Fairies come bring my true love, By Hercynius

"Fairies," by Francis Danby

 

Editor's note: Fairy tales don't often features actual fairies, so it's intriguing to have a poem that brings them to us (or us to them). Hercynius has given us a vivid peek into nature as well, with this work.

Where did you get to, time?

When we pass, do you stay behind?

Of you and me something yet mingling,

Out in the dusking sylvan stillness lingering. . . .

And why I stay here by this dark springlet,

Flowing out from these mossiest rocks

And plansch about in the cold water—why,

For springlet is sided by not mere trees,

But magical white cedar grove.

I sleep in mosses layered on cedar bases,

Stroke mosses layered over springlet rocks.

Lest I have all there ever could be wanted

Moist mosses mindless among that counted.

Rain, steady, cold, hardly hindering

Me, naturally coolish-wan since death.

There, out beyond the sacred cedars

My old life and times encircling, stalking,

Suspending, surrounding wood in pale white glow,

Imploring me to come out, to retry my trials:

Change it to suit, do please, rule it all round, needs be.

But I don't trust, don't want a new old me;

Rather, of the springlet and grove completely be,

Where nothing needs be, do please—nothing and anon.

To love fine downy mosses simple enough.

To lay down beside falls and feel good just.

And lo! now I see I am much smaller—

Not so big and needy, nor scary any longer.

No human hurts or hate must I ponder.

Nothing to have and no pockets anyway.

Now easily make friend of salamander,

Nibble and poke about rocks together.

Waters, cedars, salamander insist:

Pray, have wind and rain and mist

Take away loathing past so triste.

And the past does dissolve, washes down;

On mist droplets are ferns' spores sown.

I so beguiled by enchanted water— 

Mostly about the mossy rocks linger,

Stray far from first pool hardly ever— 

Though once to wander the flow:

Down one bank the morning

Then up the other till light low.

Then to sleep, and dream—or just dream—

In the deepest mosses about big cedar bole.

One moonless night the cedars all excited— 

Shaking thousands of scaled evergreen mittens,

Shaking down tiny glowing cones to the ground— 

Fairies have come! they say to me so delighted.

And around surround the Folk, each carrying lantern,

I hearken to their tinkling voices, their ringing banter:

Come out! Come out, dear one! they finally call together.

Oh yes! I see her! My true love, now their queen!

And she steps forth so gracious and sweet.

And she's wearing? Fine woven vine and leaf?

And for so long held come tears brimming,

Spilling for all my silly broad grinning.

Farewell to the cedars, the salamander, the springlet,

Stroke moss rock, cup water, promise all to return.

Take deep breaths of the cold charged clearness— 

And slip into the dark green velvety forest

With the fairies and my true love, the new fairy queen.

Hercynius often retires to magical ceder groves in the Northern Minnesota wilds.

The Candlestick Kid, By Robin Ray

Editor's note: Although I'm still hard at work on a fairy-tale related project, I found time to publish our first July winning work (way past overdue on my part). Packed with action and detail, "The Candlestick Kid," will appeal to kids and adults alike.

 
Once upon a time, at the edge of the wide and thick Magin Forest, lived a poor man and his young son. The man, Julius Rivener, had gotten on his years. His legs had been weakened by years of labor and now could take him no further than a nearby stream. His wife Mathilda had died a few years ago when she accidentally drowned in Evergreen Lake. So, to make ends meet, young Jerry Rivener had to grow up quickly and put away the things that betrayed his boyhood.

He became known as Little Jerry the Candlestick Kid because that’s what he sold: all kinds of skinny, fat, scented and unscented tapers, pillars, votive and luminaria candles from forest home to forest home. He carried them around in a wicker basket, stopping anyone he met to try to sell them one or two. In Magin Forest, currency could be gold or a kind word. It didn’t matter as long as both parties agreed it was sufficient for services rendered.

One day, dressed in his typical black shorts, white shirt and soft leather shoes, he decided to venture into a part of the forest he’d never been before. As he was having bad luck with his usual surroundings, he thought it best to try somewhere new.

As he traipsed along, he began to notice trees, flowers and shrubs that he’d never seen before. He even thought the ground beneath his feet felt softer as if it was made from the downy feathers of eider ducks. Suddenly, he heard someone crying just off the trail.

“Who’s there?” he asked.

When no one answered, he asked again.

“Who’s there?”

Again, hearing nothing but the sobs, he decided to investigate.

Walking towards its sound, he crossed over downed trees, carefully sidestepped burly roots, and parted low lying branches and found a turtle the size of a tuffet sitting in a clearing. It was crying, shaking its head from left to right.

“Excuse me, sir,” Jerry began, “are you in trouble?”

“If you will look at my back,” the turtle explained, “you will see it’s cracked.”

Cautiously, Jerry studied the turtle’s back. He did, indeed, see a large crack running lengthwise across the top of the little fellow’s traveling home.

“How did this happen?” he asked.

“I was fast asleep down by the glen,” he answered, “when a branch fell off a tree.”

“The branch broke your shell?”

“No. It fell close to a bank of rocks and its branches loosened a few. Some of those rocks tumbled down and broke the shell.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jerry offered. “Does it hurt?”

“It irritates is more like it! Now my body is exposed to the elements! What should I do?” He started crying again.

“What’s your name?” the boy asked. “I’m Little Jerry.”

“The Candlestick Kid,” the turtle added. “I know. I overheard two sparrows talking about you. My name is Pod.”

“Hi, Pod,” Jerry greeted him. “I think I can help you.”

“You can?” The turtle’s countenance lit up immediately. “How?”

“Easy.”

