Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta fairytale retellings. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta fairytale retellings. Mostrar todas las entradas

lunes, 7 de octubre de 2019

TALES FROM THE WORLD OF DARKNESS

The One-Leaf Clover's Tale: In Wonderland
Clem - Alice
Étienne - Mad Hatter
André - March Hare
Aliöth - Blue Caterpillar
Arya - Cheshire Cat
Douce - Red Queen of Hearts
Kanna & Kagura - Tweedledum & Tweedledee

The Two-Leaf Clover's Tale: Dance on a Volcano
(A Retelling of The Red Shoes and The 12 Dancing Princesses)
Douce - Karen/Main Dancing Princess (as Douceline)
The Colonel - the King/Karen's Grandmother (as the Colonel)
Arya - The Retired Soldier (as Arya)
Lilia - the Curse on the Red Shoes (as Lady Lilia)

The Three-Leaf Clover's Tale: Loulou la Souillon
(A Retelling of Cinderella and Iron Hans, with a Female Protagonist yet a Military Aid Motif)
Wiske - Cinderella (as Loulou la Souillon)
Rainer -
...
Étienne -
Clem -


The Four-Leaf Clover's Tale: The Twelve Artistes
(A Retelling of Cross-Dressing Tales, with a Gender Flip)
Claude - The Female Lead
Isabel Esquerdo - the King/General (as Lady Isabel)

The Five-Leaf Clover's Tale: The Little Needle Boy
(A Retelling of The Little Match Girl, with Drugs in a Parisian Christmas)
Laurent/Aliöth - the Little Needle Boy

The Six-Leaf Clover's Tale: The Snow Queen
Étienne - Kai (as Étienne)
André - Gerda (as André)
The Colonel - Grandmama
Isolde - The Snow Queen
Clem - Both Crows
Douce - Princess
Arya - Prince
Aliöth, Claude - Robbers
Wiske - Robber Maiden/Wise Woman

The Seven-Leaf Clover's Tale: A Trick for a Trick
(A Retelling of Several Tales, crosses over with the princess subplot in the previous tale, but also includes The Taming of the Shrew, Crystal the Wise/Sophia, and The Princess of Hide and Seek)
Douce - Princess
Arya - Prince / Aide-de-Camp

The Eight-Leaf Clover's Tale: The Travelling Companions
André - Johannes
André's mentor (what was her name?) - the Companion
Isolde - the Twilight Queen
Étienne - Princess (as Lord Étienne)
The Colonel - the King (as the Colonel)

domingo, 13 de enero de 2019

THE LANGUAGE OF THORNS



Since it just came out in Spain, published by Editorial Hidra, I thought I maybe should review my favourite stories in this anthology of retellings of Victorian fairytales, right?



The Soldier Prince - This one was my favourite, a retelling of the Nutcracker story with Tin Soldier and Pinocchio elements, set in a provincial town in the island nation of Kerch, the counterpart Benelux with some influences from the Victorian UK (so much for evoking my Dutch senpai Liz!); mysterious foreign clockwork- and dollmaker Heer Droessen (AKA Drosselmeyer), renowned throughout local society, creates a prince in bright blue uniform that he gifts to Clara, the daughter of his patrons, for counterpart Christmas, intending to use the Zelverhaus children as pawns for his own sinister aims on a quest for power. Here Clara is the younger sister, Frederik AKA Fritz (a cadet who is gay) the older brother, and there is no Louise - so the siblings' birth order is just like in the Dumas version. Another detail straight out of the Dumas version is the family surname, this time Zelverhaus (Silberhaus=Dumas, Stahlbaum=Hoffmann)! So The Soldier Prince is far closer to Dumas than to Hoffmann! The parents are unhappily married grands-bourgeois of the local society, big fish in a small pond stuck in a marital crisis. And the nutcracker... this nutcracker doll believes he is a human royal or lieutenant, a person of flesh and blood, meant to love "Princess" Clara and to fight battles as a "Lieutenant" as second-in-command to "General" Frederik (plus something more, something queerer)... The rat king plays a key role I will not spoil here, but it suffices to say... The shock of reality, including his own reality -that he is a nutcracker doll-, is too much for him to handle. By the end, the clockwork creations of Heer Droessen come to life and claim their destiny, while the family lives of the Zelverhaus clan fall apart like a house of silver cards, in this story evoking white winters and officers in period uniform...
Droessen knew the properties of every kind of wood and paint and lacquer; he could finesse the gears of a clock until they spun with silent precision. And yet, though he could smile readily, charm easily, and play the part of a gentleman, he had never truly understood people or the workings of their steady-running but constant hearts.
Are you my soldier? ... Are you my prince? Are you my darling? Are you mine? 
He kissed her (Clara) beneath the stairs. He kissed Frederik in the darkened hall.
“Do you love her?” Frederik asked. “ Could you love me too?”
He loved them both. He loved no one.

"He can sleep in my room," said Frederik. 
“Yes,” said the nutcracker.

He'd fought bravely, and yet somehow, he always ended up here, alone in the dark.
Wanting is why people get up in the morning. It gives them something to dream about at night. The more I wanted, the more I became like them, the more real I became.


The nutcracker thought of the road again, but now he saw the road was a future—one his father would want him to choose for himself. He imagined the snow in his hair, the ground beneath his boots, the limitless horizon, a world full of chance and mishap and changing weather—gray clouds, hail, thunder, the unexpected.

She (Clara) considered her options and decided there was nothing for it but to become a writer. She sold her pearl earrings and moved to Ketterdam (the capital), where she took a small apartment with a window facing the harbour so that she could watch the ships come and go. There, she wrote fantastical tales that charmed children, and under another name, she penned rather more lurid works that kept her in nougat and sweet cream, which she always took care to share with the mice. 




When Water Sang Fire - This one is my second favourite, a Little Mermaid-inspired story (actually, a prequel or backstory for the dark sea witch and the Little Mermaid's and her sisters' parents!!) set in Fjerda, ie counterpart Scandinavia (most surely counterpart Sweden; since they are sworn enemies to Ravka, counterpart Russia, and "Fjerda" sounds more like "fjärd" than the Norwegian "fjord"). The basic premise is that three young merpeople who form a ménage à trois at the mer-king's court (recalling the ménage à trois in Fouqué's Ondine, the inspiration for Andersen) -Signe, a ginger mermaid; Ulla, a dark mermaid; and Roffe, a blond merman crown prince; all three with different personalities-, turn human and visit the surface; a coastal seat of learning to be more precise (the place is called "Söndermane", which sounds like Sudermania-Södermanland, right? So it would be like counterpart Turku or Uppsala). They trade their tailfins for legs and their gills for lungs without the need for bargains with mer-witches or voice-killing draughts, which means they get to keep their alluring siren-singing voices (that definitely subverts and puts a fresh spin on the Little Mermaid mythos!) along with their inhumanly beautiful looks.
Song was not just a frivolity then, something meant to entertain or lure sailors to their doom. The sildroher (merfolk) used it to summon storms and protect their homes, to keep warships and fishing boats from their seas. They used it to make their shelters and tell their histories. They had no word for witch. Magic flowed through all of them, a song no mortal could hear, that only the water folk could reproduce. In some it seemed to rush in and out like the tide, leaving little in its wake. But in others, in girls like Ulla, the current caught on some dark thing in their hearts and eddied there, forming deep pools of power.







There are elements of Black Swan and-or Swan Lake that make this not only a Little Mermaid retelling (in fact, this story is the backstory of the sea witch and the parents of the Little Mermaid and her older sisters!!), as a love quadrangle unfurls between the fiery Signe, the dark Ulla, merman prince Roffe, and a young scholar at the local university who turns out to have a strong connection to the merfolk... Blood will flow, innocents will have their hearts and lungs torn out of their ribcages, and the blood-dimmed tide is on the rise in this story told in a manner reminiscent of Ende's Neverending Story (printed in blue when the setting is underwater, and in red when it's on land).
Hope rises like water trapped by a dam, higher and higher, in increments that mean nothing until you face the flood.





miércoles, 30 de mayo de 2018

THE PRINCESS AND THE WOODSWOMAN

The Princess and the Woodswoman

Work Text:

