with each downy white seed that flurried across the breeze. On winter evenings, when another form of soft white magic was blown down from the sky, my boys would search the horizon for the first star and wish for a “Snow Day” filled with the hot cocoa taste of freedom from school.

Wishing is always in season in fairy tales, too. While fairy tale variants shape and reflect the cultural conditions of the places they are told, the act of wishing is a universal quality of the stories, emerging in collected oral tales, literary renditions, and 21st century films. Snow White and Sleeping Beauty both famously begin with the wish for a child, and the wished-for children of fairy tales soon grow up to make wishes of their own, even when, in the case of Charles Perrault’s Cinderella, they are unable to articulate exactly what they are wishing for. 

Wishing is central to the contemporary fairy tales of Walt Disney which has turned a genie, a  blue fairy, and an evening star into animated wish fulfillers. Perhaps most famous of all is their unique presentation of a kind-hearted fairy godmother, a construct most recently explored by the film, Godmothered, which attempts to give the donor character of fairy tale fame a turn in the title role. Even Disney soundtracks are full of memorable songs about wishing and wanting, and the theme park’s popular fireworks show, Wishes, ran for an unprecedented thirteen years. 

Although Disney may put its trademark “happily ever after” spin on the act of wishing, many traditional tales, gathered under the Aarne-Thompson-Uther Index 750A The Foolish Wishes, caution against the folly of wishing and imply that wishers often end up worse than they began. In The Three Wishes, a version of the tale collected by Joseph Jacobs, a poor woodcutter is offered three wishes in exchange for sparing a forest tree from his axe. That evening, tired and hungry after a long day’s work, he wishes for a link of black pudding which magically appears before him. When his wife realizes he has squandered a precious wish, she angrily wishes for the black pudding to be stuck to the end of his nose, and the couple is forced to use the third wish to set everything back to the way it was. The variants of this fairy tale have been explored in depth, and its pattern inspired the short horror story The Monkey’s Paw, published in 1902 by W.W. Jacobs. Each version ends by exposing the folly of humanity and the dangers inherent in the act of wishing. 

In spite of the dangers, wishing persists, spurred on season after season by folklore. People have thrown their wishes into wells, tied them to trees with colorful ribbons, and released them into the sky with the soft glow of lanterns. People have imbued ordinary objects with magical powers, turning ladybugs, lamps, clovers, and candles into instruments of achieving desire. Some say wishing should take place at a specific time of the year, like a birthday, when the smoke from blown-out candles carries wishes up to heaven, and others say wishing is best done at random times, like the moment the first red-breasted robin of spring alights on the lawn. New wish-making rituals are constantly being created and circulated within family structures; my older sister taught me to make wishes on watermelon seeds. On the hazy summer days of our childhood, we would each make three different wishes on three juicy watermelon seeds, sticking them on our foreheads to dry slowly in the hot sun. Only the seeds which stayed on our heads the longest would grant us the wishes we had made upon them, and we giggled, our fingers crossed for luck, as the seeds slowly shifted and slid down our sweaty faces taking our little girl dreams with them. 

One October day when my son was four years old, I told him that he could make a wish upon a falling leaf if he could catch it before it hit the ground. A breeze was blustering around us, and my little boy, who loved the wish-filled fairy tale Aladdin, ran back and forth for hours under the plummeting leaves, stretching his hands toward the magic foliage he believed would grant him his cave of wonders. The task was not easy, but by the afternoon’s end, my son had two crinkling wishes clutched tight in his hands, and he leaned close to whisper them into my ear.  His first wish was to have all the toys he had ever dreamed of having, but his second wish surprised me. “I wish for you to have all the beautiful things, Mommy”, he said, unable to articulate exactly what those things might be. The dying sunlight slipped through butterscotch-stained leaves and danced in his amber eyes as he spoke, and I marveled at how quickly his wish had come true; in that precious moment when my little boy used his second wish for me, I was surrounded by the most beautiful things I could imagine.

