Ivana Nešić
Illustrations by
Tihomir Čelanović
1.
Chapter
Miка
M
ika, I can see you, child! Put that bread down!“, the house would resound as soon as Mika came anywhere near the kitchen. He was forbidden from entering the pantry lest he would steal cookies. He was never sent to the store because he would take a bite or two of everything he bought there while still on his way home. Provided, of course, that he bought what he had been sent for, and not what his heart desired. If Mika’s immense love for food does not lead you astray, you will be able to see that Mika was a good boy. He respected his elders, let his grandma dress him the way she wanted, even though then he looked like an overgrown doll from the time when she had still dressed dolls. His dark hair was neatly parted at the side. The only concession to the realm of shortalls and plaid shirts were Mika’s shoes. From the youngest days, his chubby feet refused to spend time in the patent leather shoes his grandma lovingly chose. Mika squeaked, shouted, and when finally made to put on the shoes and start walking – he would slip and fall on his back. Grandma gave up the idea of patent leather shoes reluctantly and let Mika wear the worn-out army boots which had belonged to his late grandfather. At first, they were so big for him that he wore woolen socks in summer and winter alike. Thanks to the socks, the boots were
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just a little bit loose. When his feet grew and he discarded the woolen socks, there was still unoccupied space inside his boots. Eventually, his feet somehow filled the inside of his footwear, and everyone wondered whom this long-footed child took after. Mika did not wonder at all - Mika was happy. How he loved his boots! They took him everywhere: to the places he loved and knew, and then, they would surprise him and take him to some place completely new and unknown. Not knowing the secret of his magic boots, people thought that he merely loitered. These same people wondered how any child could spend so much time walking in fresh air and remain so fat. But they did not know the secret of his pockets: one hid a paper cone filled with Turkish delight, and the other a book. The moment he found himself out of sight of adults, Mika would sprawl in the shade, take out the book and the Turkish delight, and immerse himself in reading and munching. Just as Turkish delight was always soft, fragrant and coated in icing sugar, so were the books always exciting, with quests fate put before seemingly wanting heroes, with fair maidens and magical objects. Mika was not particularly interested in maidens; if he ever thought about them, he wondered why heroes would waste their time on spoilt girls who were boring, instead of fighting with magical swords or burning things with fiery balls. Sometimes, Mika would let the book fall onto the grass and start playing a hero in the field. “Hie!”, he would pierce a scrawny bush with the imaginary sword. “Shew!”, he would burn down the mountain on the horizon with his long-range fiery ball. He did not use rifles, pistols and the rest of that new age weapon. Grandma told him that it was the weapon’s fault that his Grandpa disappeared in the Great War, the second one, and left him the army boots. The boy did not want to have anything to do with that. Mika’s favorite spot was a field at the other end of the town. The site was intended for a high-rise building, so almost all resi-
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dents of the surrounding houses erected high fences around their yards to protect themselves from the eyes of the builders and tenants of the future building. By doing so, they deprived themselves of the view of still empty green lot and Mika felt protected there. It had been so from the beginning of his wanderings and would remain for who knows how long – due to some permits and suchlike Mika did not quite understand, nothing was ever built on the field. The boy loved construction sites because they reminded him of his mom and dad. The two were architects and traveled across the country building beautiful new edifices which replaced the old ones which had disappeared in the great war. Mika was proud of what they created and always bragged to his friends whose parents had ordinary jobs. What he did not admit to any of them was how he suffered for seeing them so little, much less than his friends saw their parents. He also loved places intended for building because there he saw the opportunity for his parents to undertake the project and stay with him at least until building was under way. That is why he hoped that the tallest building in the whole world would be built on that small field; it would have a hundred stories, and his parents would remain occupied building it until their retirement. While taking breaks from reading, his critical eye measured the field as he imagined the magnificent work of art to be built there by none other than his parents. The only fly in the ointment was the old, hollow trunk of wild pear which was his favorite spot for lying. He felt sorry for the pear that would have to go to make way for some construction
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made of metal and concrete. The trunk was wider than pear tree trunks usually were. It must be very old, thought the boy from time to time. Some wondrous force had twisted it a long time ago, so that the bark spiraled all the way up into the meagre branches, dry at one side, and full of leaves and sweat fruits at the other. Although twisted, the tree never looked threatening to the boy. Quite the opposite – it looked as if it had welcomed him still from afar. Even in scorching heat he could find shade underneath that tree, if nothing else – he would stick his head into the hollow at the root of the trunk and it seemed as if he had been invisible to the whole world.
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2.
Chapter
Smallies
O
f all the wondrous creatures that have ever inhabited these parts, smallies are undoubtedly the most mysterious ones. They have avoided people so carefully that today most people do not know about them. It goes without saying that only a few people have seen them. But what is it that helps smallies to remain unnoticed although they are not invisible? It is a downright deception: when a human surprises them, they descend quickly on all fours, bow their head and skedaddle into the grass. Even if a human sees them, he will see their thick tail, covered in scales and think that he saw a lizard run into the grass. Children are not that easy to deceive. Partly because they are closer to the ground, so they are better able to see what it is that is crawling along it, and partly because children see exactly what is in front of them, and not what they expect to see. Some are wise, and keep what they saw to themselves. The other children are what adults, when they are in an amiable mood, call imaginative, and many other names when they are not. But what is it that can be seen in a smally? Not so much because he is not bigger than a thumb. Then, there is the tail. Aside from the tail, there are two goat legs, hairy
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and black. Two legs are quite enough for a smally to move normally, and he takes to the four-legged twist in the event of extreme necessity. The legs stem from a pair of fiery red underpants. No one seems to know why, but smallies are born with a pair of such underpants and they are their only possession. Their hands resemble human ones and are very strong. To add to all this, their head is horned, with face so hideous that it is awful to look at. There are fewer magical creatures in the world today than there used to be. Some were banished; some simply decided that the time had come for their existence in the world to end. As far as they knew, smallies from the field were the only surviving non-human reasonable beings. It is no wonder that they would sometimes feel lonely and wanted anyone’s company. Why, then, did not they ever turn to humans? It was not that they did not speak human – because they did. It was not their being so tiny and their voices so thin, because a smally, if he wanted to, could outshout an army of five thousand men. Neither did their horrible hideousness worry them. Smallies pride themselves on their hideous appearance and toil to acquire it; with every passing year they become more and more hideous. What was it, then, that stopped smallies to join men and surround themselves with all the splendors the world outside the field could offer them? In order to answer this question, we must start from the very beginning. The Tale of Greybeard Long ago, a man heard some people talking about smallies. It was convenient to have one, the story went, because the creature could be pleasant company to his master and make all his wishes come true. Those were not just any wishes like picking nits or cleaning shoes, but real wishes. The ones that could be made true only by magic. In the olden days smallies could even be bought: they were sold at fairs in small dark glass jars into which a buyer was not supposed to peek before getting home. If he by any chance did
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– the smally would disappear and a tiny wisp of smoke would come out of the jar. If, however, he peeked into the jar upon his return home only to find smoke instead of the smally, he would go back to the fair to complain, because smallies were not cheap, but then he would, in most cases, discover that the salesman was missing as well. Maybe the man from our story could have been thus deceived if only he had enough money to buy himself one such jar. But that is exactly why he needed a smally in the first place, to get the money, because he certainly was not able to earn it himself. There was another way to come into possession of a smally. It is just that... it was really laborious. One had to find an egg laid by a rooster, and keep it warm under an armpit for nine years. The lore does not say how, but the man managed to find such an egg. For nine long years he kept it safe and warm under his armpit. And when the ninth year passed, the egg cracked open and there appeared a beam of light more colorful than a rainbow and more beautiful than anything the human eye had ever beheld. Out of the light a hand appeared, and then another, and after them a whole smally. When he wriggled out of the shell, he looked around himself to see where he was and asked in a booming voice: “Is there anything to eat here?” This is how Greybeard, the patriarch of all field smallies, came into being. Out of gratitude, Greybeard served his master for a great many years: he granted his every wish, and in the evening he would sit with him in front of the hearth and tell him stories. Greybeard knew how to spin a good yarn, of wonders that were not of this world, and could do wonders, too: out of thin air he conjured up things and objects which made his master happy and wealthy. In return, the man gave him a home, nurtured him and fed him the finest meals. The man and Greybeard got along well together, but in time the human heart hardened. He had already got everything the smally could get him: gold, silver, countless riches. He also had