1. The Queen

Once upon a time, a beautiful queen reigned in a kingdom far away.
This queen was named Fantine, and she was famed throughout the land for the fairness of her hair and the fairness of her rule alike. Although she was not of royal blood, her good heart, bravery, and beauty made her loved by all those around her, and it was for these reasons that she was queen.
Queen Fantine had no king by her side. Instead, she drew her support from her council of viziers: three wise women philosophers named Favourite, Dahlia, and Zéphine. But Fantine was lonely in her heart. While she loved her council and her people as a queen, she wished for a child whom she could love as a mother.
Learning of this wish, a wicked man name Felix Tholomyès approached Queen Fantine. He pretended to woo her, promising to love her faithfully and to give her a child.
Too trusting and kind to suspect any trickery, Fantine accepted his offer.
However, as soon as Fantine found herself with child, Tholomyès declared that he should be made king.
When Queen Fantine realised that his courtship had been nothing more than a grab for power, she was heartbroken, but – more strongly yet – she was angered. Her kingdom deserved a better ruler than Tholomyès, and her child would deserve a better father. With the help of her council, Queen Fantine banished him from the kingdom.
Some months later, a little princess was born. Because of how happy the child made Queen Fantine (and the inhabitants of the kingdom), she was named Anne-Euphrasie, although Queen Fantine always called her Cosette.



2. The Princess

When it was time for Cosette to be christened, Queen Fantine held an almighty banquet, inviting everyone in the land…
Almost everyone in the land. On the very edge of the kingdom was a dark, dingy inn, owned by crooked innkeepers, husband and wife – the Thénardiers. Knowing them to have been supporters of Tholomyès, Queen Fantine did not invite them to the banquet.
However, the Thénardiers soon learned of the royal festivities. Refusing to be left out, they disguised themselves and set off for the palace to take revenge – not armed with pistols or swords, but with a faerie curse. You see, at this time, magic was still alive in the land, and many people had faerie in their blood. The Thénardiers were no exception.
At such banquets, it was custom for magical folk to come forth and offer gifts to the newborn child. Some offered Cosette the gift of kindness, others the gift of loveliness, every person coming forth to give a gift until there was only one man left. This man was the owner of a factory, named Jean Valjean, and he intended to give Cosette the gift of wealth.
However, before he could approach the royal cradle, there was a crack of thunder. The palace doors blew open, and there stood the Thénardiers.
“So sorry to intrude!” cried Monsieur Thénardier, although he did not look sorry.
“So happy to be here!” cried Madame Thénardier, although she did not look happy.
Favourite, Dahlia, and Zélphine leapt up to arrest the Thénardiers. But Queen Fantine, who – as we have said – was trusting and kind, and wanted always to believe the best in people, held up a hand for them to stop.
“My good innkeepers,” she said to them, her voice as smooth and golden as honey, “I did not invite you here today, for I know you to have been no friends of mine in the past. But, on this happy day, I hope that we can be reconciled. Please, enter, take sustenance, and celebrate with us.”
The Thénardiers came further into the hall.
“Of course we shall,” said Monsieur Thénardier.
“But first,” said Madame Thénardier, “we would like to give the baby a gift.”
Favourite, Dahlia, and Zélphine looked from one to the other, and then they looked to Queen Fantine.
Fantine nodded her head, “If you come in the spirit of friendship,” she said, “then I will be glad of any gift you provide.”
The Thénardiers pushed past Jean Valjean, and drew up to the baby Cosette.
“Such a beautiful child!” said Madame Thénardier, “It is such a shame that she will never be a beautiful woman.”
A shadow fell across the hall, and Madame Thénardier went on: “For, in her sixteenth year, Cosette shall prick her finger upon the spindle of a spinning wheel, and she shall fall down dead!”
Then there was another almighty thunderclap, and the Thénardiers disappeared from sight.
A chorus of cries and sobbing leapt up from around the court. Soldiers were sent out immediately to hunt down the Thénardiers – but they, of course, would be long gone by the time the soldiers had reached their inn.
“Whatever shall I do?” cried Queen Fantine most mournfully.
There was the sound of a cough from amidst the rabble. Jean Valjean stepped forward.
“Your majesty,” he said, “I have not yet given my gift to the child. I was going to bestow upon her the gift of riches, but I see now that she does not need that. Instead, I shall give her the gift of love: with the strength of our love for her, she will survive the spindle, falling into sleep rather than death. Out of love for her, the entire court shall follow her into slumber, so that she will never be alone. And, finally, it will be love that will wake her: her life will be restored by true love’s kiss.”



3. The Woodswoman

By the time Queen Fantine’s soldiers reached the edges of the kingdom, the inn that stood there was empty as air. The Thénardiers had packed their bags, gathered their children, and fled to the wilderness in the south.
Although Monsieur and Madame Thénardier had too much bad in their hearts ever to be good again, their children were – if not good – not evil, either.
The eldest was named Éponine, and she was the same age as the Princess Cosette.
Where the princess grew up to be beautiful, Éponine was not quite beautiful; where the princess grew up to be kind, Éponine was not always kind; but Éponine was strong, and clever, and unafraid, and those were gifts enough to help her get by.
When Princess Cosette turned five years old, she began to learn dance, mathematics, and the ways of the court. When Éponine turned five years old, she began to learn trapping, woodcraft, and the ways of the forest.
For her tenth birthday, Princess Cosette received a harp, from which she could draw the sweetest melodies. For her tenth birthday, Éponine received a bow, with which she could fell enough food for a month.
And when Princess Cosette reached her fifteenth year, Queen Fantine allowed her to venture beyond the court, into the kingdom, to speak with her subjects and give alms. And, at the same time, Éponine’s parents allowed her to venture beyond the wilderness, into the kingdom, to sell her hunting prizes.
It was on that day, when both young women ventured further than they ever had before, that they met for the first time. Éponine was selling a fine deerskin jacket, this caught Cosette’s eye.
“What fine needlework,” Cosette remarked. “Was it by your hand?”
“Of course,” said Éponine.
“And who felled the beast?”
“That was by my hand, too,” said Éponine.
“With whom do you hunt?”
“I hunt alone.”
“But are you not scared to venture into the wilderness by yourself?” asked Cosette.
“I am not scared of anything.”
“You must be as brave as you are skilled,” said Cosette, and she bought the jacket.
Cosette was impressed by Éponine’s bravery and skill, and – in her turn – Éponine was touched by Cosette’s kindness in saying as much.
It soon became their custom to meet on their weekly excursions. Whatever articles Éponine had fashioned, Cosette was sure to love them, and to purchase them. But Cosette was not greedy: much of what she bought, she donated to the poor of the kingdom. She kept for herself only the items that were particularly special.
Although Éponine knew who Cosette was, she did not know that Cosette had been cursed by her parents.
As a matter of fact, neither did Cosette. Queen Fantine had kept the secret from her all these years, although she had made sure that every spindle in the kingdom was destroyed many years ago. And so, while perhaps they ought to have been enemies, neither of the two young women was aware of that, and so they were friends instead.
Gradually, Éponine found herself looking forwards more and more to their weekly meetings. She would try her hardest to create more complicated, more beautiful items for Cosette’s approval.
One day, Madame Thénardier said to her, “Why are you always so excited to go out on your trips?”
Normally Madame Thénardier did not care to ask about Éponine’s trips; she was happy so long as Éponine returned with gold in hand. However, Éponine was so different of late, that even Madame Thénardier had been forced to notice.
“I enjoy the change in company,” Éponine replied.
“Ah, so there is a man? There is always a man.”
“No, mother, not a man.”
“Then, a woman?”
“A princess,” said Éponine, with dreams in her eyes.
When Madame Thénardier heard this, she knew that the princess must be the child whom she had cursed so long ago.
“And you are making a gift for her now?” asked Madame Thénardier.
Éponine was working on her greatest gift yet, for it would soon be the princess’ sixteenth birthday.
“I have an idea for the most splendid gift of all,” said Madame Thénardier. “Something so rare, that not a single one exists in the kingdom.” And then she described to Éponine the nature of a spindle.
Being so clever and skilled a craftswoman, Éponine was able to create a perfect spindle with these instructions alone. Then she wrapped the gift in bright cloth, and carried it with her that week, to her rendezvous with Cosette.
“How thoughtful!” cried Cosette, on receiving the parcel.
“Mind,” Éponine warned her, “it is a delicate gift. You had better wait until you are home to open it.”
Cosette agreed that she would. Then she leaned in and kissed Éponine on the cheek.
As Cosette rode away, Éponine watched with her heart full and one hand to her face. 



