The Fairy Tale Magazine MARCH ISSUE 2023 by The Fairy Tale Magazine

Odyssa Rivera-Abille - Sara Cleto James Dodds - Kelly Jarvis Kim Malinowski - A.M. Offenwanger Lauren E. Reynolds - Deborah Sage Lorraine Schein - Marcia Sherman Jude Tulli - Brittany Warman

A Dream of Love Issue March 2023

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ETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Hello Enchanted Friends: I can’t believe that we are publishing a real digital issue of The Fairy Tale Magazine. After 15 years using fairytalemagazine.com as our address, we’re finally a true magazine! I was on this journey by myself for many years (although some terrific writers occasionally helped me along the way). Some years, I would have to run stories and poems months after they were supposed to because I was teaching full time, so, to be honest, when we were Enchanted Conversation, the publication was frequently on life support. Then I retired, and by then I had met Amanda Bergloff. I was burned out on fairy tales, and Amanda took EC over for a while. But as luck would have it, I began EC,to took a while. as luck wouldEventually, have it, I Amanda came back too, and have it,toImiss began miss EC EC,over andfor back to myBut hands it came. began to this new beginning began to take shape. that’s when This issue is the result of building community—at first between me and Amanda; then the many friends and supporters who had stuck with EC over the years began to form a bigger community with us through Zoom meetings. Kelly Jarvis also came along, and her talent, kindness and work ethic made everything better. Last year we decided to change our name (I was so sick of writing “Enchanted Conversation”!), and here we are. Much like “The Brave Little Tailor,” FTM is the result of us working despite formidable odds. After all, we are tiny and the internet is absurdly vast. Like the tailor, we’ve needed bravado and creativity to pull this caper off, and I think we’ve created an impressive first issue. You’ll see fabulous art and read stories and poems inspired by Greek myth, Robin Hood, summertime, godparenting, classic fairy tales, and more. We’ve got interviews with noted author Theodora Goss and artist Emily Balivet, five reprints from the best of EC, and, well, just go ahead and read the magazine! Before I go, some words of thanks: First to all of you for subscribing and taking a chance on the new form of this magazine. Thanks also to the terrific authors who submitted and were chosen for this issue. Thank you to Kelly Jarvis, for her talent, friendship and willingness to help us for free so much of the time. Enormous thanks to Amanda Bergloff, whose creativity, talent, prodigious work ethic, and a willingness to work for far too little money made this issue the gorgeous sight you’re about to dive into. She is a true friend as well. And then there’s Todd, my husband. His unstinting willingness to fund this magazine for over 15 years shows a level of love and support that make him so much more than a fairy tale prince. In large ways and small, every good thing that has happened in my adult life has come thanks to my decision to marry him almost 40 years ago. May you find this issue as enchanting as can be.

Kate Wolford Editor / Publisher

P.S: Don’t forget to read the serialized novel Glass and Feathers, by Lissa Sloan. You’ve received four segments, and this Cinderella story is like nothing you’ve read before! So check your email for it. 3

THE FAIRY TALE MAGAZINE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Kate Wolford ART DIRECTOR ASSISTANT EDITOR Amanda Bergloff

CONTRIBUTING EDITOR Kelly Jarvis

CONTRIBUTORS Odyssa Rivera-Abille - Sara Cleto James Dodds - Kim Malinowski A.M. Offenwanger - Lauren E. Reynolds Deborah Sage - Lorraine Schein Marcia Sherman - Jude Tulli Brittany Warman

ART RESOURCES Pixabay, Wikimedia Commons, Picryl, Unsplash, Amanda Bergloff Art, Project Gutenberg, Google Art Project, The Public Domain Review

Able of Contents

TO FEED MY HUNGER - 7 Deborah Sage

THE LOVE BETWEEN SISTERS - 30 Sara Cleto & Brittany Warman ROBIN HOOD’S LARDER’S TORN ROOTS - 34 Kim Malinowski

11 RULES OF RESPONSIBLE FAIRY GODPARENTING - 8 Jude Tulli THE POETESS - 12 Odyssa Rivera Abille THE COLLECTED ENCHANTMENTS OF THEODORA GOSS - 14 Kelly Jarvis

LYRE IN THE SKY - 37 Kelly Jarvis

RED STONE, BLACK CROW - 52 A.M. Offenwanger

A QUEEN’S DISCONTENT- 43 Marcia Sherman

ENCHANTING CUSTOMS: WELCOMING SPRING- 56 Marcia Sherman

ARTIST INTERVIEW: EMILY BALIVET- 44 Kate Wolford

THE SKY BRIDGE OF BIRDS - 62 A Fairy Tale from Korea FAE WIFE- 65 Lauren E. Reynolds

HOW THE SUN, MOON & WIND WENT OUT TO DINNER -21 A Tale from India

CONTRIBUTOR’S PAGE - 66

THE GOLDEN HOURS - 22 James Dodds

THE THREE SPINNERS - 48 The Brothers Grimm

THE FAIREST - 28 Melissa Yuan-Innes

THE SUMMER FAIRY - 50 Lorraine Schein

TO FEED MY HUNGER by DEBORAH SAGE

o feed my hunger, Will you offer me lemons and citrons for civility? Tempt me with blood-red apples or Tender greens from your garden? A house of bread and sugar? Will you honor me with a banquet set With rubies and diamonds? To feed my hunger Will you serve me meat with salt? Soup seasoned with spices And a golden ring? Cake and wine carried In a woven basket through a dark wood? To feed my hunger, Will you serve me pigeon soup or Sweetmeats, Steaming roast goose stuffed With apples and dried plums? Or an answer to the question, Will you love me?

The Best of Enchanted Conversation

11 RULES OF RESPONSIBLE FAIRY GODPARENTING by JUDE TULLI

elcome to Fairy Godparenting school. And congratulations on being accepted. That you’ve made it this far in the process to certification means one of two things: 1. You’re exceptionally giving and hard-working or 2. One or more of your ancestors were Fairy Godparents and you don’t know what you want to do with your life I know that hardly sounds fair, but it’s the way life works. You need to know these things if you’re going to do any good as an FG. Let’s see…there are 1, 2, 3…oh, about 20 of you here today? Let me assure you, only one of you will graduate. Don’t worry; we don’t use the word “flunk” here. Many of our dropouts become healers or royal consultants. You have to love FGing or you’ll simply burn out. I know Cinderella made it look easy, but honestly most of your protégés will disappoint you. Hers was truly the “Cinderella story” of Fairy Godparenting. You’re probably wondering about it now more than ever so I’ll put the rumors to rest. YES, once upon a time, I was Cinderella’s FG. But let me assure you, she was one in a billion. The everyday experience of all FGs involves hefty doses of failure and frustration. Overeating is not actively discouraged as a coping mechanismcoping mechanism. Which reminds me, FG and student dinner party Friday at 7:00. 8 You’re all invited. There’ll be at least forty different kinds of cheeses! Bring your questions

mechanism. Which reminds me, FG and student dinner party Friday at 7:00. You’re all invited. There’ll be at least forty different kinds of cheeses! Bring your questions and real live FGs will regale you with their most colorful stories. Spoiler alert: most end in heartbreak. Now before we get into our case studies, we need to start with the basics. There are 11 principles that guide everything we do as FGs. Actually there are 1,007, but like I said, we start with the basics. Plenty of time to look into a career in stage magic after the introductory class. I don’t want to scare you all away just yet. The school has to keep the lights on somehow and the queen won’t let us raise our tuition twentyfold. In an order that makes sense to me but won’t mean much to you yet, here we go: 1. Beauty comes from within. You can’t project it where it doesn't already exist. A monster will only look more monstrous for your efforts no matter how hard you hit it with your magic wand. 2. Research, research, research. Watch how each potential protégé reacts to different situations. Does he or she give too much? Ask too little of others? Meet cruelty with generosity? Perfect. Don’t be creepy; just gather the relevant data. 3. Never FG for yourself. It’s not right and it won’t get you your heart’s desire. No

WITCH. EARTH MOTHER. MENTOR.

NOW AVAILABLE FROM WORLD WEAVER PRESS www.worldweaverpress.com

Glass and Feathers by Lissa Sloan

A serialized novel from The Fairy Tale Magazine

What happens after Cinderella’s “happily ever after?” A tale about ﬁnding out who you’re meant to be… fairytalemagazine.com

and it won’t get you your heart’s desire. No matter how badly you want the Fairy Godfather of Lillington to notice you. He’ll just take one look at you in all your magnificence and say, “Broke rule number 3 again, did we?” 4. You can’t FG for someone you already know. It just doesn’t work. Like the time my niece demanded an extension after midnight. It ended with a ruptured spleen and six months of bed rest. At least I finally learned how to knit. 5. There are no small wands, only small FGs. It’s not how much magic you have; it’s what you do with it that counts. I once turned a frog into a prince just by asking if he really liked the taste of flies. 6. Expect nothing in return. Don’t even expect to feel good about yourself for helping. People’s propensity for self-sabotage will never cease to surprise you. Frogs’ too. I told him not to lick the princess’ eye but he just said, “Ribbit ribbit ribbit.” 7. Grant their heart’s desire or nothing. You're not helping otherwise. If you gave Cinderella a hoard of gold she’d just let her step-family spend it all. The best gifts are non-transferable. 8. Magic is neither a toy nor a game. Don’t leave your wand lying around where an infant or toddler can get to it. And never drink and cast. Trust me; the ruptured spleen was nothing. 9. Animal labor is not free. If you turn lizards into footmen, they charge by the hour. It comes out of your expense account at first, but once you go over your budget it comes out of your pocket. And yes, you have to pay them the same wages to wait around behind the scenes as you do for face time. As a side note, I don’t recommend using lizards for anything unless no

recommend using lizards for anything unless no other animals are available. They blend into their surroundings so well it’s terribly hard to find them when you need them. 10. It’s not about you. If you’re having fun as an FG, you’re doing it wrong. It’s not about you getting to go to that ball you missed out on when you were younger. Don’t grant what you would want. Grant what your protégé needs. Give what's right to give. From dress cuts to shoe styles. And glass slippers are no longer allowed. They conjure too much expectation. Not to mention the newer ones break all the time. Nothing spoils a budding romance quicker than high-pitched screams and bloody footprints. 11. Exceptions are the exception. There's always an exception. But they’re called exceptions for a reason. They’re rare. Run your thoughts by a more experienced FG before you get creative, especially in your first hundred years of practice. The clock striking noon means we’re done for today, so away with you before you turn into pumpkins. Just kidding! I’ll see you all tomorrow when we’ll cover the 12 basic tenets of FG magic and the 13 reasons magical deadlines can’t be negotiated. You’re also in for a treat: a former protégé of mine turned part-time FG will give a presentation and answer your questions. Hint: Her name sounds a bit like “mozzarella.” Which reminds me, did I mention the dinner party Friday at 7:00? Feel free to bring your favorite cheese, as long as you bring enough for everyone!

THE POETESS by ODYSSA RIVERA ABILLE

ne day, I will burn bright Followed by a gentle glow I will write to my heart’s content In a brick cottage in the snow

Young women who think They can survive alone Face too many dangers They cannot carry on their own!

At rest, I wished at stars Glowing brightly in the dark Thoughts ran through my head Of seeking a clean, fresh start

You do not need anything Apart from your beauty A good meal, a clean house, That is your only duty

I will use words that rhyme And touch hearts with poems Not caring what the world thinks Not caring if I’m alone

Take out unimportant things As you plan for your future You only need a husband Best to find one sooner

I will live with sheer joy Run toward my dreams The time I lost in this house Is time I will redeem

Believe me, grandchild What I tell you is true Listen to my words Or there will be no you

I vividly remember What grandmother had said I listened very closely Carried her words to bed

I nodded firmly Looked her in the eye Underneath the serious face I hid a thin, sly smile

Never step off the forest path Or you will be in harm’s way I will never take you back If you ever go astray

One day, I will walk Away from this poor life Enclosed by crates and cages Filled with grief and strife

The sweet morning came The day had arrived My hood covered my shoulders. I bid my old life goodbye Without a second look I walked out of my home To build a life outside Face the world alone I struggled, heaved, and tugged To prove I can withstand The storms that life throws By its cruel hands Many years have passed Since that fateful day came My hands are now wrinkled But passion stayed the same Dangers came before me With the road I chose But never will I look back To let go of what I now hold Here in this brick cottage I write poetry here and there Joy fills me completely I see love everywhere Time goes by quickly Like the clock is being chased Days move with a speed Pushing loneliness away I defied grandmother’s rule Got out of danger unscathed I proved my fortitude When I stepped off the forest path

Enchanted Creators the collected enchantments of heodora oss

by kelly jarvis

THEODORA GOSS, poet, scholar, and

Chance, 1901

professor of writing and literature at Boston University, always dreamed of becoming a writer, or a sorceress, when she grew up. Born behind the Iron Curtain in Hungary, a land rich in fairy stories, Goss spent her early childhood in Europe before settling with her family in the United States where she would eventually fulfill her childhood dream of becoming a writer whose words wield powerful magic. Theodora was kind enough to share her personal writing journey and her thoughts on fairy-tale retellings with us. Read on to learn more about her enchanted creations! 15

After earning your Juris Doctor degree from Harvard Law School and working as an attorney, you decided to pursue your PhD in English Literature; what drew you back to your interest in storytelling, and how does your academic work influence your creative writing? I wanted to be a writer since I was in elementary school, and in college I wanted to go to graduate school and study English literature so I could become a writer. I went to law school because my family encouraged me to do something more practical, but I quickly realized that corporate law was not what I wanted to do for the rest of my career—my heart just wasn’t in it. I wanted to read and study and teach and write. The graduate degree was a long, hard road, but it was my road in a way the road through law school had never been. Every step of it, I felt as though I was doing what I was supposed to. And now, as a teacher and writer, I’m very glad that I made what seemed to many people at the time a crazy, impractical choice. It was my choice, one of the most important I’ve made in my life. It’s hard to say what drew me back to literature and storytelling, in the same way that it might be hard for a bird to say why it flies south in winter. It seemed to be where I belonged, where I was headed all my life. I was one of those children who were always reading. In a way, particularly as an immigrant child, stories were my home. I started writing consistently when I was a teenager, and I published my first poems in the high school literary magazine. So, I was always headed in that direction. Law school was a detour, one I took because out of all the practical professions I could have chosen, it was one in which words mattered profoundly. Lawyers are also storytellers. But I wanted the freedom to tell my own stories. I think all of my academic work has affected my writing, from law school onward. One way has to do with careful attention to words and sentences, to meanings and rhythms. Lawyers and scholars both have to take words seriously. Another is in how much I like to play with narrative. Such as, for example, writing a short story in letters, or the metafictional interpolations in the Athena Club books. I tend to write things that also reflect on themselves. Plus of course I like to engage with the history of literature, rewriting things that I think need to be rewritten—such as the lives of nineteenth-century monster girls! The stories in your collection In the Forest of Forgetting blur the lines between the fairy world and the real world, and the poems and tales in Snow White Learns Witchcraft are described by Jane Yolen as “fairy tales fractured, reinvented, re-imagined, retold” (11). What first prompted you to explore the intersections between fairy tales and contemporary life in your writing? Why do you think writers offer new twists on old tales, and why do you think so many readers are drawn to this? I grew up on fairy tales. That’s partly a function of my family history—I read fairy tales in Hungarian before I read anything else, so they are a fundamental part of my mental furniture. They entered my brain before just about anything else. That’s not true for everyone, especially nowadays—many children don’t grow up on fairy tales, although we all have a sort of foundational cultural knowledge about them. Chance, 1901 15

cultural knowledge about them. They are just there, in our consciousness, because we heard them somewhere . . . We are all familiar with Little Red Riding Hood, and we have a basic recollection that she went into the woods, there was a wolf, etc. I think writers offer new twists on old tales because fairy tales in particular are inside us, in our heads, and we need to somehow remake them for ourselves. We need to figure out what Little Red Riding Hood means to us. And readers are drawn to those stories in part because they have those tales in their heads as well, and experiencing them in new iterations is sort of like revisiting your childhood home as a grownup. It’s part of a process of maturation. You grow up, the fairy tales grow up (for example in versions by Angela Carter, Emma Donoghue, Aimee Bender), and then the two of you meet again. Maybe the right image is two childhood friends meeting again after many years, and you realize that the little girl you played with is now a mother, maybe a lawyer, maybe a senator, who knows. Both of you have changed. But honestly, one of the reasons I rewrite fairy tales is that I love them. They are such wonderful balls of narrative, like balls of yarn with so many possibilities wound inside them. You knit the yarn one way, and it’s a sweater with a wolf on the front. Knit it another way, and it’s the grandmother’s story. Ultimately, I write because it gives me a sense of joy. I love writing and rewriting fairy tales. Your first published story, “The Rose in Twelve Petals”, retells “Sleeping Beauty” through the perspectives of twelve different characters, while many of the poems and stories in Snow White Learns Witchcraft filter fairy tales through a character’s voice or extend fairy tales beyond the close of their traditional plots. How does changing the point of view and moving beyond the conclusion of tales allow you to create new spaces of contemplation in your work?

Chance, 1901

Fairy tales are usually told by the fairy tale teller—the anonymous voice who says “Once upon a time.” One of the most basic interesting things you can do with fairy tales is approach them as though you were writing a modern short story, which means asking who the characters are, what they would say, how they would act, what motivates them. In a sense, that focus on character is the invention of the novel, coming out of the 18th century Enlightenment. In the old oral tales, what mattered was the narrative pattern. The storyteller didn’t really ask why the wicked queen did what she did—she was envious of Snow White’s beauty so she wanted to kill her. That’s enough motivation for the oral tale. But we post-Enlightenment writers can ask, why was beauty so important to the wicked queen? What social conditions created a woman who would try to kill her stepdaughter so she could remain most beautiful? We begin a process of almost scientific investigation . . . Added onto that Enlightenment curiosity is a 19th century interest in psychology, coming from the work of Sigmund Freud and other psychoanalytical theorists. We want to know more 16

other psychoanalytical theorists. We want to know more than the storyteller allows us. When you say “new spaces of contemplation,” I think of empty rooms, as though we are building additions to a house. What will those rooms be? Bedrooms? Home offices? A yoga studio? Each room we add expands what we can do, who we can invite into our homes, the possibilities of our lives. I think that’s what rewriting fairy tales also allows us to do. We can imagine ourselves in new ways. Maybe we’re not afraid of the wolf. Maybe we like wolves. Maybe we want to marry a wolf, or become a wolf. Of course, I’m speaking in the language of metaphor, but so much of our lives is made up of metaphor. There is a sense in which we write our lives into being—and the more metaphors we have to work with, the more possibilities we can imagine for ourselves. Songs for Ophelia, your gorgeous collection of poetry, is divided into songs for Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter. In your verses willows turn silver, rivers beckon, and chrysanthemums shine like lamps. How does the natural world inspire your writing and your daily life? Do you have a favorite season? I’m glad you like it! I was a poet before I was anything else, and I write poetry even when I can’t seem to write anything else. At the same time, it’s the writing that’s most personal to me and that I find most challenging. It’s very, very hard to write poetry well. You can revise and revise a story until it’s good, but if you don’t capture something fleeting and precious in the poem, it’s gone. Then it’s just a piece of paper with words on it that you crumple up and throw in the waste basket. As for the natural world, it’s our home, isn’t it? We were born on this planet, and at least for the foreseeable future, we will die on it. We live in nature—we are air and water and sunlight, the same way trees are, and cows are. At least since the 20th century, starting I think with Art Deco and intense urbanization, intense mechanization, we’ve tended to deny our connection with the natural world, to separate out the human. I suppose it goes back to Alexander Pope’s claim that “The proper study of mankind is man,” which Ursula K. Le Guin blames for this sort of anthropocentric thinking, but you couldn’t really separate out the human until the 20th century, no matter how hard you tried. Nature was always too close before the days of mechanized production and central air conditioning. The logical endpoint of anthropocentrism is virtual worlds, made by human beings, inhabited only by human beings. We’re now at the point of seeing those worlds become reality, and they turn out to be . . . profoundly boring. The natural world, the world in which we listen to rivers and encounter deer (and yes, ticks and mosquitoes) turns out to be so much more real, more satisfying. I think when we lose our connection to the natural world, the world that made us rather than a world made by us, our art suffers. In my own life, I’ve found that I’m happiest and Chance, 1901

world made by us, our art suffers. In my own life, I’ve found that I’m happiest and healthiest when I have a garden, when I go out into the forest on a regular basis. I need leaves and birds and the sky. It seems to me that we are on this earth in part to pay attention and in part to give praise, which sounds like something Mary Oliver might have said, or maybe Anne Lamott. Writing is a way of paying attention and giving praise—especially poetry. Stories are a way of participating, of creating something new in the way nature itself creates. I think our creativity is the most natural thing about us. Nature is infinitely creative—the best writer could not come up with some of her outlandish concoctions. We look at photos of creatures from the deep sea and say “Seriously? That exists?” Our own creativity is part of the enormous creativity of the natural world that created us. As for a favorite season, yikes. I live in Boston, where we get all the seasons—lots of weather. And the truth is that I love all of them, even the endless rain of November and the cold of February. Every one of them has something special, something wonderful. And something to write about. Can you share a little bit about what readers will find in your new book The Collected Enchantments? And finally, do you have a favorite fairy tale that never fails to enchant you? The Collected Enchantments collects what I hope is my best fantasy writing, from when I started publishing about twenty years ago until now. It includes 24 stories and 49 poems, but my poems tend to be mini-stores, stories in verse. Plus, an introduction called “Why I Write Fantasy.” What you will find in it: fairies, witches, dragons, cats, mirrors, rivers, nightingales, swans and women who turn into them, ravens and men who are actually ravens, wolves of various sorts, Snow Queens, Mother Night, shoes, mermaids, forests, houses, towers, bears, stepsisters, eggs, winter and autumn, roses, ogresses. And, ultimately, I hope, yourself. Asking about my favorite fairy tale is like asking about my favorite season! I love all of them. But one of my favorites is “The White Cat” by Madame D’Aulnoy. The third son of a king rides into a forest to find his fortune and comes to a castle ruled by a white cat, in which all the servants are also cats. She provides him with a dog so small it can fit inside an acorn and a piece of embroidered cloth so fine it can fit through the eye of a needle. Finally, when his father tells him to bring back a princess to marry, he says he will only marry the white cat. She turns out to be a princess under a curse (of course). It’s a variation on “Beauty and the Beast” from the early feminist perspective of the French fairy tale writers, often aristocratic women who ran their own literary and cultural salons. I read it when I was young, and I loved the idea of a castle filled with cats! I used it myself in “Blanchefleur,” one of the stories that appears The Chance, 1901

the idea of a castle filled with cats! I used it myself in “Blanchefleur,” one of the stories that appears The Collected Enchantments. But really, I love all seasons, all fairy tales, in their infinite and very satisfying variety.

In addition to the Athena Club novels and the collections discussed in this interview, Theodora Goss has also written a novella, The Thorn and the Blossom: A Two-Sided Love Story, and edited Medusa’s Daughters: Magic and Monstrosity from Women Writers of the Fin-de-Siècle, Voices from Fairyland: The Fantastical Poems of Mary Coleridge, Charlotte Mew, and Sylvia Townsend Warner and Interfictions. The poems, stories, essays, and novels of Theodora Goss are woven with references to literature and fairy tale, casting magic spells over readers. We know you will love her collection of enchantments as much as we do! the idea of a castle filled with cats! I used it myself in “Blanchefleur,” one of the stories that appears The

Chance, 1901

Fairy Tales from Around the World

how sun, moon & wind went out to dinner a tale from india

as never was seen before. Then Star turned to Sun and spoke thus, "Because you went out to amuse yourself with your friends, and feasted and enjoyed yourself, without any thought of your mother at home—you shall be cursed. Henceforth, your rays shall ever be hot and scorching, and shall burn all that they touch. And men shall hate you, and cover their heads when you appear." (And that is why the Sun is so hot to this day.) Then she turned to Wind and said, "You also who forgot your mother in the midst of your selfish pleasures—hear your doom. You shall always blow in the hot dry weather, and shall parch and shrivel all living things. And men shall detest and avoid you from this very time." (And that is why the Wind in the hot weather is still so disagreeable.) But to Moon she said, "Daughter, because you remembered your mother, and kept for her a share in your own enjoyment, from henceforth you shall be ever cool, and calm, and bright. No noxious glare shall accompany your pure rays, and men shall always call you 'blessed.'" (And that is why the moon's light is so soft, and cool, and beautiful even to this day.)

ne day Sun, Moon, and Wind went out to

dine with their uncle and aunts Thunder and Lightning. Their mother (one of the most distant Stars you see far up in the sky) waited alone for her children's return. Now both Sun and Wind were greedy and selfish. They enjoyed the great feast that had been prepared for them, without a thought of saving any of it to take home to their mother—but the gentle Moon did not forget her. Of every dainty dish that was brought round, she placed a small portion under one of her beautiful long finger-nails, that Star might also have a share in the treat. On their return, their mother, who had kept watch for them all night long with her little bright eye, said, "Well, children, what have you brought home for me?" Then Sun (who was eldest) said, "I have brought nothing home for you. I went out to enjoy myself with my friends—not to fetch a dinner for my mother!" And Wind said, "Neither have I brought anything home for you, mother. You could hardly expect me to bring a collection of good things for you, when I merely went out for my own pleasure." But Moon said, "Mother, fetch a plate, see what I have brought you." And shaking her hands she showered down such a choice dinner as never was seen before. 21

THE GOLDEN HOURS

by JAMES DODDS

fter three long, bloody years fighting for the throne, Dukes Henri and Wilhelm came together in a meadow of wildflowers to broker a truce. Leaving their weapons with their men-at-arms, the two cousins sat together and talked, as they had during childhood. Their uncle, the late king, had taken both in as small lads when their fathers were slain in battle. Upon his death, each man had proclaimed himself king. The country took up sides and civil war broke out. Equals in battle, neither Henri or Wilhelm could capture victory. Their support waned as the war dragged on. Cheering throngs turned to sour expressions and open grumbling. Nobody wanted to fight anymore. Especially the two dukes, who would both soon be fathers. The midwives promised Henri a son and Wilhelm a daughter. “I want my child to live in a land of peace,” said Wilhelm. He grimaced. “Truth be told, I didn’t really want to be king. I only laid claim to the throne because the old hag whispered in my ear that King Stephen wished it so.” Henri stiffened, nostrils flaring. “No! The hag told me the same! Had she said otherwise, I would have happily let you rule.” He ground his teeth. “She tricked us into this war as payback for her sister.” Urmalach, the old hag, was a witch, like her younger sister Clotilda. Thirteen years earlier, Clotilda had fallen for the king’s only son. When he spurned her advances, she turned him into a slavering beast who fled into the woods, never to be seen again. The two dukes sat in judgment at Clotilda's trial and pronounced her guilty. As punishment, the king buried her alive in the town square. Mad with grief, Urmalach swore vengeance on the king, the dukes and the entire kingdom. To reunite the sundered country, the dukes vowed to rule jointly as regents until their children came of age, when they would wed and be crowned king and queen. The two kinsmen stood and clasped hands to the cheers of their war-weary followers. The word that peace was at hand spread like wildfire across the kingdom. Seven weeks later, Henri’s son Philip came into the world as the sun rose and shone its glory across the land. That very night, Wilhelm’s daughter Selene took her first breath as the full moon rose clear of the mountain peaks, casting its silver sheen across the countryside, turning night to day. The country rejoiced at this portent of peace and healing. In the days leading up to the double christening, parades and fairs and merry-making abounded. On the blessed day itself, throngs choked every street and alley leading to the palace. Joyous tension electrified the air. The priest blessed the babes, then raised a ewer of holy water over his head. A hush fell over the masses. For one short, magical moment, blessed stillness reigned. “No!” screeched an old woman. The crowd flinched and fell back as Urmalach, the hump-backed hag, stumped up the stairs towards the children. Greasy, matted locks trailed down to mingle with filthy ragged clothes. Two fierce eyes, glowing like coals, glared out from the tangle. Wherever her glance fell, 22

ragged clothes. Two fierce eyes, glowing like coals, glared out from the tangle. Wherever her glance fell, the villagers cowered and made warding signs. Immobilized with shock and fear, the priest stood like a statue, the ewer clutched on high in trembling hands. “You,” sneered the witch, glaring at the two dukes. “You sentenced my sister. You condemned her to death. And you, priest, you read the holy words justifying that death. Her blood is on all your hands. Let her blood stain more than your hands this day!” Urmalach thrust her staff at the ewer. It tumbled from the holy man’s grasp, its contents gushing forth. The crowd gasped as blood, red blood, and not water, drenched the priest and the two dukes. Urmalach shrieked with laughter. “You people! You simple sheep! You think these babes will grow up, marry and bear the heir that unites your little kingdom! On my sister’s blood, this shall not come to pass.” She stretched her staff over the boy’s crib. “You, Philip, born at sunrise. You shall only be aware of this world during the day.” She turned to Selene. “And you, little pretty one, you shall only know life while night reigns. Never shall you two meet. Never shall you walk and talk together, enjoy love’s first kiss or be joined as man and wife!” The duchesses cried out in horror and knelt over their babes as if to shield them from further witchcraft. Spurred by their wives’ sobbing, Wilhelm and Henri drew their daggers and advanced on the witch. She flicked bony fingers at the weapons and whispered, “Calidus.” The knives glowed red as both men cursed and dropped them, blowing madly on their scorched palms. Urmalach snickered. “Time to go now.” She spread her arms and cried, “Umbra!” Her shadow stirred and grew, while she stood motionless. The shadow expanded, inkblot arms seeking out the other shadows on the dais. They quivered and shrank away from their dark predator. But tethered to the objects that cast them, there was no escape. The witch’s shadow devoured them all. The dark mass drew back to Urmalach and flowed up her body, concealing her in an inky black cocoon. Only her red eyes remained visible, blazing at the crowd until the jet black shape winked into nothingness. High overhead, two diaphanous figures hovered over the pandemonium, their wise old eyes filled with sadness. “Could we not have protected our charges?” asked Dulcina, Philip’s fairy godmother. Rhoslyn, Selene’s fairy godmother and Dulcina’s elder by four hundred years (that she admitted to), shook her head. “Our powers are geared for assisting, not protecting.” Dulcina fluttered her wings in indignation. “Well then! Let’s assist. We’ll just cancel that old crone’s curse!” Rhoslyn regarded her companion, biting back a smile. Ah, the impetuousness of youth, she thought. Was I that naïve at two hundred? “A blood curse cannot be canceled, my dear. It can only be amended, and even that would require more magic than we two possess. No, we’ll watch and wait. I’ll come up with something.” The years passed. The country enjoyed peace under the dual regency of Dukes Wilhelm and Henri. The children grew up, tailoring their lives to their allotted hours. Both learned early that “time for bed” was no laughing matter. At the age of seven, after escaping his nanny, Philip was scrambling up a tree when his daytime ran out. The sun’s upper edge eased below the western horizon and a suddenly dormant Philip plunged like a stone. The broken arm was an inconvenience. His mother’s wrath was a volcano. The accident drew laughter across the kingdom. Selene took note and was never caught out.

Both pined for a glimpse of the worlds they were denied. Selene’s quarters were decorated with paintings of her most common views as seen in daylight. In them, the grounds from her window, the courtyard, the ducal manor and the distant mountains—all resonated under golden sunshine. Philip had pleaded for a “night room.” Duke Henri commanded his astronomer and his royal artist to portray the night sky, in all its glory, in a basement room, devoid of any outer light. There, using phosphorescent paint, the artist faithfully recreated the stars, the planets and the distant “band of light” that dominated the night sky on Midsummer’s Eve. Despite the unbridgeable gap between them, or perhaps because of it, the two reached out to each other. A ragged correspondence that stuttered to life when they were nine became a sophisticated exchange of ideas, experiences, thoughts and feelings by their fourteenth year. Nothing was held back. At eighteen, their letters acknowledged some uncomfortable truths. “Everybody thinks we’re going to get married somehow,” wrote Selene. “And our union will continue the royal line. I hate the expectant way they look at me. Especially when what they want is impossible.” “Yes,” replied Philip. “I wish for their sakes we could meet and try to fall in love. I know you think arranged royal marriages are an old-fashioned relic. I do too. But we might have made a go of it. There’s no one else I enjoy ‘talking’ with as much as you. And,” Philip paused, quill pen hanging over the parchment. “I’m told you are lovely.” He finished the letter in a rush, his face warm. Selene read and re-read the chance phrase, “fall in love.” Once he’d penned it, it came back to Philip as well, usually as he dropped into slumber. Time meant little to Dulcina and Rhoslyn, but it was running out for their fairy godchildren. “We can’t let them live half-lives until they die!” declared Dulcina. “They were born for each other!” Rhoslyn nodded, her head bent in thought. It was two days until Midsummer, the longest day of the year. The sun had set, but daylight persisted as the long twilight defied darkness. Philip’s snores had begun the instant the sun’s orb vanished. Selene wouldn’t rise until full darkness fell upon the land. From below the horizon, the sun’s golden light infused everything with an enchanted glow. The accompanying stillness added to the allure. Looking on, Dulcina sighed contentedly. “It’s like a fairy tale,” she said. Rhoslyn rolled her eyes. “No really, Roz,” Dulcina went on. “This is a magical time—neither day nor night.” Rhoslyn gasped. “That’s it!” Whirling, she grabbed Dulcina by the wings and shook her hard enough to coat the ground in fairy glitter. “Urmalach specifically cursed ‘Day’ and ‘Night.’ Twilight hours aren’t either one. Nor are pre-dawn hours.” Rhoslyn’s fairy wings quivered as her mind kicked into gear. “We can’t reverse the curse, but we can modify it. All we need is….” She paused. Her shoulders drooped up as her voice trailed off. “Is what?” asked Dulcina. “More magical power than we have, my dear,” replied Rhoslyn quietly. Will I ever be this obtuse? thought Dulcina. Aloud she said, “So let’s reach out to the neighborhood….” The fairy godmothers whispered to the breeze. It carried the message to the flowers and trees. They, in turn, told the birds and the bees. Who told everybody. Within a day every magical creature for miles knew the plan.

What exactly are fairy tales and how did they get their name?

FAIRY TALES 101 is your one-stop shop for these answers and more!

Whether you’re a scholar aspiring to join the fairy-tale conversation, a writer or an artist who uses fairy tales in their work, or simply a general fan of fairy tales, this is the book for you. In addition to the twenty-two essays explaining basic fairy-tale concepts, methods, and theories, there are also valuable guides and resources on both classic and adapted fairy-tale works to further your studies.

ALSO FROM DR. JEANA JORGENSEN

FOLKLORE 101

“Engaging and witty, Dr. Jorgensen delivers a masterful introduction into the study of fairy tales with an easily accessible and consumable book that belongs on everyone’s bookshelves.”

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NOW AVAILABLE IN HARDCOVER OR PAPERBACK FAIRY TALES 101 by Dr. Jeana Jorgensen

Two nights later, each fairy hovered over her sleeping godchild. As the Midsummer sun sank from sight, Dulcina and Rhoslyn began to glow. This glow grew to a scintillating golden light that pulsed with the concentrated power bestowed by the kingdom’s fairies, wood nymphs, kelpies, dryads, naiads, pixies, leprechauns, brownies and fauns; plus a herd of unicorns, the sole phoenix and five enchanted toads. As the power peaked, both godmothers uttered the counter enchantment. “Awake! Twilight time and pre-dawn glow are yours forevermore. Awake!” Philip and Selene rubbed their eyes, sat up and then, noticing the strange light in their rooms, dashed to their windows. After gaping for a long minute, each flung on their clothing and hastened to the courtyard. Palace staff, startled by this unheard-of appearance, thronged Philip and Selene. Both ignored the hubbub as they searched the crowd for a face neither had ever seen. Finally, seeking to escape the mob, both fled to a small rose garden. Entering from opposite sides, each beheld the other and they knew. Philip beamed, drawing a dimpled smile from Selene. Face to face after a lifetime apart, they remained mute, drinking each other in. Eventually Philip found his voice. “Hello,” he said. “Hello back,” she replied. Her voice quivered, but her hands were rock-steady as they reached for his. Hovering overhead, both fairy godmothers noted that, despite being surrounded by a time of day neither had ever known, Philip and Selene only had eyes for each other. One year later, shortly after the Midsummer sun had set, they exchanged their vows. Two months after that, with the hearty approval of both dukes, King Philip and Queen Selene ascended the throne. Another year passed, bringing the royal christening of baby Princess Anne. While the populace thronged forward to catch a glimpse, Dulcina and Rhoslyn stood guard at the fringe, waiting for the witch. She appeared, stumping up an overgrown path. The godmothers blocked her way. “Begone, hag!” cried Dulcina. “You have no power here!” Urmalach spat. “I have more than you, my pretty, skittery thing. Step aside.” Dulcina stepped forward instead. “More than us, perhaps. But more power than those?” She swept her arm towards the gathering gloom. Urmalach spun. Hundreds of eyes stared at her, unblinking. A pixie tittered. A leprechaun cursed. A toad flung itself into her face. “Leave while you can, hag,” said Rhoslyn. “Do not return.” Urmalach ducked her head and scurried off. Up on the dais, the blessing of the babe was complete. Philip and Selene knelt by her bassinet, kissed their daughter, then stood and waved to the cheering throng. And they all lived happily.

THE FAIREST

by MELISSA YUAN-INNES

When she walked in the room,

Men would stop talking, Their fingers frozen on their keypads Simply to stare at her powerful beauty. She gazed in the mirror Or social media photos, To decipher what they saw: Two eyes, a nose, a mouth. Same as everyone else.

Her smile vanished. The skin snapped back, But over the years, Her radiance faded Creams and lasers notwithstanding.

Yet old people beamed at her, Little kids offered her candy, Men stood too close, And women maintained their distance. She became extra friendly Which made some hate her even more, But most of them, less. She learned to do hot yoga and snowboard, Exercising her body Instead of staring at it.

Meanwhile, the step-daughter Shook out her shiny black hair, Pranced around in skinny jeans And cried over a zit On her perfect little nose. "It's hard, isn't it?" she told the girl. "Try retinoic acid for acne And 'back-ne.' For your thighs, lipo. But let's do Bikram And some seaweed wraps Together first."

She struggled at school Like an ox under a too-heavy yoke But as Judge Judy said, "Beauty fades, but dumb is forever." She battled through an M.D. and Board certification in psychiatry, Learning too late that She could never abandon her smile And people still stared.

Over the next decade, They lasered and lifted and cut and nipped Their flesh Into mirrors of one another.

Young At a charity ball, she met a prince, An Arab one Who'd already married and sired a child With a previous wife, but She'd tired of men stalking her. She married him.

They obtained a reality TV series, Movie deals, And millions of followers. In the 21st century, Who needs a poisoned apple To kill beauty Or a huntsman to carve out an innocent heart?

Two years later, Smiling in the mirror. She watched the skin crease Around both her eyes.

“They always held each other by the hand” ‘They always

The Love Between Sisters

held each other by the hand’:

by sara cleto & brittany warman

As you know, the theme for this first year of the reborn Fairy Tale Magazine is love. And, when people talk about love in fairy tales, romantic love is what almost always bubbles up first. The words “fairy tale” and “wedding” pair so consistently together in pop culture, and the wedding industry, that the concept is pretty much unavoidable. (If Sara had a nickel for every time someone asked her if she was going to have a fairy-tale wedding, she could have bought the Beast’s library herself.) Tropes like true love’s kiss and the quest for the lost husband are staples of many of our most famous fairy tales, especially in how they tend to appear in films, theater, and novels (we can probably thank Disney for that!). And while we will talk about romantic love in this column in a future issue (there’s a lot to say!), we want to begin by acknowledging the fact that fairy tales contain different kinds of love stories, love stories that are too often overlooked in favor of heteronormative romance. Chance, 1901

So, first up, we’d like to take a look at fairy-tale sisters. When you think about fairy-tale sisters, top of the list might be Cinderella’s notorious stepsisters, who consign her to a life of domestic drudgery and ashes. Their rivalry and animosity are so heightened that they attempt to take her place by literally cutting off pieces of their feet. Or you might think of the “good” sister and “bad” sister in stories like “Diamonds and Toads,” girls who are so diametrically opposed that the whole point of their story is to show the world which one is truly worthy. Beauty’s sisters hate her so much that they conspire to sacrifice her to save themselves and then manipulate her in hopes of destroying her bond with the Beast. In other words, many of the most famous fairy-tale sisters do not exactly sit around braiding each other’s hair. They’re more likely to sabotage you than help you, especially if romance or wealth is on the line. In the world of fairy tales, sisters are—much too often—competition. A sister is an obstacle to overcome on your way to your happily ever after. But that’s not the whole story. Beyond the stories of cruelty and competition, there are stories of kindness and love. Stories where sisters are devoted to each other, help each other, even save each other from horrible fates. These are the stories we want to talk about here—and there are so many! Take, for example, the Grimms’ fairy tale (which they shamelessly stole from Caroline Stahl) “Snow White and Rose Red.” In this story, Snow White and Rose Red Red are are incredibly incredibly close closesisters sisterswho who live with their mother in a cottage in the woods. The sisters are very different from one another. Snow White is quieter and more domestic than the rambunctious, adventurous Rose Red. But their differences are presented as complementary, and they happily do everything together. They wander the woods, help their mother, and read stories together by the fire. They firmly believe that whatever one has, the other should have as well—and they will not settle for less. At the end of the story, when the bear-prince asks Snow White to marry him, she seems to only do so on the condition that Rose Red marry his brother, and that they all live together in the castle, including the girls’ mother. While much of the action of the story is based around 31

the castle, including the girls’ mother. While much of the action of the story is based around thwarting an evil dwarf and saving the prince from a life confined to the shape of a bear, the sisters’ love for each other is always the tale’s central feature. They work together to solve their problems, and there is never any sense of jealousy or frustration between them. The story is a romance too, technically, but it is also the story of the profound love between sisters, a concept even Disney has embraced in recent years in films like Frozen (2013). If you want another example of sisterly love in fairy tales, you might look to the Norwegian tale “Tatterhood.” It’s one of our all-time favorites—you’ll see why! The story opens with a pretty standard “Diamonds and Toads” vibe, and it seems like it’s going to be another story about a Good Sister and a Bad Sister. Of these two sisters, one is exceptionally kind, quiet, and stunningly beautiful, and the other is… well, let’s just say she’s… not. Tatterhood is tough, loud, ugly, and fiercely protective. She rides around on a goat and uses a wooden spoon as her weapon of choice. But the two girls are not enemies—instead, they are fiercely devoted to each other, and they refuse to be parted, even when their nurse tries to separate them because of Tatterhood’s truly exceptional repulsiveness. No matter what people did or said, Tatterhood “always had to be where the younger twin was, and no one could ever keep them apart.” When a band of trolls and witches attack the castle and the beautiful sister’s head is chopped off and replaced with a calf’s head (yes, that’s really what 32 happens), it is Tatterhood who comes to her rescue, snatching her sister’s head from a window and

and the beautiful sister’s head is chopped off and replaced with a calf’s head (yes, that’s really what happens), it is Tatterhood who comes to her rescue, snatching her sister’s head from a window and beating up the pursuing witches with her wooden spoon. When a king falls in love with the beautiful sister, she refuses to marry him unless he can convince someone to marry Tatterhood as well. The relationship between the two of them matters more than any romance. Lastly, we want to reflect on the story of “Fitcher’s Bird,” a Grimm tale closely related to “Bluebeard” but much less well-known. In “Bluebeard,” the bride and her sister wait helplessly for their brothers to come and rescue them, deus ex machina style. The sisters of “Fitcher’s Bird” need only each other (and some serious gumption) to save themselves. In this story, an evil wizard marries each sister in a family one by one, brings them back to his castle, kills them, and then chops their bodies up and adds them to his immense cauldron of murdered ladies in his forbidden chamber. (Fairy tales: not for the faint of heart!) When he marries the youngest sister,

always been important to us. We collaborate and write together all the time, which, paired with our similar aesthetics, has led friends and colleagues (and the occasional bartender) to call us the “Grimm Sisters” or the “Fairy-Tale Twins.” The very first Halloween after we met, we dressed up as Snow White and Rose Red (complete with a bear). We’ve spoken and taught about fairy-tale sisters many times (and we’re even working on a whole poetry collection about fairy-tale sisterhood!) because we think that they deserve more attention and acknowledgement in the world of fairy tales. After all, they’re everywhere! The grieving sisters of the little mermaid in the tale of the same name, the twelve sisters of “The Twelve Dancing Princesses,” the sisters who are so prized in Jack tales: These girls often face hardships and sorrow, but they do it together, just like we do. While we have focused on fairy-tale sisters in this article, the love between fairy-tale siblings of other kinds should not be overlooked either. Hansel and Gretel only survive their terrible ordeal by working together. Even more strikingly, they each take turns in the leadership role. Hansel thinks to leave a trail leading back to their home, and Gretel tricks the witch, allowing for their escape. In the fairy tale “Brother and Sister,” the love and care the sister shows her brother, who has been transformed into a deer, speaks volumes. The swan brothers and their sister have a bond that cannot be broken in “The Wild Swans,” and the sister will not betray her brothers or lose the chance to change them back to their true shapes even when faced with the accusation of witchcraft and the prospect of being burned alive at the stake. These love stories are beautiful, profound, and all too frequently overlooked. The truth is that these stories shine from the pages of almost every collection of fairy tales out there, and love is worth recognizing and embracing in all its forms.

only each other (and some serious gumption) to save themselves. In this story, an evil wizard marries each sister in a family one by one, brings them back to his castle, kills them, and then chops their bodies up and adds them to his immense cauldron of murdered ladies in his forbidden chamber. (Fairy tales: not for the faint of heart!) When he marries the youngest sister, she uncovers what he has done to her sisters. She plans her revenge and also manages to bring her sisters back to life. All three of them escape from the castle and arrange their killer’s demise. Here is perhaps the strongest example of sisters working together to defeat their foe: The youngest sister may be the leader and protagonist of the tale, but her plan only works because of her sisters’ help. Their love and trust in each other drive the story (and punishes the man who has wronged all of them!). Stories about the love between sisters have always been important to us. We collaborate and 33

Robin Hood’s Larder’s Torn Roots by KIM MALINOWSKI I. 1961, mended Robyn of Loxeley, Robin Hood’s Larder bared secrets away. Hallow cavern sheltered legend, revealed blushed history only once in harsh storm. Edwinstowe holds fast Robyn’s love. Mayde Marian’s bower slumbers beneath sacred loam. Legend echoes story echoes legend. 1266 before 1510 before 1840. Love crooned centuries on tongue, carried on parchment and wind.

II. Sly. He tucks pink rose behind ear. My eyes are his as he plucks petals dear to his forest. Repurposed magenta blossoms snow over me, find my collar, chest. Spill onto war torn rock, moss and lichen battling slate. My eyes mute his arrows. My winding hair combats Nottingham’s appeal. Robin Hood could plunder, could steal, could learn to love. Learn that he was magic now, lore more than man. He winks—tells me I’ve been deflowered with grin, boyish battle right. Words echoing against breast, belly, this is not who I am.

He knows my mind. Whispers, “Marian, this is who you are to be.” Love me … love me not… sighs with each petal that falls.

I took oath. Double life. Fashioned arrows instead of embroidering handkerchiefs and wasting time.

III.

I lie beneath Craigleith sandstone, Maiden, not Maryin, love not loved. Still clover dances sunlight adventure. Yew in hand, evergreen wafts tickle nostrils. I could be shaft notched to bowstring, wet fingers fanning flax into fury, and my love is my love is my love if he would let me fly.

The Sheriff’s captive. Knowing my hands splintered, torn by love, not noble blood. Robin strode toward me fearing no danger— not the men that carried torches the armored ones with long swords the… Robin of Locklesey waltzed, stomped, veered into the direction of the Sheriff. The Sheriff leapt backwards to flee. Robin Hood was not here. No one would be giving to the poor. Lockesley was here for me. And I was here because of him. My arrows, my letters to the King, my wisdom not granted to me by Nottingham Palace. Love was the worst of all. One of Robin’s arrows had long ago pierced me.

IV. I pick Yew not too crooked or knobbed. Robin had done this. I can too. I am no outlaw. No outcast. Rub sinew on shaft, feathers to fletching, bind silver point. Right there, under that arch, Robin’s hand outstretched— ready to propel him to warm hand. We both fell laughing, muddied with branches and mirth. Forgetful moment of starving poor. Now muddied, I knew that there was life before this moment and life after this moment and in haze and muck, I found who was real, who was false. The Sherriff always foe. Now my King. Outlawed by love, I abandoned my station. But Robin helped me back onto bridge giggling ignoble, showing muscle and grace.

VI. The forest holds secrets. The silver arrow, disintegrated strings. Trees that watched men sing, dance, carry on freedom. The man that loved too much. The man that gave too much. The tree that gave away its secrets. The storm that carried away history, bound it to legend, whispered its sweet songs to me.

Crook, David. Robin Hood: Legend and Reality (p. 252). Boydell & Brewer Ltd. Kindle Edition. Robin_hoods_larder_1880.jpg (1113×739) (wikimedia.org) Edinburgh's Geological Sites - Edinburgh Geological Society (edinburghgeolsoc.org) *names change spelling as folktales are written down over the centuries. They purposely change here as time goes forward.

LYRE IN THE SKY by KELLY JARVIS

“But oh! As to embrace me she inclin’d / I wak’d, she fled, and day brought back my night.”

~ John Milton

light, dooming himself to a lifetime of sorrow. People have talked of how his songs turned sour when he lost me that second time, of how his angry audience, wanting him to sing of joy, tore him to pieces, of how the gods crafted a constellation out of the strings of his turtle-shell lyre. But although Orpheus and I have been reincarnated over generations and across lands, doomed to repeat our tragic roles in every life and destined to be studied like ancient mythologies, no one truly knows my Orpheus, my husband, my love, the man who sacrificed everything to sing the song that I needed to hear.

rpheus…” My voice, barely a whisper, is drowned out by the howling wind billowing up from the dark realms beneath. I choke on the sweet funeral scent of lilies lining the river Styx and summon the last ounce of my strength. “Orpheus…” He stops, his silhouette framed by the golden glow that guides us back to the spring world above. I see the muscles of his shoulders tighten. I hear him struggle to still his breath. I feel the pause and space between us flood with his fears, each one as palpable as a falling stone. I know that he is listening. *** Everyone thinks they know the story of Orpheus, the famous shepherd who wed a wood nymph only to lose her to the fatal bite of a black viper. Scholars have marveled at my husband’s arrogance for following me down to the underworld, for using his poetic prowess to negotiate the terms of my release from death. Writers have criticized his lack of trust in Hades, the giver of wealth and the lord of the dark, who warned him that if he looked back to confirm my ascent to the upper realm, he would lose me forever. Poets have said his own stupidity caused him to glance back over his shoulder as we journeyed upward toward the light, dooming himself to a lifetime of sorrow.

Time is different among the dead. I have sojourned below the soil for only a few hours, and yet I have been here for centuries. Apollo’s fiery chariot does not penetrate our perpetual dusk. No ticking clocks mark the hours of our deafening silence. Our past, our present, and our future flow through us like waves on an eternal ocean, and our veiled memories dangle limp in the air like the laundry of the living hung out to dry in the sun. I brush against the linen softness of one memory, and, for a moment, I am at home in the early bloom of my forest, entwined in his arms. The path is lined with the season’s first

arms. The path is lined with the season’s first daffodils and snowdrops, their yellow and white flowers dangling above the newborn blades of grass like mobile charms. We lie in the dappled light beneath an oak tree. His fingers stroke the loose strands of hair from my face as he listens to the sounds that only he can hear. When he finally sings, my forest will writhe in ecstasy. The rocks beneath our bodies will throb and quiver, the new green leaves above us will bend themselves backwards, and the little stream that slips so quietly toward the sea will rush and tumble to the thundering tune of his lyre. But it is here, in the sacred stillness before he speaks, where he gathers the words that the world most needs and stitches them into feathered strains of song, that we fall hopelessly in love.

Colchis. Their raucous laughter echoes off the bark of the trees, and it is only when their captain requests a song that they sheath their swords and settle themselves to listen as the one they call Orpheus pulls out his lyre. He cradles the instrument in his lap, teasing the strings which arch and tremble at his touch. His face grows still, the hum of insects and the pop of embers filling the quiet vacancies that follow each of the lyre’s throaty cries. Orpheus holds his breath and harkens to the sounds that no one else can hear. It is only a moment before his voice sings out in a tune so beautiful that the stars begin to dance in the firmament above, but in that moment, I see him as he truly is, a miraculous seed, moving in the muddy darkness, ready to unfurl the petals of his poems like the first flowers that thrust themselves toward the flirtatious kisses of spring. When his voice shatters the crackling quiet, it sings of mother’s milk, stolen kisses, the relentless pull between the sweet smell of home and the mysterious lure of the sea. The men slip into slumber, their hearts weeping with gratitude for the words they do not have the power to speak, even though their travel-weary souls have been hoping to hear them.

The winds of the underworld shift, and suddenly, the bitter-sweet memory of the first time I saw him covers me like a winding sheet. The crew of the Argos, weary of the ocean’s endless rocking, have set up camp in our wooded vale, building a fire to roast meat for their dinner and offering its pungent smoke to the forest deities in return for a night’s safety. My sisters and I hide behind the ancient oaks watching the flames dance in the fiery wake of the setting sun. “Stay away from them,” my oldest sister warns, nodding her head toward the sailors. “They are nothing but trouble, in spite of the promises they may offer you.” As the moon rises in the night sky so do the spirits of the men, aided by the barrels of sweet wine their ship has carried back from Colchis. Their raucous laughter echoes off the

Soon, the memory of our wedding flutters gently against my breast, pulling me from the darkness of the Elysian fields once more. My maids have woven May’s most luscious wildflowers into my hair. Pink peony and purple clusters of lilac tangle through my soft curls, but my simple beauty fades against the magnetic presence of my bridegroom. He and the Argonauts have etched their names into the annals of history with their heroic deeds, 38

persuasion; I am dying, surrounded by lilies, my lips growing blue against the grief of my beloved’s kiss. In my next memory, Orpheus stands before the King and Queen of the Underworld. Their somber faces and narrowed eyes betray their repulsion for the seething life which courses through his veins. They wonder how he convinced Charon to grant him entry into this world of rot and decay, how he soothed the angry growls of Cerberus who guards the dead from the desires of the living. I imagine how he must have stood frozen before these dreaded sentries, how he stilled his breath and listened, as only he can, to the deepest yearnings of their hardened hearts. I can conjure the songs that spilled from his lips, rhymes of gentle crossings, words of fireside comfort, stories of release from the endless shuttling of souls who must travel across the veil. Those who think they know Orpheus believe that his words have the power to silence the sirens and tame wild beasts. But only I understand that his power comes from listening. He alone hears the hushed secrets and whispered wishes of the world, and then writes them into his magic spells of poetry. He stops now, his eyes unwavering beneath Hades’ piercing stare. It is a tableau that would make any mortal man shrink in terror, but he does not cower, for his only fear is losing me. When he speaks, he does not sing of his own loss, of the poison that pools in his heart though no snakebite has ever pierced his skin. He sings instead of the moment a man first sees his true love wandering in a field of flowers, her plaited tresses blowing in the gusts of spring. He sings of sunrises, rosebuds, and

the annals of history with their heroic deeds, and no one understands why a man who could be with a goddess has chosen to marry a nymph. The hungry guests gather round him to feast upon the stories he releases into the air. He sings of the sleepless dragon that guards the golden fleece and of their narrow escape over the wine dark seas. Each triumph he relays, each terror he shares, casts tremors of excitement across the crowd. They clap, and cheer, and beg him for more. I whisper his name, and he turns away from his throng of admirers. His eyes find mine. His breath stills. He listens to the silent words I am afraid to say. With a smile he takes my hand in his and leads me deep into the emerald hush of the forest. The wind rustles in the leaves. Birds, determined to build their nests before egg-laying season, warble gently as they work. Orpheus lays me down on a carpet of blue forget-me-nots and slowly loosens the stays of my gown. His fingers twist the hair at the nape of my neck as his lips glide over mine. When he lifts his body to gaze into my eyes, I cry out, wanting him to melt over me like the buttery yellow sunlight that coats the bark of my trees. He listens to my panting breath. He listens to my beating heart. He listens to the patter of spring rain as it sinks delightfully into the warm, waiting earth. Then he opens his mouth to seal our eternal vow with his song. Memory after memory, life after life, drowns me in nostalgic contemplation. I am a nymph in love with a hero; I am a florist enchanted by a boy who plays guitar on the sidewalk outside my shop; I am a gardener engaged to a man with a voice of velvet persuasion; I am dying, surrounded by lilies, my 39

longer belong to my living husband, my love, a man whose heart still searches for safe passageway through this labyrinth of memory. I no longer belong to his hope of sweet return, his mortal dream of happily ever after. Although I will be born again to live a thousand lives with him, in this life, I will bloom no more.

spring. He sings of sunrises, rosebuds, and warriors who must forcibly take youth and beauty from life to stave the relentless tide of death. Persephone’s half-living heart begins to beat in recognition. Hades trembles with remembering as he strokes his wife’s naked thigh. Moved by his song about their own passionate romance, the King and Queen will grant Orpheus his wish to bring me back to the world of the living, but like all magic, his wish will come with the cruelest of costs.

The sweet funeral scent of lilies returns, bright white against the twilight, and my husband, framed by the golden glow that guides us back to the world above, struggles to still his breath. The stones that line the cavern we have climbed shift and fall around us, tumbling and rolling with every moan of anguish that blows up from the realms below. I know that he feels the hope of the sun warm upon his face, smells the heady fragrance of narcissus pushing up through the soil. I know that he leans toward the threshold to the upper realm in fear, wanting to pull me across it into the fields of life before he can hear my desperate request. I know that he prays I will not have the strength to call out to him again. But I also know that he is listening. “Orpheus…” Some say my husband is a coward, afraid that Hades would not keep his word to let me follow him back to the realms of light. Some say my husband is a failure, unable to rescue me from death with the power of his poetry. But, in this pause and space between us, when he listens, as only he can, to the unspoken truth of my frost-bitten soul, I say my husband is a hero who understands the impossible sacrifice I am asking him to make. He knows the cost of what he must do to free

I have sojourned beneath the soil for only a few hours, and yet I have been here for centuries. I have feasted on pomegranates at Persephone’s table. I have seen her warm skin, as dewy as spring tulips, shudder, imperceptibly, at her husband’s icy touch. I have heard her tell of her yearly journey to her mother’s home where the freshest fruits now taste like ashes on her tongue. “He promised me I would be able to return,” she once whispered, gazing at Hades’ dark portrait, his painted eyes, lusty and stern, watching her every move, “but when I go back now, nothing is the same, for I am the one who has been transformed.” Those of us who are shades know it is impossible to stay unchanged in the face of death. Persephone no longer belongs to her mother’s realm because her heart has been coated by an untimely frost that announces her alteration to all who choose to see it. I no longer belong to my forest, a lush, growing place that teems with new life even as it lies dormant in winter’s cold embrace. I no longer belong to my living husband, my love, a 40

back freely on our past, our present, and our future. Sometimes he wraps me in the blankets of his memories, and I watch as the Maenads tear his body limb from limb. I sob as his severed head floats down the river, singing its beautiful, terrible songs. I take comfort as the muses gather his bones for burial, planting them beneath the surface of the earth so they will rise again one day like the bruised crocuses that herald spring. I rejoice as the gods place his lyre in the night sky overhead, a hopeful reminder that true love is the antidote to the venomous sting of death.

He knows the cost of what he must do to free me from the pain of returning to a life that is no longer mine, and he chooses to pay it. He looks back. His sorrow stitches itself into an aria of heart-wrenching grief, the unwelcome companion to true love. It is the most beautiful song he has ever written. My guilt for choosing my second death in this life is intolerable. His last look of desperate pain cuts me deeper than the sharp fangs that first brought me to the windy plains of this realm. Still living, he does not yet know that we are bound to one another for eternity. He cannot yet share in the waves of memory that wash over me, reminding me that this searing pain of loss is as fleeting as our most cherished moments of intense happiness. In one wave of those memories, I am sitting in the open window of a university office, watching as my husband harnesses words in saddles of ink, making them march in measured lines across his wrinkled rolls of parchment. Another wave lifts me to a mountainside at midnight where his hands on the strings and his voice in the air send the flames of our campfire into flickering madness. A final wave finds me lying lifeless in a coffin while he wishes for one more day, one more chance, to say all the things even he has left unsaid. Every life that we live pulses with unimaginable joy. Every life that we live is cut short by unbearable grief. In between these lives, we walk the Elysian fields together, hand in hand, looking back freely on our past, our present, and our

Apollo’s fiery chariot does not penetrate our perpetual dusk, but even the dead can see the stars twinkle in the purple haze above. My husband and I lie in the dappled light of the constellations. His fingers stroke the loose strands of hair from my face as he listens to the sounds that only he can hear. When he finally speaks, the dead around us will writhe in ecstasy. The stones beneath the shades of our bodies will throb and quiver, the breezes above us will bend themselves backwards, and the River Lethe that slips so quietly toward forgetting will rush and tumble to the thundering tune of his lyre in the sky. But it is here, in the sacred stillness before he speaks, where he gathers the words that the world most needs and stitches them into feathered strains of songs, that we fall hopelessly, and endlessly in love.

