PSYCHOMACHIA

 Psychomachia

Sobriety brings Sensuality to an appalling end too when she smashes her face in with a stone:

Chance drives the stone to smash the breath-passage in the midst of the face and beat the lips into the arched mouth. The teeth within are loosened, the gullet cut, and the mangled tongue fills it with bloody fragments. Her gorge rises at the strange meal; gulping down the pulped bones she spews up again the lumps she swallowed. 'Drink up now thine own blood, after thy many cups,' says the maiden, upbraiding her. 'Be these thy grim dainties.'

ASÍ HABLÓ EL ESPEJO - FALOU O ESPELHO

 ASÍ HABLÓ EL ESPEJO - FALÒ O ESPELHO

ASÎ HABLÓ EL ESPEJO - SOFÎA DE MELLO ANDRESEN

Yo estaba en un palacio y frente a mí solo había espacio, espacio, nada más que espacio, El suelo era de mármol liso y brillante, Y yo estaba en el fondo de una galería silenciosa y solitaria. Contemplaba el paso de las horas a lo largo del día. Vi a los reyes y a las reinas, pálides en el día de su coronación, con sus coronas centelleantes y pesadas. Vi a los ministros, a los consejeros y a la gente importante con sus narices largas, sus caras de circunstancia y su aire servil. Y vi a las novias vestidas de blanco que durante las noches de baile huían por un momento a la galería solitaria. Se deslizaban rápidas y leves, negando siempre la flor que les pedían, Y vi pasar a las multitudes de las revoluciones, rompiéndolo todo, buscando justicia. Vi, vi, vi, yo soy un espejo; me he pasado toda la vida viendo. Todas las imágenes entraron dentro de mí. Vi, vi, vi, Y ahora, en esta sala, donde no hay ningún lugar en el que mis ojos de cristal puedan descansar.

Oriana, sácame de aquí y ponme frente a una pared blanca, desnuda y lisa.

Depois falou o espelho:
- Eu estava num palácio e em frente de mim havia espaço, espaço e espaço. E o chão era de mármore liso e brilhante. E eu estava no fundo de uma galeria silenciosa e solitária. E contemplava o mudar das horas do dia. Vi os reis e as rainhas pálidos no dia da coroação, com suas coroas cintilantes e pesadas. Vi os ministros, os conselheiros, e os homens importantes com seu nariz comprido, a sua cara de caso e o seu ar solicito. E vi as namoradas de vestido branco que nas noites de bailes fugiam um instante para a galeria solitária. Elas deslizavam rápidas e leves negando sempre a flor que lhes pediam. E vi as multidões das revoluções que passavam, desesperadamente, partindo tudo, à procura de justiça. Vi, vi, vi.
Eu sou um espelho; passei toda a minha vida a ver. As imagens entraram todas dentro de mim. Vi, vi, vi. E agora estou nesta sala onde não há um lugar onde os meus olhos de vidro descansem. Tira-me daqui e põe-me em frente de uma parede branca, nua e lisa.
 
Disse o espelho - peço-te que tires da minha frente aquela bailarina de Saxe. Estou farto de a ver o dia inteiro sempre com o pé no ar em posição de desequilíbrio. Os meus olhos de vidro não têm pálpebras. Só as noites são as minhas pálpebras. Mas durante o dia nunca posso fechar os olhos. E estou cansadíssimo de passar os dias a ver uma bailarina com o pé no ar.
A bailarina estava numa prateleira em frente do espelho. Pegou nela e pô-la no outro lado da sala, em cima da cômoda, de maneira a que o espelho não a visse.
- Obrigado - Disse o espelho.

Sou, como já sabes, um espelho antiqüíssimo. Há séculos que todas as meninas querem saber se haverá no mundo alguém mais bonito do que elas. Vê-te bem. És muito bonita, mas há uma coisa muito mais bonita do que tu.
Uma parede branca, nua e lisa.
Ainda bem – disse o espelho. Mais não imaginas a quantidade de meninas que pelos séculos fora se olharem nos meus olhos de vidro e disseram: “Acho-me linda”!
Ele passa o dia em frente de mim, a ver-se em mim e a dizer: “É um cabelo lindo”. E eu já não o posso olhar.


O espelho disse-me que havia uma parede branca que era ainda mais bonita do que eu.
- Os espelhos são uns sonhadores, estão sempre a imaginar o que não vêem. És muito mais bonita do que uma parede.

AS FALAS DO ESPELHO

Pediu o espelho - tire-me daqui! Estou sempre a ver, vejo tudo... Esta sala está cheia coisas! Esta sala sem espaços, sem vazios... Sem largueza... Que assim magoa os meus olhos de vidro...!

Depois falou o espelho:
- Eu estava num palácio e em frente de mim havia espaço, espaço e espaço. E o chão era de mármore liso e brilhante. E eu estava no fundo de uma galeria silenciosa e solitária. E contemplava o mudar das horas do dia. Vi os reis e as rainhas pálidos no dia da coroação, com suas coroas cintilantes e pesadas. Vi os ministros, os conselheiros, e os homens importantes com seu nariz comprido, a sua cara de caso e o seu ar solicito. E vi as namoradas de vestido branco que nas noites de bailes fugiam um instante para a galeria solitária. Elas deslizavam rápidas e leves negando sempre a flor que lhes pediam. E vi as multidões das revoluções que passavam, desesperadamente, partindo tudo, à procura de justiça. Vi, vi, vi.
Eu sou um espelho; passei toda a minha vida a ver. As imagens entraram todas dentro de mim. Vi, vi, vi. E agora estou nesta sala onde não há um lugar onde os meus olhos de vidro descansem. Tira-me daqui e põe-me em frente de uma parede branca, nua e lisa.
 
Disse o espelho - peço-te que tires da minha frente aquela bailarina de Saxe. Estou farto de a ver o dia inteiro sempre com o pé no ar em posição de desequilíbrio. Os meus olhos de vidro não têm pálpebras. Só as noites são as minhas pálpebras. Mas durante o dia nunca posso fechar os olhos. E estou cansadíssimo de passar os dias a ver uma bailarina com o pé no ar.
A bailarina estava numa prateleira em frente do espelho. Pegou nela e pô-la no outro lado da sala, em cima da cômoda, de maneira a que o espelho não a visse.
- Obrigado - Disse o espelho.

Sou, como já sabes, um espelho antiqüíssimo. Há séculos que todas as meninas querem saber se haverá no mundo alguém mais bonito do que elas. Vê-te bem. És muito bonita, mas há uma coisa muito mais bonita do que tu.
Uma parede branca, nua e lisa.
Ainda bem – disse o espelho. Mais não imaginas a quantidade de meninas que pelos séculos fora se olharem nos meus olhos de vidro e disseram: “Acho-me linda”!
Ele passa o dia em frente de mim, a ver-se em mim e a dizer: “É um cabelo lindo”. E eu já não o posso olhar.


O espelho disse-me que havia uma parede branca que era ainda mais bonita do que eu.
- Os espelhos são uns sonhadores, estão sempre a imaginar o que não vêem. És muito mais bonita do que uma parede.

Den nya Cendrillon

En revolutionär Askungesaga

av Carl Snoilsky

Rättstavad av Sandra Dermark

Från gamla gamla dagar, väl hundra år se'n och mer,
Finns sagan kvar om ett rike, vars sol för alltid gått ner.
Med torn och tinnar befästad, en mur där reste sig grå.
Den ord och lösen ej kände fick utanför stå.
En mäktig bastilj, försvarad av korsgevär och kanon --
Så tänkte barnen därute, så menade kolartron.
Med mössan i hand allena man smög förbi, med förlov,
Fast vallarnas vapen rostat och väktaren sov.
Därinnanföre -- ja, lycklig den blott hörde dit!
Ett trollslag -- och fult var vackert och korpen var vit.
Den simpla världen därute ur synkretsen vek
Och skuggor och sorger försvunno för skimrande lek.
Farväl med det regelräta, asketernas norm!
Välkommen med snirklar och snäckor, du smekande böljeform!
Vad leende glada färger i rose och azur!
Hur myste ej paviljonger ur tuktad natur!

Han, härskarn i denna sköna, förtrollade park. 
Var gräsplan var en teater och lunden kuliss.
I blomsterparterrn stod Amour och siktade segerviss.
I duggregn utav kaskaden sig vredo nymf och triton
Och dallrande sam i luften en lysten, lockande ton.
Det var Rococo den siste -- allsvåldig monark.
Han hörde valdhorn i fjärran, en tärna i kind han knep.
Fasanen, flaskan och Fyllis -- det var ett liv han begrep.
Det sällskap, han hade omkring sig, var litet men valt,
Och lag var genast för alla vad Rococo talt.
Det som gick an eller icke, det som var täckt eller styggt,
Det visste man, när man visste vad Rococo tyckt.
Men också att leva och umgås hur blev det ej lätt!
Allt, ända till tanken och ordet, fick sin etikett.
För allt fanns en sirligt snirklad, en färdiggjord fras.
Vad ej borde ses, det gömdes av rosenröd gaz.
Det tunga fick icke finnas i Rococos gård,
Och marmorn, ja själv alabastern, snart syntes för hård.
Då gjorde tiden sitt storverk -- och det var porslin,
Porslin med matta reflexer på blått och karmin.

Porslinet var just ett ämne, som väl stod ihop 
Porslin blev nu hela slottet på Rococos ord;
Av finaste sköra lera var stol och var bord,
Just enkom för lätta väsen av ömtåligt stoft,
För trippande röda klackar i solsken och puderdoft.
Med kindernas smink och muscher och leende grop;
De näpnaste små markiser av hjältelik min,
Små dygder i styva kjortlar -- porslin, porslin!
Så kunde de levat länge i lust och i fröjd,
Men människan, ack dessvärre, kan aldrig bli nöjd.
En avundsjuk fé, på avstånd, av solsky och rök
Framgycklar ett gåtfullt något -- så heter det: "sök!"
En morgon i daggiga gräset de funno en sko,
Blott vackrare, lättare, mindre än någon kan tro.
Den skon en sylf kunnat bära att dansa på tå,
Förutan att rubba en droppe, på ängarnas strå.
Herdinnor bredvid markiser i nyfiken ring
Betraktade ivrigt fyndet och vände det kring.
Behagsjukt sträckte de sköna de svarvade vrister små 
I silkesstrumpor med kilar -- men ingen den skon fick på.

Vi måste finna den sköna -- här stå vi ej ut! 
Herr Alcindor och herr Damon i blinken ändrade sinn’;
I Fyllis de sågo en fjolla och fräknar på Kloris’ skinn.
Allting, ja själva porslinet, var fullt av fel och av flärd:
Det fanns en skönhet i världen -- men icke i Rococos värld.
Till Rococos eget öra hann ropet till slut.
I pudrad peruk, helt rådlös, bland buller och skri,
Han suckade eftergivet: så sök, kära ni!
Med galonerad betjäning ett letande tåg
I statsvagn utav pâte tendre förbländad man såg.
Blott här och där utmed vägen en oförskämd glop
Fördristade sig att undra hur slikt höll ihop.
De letade uti två dagar, de letade uti tre; 
Men hon, som skon skulle passa, lät icke sig se.
Så råkade tåget vilse i villande skog --
Till kolarkojan för regnet sin tillflykt man tog.
Där satt hon och stirrade tankfull på flammande trä,
Med lockarna nere i pannan och händren knäppta kring knä.
De stodo stilla på tröskeln, förglömde att pröva skon,
Hos en och var fanns en stämma som redan sagt: det är hon.

Vad var hennes börd och härkomst? Hon visste det ej. 
Inunder smutsen och sotet och slarvor till dräkt
De anade strax en fägring av härskaresläkt.
Då, drömskön av fjärran syner, hon uppslog sin blick,
En stöt in i hjärtegropen var letare fick.
Sitt namn väl ändå hon kände? Hon svarade nej.
Den starke kolaren, bjässen som vargarna slog,
En dag träffat på den lilla bland tuvor i skog.
Så fri som ännu en vildros på furumörk mo,
Hon följt blott sitt eget tycke i kolarens bo.
Vid härden med glimmande askan blev tiden dock lång,
Det stora, som glöden talt om, när kom det en gång?
Du härliga, det har kommit! -- de ropte, bragta från sans --
Av dig skall Rococos rike nu hämta nyboren glans.
Liksom de fört en prinsessa i bugande krets,
Till vagnen flickan de ledde vid yttersta fingerspets.
Triumf, den sökta är funnen! En jubelfanfar,
Och åter med skamfilat åkdon till slottet det bar.
Då Rococo sporde satiriskt: nå passade skon?
Det hör ej till saken, de sade, emellertid är det hon.
I salen de förde sin skyddsling, friserad och tvådd.
Bak sminket bleknade Fyllis och såg sig hjälplöst förrådd.
Från alla nyfikna blickar det föll med ens som ett fjäll
Och Rococo själv gick till mötes och hälsade: ma chère belle ...
Då dog på skämtarens läppar en kvickhet om Cendrillon,
Landstrykerskan, som ej hade så mycket som namn en gång.
Den bristen var redan botad av en poetisk abbé,
Som ägnat en fin épitre åt tjuserskan Liberté.
Men hon; som nyss varit namnlös, av alla nu nämnd,
För detta doftande smicker vek undan som skrämd.
Ur balsalen tidigt och ofta försvann hon lätt som en hind,
På borgens ensliga tinnar hon satt med hand under kind.
Hon stirrade ut i nejden som fordom i härdens kol:
Det liv, som rördes därnere, vad var väl dess mål?
Det stora, hon sett i drömmen, ej fanns det inne i saln.
Ett sorl, likt suset i skogen, steg upp ut ur daln.
Av sorlet det varde en åska -- då skalv bastiljen den grå.
De kommo från östan och västan, de kommo med mössan på,
Och alla ropte de namnet som, fött i en madrigal,
På stunden gått ut som lösen kring berg och kring dal.

Men kolarn, den starke björnen, i borgporten bröt. 
Den sköna var sedd på tornet av tusendes blick,
Och ny var den syn på tingen, som var och en fick.
Den mörka, förtegna ringmurn blev genomskinlig som glas:
Vad mur ej förmådde dölja, det dolde ej rosenröd gaz.
Giv hit min flicka i skogen! han brummande röt:
Var hade jag mina ögon i förriga dar
Att aldrig jag märkte, flicka, hur fager du var?
Han svängde sin tunga yxa -- ett dövande ras!
Den sköra, skimrande världen var sprungen i kras.
Det enda förvägna hugget blev ästets ruin,
Ty själva muren var vorden porslin -- porslin!
Ett rykande regn av skärvor föll vida omkring,
Av Rococo och hans rike där sparades ingenting.
Med möda fick samlarvurmen för gamla saker och bruk
Bevara en vas, en dosa, en fras, en peruk.
När intet fanns kvar att slå sönder och andan man drog,
Då kom man ihåg den sköna, vars namn till lösen man tog.
Ack, hon var borta, försvunnen, och döv för bedjandes röst --
Men namnet hade man ännu och det var alltid en tröst.

Vart flydde den underbara, vars blotta namn gör en varm?
I högsal finnes hon icke och icke i stridens larm.
Var är den skog, där hon drömmer med hand under kind
Och lyss på fåglarnas lockton och talar med spelande vind?
 

THE CARNIVAL DAUGHTER (+ SEQUEL FIC)

Illustration by Jack Stockman,

The Carnival Daughter

Others went away forever into a country that was only in their minds…

Carny lived in a huge mansion on the edge of the mountain that rose. Mt. Hill lifted its grand peak to the sky and proudly displayed a vast array of large estates and palatial homes. The child’s father was a wealthy merchant who traveled far to purchase costly goods for sale in the bazaar.

Carny had everything a girl could want. She never went hungry or shivered in the cold. Her father was rich enough to hire servants. Her mother was beautiful and kind. She had no brothers or sisters demanding to share her toys.

But something was wrong. Something was so wrong with Carny that her mother wept quietly in the day when everyone else was sleeping…

Illustration by Zhivko Zhelev

La Hija de la Feria

Otros se marchaban para siempre a un país que sólo existía en sus mentes…

Feria vivía en una vasta mansión al borde del monte que se alzaba. El monte Colina alzaba su gran cumbre hacia los cielos y hacía soberbio alarde de grandes propiedades y hogares palaciegos. El padre de la criatura era un acomodado negociante que viajaba largas distancias para comprar objetos de valor que vendía en el bazar.

Feria tenía todo cuanto una niña puede desear. Nunca tenía hambre, ni sed, ni tiritaba de frío. Su señor padre se permitía el lujo de contratar a sirvientes. Su señora madre era hermosa y amable. Ella no tenía hermanos, ni varones ni hermanas, que le pidieran compartir sus juegos y juguetes.

Pero algo fallaba. Algo pasaba tan malo con Feria que su madre sollozaba en silencio durante el día, mientras todos los demás dormían. Y su padre se paseaba con un gesto facial de preocupación que le hendía una profunda línea en el entrecejo. Los sirvientes se reunían en grupos, juntitos juntitos, conversando sobre la triste condición de la niña.

Feria permanecía en su habitación. Se negaba a mirar por las ventanas por las preciosas noches estrelladas. Las contraventanas estaban cerradas con llave, así como las persianas, y los pesados tapices que servían de cortinas de invierno estaban siempre cerrados.

Las únicas personas a las que se admitía en la habitación eran la Nana, la niñera (que se marchaba llevando bandejas plateadas de comida medio acabadas) y la madre de Feria (que sólo se quedaba para breves visitas), pero nunca su señor padre. Él, desgraciadamente, le recordaba mucho a Feria a otra persona que le había hecho sufrir.

Todos los sirvientes de antaño recordaban que la niña había una vez sido una alegre y hermosa duendecilla de brillantes ojos color café y lustrosos rizos entre dorados y castaños. Le salían hoyuelos en las mejillas cuando sonreía… y siempre estaba sonriendo, danzando por allí, llena de abrazos para todos.

–Ella era un primor –se susurraban los unos a los otros, sus cofias almidonadas asintiendo en un estrecho círculo. –Qué primor. Qué pena.

Pero hacía cinco terribles años que aquello sucedió.

El Baile del Usurpador, celebrado cada año en una mansión diferente escogida por el gobernante, tuvo lugar aquel año en el palacio de mármol y cedro de los padres de Feria. La mansión estaba llena de invitados, y los soldados del Usurpador montaban guardia en torno a todos aquellos que se divertían, que reían y danzaban y brindaban y actuaban como si estuvieran pasándoselo bien… aunque algunos de ellos admitían que era difícil divertirse si eran forzados a ello.

Aquella noche, a Feria la habían metido en la cama por su seguridad. Las madres escondían a sus criaturas cuando el Usurpador estaba cerca –no porque al gobernante no le gustaran los niños, no, no. El problema era que le gustaban demasiado y de todas las formas equivocadas. Los huérfanos, por supuesto, eran propiedad del Gobierno, que los empleaba como mano de obra forzada. Pero los hijos de la gente acomodada no estaban exentos de la leva. Más de una criatura bien parecida había “entrado en quintas” para servir como consentidas estrellas en el Palacio del Placer, donde el pueblo llano, lleno de hastío y de mal del corazón, venía para olvidar por un rato sus penas, sus temores, y sus sufrimientos. Pocos progenitores pensaban en esto como un privilegio.

Escaleras abajo, la música sonaba. Los cascabeles cosidos a los hábitos de los sacerdotes tintineaban. La risa y la celebración despertaron a la niña de su profundo sueño. Ella salió reptando de la cama y se dirigió, de puntillas, a la barandilla circular que protegía el corredor de los dormitorios del vasto espacio que se arqueaba hasta el gran techo de cúpula y al grandioso salón…

(Traducción de Sandra Dermark)

(Continuación redactada por Sandra Dermark)

Una tarde de otoño en que Feria no tenía clases particulares, y su niñera se había vuelto a su campiña natal (en otra provincia, bien lejos del monte Colina), y sus padres se habían ido a la ópera (pues en aquel complejo de mansiones también había un teatro, además de un internado de señoritas, un casino y una academia militar), ella estaba tirada en la cama con dosel, sus rubios rizos cayéndole en cascada por las sienes y los hombros, leyendo un poemario. Cabe decir que ella tenía muchos libros ilustrados, entre cuentos, novelas, poemarios, obras de teatro y ensayos, pero aquella tarde no hallaba placer en ninguno de sus muñecos o juegos, en dibujar o colorear o siquiera hojear cualquier otro libro.

El sol ya se estaba poniendo y hacía frío, el jardín francés estaba envuelto en brumas y caían las hojas secas una tras otra. Y allí estaba ella, tirada en la cama, con los codos hincados en el suave edredón de satén y recitando su poema preferido, el de la página por la que el libro estaba abierto:

Pasan las horas de hastío

por la estancia familiar,

el amplio cuarto sombrío

donde yo empecé a soñar…

Ese era uno de los pocos poemas que le entretenía leer cuando estaba sola de verdad. No sabía por qué razón.

Dice la monotonía

del agua clara al caer:

un día es como otro día,

hoy es lo mismo que ayer.

Cae la tarde. El viento agita 
el parque mustio y dorado… 
¡Qué largamente ha llorado 
toda la fronda marchita!

Especialmente en otoño e invierno, cuando la bruma y/o la lluvia no permitían salir al aire libre y perderse entre los setos del laberinto, o perseguir mariposas o mariquitas. Feria suspiró y miró hacia arriba, a las constelaciones luminiscentes que decoraban el dosel de la cama. Pronto, el sol se pondría del todo y los astros bordados volverían a brillar.

Y fue entonces cuando ella oyó una dulce voz masculina, menos profunda que la de su señor padre o la del mayordomo, al ritmo de una guitarra acústica:

Guadalajara en un llano,

México en una laguna…

Al principio lo pensó como ensoñaciones suyas, pero ahora podía discernirlo más claramente:

Guadalajara en un llano,

México en una laguna…

me he de comer esa tuna…

Intrigada, pegó un brinco de la cama y corrió las cortinas del dosel, y luego las de la ventana de su cuarto, con todas sus fuerzas, para echar un vistazo, el primero en un lustro de reclusión, al mundo exterior. Allá afuera, a contraluz del sol poniente, más allá de la puerta modernista de hierro forjado, había un chico joven, como tres o cuatro años mayor que ella, vestido con una especie de uniforme, que punteaba una guitarra flamenca a zurdas; tocaba las cuerdas en medio del instrumento con la mano izquierda y lo agarraba por las clavijas con la derecha:

Desde Santurce a Bilbado,

vengo por toda la orilla…

Se miraron un instante, pero no necesitaron más. Ni siquiera cuando otros jóvenes uniformados igual vinieron a por su compañero y se lo llevaron con él, justo cuando su bardo estaba elogiando al mejor puente colgante, ubicado en Portugal u otro lugar parecido. Ni siquiera cuando, tras desaparecer todos los chicos de uniforme cuesta abajo, ella por fin se rindió al sueño. Con una anhelada sonrisa en los labios.

Ese invierno, por el solsticio, sería su fiesta trilustral de presentación en sociedad. Entre todos los cadetes y señoritos del monte Colina seguro que se disputarían el derecho de sacarla a la pista, bajo la majestuosa lámpara de araña, mientras los padres de los adolescentes iban a discutir, como siempre, las ofertas de matrimonio; aquel sería el debut de la joven (que ya no sería, una niña y aún no sería una mujer), sin contar que aquella noche otros echarían su suerte por ella, y su vida nunca volvería a ser igual…

EPÍLOGO

Puente de Portugalete,

el mejor puente colga-a-ante…

–¡Modesto! –le despertaron de su ensoñación. Había creído ver una silueta femenina, pequeña y frágil, allende las contraventanas. Quién sabe si era igual como él la imaginaba: un ángel caído, un hada enjaulada, que necesitaba que alguien la tuviera en sus brazos.

Aun así, seguro que estaba fuera de su alcance. Ella, una heredera del monte Colina, fijo que hija única de sus señores padres. Él, un estudiante bohemio de una universidad en el otro confín del reino, que estaba simplemente veraneando con la tuna (para más inri, su educación primaria se la debía a sí mismo), y tenía que regresar, con el otoño, a la rutina de la Facultad.

Ella vivía en un palacio de mármol y cedro, con un jardín francés perfectamente ordenado y una reja modernista, en una habitación escaleras arriba con contraventanas y persianas; él, en una guardilla al borde del campus, con una caja de madera, en el alféizar, donde cultivaba sus propias zanahorias, perejil, cebolletas y las flores que llaman alegrías.

Los dos eran personas inteligentes y sensibles, los dos eran hijos únicos, sabían apreciar las cosas buenas de la vida… pero se reencontrarían, y se conocerían mejor el uno al otro, cuando las ranas criaran pelo.

Nunca más se volverían a ver, y, seguro que cuando se vieran por siguiente vez, ella estaría casada con otro, más o menos contra su voluntad.

Aquel encuentro no sería más que una nota a pie de página de la vida que él esperaba, a la hora de realizar su carrera, y seguro que estaría, tras graduarse, a años luz del monte Colina, físicamente y en espíritu. Seguro que él estaría casado con otra, con una mujer de su clase media de su villa de provincias natal.

¿Y qué le importaría aquel encuentro efímero de los años mozos?

