Sheer Escapism

Fully autumn soon, the nights are drawing in, there’s a chill in the air and the leaves of the Japanese ornamental cherry show just the faintest tinge of burgundy. Millie is still with me, she seems to be having a reprieve in her general health - not the arthritis, alas - and I have decided to shut the back door at night. It keeps the warmth in and she has a more comfortable time of it in the scullery. If I have to clean up after her, so be it. It won’t be forever. And it doesn’t happen every night either.

The hedge cutters are here, another sign of autumn. Raindrops are dripping on them but they are hardy young men; “it’s only water”  said the one I took round the perimeter of the garden to give instructions on what needed trimming. True, but I myself still sheltered under a big umbrella. And I needed his arm to help me over a very steep slippery grassy bit without falling over. He promptly fell over himself, should have asked me for my arm in return.

There is so little that is pleasant in this world at the moment that I am seriously keen not to add to the misery for myself. Yes, I am still obsessed with current affairs, yes, I still shout curses at politicians whenever they appear on TV spouting barefaced lies, yes, I still dread what is happening to our climate and the environment. What to do? Withdraw from the whole unholy mess of it? Could be. Escape at least occasionally. Evenings start earlier, earlier evenings require indoor activities rather than balmy nights spent outdoors. Reading, TV and maybe closer attention to this blog of mine again, after several years of neglect.

Which brings me to another question: are you old enough to indulge in bad taste books, films, TV shows without embarrassment? To my surprise quite a few of the ‘ladies who lunch’ admit to doing so. Well, in that case, so do I. Not exclusively, of course. I couldn’t possibly live on a diet of sweets and chocolates, burgers and ready meals, neither can I feed my brain exclusively on pap. However, a Georgette Heyer Regency romance, a cosy mystery from the 'Golden Era', a Mary Stewart adventure, a Robin Hobb fantasy, even a Scandi noir thriller insinuate themselves on to my Kindle now and then. (I am too embarrassed to put hard copies on bookshelves). All of the foregoing have one thing in common, they all end happily-ever-after. As for TV, well, the ladies admit to switching on certain channels which run endless repeats of British and American sitcoms, British country village thrillers and long running soaps. I have to be very tired before I give ‘Midsomer Murders' another go - it’s too much like painting-by-numbers - but it’s been known to fill the odd otherwise sadly depressing space. Morse, Endeavour and Shetland are more to my taste. I can take Agatha Christie's Miss Marple or Poirot as well, if needed. I am not so good on films, but a romcom would hit the spot nicely too.

So, there you have it, Friko’s image as culturally high-brow is shattered. I always knew it and now that escapism has become ever more urgent I am old enough to blow a raspberry at anyone who feels judgement coming on. Not you, obviously.

For those who like natural history and the science of it here’s a recommendation which is neither pap nor instant escapism: Peter Wohlleben’s ’The Hidden Life of Trees’, an informative study and fascinating look into the enchantment of trees that can talk and sometimes walk - no it’s not a fairy tale. You’ll gain a whole new perspective on the amazing processes of life, death and regeneration of woodlands. The better sort of escapism.

The Wedding Feast

Resurrection Reunion 2, 1945, Sir Stanley Spencer

The Mag 192

Provided by Tess Kincaid.

Many years ago, I received an invitation to a very grand wedding; a beautiful young princess, with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood and hair as black as ebony, was marrying the King’s son and all the people of the land were to come and join in the celebrations. You can imagine how delighted we were to attend the festivities and see the happy pair be joined in holy matrimony. After the ceremony, tables were carried in laden with all manner of glorious food; there were capons, geese, larks, chickens, beef, bacon, lamb, salmon, herring, eels and other fresh water fish; the dairy had contributed cheeses and butter and great mounds of eggs.  There were huge bowls of sweet and spicy mead, there was ale, cider and perry, while the courtiers themselves drank wine. In short it was a feast to make the heart sing.

When all had eaten and drunk their fill, a band of musicians entered the hall and a space was cleared for dancing.  Prince and Princess led the courtly dances with a Quadrille, but jigs and country dances soon took over and we ordinary folk joined the fray, kicking and hopping until our faces turned red and the sweat poured off the peasant’s brow.

It was then I saw her: a beautiful woman, no longer young but well preserved, dressed in courtly finery and glittering jewels, dancing in the centre of the throng. I had had to take a breather, my heart was pounding fit to burst and while I looked round to find a way out and maybe a stool to perch on for a minute, my eye was drawn to her. She danced wilder and faster than anyone else around; other dancers had opened up a circle around her and as they backed away, I saw horror on their faces. Curious, I edged nearer, the better to see her: her feet fairly flew across the ground. Her shoes! Oh, Lord have Mercy, her shoes! they were of iron, red-hot iron and no matter how hard she tried to shake them off, they were stuck to her feet.

And now I recognised her.

I had, of course, heard of her and her envious, malicious and murderous deeds. Not content with banishing Snow-white she had then thrice tried to kill her; first trying to lace her to death, then by combing her hair with a poisoned comb and lastly by making her choke on a poisoned apple. Three times her plan failed and Snow-white was resurrected, twice by the dwarves with whom she had found a home and lastly by the Prince, who fell in love with her instantly, the moment he saw her lying in her glass coffin.

The wicked stepmother’s machinations had finally failed and now she was paying the price. Condemned to dance herself to death there was to be no miraculous resurrection for her.

Golden Potatoes

photo Agustin Berocal

Tess Kincaid’s Magpie 177

In the days when people undertook long journeys overland on foot a goldsmith and a tailor were travelling together.  One evening they had reached the edge of a wood when they heard music and laughter. They decided that such jolly sounds meant jolly company, so they entered the wood and soon came upon a group of little people, dancing and singing in a clearing, by the light of the harvests moon.

The two travellers stood full of astonishment, watching the dance. The tallest of the little people, an old man, who whirled and stomped the hardest, beckoned them to join in. The goldsmith, brave as only a hunchback can be, jumped at the chance whereas the tailor held back at first, but when he saw how merrily all was going he plucked up the courage to step into the circle.

The travellers sang and danced and leaped about, all fear having vanished. Then the old man drew a large knife from his belt, whetted it and jumped upon them. Instantly terrified the pair crouched and cringed but from within the circle of little people there was no escape. The old man seized the goldsmith and with the greatest speed shaved the hair off his head and then did the same to the tailor. The little people laughed and slapped the travellers on the back, as if to say how brave they had been and what good sports. The old man laughed the hardest and then pointed to a heap of potatoes to one side and urged the travellers to stuff their pockets with them.

Not knowing what to make of it the travellers did and then continued on their journey. They found a poor inn where they spent the night on straw pallets, covering themselves with their coats. Waking up hungry in the morning a baked potato seemed a good idea. They went to the fireplace and were just about to put a potato each into the ashes when they noticed a golden glow: the potatoes had turned to nuggets of pure gold!  They had become rich beyond their wildest dreams. Happily, too, the hair on their heads was there again, thick as ever.

The tailor wept tears of joy but the goldsmith, being a greedy man, instantly wanted more. He belaboured the tailor to go back with him when night fell and bring back still greater treasure from the old man with the knife. The tailor refused. He stayed at the inn and promised to wait for the goldsmith to return from the wood.

In the evening the goldsmith hung a couple of bags over his shoulders so that he could stow away a great deal and took to the road they had travelled the day before. He found the little folks at their singing and dancing, and the old man again shaved him clean and signed to him to take some potatoes away with him. He was not slow about stuffing as much into his bags as would go, came back to the inn quite delighted and covered himself with his coat. He fell asleep with the sweet anticipation of waking an enormously rich man.

O the folly of greed! The potatoes in his bags remained potatoes and what’s more, the previous night’s gold had turned back into nothing more than wholesome, earthy tubers. The goldsmith wept bitter tears, and his wailing became even louder when he rubbed his head and found himself as bald as a coot. 

The good tailor felt sorry for him. He comforted the goldsmith who was as contrite as any poor sinner facing up to the error of his ways and promised to share his own wealth with him. He kept his word and the two of them continued on their journey, steering well clear of singing and dancing and all such temptation they might later come to regret.

(With a nod and a wink in the direction of the Brothers Grimm, two old men who might well have told a morality tale along similar lines)

The Crafty Peasant

Chilmark Hay, 1951
by Thomas Hart Benton

Tess Kincaid's Magpie Prompt No. 125

Once upon a time there was an honest peasant who was also particularly crafty, even more so than most of his kind. He took on, and beat, the devil at his own game, which was no mean feat, I can tell you.

One evening, after a hard day's work, just as the church bells rang for vespers, the peasant was making his way home to the village, when he saw a heap of steaming manure in the middle of his field. He went to investigate and, to his utter astonishment, saw a little black devil sitting in the midst of the live heap.

"You sit upon a great treasure there," said the peasant.

"Yes, indeed," said the devil, "worth more than all the gold and silver you have ever seen in your life."

"It's my field and therefore the treasure belongs to me," said the peasant. "Be off with you this instant."

"Not so fast, young man," said the devil. "I'll let you have it under one condition: give me half of everything your field produces for two years, and the treasure shall be yours at the end of it."

The peasant did some thinking. He didn't want to go telling lies but gaining the treasure was very tempting. "Wait a minute," he said to himself, "half of everything? Fair enough, there are halves and then there are halves."

"You're on", the peasant said to the devil. "Let's establish some ground rules first, though. Everything above ground shall be yours and everything below shall be mine."

The devil was satisfied with that, but when it came to harvest time, the devil was left with a pile of yellowing, useless, leaves, for the crafty peasant had sown turnips. While he made away with a wagon load of them, the devil danced about in fury, swearing he would make sure the rules were reversed the following year. 

"I'm willing," the peasant said. He had been planning a change from turnips anyway, so he sowed wheat. The grain became ripe and the peasant went into the field and cut the stalks down to the ground until there was nothing left for the devil but the stubble.

Realising he had been outwitted by the simple peasant yet again, the devil, in his shame, spontaneously combusted and sizzled and fizzled down into a cleft in the earth and was never seen again. The peasant spread the manure over his field, thus making sure that his harvest would be excellent for years to come.

PS:

Last night I saw Henry IV. Part I, in which Hotspur says to his cousin:

And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil

By telling truth: tell truth and shame the devil.

And then there were the Brothers Grimm, elements of whose tale I may have borrowed, not quite accidentally.

Never Accept Sweets From a Stranger

Tess Kincaid's Magpie Tale Prompt No. 96

Hel --- lo there, little one!

 Hello?

What's your name then, handsome boy?

Erm, my name is Max. Why?

That's a pretty name for a pretty boy;

How are you, pretty boy?

I'm, Err, fine, thank you, lady.

How are you?

What lovely manners you have, little one.

Would you like me to buy you an ice cream?

Erm, I don't know.

My mum says I shouldn't.

Does she?

Just for once maybe she won't mind.

Or maybe we just won't tell her.

I don't know, lady, my mum wouldn't like it.

But you would really love an ice cream, wouldn't you?

One of those big ones, with a chocolate flake in it.

Come along, I know a lovely ice cream parlour not far from here;

you'll be back in a minute.

No harm done.

Where is your mum, anyway?

There she is, coming out of that shop.

M U M

I'm over here.

Max, who were you talking to?

There was this lady, Mum, 

and she was going to buy me an . . . . . . .

Now, where did she get to?

She was here a minute ago.

Never mind, Max, let's go and have an ice cream, shall we?

On The Banks of The River Acheron

Tess Kincaid's MAGPIE PROMPT No. 95

On the banks of the River of Woe,

Forsaken by the gods,

I await your return from Hades,

O Charon.

Sullen and wrathful my life,

In death condemned

 To wander

These shores,

My soul yearns for release.

I beseech you,

O Charon,

Ferry me across the dark river

To the mouth of Hades,

And the Adamantine Gates

Guarded by Cerberus,

Take me to

Eternal bliss

In the Elysian Fields.

My Obol be your reward.

Sleeping Beauty

Tess Kincaid's Magpie Tale No. 92

For other responses, click on the prompt.

Once upon a time, in a far distant kingdom, there lived a beautiful princess. Beautiful princesses live in castles, and Dornröschen,  for that was her name, was no exception. Life was good, Dornröschen was not only very pretty, but also a good girl. As in so many far distant lands of the time, a very wicked witch also lived in the kingdom. It is well known that witches were usually extremely envious of pretty young maidens, who also happen to be princesses, and this one ran true to form. She cast a spell on Dornröschen, which made the girl fall into a deep sleep destined to last for a hundred years. Just so that nobody would notice her evil deed - although quite what she hoped to achieve by turning Dornröschen into a sleeping beauty, is anyone's guess - she caused the thick thorn bushes around the castle to grow to enormous heights, much like my hedges, when they haven't been cut for a year.

Time passed, the thorn bushes gradually encroached on the lawns and pleasure gardens, until the long tendrils had almost swallowed up the castle itself. Dornröschen slept the sleep of the just, on and on, blissfully unaware of the world around her. Nobody had set the alarm, lucky girl.

And then, one day, out of the blue, a young man happened upon the thicket of thorn bushes. It was summer and the bushes were covered in the sweetest smelling blossom. He decided to investigate. He was a prince, not only handsome but also courageous - they always were, calling a prince cowardly just wouldn't do, would it ? -  so he hacked his way deeper and deeper into the thicket until he came upon the enchanted castle. He made his way inside and found the princess' bedchamber. She had slept so deeply and peacefully, that she had hardly rumpled the sheets, after all this time they still showed the marks where they had been folded after ironing. I wish somebody would do that for my bedlinen.

Dornröschen looked so very pretty and inviting, that the prince just couldn't help himself, he kissed her. He was, of course, meant to do just that, that's how you wake a princess.

Dornröschen stretched and yawned and stretched again. She opened her eyes.

"Hallo there, you've awakened me, who are you?  And how did you get in here?"

"I am the handsome prince, come to rescue you from the spell of the wicked witch." He must have had a sudden flash of inspiration, or perhaps he remembered a tale which his old nurse used to tell him; anyway he got it right. (If you, dear reader, are not satisfied with this explanation, you may make up your own.)

"Oh, thank you, thank you so much," Dornröschen cried. She vaguely remembered seeing the witch approach her with a malicious glint in her eye and cackling something unintelligible - we know it must have been the spell - . She remembered nothing after that.

The prince lay down on the bed but, as he had been brought up properly, he tenderly held her head in his hands and kissed her sweet lips. He remembered again the story his old nurse had told him and knew what would happen next. "We shall be married," he said, "we shall be prince and princess together and live happily ever after."

The princess quite fancied him and had no objections to the plan. But one thing bothered her, would he turn out to be a fortune hunter? In spite of her innocence she had seen the way of the world before she fell asleep. Her father - where had He been all this time? - had often enough warned her.

"Before we go any further", she said, " how about getting the lawyers to draw up a pre-nuptial agreement?"

True Love Spurned !

Tess Kincaid's Magpie Prompt No. 89

It was still dark outside, a thin shard of a paler shade of black was beginning to creep round the edge of the curtains drawn across the window. Not long now, and he would be with me. Snug under my covers, I could hear him move about in the room next door, the room where he spent his afternoons and evenings. Sometimes, of course, he left the house altogether, leaving me to snooze, idle and unwanted; without him I had no life, no life at all. It was he who tickled me into being, it was he who could awaken the song in my heart, every fibre of my body vibrating, wave after wave of happiness ringing out in delight, filling my soul with joy, shuddering to an overwhelming feeling of satisfaction when he finally came to a halt many hours later.

Yes, I looked forward to our regular meetings, when he concentrated fully on me and my needs. The whole morning belonged to me, I had his undivided attention. Knowing how lucky I was I never stopped being grateful, served him well, taking hardly any time off. Very rarely did I suffer from any kind of illness, but when it happened, he wrapped me up tenderly and carried me to a hospital, where I sat on a bench while somebody else's rough hands poked about in my innards, dripping grease over my sinews and adjusting my muscles. I disliked being touched by anyone but him, but his pleasure at having me all to himself again, back home, after an episode of absence, made up for the indignity.

Finally, I heard the door open and he came over to where I sat, still hidden from view. I could feel his hands lifting the covers, folding them back carefully, slowly exposing me to his full gaze. I shivered a little as he ran his fingers delicately over my keys. Contrary to his usual custom, he did not sit down in front of me, but stood poised above me, looking at me with troubled eyes.

For the first time in our long and mutually satisfying relationship I had no idea what was coming next.

"Well, old girl," he said, "It'll break my heart. You have seen me through many a difficult birth. Sitting here, stroking you, pounding you for so many years, and releasing my creative energies into you has brought me success and recognition. But let's face it, " he continued, "you have grown old in my service, your smooth bodywork and efficient rhythms have become rough and unreliable. It's time to replace you with one of the new-fangled machines, which, I hear, even tell me when I get the spelling wrong. Admit it, you never did that. "

He patted me on the head. "I'll always appreciate your stalwart nature and true heart and I'll never love anyone as I have loved you. Believe me, and I mean this most sincerely, it's not you, it's me."

I was shocked rigid. My keys sat stiff and unmoving; a small tinkle, like a funeral bell, rang out when he picked me up with both hands and deposited me unceremoniously on the bottom shelf of his bookcase, and covered me up again.

Here I've been sitting for weeks now, drying up and silent. I heard the usurper being lifted into my rightful place. Apparently the upstart needs a lot of juice delivered via electric cables and something called a provider to get him going; he is clearly a lot less accommodating than I was. Heartless, I would say.

As for him, my lord and master, the one whom I helped to create deathless prose? I know he is not happy now, not nearly as happy as he was with me. I have heard him shout and swear in frustration. Far be it from me to gloat, but I know for a fact, that the upstart has managed to lose a whole chapter of the new book.

I have to admit to a little frisson of Schadenfreude.

The Rainwitch

Tess Kincaid's Magpie No. 84

Woman In The Rain

The land was burning.

There had been no rain for the whole of an exceptionally hot summer;

grass on the hillsides turned dry and brown, leaving sheep and cattle without feed;

hedges and verges grew dusty and trees lost their lustre.

Desperate and exhausted, the people turned to the Rainwitch for help.

Their plight moved her heart.

(She was one of the good witches, always willing to do her best for those in need)

She saw livestock dying in the meadows, 

 crops withering in the fields,

rivers running dry, 

and fish suffocating in shallow pools which had been shimmering lakes. 

She called her familiar, Old Raven, and bid him fly up into the  skies.

"See where the rainclouds have gathered,

and bring me news of those ready to discharge",

she ordered.

When Old Raven returned he had a gossamer thread of the finest silk tied to his wing.

" I have found the clouds ,

see, I have brought a flock of them , enough to refresh the land."

he  croaked.

The Rainwitch

duly did her magic.

Soon, 

lakes and rivers were overflowing,

bursting their banks.

The sky was black and heavy

with a flock of clouds,

 darkness swallowed light. 

day became night.

At first the people rejoiced.

They danced in the rain

as they watched their wells fill up with life-giving water,

and grasses, fields and hedges recover. 

"Thank you, thank you", they cried.

"You have saved our lives and our livelihood.

We will be forever in your debt."

But by and by, as the rains continued to fall, new voices were heard.

"Enough already", they said. "Enough of a good thing.

Are you trying to drown us?"

Roads flooded, and the people couldn't drive their livestock to market.

Fields were sodden and crops in danger of rotting.

Bedding grew damp and mouldy and depression set in.

"Will these dark days never end?"

Old Raven brought the news to his mistress.

"They are fed up down there", he croaked.

"You know that humans are never satisfied, whatever you do for them."

Old Raven was a wise old bird, he'd  seen it all before.

The Rainwitch was a little annoyed.

"Very well, then," she said, 

"I shall return to them and stop the rain".

She climbed up on her rock rising from the lake, spread her arms wide,

and told the rain to end

and the light to return.

"But I'll tell you one thing, Old Raven," she said, 

while the rain eased and daylight once more returned to the land,

"this was the last time I've come to their assistance. 

From now on they can make do with the seasons."

She was true to her word

and the picture above was the last anyone ever saw of her again.

A Sad Story About A Greedy Child And A Snake

The Snake Charmer - Henri Rousseau

Tess Kincaid's Magpie No. 83

There once was a child whose mother gave her a bowl of milk and bread every afternoon. Each afternoon the mother warned the child not to go too far from the house and to beware of strangers with sweet voices, whose siren song might lure her astray.

The child took the bowl into the deepest part of the garden, where she sat down in the shade of an old oak tree and spooned her bread and milk, before she fell asleep, leaning against the broad tree trunk. Sometimes, she didn't finish her treat and left a little milk in the bowl, but when she woke up, the milk had gone.

This happened so often that the child became curious. She decided to find out who was drinking her milk. On one particular afternoon she came out as usual with her bowl, but this time she left a much bigger drink, put the bowl down and pretended to fall asleep. Keeping very still, she peeked from under  the very end of her lashes and by and by she saw a beautiful white snake slithering towards the bowl, lifting its sleekly elegant head and dipping a delicate tongue into the milk. 

"Ha, caught you, you thief", cried the child, and grabbed the snake's head. "Steal my milk, would you? I'll teach you to rob me, my mother warned me against creatures such as you." The child was about to smash the snake's head with a stone when it spoke.

"If you grant me life, you shall have all the treasures of the earth you desire", the snake sang, "every day I shall return and bring you silver trinkets and golden chains, pearls and bright stones and all the toys my kind can fashion in the halls under the roots of the oak".

The child didn't trust the snake. After all, didn't snakes have a reputation for being false?

"Swear that you will keep your word and I shall let you live", the child said. The snake did.

Every afternoon from then on the child and the snake met at the bottom of the oak tree and exchanged gifts, milk for the snake and ever more precious and wondrous treasures from the halls beneath the roots of the oak for the child. Soon the child had amassed a large hoard, which she kept secret from her mother. Hadn't her mother always warned her against taking gifts from strangers?

And once again the child became curious. If the snake could bring her a gift each time and promised to continue to do so for as long as the child would come to meet it by the oak tree, how much more was there hidden under the roots?

The next time they met she said to the snake:  "This is getting very boring, one little gift every time. Bring me more gifts,  many at a time, or I shall stop being kind to you; I'll probably not even bother to come out and you can go and get your milk elsewhere."

Now the snake had known all along that the child would become greedy. Snakes know these things instinctively. It had a plan all worked out.

"If you want more gifts, why don't you come with me into the halls underneath the roots",  the snake sang,  "then you can see for yourself what there is and you may choose whatever you want to take."

The child hardly hesitated at all. It had got used to the snake, the snake had kept its promise, they had spent many a pleasant afternoon playing and eating bread and milk in the shade of the ancient oak tree. Blinded by the promise of untold riches the child followed the snake where it led.

THE END.

The Rev. E. Nant

The Revenant

Andrew Wyeth - 1949

Tess Kincaid's Magpie Tale No. 82

The Rev. E. Nant  had enjoyed his funeral tremendously. His wife had followed every word of the instructions he had left behind about the big day; the ceremony had done him great honour and the whole congregation had taken part. It might have had something to do with the promise of a lavish celebration of his life after the service and his interment. In fact, the only flaw in the ointment had been his white suit, made of paper rather than fine silk. Never mind, the day would come when he would be able to take her to task about this omission, he determined to leave her in no doubt that she had badly betrayed his wishes in this respect.

Some members of the congregation too had been less than fulsome in their praise of him.  While he had been their shepherd he had spent hours telling them the righteous way, the only way, the way he himself laid out for them. They had not always shown him  gratitude for his selfless actions then, but he certainly would have expected them to see the error of their ways after his death. Again, he made a mental note to remind them of their gross dereliction of duty towards him, as and when they joined him in heaven. "That is, of course", he said to himself,  "if they are given the great mercy to join me here."

He would enjoy keeping a tally of the people who had accorded him less than the full appreciation and veneration, to which he knew he was entitled.

In fact, he'd have a word with St. Peter about it. He would, no doubt, meet him very soon now, a man of his rectitude would not be kept waiting for long.

Just one thing puzzled him, why were they keeping this ante chamber so overheated ?  He'd be glad to settle somewhere cooler soon . . . . . . . .

Of Bicycles, Gods and the Doghouse

WILLOW'S MAGPIE No. 75

Mars and Vulcan,
rough boys playing rough games,
riding their bikes,
shrieking, bells clanging  and brakes screeching,
up and own the long corridors of Jupiter's
workshops for the manufacture
of thunder and lightning.


Jupiter appeared,
bleary-eyed and hung over
after a long night with one of his many conquests.

By Jove, he thundered,
ear-splitting uproar of unruly youth
all but deafening him.

Send for Juno, my wife,
the companion of my years,
protector of my hearth,
warlike and fearless,
her word will end your games.

Juno, in garments of ire,
her face black with anger,
stood before Jupiter.

My lord, brother and husband,
the revels of the night
have addled your adulterer's brain.

Your tale is told as by an idiot,
full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing.

Now hold your tongue,
allow brave youth its edifying games
and you return now whence you came.
A wanton's couch is waiting
your return.

Chastened, ill-favoured, sick at heart,
Jupiter found his way to Sirius.
Move over Sir, he said,
Tonight it's me who's in the doghouse.

Seven Rocks For Seven Maidens

Jinksy challenged me to write a romantic tale to accompany her computer artwork for her new prompt

In Tandem.

How could I refuse.

Long, long ago, on the banks of the mighty River Rhine, there stood a castle. Well, actually, the banks were positively littered with a multitude of castles  on both sides, all populated by pretty maidens, heroic knights, dragons, robber barons and greedy archbishops, but for now we are concerned with just one of them, Schloss Schönburg.

The Castle of Schönburg, now in ruins, was once a place of extraordinary fame, for here dwelt seven sisters of transcendent beauty; the fact that their proud sire, the Graf of Schönburg. was also reputed to be very rich, did them no harm in the marriage stakes. Their father had acquired his enormous wealth  in predatory forays, his exploits on crusades were legendary; and when he wasn't busy cataloguing and registering his ill-gotten gains, he was off robbing and pillaging nearer home. Because he was so good at it, nobody except his victims minded. The nobles of the Rhineland at the time found this all totally in order, in the Graf's shoes, they'd have done much the same.

An endless number of knights flitted about the castle, all hoping to catch the eye of one of the beauteous maidens;  the girls, having been spoilt rotten by their doting daddy, made fun of them; egging them on, flirting mercilessly, then dropping them again, one after the other. They simply weren't ready for the constraints of marriage. Suitor after suitor retired in despair; "what do women want?" they asked  bitterly.

Little by little the girls achieved an unsavoury reputation. Lack of female virtue was a heinous crime and once the tittle-tattle got started it simply couldn't be silenced, no matter how much the Graf threatened and bullied and paid.

He called his girls to order. "It's time you got married", he said, eyeing them fondly. "Each of you had better choose the one you like best. Make sure he is of decent breeding stock, that's all I ask. Once you are married, the rumours will stop. There'll still be parties and hunt balls and I'll make sure that you'll never lack a pretty rock or two from my jewel chest".

The girls knew that they'd have to comply with their daddy's wishes but first they'd play one more trick on their suitors.

The Graf arranged for a huge party to be held in his Schloss high above the river. Crowds of suitors appeared,  gorgeously dressed  in the finest raiments, in silks and gold brocades, crimson cloth and rich, soft velvet; nearly all of them had fathers and uncles who had followed King Frederick to the Holy Land on crusade and had come home laden with treasure.

Assembled in the staterooms,  the suitors waited for the maidens to appear, to choose seven husbands from among them. They waited and waited. No maidens appeared. Then one of them, who had been looking out of the window, gave a great shout.

"There they are, in the river, sailing away", he cried. Everybody rushed to the windows.

The girls looked up at them, waving and shouting, laughing and dancing with pleasure at having outwitted the dim knights yet again.

I would love to end this story on a happy note, but alas, a sense of humour was not the most desirable quality for a girl to have in those far off days.  That and their addiction to coquetry and practical jests were to be their undoing.

As the knights were watching, their dismay at having been the butt of the girls' jokes quickly turned to consternation. Unheedful of the current the girls' light craft was led into the fast flowing stream; had they sat still, all would have been well. As it was, the craft was overturned, none of the girls could swim and before another boat could be launched the Rhine had claimed its victims, and the perfidious damsels were drowned in the swift tide.

