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New Fairy Tales
Issue 2
Issue 2
www.newfairytales.co.uk
1
Contents
Letter from the Editor
page 3
List of contributors
page 4
The tales
The Zoetrope, by A.K. Benedict
page 6
The Ice Queen and the Mer-King, by Elizabeth Hopkinson
page 9
Jorab the Selfish, by Jeanette D'Arcy
page 12
The Story-blind Princess, by Pauline Masurel
page 15
The Terrible Troll, by Dave Jeffery
page 19
A Lighter Load, by Sophie Ward
page 21
The Goblin King and the Pig, by Oliver Eade
page 23
The Siren’s Child, by Tori Truslow
page 26
Creature from the Curiosity Cabinet, by Particle Article
the back page
Important Copyright Notice
Copyright of all the work contained in
this magazine remains with the
individual writers and illustrators. The
magazine is intended for personal and
educational use only. Please respect
copyright; all enquiries about the work
contained in the magazine should be
directed to [email protected]
We will pass your enquiry on to the
relevant writer or illustrator.
Illustration on front cover by Lucy Smith and on this page by Leila Peacock
Issue 2
www.newfairytales.co.uk
2
Letter from the Editor
Welcome to the second issue of New Fairy
Tales. On the following pages you’ll find an
eclectic mix of fairy tales and fantastic
illustrations. Word about New Fairy Tales is
spreading and we’ve received submissions
from all over the world, from previously
published and experienced writers and from
lovers of fairy tales inspired to try creative
writing for the first time.
New Fairy Tales is proud to provide a
platform for new work and the privilege of
being the editor of this magazine is getting
to read the myriad interpretations of what a
new fairy tale is. In this issue you’ll find
contemporary stories and stories with a
more traditional tone, there are princesses,
goblins, mer-folk, trolls, sirens and
magpies. Fairy tale bequeaths us a
language rich in motifs which I believe we
should feel free to plunder. Fairy tales have
always belonged to the tellers, their
listeners and readers; they belong to us all.
And rather than stuffing them away in a
cupboard we should play with the form,
experiment with its language, make it our
own, tell the stories that mean something
to us, the stories that dance at the edge of
our dreams…
‘The Fey’ by Laura Daligan
Special thanks must go to the wonderful
illustrators of this issue who have produced
some stunning work to a very tight
deadline. Like the writers their work was
contributed for free in the hope that
readers will show their appreciation by
making a small donation to our nominated
charity, Derian House Children’s Hospice.
Please do take the time to donate, if all of
our readers make the minimum £2
donation we will be able to raise an
amazing amount of money for a very
important charity.
Happy reading!
Claire Massey
February 2009
Issue 2
www.newfairytales.co.uk
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The Writers
The Illustrators
A.K. Benedict writes in a red-walled room filled
with books, broken teapots and the severed head
of a ventriloquist’s dummy. Her poetry and prose
have been published in various journals and
anthologies, and her songs have been released
on Filthy Little Angels and Scalpel Records. She is
currently writing the first in a series of crime
novels and trying to outbid other eBayers on a
blow-up pirate. www.akbenedict.com and
www.theblacktulips.com
Lucy Smith is based in Derby and has been
working as a freelance footwear designer for the
past few years. She has a love for art & design &
all things creative, dreaming of being a
great artist one day & a little old cobbler making
hand-made shoes for people. She can be
contacted at [email protected]
Elizabeth Hopkinson is from Bradford, West
Yorkshire (home of the Bronte sisters and the
Cottingley fairies) where she especially enjoys
writing in the coffee shop of the old Wool
Exhchange. Her stories have been published in
several fantasy/sci-fi magazines and webzines,
including Interzone, Strange Horizons, DKA and
Byzarium, and her short story, "A Short History of
the Dream Library" won the James White Award
in 2005. My True Love Sent to Me, a themed
collection of "medieval" romances inspired by the
Twelve Days of Christmas has just been
published in print form and is available from
Virtual Tales.com. Elizabeth's website, with links
to all her stories and more, is:
www.hiddengrove.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk
Laura Daligan grew up with a passion for
creating. When she was a little girl she was often
happiest letting her imagination roam free,
creating fairy tales and monsters, all with the
help of paints and paper. To this day not much
has changed. A love of books, lyrics, myth and
story telling led Laura to specialise in illustration
at Falmouth College of Arts. Whilst studying for
her degree she began to develop her unique style
of visual communication. Laura is now lucky
enough to make a living from her passions; art,
illustration, writing, teaching and psychic work.
