FAIRY STORIES HAPPEN

There was a house, or let’s call it a hovel, in a deep and dark forest. In this hovel there sat a woman, staring into the crackling, dancing flames of the hearth while she rested her tired hands in her lap. She was not young, plain faced, plain but a face that looked as though there was a lot going on under that greying straggly hair. She picked up her work again, she was busy spinning. There was a big ball of not quite white and coarse wool. The end was held with a pin to stop the ball unravelling. She could hold it by a length of its yarn and twisted bits of small wispy amounts of sheep’s fleece from a heap into the strand of dirty looking, coarse wool for knitting. She had plugged the fleece from hedge grows and brambles where sheep often get stuck to the unyielding thorns.
The door opened and in walked a man with a sort of little harp, a lyre. She looked up as though she had expected him; but she did not know him, had never seen him and definitely did not expect any one. She did not care who walked in, it provided a diversion and never lasted long because she soon would get bored with the company or the company would get bore with her, it did not matter to her. This man looked as though he would stay a little longer than most. Her facial features lifted a little. Surely she would not respond to a handsome bearded face with eyes that were grave with a twinkle of humour lurking there somewhere? He smiled at her.
“Why don’t you use a spinning wheel?” this was the first thing he asked as though he knew her.
“Because I can’t afford to buy one,” she answered. “Look around you, what do you see? I am poor; I know I could sell herbs and flowers in town on market day. But what is the point? I’d be only a little better of. A little is not worth the effort. He smiled when she handed him a beaker of burdock wine and then he started to sing of love and loss, of joy and woe, of love and loss, of deep dark forests, of love and loss and sparkling rivers. His voice was nice, and the lyrics were delightful. They struck a chord within her and she said: “I think your lyrics are delightful.”
“You think?” said her mother, “You can’t think, you never could!”
“Yes, I can,” the woman answered, “I think the lyrics are delightful.”
“Thank you,” said the man, lowering his lyre, ”but who are you talking to?”
“My mother,” the woman said.
“Where, where is your mother?” the man looked around, peering towards the dark corners and recesses where the candle light didn’t reach.
“She died,” the woman replied. “But she is still here, inside my head. She hangs around to make sure I don’t forget that I am stupid.”
The man laughed, “If you think my lyrics are delightful, you are blessed with great intelligence.”
“You would think so,” the woman ruminates, “In fact you would think so.” Men, she thought, no limits to their arrogance.
“Mother thinks I don’t know what I am talking about, and you know what they say: Mother knows best.”
“Stay clear of platitudes,” he advised the woman, “They diminish your intellect.”
“My what?” She almost laughed, but didn’t quite managed; she was not used to laughing.
“I can make you clever,” he said, “I am a bit of a…” he tried to sound modest, “a magician.”
“That is interesting,” the woman’s demeanour had livened up, “How does it feel, to be a - magician?”
“Oh you know? I quite enjoy the power.” She could not help but like him.
“I suppose you believe every thing he says. That’s just to show how stupid you are.”
“Not exactly everything” said the woman audibly, “But isn’t he charming? Be honest, mother, isn’t honesty sometimes rather tiresome? And you know how easily I am bored.”
“You are talking to your mother again, aren’t you?” The man cut into the conversation.
“She told me not to trust you.”
He looked inscrutable, “Why don’t you just ignore her and follow your instinct?”
“How?” asked the woman.
“Just ignore her, that’ll finish her off.”
“You can’t ignore me, I am strong, and you are weak. Look how easily you fall for this confidence trickster. You have past your first flush of youth and a few more flushes too, let’s face it,” her tone sank into pitying, wheedling sing song: “You have never been what one might call good looking.”
“Because you made me, and I take his advice, I will kill you; I should have done that even before you died.”
“That’s right,” said the man, she’s had her time, now it’s your turn.”
“Bit late for that, don’t you think? You didn’t hear what she said to me just now.”
“Tell me,” he commanded. She did tell him. Then there was a silence between them while she watched his fingers idly strumming at his instrument. They made a sound that was soft, deep and sensuous. His fingers did more caress the strings than strum.
“I can make you young,” he murmured as though to himself.
“What?” She was torn from her reverie.
“What did you say; you can make me young again?”
“Well, my powers are limited,” he admitted a little embarrassed, “but I definitely can make you young inside.”
“Oh my goodness, what good is that? I am still a woman, you know. Looks matter.”
“I could make you write poetry,” said the magician.
“Ha!” said the mother.
“Shut up!” Said her aging daughter.
“Why?” asked the minstrel/magician.
“Not you, her, she opinionated again,” said the woman.
“Kill her!” he commanded.
“So how can I write poetry like you?”
“Well, not actually like me,” he tried to sound modest, “I am brilliant. But there is no reason why you shouldn’t manage a little. And I can make you nice looking, beautiful even - from a particular angle and in a certain light.”
“Pah!” said the mother, she more spat than said it.
“Pah” said the daughter, for once mother and daughter seemed to agree with each other. “Now I know you are lying.”
“No, I am not!” said the minstrel/magician.
“How?” asked the woman, “How can you make me – “ she hesitated. The word beautiful embarrassed her a little. “better looking?”
“I make you smile,” he answered.