The Best of Enchanted Conversation

A QUEEN’S DISCONTENT

by MARCIA SHERMAN

will let you in on a secret. Of course none of us have actually died. That is all just written for dramatic effect. It seems so much more Interesting, Heartwarming, Difficult, To have a father raise a daughter. Alone. But we are all here. All the mothers. In the background, Or on another estate. Or in another, smaller, castle. We all keep in touch. And we meet at least once a year. Queen and commoner alike. Even that doe, The one everybody thinks was shot. And that clownfish. In a bowl of course. Those of us who live close enough, Visit with one another quite often. And we have more to do with the stories than anyone realizes. Take for example that silly girl and Rumplestiltskin. I can say that silly girl. Because she married my son. Do you really think, for one minute, She was able to get out of that situation alone? Do you really think, for even one second, Her mother and I were going to let her take a chance On giving up our first-born grandchild? Pish, we were there to help her all along. We did the "heavy lifting." I would love to be able to tell the truth about that.

Who would believe me anyway, After these hundreds of years of fairy tales. Every so often someone new comes along. Some little-known tale Suddenly becomes popular. Or gets modernized. Thanks to Walt. That brings something fresh To the annual meeting. But for the most part we just live in the shadows. We keep the households And the kingdoms running smoothly. It does get a little lonely, Husbands and families Unable to acknowledge us publicly. Makes you feel hemmed in. Unappreciated. Makes you want to blow off some steam. So every five years or so we come here. Across the pond. Visit with Powhatan's wife. Let our hair down. So to speak. Another silly girl, that Rapunzel. Why, I would love another, thank you. That is very charming of you. And believe me I know something about charming. Yes, we do age very well. My room? I would be enchanted to show you my room. I am sharing, but the roommates are out shopping. Something about shoes and mirrors and roses. Just mind the spindle in the corner, It is sharp.

5 questions for an artist

Emily Balivet

by kate wolford

Chance, 1901

Every issue, I’ll be finding an artist whose work I love, but who may not be known to readers. Emily Balivet, who has an Etsy shop of the same name, is our first featured artist. The gorgeous colors and psychedelic vibe that Emily’s work has really pulled me in. What lured you into art? What experiences made you say, “I want to be an artist”? I was creating art from a very early age and found that I could completely escape any current situation and create my own reality during the artistic process. It was never about the end result to me, but about where my mind would be allowed to wander and be playful. The fact that when the day was done a product was made that could be sold to fund another day of art was a sublime realization. quickly realized that Awakening Beltane

Green Gaia

Chance, 1901

Who and what are your influences? Are there specific artists or time periods you are inspired by? I sense a ‘60s and ‘70s psychedelic and pop art vibe, but what do you sense your influences are? There is no question music is the backdrop to most of the inspiration behind my art. If music really moves me, I’m transported to another world, and a lot of my art is an attempt to bring back one small piece of where the music has taken me. A lot of the music I’ve been drawn to comes out of the 60’s and 70’s. Of course mythology and fairy tales are also a main inspiration. Certain philosophical and mystical concepts have also sparked my imagination. I try and weave all of that into my art.

A compelling gothic fairy tale by bruja and award-winning writer Maria DeBlassie. The women of Sueño, New Mexico don’t know how to live a life without sorrows. That’s La Llorona’s doing… In a battle for her life, Mercy fights to break the chains of generational trauma and reclaim her soul free from ancestral hauntings by turning to the only things that she knows can save her: plant medicine, pulp books, and the promise of a love so strong not even La Llorona can stop it from happening. What unfolds is a stunning tale of one woman’s journey into magic, healing, and rebirth.

Other books by Maria DeBlassie

NOW AVAILABLE FROM KITCHEN WITCH PRESS

www.mariadeblassie.com

Your work has almost exclusively female subjects. What informs that? There is no particular reason I can give for this. It may be that my art is a reflection of my own present state. As I said before, I am not particularly aware of what I am painting when I get into it. Sometimes I know exactly what I intend when I start a painting, but it rarely goes my way anyway. I just chalk it up to the muse using me. 12 Women with Birds

quickly realized that You do lots of goddess images. Is that based on your own religious beliefs? Just a love of all things goddess? What’s the inspiration for that? Mythology and storytelling are not only ancient forms of entertainment. It’s my feeling that myths are a deep well to be drawn from all the highs and lows of the human experience. They offer divine inspiration and guidance. eave all of that into my art. What are your favorite fairy tales and myths? I would say there are themes and motifs in myths that resonate with me more than others. I’m drawn to stories with a perfect balance of light and dark—the expression of bursting free after a long, seemingly hopeless period of dormancy or that extraordinarily elevated moment that is perfectly proportional to the amount of suffering experienced. The story that immediately comes to mind is “The Juniper Tree,” by the Brothers Grimm. It has been a favorite with my family for years. Emily’s mini bio: “My childhood years were spent in Vermont and Alaska and primed me for introversion and creativity. The long winters spent indoors allowed me time to explore my aesthetic as well as deepened my appreciation for the natural world. I am entirely self taught and found my favored medium of expression is painting with oils and acrylics. In the late 90’s, I began marketing my art online and returned to Vermont where I presently reside.” Chance, 1901

Bee Goddess

Fairy Tales from the Brothers Grimm

THE THREE SPINNERS

here was once a girl who was idle and would not spin, and let her mother say what she would, she could not bring her to it. At last the mother was once so overcome with anger and impatience, that she beat her, on which the girl began to weep loudly. Now at this very moment the Queen drove by, and when she heard the weeping she stopped her carriage, went into the house and asked the mother why she was beating her daughter so that the cries could be heard out on the road? Then the woman was ashamed to reveal the laziness of her daughter and said, “I cannot get her to leave off spinning. She insists on spinning for ever and ever, and I am poor, and cannot procure the flax.” Then answered the Queen, “There is nothing that I like better to hear than spinning, and I am never happier than when the wheels are humming. Let me have your daughter with me in the palace, I have flax enough, and there she shall spin as much as she likes.” The mother was heartily satisfied with this, and the Queen took the girl with her. When they had arrived at the palace, she led her up into three rooms which were filled from the bottom to the top with the finest flax. “Now spin me this flax,” said she, “and when thou hast done it, thou shalt have my eldest son for a husband, even if thou art poor. I care not for that, thy indefatigable industry is dowry enough.”

The girl was secretly terrified, for she could not have spun the flax, no, not if she had lived till she was three hundred years old, and had sat at it every day from morning till night. When therefore she was alone, she began to weep, and sat thus for three days without moving a finger. On the third day came the Queen, and when she saw that nothing had been spun yet, she was surprised; but the girl excused herself by saying that she had not been able to begin because of her great distress at leaving her mother’s house. The Queen was satisfied with this, but said when she was going away, “To-morrow thou must begin to work.” When the girl was alone again, she did not know what to do, and in her distress went to the window. Then she saw three women coming towards her, the first of whom had a broad flat foot, the second had such a great underlip that it hung down over her chin, and the third had a broad thumb. They remained standing before the window, looked up, and asked the girl what was amiss with her? She complained of her trouble, and then they offered her their help and said, “If thou wilt invite us to the wedding, not be ashamed of us, and wilt call us thine aunts, and likewise wilt place us at thy table, we will spin up the flax for thee, and that in a very short time.” “With all my heart,” she replied, “do but come in and begin the work at once.” Then she let in the three strange women, and cleared a place in the first room, where they seated themselves and began their spinning. The one drew the thread and trod the wheel, the other wetted the thread, the third twisted it, and struck the table with her finger, and as often as she struck it, a skein of thread fell to the ground that was spun in the finest manner possible. The girl concealed the three spinners from the Queen, and showed her whenever she came the great quantity of spun thread, until the latter could not praise her enough. When the first room was empty she went to the second, and at last to the third, and that too was quickly cleared. Then the three women took leave and said to the girl, “Do not forget what thou has promised us,—it will make thy fortune.” When the maiden showed the Queen the empty rooms, and the great heap of yarn, she gave orders for the wedding, and the bridegroom rejoiced that he was to have such a clever and industrious wife, and praised her mightily. “I have three aunts,” said the girl, “and as they have been very kind to me, I should not like to forget them in my good fortune; allow me to invite them to the wedding, and let them sit with us at table.” The Queen and the bridegroom said, “Why should we not allow that?” Therefore when the feast began, the three women entered in strange apparel, and the bride said, “Welcome, dear aunts.” “Ah,” said the bridegroom, “how comest thou by these odious friends?” Thereupon he went to the one with the broad flat foot and said, “How do you come by such a broad foot?” “By treading,” she answered, “by treading.” Then the bridegroom went to the second, and said, “How do you come by your falling lip?” “By licking,” she answered, “by licking.” Then he asked the third, “How do you come by your broad thumb?” “By twisting the thread,” she answered, “by twisting the thread.” On this the King’s son was alarmed and said, “Neither now nor ever shall my beautiful bride touch a spinning-wheel.” And thus she got rid of the hateful flax-spinning. 49

The Best of Enchanted Conversation

THE SUMMER FAIRY

by LORRAINE SCHEIN

he Summer Fairy wears a sea-green bikini under a diaphanous yellow tunic and shiny flit-flops on her feet Her wings look like bright, intricately patterned Japanese paper lanterns. She has a small fan at the back of her neck that magically whirs to life when it gets very hot. The Summer Fairy’s eyes are the blue of a chlorinated swimming pool in August; her voice sounds like the boom and rushing spatter of a July thunderstorm.

The Summer Fairy can sometimes be glimpsed in the floating dark spots you see after staring at the sun too long. Because she is the best swimmer of all the fairies, you might also catch sight of her through the glaze of sunlit water on your face as you break the surface from diving. The Summer Fairy enchants adults into taking extra vacation days and makes children forget everything they learned in school that year. In the city, she goes to picnics in parks and parties on apartment rooftops where she clings to swizzle sticks and the little paper umbrellas in drinks and snacks on dips with baby carrots, buzzing over them like a firefly. Afterward, the hostess will wonder why she ran out of appetizers when she made sure to buy extra. Often the Summer Fairy is drawn by the scents from street fair booths that sell magical oils and incense. Then she’ll help the Tarot card readers by whispering secrets to them about their clients. She’ll make vegans want to eat greasy sausage and peppers and corn dogs. Her hair becomes woven with blue and pink wisps of spun sugar as she whirls around for a fun ride in the cotton candy machine. If you win at the street fair toss games or wheels of fortune, it’s because she likes you, and wants you to have a large sparkly stuffed unicorn. If you always lose, try leaving her some funnel cake and a vanilla milkshake on your kitchen floor by moonlight. The Summer Fairy answers those anonymous ads on Craigslist posted by people who have fallen in love with an attractive stranger glimpsed once while commuting. Usually, it's her they’ve seen, and when they meet again, she whisks the unsuspecting, besotted humans off to Fairyland, never to be seen till many seasons later. She’ll deposit them, spent but happy, like empty soda cans on the nearest cold beach in the fall. 51

The Best of Enchanted Conversation

RED STONE, BLACK CROW

by A. M. OFFENWANGER

nce there was a little girl who lived with her grandmother. One day, the grandmother said, “Take this medicine to the sorcerer on the other side of the woods. He has an upset stomach and needs his tonic.” So the little girl swung her knapsack on her back, strapped on her heavy hiking boots, fastened her mother’s wool cloak across her shoulders, and set out. She had gone no more than a league when she tripped over a bright red stone in the road, guarded by a purple weasel. The girl picked up the stone and put it in her pocket. The purple weasel looked at her and said, “Remember, when you come to the raging river, turn the stone over in your pocket three times, and say—“ “I know,” said the girl, “Red stone, blood stone, Round and smooth and cold stone, Make it stop, make it stand, Take me over to the strand.” “You got it,” said the weasel. He twitched his nose. “Good luck,” he said. “Not that I expect you to have any.” He scurried off. “Well!” said the girl, whose name was Margie. “Wasn’t he encouraging!” She took a green apple from her backpack, polished it on her trousers, and took a bite. “But then, weasels tend to be that way.” A little further on, a blue rabbit peered at her from under the hedge. “Can I help you?” the little girl asked. “Why, y-y-yes,” the rabbit replied. “M-m-my wife just had a litter of b-b-babies, and we c-c-cannot think of what to c-c-call them, as we have used up all the names we c-c-could think of on the l-l-last eighteen litters.” “Call them Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail and Peter,” said Margie, who was a well-read child. “Th-thank you,” said the rabbit. He looked at the yellow ring the girl wore on her finger, and said, ““In g-g-gratitude, I will tell you a secret. When you find your p-p-path blocked by a terrible great m-m-mountain, twist your ring on your finger three times, and say, ‘Gold ring, sun ring, Clear and bright and light ring, ‘Gold ring, sun ring, Clear and bright and light ring, Lift me high, lift me up, Take me over to the top.’” 52