Perhaps wishing is always in season because we have so few seasons together on this earth. Wishes may seem trivial, but they also give voice to our deepest desires, our innermost longings, and our human yearning for something more than the mortal life we have been given. The act of wishing is an astounding expression of faith in the design of the universe, giving us hope that something as common as a leaf, a seed, or a star in the sky just might be the magical object that will season our days with beauty and make our wishes, and the wishes of those we love, come true. 

Kelly Jarvis teaches classes in literature, writing, and fairy tale at Central Connecticut State University, The University of Connecticut, and Tunxis Community College. She lives, happily ever after, with her husband and three sons in a house filled with fairy tale books. She is also Enchanted Conversation’s special project’s writer.

DOTADOKO or THE BRIGHT RED EARRING by DJ Tyrer

The girl’s happy childhood came to an end
when the muroyi declared,“As my payment,
I shall take the daughter- a life for a life...”

Ruvatsvuka was born in a village atop a low kopi on the edge of the veldt to a mother and a father who loved her very much. And, on the day that she was born, a bright-red flower bloomed on the hillside and her parents named her for it and, when she was a little older, gave her a gift of earrings of red-hued leather in the shape of a flower like her namesake.

Years passed… It was when the rains fell and bit away at the walls of the hut that Ruvatsvuka’s mother died and her father fell deathly ill, and her uncle sent for the muroyi who lived in a canyon amongst the rock-strewn hills to the east.

The witch-woman came and looked at the sickening man, whose brow was wet with sweat, just as the walls ran with rain, and said, “He has been cursed.”

“Can you cure my brother?” asked the girl’s uncle.

The muroyi took a pouch from the thong that hung about her neck and tossed its contents into the fire and breathed deeply of the noisome fumes and gazed deeply into the dancing flames.

“I can. But, the cost will be high.”

“Cattle, millet, ivory, gold – whatever you wish – my brother’s life is worth it.”

“It will be a great cost. Swear you to pay it?”

“I swear by the spirits of our ancestors.”

“Then, cure him I shall.”

The muroyi banished them all from the hut, even tearful Ruvatsvuka, who clung desperately to her dying father. Then, she performed the healing ritual, emerging with the morning light to declare its success.

Ruvatsvuka was delighted to see her father whole and well, once more, and paid no heed when the old woman told her uncle, “I will return in five days to collect my payment.”

And, return she did, bringing the girl’s happy childhood to an end when she declared, “As my payment, I shall take the daughter – a life for a life.”

“No!” exclaimed Ruvatsvuka’s father. “I would rather die than give her away to one such as you.”

The muroyi merely laughed, even as he reached for his assegai, as if he meant to strike her down.

“Refuse me – kill me – if you wish, but it will rebound on you. You will die – but, not just you… your brother, your daughter, and all your kin shall die. An oath was sworn and payment will be made…”

His hand dropped back to his side, and he sagged almost as if sick again.

“Take her,” he said, softly, and the witch-woman took the sobbing girl away to her hut, which lay deep within a canyon, so deep it seemed almost to be night even during the day. Water swirled past it all through the rainy season, threatening to wash it away, and strange fungi grew on its walls and floors, which the muroyi used in her spells.

“Sit,” barked the witch-woman upon their arrival

Ruvatsvuka sat.

The muroyi said, “You are my daughter now, and you will obey me as if I gave birth to you. Remember, I hold your father’s life in my hand.”

She flexed long and withered fingers, like dry twigs, at the girl, as if demonstrating the fact.

“Your tasks will be to sweep out the hut, to clean, to cook, and anything more I tell you.”

Ruvatsvuka sighed and nodded.

The witch-woman worked her hard and, when the dry season came, set her to sweeping the area about the hut so that it was always completely bare, just earth, with not even a pebble to be seen.

“Good, good. I cannot stand disorder.”

And, if ever the girl left a mess, the muroyi would rant and rave, screaming and shrieking, and threatening to beat her till it was set right.

“I cannot stand disorder,” she would say over again. “Dotadoko, do your job.”

Dotadoko was the name she gave Ruvatsvuka, meaning ‘little ashes,' for the girl always seemed dirty from attending to the chores the witch-woman set her.

“Clean yourself, Dotadoko – you are disorderly!” the witch-woman would cry, only to put her to work at some new task, returning to berate her for her filthiness, again later.

For a long time, Dotadoko served the muroyi, so that she almost forgot who she was in her gloomy despair, trapped in the shadowy canyon, longing for the sun.

Even when the rainy season ended, a trickle of water continued to fall like rain near to the hut, joining the meagre flow of the stream that ran the canyon’s length. This trickle came from a pool in the lee of a boulder on the cliff’s edge, which was fed by a secret spring. It was to this pool that the girl would go, whenever the muroyi was absent or asleep or too busy to notice her, relishing the kiss of the sun’s light upon her skin, and wash the filth of dirt and ashes from her, transforming Dotadoko back into Ruvatsvuka, if only for a little time.

One day, she went to the pool and carefully laid her bright-red earrings on a flat stone beside her neatly-piled clothes, before slipping into the waters and luxuriating as the coolness caressed her skin.

But, as she splashed and washed herself, a kestrel swept down from the sky above and seized one of her earrings and flew away before she could even let out a cry.

The bird vanished into the glare of the sun, and she saw not where it went, nor whether it dropped her earring or carried it afar.

She slumped on the edge of the pool, head upon the flat stone, sobbing. Her heart felt torn, as if she had been snatched away from her parents, once again.

Climbing out of the pool, she dressed and picked up her remaining earring, holding it to her chest, resolving never to wear it again, lest it, too, be lost.

She returned to the witch-woman’s hut and hid the earring carefully and surrendered herself to her life as Dotadoko, believing she never again would be happy or free.

Unbeknownst to her, the kestrel flew for many miles before dropping the red-leather earring, which spun and floated like a flower caught on the breeze to fall into the lap of the mambo as he sat in his kraal, receiving tribute from the lesser chiefs.

The mambo stared down at it in surprise.

“A flower from heaven.” He picked it up and examined it. “A leather flower… an earring. How strange.”

He waved his n’anga over, the wisest of his diviners, and asked, “What does it mean?”

The old man bent, slowly, and picked it up to examine.

“Interesting.” He took the hakata from a pouch on a thong about his neck and threw the bones. “Very interesting…”

He gathered up the hakata and returned them to the pouch, saying, “This earring is one of a pair that belongs to the woman you must marry, a beautiful maiden, lost some place far from here.”

The mambo rose. “I shall seek her.”

He bade the chiefs return to their kraals and see if such a maiden lived amongst their people and he travelled from one to another, only always to be disappointed.

“I do not think,” he said to his n’anga, “that I shall ever find her. She is absent from every kraal.”

“Then,” said the n’anga, “seek her elsewhere – look in the forest and the thick bush, go anywhere a person might live alone.”

They sought her widely and every time he met a woman or a girl, whether she was outside a hut pounding grain into flour or in a field working or on a riverbank washing clothes, the mambo would take out the bright-red earring and show it to her and ask if she owned the other like it.

But, no matter how eager they were to marry a handsome and powerful man, none could produce the twin of the one he held.

After a long journey, just as the rains began to fall again, the mambo and his retinue came to the little hut in the canyon amongst the rocky hills.

Disconcerted, the muroyi came out to greet them.

“Are you the only woman here?” the n’anga asked.

About to say ‘yes,’ she was forced to admit her captive’s presence when the girl looked out from the entrance of the hut.

“Just me and my daughter, the filthy, lazy brat I call Dotadoko.”

The mambo stepped forward and produced the earring.

“Do either of you possess the twin to this?” he asked, voice weary with lack of hope.

“No,” said the witch-woman, too hastily, for she suddenly remembered the girl had worn a pair just like it when she took her.

Dotadoko stared at it for a moment in surprise, then said, “I do.”

“You do?” asked the mambo.

“No, she doesn’t,” snapped the witch-woman, but he ignored her and said, “Fetch it, now, and you shall be my bride.”

Dotadoko ran inside and returned a moment later with the proof of her claim.

“No!” screamed the muroyi. “She is mine – you cannot take her from me.”

“I can,” said the mambo.

Then, the witch-woman turned sly and looked at the girl. “Remember, the deal that was made. Leave and your family die…”

But, the n’anga stepped forward and threw the hakata and, laughing, said, “She lies – the curse is broken and cannot return.”

