jueves, 29 de octubre de 2020

THE ARCANA SQ inspiration i) the encounters with the sun and moon



 "So close," she cried, pounding the earth in fury and sorrow. "So close--another step, another drop of blood--oh, but perhaps he is dead, my ---, after losing so much blood to show me the way. So many years, so much blood, so much silence, so much, too much, too much . . ." 

She fell silent finally, dazed and exhausted with grief. The wind whispered to her, comforting; the trees sighed for her, weeping leaves that caressed her face.

Maybe --- is not dead, they said. We saw none ... fall dying from the sky. Enchantments do not die, they are transformed . . . Light sees everything. Ask the sun. Who knows him better than the sun who changed him ---? "Do you know?" she whispered to the sun, and for an instant saw its face among the clouds. 

No, it said in words of fire, and with fire, shaped something out of itself. It's you I have watched, for seven years, as constant and faithful to your love as I am to the world. Take this. Open it when your need is greatest. She felt warm light in her hand. The light hardened into a tiny box with jeweled hinges and the sun's face on its lid. She turned her face away disconsolately; a box was not a ---. But she held it, and it kept her warm through dusk and nightfall as she lay unmoving on the cold ground. 

She asked the full moon when it rose above the mountain, "Have you seen my ---? For seven years you showed me each drop of blood, even on the darkest night." 

It was you I watched, the moon said. More constant than the moon on the darkest night, for I hid then and you never faltered in your journey. I have not seen your --. 

"Do you know," she whispered to the wind, and heard it question its four messengers, who blew everywhere in the world. No, they said, and No, and No, And then the sweet south wind blew against her cheek, smelling of roses and warm seas and endless summers. "Yes."

She lifted her face from the ground. Twigs and dirt clung to her. Her long hair was full of leaves and spiders and the grandchildren of spiders. Full of webs, it looked as filmy as a bridal veil. Her face was moon pale; moonlight could have traced the bones through it. Her eyes were fiery with tears. "My ---." "He has become --- again. The seven years are over. But ---, battle sparked. He is still fighting."

She sat up. "Where?" 

"In a distant land, beside a southern sea. I brought you a nut from one of the trees there. It is no ordinary nut. Now listen. This is what you must do . . ." 

So she followed the South Wind to the land beside the southern sea, where the sky flashed red with dragon fire, and its fierce roars blew down trees and tore the sails from every passing ship.

****

Sun slid a last gleam down the gold edge of the gate. She remembered its gift then and drew the little gold box out of her pocket. She opened it. A light sprang out of it, swirled around her like a storm of gold dust, glittering, shimmering. It settled on her, turned the feathers into the finest silk and silk cloth of gold. It turned the cobwebs in her hair into a long sparkling net of diamonds and pearls. It turned the dust on her feet into soft golden leather and pearls. Light played over her face, hiding shadows of grief and despair.

(PORTIA BREAKS THE MOONSTONE - CHANGE GOLD INTO SILVER SILK INTO FUR THE NET INTO AN USHANKA, PEARLS INTO DIAMONDS) 

****

--- approached the bed. She saw ---'s face in the light of a single candle beside the bed. It was bruised and scratched; there was a long weal down one bare shoulder. He looked older, weathered, his pale skin burned by the sun, which had scarcely touched it in years. The candlelight picked out a thread of silver here and there among the russet of his hair. She reached out impulsively, touched the silver. 

"My poor ---," she said softly. "At least, for seven years, you were faithful to me. You shed blood at every seventh step I took. And I took seven steps for every drop you shed. How strange to find you naked in this bed, waiting for a queen instead of yours truly. At least I had you for a little while, and at long last you are unbewitched."

She bent over him, kissed his lips gently. He opened his eyes. 

She turned away quickly before the loving expression in them changed to disappointment. But he moved more swiftly, reaching out to catch her hand before she left. "Pasha?" He gave a deep sigh as she turned again, and eased back into the pillows. "I heard your sweet voice in my dream.... I didn't want to wake and end the dream. But you kissed me awake. You are real, aren't you?" he asked anxiously as she lingered in the shadows, and he pulled her out of darkness into light. He looked at her for a long time, silently, until her eyes filled with tears.

 "I've changed," she said. 

"Yes," he said. "You have been enchanted, too." 

"And so have you, once again." 

He shook his head. "You have set me free." 

"And I will set you free again," she said softly, "to marry whom you choose." 

He moved again, too abruptly, and winced. His hold tightened on her hand. "Have I lost all enchantment?" he asked sadly. "Did you love the spellbound man more than you can love the ordinary mortal? Is that why you left me?" 

She stared at him. "I never left you--" 

"You disappeared," he said wearily. "After seven long years of gallivanting around, you were gone. I thought you could not bear to stay with me through yet another enchantment. I didn't blame you. But it grieved me badly--I was glad when she attacked me, because I thought it might kill me. Then I woke up in my own body, in a strange bed, with a queen beside me explaining that we were destined to be married." 

"Did you tell her you were married?" 

He sighed. "I thought it was just another way of being enchanted. A shard through an eye, a shard through the heart, marriage to a beautiful queen I don't love--what difference did anything make? You were gone. I didn't care any longer what happened to me." 

She swallowed, but could not speak. 

"Are you about to leave me again?" he asked painfully. "Is that why you'll come no closer?" 

"No," she whispered. "I thought--I didn't think you still remembered me." 

He closed his eyes. "For seven years I left you my heart's blood to follow...." 

"And for seven years I followed. And then on the last day of the seventh year you disappeared. I couldn't find you anywhere. I asked the Sun, the Moon, the Star. I followed their advice to find you. It told me how to break the spell over you. So I did-" 

His eyes opened again. "You. You are the enchantress my queen talks about. You rescued both of us. And then-" 

"She took you away from me before I could tell her-I tried-" His face was growing peaceful in the candlelight. "She doesn't listen very well. But why did you think I had forgotten you?" 

"I thought--she was so beautiful, I thought--and I have grown so worn, so strange-" For the first time in seven years, she saw him smile. "You have walked the world, and spoken to the sun and moon . . . I have only been enchanted. You have become the enchantress." 

He pulled her closer, kissed her hand, and then her wrist. He added, as she began to smile, "What a poor opinion you must have of my human shape to think that after all these years I would prefer a queen to my own sister." He pulled her closer, kissed the crook of her elbow, and then her breast. And then she caught his lips and kissed him, one hand in his hair, the other in his hand. 

And thus the Snow Queen found them, as she opened the door, speaking softly, "My dear, I forgot, if he wakes you must give him this potion--I mean, this tea of mild herbs to ease his pain a little-" She kicked the door shut and saw their surprised faces. "Well," she said frostily. "Really." 

"This is my sister," Julian said. 

"Well, really." She flung the sleeping potion out the window, and folded her arms. "You might have told me." 

"I never thought I would see her again." 

"How extraordinarily careless of you both." She tapped her foot furiously for a moment, and then said, slowly, her face clearing a little, "That's why you were there to rescue us! Now I understand. And I snatched him away from you without even thinking--and after you had searched for him so long, I made you search--oh, my dear." She clasped her hands tightly. "What I said. About not spending a full night here. You must not think-"

"I understand." 

"No, but really--tell her, Ilya." "It doesn't matter," --- said gently. "You were kind to me. That's what Pasha will remember." 

But she remembered everything, as they flew in the Snow Queen's carriage across the icy sea: the seven years when she followed her love beyond any human life, the battle between her and the demons, and then the hopeless loss of him again. She turned the empty vial of stardust in her palm, and questions rose in her head: Can I truly stand more mysteries, the possibilities of more hardships, more enchanting princesses between us? Would it be better just to...? Then we would all fall down, in this moment when our love is finally intact. He seems to live from spell to spell. Is it better to die now, before something worse can happen to him? How much can love stand? 