Jerry looked around quickly for some vines, found some thin but strong ones, and brought them over to Pod. Then, remembering how his father used to knot cords of wood together, he deftly wrapped the vines over and under the turtle, pulling tightly till the crack on the top shell became just a thin line. Then, fashioning a Boy Scout-type lighter out of twigs, he set some dry leaves on fire, ignited a taper, and dripped the oil along the length of the turtle’s crack.

“Oh, that is a clever thing you did!” Pod laughed. “I feel whole again.”

“No turtle should have a cracked shell.”

“I have nothing to pay you with,” Pod admitted.

“I did it because I wanted to,” Jerry stated. “It was a good thing.”

“Then take this,” the turtle offered.

He brought out a green whistle and gave it to Jerry.

“If you’re ever in trouble,” he explained, “just blow it and I’ll come help you.”

“Thank you, Pod,” Jerry smiled then cheerfully continued on his merry way.

After one hour, he started getting hungry. As his legs were also getting tired, he figured it was time to rest. Eyeing a stump, he walked over to it and sat down. Taking a bun out of his basket, he ate it gingerly. As he was finishing, he started hearing a cry, a faint one, like the cry of a tiny animal.

Getting up, he looked closer for the sound. Who was making it? As he walked further, the sound grew louder and closer. Finally, he found what he was looking for: a red parrot with green and yellow wings. It was tangled in some vines near the branches of an acacia tree.

“Help me!” cried the upside down bird. “I’m stuck.”

The parrot had a muffled voice which Jerry noticed. He went over to him and looked up.

“Quite a predicament you’re in, bird,” he commented. “You sound funny.”

“My name is Dow,” the parrot corrected him, “and I can’t move.” He started crying again.

“I’ll help you,” Jerry promised.

“You will?” Dow wondered. “How will you get up here?”

“I’m a boy. Don’t you know we’re good climbers?”

“Let’s hope you sing the same tune if a wolf came by!”

As it turned out, the trunk of the tree was much too thick for Jerry to climb up.

“You can’t do it!” the parrot moaned.

“Oh, I don’t give up that easily,” the boy cautioned. “Just watch.”

Remembering the tree climbing apparatus his father used to make from vines and twigs, Jerry fashioned one from the same materials, tied it between his ankles, and shimmied up the acacia. Carefully, he untied the bird’s knots and freed him. It was then that he noticed that Dow’s beak was broken.

“So that’s why you sound funny,” Jerry smiled.

“These things happen,” Dow warned, flapping his wings while trying to stay within speaking distance. “I was trying to break a hard nut open. I guess I used too much force.”

“Let me get down and I’ll fix it.”

“You will?” Dow asked.

“Certainly.”

Once on the ground, Jerry took off the apparatus and rubbed his legs. They were a little sore from the climbing, but at least they were only scraped a little, not bleeding outright.

 “My name is Little Jerry,” he introduced himself.

“Oh, yes. The Candlestick Kid.”

“So you’ve heard of me?”

“Sure. There were two wrens talking about you some time ago.”

“Word gets around quickly in the forest.”

“Yes, it does.”

Jerry stripped some threads from his shirt.

“Hold still,” he ordered the bird.

Carefully, he placed the dangling portion of the broken beak back in position and used the threads to wrap it in place. As before, he created a fire, lit one of the candles, and used the drippings to seal the beak.

“Oh, that is a clever thing you did!” Dow laughed. “I feel whole again.”

“No parrot should have a cracked beak.”

“I have to admit: I am a poor bird,” Dow groaned. “I can’t pay you.”

“Your joy was payment enough.”

“Then take this,” Dow offered.

He brought out a red whistle from his wing and gave it to Jerry.

“If you’re ever in trouble,” he explained, “just blow it and I’ll come help you.”

“Thank you, Dow,” Jerry smiled then merrily continued on his cheery way.

It was around mid afternoon when Jerry realized he was lost. Since he hadn’t sold or traded one candle all day, he thought he should just find his way home and try his luck the next day. That was easier said than done, however, as there was no clear path back to his home. He looked for something familiar – a juniper bush in bloom, a hollow birch’s trunk, a winding stream or a proudly aligned row of cypresses – anything to let him know he was close to home. He thought about following the sun, but since it was overhead, he couldn’t tell his direction.

Continuing further, he started getting more and more nervous. The sound of wolves could be heard in the distance. A little farther on, he heard the unmistakable sound of crying coming from off the side of his new trail. As he got closer, the crying became louder. He thought about leaving whoever was crying to soak in their own tears because he feared the wolves could catch up to him. But because he had a good heart, he stepped off the path, waded through thick underbrush, and saw a sobbing white unicorn sitting on the floor. He also immediately saw why the animal may have been crying: its horn was broken and simply dangling from the piece protruding from the middle of its forehead.

“Can I help you?” Jerry asked.

“I don’t know,” the unicorn lamented. “What am I to do? Look at my horn!”

“Does it hurt?”

“No, but it’s the shame and lack of usefulness I must bear.”

“How did it happen?”

“I was besieged by a pack of wolves not too long ago. I fought them off, but as they left, I accidentally tripped over a tree trunk hidden in fallen leaves. I lunged forward and my horn got stuck in a tree. I used a lot of force to free myself, but I pulled too hard, whipped around, and hit the horn against another tree where it snapped in two.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jerry admitted. “Now you’re defenseless.”

“Yes, I am,” the unicorn cried.

“What’s your name?” the boy asked. “I’m Little Jerry.”

“The Candlestick Kid,” the mythical horse said. “Yes. I’ve heard of you. I overhead two starlings speak of you not too long ago.”

“My! Word sure gets around quickly in Magin!”

“My name’s Bow,” the unicorn said. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jerry greeted him back. “I think I can help you.”

“You will? That would be fantastic.”

“It’ll give me great pleasure.”

“So how will you do it?”

“Easy,” Jerry responded, “but it requires you to lie down and be very still for a while.”

“I can do that,” Bow agreed. “I don’t have to worry about the wolves because they won’t come near me for some time.” He lied down.

“Good,” the boy nodded.

Again, ripping some threads from his shirt, he brought the dangling horn back up into place and secured the two pieces with the thread. Then, using his fire device, he lit some dried leaves, ignited a long slender taper, and carefully dripped the wax along the horn’s seam.

“Will you surely remain still till it heals?” he begs.

“I can do that,” Bow affirmed.

“Then I think it will work.”

The unicorn stared at his new horn with amazement.

“Oh, that is a clever thing you did!” he laughed. “I feel whole again!”

“No unicorn should have a broken horn.”

“I’m sorry to admit it,” Bow regretted, “but I have nothing to pay you with.”

“That’s okay,” Jerry smiled. “It pleases me all the same.”

“Then take this,” the horned stallion offered.

Using his forelegs, he nudged forward a white whistle on the ground towards Jerry.

“If you’re ever in trouble,” he explained, “just blow it and I‘ll come to help you.”

“Thank you, Bow,” Jerry smiled and walked away.

As he kept walking through the forest, it became clear to Jerry that he was lost. No tree formation, streamlet or flower bush was recognizable to him. The sun was starting to disappear in the west. A thin mist slowly began to appear.

“I’ve really wandered off too far,” he whispered to himself. “Nothing looks familiar.”

The sounds that were now emanating from the woods scared him. Amidst the whistle of the wind howling through the trees, the eerie chirp of field crickets, the croaking of frogs and the constant song of the nightingales, there was one particular sound which gave him pause: the sound of wolves baying in the distance.

“Where am I?” he asked himself. “I will be a feast for the wolves tonight!”

Just then, the sound of the baying wolves grew louder. Fearing them to be close, he picked up his pace. When he heard the sound of footsteps rustling through the woods, he started running.

Looking back, he saw the molten eyes of the wolves.

“I’m doomed!” he cried, running even further.

As the wolves closed in, he saw a tall thin house through the fog.

“Help me!” he screamed, racing towards the structure.

With the wolves on his tail, he darted up the short flight of stairs. Just as he was about to knock on the door, he quickly glanced back at the wolves. No longer in pursuit, they actually appeared frightened. Suddenly, they turned and ran back into the forest, howling as if ghosts were on their tails.

“How odd!” Jerry thought.

As he was about to knock on the door, it opened. Slowly, he entered. There’s was no one there to greet him. He slowly came to realize he’d never seen such an abode in his life before. It was basically one large room with a door in the back. There were lit candles perched on every wall. The stuffed heads of animals adorned every vertical surface all the way up to the top of the building. All the furniture - couches, chairs, tables and cabinets - were crudely constructed from branches. A huge black cauldron sat in a gigantic fireplace.

“Hello?” Jerry called out? “Is anyone here?”

He heard the door at the far end of the room slowly creaking open, making his heart leap in his chest. Then, he saw a hunched backed old woman in a black dress walking with a cane appear. As she came closer, Jerry could smell her clearly for she had the odor of rotten cabbage about her.

“Heh-Hello,” he stammered. “I’m lost.”

“What is your name, sonny?” she asked”

 “I’m Jerry Rivener, son of Julius the woodsman.”

“Ah,” the old woman smiled, “you’re the Candlestick Kid.”

He nodded and held out his basket of taper, pillar, votive and luminaria candles. She studied them.

“Such a festive collection!” she smiled. “They would look beautiful on these drab walls. Do you agree?”

“Yes, they would.”

“What would you like for them?”

“Um…all of them?”

“They’re so lovely,” she admitted. “I couldn’t just buy a few! I fear the dear ones I have will soon die out.”

“Okay,” he shrugged.

“I’ll be right back,” she promised. Taking the basket, she returned to the back room. A few minutes later, she returned with a cup of tea and buns on a platter and placed them on the table.

“These are for you,” she explained, “for you’ve come a long way.”

“Thank you, Miss…”

“Oh, they call me many things in these parts,” she admitted, “the woman with the gold, the lady of the lake, the haggard old spinster, the witch with no name…ignore them all. What people don’t understand, they despise. But, here…” she continued, reaching in a pocket in her dress, “here is your payment.”

Jerry reached out his hand and took the coin from her palm.

“That’s a fortune in pure king’s gold,” she claimed.

“Thanks!” Jerry beamed. “I’ve never seen a real gold coin before. Father would treasure this.”

He glanced at the food on the table.

“May I have a little bread before I leave?” he asked her.

“Certainly!” she smiled. “Sit down and help yourself!”

Famished, he placed himself at the table, ate some of the bread, and drank a few sips of tea.

“This is good,” he nodded. “Um, do you live here alone?”

“Just me and these decorations,” she answered.

Jerry, for his part, wasn’t so sure he could live in a house decorated by the heads of stuffed dead animals.

As he ate a little more, his body began to feel heavy. His legs seemed to take on a weight of their own. Even his eyelids felt heavy.

“I…” he managed to emit, “I…”

Before a full word could pass his lips, he passed out on the table.

The next morning, he woke up with a slight headache. Still groggy, he looked around in confusion. He soon discovered that not only was he still in the old woman’s house but he was also tied to one of the handmade chairs. He struggled to free himself but it was in vain. His bonds were too strong and too tight.

Just then, the old woman came walking out of the back room with a large jar in her hands.

“Did you tie me up?” he asked her.

“Be quiet!” she shouted. “Argh! The sound of boys do my ears despise!”

“Let me go!” he cried. “I want to go home!”

“Your journey ends here!” she declared.

He struggled again to free himself. Like before, it was a waste of time. She held out the jar towards him.

“Do you know what’s in here?” she asked rhetorically.

Reaching in the jar, she brings out a handful of black threadlike substance.

“Bats’ wings!” she beamed. Jerry gasped.

He gasped again when, now that it was daytime, he could see just how black, crooked and rotten her teeth were.

“Don’t look so shocked, little boy,” she smiled with malice. “It’ll all be over soon.”

“What will?” he wondered.

“Breakfast,” she answered.

“But I’m not hungry,” he pleaded.

“Oh,” she explained, pouring out the bats’ wings in the cauldron simmering in the hearth, “but I am!”

“What are you having?” he asked, staring at her. She pointed a bony finger at him.

“You.”

“Help!” he shouted. “Help!”

“No one can hear you,” she grinned. “You are much too far, too deep in the forest, I fear. Not even the wolves touch my doorstep.”

“You’re a mad woman!”

“Thank you, Candlestick. That’s the best compliment I’ve had all year. Actually, it’s the only compliment I’ve had all year!”

She turned and walked towards the backroom.

“Just you sit still,” she cautioned. “I’ve learned in the past a nervous boy does a bad meal make.”

As she entered the backroom, Jerry struggled with his bonds again. As before, they wouldn’t budge. He then tried to drag the chair to the fireplace only to realize it had been nailed in place.

“Help me!” he yelled. As before, there was no response.

Suddenly, he remembered the whistles in his pockets. Using a lot of effort, he was able to bend over to his pants and cause a whistle to slide out half way. Seeing the green whistle, he picked it up with his mouth, twisted it cleverly so it was aligned the right way, and blew into it with all his might. He became puzzled when it emitted no sound.

“Is it broken?” he wondered.

He blew it again. Like before, it made no sound. Annoyed, he spit it out on the floor.

Bending down again, he wriggled the red whistle out of his pocket and caught it in his mouth before it fell.

He blew into it. It produced no sound. He blew into it a second time but, again, it made no sound. He dropped it on the floor.

“Another broken whistle!” he whispered to himself.

For the last time, he bent over and brought out the white whistle given to him by the injured unicorn.

Taking a deep breath, he blew into it with all his might. Like the others, it made no sound. He blew into it again but it produced nothing. Angry, he spit it out.

“These animals have tricked me!” he lamented. “I should have known better that to trust them. Now, look at me. Look at this house. So many times I’ve heard father say beware the den of inequity. I thought it never existed. I should’ve believed him.” He started crying.

The old woman came out of the back room with a loaf of bread on a platter and laid it on the table.

“Soon,” she remarked, “I will have my fill. For so long I’ve hungered for the taste of a young ‘un. Finally, my that day has come.”

As she turned to stir the huge ladle in the cauldron, the front door was suddenly thrust open. Standing in the door were the three animals Jerry had helped before – Pod the turtle, Dow the parrot, and Bow the unicorn. Both Pod and Dow were on Bow’s back.

“Arrgghh!” the old witch yelled, grabbing the hot ladle. “I will add all of you to my stew!”

 She rushed towards them. Dow flew up and Pod jumped to the floor. Bow lowered his head and thrust his horn towards her. In one deft and unerring motion, he impaled her, then racing over to the cauldron, threw her in. She screamed as she started melting.

Pod used his sharp strong beak to chew through the binds around Jerry while Dow perched himself on the table near the bread.

“Don’t touch that!” Jerry warned him. “Everything here is poisoned.”

“Yes,” Bow agreed. “This is the lair of the black witch.”

“The scourge of Magin Forest!” Dow agreed.

“She sure had many names,” Jerry wondered, “but how did you guys know I needed help?”

“We heard your whistles,” Bow informed him.

“The whistles!” Jerry exclaimed. “But they’re broken!”

“To you,” Pod explained, “they may seem that may because you can’t hear them.”

“But believe me,” Dow added, “they’re quite loud!”

Just then, a bright gleam of light caught their eye from high up on one of the walls.  Curious, Dow flew up towards it. Seconds later, he brought down a small basket.

“What is that?” Jerry asked.

Dow laid the basket on the table. It was overflowing with shiny gold coins.

“Yay!” they shouted collectively.

“We shall divide this evenly,” Jerry proposed.

Within minutes, they parted the gold four ways and left the house.

Pod built a home for himself and has family and had enough gold left over to live comfortably the rest of his long life. Dow built an estuary, a safe area where birds lived in peace without fear of predators like wolves. Bow had always wanted to see the world so he and some friends built a caravan and traveled as far as their legs could take them. Jerry and his father built a large safe home in Magin Forest which contained a courtyard where locals could come to trade, tell stories, and reminisce about the dark old days living in fear of the black witch.

Robin Ray is from Seattle, WA. He was born in Trinidad & Tobago and came to the US at age 12. Later, he studied English at Iowa State University and Nursing at Elizabeth Seton College. Although being a songwriter and musician, he is also the proud author of six screenplays and numerous short stories, poems, and fairy tales.

The White Marriage, By William Saunders

Editor's note: What a marvel William Saunders has created with this story. Fragments of magic, slivers of drama, shards of history, are all mingled together in a reverie called, "The White Marriage."  EC is delighted to present the story as a guest post, as it seemed the best category in which to place it. Enjoy!

Once upon time there was a beautiful princess, and she married a handsome prince, who took her far away across the sea to rule with him over the city of Prague.

And Prague in November resembled an enormous wedding cake, as the Princess, who was now a Queen looked out of her castle window.  After a night of snow, the roofs and the spires of the city shone and sparkled as if they were gorgeous curlicues teased out of sugar by a clever pastry chef. Only if she leaned very far out of the window could she find any sign of the dark earth at all.

Down below among the cottages pressed against the wall of the castle the snow had not settled due to the steady tread of the alchemists going back and forth to fetch coal. Day and night they tended their fires in pursuit of the secret of immortality.

Jessie Dunlop

As things fell out this November, the Queen was alone in the Castle because the Prince, who was now a King, was away making war on his enemies at the White Mountain.  For company she had her three companions from home, Mary, Mary and Mary, and the four of them gossiped and giggled together in their native tongue as they wandered the enormous rooms, but there was no real life to be had with all the men away. The Queen also had her English players with her and that afternoon they were to perform a masque for the ladies. 

Not every man had gone to the war. Down below in the city there was a young soldier who had decided to seek his fortune by other means. He had rented a small room, with a stove to sit by as he thought and thought about how to decide what is real and what is only a dream.

The English players are the mechanics of dreams. Together they raise the scaffold in the Castle throne room with easy practice - the platform on which they will become kings and even queens, although they are all men and boys.  Mary Carmichael will not leave them alone. She hangs around the doorway as the crashes of the scaffold work echo up in the rafters of the Throne room, with no thought of her dignity.

She is fascinated by Rufus, the lead boy of the company who takes the main feminine roles. She loves to finger his tinsel dress and stroke his down chin and ask him "How can you play a woman when you've never known one?"

Rufus blushes but answers, "I play maids."

"Oh! Oh!" shrieks Mary Carmichael "That's put me in my place, for I could only play a maid from memory." Her laughter skirls through the great chamber high above the laughter of the men. Rufus blushes deeper, and Mary pinches his cheek and says "He blushes like a maid." But the Queen has heard the laughter and has sent Mary Seaton to take Mary Carmichael away from the players.

So the Queen and all three of her ladies walk together in the long gallery before dinner, their breath hanging before them in thin white clouds. They talk of Grace, the snow, Anabaptists and Mary Seaton's small dog, Duncan, who runs ahead of them and snuffles at the fringes of the tapestries. None of them mentions the war.
Dinner without the men is a jolly affair. Among only themselves and waited on by women, the ladies can forget their manners and be free with their appetites. Mary Carmichael is always greedy, and Mary Heaton enjoys her food when she gets the chance, although she is as thin as a needle. There is no fish, with so many men away, but even in November there are peaches and plums grown magically under the low winter sun in a room with glass walls on the roof of the castle.

When at last dinner is cleared away the light has begun to fade. Much of the throne room is already lost in shadow as the Queen leads the Marys in to see the Masque. The stage is lit with sconces, and up in the gallery the musicians have lit their candles. One could fancy that the pin pricks of candlelight are the stars in the sky. And such fancies are what make the Queen uneasy about Theatre. Surely to make a mockery of Nature is to mock its Creator? And the better the mockery the greater the spiritual danger, for a perfect imitation of form will draw Spirit into it, like the brazen head built by Cornelius Agrippa which spoke and prophesied. And in this poor light the Imagination will spring to the aid of the Intellect to make the stage, and only the stage real, and what are the dangers of the perfect illusion?

Rufus is the perfect illusion now, as he steps onto the empty platform of the stage. Who could doubt that he is what he claims to be, the Lady Moon in the Garden of the Night? He moves with delicacy and modesty. His feet glide beneath him, his arms float before him has he uses his hands to emphasize his unhappy situation, and his horse hair tresses fly around him with each toss of his head.

The Lady Moon has nightingales and owls for company and it is the sweetest scented flowers which exhale their perfumes during the hours of darkness. Yet all is not well with her. She loves the Lord Sun, loves him and fears him, for she is afraid that in his great light she will disappear. She would take that risk but her cruel father Saturn keeps her away from her lover.

The Queen hears Mary Heaton draw her handkerchief from her sleeve ready to weep for Lady Moon. The Queen is moved too. She knows what is to be the daughter and lover of powerful men. She is gripped rather more than she would like.

Here comes Mercury, a lithe and nimble lad, resplendent in yellow robes. His dances and songs are so gay that even Lady Moon forgets her troubles and laughs.  Mercury brings hope as well as laughter, for he knows a way to bring Lady Moon together with her love, but it will require her to change completely. Lady Moon asks herself if she dare trust Mercury, the Guardian of the Dead, the Master of Shadows and decides she has no choice. They depart in different directions.

Here comes Lord Sun in golden armor. All the ladies gasp. His heralds are the roosters, his knights are the eagles. He is all seeing and master of all that he can see. Poor Lady Moon, for surely such a magnificent being must be complete in himself? He who has everything must want nothing. Lady Moon's cause must be hopeless.

Yet, strangely, Lord Sun is susceptible to flattery. Mercury skips on and sings his praises and his Lordship is very pleased. Sly Mercury then sings a song of longing and love from afar. Lord Sun is moved and asks where Mercury learned it. Mercury says that he heard it from a lady in a secluded garden, a garden where the Lord Sun can never go.

Lord Sun is devastated, he wants more than anything to enter the garden and court the lady. Mercury promises that he can arrange just that but it will involve great sacrifice on Lord Sun's part. Without hesitation the Lord Sun says he will agree to anything that Mercury asks of him.

Lord Sun departs and Mercury reveals to his select audience that his game is deeper than either Lord Sun and Lady Moon can guess. Their marriage will be the accomplishment of the Great Work. He summons his two servants Castor and Pollux to send word to Lord Sun and Lady Moon to meet him in the Garden of the Hesperides, the garden in the West, where Day and Night meet.

Castor and Pollux are not the most competent of servants but after a few misadventures together which set the Queen and her ladies laughing, they go their separate ways to perform their errands.

Mercury appears again and announces he is in the Garden of the Hesperides the orchard whose golden fruit bring wisdom and immortality to any who dare to eat of them. Lord Sun and Lady Moon appear form opposite sides of the stage. After they have sung in celebration, Mercury instructs them to strip to their shifts. Then the atmosphere darkens. Lady Moon announces that her cruel Father Saturn is about to arrive and stop the wedding.

In fact it is another person altogether who stops the ceremony. A young knight runs into the throne room and falls on his knees before the Queen. The mud and the blood on his clothes speak of his valor and yet he weeps like a child. Through his tears he tells the Queen that the King has been defeated at the White Mountain and she and her ladies must flee Prague that very night.

Lights are called for everywhere and all the servants are stirred up to pack whatever can be carried off. Mary Heaton begins to weep and the Queen tells her if she has tears to shed she should not waste them on herself but cry for the women of Prague who have nowhere to flee to and must await the mercy of the enemy army.

Down below in the city the young soldier wakes up beside his stove, and in the moments between sleep and waking he realizes he is dreaming his life and in those same moments he realizes that if he is dreaming himself, there must be a self to do the dreaming. And in the years that were to follow, the young man wrote his thoughts about this in a book, and many wise men have come to believe that the young soldier was right.

Jessie Dunlop

And beside the Castle the Alchemists went back forth to fetch coal as they always did. Day and night they tend their fires in search of the secret of immortality: living, in effect, as if they had already found it. 


Bio: William Saunders is a London based poet, journalist and author. His collection of short stories is called Leah And Her Twelve Brothers.

Bio: Jessie Dunlop is an archaeologist who lives in Vancouver. These are her first published illustrations.

Links:
Leah And Her Twelve Brothers

EC readers are invited to download "The White Marriage" as a free .pdf here:
http://www.stormbooks.biz/images/stories/writers/William_Saunders/william_saunders_sample_prague.pdf

or via this page where it is listed as Prague.
http://www.stormbooks.biz/index.php/williamsaunders

Rumpelstiltskin, By Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm

Editor's note: Poor old Rumpelstiltskin. In my book, he was more sinned against than sinning. He always just seemed like a lonely guy who wanted a child -- and really, how great would the greedy king and thoughtless miller's daughter be as parents? And the miller? A dolt. Everyone knows that you do not, do not, try to gain the attention of the greedy and powerful -- unless you are attempting a palace coup.

The miller was not up to anything like a palace takeover, but in any case, the brag about his daughter's alleged ability to spin straw into gold sets the whole story of "Rumpelstiltskin" motion. 

The king, even for a figure of power in a fairy tale, is notably greedy and cruel. Not only does he want all the gold he can get (which, admittedly, is a pretty common failing), but he threatens her with death if she fails to produce. The miller, meanwhile, is not seen to throw himself at the feet of the kind, begging for mercy for his daughter.

The miller's daughter is pretty vacant, in this version of the tale, and this version is a standard text. All she can do is cry. Then, she ultimately promises away one of the things the king would most want from her: His future child. Granted, she is scared, but surely, a man who would kill a woman who couldn't spin straw into gold would also kill her if she gave away his child -- but he'd probably torture her first. Perhaps she needed to think harder.

Rumpel is the only decent person in the story. He even gives the "heroine" a chance to keep her baby by guessing his name. And she cheats.

But you know that, because you already know the story. The Brothers Grimm version below is from 1922. 

What do you think of my surly take on this story? I say, "Team Rumpel!"

Charles Robinson

There was once a poor Miller who had a beautiful daughter, and one day, having to go to speak with the King, he said, in order to make himself appear of consequence, that he had a daughter who could spin straw into gold. The King was very fond of gold, and thought to himself, "That is an art which would please me very well"; and so he said to the Miller, "If your daughter is so very clever, bring her to the castle in the morning, and I will put her to the proof."

As soon as she arrived the King led her into a chamber which was full of straw; and, giving her a wheel and a reel, he said, "Now set yourself to work, and if you have not spun this straw into gold by an early hour to-morrow, you must die." With these words he shut the room door, and left the maiden alone.

There she sat for a long time, thinking how to save her life; for she understood nothing of the art whereby straw might be spun into gold; and her perplexity increased more and more, till at last she began to weep.

All at once the door opened, and in stepped a little Man, who said, "Good evening, fair maiden; why do you weep so sore?"

"Ah," she replied, "I must spin this straw into gold, and I am sure I do not know how."

Anne Anderson

 The little Man asked, "What will you give me if I spin it for you?"

"My necklace," said the maiden.

The Dwarf took it, placed himself in front of the wheel, and whirr, whirr, whirr, three times round, and the bobbin was full. Then he set up another, and whir, whir, whir, thrice round again, and a second bobbin was full; and so he went all night long, until all the straw was spun, and the bobbins were full of gold. At sunrise the King came, very much astonished to see the gold; the sight of which gladdened him, but did not make his heart less covetous. He caused the maiden to be led into another room, still larger, full of straw; and then he bade her spin it into gold during the night if she valued her life. The maiden was again quite at a loss what to do; but while she cried the door opened suddenly, as before, and the Dwarf appeared and asked her what she would give him in return for his assistance. "The ring off my finger," she replied. The little Man took the ring and began to spin at once, and by morning all the straw was changed to glistening gold. The King was rejoiced above measure at the sight of this, but still he was not satisfied, but, leading the maiden into another still larger room, full of straw as the others, he said, "This you must spin during the night; but if you accomplish it you shall be my bride." "For," thought he to himself, "a richer wife thou canst not have in all the world."

Charles Folkard

When the maiden was left alone, the Dwarf again appeared and asked, for the third time, "What will you give me to do this for you?"

"I have nothing left that I can give you," replied the maiden.

"Then promise me your first-born child if you become Queen," said he.

John Gruelle

The Miller's daughter thought, "Who can tell if that will ever happen?" and, ignorant how else to help herself out of her trouble, she promised the Dwarf what he desired; and he immediately set about and finished the spinning. When morning came, and the King found all he had wished for done, he celebrated his wedding, and the Miller's fair daughter became Queen.

The gay times she had at the King's Court caused her to forget that she had made a very foolish promise.
About a year after the marriage, when she had ceased to think about the little Dwarf, she brought a fine child into the world; and, suddenly, soon after its birth, the very man appeared and demanded what she had promised. The frightened Queen offered him all the riches of the kingdom if he would leave her her child; but the Dwarf answered, "No; something human is dearer to me than all the wealth of the world."

The Queen began to weep and groan so much that the Dwarf pitied her, and said, "I will leave you three days to consider; if you in that time discover my name you shall keep your child."

AH Watson

All night long the Queen racked her brains for all the names she could think of, and sent a messenger through the country to collect far and wide any new names. The following morning came the Dwarf, and she began with "Caspar," "Melchior," "Balthassar," and all the odd names she knew; but at each the little Man exclaimed, "That is not my name." The second day the Queen inquired of all her people for uncommon and curious names, and called the Dwarf "Ribs-of-Beef," "Sheep-shank," "Whalebone," but at each he said, "This is not my name." The third day the messenger came back and said, "I have not found a single name; but as I came to a high mountain near the edge of a forest, where foxes and hares say good night to each other, I saw there a little house, and before the door a fire was burning, and round this fire a very curious little Man was dancing on one leg, and shouting:

Warwick Goble

"'To-day I stew, and then I'll bake,

To-morrow I shall the Queen's child take;
Ah! how famous it is that nobody knows
That my name is Rumpelstiltskin.'"

When the Queen heard this she was very glad, for now she knew the name; and soon after came the Dwarf, and asked, "Now, my lady Queen, what is my name?"

First she said, "Are you called Conrade?" "No."

"Are you called Hal?" "No."

"Are you called Rumpelstiltskin?"

"A witch has told you! a witch has told you!" shrieked the little Man, and stamped his right foot so hard in the ground with rage that he could not draw it out again. Then he took hold of his left leg with both his hands, and pulled away so hard that his right came off in the struggle, and he hopped away howling terribly. And from that day to this the Queen has heard no more of her troublesome visitor.

Kay Nielsen

Matches and Races, By Teresa Robeson

Editor's note: Teresa Robeson's take on Hans Christian Andersen's "The Little Match Girl," mashes up the chill of New Year's Eve with ... the dog track. The unlikely pairing is well worth a read.

Her parents slammed the door behind her with a decisive thunk. She was not to return until she had sold all the matches in her apron pocket. It didn’t matter that it was New Year’s Eve and the cruel chill of winter had a stranglehold on the town.


There was to be no celebration in the house anyway. Being dirt poor meant there was hardly ever enough food on a daily basis, let alone on special occasions. What little money they occasionally had was gambled away by Papa, who always swore, “I have a good feeling about this one.”


When the girl was old enough to accompany her siblings to town to sell matches, she saw other girls her age whose smiling parents held their hands, and who wore velvet or silk pinafores. Her own parents certainly never held her hand or smiled at her. The only time her parents’ hands touched her at all was when they reprimanded her for not following orders quickly enough. And her pinafore was a hand-me down, fashioned from an old bed sheet.


Her grandmother had been the one good thing in her life, slipping her extra morsels of food, and brushing her hair with old, gnarled hand before bedtime. While caressing the little girl’s straw-colored curls, Oma would share some words of wisdom, such as “a bird in hand is worth eating quickly,” “it’s better to be ignored than to receive,” and “life is a dog, and then there’s death.”  She never knew what Oma meant; she just kept quiet, contented to be loved.


But Oma died during the long, hard winter last year. A deep chest cold hit everyone in the family. With a draughty house and not enough food, Oma and the baby, the oldest and the youngest in the household, could not recover. They coughed up blood and their lives.


The little match girl trudged to the center of town, all the streets she was so familiar with during the day strangely aglow with gas lamps. She had never been out this late before, and if she weren’t numb with cold, she might appreciate the beauty of the frosty nightscape.


Laughter drifted out of houses, sounds of people enjoying their dinner parties. The smells of roasted meats and hot breads tantalized her along the way. Nobody wished the waif in torn clothing a Happy New Year. The people she passed by barely glanced at her as she gave them her most winsome smile and said, “Matches? Do you need some matches?”


When she became too tired to walk, she sat down against the wall of the tailor’s shop, tucking her legs beneath her as much as she could. She hadn’t had any food all day. Her stomach growled a reminder, as if she could forget.


Snowflakes began to fall, twinkling like falling stars among the backdrop of lamplight. The girl hugged herself, trying to fend off the cold that pricked her skin under her thin clothing.


What she wanted was the warmth a match could give her, even if temporarily. Her mother and father probably didn’t know how many matches were in her pocket so lighting one couldn’t hurt, could it?


She fought a shiver, pulled a single match out of her pocket and struck it against the wall.


Pshsssss!  The match hissed before catching hold, steadfast and brilliant.


The girl stared at the flame; it seemed to fan out and fill a fireplace. The air about her felt warmer, and the light wind that had played with her apron was gone.  As she continued to stare, she saw that the fireplace sported an ornate grating, with swirls and curls that she recognized as fine ironwork even though she had never seen the likes of it before. A dog lay on an oval braided rug in front of the fireplace, gazing at the fire.  Then it turned its head to look at her. The match burned down to her finger. She gasped and dropped it.


The scene vanished. The chill returned to nip at her fingers and nose, and the wind tugged on her apron again.


Was it hunger or the cold that made her see the vision so clearly? It didn’t matter; what mattered was that she wanted to see it again, to feel warm and safe in the room with the roaring fire.


Surely she could light a second match. It’s only a second match. Her parents wouldn’t miss that one either.


She struck another match on the wall. As it sputtered and sizzled to life, the fireplace appeared before her once more. This time, the dog was not alone. Oma was next to it, smiling at the girl.


“Little one,” she said, holding out her hand. The dog stood up.


“Oma?” said the girl. “I have missed you.”


Oma walked toward her; the dog kept pace.

“I have missed you too,” said Oma.


“Is that your dog?” asked the girl, puzzled since they had never had a dog before.


“Yes, dear,” said Oma.


“What’s its name?”


“Her name is Life,” said Oma.


“Oh,” said the girl, and thought for a moment, remembering the sayings that her grandmother used to tell her. “Does this mean I’m going to die?”


Oma cocked her head. “Something needs to die,” she said and laughed. It sounded so odd; Oma never laughed when she was alive.


The dog came up to the girl and nudged her foot with its nose. She looked down at it, wondering what it wanted from her. 


“Oma, why is your dog doing that?” she said, looking back up at her grandmother. But Oma wasn’t there anymore.


The dog nudged her foot again, harder this time.


“Hey,” it said.


The girl started.


“Hey!”


She blinked and saw that it was not the dog, but a stranger, tapping at her foot with his cane.


“Are you selling matches or sleeping?” the stranger asked. His companion stifled a smile. They both smelled of wine, and maybe something harder.


She got to her feet. “Yes, sir. I am selling matches.”


“Well, good; the general store is closed and I would hate to run out of matches for my festen later this evening.”


“How many would you like, sir?” the girl asked.


“I’ll take the lot,” the man said.


She pulled all the matches from her pocket and placed them in the drawstring pouch the woman companion was holding out toward her.


The man put a number of coins into the girl’s hands in return.


“That’s mighty generous of you,” the woman said to the man.


“Don’t spend it all on candy now, little girl,” he said.


“As if spending it on dog racing is so much better,” said the woman with a smirk.


“Dog racing?” said the girl.


“Last run of the year!” said the man. “No finer way to finish off the old and ring in the new.” He pulled his lady friend close and they both laughed heartily at a joke the girl didn’t get.


As the couple went about their way, the girl stared at the coins in her hand. She thought of Oma and the dog. Dumping the money into her apron pocket, she hurried after the couple, but kept out of their sight.


The racetrack was well lit and glowed with a festive halo, as though God Himself approved of gambling.


The couple greeted their friends as they arrived. When their chatter faded after they entered the tracks and there was no one else about, the girl approached the hut by the gate. The man in the hut was muttering to himself and shuffling something in his hands. She cleared her throat. He didn’t notice.


“Excuse me, sir!” she said.


He looked up and didn’t see anyone. “Who’s there?” he asked.


“I’m down here,” she replied.


The man peered over the edge of the small window. “What’re you doing here, little girl? You should be home.” His voice was gruff as he glanced around. “I don’t want officers to see children loitering about.”


“I’ve not run into any officers of the law all evening,” she said. “They’re probably home celebrating.”


The man grunted. “That may be. That may be.”


“I would like to bet on the race,” she said.


He surveyed her tattered clothing. “You need money to bet.”


“I have money,” she said. She pulled out the coins from her apron pocket.


He raised his bushy brows.


“What dogs are in this race?” she asked.


The man shrugged and pointed to the piece of paper posted next to him. “Snowflake, Fjord, Tulip, Zephyr, Coal, and Life.”


The girl smiled. “I’ll bet everything on Life,” she said as she reached up and dumped all her coins on the ledge. “I have a good feeling about this one.”


Having grown up under the influence of Chinese and Western fairy tales, Teresa still believes, in her late 40s, that foxes turn into people and there are faeries hiding behind toadstools. She’s on Twitter as @INwriter.

The Talking Skull, By Jennifer A. McGowan

Editor's note: This winning poem grabbed my attention in a big way. While based on a folk-tale rather than a fairy tale, it honors the fairy-tale tradition by having elements of wonder and transformation -- of a rather dark sort. Jennifer adapted it from a Nigerian folk tale.

A hunter
in search of food for his family
walked and walked
but found no prey.
The plains stretched on
and the sun beat
and even he was weary.

There was one tree
that stretched its branches
and he sat beneath it.
Propped his feet
on a white rock
and drank.
When he was rested, he noticed
the rock had two eye-holes
and teeth.  Alone
in the vast expanse
except for the sky,
he addressed the rock
in a casual fashion:
“What brought you here, my friend?”
Then he laughed,
grateful no one could hear him.

So perhaps it is to be forgiven
if the hunter jumped
when the skull fixed him
in its empty gaze and said,
“Talking brought me here!”

Food and family forgotten,
he ran to the king
to tell him of this wonder
and the king
and all his attendants
went in stately fashion
to see the talking skull.

The plains stretched on
and the sun beat
so it is perhaps to be forgiven
if the king was weary
and rather hot and bothered
when at last they reached the one tree
that stretched its branches.

The king ordered the hunter
to show him the wonder
and the hunter found the skull
and addressed it in a friendly fashion:
“Greetings again!  Please tell my king—
what brought you here!”

But the skull
was silent.

For a long time
the hunter pleaded and implored
questioned and queried
but the skull
might well have been
a white rock to prop his feet on
for all the good it did.

The king was angry.
He had come a long way
and had expected wisdom from beyond the grave
or at least a miracle
that befit his station.
He had his champion
lop off the hunter’s head
and began the long trip home.

Beyond the one tree
the plains stretched on.
Beneath the tree
the skull rolled grinning
over to the hunter’s head and asked,
“What brought you here, my friend?”
And the hunter’s head said sadly,
“Talking brought me here!”
And underneath the shaded earth
the other skulls set up a clattering.

Jennifer A. McGowan lives near Oxford, England, and has published widely on both sides of the Atlantic.  For more poetry, info about her first collection, and for samples of her medieval calligraphy, visit http://www.jenniferamcgowan.com