With a delighted cry, Dotadoko ran to the mambo and put her earrings on, while the witch-woman went inside her hut, shrieking and screaming so loudly that she drowned out the thunder of the burgeoning storm.

“I will consent to marry you,” said the girl, after she told the mambo her real name, “but first I must return to my father and you must give him cattle.”

The mambo laughed with joy, for Ruvatsvuka truly was a beautiful and lovely woman. “My dear, I shall give him that and more, and do whatever else you wish.”

Together, followed by his men, they left that place, hurrying to make it to her father’s kraal before the rains grew too heavy and floodwaters swept down the empty riverbeds, the witch-woman’s cries echoing up and down the canyon behind them.

And, as the muroyi’s shrieks grew louder still, there was a sudden rumble, not of thunder, but of rock, and the great boulder that sat beside the pool where the girl had bathed, agitated by the witch-woman’s shrieks, slid over the edge of the cliff and tumbled down… down… down into the canyon, landing with a crash upon the hut and silencing the muroyi for good.

Which is how the story ends: The muroyi didn’t live, but Ruvatsvuka became the wife of the mambo and the two of them lived happily ever after and the people they ruled rejoiced in peace and prosperity.

DJ Tyrer is the person behind Atlantean Publishing and has been widely published in anthologies and magazines around the world, such as Winter’s Grasp (Fantasia Divinity), Tales of the Black Arts (Hazardous Press), Pagan (Zimbell House), Misunderstood (Wolfsinger), and Sorcery & Sanctity: A Homage to Arthur Machen (Hieroglyphics Press), and issues of Fantasia Divinity, Broadswords and Blasters, and BFS Horizons, and in addition, has a novella available in paperback and on Kindle, The Yellow House (Dunhams Manor).

DJ Tyrer's website is at http://djtyrer.blogspot.co.uk/

The Atlantean Publishing website is at http://atlanteanpublishing.blogspot.co.uk/

Cover: Amanda Bergloff

COFFEESHOP WISHES by Jade Wilburn

"I need to make a wish."
"I can do that for you.
But what are you going to
offer me in return?"

There was a reason Fae did the most business in the wintertime. Being cooped up indoors for an entire season had a way of bringing out the desperation in people when they couldn’t wash away their miserable thoughts and horrid personalities with soothing spring rains, summer rays of sunshine and ever-changing foliage.

Ariadne supposed there were some perks to this time of year when glistening white blankets covered the gray dreariness of sky-high buildings and black-top parking lots. If she had the time, she might’ve even closed her eyes and reminisced about the glory days, when magic was rampant and wild and free from modern sensibilities.

But right now, she had trudged through several feet of snow and was starting to lose feeling in her toes.

“Coffee!” She moaned in relief as she crossed the protection spell laying across the threshold and stepped into the warm embrace of the tiny coffeeshop. There were some delights to be found in this modern era, and the fragrant roasted beans, conveniently found on every corner, were at the top of her list.

Her favorite barista chuckled at her dramatics before grabbing a white chipped mug and setting it on the wooden counter.

“Your usual?” She teased and Ariadne nodded gratefully.

Whipping off her beanie and freeing her pointed ears, the faery slumped into the cracked vinyl stool with less grace than was expected of her kind. The barista snorted and quickly filled the mug.

Smiling toothily, Ariadne cupped her brown hands around the mug, savoring the warmth and rich earthy smell. Sure, she could use magic to warm herself up, but sometimes it was nice to play mundane.

  

“So, what brings you in today?” The barista asked, cocking her hand on her hip as she leaned against the counter. “Wait, let me guess… still got that gremlin infestation?” 

“It’s gotten worse, they keep multiplying!” Ariadne shuddered. “Demanding little creatures! They were driving me crazy with their incessant demands, and I needed to get out of there for a while.”

She tossed her head back and took a deep swig of the beverage, not minding the scorching temperature.  Feeling much warmer, she took a moment to sweep her coat off her shoulders and tossed her damp silver hair out of her face. Her sensitive ears twitched at the sounds of the barista’s inaudible swallow and Ariadne’s lips quirked into a knowing grin.

  

The barista flashed a shy dimpled smile as she played with the fringe of her apron – she was a pretty little thing, Ariadne thought faintly, with rich onyx skin and tight curls that threatened to devour wayward hands that attempted to touch them without permission. 

If they were anywhere but here, she might’ve spirited the girl away, cocooned her in sheets of golden spider silk with a braided crown of dahlias and peonies nestled atop her head. 

Alas, that was labeled as ‘kidnapping’ nowadays and was heavily frowned upon in modern society. 

“Slow night?” Ariadne asked, peering around the empty shop.

The barista gave her a knowing look. “Yeah, I mean, it’s not like the shop is super popular in the first place, at least with us humans. Folks aren’t real keen on places that welcome supernaturals, y’know?” 

She rubbed her face tiredly. “It’s been real quiet the last few shifts though. Although, I guess that’s to be expected, what with the new laws and restrictions by the Supernatural Regulation department. The boss even got a witch to strengthen the protection spells around the shop, just in case.”

  

“And, what about you?” Ariadne prompted, her voice tinged with concern. “You know how…unreasonable people can be, especially against other humans. The whole ‘cavorting with the enemy’ nonsense.”

  

“I’m a tough girl, I can handle myself.” The barista smiled wryly and flexed a muscle. 

Contemplating how to spin an offer of an emergency amulet into a date without being too obvious – her race did have a reputation to uphold after all – Ariadne was pulled out of her musings when the door crashed open.

A woman rushed into the shop, struggling with a baby carrier and cursing as a flurry of snow surged around her. Frowning, the faery snapped her fingers and the shop door closed gently behind the new customer while the accumulating blanket of snow on the ground evaporated.

  

The woman immediately looked up, her eyes roving across the mostly empty coffeeshop until her eyes caught sight of Ariadne – specifically her pointed tip ears.  A myriad of emotions flowed across her face: relief, determination and hard-bellied desperation that made the faery’s face twist in aversion.

  

The barista coughed and Ariadne quickly schooled her face into something a little less hostile. It wouldn’t do to scare the human and risk her lodging a complaint with the Supernatural Regulation department – they wouldn’t hesitate to bring her in for ‘questioning’. 

Hurrying over, the woman plopped the baby carrier on the bar roughly and the infant inside immediately began to squall, a waterfall of tears streaming down its plump cheeks.

  

“All you do is cry,” The woman, presumably the baby’s mother, snarled. “just shut up for once!”

  

Hackles rising, Ariadne’s amber eyes flashed gold until the barista all but shoved a newly refilled mug of coffee into her hands. Nodding her thanks, she took a long swig, ignoring the woman’s blatant staring and the indiscreet clearing of her throat. 

“Can I help you?” Ariadne finally asked, utter loathing spilling out of her voice.

  

“I need to make a wish.” The woman practically spat the words, ignoring her whimpering child that the barista was soothing. “I heard you’re the person to come to. That you’re quick and discreet.”

  

Ariadne’s eyes roved across the woman; her clothes were slightly worn but of middling quality, the type found in generic department stores. Her blonde hair was a veritable rat’s nest, dark circles bloomed under her eyes and a formula milk stain stood out on the collar of the woman’s shirt.

  

Against her better judgment, something like sympathy slowly unfurled in the faery’s breast for the visibly exhausted mother – until she glared at her child, eyes simmering with anger and resentment. 

Ariadne’s face hardened. “What is it that you desire then, human?”

  

“My name is Ra-” She snapped her mouth shut with a clang of her teeth and Ariadne chuckled darkly. 

The laws could say whatever they wanted but it was still a bad idea to offer your name to a faery, hence why Ariadne still didn’t know the barista’s name even after six months of regularly patronizing the coffeeshop.

  

“I want to be famous.” The woman began instead, her voice growing in excitement. “I want my name in lights, across billboards and movie screens. I don’t want to live in this boring small town anymore, I want everyone in the world to know who I am.”

  

How mundane.

  

Ariadne smiled at her, a slow cruel thing and the barista looked up from the giggling baby in alarm.

  

“Very well, I can do that for you. But, what are you going to offer me in return?”

  

The woman reached inside her coat and pulled out a checkbook. Ariadne snorted and even the barista covered up her laugh with a cough.

  

“If you’ve come all this way to make a deal, you should know my kind doesn’t dabble with those kinds of payments.”

  

The woman flushed a mottled red, fingers twitching from the reprimand. Her baby let out loud giggle as the barista tickled its side and the woman’s face dawned in awareness. Snatching the carrier away from the startled barista, she shoved it towards Ariadne, her face alit with triumph.

  

“I don’t want the brat with me where I’m going. You can have her in exchange for my wish.”

  

The barista made a noise of protest, but Ariadne patted her hand and gave her a reassuring smile.

  

A twist of her wrist and a silver athame appeared in the faery’s hand, the ceremonial blade glistening brightly in spite of the dim lights. Ariadne cut her hand shallowly before offering the blade to the woman. She didn’t hesitate, snatching the athame and slashing her hand open. 

“We have a deal then. The babe in exchange for fame, effective immediately.”

  

The two of them shook, a flash of white light erupting from their joined hands to seal the contract. Moments later, the woman walked out the coffeeshop with a skip in her step and Ariadne sighed, looking at her gurgling new charge.

  

“I can’t believe she gave up her child for fame, of all things. She didn’t even notice that you were intentionally vague in your wording.” The barista scoffed, shaking her head.

  

“That’s what happens when you get too desperate.” Ariadne shrugged. “I get the kid, and she’ll become famous overnight. After getting pulled over with bags of money that just so happen to be missing from the local bank. There’ll be dozens of movie re-enactments and shows with experts trying to decipher how she did it while she sits in jail.”

As if on cue, police sirens sped past the building, rattling the windows. The barista and the faery looked at one another and burst out laughing.

All too soon, it was time to close up the coffeeshop for the evening and Ariadne waited patiently on the stoop, chuckling at the infant’s nonsensical babbling while the barista locked the door behind them.

“Well, that’s it then.” The barista breathed heavily, gazing at the faery with soft expectations. Rubbing her head sheepishly, Ariadne held out a circular disk.

  

“It’s an emergency amulet. You never know when one of those might come in handy.”

  

“What’s in it for you? A faery never does anything for free.” The barista teased. Ariadne’s cheeks flushed red.

  

The barista giggled and took the amulet, ducking down to deliver a quick kiss on Ariadne’s cheek. “I think a date is a fair enough trade. My shift ends tomorrow at three. Say hi to the gremlins for me.”

  

The faery watched bemusedly as the barista pulled off in her car before looking down at her new daughter nestled cozily in the carrier.

  

“Come along now, time to meet your fellow monsters.”

  

Taking a side-step, the two of them re-materialized in front of their home. It was oddly shaped like the letter L, with a sprawling ground level running horizontally while the connected circular tower jutted up several stories towards the sky on the side of the structure. Painted brown to blend in with the forest, it looked remarkably like a giant shoe.

  

“Gremlins, I know you’re still up! Come out and meet your new sibling!”

  

As if on cue, the front door at the “heel” of the shoe-like house opened and a stream of children ran out, their hands and mouths sticky from a late-night snack. They crowded around the newest member of their family, spitting out dozens of questions.

  

“I hope it’s a girl.” The eldest, Moira sniffed, looking every bit of sixteen going on thirty. “You haven’t brought one home in a while, and there’s too much testosterone in the house.” Glaring at the seven boys that outnumbered the three girls. 

“Let’s get her settled first and then I’ll answer your questions.” The girls cheered, glad for reinforcements while the boys groaned. Despite herself, Ariadne grinned as she herded her brood towards the house.

It’d be a pain to get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to register her newest kid before the Supernatural Regulation department got into a snit and accused her of spiriting away children – again – but the faery wasn’t too concerned.

She had adopted yet another gremlin and gotten herself a date for tomorrow. Not bad for a day’s worth of work.

A native of Rochester, New York, Jade is currently earning an M.S. in User Experience and Interaction Design at Thomas Jefferson University. In between studying like a good student, she devours fairytales and composes fantasy stories. Follow her on Twitter @_JadeWrites

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff