"Unbreakable"

Once upon a time, there was a Stallion named Simony. Simony was the toughest bronco around and had never been successfully broken. Not that the cowboys didn’t try, mind you! But Simony was smart, determined and violently unpredictable. No cowboy lasted for more than a few seconds on his back before the Stallion gave them an exciting flight into the dirt!
One day, a new cowboy came to the Circle-Bar ranch. Just a tenderfoot, really, named Jeremy. A real greenhorn from back East. All the older cowboys snorted when he announced that he would undertake the breaking of the stubborn Stallion.
“Yeah, that’s right kid!” said Slim. “Yew go right ahead and break the Stallion. Show us how they do it back East!” ‘East’ was said with such a tone of mocking derision that Jeremy’s face turned white and then red. But he said nothing, and settled into the life of the ranch, mending fencing, riding the range, and studying the Stallion.
Jeremy may have been a neophyte but he was given to an intense capacity for understanding and probing. He realized without any instruction that the choice in breaking a horse came down to fear and control or something that was a lot like love. None of the other cowboys could conceive of such a choice. For them, it was breaking a horse not patting it or giving it hugs. They would have laughed such an idea to scorn.
So Jeremy set himself the task of befriending the Stallion. He would come to Simony with bunches of sweet grass and speak softly to the horse. Simony, unsure of this approach, did what he always did: he flattened his ears and showed his teeth at the young cowboy. Jeremy was patient and unafraid. This confused the Stallion, who was accustomed to swearing, whipping and fearful cowboys. A calm cowboy with whistling lips and a smile was a vexation and bedevilment. What was the lad up to?
The other perplexing thing about the young cowboy was that he spoke to the Stallion as a friend. He would come over to the corral with sugar or apples and tell the horse how a city-slicker wound up in Montana. He would tell the Stallion how much he admired his ornery streak and his sense of independence. In short, he removed himself as a threat while presenting himself as a possible accomplice. It was enough to make the Stallion’s ears flinch.
Simony decided to discuss the matter with his only friend, the disreputable Shadow, a dog of low cunning and expressive ears, a cur with a heart of gold to belie his questionable looks.
Simony found Shadow at his usual post snoozing in the hay loft.
“Hey Shad, you got a minute?”
The dog pulled himself to his feet and stretched languidly. “Yeah sure, Simon….just give me a se-e-econd (one more stretch).”
“What do you think of that new slicker?” asked the Stallion.
“What, you mean that kid with the bad facial hair and them coke bottle specs?” yawned the dog.
“Yeah, that’s the one…what do you think of him?”
“Geez, I don’t know…seems to be a nice enough sort. Why do you ask?”
“Cause he’s not acting like he’s supposed to.”
“How you mean?”
Simony explained the suspicious behavior of the tenderfoot, underlining how underhanded his actions seemed to be. The dog tried to understand the Stallion but he was confused.
“So this dude treats you well, and you think he’s not trustworthy?”
“Yeah, that’s about the size of it…”
“You are a moron, you know that?”
The Stallion showed his teeth and stomped his left hoof into the floor.
“No, I mean it, Simon,” said the dog carefully. “You’re looking a gift horse in the mouth, if you’ll excuse the expression.”
“It’s easy for you to talk,” sneered Simony. “All you have to do is lick a human’s hand, and he’s your friend for life. But me? All they can do is whip me, stab me with spurs, and almost break my neck trying to ride me. And you know what they call it? They call it ‘Breaking’! I just don’t trust humans!”
“Okay, okay,” said the dog in what he hoped was a placating manner. “But this human just might be different.”
“That’s a mighty big might.”
“How you gonna know, if you don’t try?”
“Oh shut up, Shad, you’re not helping at all.”
“Have it your way, Simo, but I think you might be making a mistake…”
The Stallion tossed his head and went in search of oats. There was Jeremy waiting by the feed trough with a goofy grin on his face and a big carrot.
“Hey, there you are big fella,” said Jeremy holding out the root. What was the Stallion to do. He gently removed the carrot and munched it. Then Jeremy touched his fingers to his hat brim in a salute and left the Stallion to feed. Simony shook his head. He did not understand this human at all.
“Well, you sure pegged that human right,” laughed Shadow. “Purely suspicious, offering you carrots and such, and did you notice that he didn’t even try to ride you?”
“I don’t trust him!” snorted the horse. “He’s got some kind of ulterior motive.”
“What’s an onion motor?” asked the dog.
“It means, he’s up to something, I just don’t know what.”
“Have it your own way, Simo. If you need me, I’ll just be with the humans just a-loving ‘em and maybe getting a hand-out from Cookie,” said the incorrigible mutt, heading for the cooktent.
It was the day of the big cattle drive and all of the hands were on horse urging the longhorns into an orderly procession east. Simony, the unbreakable, was left in his stall and Jeremy as the tenderest foot was stuck behind to make sure that the ranch was still there when the drive was over.
Finally, all of the steers were rounded up and the drive was underway. Long columns raised a huge cloud of dust. Jeremy sighed and looked for something useful to do. He picked up a broken flintlock and started taking it apart. His attitude was, if it’s broken, find out why and fix it. It didn’t matter if he’d never seen a mechanism before; he had a feel for how things were meant to work. He wiped the sweat off of his brow (giving him a nice smudge across the bridge of his nose) and he muttered: “Uh, let’s see…the flint looks okay…”Steadily, he broke the gun into its constituent parts, occasionally stopping to clean and oil and ponder. Working with the gun caused him to think of the big unbroken stallion again.
He didn’t tell anyone why he wanted to tame Simony in the first place. The truth was that the stallion reminded him of himself: wild and unloved. If he could get the horse to trust him and even (dare he hope?) love him, maybe he could believe that he was lovable himself.
There was this girl back in New Bedford that he’d trusted with his heart. He shook his head angrily, he would not think about her.
He sighed. What would it take for the big horse to trust him? He lifted the flintlock and it shone in the morning sun. It was as good as new. Mechanisms were easy: find the broken part and fix it. Hearts were more difficult by far. “You gotta be patient, boy,” he counseled himself. “One step at a time, just one careful step at a time.” It was becoming his new mantra for the horse as well as his own heart.
He sat on the split rail fence and pondered. What was holding up the horse? He had shown him nothing but kindness, asking nothing in return, but the stallion still greeted him with suspicion. Where was the reciprocity, the warmth that he hungered for?
“One little step, one careful step,” he reminded himself. Wasn’t that the way it was with Lucy? He had courted her with gentleness and infinite patience, recognizing a look in her eyes that made him think of a deer suddenly aware of danger.
He thought he’d done everything right but at the penultimate moment, as he stood waiting in the front of the little white church, she’d not come at all. Instead, it was her father who came in her stead to try and explain. The old man had stammered and mumbled that she just wasn’t ready. The subtext was plain to him, perhaps she never would be ready.
So Jeremy had fled in bind rage and grief, running as far west as his meager funds would take him. The rage blew out of him like a prairie rainstorm, leaving an emptiness that demanded filling, something new and untried to wash the flavor of rejection out of his mouth. He would stay in Montana, a territory of new beginnings and re-invention.
When he first saw Simony, he asked a cowhand why nobody ever rode the Stallion. The hand, a taciturn man just grinned and said, “Help yourself.” He soon found himself pounding the dust out of his clothes as he unsteadily rose to his feet again. He’d lasted only a heartbeat in the saddle before the horse went berserk and pitched him off. He was intrigued, to say the least. The thought shaped itself in his mind, perhaps taming the stallion could be a first step in reclaiming his sense of who he was.
So he talked to the other hands, discovering how he would not approach Simony, he would not use the tactics of fear and punishment; he would not try to crush the horse’s spirit, he would try to win his trust. He was in no rush, he decided. He had all the time in the world. He would see if love would accomplish what fear could not.
Shadow came up to him sitting on the fence and nuzzled him with his generous muzzle. “Hey boy,” Jeremy responded, scratching him around his ears. “Let me ask you for your advice.” The dog looked up at him worshipfully. “I mean, how would a scholar like yourself, go about taming that big horse?” Shadow just wagged his tail and settled his disheveled head onto Jeremy’s lap for more delightful scratching. What could he tell him? Shadow doubted that Simo would ever submit to a human, even to one as nice as this one. He nosed Jeremy’s pocket where he usually keep little treats. Jeremy smiled and pulled out a scrap of jerky.
It was shaping up to be the hottest day of an already hellish Montana summer. Jeremy felt like he was swimming in his own sweat as he pounded a new post into the ground. Shadow watched mournfully from his patch of shade and pitied the young man. Imagine having to do hard physical work in such an inferno! Shadow shuddered and then fell asleep.
“Come on boy. It’s quitting time!” said Jeremy. Shadow’s eyes opened a crack and he yawned ponderously. The sun was already touching the edges of the Bitteroots. It was time to eat! They headed for the mess tent and Jeremy fried a sizable steak. Shadow fixed his food-sharing beam on the young man and cranked it to ten. Jeremy laughed at the guilelessness of the mongrel and gave him a hunk of fat.
After dinner, he checked on the stallion making sure that he had enough oats. He pulled a lump of sugar out of his pocket and held it out to Simony. The stallion sniffed it and pulled it in with a delicate tongue. “Goodnight, you noble steed, you glorious beast,” he whispered. Simony’s ears did not go flat which Jeremy saw as a good sign.
The sky was a deep black full of stars. Jeremy sighed with contentment; it really was a big sky he was under. He leaned up against a withered pine and tried to identify the constellations. There was Orion’s belt and the Dippers, big and small, but where was Pleiades? He breathed deeply in the relative cool of the night taking in the aromas of sage and ponderosa pine. It was rich like turkey stuffing in his Ma’s Christmas turkey. He sniffed deeply but here was a different smell, something oily and smoky.
He got to his feet, something was burning. He ran to the hill just south of the ranchhouse his own private look-out. To the east he could see a running tongue of brightness running along the plain: a grassfire! To his horror, the grassfire flew into the forest at the base of the mountains and the pines exploded into flame.
He had to get back to the Circle-Bar and get Simony out of his stall! He raced back to the barn and threw open the door. “Quick!” he yelled to the dog. “We’ve got to get out of here!” He ran to the stallion’s stall and wrenched open the door. Simony, panicked by the smoke he smelt drove his hooves into the door and knocked Jeremy off of his feet. He fell in a heap.
“You knocked him out, you big fool!” barked Shadow, who ran to Jeremy and tried to pull him out of the smoldering barn. The stallion knelt down beside the dog. “Here, pull him onto my back, I’ll get him out of here. Shadow pulled the unconscious man onto the horse’s back and then they ran out of the barn.
“The canyon! We can shelter there!” barked the dog.
“Where is it?”
“Follow me!”
They pelted across the ranchland and into the narrow entrance of the box canyon. Down to the creek they ran, Simony carefully running so as not to lose the unconscious human on his back. They were not alone in the water. Every manner of animal was already there or arriving quickly: deer, rabbits, and even a couple of black bears. They all hunkered down in the quickly flowing water and waited.
When Jeremy came to, he was dazed and disoriented. Where was he? Why was he wet? Was he on a horse? He could see Simony’s heaving flank right in his face. He tried to pull himself up but he was too weak. He felt boneless.
“What are you doing with that human?” asked a buck.
“Mind your own beeswax!” growled Simony.
“Forget him!” yelped Shadow. “Come on, let’s get further into the canyon, we’re still too close to the flames!”
The canyon was mostly rock with cliffs towering over their heads. There was a creek that was still running in mid-summer and all of the animals were crowded in its safe embrace.
______________
The oldest hand, a wizened reprobate named Slim was chewing tobacco and sending a steady stream of juice into the makeshift spittoon of an old boot beside the fence. He and Jeremy were whittling companionably now that the work of branding was done and there was a lull in the work. Slim was creating an entirely unconvincing model of a horse, while Jeremy was trying to make a recorder or at least a whistle.
“Say, dija ever actually git on that Stallion’s back, junior?” drawled Slim.
“Nah, that stallion’s unbreakable!” said Jeremy.