Lo mismo que a ella, seguro, pensó Modesto acompañando a sus compañeros de clase, de tuna y de fatigas a la taberna-venta que se erguía a la sombra del monte Colina, pensando en una jarra de cerveza negra con la que ahogar las penas:

Me he de co-o-omer esa tuna,

a-aunque me pinche las manos… 

La pinta de cerveza negra no había sido suficiente. No sabía cuántas copas de licor 34 con hielo se había echado entre pecho y espalda cuando, tras cantar estos versos, se dejó caer rendido, con la guitarra en la mano izquierda y la copa en la derecha, exhausto sobre la barra.

PASSION-FLOWERS TO BE EMBROIDERED ON IT

PASSION-FLOWERS TO BE EMBROIDERED ON IT... but why passion-flowers?
A symbolic analysis of this subplot by Yoshinobu Umetsu

[···] Wilde deals more successfully with the burden of human suffering. 
[···] Rather than replicating socio-economic reality, he sets the tale in another world, [···].
Only once, and with skillful indirectness, he traces the problem (of human suffering) to its origin.
[···] a gown for one of the queen’s maids of honor. On [···] way [···], passes first over the cathedral, and then over the palace. And [···] overhears the maid’s murmur in conversation: “I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball ... I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy.”( p. 287) The flower’s symbolic significance is ironically suited to unfeeling materialism and indicates the great spiritual distance that separates palace from cathedral. This indirect method of criticism blends more smoothly into the tale’s core than the political speeches (in “The Young King.”) By concentrating on simple solutions rather than the complexity of the problem, Wilde uses this style with greater effect, creating a more unified, harmonious work of art.


Yoshinobu Umetsu


... unas pasionarias en un vestido que lucirá una camarera de la reina en un baile, ...
En contraste, la mujer que usará el vestido, y a quien su amante le expresa la maravillosa fuerza del amor al ver las hermosas estrellas, se queja de la pereza de las costureras, [···]

TWELVE BY STAGECOACH

TWELVE BY STAGECOACH

An Andersenian Tale,
Retold for the New Year by Sandra Dermark
2nd of Jan, MMXVIII

It was a dark night not long ago, with a perfectly starry sky where there were no street lights or Christmas lights. There might have been frost on the windowpanes and snow on the windowsills, or there might have been not. "KABOOM" went a party cannon... or was it the cork of a champagne bottle? Fireworks wrote the number 2018 on the black canvas of the night sky!
Jingle bells and the tramp of horses could be heard by the guardhouse on the outskirts of Anytown. The sight of a stagecoach in these days is rather unusual, isn't it? There were twelve people in that carriage, not one less and not one more; six seats on each side and all places were occupied.
In this moment, the bells in the church towers had just given their twelfth peal, and the good folk of Anytown were raising and clinking and draining their glasses, having already consumed their twelfth grape, or orange segment, or spoonful of lentils. Some people were watching a show where a countess's butler had to pour, and then to drink, for four absent friends, getting gradually more and more intoxicated. Many adults were also getting gradually more and more intoxicated. They had drunk to wealth, to health, to absent friends, to last year's achievements, to hope, to love... While the two non-commissioned officers (carabinieri, or gendarmes, or maybe guardias civiles) stationed at the guardhouse gate had to stay sober on duty and endure the cold as they listened to their superiors' revels within; the colonel's wife flirting with a younger lieutenant, the nanny tucking the colonel's children into bed, a pair of lieutenants, both dapper young men, hiding behind the curtain in a half-drunken state to do their little things... While the non-coms on duty themselves stayed there as if rooted, yet warm and full of thoughts of friends and families. Right then, the stagecoach stopped at the gate of the guardhouse. That stagecoach, with a dozen strangers on board. Who were those travellers? Each and every one had their passport and their luggage, and all of them brought gifts for me and you and everyone else in Anytown. But who were they, and what did they bring? What were their intentions?
"Happy New Year!" a manly baritone sounded from the carriage, greeting the sergeant and the corporal on duty.
"Happy New Year!" the non-coms replied, then asked the first one to come forth, and for his name and profession, for it was a man, and a bear of a man, tall and strong, with a barrel chest and rippling limbs, clad in a shapka and fur coat and warm Uggs, and with a full hipster beard; there was something regal about him as well.
"Look into my passport. I am what I am! The one on whom countless people bestow their expectations. Come to me next week, and you'll get a surprise from the Good Witch or the three Wise Men! I give presents left and right through them, for they're my associates; I also host soirées and birthday parties; and, considering what happened for Christmas last year, I also host sales in every shop, so the price of the gifts is always right! My cargo ships may be braving storms in the tropical monsoon or icebergs in the Arctic Ocean, but my office is warm and cozy, and you are always welcome for a brandy. I am an entrepreneur, and you may call me Jenner. I also bring lots of bills to pay, and it might be a steep uphill climb; but there's nothing to worry about!"
Next up was a younger man, who was a real trickster, aside from the director of a theatre for comedies, a leader of celebrations and costume parades... long story short, the life and soul of every party. He wore a jester's hat and a Venetian mask, and his luggage consisted of a brightly-coloured piñata he carried on his back.
"This is the key to every merry-making; as I say, where there's a piñata, revels are never missed! For Carnival, this thing will go KABOOOM, indeed!! I want everyone to be happy... you and me and everyone else, for my life is a short trip, and I'm the baby of the bunch... usually twenty-eight, like this year, but within two years they'll add that extra day I don't give a hoot about! So: carpe diem, hakuna matata...! Hip hip hooooorrray! Get 'em tiger, get 'em tiger, hey hey hey!"
He was screaming very loudly and making dramatic gestures, and looked certainly flustered; the sergeant thought this lad was surely intoxicated.
"Not that loud; there are children fast asleep..."
"The more the merrier reason why I come, to express myself the prouder and louder! I am actually Don Carnal himself, travelling incognito under my artistic name, Februarius!"
Then came the third one; a slender fellow who was closely related to Old Mrs. Lent, and to Saint Joseph the carpenter, and he was a weatherman by profession; but since the weather was so wistful (now wild as a lion, now tame as a lamb) and his predictions rarely succeeded, he couldn't afford much food, and thus was thin as a rake, and looked as stern and bony as Stannis Baratheon. In fact, he mostly despised meat, preferring fish and seafood, and he turned strictly vegan on Fridays. His only ornament was a little posy of fragrant violets on his first buttonhole, to mask the scent of gunsmoke with the first flowers of springtime.
"March! March! March-two-three-four!", the fourth traveller, who was also the fourth male, nudged his predecessor. "Into the guardhouse; there is punch, and sangría, and sex on the beach..." he sniffed the air, whispering in the gaunt fellow's ear. But that statement was nothing but an April Fools' prank; thus did the fourth one begin his career, just like every year. He looked pretty merry, with those bunny ears on his raincoat hood and that umbrella for a walking stick, à la Singing in the Rain, and in those red Wellingtons: he was so carefree because he worked so little, and kept a fortnight of holidays!
"This world needs a little more stability, in my own humble opinion", quoth he. "One day there's a downpour so heavy we have to cancel that Easter egg hunt, or that picnic; the next day it's all suddenly sunny, isn't that ironic or funny? Rain and shine and storm and fog... no two days with me are alike! I do lots of things actually; I hide eggs in the gardens, indeed, and splash the morning dew with my umbrella on the clover... but I'm also a mortician, conveniently enough. There's a very important fellow who died an excruciating death, and it's mostly that bloke's funeral that sadly gives me employment. Depending of the moment, I smile or I sob, I shed tears of sorrow or tears of joy... See this li'l briefcase here? Full of springtime clothes; T-shirts and shorts and black tennis shoes... but I would be quite the fool to put them on, right? Here am I! When I dress up, I wear lace stockings and garters, Wellies with high heels, and tonnes of make-up!"
Now a young lady came out of the coach.
"Miss May!" she introduced herself. She wore a springtime dress of light silk, as green as linden leaves, with a pink rose (or was it a peony?) right on the cleavage, aside from a pair of flowered rose-pink sandals, and tucked behind her ears a wreath of daisies in her bright golden hair. She carried an intoxicating fragrance of mimosa, and the sergeant, who was allergic to the pollen of that species, began to sneeze into his pocket handkerchief.
"Gesundheit!" she greeted the non-coms with a friendly smile. How lovely she was, as a nymph or a faery! And she was a soprano, a primadonna; but not one that sang at the opera or in the cabaret. She was a woodland primadonna, one who sang her airs for pleasure in the fresh green Nature of springtime, with a chorus of songbirds, crickets, and frogs backing her up. In her little green silk handbag she carried a Grimm storybook, full of the wild woodlands of folklore, and the Fields of Castile by Antonio Machado, full of fresh and scented verses.
"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle is coming!" a chorus of male and female voices was heard from inside the carriage. And out came Mademoiselle Juno in her flapper evening wear, confidently sauntering forth with an aristocratic sneer on her lips and sparkle in her eyes. One could see, from a first impression, that she had been born to host Midsummer revels, and graduations as well. She held these celebrations around the summer solstice, so that all the students could be rewarded and all the merry-making could be had under as much daylight as possible. Of course she could afford a carriage, a limo, or a Lear jet of her own... but she still travelled by stagecoach with the other eleven, as a token of her humility and modesty. She didn't travel alone either; she was accompanied by her mother and by her younger brother, Ser Julius.
He was a dashing young man, well suntanned, his torso looking like a bar of chocolate, his limbs equally rippling; he wore nothing but a pair of swimming trunks and a boater hat. The hot sun makes all attire stifling. And for the same reason, his feather-light luggage consisted only of a towel within which a pair of flip-flops and a pair of goggles were conveniently packed.
"Children! Children! Mum finds it hard to catch up," a deep, warm contralto voice called after both of them. For now came the siblings' mother, Madame Augusta, the queen of aquaculture and of growing juicy fruit; her fish farms and her fruit harvests were legendary! She was as plump and red and sunny as the prized watermelons she grew, or as a lobster thermidor; dressed in green petticoats to reinforce her Rubenesque waistline, and constantly fanning herself with a hand-fan; in her other hand, she carried a large picnic hamper, through whose lid the handles of a tennis racket and a croquet mallet protruded. She was flustered with exertion, running to and fro and keeping an eye on everything, always ready with a cool drink and fresh fruit, which she brought herself to those who were thirsty in the middle of the day.
"As the Good Book says, by the sweat of our brow shall we gain our daily bread," she wiped the perspiration from her own forehead with a handkerchief. "Yet in the middle of the day, when our spirits falter, it's always good time to find some friendly shade and quench that burning thirst! Later on, at sunny-down, we can have a swim, or a luau, or a tennis match, or why not croquet... and, when night falls after the long afternoon, isn't it nice to lie down on the sand or on the grass and count those shooting stars?"
Out came now yet another male, an artistic painter by profession; the Master of Warm Colours, whom all the woods and all the parks and gardens know so well! The deciduous leaves, which are his canvas, change colour under his paintbrush so magnificently! This treetop would look red, this one golden, this one orange... and so did the sky of glorious evening sunsets, which are also his canvas, as well, in delightful, warm harmony, as the days got colder. The master artist, wearing a lumberjack shirt stained with those paints of fiery and earthy and sunset hues, whistles, like a starling that has just arrived by migration, twirling his fine auburn moustache; he sips now and then from a tankard of beer, around whose handle he has entwined khaki-green hop vines for decoration; he has an eye for aesthetic and weighs everything he does in the scales of beauty, light and darkness in equal proportion. And now he stood there with his artist's case, in which he kept his palette, his little pots of warm-coloured paint, his brushes, his little sponge, and his water-glass. That was all of his light luggage; after all, his main concern was that the students who returned to school and to University would stop, even if for an instant, to admire the works of art on his glorious treetop and twilight museums.
Next up was a gentleman in a deerstalker hat and overcoat; he thought of sowing and tilling the ground, and also maybe of gunning down some deer or some moose, or chasing the fox on horseback with the hounds in advance; hence the loaded shotgun flung across his shoulder and the foxhound pups he led by their leads. Every now and then, His Lordship took some nuts out of his pocket and snacked on them; "crunch crunch," his jaws made, and it sounded like the tread of feet on dry leaves. He brought a lot of luggage; a trunk full of autumn clothes, a clutter of leaf-rakes and shovels and chisels and pruning shears, everything topped with a lit jack-o'lantern, not to mention the hounds; and he spoke mostly about teaching his pups to chase the fox kits, and about economics and the current crisis, but his speech was suddenly interrupted, and there was not much to understand of it, because of all the coughing and throat-clearing and sneezing and wheezing behind him; for November was up next.
This bloke had such a case of the common cold, or surely it was the flu, that he used his long knitted woolly scarf, instead of a handkerchief, to cover his nose and mouth; all one could see of his face was a pair of gray eyes in that rosy, narrow slit between a floppy woolly hat and that scarf. "And surely the good folk will get in the mood for staying indoors all cozy!" he said. "But surely I will get at least slightly better when we remember the bloody plains of Lützen, or burn Guy Fawkes at the stake, or prepare all the firewood and charcoal that fireplaces need for the winter... There are also provisions that these humans have to gather for the winter, as the squirrels and the ants have already done: candied nuts and citrus fruits, plump pumpkins, here a goose or a turkey, there the aforementioned firewood..." And throughout the long, bleak evenings, he made skis and skates and snowboards and sleds snow-worthy, because of course he knew that the winter sports season was just beginning!
Now came the last passenger, the little old granny with her kettle full of warm spiced tea. She was shivering with cold, but the eyes of Mother Christmas shone as bright as two North Stars, and her face was as youthful as that of a child, and she was full of strength, though bent with old age. On her back, she carried a little evergreen tree in a plant-pot. 
"I'm tending to this little one with all of my care; so it will grow tall and strong on Christmas Eve; on the highest branch, the top of a star or an angel's halo will graze the ceiling; and it will grow decorated with shining lights in the winter night, and with baubles, gingerbread, hearts, fruits, pine cones, ice crystals... The fireplace or the central heating will warm the living room and make it all cozy, and that evening all the children, great or small, before they open their parcels, will be snuggled up in their covers as I take a storybook from the shelf, and I will read out loud, so that the children's voices are hushed, but the ornaments in the tree, and all over the room, will come alive... the nutcrackers and the horses and the tomts and the frost fairies will my tales breathe life into, and, right on top of the Christmas tree, the star shines as brightly as a summer sun, or the angel flaps their wings, flying from their perch to kiss children great and small, even the carollers who pass by outside on the street, in the crisp long night, singing Adeste fideles and the Carol of the Bells, and other such lively midwinter songs. Be it as star or angel, this spirit shall bring joy to the hearts of everyone!"
"Allons-y!" the sergeant said. "This stagecoach may proceed!" 
"One at a time; please entrust your passports to us," the voice of a younger man, the lieutenant on duty, addressed the twelve passengers. "Each and every passport is only good for one month, and, when that month has already passed, we shall write a report of their behaviour for this year, in general and of memorable events, on their passport. Herr Jenner, you may please proceed to step inside."
And the first passenger, dropping his shapka before the officer, went in.
Next year, at the start of 2019, we shall tell you, dear readers, what these twelve travellers have brought to all of us and to all of you. I swear, as sure as my name is Sandra, that I don't know it yet, and I am sure that neither do anyone of you. Soothly we live in interesting times!

THE SEVEN FATED WISHES

Editor's note: The marvelous retelling of "Pandora's Box" mixes themes from fairy tales with the age-old myth. A surefire winner!

Long ago, there lived the Princess of an ancient kingdom. The kingdom was a wonderful place which knew no pain or sadness. The King and Queen loved their only daughter dearly, and the Princess spent her carefree days busying herself with the beauties of life. She would walk through the castle gardens, examining flowers and butterflies. Royal courtiers would give her lessons in fine art and music. When the Princess tired of her castle, she could mount her lovely white steed and ride freely through the villages and countryside, where she was always well-received by all of those she met. Her life was carefree and happy, as were the lives of all the people in her kingdom because there was only Goodness in the world. Evil was not yet known.

One day, the Princess was admiring the beautiful things in the royal treasury and she came across a small and unusual box stored on a high shelf. Neither the markings nor the intricate adornments gave her any clue to its purpose. When she tried to open the box, she found it was locked. Not finding a key, she took a pin from her hair and tried it in the lock, but her poking and prodding was to no avail as the tiny lock held fast. She shook the box to try to guess its contents, but it made no sound.

Being a very inquisitive young lady, the Princess took the box to her father’s throne to learn what it might contain. She found him there being entertained by a troupe of jesters, but when the King saw the box in her hands, he immediately dismissed the jesters who leapt, twirled, and somersaulted out of the grand room to leave him alone with his daughter.

“Where did you find that?” he demanded in a tone that the Princess had never heard before, although he knew well enough what her answer would be, for he immediately recognized the enchanted box.

“I found it in the treasury on a high shelf, covered in dust. What is inside? May we open it?” she asked in her innocence and eagerness to satisfy her curiosity.

“No. It shall never be opened. Give it to me at once,” he said, extending his hand. “You had best forget you ever held it.”

The obedient Princess did as she was told, but she did not understand. The King refused to discuss the matter further, which only added to her curiosity. As the days passed, her curiosity grew and she became very frustrated. One day, when she was walking through the garden, she became so frustrated that tears began to well up in her eyes. The Princess was accustomed to only happiness and she did not know what was happening. She ran to the well to draw a bucket of clear water to use as a looking glass, and, as she bent over the well, her tears fell inside.

Suddenly, a peculiar voice called out to her from the well. “Dear Princess! Why do you cry?”

“I, I don’t know,” stammered the startled Princess. And truly she did not, for it had never happened before. But her tears stopped as a new curiosity took hold of her.

“Are you a troll?” she called down the well, hoping so because she would really like to meet one. Trolls were known to dwell in small spaces and they were quite harmless.

“Certainly not!” said the voice, now sounding indignant. “I am a fairy and I can surely say I have not tasted a princess’s tears in a dragon’s age. Now, what troubles you, Sweet Princess? I am certain I can help.”

Now the Princess was laughing. “A fairy? And I suppose I am to believe you are living down there with the dragons and other beasts of jesters’ tales?”

“Fair Princess, I assure you that I am quite real and my purpose is to lend aid, if you will only accept it,” the mysterious voice offered.

“As you wish, Fairy of the Well, I will tell you my trouble,” started the Princess, and she told the Fairy of the curious little box.

“I know the box of which you speak, Princess. The box holds seven enchanted fairy coins and the fairies have missed them dearly. If you return them to me, I will grant you seven wishes, one for each coin,” said the Fairy.

The Princess was delighted to finally learn the contents of the box, but she lamented, “Alas, I cannot open it! I have tried.”

“The problem is no matter, for I have a key. Send down the bucket.”  Moments later a beautiful silver key arrived by bucket from the bottom of the well. The Fairy assured the Princess it would fit the lock, and she promised she would return with the coins.

The Princess crept into the treasury and found the box again on its high shelf. She fit the tiny key in the dainty lock and it sprung open at once. Inside, she found seven tiny velvet pouches lying neatly in the silk-lined box. She untied the drawstrings of each little purse and admired the lovely gold coins inside.

The Princess spent much time in thought about what she might possibly wish for, as she already had nearly everything a young lady could want. Finally, she thought of something that she might enjoy greatly and she returned to the well where the Fairy had been patiently waiting.

She tossed the coin into the well as told and said, “Kind Fairy, give me the voice of a songbird so that I may sing more sweetly than any other maiden in the land.”

“As you wish,” said the Fairy, “but know that if you take the voice of a bird you will sometimes lose their company.”

“No matter,” said the Princess, and she thought that a strange price to pay.

The Fairy granted the Princess her wish and she immediately sang the most beautiful song anyone had ever heard.

“Thank you, Kind Fairy,” she said with great happiness. “I will enjoy my gift and return in one year’s time with another coin and another wish.”

The Princess did enjoy her gift and she was praised for her lovely talent. Soon winter came and the weather grew quite cold. Snow and frost and ice covered the land, such that had never been seen before. The birds of passage flew away to the south and Famine and Sickness came to the people of the villages, who were not prepared for such cold. They had an emptiness in their bellies they had never felt before and they became very thin. Some coughed and became feverish.  But the Princess was safe in her castle, which was well-supplied with food and firewood, and she hardly noticed when in a few months the snow melted and the birds of passage returned.

In one year’s time, the Princess stole into the treasury again and retrieved a second magical coin. Again the Fairy was glad to see that she had returned and asked her to state her second wish.

“I have the most beautiful voice, Good Fairy, but I would like to also be the most beautiful maiden in all the land,” she uttered as she tossed in the second coin.

“Understand, My Princess that for you to be the most, someone must also be the least,” said the Fairy.

“No matter,” said the Princess, whose cheeks became rosier and her smile instantly more charming.

Now, the Princess was already very pretty, as was everyone in the joyful kingdom, but for one to be the most beautiful meant the others could not be. Soon each person began to wonder if they were more or less beautiful than the next, and so Vanity spread across the kingdom. With Vanity came Unkindness, and those who were not as handsome were mocked so that everyone could be sure who was more and who was less attractive. But the Princess did not notice, as she already knew she was the most beautiful and did not need to compare herself to anyone else.

Another year passed and the Princess returned to the well, saying, “Fairy of the Well, the cold winters have begun to deplete our stores and treasury. Make me the wealthiest princess in the world so that my family and I will never go without.”

It was very likely that the Princess was already the wealthiest princess in the world in those days, but the Fairy adorned her with the most brilliant crown of gold and diamonds so that when she went out of the castle everyone would know it. The Fairy’s magic then filled the treasury with even more gold and jewels than before so the Princess could be certain the family would not want for anything that money could buy.

As with beauty, the knowledge of who had the most wealth gave birth to the notion of least. People certainly did not want to be the least and, when they began to want more, Greed infected the kingdom. With Greed came Crime, and people began to lie, cheat, and steal. But the royal family’s wealth was safe behind castle walls and no one dared to cheat them.

When another year went by, the Princess went to the Fairy and said, “I have enjoyed my talent, beauty, and wealth, but I long to share it with someone. I wish for every man in the kingdom to fall in love with me so that I may have my choice as a husband.”

Of course, she could have had nearly any man in the kingdom anyway, but nevertheless she dropped the fourth coin in the well and soon after suitors began to come from far and wide to court her. As they did so, they left behind many a distraught maiden who felt the pangs of Envy. Similarly, the men experienced Rivalry between them as they fought for the Princess’s attention. But she fell blissfully in love with only one and took him for her husband.

A year later, the Princess brought a fifth coin to the well and pleaded, “Kind Fairy, I have been married nearly a year now and I am not yet pregnant. Please, give me a child.”

Certainly if she had given it time she would have born a child regardless of magical intervention, but she did not want to wait and as soon as she tossed the coin into the well she joyously felt new life stirring within her.

Some months later, the Princess experienced a tremendously difficult childbirth like nothing her midwives had ever seen. With her miserable cries, Pain was unleashed upon the world. But, as time passed, the Princess loved her baby so much that she forgot the agony of childbirth. However, Pain still existed and tormented humanity whenever it could with Injury.

The Princess waited another year to return with her sixth request, which was tremendous. As she dropped in the sixth coin, she said, “Generous Fairy, I have my own family now and I wish for my own kingdom so that we may rule it together.”

“Noble Princess, I can accomplish many things with my magic, but an entire kingdom? The price for this will be very high,” said the now familiar voice from deep within the well.

“No matter,” she said.

At first nothing happened and the Princess grew suspicious, but the Fairy assured her that by the end of one year’s time she would be Queen.

As the months passed, the King and Queen became very ill and the Princess nearly forgot about her wish as she cared for them. Time, which had once stood still in the glorious kingdom, was now beginning to show in the lines on their faces and in their weakening bodies. Then, on the eve of the day of her birth, the Princess’s mother and father died.

The darkness of Death fell over the land, and the Princess experienced an ache inside her that she never thought possible. She now knew Death’s companion, Grief. But, as she had wished, the kingdom was hers and she was the Queen.

The next day, the new Queen went to the garden and leaned over the edge of the well to make her final wish. She clutched the seventh coin in her hand.

“Wicked Fairy,” she pleaded, “I can no longer withstand the torments of Famine and Sickness, Vanity and Unkindness, Greed and Crime, Envy and Rivalry, Pain and Injury…” Her words trailed off, she sighed shakily, and then continued with a trembling voice, “…Death and Grief.”

“With this final coin,” she went on, as she dropped the coin into the dark void, “I wish for you to take back all of the Evils of the world.”

Her mournful pleading was met only with vile laughter as the Fairy said, “Foolish Queen, your wishes can not be undone and it was you who unleashed the Evils into the world. But, I will give you something for your final wish, for I am not completely heartless. Something that comes as close to removing the Evils from the world as possible, and that is Hope. As with all of my gifts, however, Hope comes with a price.  With Hope comes Fear. When you experience Fear, you will turn to Hope for comfort.”

The young Queen had no choice but to accept the last gift and use it as best she could. As the years passed, her kingdom learned that with Hope came also Faith and Strength, and with the Goodness of Love and Happiness that they already knew, they were able to go on.

And still, to this day, the hopeful descendants of the kingdom are known to throw coins into wishing wells.

Sarah Hausman loves writing, roller derby, and her cat.  She is lucky enough to have an awesome husband who allows her to spend time on all three.