They Didn’t Live Happily Ever After-A Fairy Tale

Cathryn D’Aldi

Gretel placed her double latte and a box of fresh, honey-glazed donuts on the executive assistant’s desk. “Listen, Miss, ah—you’re new here—well, whatever your name is—”

“Ms. Christian Potter. And I repeat, you haven’t made an appointment,” said the recently hired assistant to the editor of Mother Goose’s World publishing house.

“Someone should have informed you, Miss Potter. I have unrestricted access to your boss.” Gretel put both plump hands on her thick waist. Her azure-blue eyes, bloodshot from a binge-drinking weekend, wandered over the executive assistant’s firm bust, toned arms, trim waist.

“If you like, I’ll check his schedule. Let’s see. Mr. Lewis will be free next Wednesday around—”

“Wednesday!? I can’t wait until it’s convenient for Mr. Bigshot.” Gretel’s shrill, angry voice carried into the editor’s office.

Mr. Carroll Lewis, seated at his rosewood desk, frowned. “Your sister’s giving my new assistance a difficult time, Hansel,” he said to the publishing company’s most famous (and most lucrative) author.

The two men had spent the last hour discussing Hansel’s proposal for the third book in his series of fairy tales for children.

What the hell is Gretel doing here? The young man seated across from his editor fiddled with the square, yellow sapphire cufflink in the French cuff of his white shirt sleeve.

The sapphire was part of the treasure stolen from the evil witch who, once upon a time, had lured Hansel and his sister Gretel into her house. Hansel’s first book relating their capture and harrowing escape received the prestigious Jacob Ludwig Karl and Wilhelm Carl award.

“My sister. She’s delusional.” Hansel rubbed the old, silvery-pink scar circling his wrist–the result of being handcuffed to a metal bar of a cage where he was being held–fatten for the cannibalistic witch’s All Hollow’s Eve feast. “Does she come to your office often?”

“Yes, repeatedly, I’m afraid. Since publication of your latest book, Hansel.”

“Protesting my version of the fairy tales, no doubt.” Hansel reached for the copy of his best-selling book, Retold Fairy Tales for Modern Children, resting on the edge of the CEO’s rosewood desk. “

‘’ ‘Pack of lies,’ is what Gretel calls your stories.”

“Lies?” Hansel ruffled the pages of the book with his thumb. The truth would incriminate my sister. Gretel had pushed the witch into the fiery oven. He shuddered at the memory. The witch’s shrieks. The smell of burning flesh.

The office door opened.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Lewis.” Ms. Potter’s cheeks were tinged with color.

‘Perfectly all right, Ms. Potter.”

“This woman insists–.” Ms. Potter’s hand fluttered towards the  pump woman in  the doorway with her hands on her hips.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter. I will speak with Gretel.”

“The sister of a world-famous author doesn’t require an appointment.” Gretel wiped a sticky smudge of icing from her cheek. “Remember that, Miss Potter.”

“If there isn’t anything else, Mr. Lewis.” Ms. Potter glided towards the doorway.

Gretel smirked. Old witch! Bet I know how she got the job. “Excuse me, Miss Potter. Bring in my latte and the box of donuts.”

Ms. Potter sniffed. I don’t think so.

“Help yourself to a donut,” Gretel said. “I love sweets. But I guess with your figure—”

Ms. Potter quietly closed the door.

Hansel stood and grasped his sister’s hand. He detected a whiff of alcohol on her breath. Drinking again. Or worse. “If you are as broke as you claim, how are supporting your habit?” he asked.

Gretel sat in Hansel’s vacated chair, crossed her legs, and adjusted the low, curved neckline of her blouse exposing plump breasts resembling two yeast buns rising in a pan. “A girl has to make a living somehow.”

“What happened to your share of the treasure?” Hansel asked.

After Gretel had unlocked the handcuff around Hansel’s wrist, the two rushed from the stable into the house and hunted for the witch’s hidden treasure.

Hansel had stuffed pearls and precious jewels into the pockets of his lederhosen, and Gretel filled her apron and returned home—to the chagrin of their parents.

Their father, overjoyed at seeing Hansel and Gretel, had wept and begged his children’s forgiveness. Their mother managed a weak, forced smile; her eyes, cold and calculating, had examined the precious stones spread on the kitchen table glittering from the light of a burning candle.

Gretel giggled. “Expensive living in this city,” she said.

Hansel gazed out the window at the towering sky scrapers, the bustling thoroughfares. The city’s electric atmosphere, its energy was intoxicating. Gretel never adjusted. “You could get a legitimate job,” he said.

“You mean like waitressing? Making peanuts? Or a mere glorified secretary?”   Gretel looked at the closed office door. Where the hell is that Potter woman with my donuts? “Don’t be a silly goose, Hansel.” She swung her foot. “I’m thinking of writing my memoirs.”

Hansel gasped. “Are you insane, Gretel?”

“Quite sane, Brother. Mr. Lewis, would you be willing to offer me a substantial advance?”

“Lucrative contracts require exceptional writing skills.” Mr. Carroll Lewis cleared his throat and fumbled with his gold tie clasp. “You’d be in direct competition with your brother.”

“My tales are, ah salacious. Targets a mature audience. Three Pigs Literary House’s agent has shown an interest.”

“You haven’t been offered a contract?”

Gretel sighed. She pressed her hands on the arms of the chair for support and stood up. “Guess Miss Potter isn’t bringing my coffee. Too cold to drink now, anyway. Mr. Lewis, thank you for your time. Hansel, nice seeing you. I have friends who are willing to help.”

“Where are you going?” Hansel asked.

“The Tinderbox Pub. Blackie still tends bar there.”

Hansel bit his lip. “You’re not thinking–?”

“Of returning to Fairy Land? Of course. That’s where the witch’s remaining treasure is located.”

“The Tinderbox?” Mr. Lewis asked. “Know this district like the back of my hand. Never heard of the place.”   He flipped a button on his desk. “Let me call my limousine service.”

“Don’t put yourself out on my account, Mr. Lewis. The Tinderbox Pub is only three blocks from here–if one knows where to look.”

Hansel put a hand on his sister’s shoulder. His face puckered with worry. “You really shouldn’t, Gretel. Go back, I mean.”

“I’m a big girl, now, Hansel. Your protection’s no longer necessary.” Gretel brushed off her brother’s hand and opened the door to the outer office.

“Keep the donuts, Miss Potter,” she said on her way to the elevator.

#

The house loomed ahead.

A white dove perched on the crooked chimney.

The witch’s house! Made of bread with clear, spun-sugar windows and a roof of frosted cake, and not, as her brother, Hansel, best-selling author of retold fairy tales, claimed, a gingerbread cottage covered with sweets and sugarplums.

Finding the house again wasn’t a piece of cake. Gretel kicked a dense layer of moldering leaves blanketing the primeval forest floor. So much for childhood memories.

A gray mouse scurried across the young woman’s sturdy hiking boot.

Nibble, nibble, little mouse. Gretel recalled with a shudder the evil witch, who, years ago, had opened the door and invited her into the house made of bread. Hansel had been so hungry he’d climbed on the roof and sat eating a huge chunk of cake.

Gretel unzipped the small pouch fastened around her waist, unwrapped a granola energy bar, and leaned against a massive oak tree. She was famoushed, but nibbled—like that mouse; she hadn’t packed enough food. She ate half the bar and wrapped the remainder for later.

A chill autumn wind blew through the primeval forest.

Gretel shivered, tucked her long, blond braid inside the fleece-lined jacket, and turned up the collar. Damn, it’s cold. Night’s approaching. I’ve got to find shelter. Her azure-blue eyes scoured the woods.

Shaken by the wind, ancient oak trees, etched against the sunset’s fading yellows and golds, swayed, and the, low-hanging branches trembled. Witches work!

A sound in the oak tree’s canopy startled Gretel.

What’s that?!

Fear pounced like a ravenous beast.

“No, no.” She remembered that sound—like wood being sawed–and her father’s betrayal many years ago.

Their father had abandoned Hansel and her in a small clearing beside a flickering fire.

“Listen, brother,” Gretel had said. “Father is nearby. Cutting firewood. I hear the sound of his saw.”

Two branches whipped by the wind rubbed together produced the sound of a handsaw cutting wood. Their father had lashed two tree limbs together—to fool his children.

“I’m frightened, Hansel. And hungry.” Gretel had searched in her apron pocket for a crumb of bread. “When is father coming for us?”

Young Hansel tossed a few twigs on the flickering flames. He had overheard his parent’s plans to leave them in the woods.” Should all four of us starve?” his Mother had asked.

Hansel wrapped a thin arm around his little sister’s trembling shoulders. “Don’t worry, Gretel. If father doesn’t come for us, we can follow the pebbles I’ve dropped along the path. When the moon rises, we’ll return home.”

 

Gretel ran blindly through the shadowy forest, tripped over a mossy, half-rotted log, and twisted her ankle. “Damn!”

She hobbled on one foot to a nearby oak tree.

Pressing her back against the tree, she slid down the rough trunk landing with a thud on the damp, leaf-littered ground.

Gingerly, she felt the injured ankle. Ouch! I’ll have to spend the night.

#

Sunlight filtered through the trees. Gretel opened her eyes, yawned, and checked her ankle. Swelling’s nearly gone. Gretel washed down the second half of the energy bar with bottled water.

She found a fallen limb suitable for a walking stick. Which way? Gotta find a short cut.

A white dove, cooing loudly, flew through the trees and landed on a tree branch. Bright eyes stared at Gretel. “This way,” the bird said. “This way.”

Using the walking stick, Gretel followed the dove. The bird circled back several times.

Twenty minutes later, the dove dipped its wings and glided to a landing on the cake-topped roof of the witch’s house.

The witch was dead; she wouldn’t poke her head out the door with a snaggle-toothed smile and an invitation to come inside for breakfast, yet Gretel hesitated at the foot of the sagging front steps. I’m not ready to go inside.

She limped around to the back of the house.

The stable where Hansel had been held prisoner leaned to the left. The windows were broken, and the faded green door hung precariously by one rusted hinge.

Chiseled stones from the large outdoor oven lay in a ring like remains of a collapsed monolithic idol on the overgrown lawn, and the rusted iron oven door poked through a tangle of weeds and dried, twisted vines.

A blazing wood fire burned bright the morning Gretel had pushed the witch into the stone oven, and bolted the iron door.

Got her. My first murder.

Gretel had waited until the screams died before freeing Hansel from the cage. Together they had searched for the witch’s hidden cache of precious gems.

“I wonder if I’ ll find the casket hidden under the floor boards?” she muttered and hobbled around to the front of the witch’s house. She propped the walking stick beside the door and peeked through a transparent, spun-sugar windowpane.

“House’s safe,” said the dove from his perch on the roof. “Few visitors since the old witch’s death.”

Gretel opened the door.

The house, dark, dank, and draped with grey cobwebs, smelled of rat droppings, decay, and mold.

The dove followed Gretel into the witch’s bedroom and perched on the fireplace mantel. Dust scattered.

Gretel opened the closet door and lifted a floorboard. “Gone.”

The bird stroked a wing feather with his bill. “The Nightingale Catcher stole the jewels.”

“Nightingale Catcher?” Gretel frowned.

The dove looked at Gretel unblinkingly. “She’s a witch. Not as well-known as others in Fairy Land. But wicked. Extremely wicked. Many a fair maiden lured into the Nightingale Catcher’s enchanted garden are never seen again.”

“How many?”

“According to rumors, the witch prised the gems from the pins, earrings, necklaces and bracelets her victims were wearing. Possibly thousands—

“Thousands? Ridiculous.”

“You asked Blackie, the bartender, at the Tinderbox Pub to open the secret passageway to Fairy Land, didn’t you?” The dove’s white feathers ruffled. “You aren’t in the real world, Gretel. Anything is possible here.”

“What happens to those women who trespassed? In the Nightingale Catcher’s garden?”

“Transformed. Into nightingales.”

Gretel scratched her nose. Others had suffered a worse fate at the hands of witches. “Show me the way to the Nightingale Catcher’s castle,” she said. “I’m going after the treasure.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” said the dove and flew out the door.

#

The hunch-backed old woman leaned against the castle turret overlooking her enchanted garden and fondled her long, curved nose which grazed her pointed chin. The wind whipped her dark, flowing gown, and the wicker birdcage she held in one hand swayed. Beneath black, thick eyebrows, her beady eyes sparkled as the gate in the stone wall opened, and a young woman, limping slightly, entered and walked along the winding path bordered with red asters and yellow chrysanthemums.

The Nightingale Catcher cackled. Another pretty birdie. For my collection.

Hanging in the many cavernous room in the Nightingale Catcher’s castle were hundreds and hundreds of wicker bird cages. Each cage held a nightingale.

Every morning, and at dusk, seven thousand nightingales twittered, chirped, and warbled. The forest and surrounding countryside rang with their melodies.

Gretel sat on a stone bench and watched Koi swimming in a small oval pool. The setting sun reflected in the rippling water.

Shrill, soprano chirps and tenor warblings floated from the castle windows. Gretel listened, enthralled by the nightingale’s hypnotic evening choir; she didn’t hear the rustling of the Nightingale Catcher’s robe as the witch crept behind the stone bench and opened the wicker birdcage.

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Assignment 16

Refusing Hansel’s offer of a map. Not smart. Gretel kicked a dense layer of moldering leaves blanketing the primeval forest floor. Finding the witch’s house again should have been easy, she thought.

A gray mouse scurried across the young woman’s sturdy hiking boot.

“Nibble, nibble, little mouse,” Gretel said and smiled– her usual good humor restored.

A chill autumn wind blew. Gretel shivered. She tucked her long, blond braid inside the fleece-lined jacket and turned up the collar. She had to find shelter before nightfall. Her azure-blue eyes searched the shadowy, unfamiliar landscape.

Shaken by the wind, ancient oak trees, etched against the sunset’s fading yellows and golds, swayed, and the trembling, low-hanging branches reminded Gretel of grotesque witches stirring a bubbling cauldron.

Fear pounced like a ravenous beast, and Gretel’s heart pounded. She ran blindly, and tripped over a mossy, half-rotted log. “Damn!”

Gretel’s ankle twisted. She hobbled on one foot to a nearby oak tree.

Pressing her back against the tree, she slid down the rough trunk landing with a thud on the damp, leaf-littered ground.

Gretel rolled up her pant leg and gingerly felt the injured ankle. Swollen–not badly, but here’s where I’ll spend the night.

Gretel unzipped the small pouch fastened around her waist, unwrapped an granola energy bar, and leaned against the tree. She was hungry, but nibbled—-like that mouse, she thought.

She’d packed light.

Finding the house again, should have been a… a piece of cake. Gretel wrinkled her nose at her jest, rewrapped the remainder of the bar, and unscrewed the cap on a plastic bottle of water.

Her brother, Hansel, best-selling author of retold fairy tales claimed the witch’s house was made of gingerbread covered with sweets and sugarplums. Gretel leaned her head against the tree trunk and tipped the bottle of water to her lips. So much for childhood memories.

The witch’s house had been made of bread with clear, spun-sugar windows and a roof of cake. A white dove perched on the cake roof cooed as Hansel and she, hand in hand, had walked up the path.

Gretel took another sip of water from the plastic bottle. She heard a strange sound overhead in the tree’s canopy–like a hand-saw cutting wood. Her nerves tingled. That sound!

She had heard that sound before.

Once upon a time…

In a small clearing two young children huddled by a dying fire. The setting sun cast long shadows.

“Listen, brother,” the young girl said. “Father is nearby. Cutting firewood. I hear the sound of his saw.”

The sound they heard was made by two tree limbs rubbing together.

Out of sight, deep in the woods, Hansel and Gretel’s father had lashed two tree limbs together—-he hoped his children, left in a small clearing by a small fire, would think their father nearby cutting firewood, and wouldn’t realize until nightfall he had abandoned them.

Hansel eyes searched the darkening forest. What creatures were watching them? Waiting? The boy put the few remaining twigs on the flickering flames.

“I’m frightened, Hansel. And hungry.” The little girl searched in her apron pocket for a crumb of bread. “When is father coming for us?”

Hansel had overheard his father agree to their mother’s evil scheme. “Don’t worry, Gretel.” He wrapped a thin arm around his sister’s shoulders. “If father doesn’t come for us, we can follow the pebbles I’ve dropped along the path. When the moon rises, we’ll return home.”

Home. Where they they all lived happily ever after. Gretel laughed and chocked on a mouthful of bottled water.

The sputtering noise disturbed a flock of birds roosting in the swaying oak trees. Flapping their wings, they soared into the darkening sky.

#

Sunlight filtered through the trees. Gretel opened her eyes and checked her ankle. The swelling had gone down.

She finished eating the second half of the energy bar, washed it down with water, and found a fallen tree limb for use as a walking stick.

Which way? She gazed at the unfamiliar setting.

A white dove, cooing loudly, landed on a tree branch. Bright eyes stared at Gretel. “This way,” the bird said.

Gretel, leaning on the walking stick, followed the dove. The bird circled back several times.

An hour later, Gretel pushed through a thicket of yew trees. The dove dipped its wings and glided to a landing on the cake-topped roof of the witch’s house.

That’s it! Gretel hesitated, blood pounding in her ears. Unpleasant memories surfaced. I’m not ready to go inside. She limped around to the side of the house.

The stable door hung crookedly by the top hinge. Chiseled stones from the large outdoor oven lay in a ring on the weedy lawn like remains of a collapsed monolithic idol, and the rusted iron oven door poked through a tangle of weeds and dried,twisted vines.

The wood fire had been blazing in the stone oven the morning Gretel pushed the witch into the hot oven, and bolted the iron door.

My first murder, Gretel thought. She recalled the stench of burning flesh.

The witch’s screams had subsided before Gretel raced to the stable. Locked inside, in a small cage, her brother had been force-fed for the cannibalistic witch’s All Hollow’s Eve feast.

Gretel had unlocked the cage. Hansel and she rushed from the stable into the house searching for the witch’s treasure.

Hansel stuffed pearls and precious jewels into the pockets of his lederhosen, and Gretel filled her apron.

Their father, overjoyed to see Hansel and Gretel, wept and begged forgiveness. Their mother, dark eyes examining the witch’s treasure, had managed a weak, forced smile.

Gretel propped the walking stick beside the door, and peeked through a transparent, spun-sugar windowpane into the witch’s house.

“House’s safe,” said the dove from his perch on the roof. “No one has entered since the old witch’s death.”

Gretel lifted the latch, and limped into the living room. The dove flew in and perched on the fireplace mantel.

The house, dark, dank, and draped with grey cobwebs, smelled of rat droppings and mold.

“You’re after the treasure?”

Gretel sighed. Obtaining the treasure was her last chance.

“Get a real job, sister,” her brother had said. “Go to college. Earn a degree. I refuse to support your frivolous life style any longer.”

“The Nightingale Catcher. She stole the jewels.” The bird stroked a wing feather with his bill.

“Nightingale Catcher?” Gretel frowned.

The dove looked at Gretel unblinkingly. “She’s an evil witch. Many a fair maiden lured into the Nightingale Catcher’s enchanted garden are never seen again.”

“How many?”

“According to rumors? Possibly thousands—-

“Thousands? Ridiculous.”

“You asked Blackie, the bartender, at the Tinderbox Pub to show you the secret passageway to Fairy Land, didn’t you?” The dove’s white feathers ruffled. “You aren’t in the real world, Gretel. Anything is possible here.”

“What happens to those who trespass?”

“Transformed. Into nightingales.”

Gretel opened to the door. “No matter,” she said. “If the treasure’s there, I’m going. Show me the way to the Nightingale Catcher’s castle.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” said the dove and flew out the door.

#

The hunch-backed old woman leaned against the castle turret overlooking her enchanted garden and fondled her long, curved nose that grazed her pointed chin. The wind whipped her dark, flowing gown, and the wicker birdcage she held in one hand swayed. Beneath black, thick eyebrows, her beady eyes sparkled as the gate in the stone wall opened, and a young woman, limping slightly, entered and walked along the winding path bordered with red asters and yellow chrysanthemums.

The Nightingale Catcher cackled. Another pretty birdie. For my collection.

Hanging in each cavernous room of the Nightingale Catcher’s castle were hundreds of wicker bird cages. Each cage held a nightingale.

Every morning, and at dusk, seven thousand nightingales twittered, chirped, and warbled. The forest and surrounding countryside rang with their melodies.

Gretel sat on a stone bench and watched the Koi swimming in a small oval pool. The setting sun reflected in the rippling water.

Shrill, high chirps and tweets and tenor warblings floated from the castle windows. Gretel listened, enthralled by the hypnotic nightingale’s chorus; she didn’t hear the rustling of the Nightingale Catcher’s robe as the witch crept behind the stone bench and opened the wicker birdcage.

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The Magic Stick

By Nazib Wadood

The full moon looks like a big gold coin in between the two date trees. A few night clouds lay asleep leaning against the sky. They, like angels of light, shed no shadow on the ground. Moonlight of Aswin is shimmering white.

The five children are sitting together on the neat and tidy courtyard. Thin films of moonlight spark on their tender lively cheeks and black hair. Soothing breezes, like flocks of little naughty birds, fly over to, and play for a while with them, then again blow away in their own way.

This is the time they gossip everyday before going to bed. Little white flowers blossom in the lemon tree at the south-east corner of the courtyard. The children feel their hearts filled with sweet smell of lemon flowers. Their faces are charming, tender and lively like petals of flower.

The youngest of them is aged about four. Her name is Jannatul Firdaus, but she is not mature enough yet to be called by that name. Everyone affectionately calls her Buri, that means older woman, for her precocity. Akbar, the oldest among them, is about to cross eight. Others are older than Buri.

They gossip sitting on a mat of date leaves. Most time they tell fairy tales and fables. But this time they try to tell a true story. Everything they desire to tell is so real that these are duped by sorcery to be full of dreams. They cannot complete any story, as if it has no ending. It has no beginning too.

So they try to start from the beginning.

But all get dismantled and scattered. Naughty playing winds carry away both the beginning and the ending of the story. Each and every story they try to tell fly above to the sky with fragrance of lemon flowers. Pieces of the stories begin to twinkle on the sky like shining bluish stars. They are nothing but their dreams. The dreams first fly away, then return. It happens again and again.

“What’s next?” one asks when the story fails to proceed forward.

They do not know why their attempts lose way just after the beginning. Perhaps it is not a real beginning, they think. They move and rearrange themselves. They sit more closely and turn their eyes to the sky with steadfast look. Then they try to start. But fail. Then retry. Thus they repeat their attempts to recall and rearrange the story.

Moonlights pour down to the ground like flocks of thousands of white pigeons. The trees standing here and there look like black hillocks. Crickets begin to drone behind the fence of jute-stalks.

“Then why aren’t you telling an old story?”

“Oh, I have never heard of such type of impasse before.”

Akbar moves his lips but cannot utter any sound. He stares at the sky. The dream-stars twinkle without giving him any clue to the mystery of the scattering tales.

“Then try with a new one.”

“Yes, this might work. Thank you.”

But the older stories seem so unforgettable that no new story can evolve out of them. Nobody can give any reference or clue. The stories are transformed into air molecules and mixed up with particles of moonlight.

Akbar’s younger sister is six months senior to Buri. Her eyes turn piteous. Her core of heart begins to boil in excitement. Seeing Akbar opening his lips she cannot but move further close to him and sits leaning forward. “Let’s tell a new story today,” she says and then maintains a definite pause to let her brother start.

But their imaginations do not function. They cannot guess things accurately. A secret unexplainable matter destroys their minds and brains and eyes. May be that it is nothing but Darkness. An immensely large black stone of concrete darkness. It stands before them like a huge mountain, or a large statue of darkness. It hinders their eyesight from seeing what they want to see. It cannot see; so it does not allow others to see. It cannot touch; and no one can touch it. One can feel its existence only by imagination. The young children feel crude presence of the giant Darkness but can guess neither its largeness nor its strength. In fact, gush of down-pouring moonlight destabilizes everything. The night does not seem okay as it is everyday. White moon-rays blow like breeze.

“Actually that news has foiled everything,” says Akbar’s younger sister and pout her lips in displeasure. Her eyes get full of perturbation.

That statue of darkness makes them dumb for sometime. They do not find any reason behind it.

“Won’t dad come ever?” says Buri’s only brother. He is one years’ senior to her.

“How fool! Can a dead man come back home?”

“Yes. He can’t; because he is dead. Rather I should say he has been killed,” says Akbar in such a usual tone as if he informs them of ordinary news.

Akbar’s immediate younger brother speaks less; and when speaks he looks somewhat fool and embarrassed. Everyone hearing him cannot but laugh.

“Dad has gone to take him back,” he says. Nobody laughs this time. It inspires him to talk further. “Our uncle has become a Shahid,” he says after a pause.

“What happens when a man becomes a Shahid?” says Buri very curiously.

“He goes to Heaven.”

“There is huge happiness in the Heaven. One gets everything there what he desires to have.” Akbar explains a little.

“Everything?”

“Yes.”

“Big sweetmeats?”

“Mango?”

“Everything… everything is available at once you want to have,” says Akbar without expressing any annoyance.

Buri moves a little forward to him and says, “I too want to go to the Heaven.” She looks around with hesitating eyes, as if she is doubtful of others’ approval.

“Then you should have also become a Shahid.”

“How can a person become a Shahid?”

“He is to fight… he is to die for truth like our uncle. It is called Jihad.”

“Then I’ll go for Jihad. Dad wanted to teach me it,” says Buri’s brother. His voice seems firm.

“Before that you should have to become an adult like dad,” Buri says to protest.

A quarrel is apprehended to be raised between them. Buri hurriedly says, “It is the time to go to bed. Now let’s go to sleep.” She dusts off her frock. Her indifferent attitude proves to be of a real old woman.

Moonlights pour down more heavily like fog. Fragrance of lemon flowers turns dense to be sensible like breeze. Nobody is there to look after them. They lie down there crouching on the mat.

Then an old man comes out of light darkness on the verandah. He is the grandfather of the children. He wears a blue lungi that turns black in moonlight. A fair guernsey shines on his dark body. His hair and beard are as white as fragrant autumnal flowers. He walks slowly to the children and sits down there among them. He touches everybody one by one with his hands as if he counts them. Yes, all his five grandsons and daughters are there– nobody is missing. All they are sleeping. The old man looks at the sky. After a while he turns down his eyes and casts his look to each and every objects of his house around him– the fence of jute-sticks, clay-made walls of the house, tin-shade roofs, the two date trees, lemon flowers, and so on. Everything is okay, he sees. Then he lies down among the children. He does not seemingly have such leisure before in his long way of life. Naughty winds blow over them and playfully roll about on their heads and faces, trunks and legs.

Everything dips into silence. Then a sound of weeping comes out from inside a room of the house. The two wives of the family recite from the Holy Quran. The younger one bursts into cry every now and then. The other weeps in deep sorrow trying to console her.

After a while, the grandfather wakes up in a sudden terror and gets panic-stricken. He looks around bewilderedly. Then he starts to push the children to awake them up.

“Come on, my sons! Get up!”

He is so impatient as if his successors are attacked by dacoits.

“Wake up my sons…! Please rise up…! Wake…! Rise…!”

He continues to repeat his call…

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A Story about Elephants

by Russ Lydzinski

 

 

            Once upon a time, a family of elephants lived in the sky, mama elephant, papa elephant, and two, nearly full grown boys. The calves had no names other than the first elephant and the second elephant, for the order in which they had been born. The second was the cautious one, but the first always wanted to explore.

            Mama and Papa had two rules for their calves. Don’t walk on the clouds and beware of witches. Since most of their days were sunny, and because the calves had never seen a witch, they easily obeyed their parents.

            The second elephant played happily inside the sky house, but the first elephant spent his time looking out the window, wondering what was out there. One day, while mama and papa were knee-deep, squashing grapes in the basement for their wine, a white puffy cloud floated right up to the front door.
This was an invitation the first elephant could not ignore. He stepped on the cloud and tested his footing. The cloud held him firmly. Afraid to be alone, the second elephant followed.

            “Hold on to my tail,” said the first elephant.

            The second elephant left his toys lay, scattered about the floor and latched onto his brother’s tail with his trunk.

            At first, the clouds were thick and puffy, but after a long walk, they began to thin.

             “Watch out, or we’ll fall through,” the second elephant said.

            And, just then, they did, breaking through a thin cloud as if it were a rotted floorboard. Their massive legs flailed helplessly as they fell.

            They hit the ground with a thud, and squashed a worm that was reading a book.

            “Oh you poor little worm, are you okay,” asked the first elephant?

            “I’m a flatworm now. Millions of years of evolution, down the drain. At least my spectacles aren’t damaged. I can still read.”

            “Come on, we’ll take you to a hospital. Is there one nearby,” asked the first elephant?

            “I don’t know; but there’s a good witch who lives in a haunted house, down this road. Maybe she can help,” answered the now flat worm. “If we make it before nightfall,” we won’t have to worry about her evil stepsisters.”

            “No. Mama said we can’t go near witches,” said the second elephant. 

            “Is it far?” asked the first. 

            “Two miles as the cow flies,” answered the worm.

            “That’s not far,” said the first elephant.

            “It is if you’re little like me,” answered the worm, “especially if you’ve recently been flattened.”

            “Let’s get started then,” trumpeted the first elephant.

            The second elephant sighed but agreed to tag along.

            Midway to the witch’s house, the elephants’ stomachs began to growl.

            “Let’s stop for lunch,” said the second elephant.

            This sounded like a good idea to the worm, who was tired from carrying a book that was one hundred and fifty times bigger than he was. “A picnic,” he squealed. His voice sounded as flat as his body.

            So they stopped for a picnic. A picnic basket appeared, and out flew a red and white checkered tablecloth. They each had a cup, a saucer, a knife, a fork, a spoon, and a napkin. But there was a problem. The sandwiches and vegetables refused to come out of the basket.

            “What’s wrong, food,” asked the first elephant, “Why won’t you come out?”

            “Because,” answered a sandwich from inside the basket, “The dishes have gone to Birmingham and they aren’t coming back.”

            No sooner had the sandwich spoken than a spoon ran away, presumably to join the dish. Then a second spoon followed, and then a third.

            “Well!” exclaimed the worm, that’s not quite the way I read of it happening. Please, sandwiches; come out. We’re hungry.”

            Finally, the sandwiches agreed and they sat down for a happy meal, but before the first bite was taken, they heard singing.

            “Yo Ho Ho, and a bottle of rum,” rang out voices from the road. They kept their rhythm with loud synchronized footsteps, like marching.

            “Pirates!” exclaimed the worm, and he hid between pages 118 and 119. The resourceful worm had found an advantage to being flat.

            The elephants, being large, were not frightened.

            “Come join us for lunch,” elephant number one, called out.

            The pirates agreed because pirates are almost always hungry. They shared turkey sandwiches, vegetables, and Kool-Aid. The pirates brought peanut butter sandwiches and rum. Even the worm came out and joined them. He stayed very close to the elephants, but was careful not to be squashed again.

            After lunch, they walked together until the pirates took a separate road to the sea. 

            “Bye-bye,” called the elephants and the worm as they watched the pirates disappear down the road.

            “They were nice,” said the first elephant.

            “Yes they were,” said the worm, and the second elephant flapped his ears in agreement.

            The sun was getting low in the sky when they approached the haunted house. They had lingered too long with the pirates. 

            “This is not good,” said the worm. “The bad witches come out at night.”

            “Then we better hurry,” said the second elephant. We could get turned into prickly porcupines or worse.”

            The house was scary, with two floors and a pointy old roof. Pieces of slate lay broken in the yard. They climbed the rickety stairs onto a large wooden porch. Several slats were missing.

            The good witch came to the door, hoping to see her friends, the dwarfs, who had promised to help fix the house. The elephants explained what happened, while the worm looked on with a forlorn face.

            “I can help, but we must be quick. My stepsisters will be here soon. Watch for the moon. When it rises, you will see them in the sky. They must not find you here.”

            The elephants and the worm looked up to see the last of the evening sun falling off to the west. The good witch went inside but soon returned with a glass of smoky liquid.

            “Here. Quick. Drink this,” she said. The tips of her golden blonde hair fell into the glass, and turned a murky brown. 

            The worm made a face but gulped it down. He had no desire to meet up with the evil stepsister witches. As soon as he finished, a puff of smoke engulfed him. When it cleared, he was his old self again, all round and squiggly. 

            A gust of wind caused them to look up. A full moon lit the sky. A cow leaped awkwardly over it. Then, suddenly they saw the silhouettes of three witches, flying on brooms, straight toward them. They landed on the porch. Thud… Thud…Thud.

            “What are these creatures, stepsister, doing on our porch?” Cackled the eldest witch.

            “Just two elephants and a friendly worm, seeking assistance.”

            “Assistance, hey,” cackled the eldest. “I’ll give them assistance.” She raised her wand and started a curse. The worm tried to get between the pages of his book, but now he was too round and fat.

            Just then, the pirates charged up the porch steps, with swords drawn. One pirate, old greybeard, cut the wand of the eldest witch with his sword, down to the wart-filled skin of her hand. She was left holding a useless twig. The pirates cut all the witches’ wands, leaving them like toothpicks on the porch floor. The witches, in a panic, took to their brooms, but the pirates were too quick for them. They cut the broom heads off in mid takeoff, leaving the witches with useless shafts in their wart-covered hands, and their feet still squarely on the porch floor. They dropped the broom shafts and hastily ran into the forest. 

            The pirates laughed a hearty laugh, and the leader said, “Is everybody all right? Sorry if we scared you mam,” he said to the good witch.

            “Not at all,” she said. “Would you all like to come in for refreshments?”

            “No,” exclaimed the second elephant. Thankfully, his brother had the wisdom to agree. The worm thanked her once again for restoring him to his former self. Then the pirates, the elephants, and the worm, still carrying his heavy book, walked back the way they came. The pirates took the road to the sea, and the elephants escorted the worm back to his home.

            Home at last, the worm crawled into his hole. He left the book under a tree and covered it with leaves for safekeeping. The elephants sat down in the grassy field, near the craters where they had fallen. The second elephant asked the first, “How do you suppose we are going to get back up to the sky?”

            “I don’t know,” replied the first. “I don’t know how we got up there to begin with.”

            They were tired from all the days’ excitement and so they fell asleep.

            They awoke the next morning, surprised to find themselves on the clouds again, but they were very happy to be there. They tiptoed home, as lightly as elephants can, and decided always to obey their parents.

            Down below, the worm, with his spectacles, read his book. The good witch was happy because she didn’t have to live with her evil step-witches were gone and her friends, the dwarfs returned. She spent her time fixing up the old house while her dwarf friends painted. She laughed at the sight of them, little people on tall ladders.

            They all lived happily ever after, except for the evil witches, who spent the rest of their lives hiding behind trees.

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