... caught her eyes and smiled at her.


for fetching the moonstone:

Even while he spoke they came to the edge of the Bitter Lake—a small pool, but its waters were blacker than night, and heavier than lead to the eye. Then Noodle leapt down from the Plough, and caressed it for the last time, saying: 'Set thy face for the garden where the Princess Melilot is; and when I am come back to thee speechless out of the Lake and am striding thee once more, then wait not for a word but carry me to her with more speed than thou hast ever mustered to my aid till now; go faster than wind or lightning or than the eye can see! So, [pg 61]by good fortune, I may live till I reach her lips; but if thou tarry at all I am a dead man. And when thou art come to Melilot set thy share beneath the roots of her feet, and take her up to me out of the ground. Do this tenderly, but abate not speed till it be done!'

Then the youth put into his mouth the honey of the Burning Rose, and into his lips the Sweetener, and stripped himself as a bather to the pool. And the Plough, remembering its master's word, turned and set its face to where lay the garden with Melilot waiting to be relieved of her enchantment. Whereat Noodle, bowing his head, and blessing it with lips of farewell, turned shortly and slid down into the blackness of the lake.

The weight of that water was like a vice upon his limbs, and around his throat, as he swam out into the centre of the pool. As he went he breathed upon the water, [pg 62]and the scent of the honey of the Burning Rose passing through the Sweetener made an incomparable fragrance, gentle, and subtle, and wooing to the senses.

When he came to the middle of the lake he stayed breathing full breaths, till the air deepened with fragrance around him. Presently underneath him he felt the movement of a great thing coming up from the bottom of the pool. It touched his feet and came grazing along his side; and all at once shuddering and horror took hold upon him, for his whole nature was filled with loathing of its touch.

Then... feeling in his mouth the precious globule of air, fastened his lips upon it and shot out for shore.

Against the weight of those leaden waters a longing to gasp possessed him; but he knew that with the least breath the bubble would be lost, and all his labour undone. Not too soon his feet caught hold of the bank, and drew him free to land. He cast himself speechless across the back of the Galloping Plough and clung.

[pg 64]

The Plough gathered itself together and sprang away through space. Remembering its master's word it showed itself a miracle of speed; like lightning became its flight.

The eye of Noodle grew blind to the passing of things; he could take no count of the collapsing leagues. More and more grew the amazingness of the Plough's leaps, things only to be measured by miles, and counted as joltings on the way; while fast to the back of it clung Noodle, and endured, praying that shortness of breath might not overmaster him, or the check of his lungs give way and burst him to the emptiness of a drum. His senses rocked and swayed; he felt the gates of his resolve slackening and forcing themselves apart; and still the Galloping Plough plunged him blindly along through space.

THE ARCANA SQ inspiration ii) entering the taj

At the end of the seventh year she lost him. 

The jewelled path of blood, the pitch-black feathers stopped. It left her stranded, bewildered, on a mountainside in some lonely part of the world. In disbelief, she searched frantically: stones, tree boughs, earth. Nothing told her which direction to go. One direction was as likely as another, and all, to her despairing heart, went nowhere. She threw herself on the ground finally and wept for the first time since he had disappeared.

"So close," she cried, pounding the earth in fury and sorrow. "So close--another step, another drop of blood--oh, but perhaps he is dead, my Ilya, after losing so much blood to show me the way. So many years, so much blood, so much silence, so much, too much, too much . . ." She fell silent finally, dazed and exhausted with grief. The wind whispered to her, comforting; the trees sighed for her, weeping leaves that caressed her face. A large black bird, a raven, came swooping down to peck the seeds at her feet and spoke.

"Caw! Caw! 'Morning, 'morning, girrrl! What is a girrrl like you doing on herr own in a place like this?"

The sheen of the plumage, bluish black, was something she knew from the feathers she had followed. It gave her hope. And Portia understood the words "on her own" too well from years of bitter experience.

...

... "The youngest and seventh of the Rani's daughters, named Nadia, wears gold-rimmed spectacles, and is never without a book or a crossword puzzle at hand. She discourses learnedly on the origins of the phoenix and the conjunctions of various astrological signs. She has an answer for everything, and is considered by all her suitors to be wondrously wise. They say she owns as many books as her pet owl has feathers, and speaks not only Prakran, but also Vesuvian, Nevivonian, and other languages neither you nor I can recognise, as easily as you please. Countess Nadia plays several instruments by heart, any song you know and play it backwards too; she knows all the national epics in the world by heart in their original language, inside and out; and she is furthermore an ace at making clockwork automata..."


"She helped herself with her crossword puzzles, and heard odd questions arise from deep in her mind when she sang. 'What is life?' she would wonder. 'What is love? What is man?' This last gave her a good deal to ponder, as she watched her parents shower all their daughters with imported chocolates and taffeta gowns and gold bracelets. The young gentlemen, mostly princes and lordlings, who came calling seemed especially puzzling. They sat in their velvet shirts and their leather boots, praising Nadia's mind, and all the while their eyes said other things. Now, their eyes said: Now. Then: Patience, patience. You are flowers, their mouths said, you are jewels, you are golden dreams. Their eyes said: I eat flowers, I burn with dreams, I have a tower without a door in my heart and I will keep you there...

She seemed fearless in the face of this power--whether from innocence or design, she was uncertain. Since she was wary of men, and seldom spoke to them, she felt herself safe. Until on one fateful day..."

"What occurred?"

"Nadia was in the library, dozing over the philosophical writings of Lord Thiggut Moselby.

Upstairs, she woke herself up midsnore, and stared dazedly at Lord Moselby's famous words and wondered, for just an instant, why they sounded so empty. That has nothing to do with life, she protested, and then went back to sleep.

Then the existential concerns returned. She is by no means the heir to the throne, her parents and sisters dote on her indeed, but she felt treated like a doll on display. And every time she was weary of that, the worries about her true self resurfaced, and she needed to distract herself. As soon as she awoke, she had a little love song playing on her lips...

Na bulaya… na bataya…

Na bulaya… na bataya…

Naahe neend se jagaya… hai re…

Aisa chaunke lihaaf mein naseeb aa gaya…

Woh elaichi khilaike kareeb aa gaya…

He neither did tell me, nor did he call..

He neither did tell me nor did he call...

He didn't even wake me up from sleep...

I was so surprised to see my lover in my sheets,

and he got closer by offering me cardamom...

Not only that, but she began to hum love songs more frequently, of every language and every nation she knows, whenever she was idle, in order to distract herself."

......

She lifted her face from the ground. Twigs and dirt clung to her. Her long hair was full of leaves and spiders and the grandchildren of spiders. Full of webs, it looked as filmy as a bridal veil. Her face was moon pale; moonlight could have traced the bones through it. Her eyes were fiery with tears.

"My brother... Ilya...?"

...

"His face, she found, was quite easy to look at. He had tawny hair and bloodshot eyes of icy blue, their sclerae red instead of white, quite fair soft skin, and rough, strong, graceful features that were young in expression and happier than their experience."

...

Then she thought of Nadia and her puzzles and earnest discourses on the similarities between the moon and a dragon's egg.

...

...

The raven, Malak, accompanied her, showed her hidden springs of cool water among the barren stones, and trees that shook down figs and nuts into her hands. Finally, climbing a rocky hill, she saw an enormous and beautiful palace, whose immense gates of bronze and gold lay open to welcome the richly dressed people riding horses and dromedaries and elegant palanquins into it. 

She hurried to join them before the sun set and the gates were closed. Her bare feet were scraped and raw; she limped a little. Her face was gaunt, streaked with dust and sorrow. She looked like a beggar, she knew but the people spoke to her kindly, and even tossed her a coin or two. "We have come for the wedding of our countess and the foreign suitor, whom it is her destiny to wed." 

"Who foretold such a destiny?" Portia asked once more, her voice trembling. 

"Someone," they assured her. "The rani's astrologer. A great sorceress disguised as a beggar, not unlike yourself. A bullfrog, who spoke with a human tongue at her birth. Her mother was frightened just before childbirth, and dreamed it. No one exactly remembers who, but someone did. Destiny or no, they will marry in three days, and never was there a more splendid couple than the countess and her fiancé." 

Portia crept into the shadow of the gate. "Now what shall I do?" she murmured, her eyes wide, dark with urgency. "With his eyes full of her, he will never notice a beggar."

(here she and Malak meet Chandra in a tree taj in a ficus in the garden)

As she walked down the streets, people stared at her, marveling. They made way for her. A man offered her his palanquin, a woman her sunshade. She shook her head at both, laughing again. "I will not be shut up in a box, nor will I shut out the sun." So she walked, and all the wedding guests slowed to accompany her to the inner courtyard. 

Word of her had passed into the palace long before she did. 

The princesses, each one dressed in fine flowing silks the color of her eyes, came out to meet the stranger who rivaled the sun.

....

The wedding was a sumptuous, decadent affair. The bride was dressed in cloth-of-gold, and she carried a huge languorous bouquet of calla lilies. So many lilies and white irises and white roses crowded the sides of the church that, in their windows and on their pedestals, the faces of the gods were hidden. Even the sun itself had trouble finding its way into the chapel. But the guests, holding fat candles of rose-scented beeswax, lit the church with stars instead. The bridegroom wore a uniform of white and scarlet; he wore buttons and studs and buckles, all made of diamonds. His left arm and epaulets and sash dazzled in candlelight. To Portia he looked tall and handsome, tweaking his golden whiskers straight, and dutifully assuming a serious expression as he listened to the priest, while his icy blue eyes said: at last, at last, I have waited so long, the trap is closing, the night is coming.... But his face were at once so vain and tender and foolish that Portia's heart unexpectedly warmed to the Count. He did not seem to realize that he had been a three-letter solution in Nadia's crossword puzzle. At the end of the ceremony, when the bridegroom had searched through cascades of heavy lace to kiss the bride's face, the guests blew out their candles.


****

staring out of the carriage window with Malak perched on the roof above her, flapping wings that now shone bright deep blue in the Prakran rising sun, that made the carriage shine and flash like a beacon in the rocky hills and dense jungles of the Rani's realm.

THE ARCANA SQ FUSION iii) leaving nevivon


"Oh, my love," she whispered, stunned. She felt something warm on her cheek that was not a tear, and touched it: a drop of blood. A small raven-black feather, with a bluish sheen, floated out of the air, caught on the lace above her heart. "Oh," she said again, too grieved for tears, staring into the empty room, her empty life, and then down the empty hall, her empty future.

"Oh, why," she cried, wild with sorrow, "have I chosen to love an enchantment, instead of a fond foolish man with waxed mustaches whom nothing, neither light nor dark, can ever change? Someone who could never be snatched away by magic? Oh, my sweet Ilya, will I ever see you? How will I find you?" 

Sunlight glittered at the end of the hall in a bright and ominous jewel. She went toward it thoughtlessly, trembling, barely able to walk. A drop of blood had fallen on the floor, and into the blood, a small black feather. She heard Julian's voice, as in a dream: Seven years. Beyond the open window on the flagstones another crimson jewel gleamed. Another feather fluttered, caught in it. On the garden wall she heard him once more.

Seven years. 

This, his voice said. Or your house, where you are loved, and where there is no mystery in day or night. Stay. Or follow. 

Seven years.

By the end of the second year, she had learned to speak to animals and understand the mute, fleeting language of the butterflies. By the end of the third year, she had walked everywhere in the world.By the end of the fifth year, her face had grown familiar to the stars, and the moon kept its eye on her. By the end of the sixth year, her coppery hair swept behind her, mingling light and dark, and she had become, to the world's eye, a figure of mystery and enchantment. In her own eyes she was simply Portia, who loved her brother; all the enchantment lay in him. At the end of the seventh year she lost him.  

Thenceforth her back upon the world she turned

As she had known it; in her heart there burned
Such deathless love, that still untired she went:
The huntsman dropping down the woody bent,
In the still evening, saw her passing by,
And for her beauty fain would draw anigh,

But yet durst not; the shepherd on the down
Wondering, would shade his eyes with fingers brown,
As on the hill's brow, looking o’er the lands,
She stood with straining eyes and clasped hands,
While the wind blew the raiment from her feet;
The wandering soldier her grey eyes would meet,
That took no heed of him, and drop his own;
Like a thin dream she passed the clattering town;
On the thronged quays she watched the ships come in
Patient, amid the strange outlandish din;
Unscared she saw the sacked towns' miseries,
And marching armies passed before her eyes.
And still of her ...
None did her wrong, although alone and fair.
Through rough and smooth she wandered many a day,

Till all her hope had well-nigh passed away.



lunes, 26 de octubre de 2020

LIKE A WEE WOMAN (PURRA UT ALEMÁN PART 2)

So this is a follow-up to PURRA UT ALEMÁN! in which I made this out of more funny misheard lyrics from my childhood and adolescence:


1: Karma Commedia

Karma Chameleon, Culture Club

Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma chameleon
You come and go, you come and go

Misheard as:

Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma commedia
You come and go, you come and go

Why?

Slurred pronunciation that rendered that L as a D and familiarity with commedia dell'arte


2: Red golden dreams

Karma Chameleon, Culture Club

Loving would be easy if your colors were like my dreams

Red, gold, and green, red, gold, and green

Misheard as:

Loving would be easy if your colors were like my dreams

Red, golden dreams, red, golden dreams

Why?

He'd already said 'dreams' in the previous stanza and as a kid I was used to 'golden dreams' (sueños de oro, in Spanish)


3: Money for nothing and chips for free

Money For Nothing, Dire Straits

Money for nothing and chicks for free

Misheard as:

Money for nothing and chips for free

Why?

Didn't know what the slang term 'chick' meant back in those days. Also, my oral fixation and thirst for calories...



4: Like a wee woman

Money For Nothing, Dire Straits

We've got to install microwave ovens

Misheard as:

We've got to instill like a wee woman

Why?

A mainstream group like Dire Straits won't sing about appliances, am I right? Plus I knew what 'wee' meant and means to the Scots...


5: Like a gay lover

Money For Nothing, Dire Straits

We've got to install microwave ovens

Misheard as:

We've got to instill like a gay lover

Why?

A mainstream group like Dire Straits won't sing about appliances, am I right? Plus I had tasted the sweet fujobait of CLAMP and Ikuhara, not to mention Greek myths, and was inured at 8-9 to queer culture...


6: That little fellow...

Money for Nothing, Dire Straits

See that little faggot with the earring and the make-up?

That's his own hair

That little faggot got his own jet aeroplane

that little faggot is a millionaire

Misheard as:

See that little fellow with the earring and the make-up?

That's his own hair

That little fellow got his own jet aeroplane

that little fellow is a millionaire

Why?

 I had tasted the sweet fujobait of CLAMP and Ikuhara, not to mention Greek myths, and was inured at 8-9 to queer culture... but I was completely unaware of the existance of queerphobic Anglo-Saxons and the slurs they used; my black-and-white kid mindset thought all Protestants were open-minded... (my khyber pass!)


7: Entre dos piernas estás (Between two legs you are)

Entre dos tierras, Héroes del Silencio

Entre dos tierras estás
Y no dejas aire 

que respirar

Misheard as:

Entre dos piernas estás
Y no dejas aire 

que respirar

Why?


I had never heard the lyrics until I found the song on YouTube, and I thought the singer said "piernas" (legs)  because I heard the song first as a late-teen and I was feeling randy... like if he was describing fellatio and not being able to breathe from sucking all the time...


8: It's floating slowly down the mantlepiece

Weather With You, Crowded House

Well there's a small boat made of china
It's going nowhere on the mantlepiece

Misheard as:

Well there's a small boat made of china
It's floating slowly down the mantlepiece

Why?

I just heard the lyrics on the radio and didn't had them on hand. Plus, as a flat-dwelling and not-used-to-firesides Spaniard, I did not exactly know what the heck a "mantlepiece" looked like as a child. So I had this mental image of the china boat sailing down a tablecloth throughout my childhood whenever I listened to this song (only now at 30 have I realised that the lyrics refer to THE POLAR OPPOSITE!)...


9: Con valor, Susvín culos rompió (With courage, Susvín ripped arses)

Marcha a Mi Bandera, Juan Chassaing

Cuando triste la Patria esclavizada
con valor, sus vínculos rompió

Misheard as:

Cuando triste a la Patria esclavizada
con valor, Susvín culos rompió

Why?

This misheard lyric military man is as popular in Argentina as the soldier Céféro in France (Entendez-vous dans nos campagnes mugir Céféro, ce soldat?) surely because it involves "culos", ie arses, keisters, derrières... you get the picture.


10: Lonely Starbucks Lovers

Blank Space, Taylor Swift

Got a long list of ex-lovers

Misheard as:

Gotta lonely Starbucks lovers

Why?

Every broken heart sure needs a cup of latte to drown its sorrows...


11: Aus den Wiesen steiget der weisse Neger Wumbaba (From the meadows rises the white Negro/Nigger Wumbaba) - Yeah, I know it sounds racist, but German kids mishear their word for fog or mist as their N word!

Abendlied, Matthias Claudius

Der Wald steht schwarz und schweiget,
und aus den Wiesen steiget
der weiße Nebel wunderbar.

Misheard as:

Der Wald steht schwarz und schweiget,
und aus den Wiesen steiget
der weiße Neger Wumbaba.

Why?

The Abendlied, literally Evening Song, is from the eighteenth century and part of the German literary canon; its register is too high for schoolchildren to understand and yet it is transmitted to them by word of mouth since generations. Germany has also had an African empire in the nineteenth century, which has shown in some old children's fiction like Fipps der Affe (Fipps the Monkey) and the story of the Black Lads in the Struwwelpeter... The end of the character name the word "wonderful" is misheard as also evokes Babar the elephant and barbarians, significantly!



viernes, 16 de octubre de 2020

THE DEATH OF IASE PENDRAHUL OF IBRIA

The Ibrian ambassador, Iase, paranoid and terrified of poison, was constantly tossing whatever he was served out the closest window.

*****

 After attending to her maquillage, Ursula put her muffler back into place and nodded approvingly at her public face in the mirror.

"Everything is arranged with the guards. Mistress," Flotsam hissed.

"Excellent. Now all I need to do is figure out this mess." She pointed at her throat, not bothering to whisper. No one was around who mattered. With a wave, she dismissed Vareet. The little maid scampered off, hopefully to make sure the rest of the royal apartments were being cleaned properly. That stupid dog's hair got everywhere.

"Perhaps a new voice would help? A new ...donor?" Jetsam suggested.

"That's not a bad idea," Ursula said thoughtfully. "Not a bad idea at all. I'll get right on that, later. So much to do.... cementing our relationship with Ibria so I can proceed with our military plans. ...But right now I have to deal with a petitioner. Ridiculous, really."

Her receiving room was little more than a large study with a few bookshelves and a partially hidden door in the back that led to the library proper. Taking up most of the space was a large naval-style desk strewn with the books she was currently reading, sheaves of notes, a log for meetings, and a small burner for the teas and tisanes she told people she enjoyed for their... medicinal properties.

Which was not entirely a lie. While being princess gave her a different land of power than she was used to—power over people rather than mystical forces—well, call her old-fashioned, but magic was still magic. Its potential for destruction surpassed everything else.

And she had none in the Dry World.

So she set to work researching magic of the land. Among the many occult trinkets she kept hidden were bloodstained crystals; the tongues of several extinct beasts; a curvy: evil-looking knife with a shiny black blade—and several books bound in strange leather that did not smell very good. They explained many things, from the proper sacrifice of small children to the use of certain herbs.

***

She played with the new golden chain around her neck and considered.

No, not yet. ... And an end to her fun with Tirulia! She had such plans for the little nation.... Maybe she would pursue the matter later. For now she would work with her rather prodigious non-magical powers: manipulation, deception, and all the gold in the coffers of the kingdom.

And as for the kingdom, right then she had to deal with more pressing princess duties. She settled herself primly mto a tiny, very ornate golden chair with delicate curled legs that ended m the sweetest little tentacles.

Flotsam took a polished brass urn from a shelf and carefully tapped out leaves that resembled ashes more than tea. Jetsam decanted water from a crystal jug into a tiny copper kettle and set it on the burner. How he lit it would have been unclear to any human watching the scene.

One never knew when a tea like this would be needed...

******

"Send in the next," Ursula said with a chuckle. The meeting with the fisherman had put in her a surprisingly good mood after all.

"Iase Pendrahul of Ibria," Flotsam announced.

With rather more sureness than she liked, the ambassador—spy—sauntered calmly into the room. Now that's a powerful gait, the sea witch thought. His skin was clear and his cheekbones high, his hazel eyes lit from within like an ember you thought you had put out. Thick, curly brown hair attacked the air around his head, barely contained in a riotous ponytail.

"My dear Iase," Ursula whispered indicating the only other chair—a stool, really, with no back, set there for the express purpose of making the other person feel lesser. Yet the representative from Ibria took it and sat arrogantly at ease.

"I've heard you have a cold. A thousand blessings on your health," he said, touching his heart.

"Forget about it, it's nothing," she whispered. "Let's talk about our alliance."

"We can talk—or at least I can," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, "but I do not see any advantage to our siding with you. Your fleet is still short three of the warships you swore to provide—six, I believe, was the original promise. Your land skirmishes have been of questionable success at best. Burning down defenseless villages isn't really much of an accomplishment—I'm fairly certain Gaius Octavius would agree with me on that one. Ibria is wealthy enough. We have no reason to spend resources on a war that doesn't directly lead to our advantage."

"Oh, but it will," Ursula whispered, putting a hand on his arm.

Iase stared at her fingers with distaste.

"I'm sorry, what?" he asked.

"It will, " she hissed louder.

"You'll forgive me. Your Highness, but you have given me no proof of that. I see no reason to make deals with a princess who dresses prettily but lacks any strategic ability."

"You refuse to deal because I am a woman?" Ursula growled, perhaps a little loudly, in her own voice.

"On the contrary," Iase said, patting her hand and then removing it from his arm. "I have had many dealings with fine women I respect. Including at least one pirate captain. It is you, personally, Princess Vanessa, whom I am hesitant to entrust the resources or future of ray country with."

The two were silent for a moment, looking into each other's eyes. His were steady and dark; hers glittered strangely.

Ursula wished she were underwater. She wished she had her tentacles. She wished she had her old necklace. She wished she had anything she could smite him with—frankly, a large piece of coral would have done nicely.

First she lost her stolen voice, and with it the charm and forget spells that made dealing with the humans around her easier. Now it looked like she was losing a potential—and very powerful—ally. Not only would this be a severe setback for her war plans, but her failure would be the talk of the court. She would look weak and pathetic and incapable of mustering the help they needed to conquer their neighbours. And the weak were devoured. It was the way of the world.

"Thank you for your honesty-," she finally whispered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, never mind. I need some tea for my throat. Join me?" 

She indicated the bubbling teapot: this gesture was perfectly clear, even if what she said was not. Flotsam was suddenly at the desk, laying out a pair of beautiful Bretlandian teacups, golden spoons, a fat little jar of honey, and some lemon slices. 

"Don't mind if I do," Iase said carelessly. "Feel a tickle in my throat myself."

She put the pretty gold strainer—not silver, no no, never silver; when prepared properly the metal had the power to negate certain desired effects of a potion—over his cup and poured, and over her cup, and poured. Strangely grey liquid came out, neither opaque nor completely translucent. It was precisely the same color at different depths.

Each person doctored the drink the way he or she liked: lemon, two lumps... Ursula put a candied violet in hers—one that had a silver dragee as its center.

"Good for the throat, eh?" he asked, holding the cup up to toast her. 'To life!"

"To friends," Ursula whispered over the rim of her teacup.