Find out more at: www.lauradaligan-art.com
Jeanette D'Arcy lives and writes in a South
Wales valley. Her poetry has previously appeared
in the online magazine The Dirty
Napkin (http://dirtynapkin.com) and she gives
regular performances in Cardiff and elsewhere as
part of the Cardiff Cafe Writers. Jeanette is also a
Shakespeare scholar about to embark on a Phd.
She is very busy.
Pauline Masurel lives in the South West of
England and her short stories have previously
been published in anthologies, online and
broadcast on radio. Her micro-fiction Discovering
a Comet is the title story in a recent collection
published by Leaf Books. She is a reviewer for
The Short Review website and a regular
performer with the Heads & Tales storytelling
collective based in Bristol. More about her writing
and collaborations can be found at her website
www.unfurling.net
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Leila Peacock is a writer and artist based in
Berlin.
http://leilapeacock.blogspot.com
Nicki Dennett graduated from the University of
Derby with a first class honours degree in
Illustration in 2006. Whilst at university she
developed a passion for printmaking. Her
collagraph prints possess strong tones combined
with fine drypoint lines created by ripping and
scratching the surface of printing plates made
from card. Besides exhibiting work in galleries
across the UK, she has delivered many
printmaking workshops and creative projects for
schools and the community. Her published work
includes illustrations for Derby City Council,
University of Derby and Derby Hospital NHS
Foundation Trust. You can view more of her work
and find out about projects and workshops at
www.nickidennett.co.uk
Marina Rees is a sculptor and illustrator. You
can see more of her work at
http://ycnonline.com/profile/show/54770/
Marina-Rees
myspace.com/marinarees
Louise Grant or Fuzz as she is mostly known has
a passion for colour and paper. Louise is an
Australian illustrator living in the UK. She climbs
a ladder everyday to her own loft studio tower
where she creates pictures in a flurry of paper.
Illustrating for a number of years, her work can
be seen on her website at
www.fuzzillustration.com
www.newfairytales.co.uk
4
The Writers (cont.)
The Illustrators (cont.)
Dave Jeffery is 44 and lives with his family in
rural Worcestershire. A Member of the Society of
Authors, Dave is author of the Beatrice Beecham
adventure/mystery series for those who enjoy
their adventure yarns without any hocus pocus.
The series has achieved international critical
renown and is in the process of being translated
into Persian. When he is not writing novels Dave
works as a mental health practitioner. He has
published an academic book with a major
publishing company and articles in his field of
mental health whilst presenting on the
international stage. He is in the process of writing
more articles for the nursing press for publication
in 2009, and editing another academic text for
Wiley/Blackwell Science due for release in 2011.
For more details about Dave and his work visit:
www.davejeffery.webs.com
Alex Craggs is an IT professional by day but at
night he writes and illustrates. In the current
financial climate his day job is very welcome, but
long term he’s working towards giving it up and
making his living creatively. Normally he
illustrates his own writing, this is his fist time
interpreting someone else’s text. Many of his
illustrations rely on very controlled line work.
With the Troll images, he wanted to experiment
with a looser line and used a brush with Indian
ink for the black lines. The inked images were
rendered on the computer with textures borrowed
from his photographs. He is currently writing and
illustrating picture book stories about mixed up
animals and hopes to generate interest for them
this year. For more information about Alex and
his work please visit his website:
www.alexcraggs.com.
Sophie Ward is a postgraduate student at the
National Academy of Writing (based at BCU) and
has been published in Finding A Voice an
anthology of new writing, in The Times
newspaper and she has a regular column in crAve
magazine. She also works as an actress and
keeps a blog at
http://sophiesofar.blogspot.com. She has
two children and records many children's audio
books for the BBC.
Oliver Eade is a retired doctor and grandfather
who loves to read fairy stories to his
granddaughters. He’s been writing for four years:
about seventy short stories (children's and adult,
recently joint first prize winner of 'Love is in the
Air' Valentine's Day Competition run by
Cormorant Publishing, due out 14th Feb), eight
novels, (three children's, four teenage and one
adult) and four plays, one full length and three
one-act. His children's book, Moon Rabbit, was a
winner of Writers' and Artists' Yearbook
Competition 2007 and longlisted for Waterstone's
Children's Book Prize 2008, but is as yet
unpublished. www.olivereade.co.uk
Tori Truslow recently graduated from the
University of Warwick, where she spent her time
reading books, producing original student
theatre, running writing workshops and, at
weekends, pretending to be a knight. She is
currently writer in residence at Shrewsbury
International School in Bangkok. Her poetry,
fiction and drama have previously appeared in
The Poetaster and tapfactory and can also be
found on her blog at
amagiclantern.livejournal.com
Issue 2
Annie Dalton currently works as a freelance
illustrator based in London, her illustration style
ishequite traditional with an occasional use of
graphic software. She is a laughing weird little
person who lives to draw and can be found at
www.anniedalton.blogspot.com
Steve Lawson an artist an illustrator and all
round paint splashing, pencil scribbling Keyboard
slapping artist extrodinair. Living on the south
coast of England with his collection of alter egos,
including Sir Marvin Mc Mishwash, fat funk Freddy
and the fat funk five, Steve regularly exhibits his
paintings through various galleries and sells his
art internationaly. Jumping out from behind the
bushes of the low brow to dilly dally with the high
brow Steve's work has been featured in
magazines such as Art of England and Juxtapoz
as well as one or two slick fancy art book type
things. www.stevelawsonart.com
Particle Article are sisters Amy Nightingale
and Claire Benson. Amy graduated in 2007
fromNottingham Trent University with a BA
(Hons) in Textile Design where she specialised in
embroidery and developed pieces with a
handmade, precious feel, fusing metals, plastics,
fabrics and found materials, combining traditional
and contemporary techniques and styles. Claire
has been an Occupational Therapist in Mental
Health since 1997. She uses creative activities to
enable recovery from mental illness. Together
they create intricate, quirky sculptures of winged
creatures from abandoned and reclaimed
materials, both organic and manmade. Their
fragile figurines often resemble insects, fairies,
angels, or hybrids of these. They have exhibited
their work across the UK. See their website
www.particlearticle.co.uk for more details,
stockists and forthcoming exhibitions.
www.newfairytales.co.uk
5
The
Zoetrope
by A.K. Benedict
“You only find love and great
shops when you’re not
looking,” Mum says.
It’s because of her that
that I’m wandering around
town on a rainy Monday
morning with no idea where
I’m going.
Shooing a limping pigeon
back onto the pavement, I
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amble down one street and
then another, before noticing
a lane running diagonal to
the others. Walls of
blackened brick frame the
lane like iron gates. Tucked
into the walls on either side
are cafés with steamed-out
windows, and a junk shop.
There’s no name above the
door, but a swinging sign
bears the mirror image of a
question mark.
A man with a stack of
white hair arranges books in
the window. He sidles past a
display of ancient teapots
and I remember it’s Mum’s
birthday at the weekend. She
loves anything that’s older
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than her.
The door tinkles shut behind
me.
Inside, the shop smells
of the rugs in Grandma’s
house. The corners are lit by
broken Tiffany lampshades,
the walls striped with
shelves, each one topped
with stopped clocks, ruby
decanters, African statues.
Pans dangle from the ceiling,
and a yellowed wedding
dress hangs on one wall.
Under a pile of rough
linen, I find a collection of
jewellery boxes and a round
biscuit tin. I shake the tin.
There’s something inside. I
6
ease the lid up till it squeaks
and sighs off.
“Well found.” The man,
the owner I think, is next to
me, buffing the belly of a
coffee pot. “It’s beautiful, but
broken. Like everything in
here.” He points to the
snapped-off spout of the
coffee pot and places it high
on a shelf. Very carefully,
using his thumbs and
forefingers as pincers, he lifts
a cardboard circle out of the
tin and rests it on a pile of
books. A painted tangle of
roses twists round the
outside.
“What is it?” I ask.
“A zoetrope. An early
form of moving pictures. It’s
like a flip book – a series of
static images that run
together when you move
them.”
He gestures to a small
hole in the side covered with
cellophane. I bend down and
see a drawing of a man in a
lush garden. He’s darkhaired, wearing Victorian
dress clothes, and stands in
profile, leaning forward. If I
met a man who looked like
him, I would superglue my
hand to his.
“It should revolve,” the
owner says. He gently
encourages it to turn. It
doesn’t budge. “Such a
shame – it’s a particularly
special zoetrope. There are
two layers – each turning in
opposite directions. When it
spins, the story looks threedimensional. Or it would do if
it worked. And wasn’t missing
the pictures on one layer.” He
takes off his round glasses,
rubbing the impressions on
the sides of his nose.
I reach out and touch
the cardboard.
The zoetrope shudders.
There’s a faint whirring,
a sigh, and it begins to
revolve: slowly to start with,
then wheeling like a frenzied
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merry-go-round. The owner
steps back, staring at me. My
heart thuds as I bend to look
through the viewer. The
young man is moving,
walking towards a rosebush.
He looks at me, snags off a
flower. His hand bleeds onto
livid green grass as he holds
out the rose. I want to take
it. It vanishes. Then he’s
back to the beginning of the
cycle, bending forward again,
looking sad, as if he’s lost
something. I stand up. The
zoetrope stutters. And stops.
The zoetrope sits on my lap
on the bus ride home. I feel it
vibrating in its tin, as if it
were spinning on its own in
there.
“It’s certainly unusual,”
Mum says.
I want to grab it back off
the kitchen table and hide
him in my room. She peers at
the painted roses. “Some of
those need dead-heading.”
“You haven’t seen what
it can do,” I say, touching the
cardboard. It shivers and
whirls, and I want to shove
Mum away from the viewing
screen. She straightens up
and places a hand in the
small of her back. I take her
place and watch him bleed.
I can’t sleep. I keep thinking
of the man in the zoetrope.
About how sad he looks. I
wish I could touch him, tell
him a joke, tickle him under
the starched armpit.
Whenever I drift off, I dream
of lapping at the blood on his
hand and wake with the taste
of iron gates in my mouth.
Shrugging on my
dressing gown, I slink down
the stairs, missing out the
creaky first step. I switch on
the kitchen light. There he is,
bent forwards, all cheekbones
and lips.
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Tracing the outline of a
rose, I set the zoetrope
turning.
Mew, mew. Toby’s stuck
outside. He sneaks in when I
open the door and leaps onto
the table. His little head
shakes as he tries to follow
the spinning wheel that’s
picking up speed like a pram
pushed over a hill. My heart
lurches alongside. Toby
jumps down with a yowl, but
I don’t move. Faster and
faster it turns until all I can
see is oncoming stars, and
I’m toppling into them.
“You can open your eyes,” a
man’s voice says.
I’m standing on vivid
green grass – the green of a
witch in a child’s drawing.
“You’ll become
accustomed to the colours,”
he says; the man in the
zoetrope. He holds the rose
out to me. I take it. He leans
forward and places his lips on
mine. It feels like sticky-back
plastic. The world around us
spins and we are still. And
then we’re back at the
beginning: holding, taking,
smiling. Kissing.
Heavy steps shake the
ground. It goes dark and I
glance up. Mum looms over
us, blocking out the artex
sky.
“Are you out there,
Isabella?” she booms, staring
into the garden. “You’ll catch
your death out there.” She
locks the door and turns
toward us. “Weird,” she
mutters, jabbing out a huge
hand and holding the
zoetrope till it stops.
He’s opposite me, miles
away. We’re on separate
sheets, looking out at each
other.
Mum’s eye appears in
the window next to me. I
never noticed how thick her
lashes are. They’re batting at
the cellophane like branches
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at a window. “Mum,” I call
out, but even I can’t hear
me.
“I won’t have it in the house
any more,” Mum says. “It
reminds me of the night she
left. Anyway, it doesn’t
work.”
“Actually,” the shop
owner says, “I think you’re
wrong about that.”
“But I can’t make it spin
like she could.”
“Not many can. I’ll keep
it for now.” He takes the tin
and looks down at us. Behind
him the copper pans look like
huge gongs, and I want to
bang on them, call her.
The door tinkles shut.
The zoetrope sits on the shelf
next to the coffee pot. He
keeps the lid off our tin so,
although dusty and fading,
we can gaze at each other
until the lamps go out. We
cannot touch, but we can
look.
And sometimes that’s
enough.
Illustration by Nicki Dennett
Issue 2
www.newfairytales.co.uk
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The
Ice Queen
and the
Mer-King
by Elizabeth Hopkinson
There was once, so the story
goes, a king who subdued
the surrounding nations with
the might of his sword, and
all feared him. And when he
had conquered the nations to
the west and the south, he
made war on the icemen who
rule the frozen wasteland to
the north, beyond the
mountains. Then there was
battle on the plains of ice for
many days, but the soldiers
of the warrior king
outnumbered the icemen
with their sparkling javelins,
and the plains fell. For a prize
of war, the king from the
south demanded the elder
daughter of the ice prince for
his wife, and he carried her
away captive to his home
among the heath lands and
the rushing rivers, and made
her his queen.
Never in all his days had
the king seen such a rare
beauty as the ice princess
from the frozen waste. Her
skin shone and glittered in
the sun. Some say the sun
shone right through it,
leaving rainbows in every
room through which she
passed. Her eyes were as
blue as the clear sky on a
January morning, and each
delicate strand of her flowing
hair was made from a single
icicle.
Too rare and too delicate
was the new queen for the
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palace of the king within his
fortified city. He could not
regale her in the mighty feast
hall of his fathers, where the
trophies of war hung above
the great fireplace and
unspeakable desires burned
in the eyes of his warriors
and chieftains. He could not
promenade her in the
scented gardens where the
daughters of the ancient
houses whispered by the
trellises and the jealous sun
winked maliciously from
behind the clouds.
So the king took his
queen of ice and locked her
in the upper room of a tower.
It stood on an island in a
coastal bay, where the great
river flowing from the
mountains met the dark and
changeable sea. