THE CRYSTAL QUEEN

THE CRYSTAL QUEEN

She's walked through fire and ice in black tennis shoes, burning rubber in her wake for as long as she can remember. And why? 
For HIS sake. 
Life had been a bed of roses, even before their university years. Both were only children, classmates since kindergarten, so close friends that their relationship had grown strong as a blood tie. 
As they sat down by the frog pond to rest after class, the lady in white, careening through campus in her convertible, looked through her bug-eyed 60s glasses at Kai, as he sat there feeding the fish and quoting Shakespeare to his sweetheart. The next day, he found an invitation in his backpack --to the new in club on campus-- Gerda told him not to go, yet her bed stayed cold and empty that night. 
The lady in white was at the club right then. She laced Kai's drink with sky blue crystals that filled him with such excitement that nothing else mattered. The next day, Gerda realized he had become even more awkward, shying away from her and from the sun, from Shakespeare and Voltaire, from the frogs and fish, his ice-blue eyes glazed. 
That afternoon, the lady welcomed the drugged young man into her convertible with the promise of more of the blue crystals. And he readily accepted, half in trance half unconscious. 
And it was Kai's disappearance that sparked Gerda's quest. 
Her time with the flower children, still living as if the revolution were going on, is already far behind her. Half a year idda-gadda-da vida, until the weed left her system and that song by the Four... in the S-Kai with Diamonds... reawoke her memories. None of the stoners could tell her anything about her beau: each of them lived in their own octopus's garden in the shade. 
The next stop, at the country club... maybe the blond young man playing the mixed doubles match with that lovely and intelligent socialite was Kai? No. Not every blond tennis player is Kai; Edmund was a bit taller, more slender, honey-eyed and left-handed, while Kai was a blue-eyed righty. The reveal, having snuck in as a ball girl during the match, hit Gerda as hard as her fake prince's serve. Still, the kindness of Edmund and his Lucy, who supplied her with a golf cart and oodles of power bars, convinced her that people were good in the wide world. 
However, the cart was soon overcome, and Gerda taken prisoner, by a gang of bikers. The gorilla man and the orangutan man both wanted to shove her into their sleeping bags, but the leader's mercy saved her life. Asha, tall, dark, and sadistic yet with a heart of gold, heard Gerda's story being all ears, as she enjoyed in her dominatrix fantasies with the young blonde. Asha told her of the queen of crystal, of her fortress in a railway car in the middle of nowhere, of how she herself had been a thrall to the drug but her strength made her snap out of it. 
"Only you can save him. I know you will", Asha said as she gave Gerda her own motorbike, while the thugs were sleeping off their drinks. 
Now, after all these trials, she is standing before the railway car, she enters... the Queen is gone, Kai deeply unconscious, before a table in the crystal lab, vials of blue liquid suspended in his left and right hand. 
Gerda calls his name, shakes his shoulders, but he does not react. Quickly, she turns the Bunsen burner on, smashes one of the vials against it, and runs out with her lover in her arms as the railway car explodes. 
Kai awakens, looks left and right, is reassured by the twinkles in her green eyes. His right hand in her left, they seem to have awakened from a dream as they start southward, homeward, once more. 
The tennis players are on their honeymoon. Asha wonders if Kai is really worth going to the ends of the Earth for as she looks wistfully at Gerda. 
Back on campus, they sit down by the lily pond once more and finally, as children at heart, understand the words of Shakespeare: 
"TONGUES IN TREES, BOOKS IN THE RUNNING BROOKS, SERMONS IN STONES, AND GOOD IN EVERYTHING". 
And thus we leave them, in the summer of youth, as children at heart; ere disenchantment enters their lives.


THIS IS A SNOW QUEEN MODERN AU DRABBLE I MADE AS AN ASSIGNMENT FOR THE FUTURELEARN COURSE.

OTHELLO - NEW DERMARK POSTER

My new poster/Shakespearean image stressing the themes of identity and otherness.

The 8-ball is not only Othello; it can be any other character of the main seven, given that all of them are outsiders in one sense or another.

VALSA, MATILDA

VALSA, MATILDA
översatt av Sandra Dermark
från engelskan (australiensisk folkvisa)
den 19 november 2016

En frejdig knalle slog läger vid en liten sjö,
i skuggan av tre höstgula björkträd,
och han väntade på att fikat skulle koka och sjöng:
"kom nu och valsa, Matilda, med mig!"

Valsa, Matilda! Valsa, Matilda,
kom nu och valsa, Matilda, med mig!
och han väntade på att fikat skulle koka och sjöng:
"kom nu och valsa, Matilda, med mig!"

Ner kom en tacka att dricka i den lilla sjön,
upp hoppa' knallen och tog den med sig,
och han sjöng när han stoppa' tackan uti ränseln sin:
"kom nu och valsa, Matilda, med mig!"

Valsa, Matilda! Valsa, Matilda,
kom nu och valsa, Matilda, med mig!
och han sjöng när han stoppa' tackan uti ränseln sin:
"kom nu och valsa, Matilda, med mig!"

Upp kom patronen, ridande på fullblodshäst,
ner kom tre knektar, ett tu tre!
"Vems är den där tackan som ni uti er ränsel har?
Kom nu och valsa, Matilda, med mig!"

Valsa, Matilda! Valsa, Matilda,
kom nu och valsa, Matilda, med mig!
"Vems är den där tackan som ni uti er ränsel har?
Kom nu och valsa, Matilda, med mig!"

Upp hoppa' knallen, han hoppa' i den lilla sjön:
"Vid liv till fånga tar ni aldrig mig!"
Och det hörs att han går igen vid den lilla sjön:
"kom nu och valsa, Matilda, med mig!"

Valsa, Matilda! Valsa, Matilda,
kom nu och valsa, Matilda, med mig!
Och det hörs att han går igen vid den lilla sjön:
"kom nu och valsa, Matilda, med mig!"



Waltzing Matilda in Swedish; that's a bunny I came up with not long ago. Changing eucalyptus for birch and tea for coffee, and setting the story in the woods of my Scandinavia instead of the Aussie outback, meant I had to adapt the setting.
"Knalle" is the Western Swedish word for peddler. Before the advent of consumerism, this figure was a staple of rural Sweden with its many isolated farms and hamlets. To the Svenssons (average Swedes) of those days, the peddler was one of their few contacts with the outside world, a subject of both mistrust and wonder. All the "knallar" in the region understood one another and even had their own professional jargon, words of which have seeped into standard Swedish. Nowadays there's even a mall called Knalleland (Peddlerland), even though it's a post-industrial shopping centre.
One of these peddler's jargon's words which have made their way into everyday Swedish, and which you will certainly hear in Sweden every day is "fika", literally "feeco" ("coffee" in verlan), which has the same connotations as the British "cuppa" (the quintessential cup of a hot drink, especially during a pause/in the afternoon or evening).
Other knalle words that have become commonplace in standard Swedish are "stålar" (literally "steels,") which refers to money informally (like "bread" in English); "tjacka", "to buy something" in the same informal context, and "lattjo lajban" (a now devaluated informal expression of excitement, like "radical" and "groovy" in English).

IS SOOTHING A REAL THING!?

Here we are talking about the Soothers (se. Dämpare, es. Aplacadores, fr. Apaiseurs, it. Sedanti, de. Besänftiger, hu. bábos), in Brandon Sanderson's Cosmere, whose special power is repressing the negative emotions of others (unless said others are wearing aluminium hats, which renders them unsensitive to emotional manipulation). Soothing is thus a power that exemplifies the trope Getting Smilies Painted On Your Soul.

Were I asked what special power I would like to have out of the endless list of options, I would definitely choose this one. From healing mum's depression to healing many other depressed people, and maybe putting a full stop to all forms of violence from domestic violence to warfare across Eurasia,

But does Soothing, or Getting Smilies Painted On Your Soul, exist in real life, as the rhetorical question title of this post asks?

Well, since the nervous system runs on chemical impulses, it can be hijacked with chemicals. Drugs, you may think, from ethanol through Xanax to crystal meth, induce euphoria after crossing the blood-brain barrier. And you are right. But there is a more sinister substance whose existence is now widely known... the drug to end all drugs... scopolamine.