He raised his cup again before bringing it to his mouth—but waited until she sipped before taking a draught himself. She watched him, the grey liquid pouring over his lips and into his mouth... and he swallowed...

*****

Grimsby appeared like a shadow at his side.

"Yes, we met, we'll talk later—" Eric began.

"It's not that," Grimsby said, keeping pace and not looking at the prince, as if the two were just speaking casually. "The emissary from Ibria was found while you were out... dead. On the unused balcony on the third floor. Causes unclear."

Eric cursed under his breath.

"Poor fellow. Not the worst sort, for a known spy."

"Absolutely regrettable. But it's a dangerous occupation, sir."

Then the prince considered the situation more deeply, and the possibilities it presented him.

"Er, it's in rather poor taste, I know, but I could use the distraction right now to follow up on something... privately. If you would make sure Princess Vanessa directs the inquiry until I officially take part, that would be extremely helpful."

"Princess Vanessa direct...?" Grimsby said, eyes widening.

"I need her attention elsewhere," Eric said, giving him a look.

"Ah. Very good, sir. At once."

Like a well-trained military horse, Grimsby peeled away, intent upon his mission.

*****

In the world of operas, when a hero is searching for something, be it the identity of a woman who rescued him or the letter that will free his daughter from being unjustly imprisoned, the tenor sings heartbreakingly about his quest, wanders around on stage, picks up a few props, and looks under them. He finds the thing! Voilà. Done.

Real life was a lot more tense and a lot less satisfying.

And, unlike in opera, Eric's search was often interrupted by real-life stuff: sudden appearances of Vanessa or her manservants, meetings, rehearsals for the opera's end-of-summer encore, formal events he had to attend, or princely duties—such as hearing a coroner's report on the death of the Ibrian.

(No foul play discovered, although why such a healthy youngish man had keeled over would remain a mystery for the ages. Vanessa had no trouble getting along with his replacement, who was much more amenable to collusion anyway.)

Often when interrupted Eric would forget which was the last object he had looked at and have to start a room from the beginning.

****

As soon as the chef was gone Vanessa gave him a nastily patronizing smile. 

"Don't fret, darling. I really do have Tirulia's best interests at heart." 

"I highly doubt that you have Tirulia's best interests anywhere near what passes for a heart on you."

"Well, I suppose hearts are a mostly human condition, aren't they? Especially yours. You're so full of love and feeling for everyone around you. Your country, your little mermaid, your dumb dog, your butler.... Say, speaking of hearts, his is rather old, isn't it?"

Her words chilled Eric to his bones.

"Hate for anything to happen to it. A man at his age probably wouldn't recover from an attack," she said thoughtfully.

"I... I'm not sure how you could arrange that," the prince stuttered. "Since we just established you don't perform your witchery anymore."

"Oh, there are other magics, my dear," she said coyly. "And things besides magic when one must make do."

Eric fumed, unable to think of a snappy retort. The dead Ibrian lay like an unspoken nightmare in the middle of their table.

"So while you're keepmg everyone's best interests at heart''' she continued through clenched teeth, "perhaps it's best if you stay out of my way. If I so much as suspect you're helping the little redhead, Grimsby will be dead before the day is out. And if anything should suddenly happen to me, he is also dead. Along with a few others I have my eye on. Am I clear?"

"As seawater," Eric said, through equally clenched teeth.

And that was how the chef found them, glaring silently at each other, when he came back in with the sorbet. He shifted from foot to foot for a full minute before fleeing back mto the kitchens.

*****

She played with the heavy golden chain she wore under her dress: thinking. Things were in fact getting a tiny bit out of hand in Tirulia. Although the stubborn Iase had been taken care of, his otherwise agreeable replacement wasn't taken seriously by the long of Ibria. She was still three warships short of the fleet she had promised potential allies. The number of soldier recruits were down this week—the townspeople were growing uneasy about her military maneuvers.

****

Eric blinked.

He reread the instructions:

TO BE DELIVERED DIRECTLY TO THE HANDS OF KING OVREL III OF IBRIA, AND NOT A SERVANT OR FOOTMAN. ALSO CONDOLENCES ON THE LOSS OF YOUR EMISSARY, FROM PRINCESS VANESSA.


****

Eric looked out the window she had indicated, at the neat rows of flowers before the willow grove. Everything looked normal, if a little dull smce his grandmother had grown too frail to keep taking a personal hand in the seaside garden.

Then, squinting, he saw a patch that looked different from the rest. Freshly turned, and irregularly planted.

He leapt downstairs as fast as he could and ran outside.

The fact that there was an entirely new, if tiny, garden on castle grounds that Eric hadn't heard anything about was... disheartening. It was just one more detail that cemented Eric's flailing, ignorant, and useless place in his own castle. His grandmother would have known about it immediately. Would have been told the moment the gardeners started spendmg their time on anything besides her heirloom roses and exotic perennials.

The plants growing in this new patch were not roses—though they did more or less fall into the category of exotic perennial. Eric studied the leaves and little identifying tags.

Artemisia. Okay, that was like wormwood, what they made absinthe out of. His grandmother had always liked their pretty woolly silver leaves.

Belladonna. Clary sage, henbane. Old-fashioned herbs.

Mandrake.

He recognized the last because a sailor had once shown him a particularly fine specimen of the root; it looked like a little person. "There's folks in Bretland will pay a king's ransom for this. I just have to tell them it screamed when the farmer pulled it out of the soil."

Eric shook his head in wonder. Even to someone more skilled in the arts of the sea and music than farming, it was obvious Vanessa was trying her hand at a witch's garden.

Her magic didn't work on land. So she was trying to learn new magic. Land magic.

Was that... a thing?

Was witchcraft real?

If it was, could Vanessa harness its powers? Would she be able to summon undead armies to do her bidding, call down storms and plagues on countries they were at war with?

Would she be able to cast new charms? Would Eric once again find himself foggy and forgetting, hypnotized and half-awake? Would he do everything his terrible wife said?

He swallowed, trying to control the panic that was coming on.

Boneset. Some said it was good for aches and pains. Modern doctors disagreed.

Wolfsbane.

Foxglove. A pretty flower, and dangerous to animals. It was also known as digitalis and contained a substance that destroyed the heart—literally. Eric remembered his father telling him not to let Max anywhere near it if they found some im the woods.

Whether or not witchcraft was real, poison certainly was.

No one really believed the Ibrian had died of natural causes. And here, more or less, was the proof: holes in the ground where some of the flowers had been pulled out. Used. The plant could be put into anything: tea, soup, tobacco mix for a pipe... Vanessa could make good on her threat at any time. Grimsby would keel over from a heart attack and no one would suspect anything—it would be sad, but an entirely natural, predictable death.

Nothing Eric could ever do would convince the butler to abandon his post, short of tying him up and putting him on a boat to the lands in the west against his will. Eric ran his hands through his hair, frustrated and at wit's end.

OUTLINE OF MY SQ ARCANA FUSION

https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Characters/TheArcana

https://thearcanagame.fandom.com/wiki/Characters

https://thearcanagame.fandom.com/wiki/Tarot_Deck

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KmUJNlJreU4&t=30s

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ROGZWStn7Q

https://thearcanagame.fandom.com/wiki/World


EAST OF THE SUN, WEST OF THE MOON, NORTH OF THE STAR 

An Adventure in Seven Stories

Story the First: About a Shattered Egg of Mirrors

Wouldn't you like to see something strange?

At the Ivory Estate, five demonic Courtiers have gathered


Story the Second: Julian and Portia

"Now the seaport of Nevivon, for it is in Nevivon that our story proper begins, is a quaint little town, perchance a large village, but the people there live so clustered together in three-story townhouses that there is little room for every family to have a personal garden; therefore most Nevivonians have to content themselves with a pair of plant pots, or potshards full of soil worst-case scenario, upon their windowsill. But in the very heart of Nevivon, in a garret with eaves jutting out, above the local tavern, there lived a pair of orphan children who had a garden somewhat larger than a sill full of potted flowers. Julian and Portia were brother and sister, of the same flesh and blood, yet no other sibling pair had ever squabbled as little as the two of them, who tenderly loved one another."

carrot sprigs and pea tendrils with butterfly-like flowers grow and thrive on a crate, along with spearmint, parsley, and other kitchen herbs, in a crate on the windowsill of the siblings' room, on the upper floor,

One evening in autumn around the equinox while watching shooting stars from their windowsill garden, suddenly what appears to be stardust falls on Julian's right eye, and he breathes some of it in, wincing at the pain in his eye and then, after a coughing fit, in his chest

as winter approaches and the years go by he becomes more and more insufferable

one winter in the main square the snow queen whisks him away and kisses all his memories goodbye, gives him a heart-freezing potion


Srory the Third: Leaving Nevivon

when julian does not return in spring, everyone in nevivon thinks he's gone out to sea and will never come back having left to seek his fortune

that year and the next and the third, the signs of spring and especially the sun by day and the north star by night reassure portia, as well as her plants, that her brother is still alive

portia then throws her shoes into the strait, the ones she got for her birthday and ilya has never seen, into the strait, the waves return her footwear as if they had no one to give in exchange

that night she packs her luggage and early in the morning she kisses her grandmothers and cat pepi goodbye and heads out into the countryside

then it's like when psyche in c&ps by william morris bids the world farewell


Story the Fourth: Count and Countess

one day in a rocky outcropping she meets a raven --malak--after they make friends, malak tells her that he might have seen ilya - but that he might forgotten her

first things first they're in the kingdom of prakra

the youngest daughter of the rani is an exceedingly bright countess, but lonely in all her brilliance

suitors come and go but they are all stunned by the beauty of the taj and the courtiers' attires

one day a young man with bloodshot eyes and very fair skin comes along and is completely unfazed - he wins the countess with being curious about her intelligence and with his own wartime tales

portia thinks it may be ilya maybe not - she has to come to the palace, in spite of being a peasant foreigner, and attend the engagement event (even the rani and her consort are coming over from the capital of prakra) and see it with her own eyes

while portia waits and later sneaks in, malak chats with nadia's pet chandra - who lives in a tree taj in a ficus in the taj gardens - and, once she has entered the gardens, the owl drops a spare sari and slippers of navra's down to the garden floor for portia to wear

in the taj portia is breathtaken by the interiors and meets all the royal family - but when she gets to see nadia and her count in the ballroom - she is stunned - the young man is not julian, but nevertheless young and attractive

he has golden hair, both eyes bloodshot with red sclerae, a left arm of solid gold

portia explains the case of mistaken identity and nadia gifts her a spare bedchamber to sleep in for the night, under lavender-scented sheets after a warm bath

nadia also tells portia that she can address her by first name ditto all of her family, introducing them

the next day at the breakfast table, over tea and backlavas, nadia asks portia if she wants to be her handmaid and have her very own clothes and shoes and the bedchamber where she slept to live in, but she declines and prefers to resume her quest

so she is gifted a royal carriage with a coachman and postillions as well as lots of backlavas and the sari and slippers that she wore to the event (she still keeps her peasant dress in the trunk)


Story the Fifth: The Warrior Queen

while crossing the southern steppes in a dazzling sun, the carriage dazzles some warrior nomads, who spear the coachman and postillion, seize the horses, and claim the spoils

the leader, a tall blonde in spotted catskins who drives a chariot and pets an eagle, takes portia prisoner as an indentured servant, kneading her lower back and buttocks and arms to feel for muscle

portia and the warrior queen set off in the chariot while some of the crew take up the carriage and the redshirt servants' liveries: the warrior queen tells her she will kill anyone who lays a fingertip on her, and if portia offends her captor, she will slit her throat quickly and painlessly

they set up camp at dusk and portia begins to pitch up tents with mallet and pegs 

by the fireside they all have a supper of roast meat - the warrior queen introduces herself as morga

the two of them decide to trade stories with one another


Story the Sixth: The Star, the Moon, and the Sun

portia enters the arcana realms

she finds herself in a labyrinth with walls of crumbling marble so high they block the skies above, statues flanking the great arched entrance

As the path goes further in, the geometry of the place becomes stranger and more unsettling, with stairs leading to nowhere and doorways bricked up or dropping off into a sudden abyss - but she keeps on walking, determined not to give up yet

at the top of the labyrinth she finds a lighthouse beacon made of a thousand little stars - through vast lighthouse windows a breathtaking view of an evening sky above and an equally vast ocean below -- there, a blue-eyed orange tabby catgirl who resembles portia herself comes eye to eye with her

the star explains to portia about their connection, congrats her and tells her she knew she'd pass the trials, and gifts her a vial of starlight

then tells her to plunge into the ocean to find the moon's realm

though at first skeptical, remembering the shipwreck that orphaned her and ilya, she shuts her eyes and leans out the lighthouse railing, taking the plunge

saltwater stings the sores on her worn aching feet, her drenched clothes drag her down

there is an islet with a female silver direwolf-anubis -the moon- in the middle of the ocean; she takes off her soaked clothes and the moon gifts her roe to eat and a fishing net to wrap herself in, then instructs her to find a moonstone from the bottom of the ocean trench, between the two sunken turrets

as she dives deep luminescent fish like a fierce anglerfish, or a school of fish which form a ghost of julian, try to seduce her in the midnight zone, but she still finds the moonstone as she reaches for it

as she resurfaces, her consciousness slips

she washes upon a beach-like shore with dunes and a wall along the shore, with a sunflower garden beyond the wall and up a white chalk cliff to the left: the sun's eyrie - the day sky above is cloudless and full of pure air

portia follows the wall up to the cliff and eats sunflower seeds from flowers that project above the wall before climbing up; there is a rill and a large nest in the middle of the garden, she drinks herself unthirsty

right then a humanoid golden eagle swoops down and lands in the nest

the sun sits down in the nest and preens her plumage... then lays a hot golden egg that portia receives



Story the Seventh: What Happened at the Snow Queen's Palace and Afterwards



Valerius as the Great Troll

Volta, Vulgora, Valdemar, and Vlastomil (the two latter made the Mirror Egg) as Trolls

Portia Devorak as Gerda

Julian Devorak as Kai

Mazelinka and Lilinka as the Grandmothers

Nadia Satrinava and Lucio Morgasson as the Prince and Princess

Malak as Mr. Crow and Chandra as Mrs. Crow

Morga Eirsdottir as the Robber Mother/Robber Maiden (composite character)

Jäger as the Wood Pigeon

The Star, the Moon, and the Sun as Finnwomen/donors/cardinal winds (ever read East of the Sun or the Singing Springing Lark?)

Anastasia "Tasya" Devorak as the Snow Queen


viernes, 9 de octubre de 2020

RECIPE FOR EVER AFTER

RECIPE FOR EVER AFTER

A DRARRY AT-520B TALE


i. vid vassen av den krökta ström

If you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong, think twice or thrice. Intense feelings can be found in the unlikeliest of places.

This is the story of a prince in lov... wait, of a lordling in love. And of the... obstinate and astute ragamuffin who put him to the test.

This is a new look at a classic tale, retold with exquisite sensitivity.

Dressed in his nightshirt of white tulle and covered in a coarse burlap sack, Harry got on the carriage that his guardian Sirius had sent him; a cabin mounted on two great cogwheels that immediately started moving. The vehicle crossed the kingdom at breakneck speed. Crossing a bridge, then another, then rolling across a lake and entering a thick forest of pines, birches, willows and chestnut. The young lad had fallen fast asleep. He did not awake until the end of the day, when the carriage stopped at the edge of the woods, not quite far from a village. Upon seeing the colours of the flag that waved atop the windmill, he knew he had left the kingdom his father had died to defend. He got off the carriage, which instantly disappeared.

Day flew by after day, each day identical to the previous and to the next; it seemed that time had frozen.

Whenever Harry finished his workday, he liked to return to his shack on the estate grounds, flick the wand in the palm of his hand and make appear the invisible trunk which contained his uniforms and his suits, full-body mirror, hairbrush, gold-rimmed spectacles, and everything else. He had even brought along a little musical box to play melodies that reminded him of his childhood. The cottage in Godric's Hollow, the deer in the woods around his village, his father Ser James standing tall and strong ere he left for the wars, nevermore to return... How far everything seemed to be!

One afternoon at the close of evening, while Harry was wearing his scarlet uniform and was playing his favourite tune on the musical box, singing to the tune in a dulcet tenor voice, a fair lordling passed by. He was the son of the leaders of the land, trying to explore new paths through the woods. Since he had a passion for speed, he had had a great lark leaving behind his entourage until he came to stop there, alone and breathless. The crystalline notes of music and, afterwards, the dazzling light shimmering off a sash and epaulets attracted him to the shack.

Vid vassen av den krökta ström
som tycktes kärlek, kärlek susa
låt ömma känslor dig berusa,
var lycklig, älska, njut och dröm!

An enchanting tenor voice resumed the melody, and the whole forest began to whisper at unison. The lordling, Draco, was left breathless once more.


ii. what's wrong with draco?

Vid vassen av den krökta ström
som tycktes kärlek, kärlek susa
låt ömma känslor dig berusa,
var lycklig, älska, njut och dröm!
Men vet att under kärlekstvång,
ack vilket tvång den hunnit giva!
För första känslan trogen bliva
ty hjärtat älskar blott en gång!

The lordling stopped his steed and got off. He approached the shack and tiptoed to take a peek inside, but a veil concealed the wall, and through the shack's only window came a dazzling light. The dark young lad, accompanied by the musical box, sang an old song which, as a little boy, he'd been lulled to sleep with in whispers by his mother, Dame Lillian. Draco could not restrain the tears. He climbed up the eaves to the rooftop and found a skylight. Shading his eyes with his hands, he finally caught a glimpse of the singer. He was sitting before a large musical box, radiant, and surpassed in loveliness the best-looking people, male or female, the lordling had ever seen. And that dazzle that reflected off his epaulets and the sash on his waist! From his vantage point on the rooftop, the lordling was about to fall backwards to the ground. Harry, who had caught a glimpse of him through the mirror in front of him, smiled and resumed his song. It appeared to him that the fair stranger was the most charming, with his great big eyes and that shocked expression. Suddenly he had a craving for getting to know him better.

But then the lordling's entourage arrived, all at once. The dark lad stopped singing, flicked the wand and once more he became Dirty Harry the ragamuffin, while Draco returned to the firm ground, still consternated by what he had just beheld.

Young Lord Draco returned home. He lived in an enormous edifice hewn out of stone in a cold and hard marble rock with streaks in faded colours. Since forever, it is still unknown of whether out of a whim or out of necessity, the local fashion obliged the inhabitants, including the ruling family, to wear pointed hats. Draco's family ruled the surrounding lands since so long ago that no one knew when the Malfoys had arrived thither.

As soon as he returned from the woods, Draco slumped into bed and plunged into terrible melancholy. Now nothing piqued his interest, except remembering the face of the young man in the shack. Lord Lucius and Lady Narcissa interrogated each other by looking into one another's eyes; they did not understand why their son, who was always merry and bright and wide awake, no longer left his quarters. Day followed day and the lordling kept himself shut, with an absent look in his eyes and lost in his dreams. He did not reply to the questions of his parents, he had stopped eating and languished beyond repair. Lord Lucius and Lady Narcissa were more and more worried for each time.

The only company that Draco tolerated was that of his three best friends: Blaise, Gregory, and Vincent. He had opened his heart to them and asked them to investigate: who was this beau who lived in the hut in the woods? The three friends returned at once, carrying bitter news with them: everywhere they had gotten the reply that this lad was a ragamuffin, one Dirty Harry, and that neither in that shack nor elsewhere in the woods there lived any beau or beauty.

"Well, I don't care!" Draco exclaimed, leaping at once out of his melancholy. "You want me to eat? Right, then I'll eat, but it has to be a brioche made by Dirty Harry expressly for me."

His parents were elated. The three friends left immediately, to give Dirty Harry the commission of the brioche for the lordling.

Petunia was most surprised when she heard of His Lordlingship's commission, but she tried to conceal her feelings. The Malfoy scion had shown interest in her estate, and that was the only thing that mattered to her. The older woman went to find Harry in the tool shed, gave him the commission and handed him eggs, milk, flour and everything necessary for making brioche. From a distance, the three friends saw Dirty Harry leave the shed. Upon seeing how filthy he was, all three winced, but Petunia insisted.

"Do not forget to tell His Lordlingship that the eggs are from our farm and that the flour has come from our mill."

Harry raced into the shed. It seemed fun to cook for the lordling. He waved his wand to put on his cream summer suit, style his hair, and adorn his cuffs with twin cufflinks. He also wished for a recipe to make the best of brioches.

A blank notebook began to fill with a list of recipes: gâteau d'amour, cherry heart pudding, forbidden fruitcake, kouign-amann or lovers' brioche...

Harry repeated "lovers' brioche," and the notebook began to fill with the recipe, as the necessary ingredients appeared one by one:


iii. kouign-amann or lovers' brioche

Flour (a little) and then

three eggs,

sugar (a lot),

and butter (even more),

a pinch of salt, yeast for fluff, diluted in some warm milk,

vanilla for smiles, and rhum to dream of south sea islands.

Knead with lots of care, mix everything with love,

once, and twice, and thrice.

Leave the dough to rest, open the oven and put it in, smother with melted butter (well).

Take out after exactly half an hour,

dust with sugar while the brioche is still hot,

serve as soon as possible and, if cooled, re-warm the lovers' brioche.

Harry poured, kneaded, mixed, folded the dough into three... and only doubted a tenth of a second before taking off his left cufflink with the crystal glass bead and letting it drop into the dough that he immediately afterwards tucked into the oven.

By the shack's side, the three friends were growing impatient. They did not understand what was happening: the shack had begun to glow so intensely that they could not peer through the window to see what was going on inside; yet it seemed to them, indeed, that the so-called Dirty Harry had an angelic voice. What a shame that he should be so filthy!

When the brioche was ready, the dark-haired lad, disguised under his burlap sack, handed it over to the three friends, who hastened to bring it to the lordling.


iv. cufflinks and suitors

Everyone at Court in the fortress awaited the famous brioche and wondered if at last Lord Draco would return to be his usual self and recover his lost mirth. The three friends stormed into his bedchamber with hats held in hand.

"The brioche!" Vincent announced.

"It's coming!" Gregory explained.

"Here it is!" Blaise murmured.

"And Dirty Harry?" asked Draco, crazy with elation. "Have you seen him?"

Two of the friends replied, visibly uncomfortable:

"Dirty Harry? That ragamuffin..."

"He's a scarecrow..."

And Blaise added:

"But he has the loveliest voice..."

The lordling sniffed the aroma of the brioche, tore off a good chunk and put it into his mouth while exhaling a sigh of joy.

The three friends watched him with their hearts in their fists, as well as Lord Lucius and Lady Narcissa, who had joined them in the room. All of them, leaning over Draco, expected the brioche to cure him. But then the lordling turned fuchsia, then scarlet, then purple. He tried to scream in vain, clutched his throat, put a finger into his mouth and began to retch and gag, trying to dislodge the foreign object from his trachea.

Lord Lucius, Lady Narcissa, and all three friends looked at him, petrified and without a clue of what to do, when suddenly Draco drew deep breaths and his face returned to its usual fair colour. He held between his fingers the crystal cufflink and looked at it with a smile. In the act, instantly, the lordling himself knew exactly what to do as well. The cufflink was so shiny, so small... seeing it, no one could connect it to a ragamuffin. Suddenly, Draco came up with a stratagem to impose Harry as his fiancé in front of his parents and the entire Court.

"I will marry the person, male or female, who owns a cufflink that perfectly matches this one, no matter their gender, where they come from, or who they are."

