THE LITTLE GIRL WITH THE LIGHT

THE LITTLE GIRL WITH THE LIGHT

We can never dwell in shadows if our souls are full of light. Let the brightness of our being make the whole wide world as bright.

THE LITTLE GIRL WITH THE LIGHT

THERE once lived a little maiden to whom was given a wonderful light, which made her whole life bright.

When she was a wee baby it shone on her face in a beautiful smile, and her mother cried:—

"See! the angels have been kissing her!" And when she grew older it lighted up her eyes like sunshine, and gleamed on her forehead like a star.

All lovely things that loved light, loved her. The soft-cooing pigeons came at her call. The roses climbed up to her windows to peep at her, and the bluebirds and finches, and the butterflies, that looked like enchanted sunbeams, would circle about her head.

Her father was king of a country, and her mother was queen; and though she was not so tall as the tall white lily in the garden, or the weeds that grew outside, she had servants to wait on her, and grant her every wish, as if she were queen already.

She was dearer to her father and mother than all else that they possessed; and there was no happier king or queen or little maiden in any kingdom of the world, till one day when the king’s enemies came upon them like a whirlwind, and changed their joy to sorrow.

Their palace was seized, the servants were scattered, and the king and queen were carried away to a dark prison fortress in enemy country, where they sat and wept for their little daughter, for they knew not where she was.

No one knew but the old nursemaid, who had nursed the king himself. She had carried the child away, unnoticed amid the noise and strife, and set her in safety outside the palace walls.

 "Flee, precious one!" she cried, as she left her there. "Flee! for the enemy is upon us!" And the little maiden started out in the world alone.

She knew not where to go; so she wandered away through the fields and waste places, where nobody lived and only the grasshoppers seemed glad. But she was not afraid,—no! not even when she came to a great forest, at evening;—for she carried her light with her.

'Tis true that once she thought she saw a threatening ogre or troll waiting by the dusky path; but, when her light shone on it, it was only a pine tree, stretching out its friendly arms; and she laughed so merrily that all the woods laughed too.

"Who are you? Who are you?" asked an owl, blinking his eyes at the brightness of her face; and a little rabbit, startled by the sound, sprang from its hiding place in the bushes and fell trembling at her feet.

"Alas!" it panted as she bent in pity to offer help, "Alas! the hunters with their dogs and guns pursue me! But you flee, too! How can you help me?" But the child took the tiny creature in her arms and held it close; and when the huntsmen and hounds rushed through the tanglewood, they saw the light that lighted up her eyes like sunshine and gleamed on her forehead like a star, and came no further.

THE CHILD TOOK THE TINY CREATURE IN HER ARMS AND HELD IT CLOSE.

Then deeper into the great forest she went, bearing the rabbit still; and the wild beasts of prey heard her footsteps, and waited for her coming.

"Hush!" said the fox, "she is mine; for I will lead her from the path into the tanglewood!"

"Nay, she is mine!" howled the wolf; "for I will follow on her footsteps!"

"Mine! mine!" screamed the bear as well; "for I will spring upon her in the darkness, and she cannot escape me!"

So they quarreled among themselves, for they were wild beasts and knew no better; and as they snarled and growled and howled, the maiden walked in among them; and when the light which made her lovely fell upon them, they ran and hid themselves in the depths of the forest, and the child passed on in safety.

The rabbit still slept peacefully on her breast. At last she, too, grew weary, and lay down to sleep on the leaves and moss; and the birds of the forest watched her and sang to her, and nothing harmed her all the night.

In the morning a party of horsemen rode through the forest, looking behind each bush and tree as if they sought something very precious.

The forest glowed with splendor then, for the sun had come in all its glory to scatter darkness and wake up the world. The darkest dells and caves and lonely paths lost their horror in the morning light, and there were violets blooming in the shadows of the pines.

The leaves glistened, the flowers lifted their heads, and everything was glad but the horsemen, whose faces were full of gloom because their hearts were sad.

They did not speak or smile as they rode on their search; and their leader was the saddest of them all, though he wore a golden crown that sparkled with many jewels.

They followed each winding path through the forest, till at last they reached the spot where the little maiden lay.

The rabbit waked up at the sound of their coming, but the child slept till a loud cry of gladness awakened her and she found herself in her father’s arms.

In the night-time the king’s brave soldiers had driven the enemies from his land, and opened the doors of the prison in which he and the queen lay, and the king and queen had ridden with them in haste to find their darling child, who was worth the crown and the kingdom.

The sight of her face was the sunshine to lighten their hearts, and they sent the glad news far and near, with blast of trumpet and shouts of joy.

But in all their great happiness the child did not forget the rabbit, and she said to it, "Come with me and I will take care of you, for my father the king and my mother the queen are here." But  the rabbit thanked her and wanted to go home.

"My babies are waiting," it said, "and I have my work to do in the world. I pray you let me go."

So the child kissed it and bade it go; and she, too, went to her own dear home. There she grew lovelier every day, for the light grew with her; and when, long years afterward, she was queen of the country, the foxes and wolves and bears dared not harm her people, for her good knights drove evil from her land; but to loving gentle creatures, both humans and animals, she gave love and protection and she lived happily all the days of her life.

THE KNIGHT OF THE SUN, MOON, AND STARS

Adapted from the tale by Angie Dickinson, rewritten from the Grimm Brothers

The tales are never as simple as they seem. My mother’s ending was unhappy, contrary to popular belief, and I have been forced to become my own fairy godmother. Shocking, I know, but there hasn’t been a real fairy godmother in these parts since the days of my great-grandmother. I’ve been told she was the last.

These days, a fairy godmother of one’s own would be very useful, for we have a dangerously mad king. This could be considered an advantage, if you happened to be one of the greedy old lords who pulled the strings behind the throne, awkwardly lifting the limp royal fingers to sign decrees with an ignorant and complacent scrawl. If you kept the vacant fool happy in his whims, why then, the land would be yours to rule, as a royal advisor with the heart of a tyrant.

What, after all, was the harm in executing all the millers in the kingdom? They could be replaced, and in return, your pockets were lined by the tax reforms that the king blithely signed in your favor. Or, so what if the king demanded that nothing but jelly rolls be served at breakfast, lest the entire kitchen staff face the axe? Jelly rolls became tiresome, but laws were being rewritten, and the trio of trusted advisors were fast becoming the most powerful men in the land.

And so what if the king had a mind to marry his own daughter? She was the mirror image of her mother, taken by a fever so many years past, and the king cared nothing for the new highway tax, so long as he could have his long-dead wife returned to him.

In this particular way, if you happened to be the daughter in question, raised in a convent and recently reintroduced at court, it was largely to your disadvantage to have a mad king, and father.

My mother was a commoner, you see, and the imp that made her queen flew into such a blood-red rage when he was denied me, my mother’s firstborn, that he struck my father with madness and my mother with a deadly fever on his way to hell.

I knew to expect something awful when the sisters at the convent told me I was summoned to court. In fact, they had been using their own skills and knowledge of fairy ways to reinforce my inherited magic and prepare me to protect myself. Nevertheless, I had not expected this.

The horror was undisguised on my face as the most withered and wretched of the greedy advisors, Lord Rufin, declared my fate.

“You shall never have a child by him, we will take measures,” he said, patting my hand with his paper-dry one. Of course, not. The beauty of granting the king this whim is that the royal line would end with me, leaving the advisors free to select their next puppet. They likely would sentence my father and me with incest and execute us directly following the wedding. The reassuring lord made no mention of changing our kingdom’s laws to satisfy this whim of my father’s.

There was not a moment to lose if I was to survive this.

I took steps to ensure that I would be working with the best ingredients. I demanded three ballgowns be presented me as a bridal gift. One, made of tempered silver threads and set with moonstones. Another, gold threads. Simple enough, our vaults had been overflowing with gold threads since my mother arrived. The last one was trickier and took longer to acquire, but the lords went to great lengths to please my father. It was woven with literal starlight. The peddlers from far lands carry the most exotic things, and through my amateur magic I verified the authenticity of these shining threads.

A month before the wedding, I was poring over the gowns in an attempt to awaken my brain and figure out how best to use the powerful properties, when someone pounded on my door. I opened it, and a guard pushed me roughly aside as he entered, his arms full of dead four-footed beasts.

He was followed by another guard, and another. Finally, Lord Rufin entered. He smirked as the guards, one by one, dumped their grisly armloads of bloody carcasses on my bed. They piled them on top the gowns.

“What is this?” I finally gasped, choking through the heavy stench.

“Another wedding gift, from your father,” Lord Rufin responded silkily. “He thought you would appreciate one of each kind of beast in the kingdom to be hunted for your enjoyment. We thought it best to indulge him. He means well.” He could not hide his glee behind the thin façade of compassion. He gestured for the guards to precede him out of the room, then turned to me once more when we were alone.

“One more thing. You may as well make one of those gowns your trousseau, for there has been a change of plans. Your wedding will take place tomorrow.”

“Another whim of my father’s?” I spat, my chest tightening.

“Oh no.” His pale, watery eyes were unblinking. “No, we felt this was the best course.” He dropped something at my feet. It was a fox with a broken neck.

I knelt down and gently scooped up the still-warm, soft body of the small fox as Lord Rufin swept from the room. My tears froze in my eyes and I smiled. I needed to work quickly.

#

Our land is imbued with powerful magic. Everything serves a unique purpose, if you know how to use it.

With a speed born of desperation, I fashioned the cloak. I constructed it of fur, a bit from every beast in the kingdom. My heart broke as I sifted through the remains of the creatures, and I blessed each of them for their gift to me. I harnessed the powerful combination of magical properties and wove them together to suit my need. The cloak would conceal my identity, and give me the appearance of anyone I chose. There would be no need to disguise my face with ashes, or steal the apparel of a servant. I could be anyone.

I worked feverishly as dawn broke, and the morning light illuminated the ravaged, bloody scene of my chamber. Three of the woodland denizens, three rodents, held a walnut in their cheeks, and I took each of these and spelled their interiors to expand. Holding my breath, I fed the fabric of the golden gown into the spelled walnut, gently, until it was completely concealed within. I heard footsteps in the corridor, and crammed the others into their shells hastily.

Someone tapped gently on my door. I stuffed the walnuts into my pocket and flung the cloak over myself. The handle began to turn. I ran to my dressing table and scooped up my mother’s ring: the emerald that my father gave her as a wedding gift before his madness took him.

The door swung open. A maid entered, followed closely by Lord Rufin. I closed my eyes, and envisioned another of my lady’s maids, then opened them again.

“Where is she?” Rufin asked, glancing at me.

I bobbed a curtsy.

“She said she fancied a walk in the garden before breakfast, my lord,” I answered.

“Did she, indeed,” Lord Rufin sneered. “Clean this up, you two.” He strode out of the room.

The other maid glanced at me, then looked around the room. “What was she doing in here?” she asked in disgust.

“I’ll fetch a bucket,” I said.

#

It took me no time at all to leave the castle grounds. The cloak allowed me to appear as a servant or guard to every person I passed.


Guards barrelled about in a panic, which likely signified that my flight had been discovered. They jostled me a few times in their haste, but were no threat to me.

I managed to make my way into a neighboring village. I grew weak from the journey, and I knew that I had drained much of my magic while making the cloak. I needed rest to restore it.

I found work at a few rich homes and inns, scrubbing and sweeping the hearths for meager wages. Eventually, I felt my magic returning, but at an achingly slow pace. I kept it in reserve, rather than using it to deflect the innkeepers’ backhands, or the cooks’ smacks, or to heal the sores that opened on my fingers as I scrubbed the skin clean off them. I grew heartily tired of this, but over time my strength and magic were nearly restored. I hoped to return home someday when my power had grown, to take up my great-grandmother’s work and save others from the evil that ruled my kingdom.

The shouts of a village crier, who tore through the streets shrieking the news, froze my blood and changed my plans. My king was dead.

I fell to the cold ground, heedless of the shouts around me, and grieved for my father, for he was never my enemy. I barely knew the poor man, and he thought I was my mother. I knew that I was not free. If his advisors ever found me, they would kill me quietly.

“The princess, too! Took her own life, she did!” the crier shouted. “No blood heir remaining!”