Near the place where the tragedy occurred, seven rocks appeared, visible to this day on the rare occasions when the river is low.

The Masked Ball

WILLOW'S MAGPIE No. 74

The keeper of the mask museum had turned off the lights, locked the door and left. Every night, the masks, helplessly pinned to the walls during daylight hours, came alive. They stretched and yawned, smiled and laughed, cried and shouted in relief; the immobility imposed on them by their makers lifted, until the first rays of daylight crept in through the dusty windows in the morning.
The keeper arrived late, late enough to allow the masks to shrink back into their rigid grimaces. During the day they slept on their hooks.

There were masks from all over the world and from all the ages. There were ritual masks, ceremonial masks, tribal masks, theatrical masks, horror masks, pretty-face masks, witches masks, goblins and gremlins, fearful masks and wise men masks; any kind of mask you can think of, they were all there.

Nobody much came to visit the museum, which was a real shame. The old keeper simply had no idea how to attract visitors; he just opened the doors in the morning, shuffled in, and with a feather duster tickled the masks until the dust made him sneeze and sniff; then he sat on his stool in the corner and unwrapped his sandwiches. On rainy days a few people came in for shelter, took a look round and said: “hm, interesting”. But they left again as soon as the rain stopped.

One night a jolly carnival mask had had enough of this state of affairs. “We must do something”, she said. “Yes, we must”, the others agreed. “But what?” said a fearsome African mask. “We only come alive after dark, how can we attract visitors at night?”

They all thought long and hard. There was no laughing or shrieking that night, all stayed where they were and pondered.

“I have an idea”, said a wise man mask. “Nearly all of us have magical powers and although we promised never to use them without humans, perhaps we could make humans use us”.

“I don’t know, isn’t it rather dangerous?” asked a timid young-pretty-face mask. “Nonsense”, said an old witch mask, “nothing ventured nothing gained. We all know that our keeper will die of a broken heart soon if we do nothing”.

There and then they cast their spells. Lightning flashed inside the room, the rumble of drums shook the walls, a fearful screeching and howling arose, tigers and snakes, monkeys and a whole herd of buffalo raced about the small space between the shelves. The keeper’s stool was knocked over in the mêlée.

But the masks knew what they were doing and eventually order returned, the stool righted itself and just before daybreak they assumed their usual places on the walls.

The very next week a rich man in the town decided to give a masked ball, using real masks, not those silly little hand-held eye masks, which only pretend to hide your face. He called upon the keeper and requested the loan of all the masks in the museum. He promised to pay handsomely for the privilege.

The keeper sighed. “Has it come to this”, he asked himself. “Should my lifetime’s collection be used for sport in a rich man’s house?”
Still, the money would be most welcome; he needed a new feather duster and his stool had become strangely rickety lately. So he agreed.

The masks were duly packed up and taken away. The little keeper felt quite tearful when he saw his precious collection leave the museum; several times he had to remind himself of the handsome sum he had been promised in return, which made him feel a bit better.

When the masks were unpacked at the rich man’s house and each guest chose the one he or she wanted for the evening, something strange happened. They all chose the mask which represented the exact opposite to their real life character and position. The rich man himself chose a beggar mask, the pretty young women chose tired old witches faces, the tired old women chose pretty-face masks, handsome young men became ogres and old men became handsome performance artists. The scientist chose the shaman’s face, the gossip became kind-faced, the apothecary became the wise woman and the old roué suddenly looked innocent. Pretty young women lost their bloom and ugly old women turned into their youthful selves.

The masks were hard at work all evening. As the heat rose and the champagne flowed they clung to their faces with all their might; without their hooks they were in danger of slipping off; little by little they melted into their bearers, becoming part of them.

The guests, their senses heightened by dancing and laughter, alcohol and a strange euphoria they could not explain and therefore did not question, gradually became aware that a power quite outside their control had taken hold of them. A power which, though not unpleasant, was beginning to seep into their personalities. They felt they were becoming more and more like their masks.

Twelve o’clock struck, it was time for the masquerade to end.

The unthinkable happened. The masks refused. After years of hanging on a dusty wall in a museum they felt like making a night of it. Although very tired now, they had had so much fun, they were unwilling to give up. They had also become attached to their bearers, separation would mean a painful wrench. They knew that daylight would render them immobile again, see them packed up and sent back to the museum.

So they refused to be separated from their faces. In the morning the keeper came and pleaded with them. They had grown rigid in their determination to stay just one day more. They would come off in the evening, after dark, they promised.

I don’t know if the masks kept their promise. The little museum has been shut for a long time. Perhaps the keeper has locked his masks away, never to let them out again. On the other hand, perhaps they have become so deeply united with their faces, that they are still out there in the world, causing mayhem and murder, fear and loathing or joy and happiness.

Who knows.



© USW

In the Land of the One-Eyed

the one-and-a-half-eyed is Queen.

WILLOW's MAGPIE No. 70

A ruff, a ruff,

my Queen's realm for the other half!

(Perhaps half a ruff is all you get for $1.99)

The Birth Of Venus

WILLOW's MAGPIE No. 69

Alessandro Botticelli scratched his head; his visitor, the mighty Lorenzo de Medici had left his workshop only minutes ago.  He should be feeling immensely proud that Lorenzo the Magnificent had commissioned him to paint the lovely Simonetta Cattaneo Vespucci;  to be chosen by the powerful ruler of the Florentine Republic to execute this commission was a great honour indeed; it was an open secret that both Lorenzo and his younger brother Giuliano were in love with the girl and Lorenzo would want the painting to the very best that gold could buy.

The commission, however,  came with conditions, which was the reason Botticelli frowned. He was to paint her as the embodiment of Venus. Venus had two aspects: she was an earthly goddess who aroused humans to physical love or she was a heavenly goddess who inspired intellectual love in them. So, looking at Venus, the most beautiful of goddesses, might at first raise a physical response in viewers which then lifted their minds towards the Creator. Lorenzo knew exactly what he wanted, he wanted to have his cake and eat it, so to speak.

A difficult proposition and it would not do to upset the great man.

Botticelli's apprentices threw covert glances in his direction. They had witnessed the scene with Lorenzo and were aware of the maestro's discomfiture. What would he do next? They were all ready to help him in any way they could, their love and respect for their teacher was limitless.

Botticelli was unaware of them for the moment, his creative mind churning, ideas being born and discarded one after the other; this was going to prove a difficult birth . . . . .

born  . . . . birth . . . .

yes,  there it was, the germ of an idea . . . . .

yes, he'd paint Venus being born, both innocent and as a fully formed woman, rising from the sea . . . .

stepping out of the waves? enveloped in spray? rising like a mermaid from the ocean?

Hm, maybe not, these images were rather too suggestive of earthly delights . . . . .

A shell, that was it.  Yes, a shell, she'd be carried by a shell, not moving a muscle, hands modestly held in front of her, her long tresses hiding her femininity.

He had it. That's how it would be.

"Go get me the most beautiful shells you can find on the seashore", he shouted to his apprentices, who scattered instantly, each of them wanting to be the one who found the shell the maestro would use.

Pietro came back with the best, a gorgeously frilly conch shell.

"That's the one," Botticelli cried. "Now then,  how to get Venus to arise from it? Half in, half out  . . ?"

The Kaleidoscope

WILLOW's MAGPIE No. 63

Kaleidoscope: A toy consisting of a tube containing small,  brightly coloured fragments of glass etc. and mirrors which reflect these to form changing geometric patterns;

From the Greek: kalos = beautiful, eidos = image, skopein = to view


Eva's favourite Uncle Peter had finally arrived for his annual Easter visit. She'd been on the look-out for him for hours; impatiently she waited for him to finish greeting the assembled adults, who were his brothers and sisters, Eva's mother among them. She tugged at his hand; why was it that adults needed to have brothers and sisters when she herself didn't have any and still managed perfectly well?

Uncle Peter had brought a bag of chocolate eggs to distribute among his many nephews and nieces, who had all come to Eva's parents' house for the day. The children had spent the morning hunting for eggs in the garden, which the Osterhase was supposed to have hidden in bushes and shrubs and behind stones before the crack of dawn. There was even a basket of coloured eggs in the hen house. Except for the two youngest, Hansi and Trudi,  they were old enough to know that the grown-ups had been out to hide the eggs; no bunny would be able to carry a basket with that many eggs on his back, they told each other.They'd be eating hard-boiled eggs for supper for several days, that was clear to all, to their collective disgust. Hunting for eggs was fun but eating them less so.

Uncle Peter's eggs were special. He said he got them from the Chocolate Easter Egg wholesalers in Bunnyland and because he bought so many at a time, he had them at a discount. Each egg was wrapped in multicoloured foil, shimmering and shiny and crisp to the touch. Some had patterns on them, some had pretty pictures of rabbits, ribbons and pretty flowers, like daisies and daffodils; when he tipped them into the large basket, lined with moss, provided for the purpose by Eva's mum, they looked like somebody had caught a rainbow, bundled up all the colours, and shone a great yellow sun on them. The children squealed happily.

Each egg had a tiny label hidden somewhere in the foil; Uncle Peter, who knew his greedy nephews and nieces well, had gone to the trouble of putting each child's nickname on a label, and, for the poor child without a nickname, he simply invented one; after some wrangling, shoving and hand slapping amongst themselves, each child had its own allocation of eggs and most started to eat one there and then.

Except Eva, she wasn't allowed chocolate because the milk in it made her ill. She was used to it, it didn't bother her very much when the others sank their teeth into the chocolate and chewed and licked their fingers; Uncle Peter was bound to have a gift for her too. He always had. In the past he'd given her what he called a Russian egg, which turned out to be four eggs all hidden in one large one, each smaller than the one before; once he'd brought her a beautifully painted, perfectly spherical stone; he'd given her a delicate china egg which opened into two halves, hollow inside, for keeping tiny treasures. Then there had been the glass egg, which had flowers suspended inside it. Eva loved her Uncle Peter very much, he told wonderful stories and brought her very special gifts.

Expectantly, she looked at him. What would he have for her this time?

Uncle Peter beckoned her away from the chocolate eating frenzy and pulled a small tube out of his pocket. She examined it. It felt like cardboard and although it had stars painted on the outside, it didn't look like much; if this was for keeping things in, she much preferred her china egg. "Put this end to your eye", he said, "just look".  She looked.

What seemed like a million colours and shapes and patterns exploded in her eye. Eva gasped in wonder.

"Turn it a little", Uncle Peter advised. More shapes in different colour variations formed instantly. Each time she turned it, the patterns changed, over and over again, a glinting, mesmerising, flickering display. Better than all the chocolate eggs in a green moss basket in the world.

"I'm sorry I couldn't find you anything egg-shaped this time", Uncle Peter said.

Eva grinned. "That's ok, I forgive you," she said.

Mona Lisa Smiles

WILLOW'S MAGPIE No. 59

Sheepishly, 

he crept into the flat, having first taken off his shoes outside the door. 

Hesitant, 

with infinite care, 

he put down each foot and froze every time a floorboard creaked. 

He hardly knew now what had made him accept the woman's 

invitation

to come in for a coffee.

All he had planned to do was to see her home,

safely;

she wasn't even his concern,

she had been  his friend's date.

Soon,

it would be morning.

The love of his life lay, fast asleep, in their bed;

it was hardly worthwhile joining her there,

he'd only wake her,

an inconsiderate thing to do in the small hours,

he said to himself.

He would lie down on the sofa in their living room instead.

By the thin light of early dawn filtering through the half-drawn curtains

he saw La Gioconda on the wall above the sofa;

She knew

and he knew she knew.

Count Drackie and the Character Forming Qualities of Garlic

WILLOW'S MAGPIE No. 56

Count Dracula of Transylvania, Drackie to his friends, had had great fun tormenting his English visitor, the solicitor John Harker. Harker had given him plenty of legal advice regarding a proposed purchase of land over the border in Bukovina and was becoming a bore. Drackie wanted to visit England but for some reason Harker was totally opposed to the idea. He said it had something to do with Drackie’s best lady friends, also known as the ‘Brides of Dracula’ and Drackie’s habit of spending the night over a flagon or two of wholesome Dragon’s Blood. Drackie had had to lock Harker in his room for his own safety. There was also the question of Harker’s intended, the insipid Mina, who insisted that she should join Harker and fetch him home to England.

Drackie took one look at her; usually very fond of the ladies, he shuddered at the thought of nibbling her neck amorously, too bloodless by half, these English women. He much preferred the buxom, lively gypsy girls he employed in his castle. The castle was another reason he wanted to go off on a visit to England; the place was a crumbling ruin, falling to bits while he watched. It was high time he found himself one of these English builders who advertised themselves as specialist renovators and refurbishers of ancient monuments. A spot of interior decorating wouldn’t go amiss either.

Harker’s objections notwithstanding, Drackie took passage on the Demeter which was sailing to Whitby. He took a box of his favourite silver sand and earth; both were needed to acquaint English workmen with the kind of material they'd find in Transylvania.

Once in England, Drackie made his way to a group of friends of Harker’s and a couple of girls. One of the girls, Lucy, was no better than she should be, if I tell you that she was keeping three men dangling after her, you’ll understand what I’m saying. Drackie had a go too, they soon hit it off and Drackie was up to his old tricks, imbibing merrily. The other chaps were very jealous, as you can imagine and planned to do away with Drackie once and for all.

To this end they hired a Dutch chap, Van Helsing, who had form and knew all about assassination. In order to lull Drackie into a false sense of security they invited him to dinner at Quincey’s, an American chap, who was one of the conspirators. Van Helsing suggested the menu and they agreed to feed Drackie on mushrooms in garlic butter, garlic chicken and red onion marmalade, and for dessert a delicious garlic-cranberry-orange ice cream. A very fine old Burgundy was poured with a lavish hand. Candles flickered, a fire burnt in the deep grate and bouquets of flowers, artfully arranged and tied to polished, sharpened stakes stood in tall vases.

Drackie ate and drank like never before. He was amazed at the flavours he was experiencing, the ambience of the room knocked him for six. He looked round admiringly, taking it all in avidly. Exactly this is how he saw his castle, he must find out who had been the guiding hand behind this lavish décor. Hang the expense, he must have the finest workmen and take them to Transylvania.

He sucked on a garlic clove. As the succulent flesh melted in his mouth, his whole being mellowed. One by one, he gazed at his fellow diners. His throat constricted and his eyes misted over. A single tear ran down his cheek, try as he might to control it.

“My dear friends,” he croaked, “ my heart is heavy with remorse. Forgive me for treating you and your hospitality with disdain. Never again will I hurt your feelings, nay, the feelings of any man, woman or child. You have shown me such kindness, such generosity of spirit, that my shame overwhelms me. Henceforth it shall be my one desire to emulate you and do all in my power to take your civilising influence and apply it to every walk of life in my poor, backward country.”

When Drackie finished his speech, the conspirators looked at each other.

Van Helsing spoke. “Damn”, he said, “now what”.

Fight to the Death

WILLOW'S MAGPIE NO. 55

The orange and lemon were lying side by side in the fruit bowl. There wasn't much to do, except lie around and argue about which of them was the more useful, more important, more widely travelled, and allround champion. 

"You're no better than me", said the orange, who thought that she'd win easily, being very fruity and full of herself. "In fact, I think I have the advantage over you because I can be peeled and eaten fresh, straight from the tree, whereas you are a sour, acidy little thing nobody in their right mind would want to eat raw. Ever heard the expression 'sucking on a lemon' ? That tells you all you need to know, doesn't it?"

The lemon was hurt and thought hard and long. True, nobody had ever complimented him on his gorgeous taste, but he was bright and shiny, like sunlight at its most intense. That must count for something.

When he mentioned that, the orange laughed. "My sunlight is hotter than yours, an orange sun burns brighter than a yellow sun". "We both come from the Far East, we have both been around since before the Crusades, we are both called citrus, so you can't trump me that way", the orange continued. "Besides, I can not only be eaten raw but I also make delicious juice, jelly, conserves, marmalade, syrup and salad".

The lemon cheered up when he heard that.  Not only could he become everything the orange had claimed for herself,  - well, maybe nobody really wanted to eat him in a salad except as part of the vinaigrette, but, hey, when it came to food, he definitely had the necessary zest, and to spare.

"I'll have you know, you pathetic, useless little upstart, that I have been used by the greatest chefs in history", he bragged, "let me remind you of chicken with lemon, fresh and preserved, duck with lemon, every kind of fish with lemon, lemon meringue pie, lemon tart, lemon drizzle cake." He was on a roll now."And how about every bit of me, from zest to juice, top to toe, in marinades, stuffings, sorbets, butters, creams, custards and curds. 

The orange was silent; there was duck and orange, of course, and orange curd; but she was unlikely to be used in quite as many dishes as the lemon obviously was. Both their skins were turned into candied peel, there was no point mentioning that.

The lemon had won the argument. There was nothing for it, the honourable thing to do was to admit defeat, and commit hara-kiri. They'd both be disembowelled soon enough anyway.

As  a member of the blood orange family her death stained fruit bowl, the instrument she'd used and the lemon itself the colour of blood.