4. The Thicket

When Cosette reached the palace, she unwrapped the spindle, and – by the power of the curse – pricked her index finger upon it.
Immediately, she swooned in a deep, dreamless sleep. The people of the palace had time just enough to transport her to her bed before they too fell unconscious. Queen Fantine, her viziers, and all of her court – they all slumbered under Jean Valjean’s spell.
Around the palace, a thicket of thorns sprung up, forming a barrier to protect everyone from the outside world.
Word travelled slowly in the wilderness, and Éponine heard nothing of the events of the court.
One week later, she set out to meet Cosette exactly as normal. Well, not exactly as normal: this time she felt as light as a mote of dust, as bright as a flash of sun: her heart raced faster than she had ever thought possible. She was in love.
She reached the market where she normally traded in the swiftest time ever. But the royal entourage, with its royal leader, was nowhere to be seen.
When Éponine learned from a fellow trader what had befallen the princess, she wanted to scream at the heavens, or rip up the earth, or smash the trader’s stall into a million shards. But she didn’t. She had never been told that true love’s kiss would save Cosette, but something in her heart told her to travel to the palace nonetheless.
Already, many men had tried to breach the thorny wall, chopping it with axes, hacking it with swords, singeing it with fire: their efforts did nothing more than thicken the ticket.
By the time Éponine reached it, it had been declared impenetrable. The men had given up, and gone home to their dinners. Only one person remained at its edge: an old man with a kind face.
“Who are you?” Éponine asked him. “What can you tell me of this enchantment?”
“I am Jean Valjean,” said the man, “and the enchantment is mine.”
Éponine plucked her bow from her back, and slowly aimed an arrow in his direction.
“Violence will not help you, woodswoman,” said Valjean, “for it is not true strength.”
“Then what is true strength?” asked Éponine.
“Love – that is the key to lifting this enchantment. True love’s kiss will awaken the princess, and it is love that will penetrate this thicket.”
Then Éponine understood: the men had all failed because they had tried to fight the thorns. They had been afraid of the enchantment. But Éponine was unafraid: she had grown up in the wilderness; she knew all the ways of the forest; she understood the souls of the beasts and the plants that lived in it; and she loved it. It did not require brute force to part the thicket – indeed, the thicket could not be parted. To travel through it, one had to be clever and careful.
As if she was hunting, Éponine looked for the animal paths. With deft movements, she followed these meandering, looping tracks that led her every which-way through the thorns, turning here and there with the peculiar logic of the natural world. Finally, when she thought she could go no further, the darkness of the thicket gave way to the light of day. Éponine had reached the palace gates.
Everywhere, people slept where they had fallen, draped in odd positions along the corridors and across the furniture. Éponine navigated the palace, looking for the princess’ bedchamber.
At long last, she found it at the top of the tallest tower. There was Cosette, sleeping as gracefully and as beautifully as she did everything else in life.
Éponine crossed to the bedside. She knelt down. She looked at Cosette’s beautiful face, and wondered if she dare kiss it. Did a woodswoman like her truly deserve to love a princess like Cosette?
Then Éponine looked around the chamber, and she saw that it was decorated with many objects of her creation, and she knew that Cosette loved her too.
Still not quite bold enough to kiss Cosette on the lips, Éponine lowered her mouth and placed a kiss upon Cosette’s cheek. It worked: it is the true love that counts, not the nature of the kiss.
With a noise like a thunderclap, the great walls of thicket fell away from the windows, and Cosette stirred from her rest. She opened her eyes and looked at Éponine.
“Éponine,” she said, “I am so glad that you are here.” And then she sat up and kissed Éponine on the lips, and it was a kiss full of all the gifts she had received as a child: a kiss that was kind, and lovely, and full of love. 



5. The End

After many happy years as queen, the day came for Fantine to retire, to spend the rest of her days comfortable and content.
In her place, Cosette became queen. Just like her mother before her, Cosette ruled with fairness, with compassion, and without a king. She ruled with another queen instead.

martes, 2 de enero de 2018

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!