Week Thirteen Story: Diary of a Gossip

April 2nd:

Dear Diary,

Today my friend, Anna, and I were talking about Sarah Madden's son, Jack, and his very ugly hump. Something really must be done about it, you know; it is so very uncomely, and the little brat has a horrid personality to boot. Still, if it weren't for that hideous hump protruding from his back like a mountain, he could perhaps be relatively handsome, and as you know, he stands to inherit quite a good-sized fortune. 

So, Anna and I were thinking, if we could just figure out a way to rid him of his hunchback, perhaps he would be a suitable match for Anna's daughter, Lily. Of course, his arrogance and snobbishness aren't likely to go away with the hump, but if he could at least look halfway decent, Lily (and, by proxy, Anna) would stand to gain a great deal through the union. 

Anyway, I heard a rumor from Philippa, who told me she heard it from Emmaline, who heard from a fishmonger in the market that there was a man -- what was his name? Lester? Lustore? Something like that, anyway -- who had a hump just like that Jack's, but he somehow got rid of it! Tomorrow, Anna and I are fixing to seek him out in Carragh to see if we can find out how he managed it!

April 3rd:

Dear Diary,

We found him! His name is Lusmore -- what an odd thing to be called! -- and the fairies took his hump away! He told me all: he found himself drowning in misery at his own ugliness next to a marsh at night, and he heard the fairies singing "Monday, Tuesday, Monday, Tuesday" over and over again, so he just piped right in with "Wednesday," and they were so grateful to him for adding to their song that they just magicked his hump right off! He's a right handsome fellow now, diary; you couldn't tell at all that he used to be such a monster. Hopefully it'll be just the same for Jack! 

Tonight, Anna and I are going to take Jack to that marsh and see if he can lose that hump, provided he'll promise that, if he becomes handsome, he'll marry Lily. I'm sure he'll agree, but we'll need to get it in writing. Lily isn't much to look at herself, and if he really does come out as handsome as that Lusmore fellow, he might just decide to go after some gorgeous noblewoman or other instead.

Wish us luck!

April 4th:

Dear Diary,

Oh dear. It's all gone wrong. We took that horrid little Jack Madden to the marsh after he signed the contract we wrote up, but he messed the whole thing up! We told him to add "Wednesday, Thursday" to the fairy song because if they rewarded Lusmore for adding only one day, surely Jack would be even better rewarded for adding two, right? Well, apparently not. The fairies, it seems, sucked Jack down into their marsh and went on and on about how he hadn't respected their music, and he added his voice at the wrong time, and Lusmore had been so kind and intelligent, but Jack was only rude and arrogant (not that I disagree, but still! ungrateful little things!). So they took the hump that they'd kept from Lusmore's back (why anyone would keep such a thing is beyond me!) and magicked it onto Jack, so now he has two humps. 

The weight of the humps together is such that he seems fixing to die. Sarah is, of course, livid, but we were just trying to help. Ah, well. I hear there's a rich cripple over in Carragh, so maybe he'll have low enough standards to wed poor Lily.

I shall let you know when I find out more, diary!

Drawing of a hunchback from Wikimedia Commons

*Author's Note:

This story is based on "The Legend of Knockgrafton," in which a kind-hearted, intelligent man named Lusmore adds to the song of the fairies, making them so happy that they remove his hunchback and make him incredibly handsome. When word spreads, a gossip comes to Lusmore asking how he got rid of his hump, because her friend's son, who is not a very nice person, wants to get rid of his as well. Lusmore openly shares with her how it happened, but when Jack Madden, the other hunchback, goes to the fairies, he doesn't show the  appreciation and respect for their music that Lusmore did, so they put Lusmore's hump on his back, and the weight soon kills him. I wanted to write this story from the gossip's perspective, and emphasize the way that, other than Lusmore, everyone in the story looks only at the outward appearance, and not at the heart. The fairies rewarded Lusmore because he was respectful and kind, even though everyone else made fun of him and spread rumors about him. Jack Madden, though he had the same physical deformity as Lusmore, did not have a kind heart, so he was not rewarded. 

Bibliography: More Celtic Fairy Tales by Joseph Jacobs, with illustrations by John D. Batten (1895). Web source.

Week Seven Story: The Turtle and the Fisherman

Once upon a time, a young turtle with a kind heart loved to swim in the open seas. She would catch the currents and ride the waves, splashing happily and without care. Now, one day, this young turtle was slicing through the waters at what she thought was a safe distance from a little island; fishermen seldom came out this far. However, she suddenly felt a net tightening around her little shell, hoisting her upwards out of the water, and she quickly tucked her legs and head inside out of fear!

Peering out of her armor, she glimpsed a handsome young man hauling another net - this one filled with flopping fish - into his boat. Poking her head out just a little, she cleared her throat to get his attention.

"Excuse me, kind sir. I know that you are a fisherman, and that this is how you live," she began, "but seeing as how I am but a young turtle, and very small, I wonder if you might release me? There is not much meat on my bones, as you can see."

The man thought for a moment, and then he denied her.

"Turtle soup is my very favorite meal," he explained without a hint of remorse, "and even if I cannot eat you yet, surely you shall grow, and then you will make a very fine soup."

Seeing that pleading would get her nowhere, the little turtle sought a different tack.

"But, good sir, then you would have to keep me in water, and feed me, and keep me safe," she ventured, "lest I should dry up, or grow too thin instead of becoming fat for eating, or be stolen by your neighbors."

The man plopped himself down next to the netted turtle and seemed to become very perplexed, but he said nothing as he thought. After a good little while, the turtle spoke once more.

"Perhaps," she suggested, "you might let me go, and I can go about the business of fattening myself up right here in the sea, and it will not cost you any time or work. Then, once I've gotten quite large and delicious, I will come back and meet you here again, and you may make me into soup and eat me. This way, you won't have to feed me any of the precious fish you catch, and I may enjoy a year or two more of life before I perish, if perish I must."

Although this plan seemed good to him, it did occur to the man that perhaps the turtle would not come back, and then he would have no turtle and no soup. So, he still refused to cut the turtle loose, saying, "You turtles are clever creatures, and this is certainly a trick."

Desperate to return to the sea and terribly afraid of losing her young life, the turtle began to spin for the man a story. She told him of a beautiful princess - the daughter of the sea god, no less - who lived richly and lavishly in a shimmering palace under the sea, and who was searching even now for a handsome fisherman to keep her company and become her husband. At this, the fisherman puffed out his chest, as he supposed himself to be the handsomest fisherman on his island at the very least, and he believed himself quite deserving of a beautiful princess and endless riches.

"If you'd like, I could take you to her," said the turtle casually, "but alas! These heavy ropes will hinder me from showing you the way, as I cannot swim with them tied around me like this!"

Greedily, the fisherman agreed to cut off the netting which ensnared the little turtle, only tying a thin string from one of the turtle's flippers to keep from losing track of her while they swam. But as they dove deeper and deeper, the man found that he could not swim as far as the turtle, and needed to go back up for air. Letting go the string briefly, he kicked up towards the surface, but when he again dove down, the turtle was nowhere to be seen. After a good deal of time in searching, the man returned to his boat, only to find that in his absence, seabirds had eaten the majority of his fish. So he went home with no fish and no turtle, and he was altogether very sad about missing out on his favorite soup.

The turtle, meanwhile, sought out a friend to help her cut off the string, and then happily returned to her peaceful life, though she never again ventured quite so close to the shore.

*Author's Note: This story is based on the story of "Uraschimataro and the Turtle," which is a traditional Japanese folktale. In the original, the fisherman is merciful to the turtle and lets her go, and many years later the turtle saves him from a sea storm and takes him to live with the daughter of the sea god as her immortal husband. However, at long last he discovers that time has passed faster than he thought, and everyone he loved is dead. In a moment of foolishness, he loses his immortality and ages three hundred years in a few moments, then dies. In my story, I wanted to imagine what would have happened had the turtle been captured by a less kind fisherman than Uraschimataro, and what she might have done to win back her freedom. 

Bibliography: "Japanese Fairytales" from The Violet Fairy Book by Andrew Lang, illustrated by H. J. Ford (1901). Web source.

Image of a turtle from Max Pixel

Week Five Story: The Merchant's Book

Once upon a time, there was a poor merchant who, though he had but the shirt on his back and a small hovel to call his home, possessed a heart which was noble and good. His kindness and uprightness of character were such that a generous spirit took notice of him, and decided to reward him.

"Poor merchant," the spirit told him, "I have seen the goodness that resides in your heart, though your life is hard and lonely. Take, therefore, these three gifts, and be happy."

Whereupon the spirit gifted the man with three blessings. Firstly, where his tiny hovel had once huddled now towered a glorious palace, glimmering proudly in the sunshine. Secondly, a storeroom appeared, overflowing with cascading mountains of gold and silver, precious jewels and expensive spices. And thirdly, nestled in a box of sweet-smelling cedar, the spirit gifted the man with a book.

"What manner of book is this, that is full of naught but empty pages?" Asked the merchant, bowing deeply in humble gratitude.

"That you shall find out for yourself, dear merchant," said the spirit before wisping away on a breeze.

And so the merchant entered his new home, joyfully exploring each room, and invited all his neighbors to come and join him for a feast. For many weeks the kindhearted merchant lived generously, helping the members of the town with any plights they encountered. A widow from the street nearby came to him when a rebellious wind tumbled through her house and ripped holes through her roof; the merchant built her a new home, stronger than the last. A neighbor boy knocked upon the door, begging for a scrap of food for his ailing mother; the merchant gifted him with ten gleaming rubies to sell and purchase food and medicine and whatever else she might need.

But the time came, as it does for all men who suddenly find themselves the recipients of great quantities of gold and riches (even, dear reader, those men so kindhearted as our beloved merchant), the merchant found himself more hesitant to part with the riches which had been gifted him. At night, as he slept under silken sheets in his grand new palace, he was troubled with grave dreams, in which his neighbors came knocking and knocking again, and the glinting storehouse grew emptier and grayer until the golden mountains had passed, piece by piece, entirely out the door and into the greedy hands of others. In his dreams, too, the palace crumbled and shrank, until he found himself once more living in a filthy hovel, the cold of winter biting through to his bones, the shelves barren of food. This fear gripped him, and as the storehouse grew ever emptier, he thought more and more of closing his doors forever upon his neighbors.

When the storehouse had emptied about halfway, a crippled girl, carried by her father, came to his door.

"Please, kind merchant," begged the father, "I have heard of your generosity and goodness, and have come to ask for your help. I shall repay you in whatever way you deem fit, to the best of my abilities, but please, can you help us? We haven't any food."

"Let me think on it today, and I will answer you in the evening," said the merchant. So confused was his heart by fear of returning to his old poverty after having tasted so good a life as this that he actually found himself considering turning them away. It was at that moment that he remembered the book in its cedar box.

Fetching the book from its keeping place, he opened it to find that many of the once-blank pages were now full. He began to read what was written there, and found on the first page a story that told of a widow whose home had been blown down by a vengeful wind. The woman was hopeless, with nowhere to turn, and so she huddled in the streets each night alone, until finally the bitter winter cold claimed her life. On the next page was the story of a poor boy whose sick mother succumbed to her illness, leaving him alone in the world. The merchant realized that these stories were what would have happened to the neighbors he'd helped if he had closed his doors to them.

Reminded of the value of his generosity, he quickly called the father and his crippled daughter to his storehouse, bidding them to take whatever they needed. After that, whenever a neighbor would come to him seeking help, he would look back at his book, filling up more and more with the stories of what would have happened if he had chosen greed over goodness, then he would offer them anything they needed.

The day came when the storehouse emptied, and the man was filled with sorrow. But the sorrow was not, as he had expected, for the loss of luxury, but rather for the book he held, whose stories he could no longer replace with happy endings.

"Dear spirit," he called out, "please, if you could, let me help just a few more." The generous spirit, pleased by the merchant's actions, caused the storehouse to refill, and from then on it refilled as soon as it emptied, and the book grew fat with stories.

*Author's Note: This story is based on the story of Miemun and Khojisteh, and the parrot who prevents Khojisteh from committing infidelity by distracting her with stories. The main element that I drew from the original was the idea of stories preventing someone from giving up their good values for evil deeds. In the original, Khojisteh truly loves Miemun at the start, but is swayed by temptation when he is away. In my version, the merchant is good-hearted, but he is tempted by greed. As usual, I insisted on giving it a happier ending, though!

Bibliography. "Tales of a Parrot" by Ziya'al-Din Nakhshabi (1801). Web Source.

Image of an open book from Pixabay

Week Three Story: A Beloved Sister's Betrayal

Amara was born as the middle sister of three princesses, and the saying "each more beautiful than the last" was literal in their case. When the eldest of the three sisters was born, she was named Antheia, and the king and queen said, "She shall be as a flower, sweet and delicate, desired by all." And as she grew it was determined to be true: she was as lovely and adored as the first blooms of spring.

After several years, the queen bore her second daughter, and she was named Amara. The king and queen said, "She shall be eternally beautiful for all her days, and time will not mar the grace of her body or her countenance." And as she grew it was determined to be true: with each year of her life she grew more beautiful still.

Finally, the third princess was born, and she was named Psyche. The king and queen said, "She shall be the true form of Beauty, as a cooling breath of air upon the mind and soul." And as she grew it was determined to be true: her beauty far outshone that of her sisters, and she was looked upon as Beauty incarnate, daring even to be compared to Venus herself.

Now it came to pass that the three sisters grew older and came of marrying age. The lovely Antheia was given to a lord who was as wealthy in years as in gold, and the gray of his hair withered his wife. Like a flower, her beauty faded quickly and left her, but she was happy in her foreign home with her old but doting husband and her shining castle.

Amara, too, was given into a royal marriage by her parents, but her husband - a king, no less! - cared only for her outward beauty, and married her because he knew she would be beautiful forever, and she became like a decorative doll upon her queenly throne. Her face showed nary a mark of the passage of time, but her heart grew sad and weary.

At last, Psyche was given up into marriage - but rather than a marriage, it was a funeral. A mysterious prophecy was delivered on a scroll to the king and queen, which decreed that she must be offered up to a marriage that would be her death, or the fate of the world should suffer. So, tearfully, Amara and Antheia clung to her until they were drug from her side atop the mountaintop where the ritual was to take place, and they went down and saw her no more.

Antheia went back, saddened to her loving husband, whose kindness saw her through the darkness of her loss.

But Amara's husband was furious, raging about the way her tears left her eyes puffy and red, and how the wrenching of her face as she cried detracted from beauty. Why else was she here, he wanted to know, if not to content him with the pleasure of enjoying her lovely face? So, he announced, he would spend the evening instead with his mistress, who was far more cheerful and not as given to fits of unseemly emotion. And so Amara stole away in the night to let flow her tears at the site of her sister's sacrifice.

But Psyche had deceived them. She was not dead, but had contrived the prophecy herself to rid herself of the family whose lesser beauty was below her. She had allowed them to grieve her loss, but all the while she had married herself to a god - and Cupid, the god of love himself, no less! - and was living quite happily in a golden castle with invisible servants to tend her every whim. Yet, she lied to her sweet husband, that adorable winged god, and betrayed his trust time and again.

When Amara came to the mountaintop, she was met by Zephyr, Cupids faithful servant who takes the form of the wind. Zephyr explained to her in deep concern the sad state of affairs which his master unknowingly suffered - a shallow but beautiful wife who stirred up trouble between he and his mother and denied his few requests.

Amara was deeply injured, and wept anew, but this time out of rage. So Psyche did live up to her name, after all: she was a cooling breath of air, which put out the loving flames in the hearts of her family and doused the trust in her husband's mind. Furious and heartbroken at her sister's treachery, desperate not to return to the prison of her husband's home, Amara threw herself off the mountaintop, hoping to end her life.

But, gently, Zephyr caught her in his winds and delivered her to the gate of Cupid's palace.

"Do not toss aside your life so easily, beautiful princess. You may yet know happiness," he told her. "Even now, I have sent one of my breezes to tell Juno of your husband's infidelity. As the goddess of marriage, she surely shall not let him see another day. And as of your sister, Psyche, let us together tell Cupid of her deceit, and she shall receive the reward which she deserves."

So Zephyr and Amara flew together to Cupid's palace, and told him of his wife's deceit. Saddened, he told them he would love Psyche no matter her flaws, as she had pricked him in his sleep with his own arrow. Still, he felt gratitude to them for hoping to guard his heart, and so he granted between Zephyr and Amara a deep love.

And so Amara and Zephyr were married, and he carries her eternal beauty across the skies in his strong winds, and at last they both knew happiness.

Author's Note:
This story is a retelling of the story of Cupid and Psyche. I have changed much of the original, in which Psyche is the heroine and Cupid the hero. In the original version, Venus is jealous of Psyche's beauty and tells Cupid to make a terrible man fall in love with her so she will be miserable. Psyche is sacrificed, as in this, but at the decree of an oracle. Rather than dying, however, Cupid whisks her away and makes her his wife, but she is not allowed to see his face or know his identity. Against his urging, she reveals herself as alive to her two sisters, but they are treacherous and convince her to betray Cupid's trust in her. When all is revealed, Venus puts Psyche through a series of tests, and she is eventually made into a deity. Psyche also tricks the two elder sisters into killing themselves. So, as you can see, this story is much different. I thought it would be interesting to see it through the eyes of one of the sisters, who are (in the original) both married to very old, rich men and are very unhappy, and who are made to believe their sister is dead for a time. I got the ideas for/the meanings of the names of the three sisters here and here.

Bibliography. "Cupid and Psyche" from Apuleius's The Golden Ass, translated by Tony Kline. Web Source.

"Psyche Showing her Sisters her Gifts from Cupid" by Jean Honore Fragonard

Week Two Story: The Birth of an Ivory Girl

I was born to the kiss of a man, the weight of his hands on my hips, the taste of his mouth on my lips. A strange beginning, to be sure, but assuredly more pleasant for all involved than the usual ways of birth. Under the caress of the hands that carved me, so lovingly and so long ago, I could feel the cold ivory of my body giving way to the warmth of living flesh; organs separated from the stony mass inside my torso, forming themselves into lungs, brain, heart. I breathed deeply, for the first time, the fresh mountain air and the scent of spring flowers, the musk of my maker, my lover. Pygmalion opened wide eyes.

"My ivory girl," he whispered, and a surprised smile lit up his face.

Pygmalion was simultaneously new to me - as was everything else - and somehow deeply familiar, as though he was etched into my skin and bones. And really, he was. Before my awakening, my dear husband had sought for himself a beautiful wife, a virtuous wife, and had come up empty. The other women around our rural home were haughty and proud, empty of compassion or grace, so he elected to live a celibate life. His choice left him virtuous but lonely, though, and so I came into existence (though not yet fully - I existed in form only, but my life was yet to come). He took up the tools of a sculptor and carved my body dutifully, delicately, from ivory. Even before I became alive, he treated me with all the affection and love a woman could hope to obtain from a man: he brought gifts and laid them at my feet; he clothed me with beautiful robes and jewelry, he laid my head upon the softest of pillows.

To the goddess of love, this was pleasing indeed. In fact, my Pygmalion was pleasing in the eyes of all the gods for his humbleness, his noble character. At the festival of Aphrodite, Pygmalion gave up his offering graciously, then asked quietly for the chance to love a woman like what he had made me to be. Aphrodite was moved by his integrity and chastity, and when he returned home and kissed the cold hardness of my lips, she granted that breath should fill me, and that I might become as real and living as any human who has walked the Earth.

Three days later, we were married at the temple of the goddess who gave us to each other, and I swear I caught a glimpse of her shimmering figure smiling down at us from the corner of my eye.

Now, the story could happily end here, and that would have been enough. But in her goodness, Aphrodite did not limit her breath to my lungs only. Since that day, whatever creature is produced with Pygmalion's sculpting tools shivers jubilantly to life at our touch. He often carves me beautiful flowers, sweet little birds, or soft rabbits as gifts.

Aphrodite has blessed us greatly. We bring offerings to her daily now, so thankful are we for her gift. And another gift has been graced us: though I also carry in my womb a son, this morning, we carved for ourselves a child. A beautiful little ivory girl.

Artus Quellinus I's "Sleeping Infant"

Author's Note:
This story is my own retelling of the story of "Pygmalion" from Ovid's Metamorphoses. I have added some to the original story; the most important change to note is the addition of Aphrodite granting Pygmalion the ability to bring more to life with his sculpting tools than simply his bride, who was the only statue to gain life in the original myth. Additionally, the original is told in third person, as most myths are, but here I have altered it to retell it from the perspective of the woman who is brought to life by Aphrodite. 

Bibliography. "Pygmalion" from Ovid's Metamorphoses, translated by Tony Kline (2000). Web source.