"The Dung Beetle's Wedding"

“What a wonderful story!” enthused Death.
“It was okay,” said the stallion dismissively. “But now what we need is a story with guts!”
“And I imagine that you have such a story?” said Goldie.
“You bet, it’s time for ‘The Dung-Beetle’s Wedding’!”
“How many times do we have to tell you that we don’t want to hear such a crass story?” asked Death.
“It’s different now!” crowed the stallion.
“How is it different?” asked Goldie.
“I re-wrote it so it rhymes! You mares love that kind of classy crap, right?”
“Oh Hoss, it’s not the lack of rhyme in your stories, it’s the lack of a coherent sense of morality,” sniffed Death.
But Hoss drew a deep, druidic breath and began to declaim:

There once was a Dung Beetle, name of Moe
Who loved the fair Charissa and followed her where ever she’d go
Her father, the Dung Beetle king, noticed the romance but stomped his foot “Nay!”
“You can’t marry her, unless your worthiness you can display!”

“Hoss, it really doesn’t need to rhyme to be a classy story!” said Death. “You just need to include some moral lesson or something redemptive.”
“You just listen, then,” said the stallion proudly. “This story will blow you away! Anyway, where was I?”
So Moe and the King of the Dung Beetles had to find a way for Moe to prove himself worthy of the fair Charissa.
“You seem like a nice beetle,” said the King, “but my daughter needs a beetle of resourcefulness and strength; are you that beetle?”
“I sure am!” said Moe. “Just give me a challenge!”
The King mulled it over and then issued the following challenge: “You will accumulate a ball of dung one thousand times your own size and deliver it to me within the fortnight.”
“Uh, but how am I supposed to roll the damn thing?” asked Moe.
“That’s part of the challenge,” smiled the King rubbing his belly in anticipation.
Poor Moe stalked away muttering to himself. How in the world was he supposed to find so much manure? And if he should find it, how to deliver it? There was only one who could help the poor dung beetle: the awesome wizard, Sid!
Sid (if you’ve been following his history) had been an apprentice to a wizard, a goblin, and a vampire, but eventually he tired of being the number two man and he set out on his own. He lived in a little white cottage surrounded by magic trees and animals in the midst of the Very Dark Woods. It wasn’t much of a living because very few people ever dared to enter such a forbidding area but Sid was content. Fortunately for Moe, dung beetles know no fear and soon he was knocking at the wizard’s door.
Sid opened the door and looked around. He shrugged and shut the door. Moe knocked on the door again and this time he yelled, “Down here, you numbskull!”
Hearing the piping voice, Sid looked down with a bemused look on his face.
“Well, well, a dung beetle! How can I help you little one?”
“You’ve got to help me, O Wizard, my king says that I need to gather a dung ball a thousand times my size or he won’t let me marry his daughter!”
“The beautiful Charissa? My, your king certainly drives a hard bargain,” said Sid shaking his head.
“Can you help me?” asked Moe.
“Of course, how about if I shrink you to one thousandth of your present size, then a relatively small dung ball would suffice to get you the king’s daughter plus you could trick the king into the bargain.”
“But my king is not known for his sense of humour. I think he’d just eat me.”
“Then we must increase you a thousand times. Then both the gathering and the delivering of the monster ball of dung would be easy.’
“What do you want in return?” asked Moe.
“Evil Sir Rodney hired me to drive all of his peasants off of his land so he can enclose it and raise sheep. I imagine that they’ll gladly leave when a massive dung beetle starts terrorizing their village!” Sid chuckled.
“That’s pretty evil,” said Moe mournfully.
“I sure is,” said Sid happily. “Will you do it?”
“I guess I’ll have to,” said Moe.
And with that, Sid spoke the magic spell of extreme increase and suddenly Moe shot up to fairly Godzilla-esque proportions.
“Wow!” said Sid. “I am amazingly talented.”
The monster dung beetle just sighed and ambled off to terrorize the poor peasants.
How the villagers screamed and howled when they saw Moe! How they ran, crying and moaning as Moe stomped on a few huts for effect. It was then that he saw a little girl with blond ringlets tied up in a blue ribbon. She was standing frozen to the spot in front of her house. “Why are you doing this?” she cried. Moe felt so ashamed.
“I don’t really know,” he confessed to the little girl.
“Then why don’t you stop?”
Moe sighed deeply and nodded his massive head, “Yeah, I’ll do that. I’m so sorry…”
Back at Sid’s place, Moe hung his head while Sid berated him.
“You call yourself a monster? This kind of soft-heartedness could get me thrown out of the Wizard’s Guild. You stopped because a cute little girl asked you to? Now, I’ve heard everything!”
“Did I mention her ringlets?” asked Moe diffidently.
“Never mind her ringlets! What am I going to tell Evil Sir Rodney? He’s already bought a herd of sheep!”
“You’re the wizard,” said Moe. “Can’t you think of something clever?”
“I did think of something clever,” bellowed Sid. “but you didn’t follow through!”
“I meant something else.”
“Let me put my thinking cap on,” said Sid, reaching for his thinking cap. (It’s one of his most useful inventions; everyone should have one.)
“Got it!” said Sid, after a couple of seconds. “You terrorize Evil Sir Rodney instead! He’ll be too afraid to ask for his money back and all of those panicking sheep should produce more than enough dung for your needs!”
“That’s brilliant!” said Moe, in a voice of awe.
“Yes it is!” agreed the Wizard. “Now get out there and terrorize like you’ve never terrorized before!”
“Well, I haven’t really terrorized at all yet…” started Moe.
“Agh! It’s an expression, you numbskull! Get a move on!”
So Moe trundled off to Sir Rodney’s vast acreage. He was going to pause to help the poor peasants repair the huts that he had pushed over, but they shrieked so much to see him coming that he thought the better of his plan.
Sir Rodney’s castle was surrounded by a very deep moat, but fortunately the drawbridge was down, so Moe went into the keep and started doing things that struck him as being terrifying: ripping up bits of wall and throwing things around in a messy manner until the sobbing Rodney begged him to leave him in peace. Moe left him with a copy of Sid’s bill and set out to terrorize the sheep.
The sheep bleated and bellowed in most satisfactory manner leaving masses of freshly deposited dung that the happy beetle rolled up and out of the field. Pushing the steaming manure in front of him, Moe reflected what an extraordinarily good day I was having. He whistled a cheery tune as he rolled the massive orb of manure to the King’s habitation.
“Well,” said the King with a hushed voice, “That is one monstrous ball of dung.”
“It certainly is,” said Moe, “When shall we have the wedding?”
The king rubbed his hands together (or whatever dung beetles have instead of hands) and began to whimper, “How can I allow my daughter to marry such a huge beetle as you? You’d crush her on her honeymoon!”
“Oh! Of course,” said Moe smacking his head. “Don’t worry, I’ll get the wizard to change me back.”
“Yeah, you do that,” said the King.
______________
“You gave Evil Sir Rodney the bill?” asked Sid.
“I sure did,” nodded Moe. “Now if you could switch me back?”
“Of course I will,” smiled Sid in a rather nasty manner. “But for another difficult magic act I will expect some recompense…”
The dung beetle sighed, fighting the temptation to rip the Wizard into little bits and shrugged, “What do you want me to do?”
“Oh, nothing too stretching for you. I need you to go to Xanadu, to the stately pleasure dome of the Great Emperor. He has something that belongs to me.”
“What?”
“A golden ring.”
“How does the Emperor come to have your golden ring?”
“Let’s just say that he’s not as dumb as he looks.”
“But…”
“Look, never mind how he comes to have my ring. I want it back! If you ever want to get hitched you’ll do what I tell you!” Moe sighed deeply.
“How do I get to this pleasure dome and once I get there how am I supposed to sneak in?” asked Moe.
“Here is a map, just follow the sacred river, Alph. It shouldn’t take you very long with your long legs! And take this vial of magic dust. Once you are in sight of Xanadu, just sprinkle yourself with it and you’ll be transformed!”
“Transformed into what?” asked Moe, fearing the worst.
“You’ll be one of the eagle men of Xanadu; you’ll totally fit in and you’ll be able to fly.”
“Can’t you change me into an eagle man now?”
“The dust has a short shelf life. You’ll only get to be an eagle man for an hour or so…”
“How will I know your ring, assuming that I’m not captured and tortured instead?”
“It has certain markings on the inside.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“No, now beat it before I turn you into a gopher or something.”
“That would be an improvement,” grumbled Moe to himself.
_______________
Xanadu sparkled in the summer sun. The pleasure dome had a thousand diamond windows to catch and refract the sun so it hurt Moe’s eagle eyes to look on it. The sky was full of other eagle men and women, dipping into the thermals and gliding over the mountains that rimmed in the fabled land.
Moe tipped the vial carefully above his head and shivered as the dust did its work. Best not to use all of the precious dust at one go. He could feel his back throb where wings were pushing through, and a feeling like being kicking in the gut hit him as his beetle shell softened and turned a golden color. He wiggled his shoulders and saw silvery wings dipping to and fro. Moe laughed and walked along a path that was pebbled with emeralds. Where should he look first? If the Emperor’s valuables were anywhere, they would be in the dome, thought Moe.
He wandered through a ruby portal, nodding confidently (he hoped) to the door keeper. Inside the dome, he walked past fruit trees laden with fruit and weeping shrubs heavy with flowers. There was so many pleasurable smells that Moe felt quite dizzy; the mingled scents of sandalwood, jasmine, quince and orange blossoms filled the air. He made his way to the great palace at the centre of the dome. It was made completely of a golden crystal. Moe walked through a great portal and there on a throne was the Emperor himself.
“Hail, Dung Beetle!” said the Emperor lifting his hand in greeting.
“Um,” said Moe, quite tongue-tied.
“You have come for this ring?” said the Emperor displaying it on his hand.
“Uh well…” What was the use of lies with one who obviously knew everything? He nodded.
“Did the Wizard tell you how I come to have his ring?” asked the Emperor.
“He wouldn’t say,” said Moe.
“He lost it in a game of chance. He came here filled with desire for riches and believed that I was a ‘good mark.’ He attempted to cheat me at a game he called mumbojumbo. Obviously, he did not realize that I can see the invisible and can hear the unspoken.”
“So, really, you cheated him?” asked Moe.
The Emperor sighed. “Yes, I did and I have been somewhat ashamed of my actions for all this time! I just wanted to teach him a lesson, you see.” Hmm, thought Moe to himself, this was sounding a bit like rationalization.
“Well, if you want to make amends, I can take his ring back to him.”
“That would be best, except for one thing…”
“Yes?”
“I don’t really want to give it up!”
“Oh…but how can you make amends if you don’t?”
“It is a perplexing problem,” admitted the Emperor.
“What is the big deal with the ring anyway? It looks like something you can buy at any caravan on the Silk Road.”
“It has the power to make its wearer invisible,” said the Emperor. “You have no idea how handy it is to be able to walk around Xanadu and hear what my people are really saying about me, not just the flattery they give me to my face.”
“You saw me transform into an eagle man?”
“Of course! And I thought to myself, ‘Hmmm… a giant beetle suddenly becomes an eagle-man. This can be the work of none other than Sid!”
“Is there a way that I can somehow earn the ring?” asked Moe, with a feeling of doom. “I need to return the ring to Sid or I will never be my right self again and I’ll never marry the lovely Charissa!”
“Hmmm, I see your point,” nodded the Emperor. “Do you, by any chance play mumbojumbo?”
“I’m a dung beetle,” said Moe. “Cards are not what we do.”
“You’ll find it delightfully easy to learn!” said the Emperor with gusto.
“I also don’t have any money,” said Moe.
“Oh,” said the Emperor, disappointment on every line of his face. But then he brightened, “Surely you have something worth betting? A pin? A baseball card? Some first editions?”
“I’m a dung beetle,” said Moe. “All we possess is dung!”
“Very well then,” said the Emperor (who was desperately addicted to gambling). “Bring me a mound of dung and you can play for the ring of power!”
“This is nuts…” said Moe to himself but he wandered off to find some fresh dung. He waited until the magic dust wore off and he became a beetle once more. He stuck his head up in the wind and sniffed. Ah fresh dung! He trundled off until he came to a large barn full of every conceivable horse. There were bays, appaloosas, palominos and chestnuts. There were quarter horses and thoroughbreds, Arabian chargers and Morgans. What a wonderful smell!
Moe started in one corner and in no time he had amassed a sizeable ball of dung. Whistling happily (how wonderful fresh dung is!) he rolled the steaming globe out of the stable, down the emerald paths and into the royal enclosure.
The Emperor sat at a large ebony table restlessly shuffling a deck of cards. His eyes lit up to see the dung beetle. He lay down the cards and pretended to evaluate the dung.
“That is a fine mound! It should be worth twenty golden coins!” He handed the dung beetle some lovely ivory chips. “Please sit down and I will tell you how to play,” he said, perspiration beginning to dot his forehead. The Emperor’s hands trembled as he dealt the cards.
“Now the point of the game is to collect the greatest proportion of face cards with the minimum number of cards that show the eagle’s wings. We gamble on which type of card gets turned up next. Is that clear?”
“As mud,” grumbled the beetle, but he played his first hand.
“Oo,” said the Emperor, “A unified deuce! Are you sure you’ve never played before?”
“I’m a dung beetle,” Moe said. “Does this mean I win?”
“Obviously!” said the Emperor tartly, dealing again and wiping sweat from his wrinkled brow.
Moe picked up another card. It was the Duke of Dorking surrounded by angels. He laid it down. “This is a face card, right?”
“My heavens: an undisputed trump-meister!” said the Emperor hollowly. “And right after a unified deuce! Do you know the odds of that?”
“I’m a dung beetle,” Moe reminded him. “So I win again?”
The Emperor started to shuffle again and a drop of sweat rolled off of his nose onto the table. Moe started to whistle again. The Emperor glared at him so Moe stopped.
The moaning Emperor dealt fresh cards. Moe noticed that his cards had an interesting balance of green and blue just like the cards that the Emperor laid down from the deck. They were a perfect match, so Moe laid them down.
“Hey, this is that match you talked about, right?”
“A flawless flip-over? How did you do it?” babbled the poor sweating monarch. “Either you are the luckiest dung beetle ever to walk the planet or you are a foul cheater! Be frank, Beetle! Did Sid work his magic over you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” said Moe crisply. “You brought up the card game not me!”
“Yes, yes…I can see it now. You’ve both played me like a fool!” thundered the trembling man. “I will throw you into the deepest dungeon! I will roast you in a fire! I’ll freeze you in a mountain of ice!”
“You are the worst loser I’ve ever met,” said Moe disgustedly.
“What did you say?” shrieked the Emperor, droll flying from his mouth.
“I said: you are the absolute worst loser that I have ever had the displeasure to meet!” roared Moe.
And then, the old man deflated like a beach ball at a porcupine convention. His head felt to his hands and he sobbed like a schoolgirl.
“You’re right! I am the worst loser ever!” cried the old man, snot oozing from his nose.
“Uh well…listen, I’m sorry for being critical…” said Moe.
“No, no, you were quite right. I have a monumental problem. I need help!” said the Emperor brokenly.
“So you’ll give me the ring?” asked Moe, striking while the iron was hot.
“Of course, I will,” said the Emperor, handing over the ring. “And what’s more, I promise now, on my word of honour, never ever to gamble again! From now on it’s a life of recovery for me!”
“Well, that’s great,” said Moe, picking up the ring quickly before the Emperor could change his fragile mind. “Uh, good luck with that recovery thing!”
Moe upended the rest of the vial over his head and became once more an eagle man. Why not fly home? He gripped Sid’s ring tightly and flew for the cottage. He alighted on the fringe of the forest and waited for the effect of the dust to fade away.
A beetle once more, Moe slipped the ring over one of his enormous legs and disappeared. He tiptoed into the Wizard’s cottage.
“Ah, you did it,” said Sid brightly. He was seated in front of a fire wearing a pair of rose-coloured spectacles.
“You can see me?” asked Moe stupidly.
“I’m wearing my special specs,” he said grandly. “They see the molecules of air that you are displacing…”
“Say what?”
“Yes, I can see you,” sighed Sid. “Now, how about my ring?”
“First you have to transform me back into my regular size and promise not to make me do anything like that again!” said Moe.
“I said I would, didn’t I?” demanded the wizard, testily.
“Your sense of honour could use a little work,” suggested the dung beetle.
“Etiquette tips from a dung beetle? Now I’ve heard everything,” said Sid, but he reached for his book of spells anyway. He said the incantation and soon Moe was back to normal.
“The ring, if you please?” asked Sid.
“With pleasure,” said the dung beetle. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must see the king about his daughter.

The Dutchess of Bedlam

Julie gazed at the stars. Even at her young age, she recognized some of the constellations from her tutor’s description. That had to be the Big Dipper up there but where was the Little Dipper? A sudden wind came up and Julie realized that she was feeling chilled. She huddled her mother’s fur coat around her narrow shoulders and shivered. She brushed her cheeks and felt the cooling tears there. She sniffled and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. In spite of herself, she almost smiled. Her Governess, Miss Rupert, would glare at her for such unladylike behavior.
She tried to sing so she wouldn’t feel so lonely, but she choked on the words to the lullaby and it made her feel even worse. She continued to search the sky for the Little Dipper, but to no avail. She noticed that the North Star on the Big Dipper was shining especially brightly. Brighter and brighter, bigger and bigger until it’s light seemed to swallow up the roof top. Julie was frightened and scrunched her eyes tight.
Behind her closed lids, she could see the bright pink fade away and she chanced a little peek. In front of her was a tiny women dressed all in fluttering feathers or streamers or something.
“Who are you,” choked Julie. “What are you?”
“You may call me Solemnity, my dear,” said the woman, “but as to what I am that is a mystery, a riddle.”
“What is the riddle?”
“The riddle? It is this: what is bigger than the Universe, yet smaller than a pinhead? What is as far away as East is from the West but closer than your own heart?”
“I don’t know,” said Julie, her lip trembling.
“Ah, my little darling, you will know someday.”
“Why have you come to me?” asked Julie.
“I heard you crying. Why are you weeping, darling?”
“Because my mother just died…”
“Oh my dear one, your mother is not dead.”
“But they told me she died…she was closed up in her room for the longest time. They wouldn’t let me see her because they said she was contagious. This afternoon, they told me that she had finally died of it.”
“I’m sorry, dearest, but they are all lying to you,” said Solemnity primly.
“Then what is the truth?” said Julie, in a very small voice.
“Your mother is very sick, Julie. She is cloaked in a great sorrow that no one could lift, a blackness that would admit no light. Your father is powerless to break through her torment. Finally, his advisors told him that it was his duty to put her away and seek a new consort.”
“Where is my mother?”
“She is in Bethlem Hospital, the home of sorrows.”
“Is it a real place?”
“My darling girl, it is too real a place.”
“Then I must rescue her!”
“How will you do this, sweetheart?”
“I don’t know,” said Julie, twisting tendrils of hair in her index finger. “Will you help me?”
“I will,” said the woman, “but you must know that you will be the only one to see or hear me.”
“Why?”
“It’s the Rules, dear heart and we must obey them.”
“I don’t always obey Governess’ rules,” said Julie in a wheedling voice.
“Her rules are fussy and largely culturally determined, and yet, the habit of obedience is worth cultivating, you know, my child.”
“How shall we rescue Mother?” asked Julie.
“My dear girl, I don’t have all of the answers…first we must go to Bethlem and see what we shall see.”
Julie and the woman ran quickly through the back garden and dodged the sentries at the gate. They got to the High Road and started walking for London. A farmer with a wagonload of corn saw the little girl walking and offered her a lift into the city. The two hopped onto the load of corn and drifted through Bishopsgate into the heart of the city. She thanked the farmer profusely. He doffed his cap with a smile and drove off.
“Where is Bethlem?” Julie asked the old woman.
“Hmm,” said the woman, consulting a small book she pulled from her purse. “It should be here…dear me, dear me…” At that moment, an elderly female beggar came up to Julie and asked her for alms. Julie pulled a penny from her small bag and dropped it into the woman’s tin cup.
“Ah bless ye, darlin’. May God show ye favour for yer kindness,” cackled the old woman.
“What is your name, Ma’am?”
“Och, the darling girl calls me ‘Ma’am’, sure, ye can just call me old Sally!”
“Sally, then, can you tell me how to find Bethlem Hospital?”
Sally pointed to a tin badge on her sleeve. “I were a Bedlamite, ‘for they let out. Why does a charmer like ye want to know where such an awful place is?”
“Please Sally, you must tell me where it is!”
“They moved Bedlam to the Moorfields to Finsbury Circus. Why would quality like ye want to go there?” asked Sally insistently. “Ye don’t look like one of those society women who pays a penny just to gawk at the inmates or poke ‘em with poles to watch ‘em cry!”
“What a horrid idea!” cried Julie. “You can’t be serious!”
“It’s the God’s truth, milady. Ye pays a penny and they gives ye a peek, cept for the first Tuesday when it is free admission.”
“How can the tormented be treated so?” asked Julie.
“Well, they say as how the inmates brung it on themselves for wicked lives…”
“Such folly,” whispered Solemnity to Julie.
“But I were a good woman and still I was confined to Bedlam…” muttered Sally.
“Would you show me how to get to Moorfields?” asked Julie.
“Och no, ye cannot ask it of me…I don’t dare go back there!” and Sally erupted into loud tears. Julie was tongue-tied and tried to pat Sally on the back but the little woman shook her head and took Julie by the arm.
“We must go, dear one,” she said. “It will take us the better part of a day to walk to Finsbury Circus.”
_____________________
They call me the Duchess for that is what I am: the Duchess of Bedlam.
My butler, Bellamy, opened the shades and wished me a good morning. I may have to replace him; he is entirely too forward for one of his class. He is always telling me to prepare myself for society visits all the livelong day. Have I given so many invitations to tea? My memory is not what it once was. I suppose I must depend on Bellamy in spite of his lack of good manners.
I could not leave my bed. I was somehow restrained. I looked at my legs. Were they fixed to the bed frame? Was I once again in Purgatory? I could feel a shriek of torment building up in my chest and then out it came tumbling, tumbling, tumbling…
“Now, listen to me Duchess, you’ll do no good crying out like that. You must wait for the visitors to come. They’ll give you a reason to howl!” It was Beelzebub, himself, the dark lord of Purgatory! Sometimes it was Bellamy and sometimes Beelzebub. I get confused. I get confused. I get confused.
____________
“Is that it?” asked Julie. The old woman consulted her book and nodded.
“It looks like a prison,” said Julie fearfully.
“It does,” nodded the old woman. “Are you determined to go through with your plan?”
Julie just nodded, her lips pursed into a bloodless line. Together they passed down a tree-lined boulevard, past twin statues of madmen, naked and enchained, and approached the massive front door. A fat man guarded the door collect pennies in a polished wooden box. We joined the line of people waiting to gain admission. I shuddered to look at the faces of those in front of me, all dressed up for an outing. I could hear their refined voices discussing what they would likely see.
“They say the loonies are most base,” said a well dressed lady to her companion.
“They are under the judgment of God for their moral turpitude,” said her companion wisely, sniffing a pinch of snuff. “Really, milady, what can you expect?”
“Hope we see a good fight,” said a beetle-browed man, “I brought a stick to stir ‘em up!” He brandished a stout staff of ash.
“Disgusting,” said Solemnity to Julie who only squeezed her eyes shut.
Eventually, Julie dropped in her penny and passed with the woman into the building.
______________
Bellamy takes reasonably good care of me. He takes care to announce visitors in respectful tones, never forgetting their titles and addresses. He brought me two ladies just now, the Countess of Albany and the Marquise of Kent. It is curious that I have never met them before. They are full of questions about my summer home here and the delicious doings of the fashionable set back in London. They prattle on about balls and teas, receptions and garden parties. I cannot read their faces; they almost seem to be mocking me…no, that is foolish. They are becoming very quickly members of my inner circle, my confidants. It is to them that I share my dissatisfaction with the help here and how one can never seem to find a capable cook!
Their faces are beginning to leer, again…oh God, they are demons in disguise! Once again, the room is spinning and I see the world the way it really is: I am in the third circle of Hell, the smoke and sparks of Purgatory, and these are but demons with mocking faces and cutting words. I am damned, damned…I have committed the unforgivable sin, I know that I have! I struggle against my restraints, hoping to strike at the cruel demons. They are laughing now and feign fear. I will kill them! No, I will kill myself. No, I am already dead. My thoughts are so confused. So confused. So confused.
______________
Julie saw her mother lying in a bed with manacles securing her arms to the side of the bed. She was being observed by two well-dressed ladies.
“Courage, dear heart…” counseled Solenmity. “She may not know you.”
“She will!” said Julie, but in her heart she was not so sure.
She walked up to her mother, pushing past the tittering old harpies, and then stopped. Her mother looked at her but her eyes were vacant. Then at once, her eyes changed, becoming wild and fevered. She burst into a raving diatribe: “I know you! You are one of the imps, come to torment me! Begone, you evil creature! I’ll kill you!”
“Oh dear,” said one of the overstuffed harpies, “The Duchess of Bedlam is venomous today! Hark at her; she wants to kill everybody!”
Julie’s tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth and she slumped with weariness and shock. Solemnity came to her side, an invisible presence of peace. Julie took heart and swallowed raggedly.
“Mother! Don’t you know me?” she cried.
“Julie?” said the Duchess, her eyes momentarily focusing. “Julie, is that you? What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to take you home, Mother.”
“How did you get to Purgatory?” said her mother, in a different voice: a grey, leaden voice.
“Mother, this is not Purgatory; you aren’t dead!” cried Julie.
“Not in Purgatory? Not dead?” asked the Duchess, her voice rising in a scream, “How do you explain those demons? The stench of brimstone and ashes? Who are you really?”
“Mother! It’s really me, Julie! You have to think clearly!” Solemnity gently pressed her shoulder and drew her away from the shrieking woman in the bed. Julie walked out of Bedlam silently weeping.
“Don’t despair, dear one,” counseled the old woman. “Your mother has fallen under a curse, but not an irreversible one.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I saw her upon her bed, I noticed that she had a mark on the side of her neck. It looked to me to be the tooth marks of a Raver.”
“A raver? What is that?”
“Ravers are the dark servants of powerful wizards. Someone has paid a wizard to put your mother under a curse!” said the old woman grimly.
“What can we do?” cried Julie.
“We must find out which wizard is behind this and see if we can persuade him to counteract the spell.”
“How can we find out?”
“We must put on our thinking caps, my little one. Think carefully, who would possibly want to harm your mother?”
“My mother is a wonderful woman,” wept Julie. “Nobody could possibly hate her!”
“Your father then? Does he have enemies?”
Julie sniffed and thought. Her father was a powerful man and powerful men tend to pick up enemies. “I think he does…” she said.
“Very good, my dear. If we find your father’s enemies, we find the wizard!” said the old woman grimly.
“But how can we do that?” asked Julie.
“We must find someone with loose lips back at your estate,” nodded the old woman.
“My father’s friend, Lord Ashleigh, has always been very fond of me,” said Julie, thinking cap firmly on her head.
“Let us go speak with him, then,” said the old woman.
______________
Lord Ashleigh lived quite near Julie’s home and he was delighted to see her.
“Ah Julie, m’dear girl, how goes it with your father?” Julie noticed that he didn’t inquire about her mother; he must know that she was in Bedlam.
“He’s well enough, sir,” she said politely. “But I think he’s worried…”
“Worried, eh? Well, no doubt he has much to think about.”
“Does my father have enemies, Lord Ashleigh?” asked Julie.
“Who does not have enemies, m’dear?” sighed Ashleigh.
“Who is his greatest enemy, would you say?”
“That would be the Baron D’Arcy, a vile man, for all his title!” grunted Ashleigh.
“Why does he hate my father?” asked Julie.
“They were both rivals for your mother’s affections long ago,” he said, with a smile of reminiscence on his ruddy face. “Those were younger days, m’dear girl…”
“Thank you, Lord Ashleigh…”
“Whatever for, dear thing?” But Julie just kissed him on his grizzled cheek and scampered out of the room.
_______________
“How do we find Baron D’Arcy?” asked Julie.
“Your father would know,” said the old woman.
“He’ll want to know why I want to know,” said Julie thoughtfully.
“Then you’ll have to be very subtle, won’t you,” said the old woman tartly.
In the end, Julie waited until her father was full of good wine at his lonely table and got him to speak of the old days, when he first met her mother. D’Arcy came up and Julie babbled on about how much better her Daddy was than the nasty Baron. After a very draining evening of her father’s stories, tears and recriminations, Julie had the information that she needed: D’Arcy was to be found on the fringes of the Dark Wood of Blethley, near the river Bibbo.
The next morning with her horse saddled and a believable lie in the ear of her father, Julie and the old woman rode for Blethley.
The Baron turned out to be tall, dark, handsome and utterly charming. Julie was astounded. She had expected someone much less attractive. The Baron was honest (or seemed so to Julie’s innocent ears.)
“Yes, I remember your mother, the lovely Helen. Gad, what a fine woman, what a fine figure of a woman…a veritable Aphrodite! Oh, but I am embarrassing you! Now, what can I do for you?”
“So you didn’t pay a wizard to attack her with a Raver?”
“What? No, good heavens no! How could you think such a thing true of a nobleman like I? Look carefully into my eyes,” he said holding her shoulders gently. His voice was like silk pulled over the strings of a violin. “I would never hurt your mother…I would never hurt your father. Could you really think that I would do such a thing?”
Julie saw that the Baron could never have…
“He’s lying,” whispered the old woman to Julie. Julie shook her head. How could he be lying? He was a noble, handsome man, with nothing but sincerity on his face. She shook her head again. Was he hypnotizing her?
“You’re…lying,” she managed to choke out. The baron’s eyes flashed. “Fine! I’m lying! So what? What can you do about it?” His face was hard and turning ugly.
“I came here to beg you to reverse the spell! Please Baron D’Arcy, I’ll do anything you like, just remove my mother’s madness!”
“Anything I like? Hmmm.” He looked at Julie in a very nasty way. “Will you stay with me and be my servant until I tire of you?”
“Y…yes…”she said with a shaky voice.
“Right!” said D’Arcy. He went into another room and when he came back he had a vial of black liquid. “Take this and give it to your mother. It will counteract the Raver’s bite. When you’ve finished, I will expect you back here. Do you understand?”
“Yes…”
“And don’t dawdle on the way, there are pots to scrub and cinders to sweep! If you’re not here within the fortnight, I’ll set a Raver on you!”
_____________
The imp is back to torture me! I struggle with my hellish chains but it is to no avail. She is holding a vile liquid to my lips and forcing me to drink. I choke on the tar and brimstone and spit it back in its face but the imp is tickling my throat so I cannot help but swallow. I am dying, not I am already dead, no…where, where am I?
“Where am I?” asked Helen, blinking her eyes. “Julie, is that you?”
“Oh mamma,” sobbed the little girl hugging her mother as best she could. “I’ve come to take you home!”
And she did. Julie rejoiced to see her father’s eyes light up when her mother entered her home again. That night, they celebrated with music, song and dancing and much feasting. Julie’s heart felt like a lump of lead. She knew that within the fortnight she must find her way back to the evil Baron.
Finally, the dreaded day arrived. Julie gathered together her most prized possessions and then slid out of the palace onto the High Road again. The old woman greeted her with a smile and together they walked to D’Arcy’s castle.
That night, after a joyless banquet, the Baron was deep in his cups.
“You know, girlie, I was not always the man you see now. Once I was good! I was a goodie-goodie without equal. Thas right!”
“You’re drunk,” said Julie, with accuracy and judgment intertwined in her pursed lips.
“I sure am!” agreed the Baron. “But tha’ doesn’t mean tha’I’m not tellin’ the trush!”
“What is the truth?” asked Julie.
“I’m unner a shpell too!” announced the Baron with a flourish.
“Hmmm,” said Julie.
“Ish true! I’m unner a curse. Joo think I wanted to put yer Musher under a ravening shpell? I loved her!”
“Nice way to show it,” whispered Julie.
“Y’see, when I was young, I used to hang ‘round wish this Wizard, ‘Tonius…and when I tried to make him stop, y’know, doin’ wicked shings, he got mad an’ put me unner a curse. Tha’s why I’m sho evil.”
“So you say you’re under a curse for being good?” asked Julie.
“I’m tellin’ you the truth, girlie-girl…”
The old woman leaned to speak in Julie’s ear, “He’s telling the truth, my dear…”
“Is there any way to break the spell?” asked Julie.
“Ish impossible. ‘tonius’ shpell ish a triple improbability shpell!”
“What is a triple improbability spell?”
“Y’can only break it by doing three impossible things.”
“Impossible or improbable?” asked Julie, who was really rather a brilliant girl. But the Baron had fallen into a boozy slumber.
The next morning at breakfast, Julie decided to help the evil Baron.
“Last night, you said…”
“Could you hold your chatter, little girl? I have a deuce of a headache today…” moaned the Baron.
“I’m going to help you break the curse,” said Julie. The Baron laughed mirthlessly and then massaged his sodden scalp.
“Impossible to break the spell. Antonius is too good a wizard for that…”
“What are the three improbable tasks?” asked Julie.
“All I have to do is fill the Bottomless Bucket, untangle the Tapestry of Insanity and reweave it as Clarity, and overcome the Completely Black Pit. A piece of cake really!” said the Baron with a flash of anger.
“Have you ever tried to do these three things?” asked Julie.
“No, because I really enjoy being evil,” said the Baron with understandable sarcasm. “Of course I tried, but I always failed. They are deeds that can’t be done.”
“Where is the Bottomless Bucket?” asked Julie.
“Antonius hung it in the center of my fields so I could look on it every day and despair!” said the Baron in a toneless voice.
Julie tiptoed out of the dining room to see what she could do.
“What do you think?” she asked the old woman. The bucket was hung on a gilded post in the very center of a grassy field.
“Hmm…” muttered the old woman. “How does one fill a bottomless container?”
“I don’t know,” shrugged Julie.
“I would suggest putting a bottom on,” said the old woman.
“Wouldn’t that be cheating?” asked Julie.
“I didn’t know that evil Wizards were governed by rules, per se,” said the old woman tartly.
They took the bucket to a blacksmith, where a new bottom was installed.
“There!” said the old woman. “That should hold water!”
“You’re sure this isn’t cheating?” asked Julie.
“Sometimes the great solutions are the simple ones,” said the old woman sagely, neatly sidestepping her objections.
The Baron was delighted. “You put on a bottom. Yes, of course, you did! Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because, it’s cheating?” asked Julie, not willing to let go of her concerns.
“Cheating, schmeating,” snorted the Baron. “Well done, little girl. Now the Tapestry! Shall I show it to you?” And so saying, he drew her up to a high tower where on the wall was affixed the most dreadful, warped, tormented tapestry that Julie had ever seen.
“What do you think?” asked the Baron.
“Um…”
“How will you fix it?”
“Um,” said Julie again. “I’ll go and think about it…”
Outside, Julie had a conference with the old woman.
“Did you see it?” asked Julie. The old woman nodded.
“How will we fix it?”
“No idea,” said the old woman shrugging her shoulders. “I enjoy perfect clarity of thought; that tapestry is utterly beyond my ken…”
“My mother!” shouted Julie.
“Eh?”
“My mother would understand it; she knows what it is to be insane…but…”
“But?”
“Well, wouldn’t it be dreadful for her to have to see it, after all she’s been through?”
“It would,” said the old woman gravely.
“I can ask her,” said Julie.
_____________________
“This is exactly what madness is like,” said Helen, looking at the tapestry. “Look how the purples clash with the oranges here?” she said, pointing and shuddering.
“Can you fix it, Mum?” asked Julie.
“I can,” she said serenely.
Helen took apart almost every part of the tapestry but kept a corner that seemed to depict a few threads of sanity. It was on this corner that Helen built, extending the color scheme and adding subtle woven blends to indicate deliverance and sanity. The whole work was now shot through with compassion and healing, using even the pain from the previous tapestry to illustrate redemptive suffering.
“It is done,” said Helen triumphantly, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
“It’s beautiful,” said Julie, her eyes moist.
__________
“How did you do it?” asked D’Arcy.
“I had an understanding helper,” she said.
“The last task is the most difficult,” warned the Baron.
“Where is this Completely Black Pit?” asked Julie.
“It is in the depths of the Hopeless Despair Forest, up against the cliffs of Self-Loathing, one week’s walk to the west. It is a grim place!”
“Hmm,” said Julie on her way out. “Did you hear?” she asked the old woman.
“I did,” she said calmly.
“What do we do?”
“Let’s go and see what we may see,” she said.
They finally reached the forest late at night. It was bleak, just as advertised.
“Brrr,” said Julie. “Let’s sleep out here in the open!”
“I completely agree,” said the old woman.
Next morning, the sun shone with vigour and the birds sang with great joy. Easy for them, they didn’t have to go into the forest. In the light of day, it was still horrible to gaze on. The dark trees seemed to such the life out of Julie and all she could feel was despair and hopelessness.
“This is crazy,” she murmured. “We’ll never be able to deal with the Pit if we can’t even go into the forest!”
“Ask for help,” counseled the old woman.
“Ask who?” wondered Julie.
“Just ask!”
“Well, alright, ummm…help somebody, help us get into the forest and fix the pit!”
At that moment, the old woman began to glow along the folds of her garment. Her dull, grey hair began to shine and turn a fiery red colour. And then the hair flamed into fire. Her skin, once wrinkled and pale began to turn silvery and then golden as though all of the impurities in her were being caught up in a refining fire.
“Wow!” said Julie in a hushed voice.
The old woman stood before Julie as an angel of flame.
“Now let us go into the forest and find this pit,” laughed the angel. Together they walked along the forest and where ever the angel walked the dreariness and failure faded before her. Soon the very shadows were illuminated and the trees danced with light, like slaves suddenly released. The birds followed the two into the forest, reclaiming the trees and singing as though their tiny hearts would burst.
And there was the pit:a dark malevolent depression reeking of fear and doubt.
“What now?” asked Julie, her hope still fragile within her.
“You must throw me in!” said the angel.
“What? No, I can’t!”
“You must,” smiled the angel.
“I’m afraid…” said Julie.
“Perfect love knows no fear,” said the angel and walked to the edge of the pit.
“My love must not be very perfect,” said Julie in a tiny voice.
“Mine is,” said the angel. “This is my part.” Julie pushed her gently and down she fell. A shrieking came from the pit, but it wasn’t the angel because Julie could hear her laughing as she fell. An explosion of light came from the depth and living water rose to the surface. Julie blinked her eyes as the pit became a quiet pool full of peaceful waters.
“The spell is broken, now go and be full of joy,” said a voice on the breeze that blew through the transformed forest.
Julie went back to see D’Arcy before she went home. He was a man transformed: all of the cynicism and brutality was gone and his eyes were bright and lively.
“How can I repay you?” he asked.
“It’s not me you’d have to repay,” she said quietly.
_______________
They say that if you follow the river Bibbo, you will find the formerly dark forest and if you follow the forest path to the center of the wood that you can still see the pool. If you sit and look into the depths, perhaps you’ll see eyes looking back at you.

Goldie's Tale

Goldie’s Story

“That has got to be the most amoral story I have ever had the displeasure to hear!” frowned Death.
“At least it wasn’t boring!” said Hoss.
“But Hoss, where is the moral of the story?” asked Goldie.
“The what?”
“You know, the life lesson? What we are supposed to learn from the story?”
“Learn from a story? Are you kidding me? Stories are supposed to be entertaining. The minute you paste a moral on, the story withers up and dies.”
“Hmm,” said Death and Goldie together, with pursed lips.(Do horses have lips?)
“Look Goldie, if you want a story with a moral maybe you should tell one!” said Hoss.
“Oh my, I don’t know any stories…”
“Oh come on, Goldie,” said Death, “You know lots of stories!”
“Hmmm, how about ‘Winning True Love’?”
“That doesn’t sound very promising…” moaned Hoss, fearing a serious plot-line.

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess who spent every afternoon at the bullfights cheering on Rodrigo, the dashing matador, the most famous matador in all of the land.
The princess (whose name was Mitzi) had been in love with Rodrigo for as long as she could remember. Rodrigo, who was somewhat self-centered, didn’t even know she was alive. Well, of course, he knew that she was alive because she was a princess and all, but he certainly didn’t know that she was pining for him with every fiber of her being.
“I knew it!” whined Hoss, “This is a total mare’s tale and I don’t mean the weed!”
“Hush, Hoss, you might like it,” said Death.
Mitzi decided that she needed to attract the matador’s attention but she had no idea how to do it. She tried wearing the most gorgeous gowns to the bullfights, she tried showing off all of her most precious jewels, she stood on her chair and waved silken handkerchiefs at him (until her mother, the Queen, made her sit down). Nothing worked; the handsome Rodrigo was oblivious.
“Sound familiar Hoss?” asked Death.
“Now Death,” tutted Goldie, “You’re interrupting my flow.”
“Sorry…” said Death.
“You outta be!” said Hoss.
One day Mitzi had had enough. She decided to seek out the Witch of Nobbi and enlist the help of the Dark Realm in her quest for Rodrigo’s heart. She thought that the Witch could just cast a spell on the matador or give her a love potion and that would be that. She would get true love and nobody would be hurt. She was as naïve as she was beautiful.
Mitzi rapped at the door of the Witch’s cottage and waited. A crackly voice responded: “Yes, I’m coming, keep your shirt on!” The Witch opened the door and peered at the princess. “Well, come on, out with it! I’m not getting any younger you know.”
“Uh,” said Mitzi, her eyes goggling at the withered old woman, “I’d like to purchase a charm, or spell, or love potion…”
“Hmm,” muttered the Witch, “a charm, or a spell or a love potion. My deductive skills lead me to suspect that you are in love.”
“Oh yes, I am!” said the princess, expecting background music to swell up at the announcement. “His name is Rodrigo and he is the most famous matador in the land!”
“Does he love you?”
“No,” she said, her voice crestfallen, “I don’t think he knows that I exist!”
“Then, I would recommend Love Potion #7, with a splash of ginger to make it go down smoothly.”
“How does it work?”
“Simply put three drops of # 7 in his beverage and make sure that you are the first woman he sets eyes on and he will surely fall in love with you.”
“What happens if I’m not the first female he sees?”
“What do you think happens, you ninny? He falls in love with the first female he sees, so make sure that it is you!”
Princess Mitzi gathered in the potion and ran for home with the Witch’s cackles ringing in her ears. She immediately went to the royal wine cellar and found a bottle of extremely expensive wine that she was sure Rodrigo could not resist. She carefully pried out the cork and put three drops of the potion into the bottle. Then, she plunged the cork into the bottle again.
Next day, she was in her usual seat at the bullfight. Rodrigo was in his glory, dispatching a huge black bull with the kind of balletic moves that would have made a prima ballerina jealous. He walked languidly around the ring occasionally picking up a flower and smelling it.
“Well done, Rodrigo,” cried the princess as he drew near.
“Thank you,” he said bowing.
“I award you this bottle of fine wine from the royal cellars,” she said and a lackey picked it up and brought it to the smiling matador.
“My grateful thanks, your Majesty!” he said with another somewhat less deep bow.
Mitzi waited until Rodrigo was in his dressing room and waited another ten minutes to ensure that he would have opened the bottle and had a glass of wine. Then she rapped on his door.
“Just a minute,” called the matador, “I’m just dressing!” Mitzi tapped her foot impatiently.
Finally, Rodrigo opened the door to admit the princess. Mitzi waited for him to enfold her in his arms and declare his eternal love for her, but the matador just stood there smiling at her questioning.
“Uh…did you enjoy the wine?” she blinked.
“Oh, I gave your kind gift to my valet, Dulco, red wine gives me a headache!” At that moment, Dulco emerged from the kitchen with an empty glass in his hand. He took one look at the princess and it was as though Cupid shot him through the heart with about twenty arrows. His jaw dropped open revealing some pretty awful dental decay. He drooled stupidly at the princess whose eyes were wide with horror at the disastrous mistake.
“Well, I must be going!” she cried and ran back to the Witch’s cottage.
She rapped at the Witch’s door again.
“It better not be you again,” shouted the Witch from within.
“It is…” said the princess.
The Witch came to the door wiping the sleep from her eyes. “What happened?”
“He is allergic to red wine.”
“You didn’t already know that about him? You don’t really know him all that well do you?”
“But I love him!” she said passionately.
“Are you sure that you’re not in love with the idea of him?”
“What do you mean?”
“ You know, handsome, dashing matador falls for the beautiful princess blah, blah, blah…and now they are the ideal couple and live happily ever after?”
“What’s the matter with that?”
“Well, it’s not very realistic is it? It doesn’t take into account having children, changing dirty diapers, getting along with his relatives, making your royal parents happy that you are marrying a commoner and I could go on…”
“You are a horrible, horrible Witch and you know nothing about romance, nothing!”
The Witch sighed, “I suppose you want to take another stab at magic?”
“Yes please.”
“Take this herb. It is called ‘virgin’s cry’ or ‘heartache’. You must bake a pie with the fruit of a tree that has never had its fruit picked before and blend in this herb. The pie must then be cut with a knife that has never been used before. A piece of the pie measuring the same radius as your own heart must then be put on a plate that has never been used before and served to the matador. As with the potion, yours must be the first face he sees after eating the slice.”
“That’s pretty complicated…”
“Magic is not for dummies,” chided the Witch, who had never heard of the book: ‘Magic for Dummies.’
The Princess paid the Witch and got the necessary items. The blacksmith made her a brand new knife and the royal china-maker fired a brand new plate. She made a trip to the royal orchardist and he showed her a tree that, in its fifth year, was just bearing its first crop of Jonagolds. She picked a basketful and raced to the royal kitchens.
She blended the ingredients and added the herb. The smell of the pie backing filled her with longing for Rodrigo. They would be so happy together.
She cut a piece to the radius of her heart with the help of the royal tutor and made her way to the bullfights.
Rodrigo was on fire that day. His moves were so graceful and exact that all the bull could do was gaze at him dumbstruck, until Rodrigo dispatched it. The bull died with a grateful smile on its bovine lips.
The princess raced to his dressing room to present him with the pie.
“I hope you like pie?” she asked.
“Is it fruit pie?”
“Yes, apple.”
“I adore apple pie, but I’m trying to cut back on carbs.”
“Oh, but just smell it! Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Well,” said the matador, his nose wrinkling with desire, “maybe just a forkful?”
He lifted the piece to his lips and ate it greedily. “Amazing!” he cried full of bliss, “maybe just one more forkful?” Soon the piece was completely eaten. The princess waited with bated breath. The matador smiled at her. She smiled at him expectantly.
“Well,” said Rodrigo, “thanks again for the wonderful pie. See you soon?”
“Um, isn’t there something else you want to say to me?”
“I don’t think so…”
Mitzi stamped her foot and glared at the matador. He shrugged his shoulders, so she stomped out of his dressing room. What could have gone wrong? she wondered as she ran to the Witch’s cottage.
Once more, she rapped on the cottage door.
“Good heavens!” cried the Witch of Nobbi, “is that you again?”
“Yes, but this time I did everything you said and it still didn’t make Rodrigo love me!”
“You cut the piece precisely?”
“To the radius of my own heart!”
“You used the first fruit?”
“Yes and a never-before-used plate and knife!”
“And fork?”
“What? You never said anything special about the fork I used!”
“Didn’t I? Well, it stands to reason that if everything about the spell is virginal that the fork must also never have been used!”
“But you didn’t tell me that!”
The Witch sighed, “Amateurs! I have one last spell for you but this is the last time I’ll help you.”
“Oh please, good Witch!”
“Stop using such vile language! Here, take this egg.” She handed a curiously large blue egg to the princess. “It is the egg of the paradox bird. You must take this egg and keep it always with you next to your heart. Watch Rodrigo like a hawk. The second that he fails to do something to his satisfaction you must throw this egg at him. If you hit him squarely, he will fall in love with you and you will live happily ever after!”
The princess thanked the witch and ran back to the bullfights, hoping for the matador to fail just once.
She might as well have hoped for the moon to fall from the sky. Rodrigo was Rodrigo, perfection personified. Never did he make a false move, never did he fail to deliver the coup de grace at the most fitting moment. He was a wonder!
The princess realized that she would have to prime the pump of his failure. She negotiated for a new shipment of bulls to be sent to the kingdom from faraway Andalusia, home of the most vicious and creative bulls ever bred to dismay a matador. She chose the most wicked bull and had it trained by the most gifted animal trainer in the kingdom. She fed it a special diet ensured to make him even more vicious. After many weeks, she judged that her bull, the gifted Gratto, was ready for the ring.
She chose to release her bull to the bullring on the Feast of St. Valentine which made everything perfect! Rodrigo entered the ring to the delight of his fans and he was showered with roses even before he could snap out of his bow. And then the crowd hushed as the huge Gratto entered the ring.
Unlike the other bulls, Gratto did not paw at the ground, he simply looked at Rodrigo sizing him up. He noted the placement of the killing sword and determined that the matador was right-handed. He would start with a Filionacci Gambit, a long looping run, designed to draw out the matador and test his flexibility with the cape. Rodrigo countered with a Flying French Twist, which impressed the bull not a little.
Mitzi found herself cheering on her bull, “Come on, Gratto, take him down a peg!” It was, of course, true love speaking.
Gratto, out of respect for the matador’s obvious expertise decided to try a combination play, beginning with a Danish horn-rush and finishing with a Bruce Lee 360 roundhouse that he’d always wanted to try in the ring.
Rodrigo was expecting the horn rush and made his cape flutter like a wounded butterfly, but the 360 caught him completely by surprise. If it were not for his superb reflexes, he would have been stomped flatter than a pancake.
“Come on, Gratto. Let him have it!” wailed Mitzi.
Gratto could tell that the 360 was effective so he knew that the matador was definitely old school. He decided to try a Funky Slider with a half-twist on the bullfighter. He ran with a choppy, staccato beat, easing into the slider at the last moment. Rodrigo’s eyes widened with shock at the sight of the bull sweeping in like a runner trying to steal home, he swirled around just quickly enough to avoid the half twist. He jumped into the air only narrowly managing to avoid falling on his back.
Rodrigo got ready for the next rush, trembling just a little. It was time for him to go on the offensive. He readied his killing sword and advanced on the bull. Gratto smiled, he was definitely getting to the matador. Who ever heard of a matador charging a bull?
Rodrigo stopped himself. Calm down, he whispered to himself. You are the master, he is only a bull. He snapped his cape, once more ready to do battle.
Gratto saw that the matador was calm again. He decided that a Zen approach would be fun. So he composed himself and went into a state of deep rest. Rodrigo was appalled. What was the bull doing? It was surely time for it to charge him! What now?
Gratto rested until he could see that the matador was getting agitated. An agitated matador was clearly ripe for another charge. He went through his list of moves and decided to try the “Balkan Offensive” but with a bender thrown in to make it fresh. He surged toward the matador, all hooves and horns and snorting breath.
“It’s a Balkan!” thought Rodrigo, “Let’s see if you already know the ‘Velvet Fog’ counter.” He seemed to shimmer in the noonday sun, zigging and zagging at what looked like super slow motion. The bull flashed by without landing a horn on the matador. How the crowd cheered (except Mitzi)!
And that’s when Rodrigo made his first mistake of the evening. He bowed low to his adoring fans, without counting on the bull’s turn around speed. Gratto spun on a dime and sent a low bending horn toss right on the seat of Rodrigo’s satin pants.
Mitzi saw her chance and flung the egg directly at Rodrigo’s head. Splat! Gratto stopped running, the crowd stopped yelling and Rodrigo stood stock still covered with yolk. He looked up and caught sight of the princess as though for the first time. Like a man in a dream, he walked over to the royal stand and bowed to her.
“I love you,” he said passionately.
“Um…” she whispered.
“Do you think you could ever love me?”
“Er…” she muttered.
“Because, I truly love you!” he cried.
“Well…” For the truth of the matter was, seeing the matador humbled and covered with yolk had removed the scales from her eyes. She didn’t really love Rodrigo at all!
Mumbling excuses, she ran out of the bullring, leaving Rodrigo heart-broken.
She was a wiser Mitzi from that day on. So much so, that when she eventually ascended to the throne, all of the people called her “Mitzi the Mature.”
“That’s not a happy ending!” said Hoss. “What about true love winning in the end?”
“Yes, but that was not true love, only enchantment,” said Goldie calmly.
“What is true love then?” he whinnied angrily, his ears pressed flat to his head.
“True love is a choice made you make when you see someone as he is not as you wish he was. Mitzi did not truly love the matador, for as soon as she saw him flawed, she no longer loved him.”
“Aw, you mares don’t know how to tell a good story,” he complained, “I’m getting some shut-eye!” And with that he promptly fell asleep.
“He’s obnoxious, but the last thing he said makes sense,” said Death, lowering her head.
“Good night, my dears, pleasant dreams…” whispered Goldie as the stars twinkled golden, purple, green and red in the Polymorphan night.

The Stallion's Tale

The Stallion’s Tale

“Oh Death,” laughed Goldie, “what a wonderful story!”
“Yeah, yeah…it ended well,” said the stallion. “Now it’s my turn!”
“Very well,” sighed Goldie.
“This one is called “The Death-Dealing Goblin of Derbyshire!”
“Lovely, Hoss…”

Once upon a time (or it may have been just yesterday) there lived a humble tinker named Sid. Sid was only a tinker but he really wanted to be a magician, the greatest magician that the world had ever seen.
He knew that the warlock who lived on the edge of the Dark wood had super powers so he decided to offer himself as an apprentice to him so he could learn magic! The warlock (whose name was Virus the Venomous) needed help so he took Sid on and assigned him the job of cutting wood and drawing water. He told him that he would teach him one magic trick a day, if he worked well.
Sid hated working like a slave but it would be worth it if he could be like the warlock. And each day, true to his promise, Virus the Venomous taught him a magic trick: how to disappear, how to fly like a starling, how to read minds, and how to raise the almost dead.
One day, a delegation of villagers came to Virus’ castle.
“Drat!” said the warlock, “They’ve come to drive me out again. This always happens when the crops fail or the village well goes dry!”
But Virus was wrong this time, the villagers came to Virus to ask him to help them with a problem that they had. Apparently, they were under siege by a particularly wretched Goblin, the size of a small house with glistening fangs, razor sharp claws, and a nasty disposition. He slaughtered the cows, ate the goats and terrified the sheep. They had tried to drive him of with pitchforks, burning torches and bull mastiffs but the Goblin had only laughed cruelly and dispatched the dogs with his bandy arms, tearing off their heads and using them as footballs, kicking them back into the village!
“Disgusting!” said Death.
“Now, now, dear, let him tell his horrible story!” said Goldie.
“Where was I?” said Hoss. “Oh yes, the dogs’ heads…”
The villagers wept and begged the warlock to help them, reasoning that it took evil-doer to deal with evil.
“I’ll help you if you can meet my price,” said Virus.
“What’s your price?” asked the village headman.
“I’m not going to tell you yet,” he smiled evilly, “After the Goblin is dead or gone, I will tell you my price.”
“I don’t think we have a choice, do we?” asked the headman.
“No!” laughed the warlock. “Do you accept my terms? If so, you must sign a contract with your blood!”
The headman did so and the warlock pointed to his apprentice. “Sid, here, will get rid of the Goblin for you.”
“He will?” gulped the headman.
“I will?” gulped Sid.
“He will!” said the warlock and that was that.
Poor Sid grasped his magic shoes, his magic spectacles and his magic game board and went to the village in search of the Death-Dealing Goblin of Derbyshire! He hoped when he got there that the Goblin would have gotten bored and left but no such luck.
He came upon the goblin picking his teeth (the goblin’s) and belching most foully. He had just eaten twelve cows and was feeling relaxed and sleepy.
“Ho, foul Goblin!” said Sid.
“Yeah, so?” responded the Goblin.
“Well, the villagers were wondering about the odds of you buggering off any time soon?”
“Such language!” protested Death.
“Just let him tell his story his way, dear,” urged Goldie.
“Thank you Goldie…anyway…”
The Goblin made a rude gesture at the apprentice to let him know that he wouldn’t be leaving any time soon.
“If you stay, I’ll make your life miserable,” warned the apprentice.
“You try me, and see what happen,” said the smug goblin.
Sid put on his magic specs and concentrated. Soon a blazing fireball leaped from the glasses and hurtled at the goblin. The goblin simply opened his massive jaws and swallowed the fireball!
“That’s pretty good,” admitted the apprentice respectfully.
“Fireballs good for tummy,” said the goblin patting his massive gut.
Sid took off his magic specs and put on his magic shoes.
“Feet, don’t fail me now!” he cried and he started to run around the goblin at supersonic speed. As he ran around the goblin, he pulled the air after him so that a tornado swallowed up the goblin, throwing him up in the air and dropping him into the middle of the river, Nymble.
The goblin came tramping back into the village where he bowed to the apprentice, “That good trick! You not half bad at magic.”
“Thank you,” said Sid politely. “Are you going to go now?”
“Me think not. Me toying with eating you instead!” The Goblin rushed at Sid and gripped him in his claws. Sid barely had time to cry out a slippery spell which made him so slick that he slipped right out the goblin’s claws with only minor scraping. He yelped with pain and ran at supersonic speed around the beastly goblin again, causing another tornado to dump it into the river again.
“Me starting to lose patience with this!” cried the goblin who rushed at Sid with mayhem in his bloodshot eyes. Sid realized that he could dump the goblin in the drink all day without dampening the creature’s bloodlust, so he turned to his magic game board.
“Knight to wizard’s pawn!” he yelled.
Immediately a huge, armour-plated warrior on a black stallion…
“It’s self indulgent to put yourself into the story!” chided Death.
“It’s rude to interrupt the story,” said Hoss (the hypocrite).
“Now, now…” tutted Goldie.
Anyway, the knight advanced on the goblin, lifted his sword and aimed a deadly blow just south of its hideous head. If it were not for the iron collar that the goblin wore, there surely would have been one less goblin in Derbyshire.
Howling furiously, the goblin adjusted his head, cracked his neck, flexed his shoulders and hurtled himself at the amazed knight.
“I say, old feller, can’t we discuss this?” asked the knight.
“Me doubt it!” cried the angry creature, eating both horse and rider in two large and messy gulps.
“Armor give me tummy-ache!” said the goblin, spitting it out and none too daintily either.
“Oh, oh…” said Sid, “Bishop to King’s knight!”
Immediately, a tall elderly man with a large metal cross advanced to Sid’s side.
“Look, I don’t know why you called me. I am a pacifist, you know!” said the bishop.
“Sorry, I panicked!”
“You should call the Queen, she has the most flexibility…”
“Yeah, good idea. Right! Queen to Bishop’s pawn!”
Out came the Queen, looking angry.
“I was just about to have my nails done! Do you know how long I had to wait to get an appointment at the day spa?” she said, wagging her finger in Sid’s face.
“Me waiting!” said the goblin.
“Sorry…” said Sid, “I’m working on it.”
“Call the King! He’s just in his counting house playing with his jewels!” said the Queen.
Sid summoned the King who as it happened was not in the mood for fighting. In exasperation, Sid dropped the game board in his bag of tricks and all of the game pieces (except for the remains of the Knight) disappeared.
“Back to me and you!” said the goblin.
“Well, it’s hardly a fair fight,” said Sid, “I mean, you hammered my knight, so what chance do I have?”
“That not the fighting spirit,” complained the goblin. “Kids today have to have life handed to them on silver platter.”
“Yeah, yeah…you’ve never had to draw water and chop wood for a warlock just so he can send you out against a fierce goblin. My life is plenty hard.”
“Me sorry…me not realize. This open up new train of thought for Goblin. Listen, you like killing people and eating animals?”
“Yeah, I guess so…”
“Maybe you want to be Goblin’s ‘prentice?”
“Uh…don’t I have to be a goblin too?”
“What? You think there a rulebook for goblins? That ludicrous!”
So Sid and the goblin went off arm in bandy arm and soon there were two death-dealing goblins in Derbyshire!

Goldie’s Story

“That has got to be the most amoral story I have ever had the displeasure to hear!” frowned Death.
“At least it wasn’t boring!” said Hoss.
“But Hoss, where is the moral of the story?” asked Goldie.
“The what?”
“You know, the life lesson? What we are supposed to learn from the story?”
“Learn from a story? Are you kidding me? Stories are supposed to be entertaining. The minute you paste a moral on, the story withers up and dies.”
“Hmm,” said Death and Goldie together, with pursed lips.(Do horses have lips?)
“Look Goldie, if you want a story with a moral maybe you should tell one!” said Hoss.
“Oh my, I don’t know any stories…”
“Oh come on, Goldie,” said Death, “You know lots of stories!”
“Hmmm, how about ‘Winning True Love’?”
“That doesn’t sound very promising…” moaned Hoss, fearing a serious plot-line.

the Story Circle

I am writing a collection of short stories right now. Partly, it is a matter of necessity and partly it is to do something short and bursty. It's necessary because of John and Jill Enns. They invited Diane and I to RV with them in Oliver BC in the middle of writing the Unlikely Accomplice. When I got there, I really wanted to write but I didn't have my manuscript with me. What to do? What to do? I borrowed a laptop and imagined a campfire scene where the beasts of burden could stand around telling stories. It was so much fun and the stories tended to such length that I had to cut them from the book and put them in a book of their own. The story tellers are Goldie and Death, two sensitive mares who speak to the issues of the heart and then, for contrast, I created a black stallion named Hoss. Hoss lives to tell tales of action, violence, gore and the supernatural. If it involves zombies or werewolves, you can bet it's a Hoss-tale.

Here then it the first story from the Circle.

The Story Circle: A Collection of Short Stories with Good Morals Attached (Mostly)


“Who has a story for us?” whinnied Goldie, the strong palomino mare.
“I have one,” said Hoss, the big, black stallion.
“Oh no!” cried Goldie, “Your stories are always so crude and tiresome. I would like to hear something uplifting.”
“How about ‘Giselle and the Fortune teller’?” asked Death, the diminutive white mare.
“The very thing!” said Goldie.
“I don’t think my stories are all that crude…” said Hoss, “You can’t call ‘The Dung Beetle’s Wedding’ crude!”
“I most certainly can and do! Now hush, Hoss, and let Death tell her story.”