Found in nature in plants of the nightshade family (which includes nightshade, datura, tobacco, potatoes, all kinds of peppers [pimientos], physalis...), scopolamine is on the WHO List of Essential Medicines, being used to treat motion sickness (airsickness, seasickness, etc.); GI, renal, and biliary spasms; as well as colics, and used as a premedication to reduce airway secretions as an injection before surgery.

So where is the sinister edge of this two-edged weapon?

Physostigmine is an acetylcholinesterase inhibitor that readily crosses the blood-brain barrier, and has been used as an antidote to treat the central nervous system depression symptoms of scopolamine overdose. Other than this supportive treatment, gastric lavage and induced emesis (vomiting) are usually recommended as treatments for oral overdoses. The symptoms of overdose include:

• Tachycardia
• Arrhythmia
• Blurred vision
• Photophobia
• Urinary retention
• Drowsiness or paradoxical reaction which can present with hallucinations
• Cheyne-Stokes respiration
• Dry mouth
• Skin reddening
• Inhibition of gastrointestinal motility

Furthermore; nowadays thieves, date rapists, and kidnappers left and right poison their targets by giving the victim a scopolamine-laced beverage, in the hope that the victim would become unconscious or unable to effectively resist the robbery/sexual assault/whatever sinister crime the poisoners have in mind. In June 2008, more than 20 people were hospitalized with psychosis in Norway after ingesting counterfeit Rohypnol tablets containing scopolamine.

Recreational use

While it has been occasionally used recreationally for its hallucinogenic properties, the experiences are often unpleasant, mentally and physically. It is also physically dangerous, so repeated use is rare.

Interrogation

The effects of scopolamine were studied for use as a truth serum in interrogations in the early 20th century, but because of the side effects, investigations were dropped.In 2009, it was proven that Czechoslovak communist state security secret police used scopolamine at least three times to obtain confessions from alleged antistate conspirators.

The drug is known to produce loss of memory of events recently before exposure and sleepiness, similar to the effect of benzodiazepines or alcohol poisoning, which affects the ability of a person to resist criminal aggression:

One common and particularly dangerous method that criminals use in order to rob or sexually assult a victim is through the use of drugs. The most common has been scopolamine. Unofficial estimates put the number of annual scopolamine incidents in Colombia at approximately 50,000. Scopolamine can render a victim unconscious for 24 hours or more. In large doses, it can cause respiratory failure and death. It is most often administered in liquid or powder form in foods and beverages. The majority of these incidents occur in night clubs and bars, and usually men, perceived to be wealthy, are targeted by young, attractive women. To avoid becoming a victim of scopolamine, one should never accept food or beverages offered by strangers or new acquaintances or leave food or beverages unattended. Victims of scopolamine or other drugs should seek immediate medical attention.

This drug is employed in robberies, express kidnappings and sexual assault. In the present decade, various Spanish hospitals have introduced a special protocol to help medical workers identify cases.

Podremos hacer una primera aproximación buscando en cualquier manual de toxicología cuales son las características de la intoxicación por escopolamina. Tratándose de una planta venenosa que se conoce desde hace más de quinientos años, parece lógico que la medicina sea capaz de detallar con exactitud qué les sucede a las personas que, de forma voluntaria o no, se intoxican con esta sustancia. Aunque en desuso, la escopolamina tuvo sus indicaciones en medicina antes de la generalización de la anestesia. Así que sus efectos y riesgos están perfectamente documentados. El cuadro clínico de la intoxicación por escopolamina produce disminución de la secreción a través de las glándulas del organismo: sequedad de boca, sed, dificultad para tragar y hablar…se produce una dilatación extrema de las pupilas, que reaccionan muy lentamente a la luz produciendo visión borrosa de los objetos cercanos y, en ocasiones, ceguera transitoria. Puede aparecer fiebre muy alta (hasta 42ºC), convulsiones, arritmias cardiacas, insuficiencia respiratoria… Los síntomas de tipo mental (psicosis, alucinaciones, delirio…) se citan por parte de la mayoría de los autores así como el hecho de que es mortal en sobredosis.

Sinister indeed. This is one of those cases in which real life surpasses fiction.

A TEAM STICKS TOGETHER - FAVE SNIPPETS

It all began as a normal, hot, August morning. A young man with tanned skin and short, dark brown hair and eyes practically leaped out his front door with a half-consumed piece of toast in his mouth. This sixteen year-old individual, Connor, used one hand to wave farewell to his mother while his other hand greedily stuffed the buttered bread into his mouth. Connor was wearing a plain blue t-shirt and shorts, as well as a pair of new sandals, but this information wasn’t very important because…

“Did you remember your speedo, Connor?” yelled the teen’s mother.

“Of course I did!” Connor replied as he gave the large backpack he was carrying on his shoulder a shake. “As if I’d forget that! See you later, mom!” With another wave, the brunet licked some crumbs off his lips and jogged down the nearby sidewalk. He had only stepped outside a minute ago and already he was sweating bullets. The teenager wiped his forehead and gazed up at the sky. It was a clear, flawless blue…the bright sun radiating its heat down upon the Earth unhindered. There was even a beautiful rainbow stretched across the sky; most likely formed after last night’s downpour. “I can tell it’s gonna be a great day for a swim!” Connor smiled toothily as he stretched his arms toward the bright sky. Connor was a member of his high school’s swim team and he was about to begin the day like he did most others: with a little swimming practice.

“Yo! Connor!” shouted a nearby voice. The brown-eyed swimmer glanced to his left to spot another young man his own age. The boy, an average-looking Joe with messy black hair and blue eyes, waved to him from across the street. He quickly made his way over to him and started walking alongside him. “Morning, dude!”

“Morning, Ryan.” Connor replied before bumping fists with his best friend and fellow swim team member. Ryan and he had known each other for the longest time; he still remembered when their parents would take them to the beach to swim when they were kids. “You ready for practice?”

“I guess…” Ryan scratched the back of his head with his right hand and then used the same to cover his mouth as he yawned. “How can you have so much energy in the morning? Are you a robot?”

“Haha, maybe I am! The world’s #1 swimming bot!” Connor laughed; Ryan joining him with a tired chuckle. “Ever since I got that new water bed I’ve been waking up in tip-top shape!”

“Water bed? When did you get a water bed?!” Ryan gave his slightly taller friend a playful nudge. “You’ve been holding out on me, man! That’s it…this weekend I’m definitely sleeping over your house!”

“Heh, sure. It’s a promise!” Connor gave Ryan a pat on the shoulder as the duo continued strolling down the sidewalk toward their school. For several minutes they chatted about stuff two teenage friends would usually talk about. Soon the high school came into view and it was around that time Ryan looked down and took notice of Connor’s sandals.

“Oh, are those new?”

“The sandals?” Connor looked down at them as well while he walked. “Yup! Just bought them yesterday. My old ones were getting too small for my feet, haha! You wanna try ‘em on sometime?”

“Nah, I’ll pass.” Ryan replied as he gave a dismissing wave. “You got huge feet, dude. Those things are probably way too big for me.”

“You got that right!” Connor grinned toothily. “Hehe, you’d probably get yourself lost in them if you…” Connor trailed off as something in the shop window they were passing grabbed his attention. He stopped walking and pressed himself against the large glass. Ryan took a few more strides before he realized his buddy was falling behind.

“Hmm? Whatcha looking at?” Ryan walked backwards until he was next to Connor again and gazed into the window with him. The teen’s blue eyes narrowed as he saw his glutton of a friend was staring into a bakery shop. Countless donuts and pastries were laid out before them.

“Look at them all…” Connor mumbled as drool dripped from the corner of his mouth. He heard his stomach growl and noisily smacked his lips with his tongue. “I gotta have one! Or two…or three!”

“Come on, dude.” responded Ryan as he tried to tug his friend away from the display window. “Didn’t you just have breakfast?”

“It wasn’t filling enough.” Connor said simply. Ignoring his bud’s attempts to drag him away from the bakery, Connor moved toward the shop’s entryway. “I’m gonna grab a quick bite; go on ahead without me!” Before Ryan could protest, his best friend had already disappeared into the bakery shop. The black-haired teen sighed and face-palmed before continuing on toward the high school.

When he arrived at the front entrance he ignored it and went left toward the gymnasium. Near the gym was the school’s 50-meter long, outside pool; separated from him via a chain fence. Ryan took in the gorgeous, crystal-clear water as he walked past; the bright sunlight radiating down from above reflecting off its still surface. Dividing the pool into several columns were blue lane lines stretched across its length. Soon Connor’s friend arrived at a small building next to the pool and walked on in. It was their team’s locker room and the scent of male musk entered his nostrils the moment he opened the door. That wasn’t the only thing that happened when he walked in…

“I’m telling you, Oliver, at this rate you’re gonna get kicked off the team! Out of all thirteen of us, you’re the slowest!” spoke a tall, seventeen year-old junior with tanned skin and bushy, dirty blond hair. The guy was so tall and athletic that many people mistook him for a member of the basketball team. “Get some training in outside of practice! Hit the gym every now and then! Do that and I’m sure you’ll catch up with the rest of us!” The teen grinned toothily and flexed his two biceps. “Well, excluding me of course! No one can catch up to me~!”

“Ugh, just stop talking already.” was Oliver’s reply as the redheaded junior tipped the glasses he was wearing on his face. “Believe it or not, Tristan, being a member of a swimming team isn’t just about swimming! Who do you think came up with those training regimes and tactics that won us the last competition? Me, that’s who!”

“Your brain is pretty big, dude, but if you don’t bulk up the rest of your body…” Tristan used a finger to poke Oliver’s forehead; easily making the smaller teenager take a step back. It was obvious the nerdy high schooler had an underdeveloped frame. Hell, even Ben, who was about the same height, looked stronger! “…the rest of us are gonna step all over you, dude! You get me?”

“Just shut up!” Oliver gritted his teeth and turned away from the taller male so he could work on taking off his glasses and substituting them for a pair of contacts. “I’m not taking any advice from a muscle headed buffoon like you! Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time in the water your brain wouldn’t leak out of your ears.”

“Huuuuh? You trying to say I spend too much time in the water?” Tristan looked like he was about to burst out laughing as he placed his hands on his hips and grinned widely. “Dude, it’s all that time I’ve spent submerged in fine H2O that’s made me the pro I am today! I was born in water, you know! Ever since then I’m pretty sure I’ve spent more of the last seventeen years underwater than I have above it.” The tall blond nodded to himself as his mind drifted back to his days as a child; living over in Hawaii and spending every ounce of his free time at the beach. “Yep…water and I go together like ham and cheese. When that fateful day comes…I hope I die in water too.”

“I hope you get eaten by a shark or something.” was all Oliver had to say in response to Tristan’s story. The taller male didn’t seem to hear him since he gave no retort; he only walked past Oliver after deciding not to waste any more time trying to talk sense into the boy.

“Reminiscing’s reminded me…” muttered the tanned young man as he walked past Ryan; the black-haired swimmer pulling up his blue speedo. “…there’s a great, big, refreshing pool waiting for me outside! I’m gonna go hop in first; the rest of you can wait for the slowpokes if you want!” Before anyone could say anything, Tristan was out of the locker room. For a moment to room was silent; the remaining guys either finishing up their preparations or just waiting around. Not even a minute had passed before Tristan returned carrying a white, rectangle-shaped box. “Hey…did someone bring these?”

“What are they?” Ryan asked as he approached his upperclassman and stared at the box he was holding.

“Donuts!” Tristan answered with a gleeful smile as he opened up the box to reveal a dozen decorated donuts of several flavors. “They were just sitting outside next to the door.” Ryan and Tristan both scanned over the locker room, but none of the other four boys gave any indication the donuts belonged to them.

"Who cares?” Tristan spoke at the same moment he stuffed half of a donut into his mouth. He continued to speak even as he chewed. “They’re delicious!”

Before long, each of the young highschoolers had a donut in their hand and were happily munching away. They must have all had a light breakfast to be so eager to eat the mysterious donuts. Tristan was about to stick his hand into the box and grab another when Ryan stopped him by taking it away.

“Leave some for the rest of the team.” Ryan requested as he placed the half-empty box atop one of the nearby lockers. Tristan grumbled, but nodded with acceptance before making his way back out into the pool area.

“I hope he remembers to stretch first.” said Oliver as he watched the taller male disappear through the metal door. Not five seconds later, everyone heard a loud SPLASH from outside and the nerdy swimmer sighed. “Damn that fool! I don’t like to admit it, but it’d really hurt us if he gets himself injured! He’s one of our best.” The redhead rushed outside and Ryan heard him begin raising his voice.

“Ugh, he’s gonna cause another scene.” Ryan mumbled before following Oliver outside; leaving only three members of the team inside the locker room. Butch and Drake were both sitting down at the benches; several feet of empty space separating them. They decided to just wait for Connor and the rest of the team to arrive. Ben was still near the door; licking his fingers of cream as he waited for his “secret” crush to walk in. His light blue eyes glanced over at the box of donuts and a light bulb went off in his head.

“Ooh, I should offer Connor a donut when he walks in! That’s sure to make him happy…he does love to eat~” The young sophomore had barely stepped toward the locker where the donut box sat when he heard a sound from outside. He turned to see the door’s doorknob turn a bit and a bright smile lit up his face. That had to be Connor! “G-Good morning, Co-!”

Connor swung open the door to the locker room; one hand gripping the knob while the other was gently caressing his blue clothed belly. His tongue crept out from between his lips to lick up some white flecks and he grinned gleefully.

“Ahh, those pastries were delish!” Connor exclaimed as he strolled into the team locker room; shutting the door behind him. He blinked and took a quick glance around to find the entire room empty of a single soul. “That’s odd…there’s no one here. Didn’t notice anyone out in the pool either…” As Connor surveyed the empty locker room, he had yet to notice the black speedo a few feet in front of him. 

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“Alright, everyone, into the pool! We’re gonna start with some backstrokes!” instructed the swim team’s captain as he and his fellow high schoolers finished their stretching. As wet, bare feet marched toward the large pool, Connor smiled and got ready to lower himself into the crystal-clear water to join his teammates in practice. Before he could move, however, a hand touched him on his broad right shoulder.

“Yo, hold up, Connor!” exclaimed the voice of a fellow sophomore; a young man with black hair dyed red on one side. In his hand was a bottle of cold spring water which he was motioning toward Connor. “You look a little dehydrated. Care for some water?”

“Oh? Sounds good!” the muscular boy replied with a smile as his generous teammate unscrewed the bottle’s white cap. “You happen to have any snacks? I’m a little hungry too…” Connor chuckled as he took the bottle of H2O from the other male.

“Geez, you’re always hungry!” the guy said with a smile of his own as he gave Connor a playful slap to his back. The athlete, however, was not expecting this and coughed with surprise as the hand struck his soaked back. A normal and typical reaction to him, but for the two swimmers in his mouth it was a whole other story. It was like a scene from some sci-fi flick in which someone was ejected out an airlock. An unimaginable, irresistible force tore Tristan off Connor’s uvula and yanked Ryan out from between his teeth; sending both boys flying out of the mouth like a couple airborne ticks.

“Oh shit oh shit oh shiiiiiiit!” Ryan repeated over and over again as his body spun around in open air; powerful wind force taking control of his entire form. What could he do?! He was going to plummet and plummet until he smacked into the ground and his body shattered. “I’ve gotta…grab onto something! Anything!” His eyes squinting, Ryan tried to make out what was in his current path of descent. He had stopped spinning like a ragdoll, but he was still falling at a rapid rate and wind pressure was pushing on his face. He noticed he was plummeting right towards some sort of transparent structure; like a building or something. Throwing everything to luck, the desperate teen threw out his arms and prayed he caught a hold of whatever this structure was. Lady Luck must not have completely abandoned him yet, because he found himself catching something and coming to a sudden stop; wincing with a whine as he pulled something in his arms by doing so. “T-Thank…thank God!” Ryan took a glance around as he tried to figure out where he was. It seemed like he was still high in the air, but hanging from some kind of plastic protrusions. Below him there were no such grips; just a transparent, smooth wall that seemed to slope outward. Through the clear barrier below him, Ryan could see something colorless sloshing around…water?

Before the shrunken swimmer could acknowledge anything else, the structure he was hanging from started to move. The vertical tower tilted slowly into a horizontal position and Ryan’s eyes widened when he gazed upon something new: a gigantic face…the gigantic face of Connor! As the wall the tiny male was holding onto became a surface underneath him, he knelt and watched the expansive, god-like face of his best friend stop just a couple feet before his own mug. More precisely; he was face-to-face with Connor’s upper lip!

“W-Wait…a transparent object…water…” Ryan gasped as he looked over his shoulder and saw Connor’s humungous hand behind him; strong fingers wrapped around this huge structure. He listened to numerous, loud GULP sounds and gazed down at the water flowing between his giant bud’s lips like a river. “A…A water bottle! This thing is a bottle of water! Shit, man, I can’t even recognize THAT at this size!” Ryan smacked his face with his hand before watching what looked like gallons of drinkable water get sucked into the titan’s body. “I was lucky. Another inch or so and I could have ended up right…in…” Ryan’s jaw dropped when he saw something he really didn’t want to see. Water wasn’t the only thing Connor was drawing into his mouth; there was something else in there…something alive…something that looked a lot like a certain tall junior he knew!! “TRISTAN!!!” In that water bottle was tiny Tristan; swimming faster than he had ever swam before to avoid being sucked back into his teammate’s mouth. Ryan got down on his hands and knees and banged a fist against the plastic wall that separated the two teenagers. “Tristan! Tristan!”

Ryan wasn’t sure if Tristan heard him or not, but he did seem to notice him as the dirty blond swimmer glanced up in his direction. He was in no position to say anything; every atom of his being was focused on not getting swallowed by the humungous god behind him. The black abyss of the mouth was right behind him, but he kept on paddling against the current like his life depended on it…which it, in fact, did.

“Hold on, Tristan! Don’t stop; I’ll get you out of there!” Ryan shouted down at his teammate, despite being sure the athlete couldn’t hear him. Even if his voice did reach the innards of the plastic bottle, Tristan’s ears were probably engulfed in the sound of rushing water, his own breathing, and the monstrous gulps of their enormous teammate. The black-haired shrinkiee looked up at Connor’s tanned, slightly hairy upper lip. He knew there was only one thing he could do: strike his friend’s face and hope he noticed it before Tristan became one with his breakfast. Before he could even make a move, however, the plastic “floor” under his knees started to shift. As the contents of the bottle were poured down Connor’s gullet, the giant had to tilt the container more and more so to direct the beverage into his mouth. Before Ryan knew it, Connor had turned the plastic container upside-down; the bottom pointing up at the blue sky. The behemoth’s tiny friend once again clung to the bottle’s collar; desperately shouting at him while kicking his feet in hopes of touching the skin below him. It was useless…there was nothing he could do without risking his own life. Ryan clenched his teeth and gazed into the bottle once more; eyes quivering in their sockets.

The remaining water inside the bottle had become a whirlpool that was quickly draining into Connor’s maw below. Tristan refused to give in; he continued to thrust his arms forward and kick his feet wildly to change his fate. It did not matter in the end; even if Tristan had been the fastest swimmer on Earth, a swimmer is restricted by the water. Once the last drop of H2O disappeared between Connor’s lips; the young, tanned junior disappeared with it. Ryan bit his lip and rested his forehead against the plastic in mourning as Tristan became part of one final GLURCH.

“Ahh, that was refreshing!” Connor exclaimed as he took the empty bottle of plastic away from his lips and pushed it into his kind teammate’s chest. As the black-and-red-haired teen grabbed the container with both hands, Connor thanked him with a grin before leaving to join his team in the pool. The sophomore looked down at the once filled bottle and chuckled.

“Wow, I didn’t think he’d drink it all.” the boy mumbled before setting the recyclable object down between his feet and following Connor into the warm water. Left behind at the top of the bottle was Ryan; now in a very awkward position after his giant friend had suddenly turned the bottle upright again. He hung from the collar; gripping the indentations with his arms behind his head. His face grimaced; his arms still hurting from when he pulled them earlier. This position was certainly not helping!

Being at the very top of the plastic bottle was like being on the roof of a skyscraper for Ryan; it gave him a good view of the school pool before him. He felt like he was looking out at the freaking ocean! His seven normal-sized teammates had begun their backstroking practice and Ryan watched them move through the water like living, breathing islands! They were causing tidal waves and massive sprays of water as they paddled, so it was difficult for the half-centimeter tall male to differentiate between them through all the chaos. He knew, however, that behind one of those sets of abs, a tiny young man once larger than all of them was being digested. In fact, with the little guy’s pathetically small size and Connor’s over productive digestive system, it was likely Tristan was already being metabolized into the larger boy’s body by the time he touched the other end of the pool. The days, months, and years Tristan had put into his love for swimming…the experience he had gained as he strengthened his body and hastened his speed over the course of seventeen years. What had it all been for? The answer: A single swing of the arm. The tiny bit of protein Tristan had given his fellow swimmer helped him with a single stroke during practice. Thus, the teen’s ultimate purpose was complete.

“W-What am I gonna do…?” Ryan muttered to himself; and not only referring to how he was gonna get down from here safely. What if he lived through all of this? What if he, by some miracle, returned to normal size? Could he still look at Connor like nothing had happened? Could he still consider him his best friend after what he had unknowingly done? “O-Of course…I can…” the messy-haired teen reminded himself as he gave a twitchy, nervous smile. “We promised each other, after all…” Ryan sniffed back his tears and focused on how he was going to get down to the concrete below without becoming a splatter on it. Before his brain could even begin to think…

THE TWO MADE ONE

THE TWO MADE ONE

Translated by Sandra Dermark
freely from Ovid's Metamorphoses
18th of November, MMXVI

Dedicated to Liza Pluijter Izquierdo
with all of my sincere feelings.

PREFACE.

The kudos received from my Hyacinth are impressive, and thus a new bunny grew from the first one; its title being this, The Two Made One. The story told, which I learned from Genesis's 1970s album Nursery Cryme, is far more obscure but nevertheless attractive. The spring in the poem? I have drunk from it on the Danish island of Mön. Shuttling a Danish spring to Caria, what is now called southern Turkey, may seem a bit of a stretch; yet the events in my retellings of Ovid's tales take place in an imprecise "once upon a time" universe of early modern belles infidèles, where gods and nymphs walk the Earth, play tennis and play the violin, and even spicy hot chocolate is drunk on Olympus, while flintlocks and cannons are fired upon the battlefields. Upon that I rely, and, starting as I must at the start, my poem gradually unfurls...

El contacto con el Museo del Prado lleva a Gabriel Alonso a interesarse por las Metamorfosis de Ovidio. En la exposición Metamorfosis XXI realizada bajo el patrocinio de la CAM en el Aula de Cultura “La Llotgeta”(Valencia 2010) se exhibieron algunas de las obras que se muestran aquí. Las cerámicas fueron realizadas en el taller L’Alfar (Valencia) de Paco Tortosa. La editorial Uno y cero ha editado un libro digital en el que se pueden ver acuarelas de esta serie:

Sálmacis y Hermafrodito (2012). óleo / lienzo. 27 x 43.

THE TWO MADE ONE

CANTO THE FIRST
THE PRELIMINARIES


If we want not to spend our everyday
without lightness, in a tiresome way,
if we want cheer, let's keep silence no more!
There is a time to speak: the time's right now!
Thus, let us tell some tales of wondrous things
that maybe happened sometime, maybe not:
Because such stories make us realise
what human nature is like, and they hold
mirrors and windows to your lives and mine,
aside from catnip, treats, to idle ears.
I do not wish to tell of such events
that anyone should not be pleased with them,
nor ones that stir too much a gentle heart;
Thus, my desire's to every spirit please
(even though I can picture the raised brows
of stern elders and harsh authorities;
let them rant, it's a free world after all!).
Long time this tale was left out in the cold
and darkness, as I with other affairs
was more concerned. Now, readers far and near,
shall I save this chanson from snow and frost?
Shall I place the word-casket in the room,
beneath the vaulted ceiling, on the bench,
where everything is full of warmth and light?
Shall I unlock the treasure locked within,
and cut the knots that tie these runes in place?
A lovely story I shall tell and sing.
Not one of femmes fatales who turned to stone
young heroes, or ensnared them in long hair;
not how Teiresias changed from man to maid
and back, and turned a soothsayer so wise;
nor of a lad who loved another lad,
yet wrought his death serving a tennis ball;
not about elves who up like mushrooms spring
up from the ground, after the heavy rains;
nor about Thor's fight with the Midgard Snake,
or Savitri redeeming Satyavan;
I will reject all these, and then some more,
and charm your hearts and minds with little known
a story, so unknown and sweet and new,
which I heard in a song as a young child,
about a stubborn lover's dream come true
and a spring which unnerves the drinkers' limbs,
changing them, from without and from within,
into half the ones that they used to be.
The reason why's a secret, reader friends,
but the effect was once known left and right,
before the tale was censored by the stern
and only brought by few ones to the light.
All right, let us begin this story now;
and, when we've reached its end, we shall know more
than we know now. One day, the blond Sun-God,
the Leader of the Muses, drove his car
from dawn to dusk and westward, as he's done
always, when his bright eyes were caught by... what?
(This was before his serve killed Hyacinth;
the reason for his misfortunes in love
is one of the things this tale will explain.)
As I said, his bright eyes were caught by... what?
The sight, at sunrise, of two youthful forms,
fair and good-looking, clasped tight as could be:
the red-haired Warrior, wild and flushed with heat,
and a snow-white brunette with stunning curves,
who was no other than his brother's spouse.
The Leader of the Muses could not hold
the sight of this betrayal, so, at dusk,
he told the awkward, lame volcano smith
of how his wife turned him a capricorn,
a reindeer, a cornuted, corny twat.
(Pardon my French: the Sun-God didn't say
those words, but kindled rage within the chest
of our Levshá thus filled his clever mind,
rising up to his head right to expel
the mistress Reason from her rightful throne:
the artist or scholar, drunk or irate,
his brilliant wit turned clouded and insane,
is worth, at once, both compassion and dread).
As the betrayed spouse heard it, his heart sank
as his right hand dropped the device it held,
some cogwheels, and his left the tongs as well.
Now coming to his senses, as the Sun
resumed his westward journey, our Levshá
is filled at once with harsh, sinister thoughts
of how to smite his shallow, airhead wife
and hothead brute of a brother at once.
At length, the left arm's raised, wielding with skill
the sledgehammer, a-thridding subtle wire,
which he's quenched in a liquor he's distilled
himself, though not for drink, but for a use
less obvious; to lace and strengthen steel.
The result is a net like spider silk,
invisible and subtle, yet so strong
it'd hold twelve grown saltwater crocodiles
(though it is to the naked eye unseen).
Knowing the right spot where his wanton wife
and the brother his parents had preferred
(for whom he always forged good swords and guns,
quenched with the liquid we mentioned before)
are used to making the two-backed beast,
he sets the trap, then saunters home once more.
Of course, the spouse of Heph, the dark-haired Child
of the Wave, never knew her husband's ruse
(the lights are rarely on up in her keep),
and thus, that evening, in the twilit hour
when mating male frogs ribbit and the owl
will give the background music to the scene,
she calls her lover and brother-in-law:
"Hey A-re-es!" and the Warrior thus comes,
his breastplate and his sword still wet and warm
with the reeking, drying blood of the foe,
a proud Othello who his Desdemon's
embraced and clasped, and kissed, fierily:
then they undress, displaying the fair forms
of their physique (to make up with their minds),
her starting gun is a butterfly kiss,
(the two are one, though not the Two Made One
in our title), he's riding on her back,
and never was there such a lovely mare,
nor a more dashing rider straddling her,
his sword thrust, stabbing, in her derrière...
Their wits clouded, the lights put out up there
by passion (but to such hot-blooded twats,
their state of mind is not that different),
their breathing turns more shallow, heat and thirst
--as if febrile-- now choke the lovers' throats
with the blazing passion that rises up
from their vitals, their blood is seething... SNAP!
Her right foot strikes the trigger, and the snares
of the cuckolded spouse suddenly fall,
right when she cries a banshee-scream of glee,
right when both players in the game of love
had crowned their pleasure; unexpectedly,
the net's ensnared them, and there's no escape;
furthermore, his flesh-cannon has got stuck
inside her rectum, as the sphincter shut!
Their embrace has become part of the trap,
as the sun-car scatters the other stars
in the wake of its warm and golden light.
And thus returns the awkward master smith,
with all th'Olympian god-kin in his wake;
imagine what a shame they must have felt,
the lovers, since the whole heavenly court
now knows of their adulterous affair,
everyone's eyes and whispers filled with them
(there were no social networks in those days,
but given the way that all this played out,
I dub this trap the first one of them all).
That invisible, subtle cobweb net,
had thus into the harshest prison turned
for a warrior who on the battlefield
had neither known surrender nor defeat,
his brother's wife turned to his Waterloo
(thus said one who lost his sinister hand
at Lepanto, with few yet chosen words).
As the smith of the crater leaves the scene
to return to his duties in the forge,
with new-found strength in his irate left arm,
to vent that anger with sledgehammer blows,
he leaves free passage to a bold young cat,
a lithe, blond stripling with free, clever eyes,
tall and slim, his heels dight with rosy wings,
fair-haired, lively, mercury in his veins;
the messenger and runner of the gods,
also cupbearer, executioner,
valet, interpreter, claimer of souls,
lieutenant, teacher, student, diplomat;
long story short, their Jack of every trade.
Oh for that day when Maya's clever son
stepped forth towards the Daughter of the Wave!
Whereas the Star of Lethe not delayed
his rosy eloquence, and thus inquired:
"I bet," he told the Muses' Leader, "that
I'd feel awfully happy if I were
caught in that net with Aphrodite, right?"
So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat
burnt from his winged heels to either ear,
that from a whiteness, as the lily clear,
blushed into roses 'mid his golden hair,
fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare.
Stifling a chortle that struggled to steal
through his lithe vocal cords and parted lips,
as his ankle-wings flutter wistfully,
he sets them free, his stepbrother and that
sensuous lady whom he barely knew,
yet hitherto shunned for her lack of wit.
Oh for that kindness that he now displays!
The worth that learned charity aye bears
(to quote the Bard); this is my guiding star,
for when both a bright mind and a warm heart
are joined as one, most prodigies occur:
and 'tis the fruit of learned charity
one of our two young leading characters.
It all begins when he frees her from the net,
touching her shoulders, now her derrière,
with the wistful excitement of a child
who cannot tell his left hand from his right.
He runs lithe fingers through her raven hair,
from nape to crown, and then from crown to nape,
as she her Fuji apple blush conceals
in veils of midnight tresses, awkward, shy;
yet her azure eyes and his hazel orbs
cross paths; and 'tis this all-consuming glance,
whimsical on his side, awkward on hers,
that kindles pleasure in both of their hearts.
As the gods scatter, e'en the Lord of War
(to seek worthy distraction on the front;
as he was freed, he looked to left and right,
frowning, all bristled his kaiser moustache,
flinging his cloak and looking for the one
who'd set the trap, to smite him as deserved...
yet the trickster told him the spouse was right
to punish, after all, his lady's slight),
only the Wave-Child and the one who freed
her remain in the glen now, tête-à-tête.
Thus, while Hermes will on his pinions lay,
he flings, kindly, his silver-threaded cloak
from slender shoulders round her snow-white waist,
as she, casting her hair back, mutters: "Thanks!"
For 'tis a kindly deed to clothe the nude
(even if this takes place in southron spring).
As for the net? The lad claims it himself,
as a keepsake from that exciting day,
and to research more on how it was made.
Thus she finds respite from despair and shame
in those slender, hairless, maiden-like arms
(unlike those of the Warrior and her spouse),
not showing up at court either of them
for a long while: confused and torn was she,
and whimsical and eager was the beau;
his wit and cheer dispelled her painful woe.
It was no dream; or say a dream it was,
real are the dreams of gods, and smoothly pass
their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
One warm, flushed moment, hovering, it might seem
dashed by the sweetheart's beauty, so he burned;
then, lighting on the printless verdure, turned
to the one he'd dressed, and, with languid arm,
delicate, put to proof the lithe Caducean charm.


CANTO THE SECOND
THE BRIDEGROOM

Let us skip, friends, three quarters of a year,
into a dreary, bleak November night,
when the fruit of the gods of Wit and Love
first saw the dreary dying evening light,
as th'erring stars that bear his parents' names
hid in the fog and storm-clouds out of shame.
Child of betrayal, adorably fair,
crowned with locks darker than a raven wing,
he first opened large, clever hazel eyes,
the loveliest of bastards ever seen.
A living proof of infidelity,
since both his parents' bloodline could one trace
in his physique, in features of his face.
Thus did the Maid of Cyprus wrap her boy
in a costly green silk shawl, as her winged
sweetheart lightly and swiftly flew the three
to a cool, lovely glen of caverns old
and ruined holdfasts, where the local nymphs
of the rill that stole through this blessed glen
promised to raise the fruit of that affair.
For being of his mother and his sire
a combined mirror-image, he was named
by th'eldest of his guardians, after both:
he was a fair and dashing, clever boy,
both curious and eager for more glee,
lively, confident, cheerful, and carefree.
Yet many nights he'd sleep under the stars
clutching the shawl of shimmering green silk,
his first garment, and, sunk in rêverie,
wonder what his true parentage might be.
Thus sped, dear friends, a decade and a half,
until his yearning turned the most intense,
and too narrow the reach of childhood's glen;
no longer a child, not yet a young man
was our hero; on the threshold stage
he stood, and thus, suppose him at sixteen:
a slender stripling, though his fine physique
has broader shoulders and developed thighs,
rooted in two full moons as round as taut,
his long limbs indefatigable and
chiselled just like the rarest statuary,
and in between a midriff and a waist
willowy, slender, by no corset shaped;
his skin as fair as first December snow;
already shaded was his upper lip
by dark, soft fuzz; while the soft throat below
now bulged, and rose and fell when down he let
ripe blackberries or a sip from the rill...
within, the supple vocal cords unfurled:
sometimes he speaks like a young boy once more,
or his voice deepens like never before,
yet liveliness it always will outpour.
As for the raven locks with shimmer blue,
those on the sides shunning the tied-back queue
(adders would rather lurk among tall grass
than in perfectly-trimmed French garden lawns,
and this lad has such boyish messy hair
just like a grassland, sure to compensate
the peach-fuzz on his face: these rebel locks
distil the sweetest venom of young love, 
meant to quaff the enchanting draught thereof),
that caress and embrace a heart-shaped face
so rosy-fair, still soft and full of grace;
those coral lips enticing every kiss
with the slightest whisper that uttered is,
and those large hazel eyes full of esprit
(which might, readers, as well bright twin suns be);
they crown the portrait of our fair male lead,
a weapon to take hearts by storm indeed.
One single look at him and, man or maid,
his sheer loveliness would make you afraid,
e'en hardest hearts no true defense would aid.
Then of his caring guardians he took leave,
eager and restless, wearing for a kilt
his green silk favour, while a cloak of reeds,
deftly woven with a nymph's loving care,
covered his lovely shoulders; nothing more
but these, and a knapsack, were what he wore,
aside from that reed-ribbon that bound back
most of those shimmering long locks so black.
Though no courtier decked in frills and brocade,
and neither wearing sword nor epaulettes,
rather in attire modest as he was,
more dashing than a fop or officer
he proved: like wildflowers or berries wild
surpass, in scent and taste, their counterparts
grown under greenhouse glass, so did his charms
those of any young man in uniform.
The lad, excited, left his native seat,
thinking no more of childhood's cool retreat,
and southward, without steed or car, he traced
his strides, for he had heard the southron were
cultured and fond of everything that's fair.
Thus, he might find a clue to his descent,
and the young, restless heart might be appeased.
The love, care, and concern of guardians
had watched his every golden morn and night;
now years had flown by at the speed of light.
Thus, the proud stripling tore himself away
from those who'd raised him; out into real life
he stormed, wild and free, a hazel staff,
to measure the wide world, in his right hand.
Would he a stranger come home to his land?
Little he knew the case would not be so;
and nothing of the soon impending woe.
Yours Truly will not tell of all strange lands,
all unknown regions, all the various folk
with all their various customs, various looks,
accents, and even languages they spoke,
and surging rapids he braved on two feet,
and shelters that he sought from storm and sleet,
for then this song we'd carry on forever;
we'd better reach its coda late than never.
What matters is that, to his eager heart,
walking through thorny patches is just like
on a wildflower meadow; surging streams
of rapids crossed as easily as rills:
good cheer and youthful impulse give him wings,
and sense of wonder makes his labour light.
Suppose him still as a trilustral youth,
three quarters of a year after he left.
Losing himself to find himself once more,
he’d lost his way, retraced it o’er and o’er.
Then came that fateful day in Thermidor...
Suppose him in the southron summer sun,
when even frogs do strive to find a pool,
and the sun-carriage rays like plummets fall,
and, for refreshment, not a fruit there grows,
yet thyme, and rosemary, and lavender
gather fresh sap within their hardy leaves.
Then, with exhaustion from but half a day
spent on foot, and with want of friendly shade,
his throat parched by his breath and kicked-up dust,
his once lilywhite face and arms ablaze,
perspiring thus through each and every pore,
shimmering droplets streaming down his face,
his raven locks damp, clinging to his brow,
and his damp kilt and cloak glued to his back,
his once bold strides turned heavy, painful steps
of reeling shapely legs already weak,
his lips shrivelled and cracked and seen to bleed,
flames dancing red before his bloodshot eyes,
his heart pounding against the left-hand ribs,
his head beginning already to swim,
his thirst increasing every time he breathes,
burning brighter for every step he takes
while hastening his pace to find a drink,
fearing the heat will sap all of his strength,
the now light-headed stripling's ears perceive
a tinkling of freshwater to receive.
There’s, near, a spring to quench his inward heat!
Still reeling, though hell-bent on his new goal,
soon the trilustral's hither traced his steps,
following first the friendly tinkling stream
whose sound, beckoning close, just smote his ear,
then, a glitter and shimmer in the woods
that now denser with chevrefoil appear,
fighting his way through thorns and climbing plants,
no matter if they tear at clothes and skin;
sparkling like diamonds in the August sun
is the prize for the weary to be won.
And now he stands before the long-wished spring,
whose beckoning call he has just heard sing:
the pines around, centennial parasols,
are overgrown so thick with chevrefoil
that they seem curtains, their refreshing shade,
that adds more comfort to the thornless glade,
projecting on the stage of the clear pool,
fed by a winding, trickling rill so cool:
if one measured this pool from side to side,
it would prove two arms deep and six strides wide.
No spear-like reeds or pike-like canes arranged
in a harsh tercio frame it; the moist ground
is fresh and soft and scented with spearmint,
and the crystal-clear liquid, pure and cool,
not looking-glass-steeled like most springs should be,
through which fine quartzy pebbles can be seen
in both the stream and the pool that it feeds,
entices the young quester: "Take a sip!
Drink from my draught, refresh your weary frame!"
A lithe and slender sapphire of the spring,
a dragonfly that dipped its feet, retreats,
ere he arrives, in quick projectile's flight,
as soon as it discerns the stripling's steps,
his tread on ground, his febrile heated breath;
and now the lad stands on the spearmint bank,
after what seemed like ages staggering,
though his head swims and everything twirls 'round,
not thinking aught but of the crystal draught,
his thirst so strong than he can hardly wait.
Desiring to restore and cool his frame,
wiping the perspiration from his brow,
he bends the knees, as if on sacred ground,
and cups his left and right hand, joined as one,
plunging this cup into the soothing stream
ere he lifts it in haste to his dried lips:
with great pleasure, the thirsty stripling quaffs
the cool, spearmint-laced liquid; even cools
his brow and cheeks once the throat has received
this soothing blessing, downed in eager haste,
kissed and then swallowed within seconds' lapse,
feeling the liquid wash down his soothed throat,
at deepest draughts, without stopping to breathe,
as, outwardly, the draughts’ descent is marked
by the lad's throat, its rise and fall in waves.
For these few instants, both the taste and cool
enter his system and flood his worn heart;
right then, he splashes on his sun-kissed face
and feels the coolness on th'outside as well:
a soft refreshing surge through his whole self,
nowhere cold enough to deter one's thirst.
His lips were softened kissing the first sip,
and no more flames now dance before his eyes.
Though clear, and cold, and pleasant to the taste,
the drinker's hot blood this draught cannot cool
for a lifetime; yet to his thirst a truce
and refreshment it brings, and fond respite.
There he sits down, once he has quenched his thirst
and washed the perspiration off his face,
under the shade of two entwining pines,
to rest his weary limbs, and to enjoy
such a sight, seen but once in a blue moon.
Reclining backwards, the heat of the sun
on such a midday in mid-Thermidor
and the cicadas' chirp lull him to sleep.
Upon the spearmint, he has found a bed
tailor-made for himself, with covers fresh
and green, and scented, and, right overhead,
no lordling's silken canopy, with thread 
of gold embroidered, will e'er match the shade
of those entwining branches 'neath clear skies. 
Everything darkens for his weary eyes
as he sinks down, forgetting all fatigue,
not troubled by the slightest of regrets,
upon the soft and spearmint-scented ground...
And, suddenly, a mezzo voice is heard,
as liquid as the tinkling of the spring,
yet darker, with sinister undertones:
"Fair stranger, welcome: I've waited for you
ever since I heard your faltering steps."
Startled and curious with the sudden call,
he rises, as if to the reveille horn;
he looks over his right shoulder, to see
a maid like others there will never be.


CANTO THE THIRD
THE BRIDE

The stripling thus surveys the maiden fair
that's, traitor-like, popped up behind his back:
a damselfly-like, slender, whimsical
young female, eyes shining with confidence.
Thus yours truly will honestly describe
the lovely sight that has surprised the lad:
her fair hair flows in waves of liquid gold,
decked here and there with blooms of chevrefoil,
and those eyes which shine like the brightest stars
are as green as the spearmint on the banks;
a button nose and silken petal lips,
and a rosy complexion, of the shade
that we usually call peaches and cream:
just like they're in a fairytale or dream.
Her snow-white feet are bare, and two full moons
peek out from the outré décolletage
of her reed-dress, a belt of chevrefoil
makes a loose girdle where her figure eight
narrows, between the fair and turgent chest
and the thighs where her short skirt meets its end.
Like open flowers' calyces, she's plied
with her nectar the stripling; now she's done
her hair and set her girdle the right way,
to give a first impression that may please.
She's never thrown a spear or exercised,
and neither had her hand in needlework:
her dress is made by other, blue-eyed nymphs
(she is the only one whose eyes are green),
who rally her to train the art of war,
to take a quiver or a spear in hand,
strengthen her arms and train in self-defence
against men who may claim her maidenhead;
for in springtime, summer, winter, or fall,
never touching spindle or spear at all,
she stays at ease and splashes in her spring,
refreshing, thus, her smooth and shapely limbs,
or makes with flowers a li'l dainty thing,
like a corsage, a hairpin, or the like,
or runs her fingers through her golden hair,
five soft snow blades dividing liquid gold,
sometimes plaiting those locks in braids she holds
with chevrefoil ribbons, or in a knot
held in place with a sprig for kanzashi,
then setting them upon her shoulders free,
fluttering 'round her face, banners of light,
while asking the spring's freshwater (at night,
unlike by day, in the light of the moon,
it makes a clear and perfect looking-glass,
as well as an advisor she can trust)
who is the fairest maiden of them all
(knowing the answer to her selfish call);
or suns herself, or now enjoys the shade,
while lolling on the spearmint, fresh and green;
from weary tendrils, and from branches lean,
she plucks the berries that reason enthrall,
take reason prisoner, i'th' thornless glade:
thus she enjoys, in peace, her paradise.
'Tis, so she feels, the right of the blondest
and most delicate maiden of her kin,
the one with lilywhitest, softest skin.
Yet loneliness made her a weary one,
since she could in high spirits only be
feeling that all eyes were upon her, and
smiling to left and right: how much it hurt
to be an outsider and extrovert!
She loved attention, yet she was alone,
wishing for company to call her own...
And she was picking lavender that day
to make herself a cool, perfumed corsage,
when she heard, from her spring, the gulping sounds
of a drink down a thirsty stranger's throat,
and, curious, she thus sauntered to the spring,
to view the lad, a lovely, dashing thing.
At first, on seeing the stranger from behind,
she doubted if it was a lad or maid,
yet, as he turned around, and she beheld
his strong features, the dark shade on his lip,
and her doubts were thus instantly dispelled,
she felt a fire kindle; 'twas just like
a gunshot in the middle of her chest.
And as he drank his fill, she drank as well,
though through her eager eyes she quaffed hot flames
as he downed fresh, deep draughts; instead of cooled,
she was ablaze, her thirst could not be quenched.
She realised that he was hers by right!
Hell-bent on plucking this fair lily-stalk,
she ties her hair into a golden knot,
held by a fine lavender kanzashi;
sets her chevrefoil obi right and tight,
checks her cleavage, essays a lovely smile,
that may the dashing stranger's heart beguile.
And thus she speaks in a confident voice,
with a ring in it of je ne sais quoi,
endearing, lilting, mournful, all at once,
striking her best and most alluring pose:
"Fair stranger, you're at least a demigod,
yet, no matter if god, half-god, or man,
blessed your homeland, and those who gave you care,
be they your birth parents or guardians,
blessed be your siblings and the friends you've made,
if you are not a lonely only child...
yet far happier, love, your fiancée,
the maid to whom you give your heart and soul!
If you've got one, you wouldn't mind to leave
her for a while for an affair with me!
If not, behold your maidservant and wife;
I will stay true and by your side for life!
Were thou a maid and I a man, I'll show thee
with what a manly boldness I could woo thee.
Thus, if there is no other, I would be
the one to share a wedding couch with thee!
Let both of us be one, right here, right now!"
He shyly looked away as his face flushed
just like a Fuji apple ripe and red,
or a farm peony in its full bloom,
or the warm glow of the full harvest moon,
as he had his head buried in his hands;
yet awkward boys can be charming as well
in their reactions when they shy away…
The nymph kept pestering him for a kiss,
that of a friend or sister, and keeps on.
She cannot hold herself, and flings her arms
deftly, just like a noose, around his neck
and tries to kiss his lips; he quickly turns
his head to the left: thus, her brand of love
but strikes his right cheek; he tries to escape,
unused to her straightforward, open ways
and to the words of love addressed to him…
“Why were so bashful, boy? Thou hast no part
shows thee to be of such a female heart!”
Still, this reaction caused her to believe
that she had won his love, but that the light
of her translucent eyes did shine too bright;
for long he looked upon the lovely maid,
and, at the last, all flustered, thus he said:
"How should I love thee, when I do espy
a far more beauteous nymph hid in thy eye?
When thou dost love let not that nymph be nigh thee,
nor, when thou woo'st, let that same nymph be by thee;
or quite obscure her from thy lover's face,
or hide her beauty in a darker place."
By this the nymph perceived he did espy
none but himself reflected in her eye.
How dare she break his pleasant loneliness?
That heart's as icy as the draught he's drunk,
as if he'd downed enchanted mirror shards
upon quenching his thirst, and they had lodged
within his bosom, turned a keep of ice!
He is too young to pay commitment's price!
Thus, at last the lad stammers this reply:
"L-l-leave me al-l-lone, or I will l-l-leave this pl-l-lace!"
"Thy will be done, fair stranger!" she responds,
turning her back on him, sauntering off,
yet hidden in the underbrush, concealed
by rosemary and lavender, yet unseen
by her beloved, she has stayed to watch
his every movement, kunoichi-like.


CANTO THE FOURTH
THE UNION

"At last alone!" the stripling, unaware
of the fair-haired assailant's ruse de guerre,
thinks, as he throws his reed-shoes on the bank,
the spearmint feeling soft under his feet,
and plunges his right toes into the spring,
then, pleased and soothed, lets the whole foot sink in,
thrusts his right foot down lower to the heel,
and then the left; he wades into the pool,
o'ercome with whose sweet noise he’ll soon begin
to strip his soft clothes from his tender skin,
revealing slender form of chest and limbs,
throwing on the spearmint his kilt and cloak
when the level, right at the deepest point,
reaches his thighs. Then, he slaps his chest
with both his palms, plunging his whole self in,
quenching the heated blaze upon his skin.
The kunoichi nymph's bright eyes of green
are embers, as the lad kissed by the spring
divides the liquid glass with his lithe limbs,
with all his strength, turning to left, to right;
the naked swimmer, glittering and cool,
looks as fair as a greenhouse lily, seen
through frosted lattice in the winter, or
a porcelain doll shut in a glass case.
Thus, as he cools himself, she is on fire,
retracing every muscle of his frame
and following his wake where he careens,
dazzled by his white form in liquid glass,
filled by the sun above with warmth and light.
Now he looks fairer than dressed and on land!
Her peridot orbs blaze with lightning flash,
like mirrors facing rays of th'August sun,
showing through these twin window-panes the flame
that rises within her and can't be quenched
but with his presence. And yet the high ground
is hers: who's she? The Lady of the Spring,
with webbed fingers and toes just like a frog's,
and gills to breathe with as well as her lungs,
and in that freshwater, power is hers.
And she cannot delay her thirst, no more!
She'd gladly, if she could, drink the pool dry,
swallow him whole, oui, slide him down her throat,
as if he were a wayward pollywog,
and hold him deep inside for evermore.
Furthermore, the young man's drunk from her spring,
which already has bound him to her spell,
that draught already coursing through his veins,
clouding his head and weakening his limbs...
"He's all mine! Victory! Game, set, and match!"
she roars, flinging her belt and kanzashi,
and her little green dress, at one fell swoop,
all her light garments, cast from off her skin,
among the lavender and rosemary,
pushing the chevrefoil curtains aside,
into the clearing's stage to boldly stride,
as she leaps up like a jack-in-the-box,
glitter and flutter in her golden locks!
The stripling's scarcely had time to react
when he feels lithe, strong arms around his waist,
and slender female legs tying his own,
four limbs wrapping themselves round each of his sides;
her palms steal underneath to knead his chest,
his nipples milked sore by strong fingertips,
and she steals kisses from him, left and right,
wresting them, 'gainst his wishes, from his lips,
as she plunges his head into the spring,
putting a strain and pressure on his lungs;
he writhes, and kicks, and struggles all he can,
as snake, as savateur, as dying man,
yet she won't care if he's dead or alive,
no matter how much for freedom he'll strive.
Yet still the boy, regardless what she said,
struggled apace to overswim the maid;
which, when the nymph perceived, she 'gan to say,
"Struggle thou may'st, but never get away!
You can resist me, but there's no escape!”
For each of his attempts to flee her grasp,
desperate, breathless, in straightjacket's clasp,
she finally held him tight in her coils,
like climbing plant which weaves its way up walls
till the fort's swallowed up by greenery.
She now kisses his lips, sealed up well tight
so that no liquid may enter his lungs;
he'd gasp in shock, yet, fearing for his life,
he lets himself be kissed against his will,
lest precious air escape and cold draughts kill.
She's like an anaconda, tightening
her coils round a capybara or fawn...
or, rather, kraken tentacles like seize
and clutch tight into place with suction cups
(this like her kisses, th'other like her limbs);
the strength that he's recovered now begins
to fail, and finally, the fair lips part
as sparkling gems of precious air rise up
to the surface, and he gulps down once more
from the spring, a cold draught flooding his lungs...
As he's about to surrender his life,
exhausted, sure he never will awake,
she watches his last breath rise to the sky,
and, in a rueful, threnody-like voice,
she regrets, with a prayer, such a choice:
"Should I have wrought my beloved's demise!?
Does my fiery heart betray itself!?
Gods of Olympus, hear this maiden's prayer:
let this young man and I for e'er be one,
and may our unity ne'er come undone!"
And thus, instantly, only Gods know how,
the two youthful forms are conjoined as one:
his and her legs fuse, like strands of warm wax,
or ores for alloy in a crucible;
so do their arms, their bellies, and their chests,
entering one another gradually;
she feels his youthful blood in every vein,
and he feels hers warm his cold heart again,
receiving from her warmth, and love, and life;
and last, two necks, two heads, are joined as one,
as lovely and as bright as twice the Sun:
the green-eyed nymph's will is finally done.
They are two, yet no longer form a pair:
a common frame that holds two spirits there,
both of them, and yet neither one, as fair.
At twilight, to breathe the sought evening air,
the young man surfaces, and then he sees
within the liquid mirror his dark hair
turned golden blond, his eyes a greener shade;
membranes connecting his fingers and toes,
and ripe, high-swelling bosoms on his chest,
where his iron-hard pectorals should be;
his shoulders still as broad, yet hips and thighs
curvily feminine: an hourglass shape.
No longer are they now a he or she.
Yet his muscular limbs and gill-less throat
are those he had before he became one
with the fair stalker; beholding this change,
they dons his green silk kilt and her reed gown,
and raises to the heavens, in despair,
a request that can well be called a prayer
(surprised at their contralto, half-way twixt
his tenor and her mezzo: their new voice
is fifty-fifty, half his, half her own,
so strange and soft in their new slender throat):
"Gods of Olympus, you heard her request!
Yet heed the troubles now within my chest!
I'm no longer the stripling or the maid,
bereft by fusion of identity;
both of us died to be reborn as one:
thus, to remember this most strange affair,
enchant this spring, and hear my sincere prayer:
may every stranger, faint with heat and thirst,
who dares to drink these waters or to wash
in them, turn half a man and half a maid!"
The Winged Trickster and the Queen of Love
hear their half-child's request from far above;
now they descend and stand before the one
who's half their boy, and half the fountain sprite;
she whispers in their left ear, he in their right;
and soon the lad's parentage comes to light.
Stirred by their double votary, the gods
of Wit and Passion lace the cool, fresh spring
with a strange draught, a formidable thing,
that has the right effect that's asked for:
and thus, whoever drinks or makes a splash
in these freshwaters turns half-man, half-maid,
which made those who knew the tale quite afraid.
Thus was the story for centuries told;
it never grew too tedious, nor too old,
and few hearts that retain it remain cold.



AFTERWORD.
This uncanny tale of unrequited love and gender role reversal has been adapted so few and far between times because most people in the realm of literature through the ages could not make head or tail out of it. Yet still there were interpretations. Courtiers saw a whimsical fairytale in which she was for once the aggressive one and he was the victim, not to mention the surprise ending; life scientists saw in the two leading characters the sperm and the egg; but the most influential interpretation was the moralistic one, that has existed since the Metamorphoses were handwritten time after time in medieval cloisters and subsequently glossed as cautionary tales.
In this moral interpretation, Hermaphroditus represents any young person, male or female, who, feeling the reach of their childhood home too narrow and the youthful blood heat their veins, ventures forth innocently into the wide world, his thirst being the thirst of youth for excitement and experience; while femme fatale Salmacis is Pleasure personified, leading the youth on the left-hand primrose path, and, should the youth resist her temptation, snatching them out of the right way by ironically effete and bloodless force when they least expect it, ruining the life and health of the promising youth by insinuating herself into their bodies and their hearts. "Salmacis spolia sine sanguine et sudore," Salmacis strips the vanquished without blood, sweat, or tears. Just like Edward Moore would likewise warn centuries later, in the baroque era, saying that Pleasure:

Her glance with sweet persuasion charm'd,

Unnerv'd the strong, the steel'd disarm'd;

No safety ev'n the flying find
Who vent'rous look but once behind.

Any young person who has had brushes with serious fun and lost at least a little of their identity and their innocence, yours truly (at 25 upon writing this poem) included, may hold up this poem as a mirror to their more or less changed faces.