Therefore, the proclamation was spread throughout the land and far beyond its reaches: the lordling was to marry the person with only one cufflink that matched his own perfectly.

Horses and other mounts of all species galloped forth, from hippogriffs to horntail dragons, as well as vehicles on wheels, on sails, propelled by air... They combed the country down to each and every shire, because no one had to be forgotten.

And the suitors --all suitors without exception, male or female or non-binary, young or old, meek or bold--, began to apply massage on their fingers, to butter them up with essential oils that would allegedly make their hands more delicate, or to sleep with their hands wrapped to moisturise their dry skin; some even went as far as to resort to hire master forgers to produce the matching cufflink.

On the day that had been appointed came the invasion of an immense crowd. Suitors streamed into the royal halls one right after the other. They were so numerous that one could not see the end of the queue. And they were of all ages, short and tall, chubby and lanky, fair and dark and ginger and nutbrown. Even some villagers from a distant shire, who wore stuffed songbirds for hats, had arrived. 

They seemed to compete in caquetage, and they all speaking at once made so much noise that it was difficult to keep track of conversation, or even to hold a conversation in the first place.

In between a push and a shove, they accused one another of cutting in line. But suddenly the horns of His Lordship resounded, and everyone present kept silence.

In the great hall, Lord Draco sat on his alabaster throne, surrounded by his three bosom friends. His Lordship and Her Ladyship, sitting comfortably on twin thrones a little further, were impatient to see the result of all these events.

First a maiden presented herself, a cute-looking redhead, slender and smiling. Yet, when the cufflink was produced, only the crystal on her ring was shown to come from the same quarry as the cufflink's. Then came an enormous person of uncertain gender, their skin milky white, who barely could hold the cufflink in between their fingers. A toddler also tried her luck, but she was too young and the jewel felt to the ground with a clink immediately.

An old peasant wench guffawed at the top of her lungs while the cufflink trembled between age-twisted fingertips. She wanted to have fun and dream herself as well. The lordling addressed her with a smile.

The fifteenth suitor, a tall golden-haired young man, would have pleased him, if the image of Dirty Harry had not left his mind's eye. Furthermore, this fellow could not produce the matching cufflink either. After three hours, Lord Draco had begun to grow horribly bored. By his side, his three friends were yawning. Yet still there were many suitors to see... Lord Lucius fell asleep. The test kept on in its course, to the pace of His Lordships's yawns and His Lordlingship's sighs.

At nightfall, there were still over a hundred suitors waiting. Still Draco did not give up that easily and he wanted to see them all. Farm folk with weather-beaten hands, artisans with callused hands, metalworkers with muscular hands softened by the leather gloves they wore at work, travellers with dreamy eyes, circus performers who tried to produce the matching cufflink and did not succeed but who delighted everyone assisting with their crazy somersaults, musicians, dressmakers, teachers and students, everyone... All of the suitors tried to produce the matching cufflink, yet no one succeeded.

When, at the end of the night, the last suitors were left, when the fingertips of the last maiden were outstretched in vain towards the cufflink, the lordling asked if they had warned Dirty Harry. Amidst the crowd of spectators, lanky Petunia let out a guffaw:

"Dirty Harry? That tatter on two legs!?"

Lord Draco stood up and commanded his men to bring him to the throne room.

And so it was done.

Harry came in the end, at last, escorted by the three friends of His Lordlingship. He walked alone across the immense throne room, barefoot, head sunken beneath his burlap hood and supporting the heavy sack he wore for a cloak. The whole crowd held its breath.

His Lordlingship could not marry such a freak!

Dirty Harry approached the fair young man, produced a petite hand from out of the sack and presented it to him. In the hollow of that silky palm, a cufflink twinkled like a little star. Lord Draco did not even dare to breathe a word. He tried to lock eyes with Harry, icy blue with emerald green, and, with a slight tremble, he produced the other cufflink.

When both cufflinks were thus shown to match perfectly, Dirty Harry lifted his head and let the burlap cloak fall to the marble floor. He was wearing his mess uniform, crimson and embroidered with golden thread, and his luminous beauty dazzled everyone who was present. A sparkle of light awoke Lord Lucius, who looked towards his wife and stifled a childish scream of high-pitched glee in seeing the young stranger's splendour.

"My boy, you have found the most... radiant of partners!"

He seized Harry by the wrist, raised it, joined it with Draco's hand, and exclaimed:

"I now pronounce you husband and husband!"

The lordling gently kissed Harry's fingertips.

"Harry, do you want to marry me?"

The dark young lad looked at the marble hall.

"May I plant and grow flowers, ivy, and ferns here?"

"All that you wish."

"And... can we free all magical creatures, all animals, and feed only upon seeds and plants?"

"Eat seeds? Well... of course, why not?"

"Thus only then, fair Draco, will I marry you."

They kissed.

The suitors who wore chickens, ducks, geese, or songbirds for hats clucked in delight; how pretty was this Harry boy at the end of the day! Petunia discretely dried up a tear of joy that welled up in her left eye. The most bitter among the suitors had to choke on their pain, and the most jealous ones had to realise it: Harry and Draco made for a wonderful couple.

They kissed once more as the crowd yelled a "HOORRAY!" that resounded even in the neighbouring countries.


v. ever after drarry

Still today the marriage of Draco and Harry is remembered. There was dance and song, an endless stream of dishes come from distant worlds, a labyrinth of silken cloths in intense colours for decorating the streets, games, perfumes... When the wedding was celebrated, all cages in the country were opened, and all flying avians launched off towards their freedom, drawing a cloud of clarity in the turquoise blue skies.

Crossing the entourage of guests, Harry's guardian appeared. He touched the bespectacled young man's hand and planted a tender kiss upon his brow.

"My lad, how happy I feel! What kind of insanity took over us during the war?"

Harry nestled in Sirius' arms, recovering the childish impulse that he had missed for so long.


vi. a tale as old as time

Type 520B is one of the oldest fairytales that exist. The Female Bear (L'Orsa), a primitive version thereof, appears in the Pentamerone, the first compilation of magic and fairy tales ever, by Giambattista Basile, released in Southern Italian dialect in 1635. The Grimms retook the tale in 1819 with Allerleirauh, the Russians tell the story of Pigskin, the British Isles inspired Shakespeare's King Lear with the folkloric Coat O'Rushes... Everywhere in the world, similar stories of this kind are told.

In all versions, in a manner similar to Cinderella, who is also forced to conceal her beauty, don a magic gown and reclaim her true identity thanks to an object, Donkeyskin or Catskin or Allerleirauh is, however, a more active young person than her sister heroine of the cinders. She winds up concealing her beauty under a cloak of animal or plant remains and flees her home. Finally, she deliberately places a surprise (a ring, a spool of gold thread...) in a cooked dish (chicken gratin, brioche, soup...) destined to the prince or lordling, in order to be discovered by her love interest/husband in the moment that she has decided herself.

I have enthusiastically followed the steps of this intelligent young person who does not resign themselves. Allerleirauh/Donkeyskin/Sapsorrow is one of those princesses who know what they want.

Illustrations that especially stress the plant kingdom, for I have rooted the tale in the power of nature, in the midst of oceans and woodlands. The hero/ine, fallen from grace, regenerates in the forest, that world so close to women that once were called witches, women who told children tales in order for them to cross their inner boundaries and grow up without fears. And thus the circle is closed.

I have loved to rewrite this tale. I have experienced once more that childhood sense of wonder from when I first watched fairytale and Shakespeare films on TV for the first time. I have fed upon these universes made by filmmakers and poets.

The value of a tale that is key for me... I thought that weaving these threads would be complicated. But the words welled up as if they had always been there, waiting since my childhood. Following the steps of old Victorian narrators, the melodies of fairytale films, and turning the pages, I have enjoyed a lot to give my voice to this Sapsorrow tale. I hope that, for each read of this queered version, each and every person may recover the echoes of the wonderful world that enchanted my childhood.