The next king would be chosen via tournament. Of course, I knew he’d already been selected – groomed, or ensorcelled, doubtless, to be the malleable toy of the lords. The tournament would be held immediately, three days of fighting, accompanied by a masquerade ball each night. There would be no time of mourning for my father, or for me.

My magic was nearly at full strength, fuller now for all that I’d endured. I knew what I needed to do. 

I left the village in the night and made my way back to my father’s castle. To my castle. I constructed a tent alongside those of the many travelers who arrived for the event.

The first ball was held the night before the tournament. With my heart pounding and fingers trembling, I took my golden dress out of its walnut shell, and shook it out. It was as bright as the sun. I washed my face and shining hair, and fashioned a mask out of golden wheat and violets.

The ballroom was bright and loud with revelry, and I danced merrily, keeping far away from the lords, lest they recognize my gown. I found the chosen champion easily, a strapping, young beast of a man. I sensed the mark of sorcery upon him, and knew that he was bewitched to do as he was bidden – probably to win at any cost. Magic radiated from the sword at his hip, as well. Nevertheless, his good nature shone through when I danced with him, and he seemed awfully sorry to see me leave.

The tournament would begin at dawn, but I had too much work to do to sleep. Throughout the night, I worked enchantments over my glittering gown, until it was not a gown at all. I was ready when the time came.

I retrieved my own horse from the stables, and rode onto the jousting field when my name was called. I kept my visor down, and used a name I created for myself: The Knight of the Sun, Moon, and Stars. Golden armour might be a bit ostentatious, but it would have to do.

Using every speck of magical fury that I could access, to make up for my lack of experience, I managed to unseat enough knights to advance to the next day’s melee round. The spectators seemed to enjoy the golden knight, for their cries grew louder with each victory I won.

I swirled my beastskin cloak over my shoulders the moment I rode off the field, and slipped away, unrecognized, from the seething crowd and harried guards.

I wore my silver gown to the ball that night. The crowd was abuzz with gossip of the day’s champion, and I knew I must be careful not to be noticed. The young man I met the night before was swift to find me. I adjusted my grass and snowbell-woven mask nervously, but could not suppress a smile at his enthusiasm. He said his name was Corin, and he made no mention of the many knights he himself unseated. I sensed a heavier magic upon him than before, and knew that I would have to fight even harder tomorrow.

I worked through the night yet again. I was delighted with the liquid magic that emanated from the silver in my gown, and the armour I created was truly striking to behold.

The next day was bright and heaving with energy, and the melee was terrifying. It was every knight for himself as we attempted to unseat one another in a frenzied battle of clubs. The crowd began to chant my title. I saw Corin, the lords' champion, beating knights down with fervor. There was a glazed sort of confusion in his eyes, and he fought like a man possessed. In the end, he and I were among the final five to make it through the round. I glanced through my visor at the lords, high in their canopied box, and saw that they were infuriated that I, the crowd’s favorite, had advanced. I feared for their champion.

I slept through the day, but was still exhausted by nightfall. I put on my gown of starlight and stood on the hillside outside the castle. As the heavens shone down over me, I felt the very light of the star-threads in my gown soaking into me, feeding my magic and renewing my strength. With renewed purpose, I ran down the hill and strode into the ballroom.

Corin found me immediately, and begged for a dance. I clasped his hand, and felt the hot fever of heavy enchantment over him. The lords, so desperate for their champion to succeed, might just kill him in the process. I would have to be his fairy godmother, as well as my own.

“Sit with me?” he asked hopefully as the banquet was laid out. I noted the eagle eye of Lord Rufin upon me, but I sat. I felt the lord’s gaze, and a buzzing filled my ears, and my head began to pound as he directed a silent enchantment at me. I was certain, then, that he was the one holding Corin captive to his sorcery. I whispered fiercely over my mother’s emerald ring, and left my seat, approaching Lord Rufin. His mouth dropped open as I leaned in close.

“Your sins will find you, murderer,” I hissed into his face. His concentration faltered, and the buzzing in my ears stopped. While his pale eyes were on mine, I dropped my ring into his soup.

That night, I stole a sword from one of the defeated knights’ tents, and infused it with a measure of magic. I wondered if it would be enough when I faced Corin. His spelled sword and bewitched state could mean the death of me, and him, if the enchantment did not break soon. Again, I worked feverishly through the night. The starlight proved to be a more rebellious material, but finally, as dawn lifted the night away, my shimmering armour was complete. I steadied myself, and approached the combat grounds.

A larger crowd than ever before teemed around the field, from neighboring kingdoms as well as my own. There were two knights I needed to defeat before I faced Corin. I battled fiercely in the blazing sun, and emerged the victor, to the raucous joy of my people. I fought back tears as their love washed over me.

No knights remained except for Corin. I glanced up at Rufin, white and still as a statue in his box. I took a deep breath as Corin faced me. He charged suddenly, ferociously, his eyes gleaming beneath his visor. I raised my sword, and met his in a ground-shuddering clash that vibrated painfully through my bones. As violently as he’d attacked, he wheeled back, and flung his helmet to the ground, shaking his head. He threw his sword at my feet.

“I don’t want to be king,” he ground out. I sensed the sorcery draining out of him.

He looked up at the lords in fury, and I followed his gaze. Lord Rufin, his body and magic now clearly weakened from the poisonous spell on my ring, stood and tottered forward, hands outstretched. He swayed, and toppled from the balcony of the scaffolding.

His weak-chinned comrades stared at the broken body in fear as the crowd began to rustle. I took a deep breath, and pulled off my helmet. My hair spilled out over my starlight armour. The silence throughout the grounds felt full and ominous.

Corin’s face split into a grin, and he clasped my hand, then raised my sword arm up over my head. We faced the crowd. They were silent as the wind howled around me. Then a courtier stood up and shouted, “It’s the princess! She’s alive!”

The silence broke like the rushing of a waterfall crashing over a boulder. “Long live the queen! Long live the queen!” my people bellowed, rushing into the ring to embrace me. I looked up into the box and saw that the remaining lords were restrained by the firm grasp of the guards, who saluted me.

My heart felt full to bursting as my people knelt and cheered. They welcomed me home, and I would look after them, always.

Angie received a B.A. in English Literature from Spring Arbor University, and has been writing for her own enjoyment for many years. She has been passionate about fairy tales in their various forms for as long as she can remember.

LOS USURPADORES

This is a rather eccentric, tongue-in-cheek take on the Scottish play I had to do at University this springtime for the fourth centennial of the Bard of Avon. Sit back and enjoy!

LOS USURPADORES
Sandra Dermark, abril de 2016

1. LA PROFECÍA

Un brezal en un clima frío a mediados de abril, después del anochecer. Rayos y truenos, niebla, ambiente tétrico y siniestro. Una verdadera noche de brujas, en efecto.

Y, tal y como esperábamos, se perfilan entre los nimbos tres siluetas femeninas sobre viejas escobas de juncos. Por la izquierda entra una niña; por la derecha, una anciana decrépita; desde atrás, una bella treintañera. Las tres no parecen humanas, ya que sus cuerpos son extrañamente hermosos, fríos y translúcidos.

—¿Cuándo nos encontraremos;

con lluvia, rayos o truenos?

—Cuando la hueste sea vencida;

cuando la batalla esté ganada y perdida.

—¿Dónde?

—En este brezal,

al encuentro del general.

Las hechiceras, como suelen hacerlo en los cuentos de hadas, hablan en verso.

—¡Adiós, Grimalkin!

—¡Adiós, Paddock! ¡Adiós, Hécate!

Cabe destacar que “Grimalkin”, “Paddock” y “Hécate” no son los verdaderos nombres de las Extrañas Hermanas. Los nombres tienen poder, por ende no dejan que los mortales los sepan.

—Lo malo está bien y lo bueno está mal;

sobre nieblas y aires echamos a volar.

Izquierda, derecha, izquierda, derecha, izquierda, derecha, izquierda. Los héroes vencedores regresan en triunfo a sus hogares.

Nunca han visto un día tan hermoso y tan tétrico a la vez. El edecán del general, su brazo derecho, se lo hace saber. El líder de la hueste vencedora asiente. De pronto, los dos ven aparecer, entre la bruma, tres siluetas de forma femenina. No son humanas.

Las tres Extrañas Hermanas se acercan al general. Él, veterano de tantas guerras, sigue impávido.

—¡Salve, señor de Glamis! —la anciana se cuadra ante él.

—¡Salve, barón de Codo! —la mujer le hace una reverencia.

—¡Larga vida a Su Majestad! —la niña, hincada de rodillas, le besa la diestra.

—¡Menos grande que vuestro señor, y aún así más grande! ¡Vuestros descendientes fundarán una ilustre casa real! —se dirigen al edecán del general.

En la corte real, el héroe vencedor, caudillo de caudillos, se postra ante el trono de su rey. Fuera, en el patio de armas, el verdugo afila su espadón en la piedra de afilar. Pronto sacarán al barón traidor del calabozo, y el patio se llenará de curiosos espectadores.

Ya que el traidor no tenía descendencia, su feudo, la baronía de Codo, pasará al vencedor de la contienda.

Él no se lo puede creer.

II. EL GOLPE DE ESTADO

Madame sube a la torre, mire usted mire usted qué torre,

Madame sube a la torre, a ver si viene ya.

Do re mi, do re fa, a ver si viene ya.

Por allí viene un paje, mire usted mire usted qué traje,

por allí viene un paje, ¿qué nuevas le traerá?

Do re mi, do re fa, ¿qué nuevas le traerá?

Es bueno que, por una vez, las noticias del frente no le lleguen con palomas mensajeras. No te “ensajero” nada. La bella dama abre el lacre de la carta, con el sello real, y su corazón se llena de euforia.

Ahora también es baronesa de Codo.

Pero eso no es todo (valga la rima).

Su esposo le habla de las tres hermanas que no eran humanas, de la predicción cumplida, de cómo le trataron de Su Majestad.

Y ella ya se ve entronizada y coronada.

Cuando falleció la reina, la madre del príncipe heredero, el rey viudo le dio calabazas a la bella rubia y siguió consagrado a los asuntos de Estado. Eso sí, casó a la más hermosa e inteligente de las damas de la corte con su primera espada.

El suyo ha sido un matrimonio infeliz, sin descendencia, juntos hasta que la muerte les separe, hastiada en su alcoba y esperando su retorno del campo de batalla una y otra vez.

Su marido también le dice que vendrá él en persona, con la familia real, de visita de Estado.

Los vencejos han vuelto del sur para construir sus niditos entre las almenas. Buena señal, dice el anciano monarca. Las aves de paso traen suerte.

También elogia el mobiliario que han elegido el general y su mujer para decorar su residencia.

En su alcoba, tête-à-tête, los esposos traman, planean, intrigan, susurran, dibujan planos, pasan revista a las armas blancas, mezclan un buen vino con aguardiente, se ríen, se ponen tensos, aligeran la tensión.

Una enorme naranja sanguina va a hundirse en el dorado lago, allende la línea del horizonte. Lentamente, el cielo sangra y se oscurece, aparecen Mercurio y Venus, y luego todas las comparsas del firmamento.

Ante los aposentos reales, el oficial y los soldados de guardia, tras apurar sus jarras, se dejan caer sobre el pavimento, profundamente inconscientes.

De lo inconscientes que están, no ven entrar a dos figuras esbeltas y siniestras entrar en la habitación.

Una espectral daga de luz, idéntica al arma blanca que la dama, pálida y temblando, le entrega a su esposo, flota por encima de sus cabezas.

—¿Es… es una da-daga lo que veo?

A diferencia de su esposa, el general se arma de valor y le vuelve la espalda a la visión. Aparta las cortinas del dosel. Su Majestad descansa en paz, los ojos cerrados, el pecho alzándose y volviendo a descender.

Es ahora o nunca.

¡Zas!

 

III. UN FANTASMA RECORRE ESCOCIA

El rey ha muerto. ¡Larga vida al rey!

¡Y a la reina!

Tener fuerte presencia femenina en la corte es algo que faltaba, dice la rubia consorte (valga la rima de nuevo).

¿Y el príncipe heredero? Está huyendo al extranjero (no puedo dejar de rimar).

Se susurra por pasillos, explanadas y vericuetos que es él quien está detrás de la muerte de su augusto padre, en gloria esté. La vieja historia de Absalón: seguro que, en otras tierras, el mozalbete logra formar un ejército ávido de conquista.

De ahí la orden de busca y captura que han lanzado los nuevos reyes. Vivo o muerto. Ya han pasado por las armas a los militares que, ensangrentados y en un estupor etílico, han sido acusados de ser el brazo armado del complot regicida.

Pronto se celebrará la coronación.

Sin embargo, los usurpadores pasan noches en vela.

Asesinar a un inocente, durmiente, sonriente…

La carcoma de la conciencia hace mella en la madera de esos dos corazones infelices.

Ya se han hecho con el trono, ¿y ahora qué?

Usurparlo ha sido coser y cantar. Lo que cuesta es mantenerse encima.

El nuevo rey se acuerda de las brujas. Lo que le dijeron a su brazo derecho: “Menos grande pero más grande. Fundador de una casa real”.

Busca a los sicarios más hábiles del reino. Que no lo sepa su esposa. Se presentan dos hermanos gemelos de aspecto bastante siniestro.

Ahora que tiene las arcas del Estado a su disposición, les promete el oro y el moro. Sólo podrá darles el oro: el moro huirá por su vida a climas más soleados, donde desposará a una bella joven a quien ama locamente, y a quien terminará matando… pero eso es otra historia.

Volviendo a la nuestra.

Le han prometido al edecán ser consejero real, y él parte hacia la corte, en la única compañía de su único hijo, sobre su fiel corcel, el purasangre Nudo. Cojea de la pata izquierda trasera. El caballo, es decir. Está cojo Nudo.

De repente, entre los sotos de la intrincada floresta, padre e hijo caen en una emboscada. Los sicarios hacen correr la sangre brillante como sirope de fresa, el militar cae al suelo con el vientre rajado y las vísceras por tierra, el cuello rajado de derecha a izquierda, como un cerdo en el matadero. El chico, su hijo, echa a correr: va a buscar, en tierras de exilio, al legítimo heredero.

El festín de la coronación. Gran festín de postín: hay ragú, hay soufflé y una tarta bien flambée. Camareros y escanciadores recorren las largas mesas una y otra vez.

Regresa Su Majestad de haber aligerado una carga, al salón, para ver que el trono que dejó vacante, a la diestra de su esposa, está ocupado.

Y es su antiguo brazo derecho quien lo ocupa. Un hombre translúcido. Con el cuello rajado y las entrañas saliéndole por la herida del plexo solar.

—Pero, cariño, tu trono está vacío —dice su esposa. Los demás asienten.

Sólo él puede ver al fantasma, como aquel príncipe danés.

Sólo que, en esta historia, nuestro protagonista es el usurpador.

 

IV. INVENCIBLE, ¿O NO?

La presencia del fantasma ha despertado en el usurpador una paranoia aún más pronunciada.

Ha de ver de nuevo a las Hermanas Extrañas.

Las encuentra de nuevo en su brezal de costumbre, metiendo ingredientes en un viejo caldero de hierro forjado.

Haciendo una sopa.

O más bien una bazofia:

—Ancas de rana, escamas de dragón,

lana de vampiro y huevas de esturión.

Colas de lagarto y ojos de tritón,

colmillos de lobo y frutos de Aragón.

Veneno de cobra, momia de faraón,

avivar el fuego, y a continuación…

hígado de hebreo, nariz de Ahmed,

y, por último, pastilla de Avecrem.

Chup, chup, Avecrem.

Apenas han añadido el cubito de caldo a la mezcla, de ella sale una bola de discoteca, entre humo y bruma, la bola de espejos reemplaza a la luna llena, y estamos en un plató de la tele.

¿Y QUIÉN ES ELLA? ¡¡HÉ-CA-TE!!

¿Y QUIÉN ES ELLA? ¡¡HÉ-CA-TE!!

¿Y QUIÉN ES ELLA? ¡¡HÉ-CA-TE!!

¿Y QUIÉN ES ELLA? ¡¡HÉ-CA-TE!!

Las brujas son las presentadoras, y abren cada una un sobre que contiene una profecía diferente.

El usurpador las retiene en su memoria. Tres condiciones para ser derrotado tan claras como la bazofia de las Hermanas Extrañas:

One: Guardarse de Macduff, el señor de Five.