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a faithful wife and a little rosy-cheeked son. As soon as the man got used to the fortune, he wished for more. He wished for the things Greybeard had told him about, but since they did not really exist, the smally could not conjure them up. The man bitterly resented the smally because he thought he was disobedient and decided there was no reason for him to feed the smally anymore. He resolved to get rid of him. He asked him to leave, but Greybeard refused blankly. He threw him out of the house and locked the door, but Greybeard easily descended the chimney and got back. He threatened he would beat him – Greybeard did not seem to care. Finally, he got him into a sack, tied it, and threw it into the river. When he returned home, Greybeard had been calmly waiting for him at his old spot, behind the stove. The man realized then that he would not be able to get rid of him easily and that there was nothing else to do but to seek help far and wide. The wealthiest man in the county was now like a vagrant, roaming away from home. The lore says that he had torn seven pairs of iron boots before he learned that in a boulder cave, there lived an old woman who knew what he was to do. Hopeless, he headed to the cave, and nearly lost his head: the cave was dark, one could easily fall into a bottomless pit or drown in murky water. Finally, in the heart of the cave, he found an old woman sitting, poking the fire with a stick. The man greeted her and confided his predicament to her. At the end he cried: “Old woman, help me anyway you can, I can’t go on living with that creature!” “What’s the matter? You got all you wanted from the smally, and now you’re bored with him?!”, shrieked the old woman. “Don’t be mad at the little creature; it’s not his fault he can’t leave. Smallies form an attachment to whomever created them and neither threatening nor imploring can chase them away. If they are forced apart from their maker, they will do anything in their power to reunite with him. The only thing more dear to
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your smally than yourself is his bare life, if at all. Death threats don’t work. I know how you can get rid of him, but before I tell you that, you must promise you will give me a half of everything the smally got you!” The man hastily promised. “All right. Remember what you promised me, and also remember what I’m telling you now: the most certain way you can end a smally’s life is to put him in boiling oil. He will spatter and screech a little, until at last he is gone completely.” “And I put him in oil while he’s alive?” “He won’t be alive once you’re done with him. Go home now, get rid of Greybeard and don’t worry about our arrangement. What you promised – shall be mine”, laughed the old woman flashing the jaws full of teeth. Rushing home, the man was beaming with satisfaction. Now he knew how to get rid of the smally. And as for the old woman, thought the man, nothing to it. She is old and blind, he reckoned. She won’t be able to go such a long way, she will tumble down the pit in this darkness; she will die before she even leaves the cave. I alone will certainly not bring her my treasure. When he arrived home from his journey, the man headed straight to the stove without greeting anyone. He poured oil into a pot, and when his wife asked him what he was up to, he replied: “This is for our Greybeard”. This is where one must admit that Greybeard was a glutton, so he rushed to the pot to see what was cooking. In vain he waited for the man to chop some onions or potatoes, to throw in a chicken leg, a freshwater fish or two – the man just stood grimly, and the oil heated up until it started sizzling. He sure poured a whole lot of oil, thought the smally, and he yells at his wife when she spends more than a spoonful. Just look at how much oil there is, I could swim in it. There he suddenly realized what was coming, shrilled forcefully, pushed the pot and spilt the oil, splattering it all over the
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place and burning the man on the face. While the latter shouted, Greybeard jumped off the stove and ran out the door. From that day on, no one of the man’s family ever saw him again. The man’s burns healed slowly and, although it was evident that he would remained blemished by the scars for the rest of his life, he thought it was a small price to pay: he had finally got rid of the insufferable smally. A rich man does not have to be good-looking. His children were healthy. While he had been roaming the world, a daughter was born to him, as beautiful as a ray of sunshine. He spoke nothing of the arrangement with the old woman; neither did he speak of his plan to double-cross her. But on the fortieth day of Greybeard’s disappearance, while the family was having supper, the sky poured torrents of rain on the earth and a ghastly wind blew. In an instant, a knock was heard on the door. “Someone’s knocking”, said the woman. “It must be a branch scratching at the door. Sit down”, countered the man. The knock was heard again. “I’ll open the door and see”, said the woman. “Sit down, woman! Don’t waste the heat over your thick head”, the man felt the chill as he again halted her going to the door. There was not a third knock. Instead, the door was flung wide open as a lightning struck, showing the figure of a hunched old woman. The candles that lit the room went out, the fire in the hearth died, and the old woman’s teeth flashed with an unnatural gleam. “Give me what is mine!”, she commanded. The man reached for his chest. “Hand me, you ungrateful man, either your gold with the house and the cattle or your progeny, your gallant son and beautiful daughter!” Smallies do not remember what it was that the man chose to relinquish to the old woman. Some say that anyone would choose to give up treasure over one’s children. The others think his gold was dearer to him since his heart had hardened so much that he tried to kill Greybeard. Nonetheless, it did not concerns smallies.
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The important thing was that Greybeard scurried away to a field on which he lived for a while as a loner. When he got tired of solitude, he wished for a friend, and thus another smally came into existence. Soon, the field was alive with the hum of smallies. They would multiply the moment they wished for company, until they decided that there were too many of them and that they would have to stop multiplying if they were to remain unnoticed. “This life in the field is not so bad”, Greybeard would say. “Not quite as comfy as stretching out behind the stove, but in the field no one tries to cook you in oil”, he would finish, twirling his white moustache contentedly.
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