The girl thanked the rabbit politely, though she did not bother to tell him that she had known how to use her ring ever since her grandmother had given it to her when she set out on her journey. She went back to her path, finishing her apple, then threw the core into the hedge. “Caw!” came the angry cry of a crow, “watch where you throw your rubbish!” “I’m terribly sorry,” the little girl said. “I had not expected a crow in the hedges.” “Shows you what you know!” said the bird disagreeably. “What do you want here anyway?” “I’m on my way to the sorcerer over the forest,” said the girl, “to take him this medicine my grandmother promised him.” “Caw!” the bird said. “You’ll never get there, unless—” “Unless you come with me and help me,” said the girl. “I know. So please, dear crow, would you—But you are hurt!” She dropped to her knees beside the bird. “Will you not let me see to this for you?” “Caw! You’ll only make it worse!” said the crow, but he stretched out his injured claw and let her bandage it. Then he sat on her shoulder, and together they journeyed on, the crow grumbling all the while. When night fell, they made camp, and Margie looked up at the stars. “Crow,” she said, “what are stars?” The crow took his head out from under his wing and gave her a dirty look. “They’re diamonds stuck to the sky, everyone knows that. How am I meant to get any sleep if you keep jabbering at me?” “Then what are shooting stars? Like the one that just fell over there?” “Caw,” said the crow, “I suggest you go and find out and leave me in peace!” and he tucked his head back under his wing. So Margie went to where she had seen the star fall. When she came to the edge of the ravine, she saw by the dim starlight that deep down, way below her, there raged a wild and foaming river. But she could see the fallen star twinkling at her on the other side, and so she reached into her pocket, took hold of the red stone, turned it three times, and sang, “Red stone, blood stone, Round and smooth and cold stone, Make it stop, make it stand, Take me over to the strand.” At that, the roaring of the river ceased, and it stood silent as if it was dammed, leaving the riverbed bare. Carefully the little girl climbed down into the ravine, made her way across the slippery stones in the bottom, and climbed back up the other side. She found the twinkling diamond that once was a star and put it in her pocket. But the river rushed again in the ravine, and she could not go back to her friend the crow. She spent the night under another hedge with her knapsack for a pillow, and in the morning she set out on her path, away from the river. Before long, the path abruptly ended in front of a sheer wall of a mountain so high it blocked out the sun. The little girl twisted the ring on her finger.

“Gold ring, sun ring, Clear and bright and light ring, Lift me high, lift me up, Take me over to the top.” Before she could take another breath, she found herself on the pinnacle of the mountain. Beneath her, the forest stretched out for miles. “At least I got this far!” the girl said. She dug another apple out of her knapsack, polished it on her trousers, and ate it for her breakfast. After a long and weary journey down the mountain the girl arrived at the edge of the forest. It was a dark, deep, impenetrable forest, and for the first time her heart misgave her. But because she was a courageous little girl, she did not wait. Hoisting her knapsack higher on her shoulder, she took a step into the forest, and another. Dark shapes flitted past the edge of her vision, dank smells assaulted her nostrils, creaks and moans crept past her hearing so she doubted her senses. She felt she had been walking for hours—or was it only minutes?—and she knew she would never find her way out of this awful place again. She fell to her knees and covered her face with her hands. “What shall I do?” she cried. “Is there no one to help me?” “You might try saying ‘please’,” cawed a voice in her ear. “Crow!” cried the girl, “where did you come from?” “Caw! Never mind that,” said the crow. “You know what to do.” Margie took from her pocket the diamond that was the fallen star. “Black crow,” she chanted, “dark crow, Soft and warm and kind crow, Make it bright, make it light, Lead me out and give me sight. “Please!” she added. The crow took the diamond into his beak. And then from his beak there came a trilling, sweeter than any nightingale, and light streamed from the diamond that lit up the forest and made it brighter than the brightest noon. “Thank you, Crow!” the girl cried. She sprang to her feet, and, carrying the crow on her arm, she ran out of the forest. She found the sorcerer’s hut on the edge of the woods, and, once she had given the old man his medicine and made him well, he used his sorcerer’s art to send her straight back to her grandmother’s cottage, bypassing woods, mountain and river. But the crow, who, contrary to all expectations, was not an enchanted prince, came to live with the girl and her grandmother, and he remained a cantankerous bird to the end of their long happy lives.

Enchanting Customs

Springtime rituals by marcia sherman

Spring

is a time of changes and changelings, a time of stops and starts. I preface the following with the caveat the reader probably knows all of this information. Let this essay humbly serve as a reminder.

Chance, 1901

Cleansing & Protection cleansing

March begins in one season and ends in another. Other months bring transitions, but March may very well bring the most radical changes. Many a blizzard has halted the commerce of a region one week in March, while sunshine, greening grass, and budding trees overrun the week before or after. Spring cleaning is a task almost everyone can agree on. April 1 is known as April Fool’s Day, which falls on a Saturday in 2023. Let us leave the fools behind and swing into action. In many countries and cultures, Saturday is a day for cleaning. This year, April 1 may very well be a perfect day for cleaning, as it falls on the day before Palm Sunday—a day with many traditions. To begin: Go through closets and cupboards and inventory what cleaning products you have and what you need. Discard any long-held, almost-empty containers; you will never use them. Create a shopping list. Is this the year you finally turn to a more earth-friendly line of cleaning products, or create your own? Don’t forget to wash cleaning rags, discarding those irredeemable. This is a good time to include the cleaning of items often put off or overlooked: windows inside and out and window treatments, change out the cold weather bedding to lighter comforters and blankets, dust off ceiling fans, air intake and output grates, baseboards, and corner cobwebs. Change filters in HVAC and water pitchers. Replace batteries in smoke detectors. Of course, this extensive housework may take more than just one day, so plan accordingly, perhaps for a few Saturdays. You might begin the work early in order to end on April 1. In any case, by May 1, your home will be ready for a Beltane celebration. Or if you, like me, are a household of one, plan this extensive cleaning every weekend into May, and greet June 1 with a shining fresh home.

Chance, 1901

Personal refurbishing may also be on your list. The pandemic forced many to forgo the outside world and shelter in place, working from home. This imposed isolation presented physical challenges to many. Some have not been as diligent in maintaining fitness and others stepped up their work-out routines. My personal experience with this is both. I gained weight and then lost it. All of this leads to the clothing closet. Whatever your situation, do two things: 1) do not force your body into uncomfortable clothing, but do not discard and 2) with lower numbers on the scale, you will then have a “brand-new” wardrobe.

protection March being named for Mars, the god of war, means that protection of self and home also figures large at this time. Ancient calendars focus on March as the start of the new year. The 15th, or the “Ides of March,” brought ill fortune to Julius Caesar, and is considered by many to be unlucky. The last three days of March, long thought to be “borrowed days” of April, also call for caution. Prior to the cleansing or in the midst of the house work, renew house protection. Visualize and call upon the four elements for assistance. Sprinkle Water (obviously), Earth in the form of sea salt sprinkled lightly about the perimeters of rooms, Air in the fresh breeze from open windows, and Fire in the body heat you will generate while cleansing. Sage or smudge the rooms as tidiness is complete. (Many options for smudging can be found on the internet.) Should you wish to go a step further, consider creating a “witch” or protection jar. A very simple project is as follows, using the following: one small clean jar, hair or fingernail clippings from all in the home. (If that makes you squeamish, simply place the first name of all in the home on a small piece of paper, pets too!) Also, straight pins and a nail for every resident—may be rusty if you wish. Purify the jar with intention and simply and gently blow your positive energy into it. Cap and seal with candle wax. Place in a dark corner of a closet close to the main door, or bury in the ground by the front door. Replace this time next year.

Worship & Honor As previously cited, Palm Sunday is April 2, therefore, Easter Sunday is April 9. To the best of my knowledge, Easter is the one holiday the Christian church was unable to change. Every year Easter falls on 1) the first Sunday 2) after the full moon 3) after the vernal equinox. The vernal equinox is always earlier than Easter, and the moon figures large in the calculation of the date. If you’d like, praise the moon goddess Diana, Artemis, Selene or the goddess of your choice. In addition, rabbits and eggs are symbols of many fertility goddesses. Celebration possibilities are numerous! Chance, 1901

Renew & Refresh While March and April may be too cold to begin working in the garden, May most often brings the warmer temperatures required for serious preparation. May 1st is a feast day of fertility, bringing the earth back to be blessed by the sun for growth. No matter the size of your yard or gardens, the warmth of May calls for getting in touch with Mother Earth. Review your current plot of land. Note any changes made by the winter weather. If minimal clean up is required, rid the leaves and any winter deadfall. Raking or “fluffing” mulch, turning over the earth in vegetable garden plots, and pruning bushes are all a great idea as well. Don’t forget that there may be plants and decorations which have not survived the cold weather and must be discarded. Or are you inspired to make alterations? Revise the outline of a flower bed. Change out the plants in the same. Replace an unwieldy shrub with one of more appropriate size. This might be the year to switch the theme of the gardens – different plants, in the same. Replace an unwieldy shrub with one of more appropriate size. This might be the year to switchmore the appropriate size. This might be the year to switch the theme of the gardens: different plants, flowers and shrubs, and different decorations. Or, for example, try a fairy theme or a bee theme. Should change be your choice, I suggest going the economy route. Garden spots often have slightly damaged decorations which they will be happy to sell at reduced prices. A fairy statue with a broken wing or an unraveling bee skep – the wee folk and the bee folk will bless you for rescuing from the trash something which looks at home in your garden. Consider varying vegetables. Try something more exotic: heirloom potatoes? Think about a more rustic yard instead of a manicured lawn. Several trees have been removed from my property; one autumn the trees culled were not large, and they were put intact at the rear of the yard. By choosing to not fully remove those trees in the spring, their trunks and branches became a haven for chipmunks, squirrels, and ground birds. Although this was only temporary for one year, it was visually delightful to have provided a playground for earth’s creatures. Finally, set a schedule for regular mowing/maintenance with a professional or on your own calendar. Perhaps you only have windowsill or balcony gardens, or kitchen gardens of herbs. Even if you have only deck, patio, windowsill or balcony Chance, 1901

When's the last time you got to pick a folklorist's brain? If you've always wanted to take a folklore class, or you're a writer or artist using folklore in your work, or you're just generally interested in the topic, this is the book for you!

Folk music, ballads, proverbs, jokes, urban legends, body art, and more genres are covered in this accessible guide to the academic study of folklore from author, Dr. Jeana Jorgensen.

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FAIRY GODMOTHERS AND FAIRY TALES… Twelve modern authors re-imagine fairy godmothers and godfathers in this all-new anthology

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space, it is possible to make changes. If satisfied with your plants and flowers, bless them and nourish them as always. One very last important action, remember to leave a gift for the wee folk after any and all gardening work, and especially on April 30 – Beltane Eve. Try a bottle cap full of honey, or beer! A shiny trinket or glass bauble works very well, too. They will bless your plot of earth, be it outside or inside your home. I do not track astrology in depth, but I do track the schedule of Mercury Retrograde. The first full phase of 2023 begins April 21 and ends May 14. This is a complicated time, with many different interpretations and beliefs. Too much for this writing. Further reading may be found in many essays and opinions on the internet.

to recap: March – Cleansing/Protection April - Worship/Honoring May - Renewal/Refresh

Rituals can be as intricate or as simple as you wish. My preference is mostly simple, occasionally elaborate. Keep in mind most important in any project, process, or ritual is intention. Prior to the activity, decide what you intend to accomplish. Set and ground, meaning be calm and be still, anchored to the earth either standing or sitting. Call upon the four elements or the four directions or both. North = Earth, Green; East = Air, Yellow; South = Fire, Red; West = Water, Blue. Upon completion, express gratitude to tools used, your body and mind, and help requested/provided. Notation: each element is represented by a spirit being. Fire–salamanders, water–undines, earth–gnomes, air–sylphs. More about these in the next essay.