Two: Ningún nacido de mujer podrá vencer al nuevo rey.

Three: No será derrotado hasta que el bosque de Birnam marche sobre las colinas de Dunsinane. (Pardiez, ¿cómo podrían los árboles y los arbustos desenraizarse y caminar con sus enredadas, débiles raíces?)

Está seguro de que es invencible. Bueno, no del todo.

Vuelve a contratar a los siniestros sicarios de antes.

Estos, acatando las órdenes de su señor, irrumpen en el castillo de Five y lo dejan como un decorado de Tarantino. Todos los sirvientes, la dama, su hijo de pocos años de edad, yacen inertes aquí y acullá. Las paredes están cubiertas de “sirope de fresa.” También han matado al sufrido apuntador.

Sólo la suegra de Macduff ha escapado. Se dirige al campamento del legítimo heredero, a decir casi lo mismo que el mensajero de Job.

Al señor de Five le va a dar algo...

 

V. TODO SE DESMORONA

“Y sólo yo escapé para contarlo”, dice la suegra del señor de Five al final de su relato de calamidades.

El yerno de esta se mesa los cabellos, patalea, echa sapos y culebras. ¿¡Su esposa, su hijo y toda la servidumbre, incluido el sufrido apuntador, de un tirón… pero no la suegra!?

¡Venganza, tremenda venganza!

También el príncipe destronado quiere reclamar el trono y la corona que le pertenecen por derecho.

Y su edecán, el hijo del difunto edecán del usurpador, es de la misma opinión.

Su ejército rebelde crece como… como una calabacera. Cada día tienen más efectivos en sus filas, listos para la batalla decisiva. Para vencer al usurpador.

La Reina también se ha ido para siempre.

La envenenó todo ese KH-7 con que se frotaba las manos, esperando limpiar unas indelebles manchas de sangre que sólo eran visibles para ella.

Suena el Dies irae en la capilla real. Por primera vez en su vida, el usurpador, ahora viudo, llora desconsolado ante un féretro lleno de rosas blancas, en el que su esposa parece dormir.

Igual que el antiguo rey antes de la puñalada.

El despiadado pasa la noche en vela, solo en la capilla. Entra un guardia y le da noticias alarmantes: le pareció que el bosque se movía.

El militar está sobrio y bien despierto, pero, aún así, tan alarmantes nuevas llevan a Su Majestad a acompañarle escaleras arriba hasta una torre de vigilancia.

Arbustos, árboles, helechos, pinos, tilos, tejos, hayas, castaños, enebros, matas de frambuesas y de arándanos.

Marchando hacia el castillo real: izquierda, derecha, izquierda, derecha, izquierda, derecha, izquierda.

El corazón se le desboca, intentando romperle el esternón.

Haciendo acopio de su valor, se ciñe la coraza y blande la espada. Sólo le quedan sus guardias. Todos los demás guerreros no han acudido en su ayuda. Qué más da: sólo tendrá que cortar ramas a diestro y siniestro, y correrá savia en vez de sangre.

Iluso.

Nada más descender él a la explanada, las ramas caen al suelo. El legítimo heredero y su poderosa hueste ya no necesitan camuflarse.

Ha matado a bastantes inocentes. Está arrinconado, rodeado de enemigos sedientos de venganza.

A la diestra del joven destronado se ve a Fleance, el hijo del jinete de Nudo.

A la izquierda del joven destronado marcha el señor de Five.

A las respectivas madres de los tres les abrieron el vientre para sacar y salvar a las criaturas no nacidas.

Sí, el legítimo heredero, Macduff y Fleance nacieron por cesárea.

Se lo echan en la cara al usurpador.

Él se hace un ovillo, se hinca de rodillas, se rinde. Ya no hay escapatoria. La corona, el trono, el poder: todo para quien le pertenezca por derecho.

Un instante.

¡Zas!

Del cuello del usurpador brota sangre como agua de un caño, llenándole la tráquea, cubriéndole la espina dorsal.

Su cabeza cortada, disecada, pronto decorará la pared de un elegante salón, entre cornamentas y cabezas de venado.

El rey ha muerto. ¡Larga vida al rey!