Giselle and the Fortune Teller

“Once upon a time, (said Death) there was a fine blood mare named Giselle. She belonged to the most prosperous farmer in all of Lincoln County and she was greatly loved by all of the children for miles around. She bathed in sugar and fine oats. There was nothing but joy in her life and blue skies as far as the eye could see.
Well, they say that nothing good lasts forever and luckily for us, they are quite correct or else we would have a short, boring story.
One day, the Travelers came to town, led by their swashbuckling leader, Carlo. Carlo had flashing eyes and teeth and a general disregard for the niceties of civilized behavior. His motto was “I see it, I like it, I take it.”
He saw Giselle, liked her (and who wouldn’t?) and took her for his own.
Poor Giselle, taken far away from all she loved, hitched to a cart like a common dray animal and forced to eat grass like any village nag. How she cried! Her proud spirit absolutely rebelled at this sort of treatment and she gave Carlo a nip on the shoulder. He laughed and bit her ear in turn. She was shocked. What sort of a man was he?
Carlo was Carlo, proud, confident, and utterly committed to his own pleasures. The only thing that Carlo feared was the loss of his freedom, so he and his people were always on the move, camping here one day and the next day moving on, always moving on.
Giselle felt like she had not a friend in the world and she would cry herself to sleep every night. And then, one day, Carlo came back to the encampment with an old woman.
“She is a fortune-teller!” he announced to all and sundry, “I took her so that she can tell her fortunes for us!”
“I told you,” said the old woman, “I am not a fortune-teller, I am just a somewhat wise old woman!”
“Wise Woman, Fortune-teller…it is all semantics! For us, you will be a fortune-teller for silver!”
“My gifts are not for hire!” she said sternly.
“Your attitude will change over time,” said the evil Carlo, hinting heavily.
“My attitude is as unchanging as the mountains and the heavens,” she insisted.
“If Carlo says to the mountain, move, the mountain moves!” said Carlo with complete assurance.
The old woman was beaten and thrown into a trailer. She wept not a lick and stayed completely composed which irritated Carlo not a little.
“You can stay there all by yourself until you come to your senses!” he thundered.
Giselle went to the old woman’s trailer and softly whinnied at her door.
The old woman opened a window and called to the young mare. Giselle stuck her muzzle in and the old woman caressed her and spoke kindly to her.
“You are a lovely horse, aren’t you?” said the old woman.
“Yes,” said Giselle.
“He has stolen you too, no?”
“Yes, I hate him!” (For Giselle was a horse of spirit.)
“Hate? That is an ugly word. For myself, I dislike his actions.”
“Not me, I hate him. He is a horrible man and I wish he was dead!”
“Oh, my dear foolish young horse. Don’t you see that hating makes you hateful?”
“I don’t understand.”
“We become what we offer to others. If you offer love, you become loving and lovely too. If you offer peace, you become peaceful. But if you go out in hate, it scars your spirit and makes you hateful. Do you understand?”
The horse tossed her head and said nothing. The old woman just smiled. She could tell that the mare was thinking it over.
One day, Carlo came to the old woman’s trailer and opened the door. He beckoned to her and out she came.
“Now, you will be our fortune-teller?”
“Oh, I suppose that I could give it a try,” she said serenely.
“Good, good…you are pleasing Carlo today. We will go to the fair and you will tell fortunes. Please put this on.” and so saying, he handed her a dress. She lifted it up and clucked her disapproval. The dress was black with silvery stars, moons and planets on it.
“It’s rather gauche, isn’t it, my good Carlo?” she suggested.
“If by ‘gauche’ you mean convincing and realistic, you are quite correct!” he said grandly. (He was a showman after all.)
“If I must, I must,” she conceded.
“You must.”
“Then you must do something for me.”
“What?” he said guardedly.
“Let me have Giselle to ride to the fair.”
“Why not?”
She went back to her trailer and put on the foolish dress and then off they were to the fair.
Carlo had set up a large blue and red tent emblazoned with the words: “Madame Cleo, Fortune-Teller, Predictor, and Clairvoyant! Reasonable Rates and Satisfaction Guaranteed! She sees all and tells all!!!” She sighed, patted Giselle on the nose and thanked the young mare for carrying her.
The old woman’s first client was a beautiful girl named Carmena Conchita Alonzo Alveres who was all of 17 years old and already fixated on her future bliss. Specifically, she wanted to know when she would marry and to whom and how many children she would bear so that she could do what it took to be happy, happy, happy.
The quasi-fortuneteller took her fine white hands in her, looked deeply into her eyes and told her the following:
“You will be happy only when you stop looking to things outside of your soul to make you happy. Happiness is a spring that leaps up from within, it is not a river that flows to you from without…”
“What kind of a fortune is this,” cried the lovely Carmena, “I want to know if I’ll be married!”
“Do you want to be married?”
“Of course!”
“Why?”
“Because that is what makes a woman happy!”
“Is it?”
“Of course it is,” snapped the lovely Carmena.
“Was your mother happy?” asked the old woman.
“She has no complaints…” she said hesitantly.” Was her mother happy? Now that she thought about it, she wondered if she really was.
Carmena left the tent without paying and wandered off, lost in thought. Carlo noticed and his temper flared up.
“She didn’t pay! Why not?”
“I suppose it was because I didn’t tell her what she wanted to hear.”
“Tell the customers what they want to hear!” he counseled, “You’ll never see them again!”
“I’ll try,” said the old woman.
“You’d better!”
Her second client was the town baker, an ugly man named Georges Hubert La Croissette. Georges wanted to know if she could tell him if his mother, the late Katherine was in heaven with the angels or not.
“Was she a good woman?” asked the pseudo-fortuneteller.
“She was faithful to the Church,” asserted the baker.
“Was she loving?”
“She went regularly to all required religious meetings.”
“Was she kind?”
“She was always saying the appropriate prayers.”
“Did she love God?”
“She certainly feared Him.”
“Did she enjoy God?”
“What? Enjoy God? What kind of a question is that?”
“Would you want to go to Heaven if you didn’t enjoy God? Heaven is all about basking in the light and pleasure of God.”
(“What kind of a story is this anyway?” asked Hoss.
“Will you please hush, Hoss.” murmured Goldie.
“But there hasn’t been any action since the beginning. It’s all talk, talk, talk!”
“Let Death continue her story, Hoss. You can tell one of your stories when she’s done!”)
Death continued from where she was so rudely interrupted:
The baker stormed out of the fortune-telling tent leaving no fee behind. Carlo raged at the old woman: “I swear old woman, I believe that you are doing this on purpose. Two unhappy clients and no cash!”
“But I am no fortune-teller, my good Carlo, all I can do is tell the truth.”
“Anybody can tell the truth,” he cried, “it takes genius to tell convincing lies. You are simply not trying to lie.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“If you don’t tell a good fortune for the next person who comes to your tent, I will take the horse away and sell her to the glue factory!”
“That would be foolish,” countered the old woman, “everybody knows that a horse like that could command ten pieces of gold. The factory will only pay you two.”
“I don’t care!”
“Oh, alright,” sighed the Old Woman, “I’ll try to do it your way!” Giselle gulped with relief, she didn’t know what a glue factory was but it didn’t sound very promising.
Madame Cleo’s third client was a middle aged woman named Alice. Alice was clearly no longer a spring chicken but she went to superhuman efforts to give the impression of youthfulness: her make-up was immaculate, her hair was just-so, and she dressed in the height of fashion (for a much younger woman). She came in clutching a jeweled purse and opened her heart to the old woman.
“Will I die alone?” she asked quietly.
The old woman knew that the approved answer to this question was a resounding “No! Love is just around the corner for you.” But instead, the following words came out of her mouth: “My dear, you aren’t alone; even now you are surrounded on every side by all the hosts of Heaven and God himself.”
“I’m not religious…” said Alice.
“That’s quite alright, neither is heaven’s bright host.”
“I just want an answer to my question: will I ever find true love?”
“Yes you will,” said the Old Woman.
“I will?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
The old woman hesitated and said, “I don’t know.”
“The sign says that you are a Predictor.”
“I know.”
“Can you see my future?”
“No, but I can see your present.”
“My present? What do you mean?”
“You are in your middle years, but you are clutching a youth which has already left you. You are filled with fear and yearning for something on which you can pin hope. I tell you, Alice, if you can let go of your fear, love will come to you.”
“That is the most interesting fortune I’ve ever heard.” said Alice thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s worth a piece of silver,” and she handed over the fee. “How do I let go of fear?”
(“This story is boring and pointless!” cried Hoss, “You can tell it was written by a mare. Where is the adventure, the pointless violence?”
“Hoss, you can tell your stallion’s tale when she’s finished,” said Goldie calmly.)
The old woman gave Alice a long look and said, “The first step is to admit you’re afraid. Healing comes when we admit we’re sick.”
Alice thanked the old woman and left with a thoughtful look on her lovely face. Carlo noticed the thoughtful look and stomped over to the tent. “You are killing me, old woman! People are supposed to smile when they leave you, happy to believe your lies!”
The old woman said nothing; she simply gave him the silver.
“She paid the fee?” asked the dumbfounded Carlo. “You lied to her?”
“She paid for the truth,” said the old woman.
“A highly novel way to do business…but I can’t argue with results!”
So all day long the old woman told the truth. Some stormed off without paying but many were content to ponder what the old woman said.
At night, the old woman and Giselle rode back to the encampment under the eagle eyes of Carlo.
“We will leave under cover of darkness,” whispered the old woman to her mount. Giselle said nothing but her heart was racing. Where would they go? Would Carlo not try to find them and punish them? She shivered as the words ‘glue factory’ played across her mind.
That night, the old woman, untied Giselle and they were off!
(“Pinch me!” said Hoss, “This almost sounds like action!”
“Be quiet, Hoss, or we won’t let you tell your story!”
“Sorry!”)
They rode throughout the night, finally stopping off at a small inn. The old woman stabled Giselle and collapsed on a feather bed.
Late the next morning, after a good meal, they made for the coast reasoning that Carlo would hardly pursue them overseas. Of course, this just indicated how little they understood the Chief of the Travelers. His rage burned hot and riding his own black stallion, he pursued them wherever their trail took them.
The problem with going on board ship was that the old woman had no more money. She refused to sell the mare to the many who offered but how were they to raise money?
Finally, she decided to offer her services to the inn-keeper as a fortune-teller. She saw the irony in her decision but argued with herself that the end justified the means. Her soul was appalled at this sort of rationalization, but it was overruled by her mind and the pleading eyes of the mare.
She sat at a table at the back of the inn with a colorful scarf around her head and a pot of tea in front of her. She wondered if she would get any business that day. If only she knew!
At that moment, in stormed Carlo breathing fire and demanding beer from the inn-keeper. The old woman hunched down behind her table and covered her face with the scarf.
Carlo drank deeply from several pitchers of foaming black ale and wiped his mouth with his greasy sleeve. In a state of advancing inebriation, he looked over at the fortune-teller’s table and his mind tried to churn out a cunning plan.
He lurched over to the fortune-teller and plunked himself down in front of her.
“I wanna fffortune,” he slurred.
The fortune-teller said nothing, just held out her hand. He dropped a silver coin into her hand, and belched.
“What do ye wish to know?” she asked in a querulous voice striving for an Irish accent.
“I’m lookin’ for an ol’ woman an’ a horshe. Dey gotta be shomewhere!”
“Drink this tea,” ordered the fortuneteller. Carlo drank it down and burned his tongue. The old woman pretended to read the tea leaves.
“Ah…I see it all now…you are a man of authority…”
“Dam’ shraight, I am…”
“You seek a harmless old woman and a horse named…something that starts with a G…”
“You’re amashzing!”
“The leaves say that they have already boarded ship for the islands of the Northern Sea.”
“I’ll geddem!” he bellowed and staggered out of the inn to find a ship captain who could take him there.
The old woman laughed and went out to find her horse. They lived happily ever after!