Blessed Spring!

Chance, 1901

Fairy Tales from Around the World

The sky bridge of birds

a tale from korea

ong, long ago, in the Kingdom of the Stars,

and his wife’s dowry. He sold all his oxen and calves to get money only to lose it in gambling. He borrowed many and long ropes of coin from any one who would lend him the brass and iron money. Finally he was so scandalously poor, being on his last string of cash, that he was in danger of being degraded from his rank as prince, and of having his name spoken with contempt. The King of the Stars, having seen his son-in-law on the downward way, had more than once threatened to disinherit, or banish him, especially after the prince had parted with his cattle. Yet when his daughter, the young wife, interceded and begged pardon for her husband, the king relented, paid his son-in-law’s debts and gave him another chance to do better. When, however, the worthless fellow fell back into his old ways, and grew worse and worse, the king resolved to separate the pair, one from the other. He banished the prince, far, far away, six months’ distance from the north side of the River of Heaven, and exiled the princess a half year’s measure of space from the south side of the Starry Stream. Although the king in his wrath had hardened his heart, even against his own beloved child, and had driven her from court and palace, because of her worthless husband, yet, as a signal proof of his compassion, he ordained that on one night of the year, on the seventh night of the seventh moon, they might

a king reigned who had a lovely daughter. Besides being the most beautiful to behold, she was a skilful weaver. There was no good thing to be done in the palace, but she could do it. She was not only highly accomplished, but of sweet temper and very willing. Being a model of all diligence, she was very greatly beloved of her parents and her influence over her father was very great. He would do almost anything to please his darling daughter. In due time a young and very handsome prince, who lived in Star Land, came to her father’s court and fell in love with the pretty princess. Her parents consenting, the wedding was celebrated with great splendor. Now that she was a wife and had a home of her own to care for, she became all the more a model of lovely womanhood and an example to all the maidens of Korea forever. Besides showing diligence in the care of her household and in setting her servants a good example of thrift, she thought much of their happiness. Her love for her husband was unremitting, and she sought to make their life together one of constant joy. But the prince, instead of following his bride’s good example, and of appreciating what his beautiful and unselfish bride was doing for his happiness, gave himself up to waste and extravagance. He became lazy and dissipated. Neglecting his duties, he wasted his own fortune and his wife’s dowry. He sold all his oxen and 62

seventh night of the seventh moon, they might meet for a few hours. The young people parted and took their sad journey to the edge of the starry heavens, but they loved each other so dearly that, as soon as they arrived at their place of banishment, they turned round to meet each other on August 7th. So when the day came, after six months’ weary journeying, they had reached the edge of the Starry River, and there they stood, catching glimpses and waving their hands, but unable to get closer to each other. There one may see them on summer nights shining on opposite sides of the broad Stream of Stars, loving each other but unable to cross. Feeling that the great gulf of space could not be spanned, the loving couple burst into tears. The flood from their eyes, making the river overflow, deluged the earth below, threatening to float everything, houses, people, animals away. What could be done? The four-footed creatures, fish and fowls, held a convention, but it was agreed that only those birds with strong wings and able to fly high could do anything. So the magpies, with many flattering speeches, were commended to the enterprise. When these noisy and chattering creatures, that are nevertheless so kind and friendly to the sparrows, heard of the lovers’ troubles aloft, they resolved to help the sorrowing pair over the River of Stars. Out of their big, ugly nests they flew gladly to the convention that voted to build the bridge. Sending out word all over the world, millions of magpies assembled in the air. Under the direction of their wisest chiefs, they began their work of making, with a mass of wings, a flying bridge that would reach from shore to shore of the Starry Stream. First, they put their heads together to furnish a floor, and, so closely, that 64

and together to furnish a floor, and, so closely, that the bridge looked as if it were paved with white granite. Then with their pinions they held up the great arch and highway, over which the prince crossed to his bride with all his baggage and train of followers. The tables were soon spread and the two royal lovers enjoyed a feast, with many tender words and caresses. The lovely lady that stands by the starry river to meet her lord. The lovely lady that stands by the starry river to meet her lord. Every year, for ages past, on the seventh day of the seventh month, the magpies have done this. And indeed…although the star lovers meet only once a year, their love is forever. The wife has her husband and the husband has his wife much longer than mortal couples who live on earth. It is law in the magpie kingdom that no bird can shirk this work. Any magpie that tries to get out of the task and that is too bad or lazy to do its part in bridge building, is chased away by the Korean children, who want no such truant around. For does not every girl hope to be as diligent and accomplished as the Star Princess, so that when she grows up she may make as good a wife as the lovely lady that every year stands by the Starry River to meet her lord? As for the boys, it is hoped that they will become as faithful husbands as the penitent bridegroom, who every year, on the night of August 7th, awaits his bride on the shining shore of the River of Stars.

The Best of Enchanted Conversation

THE FAE WIFE by Lauren e. reynolds

here have you been my dear? He hung his coat by the fire. I came in and could not find you here?

He watched her stoke the fire and could only admire the way she skipped and turned, while wondering at the vigor in which she stirred and stirred.

She smiled, held up a basket of greens and said I was gathering herbs, sweetheart so dinner may start, see! Potatoes and leeks, and water fresh from the creek, and acorns for cakes and bread.

Then why is your smile so wide? He asked, noting the wildness in her eye. Why are your eyes so bright?

She hung up her cloak and beneath, saw her dress embroidered in wild baroque of leaves and beasts and shaking raindrops from her hair, set the table for a feast.

She smiled. Well, I came upon the window there, and when I saw your face in the glass, I thought myself a lucky lass to have caught such a fellow.

Why is there mud on your hems, my dear? And your fingers green as stems?

He smiled at his strange little wife with her magical zest for life, set down his hunter's pack, pulled out his fiddle and played the strings, watched her dip and twist and twirl as from her back sprouted wings.

I was in the garden, darling. Talking to the flowers and lost track of the hours for it won't be long until they wilt and woe and the vegetables it will be time to sow and I disliked seeing them so saddened.

Contributors TO FEED MY HUNGER - 7 Deborah W. Sage is a native of Kentucky, USA. She has been published in Enchanted Conversation: A Fairy Tale Magazine, Eternal Haunted Summer, Literary LEO, and the 2022 Dwarf Stars Anthology. A former business executive, who after years of being committed to the bottom line. is gaining equilibrium in her psyche through her endeavors in folklore. Image: Amanda Bergloff

11 RULES OF RESPONSIBLE FAIRY GODPARENTING - 8 Jude Tulli lives in the Sonoran Desert with his beloved wife Trish and a small pride of cats. His fairy tale inspired works have appeared in Enchanted Conversation and Timeless Tales and his novelette Faegotten is available on Amazon. Image: Amanda Bergloff

THE POETESS - 12 Odyssa Rivera Abille is a writer from the Philippines. She is the author of two poetry collections entitled “Like A New Sun Rising” and “From Where I Stand”. Her personal essays have been featured in Amendo, The Good Men Project, and Do You Yoga. Image: Picryl

ENCHANTED CREATORS: THEODORA GOSS - 14 LYRE IN THE SKY - 37 Kelly Jarvis is the Special Projects Writer and Contributing Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine. Her work has appeared in Eternal Haunted Summer, Blue Heron Review, Forget-Me-Not Press, Mermaids Monthly, The Chamber Magazine, and Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers. She teaches at Central Connecticut State University. Image: Theodora Goss Photos, Amanda Bergloff

Contributors HOW SUN, MOON & WIND WENT OUT TO DINNER - 21 A folktale from India reprinted from Wikisource.org Image: Amanda Bergloff

THE GOLDEN HOURS - 22 James Dodds is a recovering technical writer. Earlier in life, he produced a small library of user manuals that, happily, went unread by everyone. More recently, he has gotten serious about writing fiction. His work has appeared in The Avenue, Enchanted Conversation and Flame Tree Press, among other publications. Image: Amanda Bergloff

THE FAIREST - 28 Melissa Yuan-Innes writes diverse and feminist fairy tales, including the collection Chinese Cinderella, Fairy Godfathers & Beastly Beauty. She writes thrillers and romance as Melissa Yi. Find her on Facebook (Melissa Yi Yuan-Innes), Instagram @melissa.yuanines, and her website, http://www.melissayuaninnes.com/ Image: Amanda Bergloff

THE LOVE BETWEEN SISTERS - 30 Dr. Sara Cleto and Dr. Brittany Warman are award-winning folklorists, teachers, and writers with over 150 publications. Together, they founded The Carterhaugh School of Folklore and the Fantastic, where they teach creative souls how to re-enchant their lives through folklore and fairy tales. Their fiction and poetry can be found in Uncanny Magazine, Apex Magazine, Gingerbread House, Star*Line, and others. You can find them in the forbidden forest and also at carterhaughschool.com. Images: Thomas Gainsborough, The Public Domain Review, Arthur Rackham, Harry Clarke

Contributors ROBIN HOOD’S LARDER’S TORN ROOTS - 34 Kim Malinowski has three books published including Home, Clutching Narcissus (retired), Phantom Reflection, and she has three books forthcoming from Vrayeda Literary, Q and imprint of Querencia Press, and Nightingale & Sparrow Press. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of Net, and the Rhysling Award. Image: Nikolai Ge, Wikimedia Commons

THE QUEEN’S DISCONTENT - 43 ENCHANTING CUSTOMS: SPRINGTIME RITUALS - 56 Marcia A. Sherman writes alternative fairy tales, folklore, and mythology. Other works include a children’s picture book The Splendid, Blended Family and essays for Llewellyn Worldwide. Marcia is currently compiling her fiction for a book and continues work on her novel of a Wiccan family set in the distant future. Images: Coronation Portrait, Frank Dicksee, John Lavery, Nikolai Pimonenko, Franz Xaver Winterhalter, William Blake Richmond, Jean-Louis Hamon, Walter Crane

ARTIST INTERVIEW: EMILY BALIVET - 44 Kate Wolford is the publisher and editor of The Fairy Tale Magazine. She’s been publishing new fairy tale inspired poems and stories for over 15 years. Kate is a grandmother of two and lives with her husband, Todd, and beagle, Clementine, in the Midwest. All Images by Emily Balivet

THE THREE SPINNERS - 48 A fairy tale by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm / the Brothers Grimm reprinted from Bartleby.com. Image: Sarah Carpenter

THE SUMMER FAIRY - 50 Lorraine Schein is a New York writer. Her work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Mad Scientist Journal, Gigantic Worlds, Aphrodite Terra, and the anthologies Drawn to Marvel, and Alice Redux. Image: The Public Domain Review

Contributors RED STONE, BLACK CROW - 52 Angelika M. Offenwanger has loved fairy tales from the time she was a little girl, so when she grew up, she wrote a master’s thesis on them. Now she creates fantasy worlds in writing and in clay. Find her online at www.amoffenwanger.com or Instagram @amoffenwanger. Image: Arthur Rackham

THE SKY BRIDGE OF BIRDS - 62 A fairy tale from Korea reprinted from Project Gutenberg. Image: Amanda Bergloff

THE FAE WIFE - 65 Lauren E Reynolds goes through life with a wonder in her heart, a story in her smile and a colorful collection of costume dresses and boots. She is a children’s librarian, and freelance writer. She has been writing since she was a child, and has had her work published in Truancy and Cirsova Magazines, and the anthologies Under the Full Moon’s Light and Hidden Menagerie. Image: Amanda Bergloff

ART DIRECTOR Amanda Bergloff is a graphic designer and digital/mixed media artist whose cover and interior art has been published in the Jules Verne Society's Extraordinary Visions, The Fairy Tale Magazine, Tiny Spoon Literary Magazine, Turbulence and Coffee, Mud Season Review, Firefly Magazine, 200 CCs, The Horror Zine, Crimson Dreams, and other publications. Twitter: @AmandaBergloff Image: Amanda Bergloff

Pierre Charles Compte

Christen Dalsgaard

Francesco Hayez

The Fairy Tale Magazine MARCH ISSUE 2023

Articles inside

Contributors

Contributors

Contributors

Contributors

The Best of Enchanted Conversation THE FAE WIFE

Fairy Tales from Around the World The sky bridge of birds

Renew & Refresh

Cleansing & Protection

Emily Balivet

LYRE IN THE SKY

The Love Between Sisters

THE GOLDEN HOURS

how sun, moon & wind went out to dinner

The Best of Enchanted Conversation 11 RULES OF RESPONSIBLE FAIRY GODPARENTING

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR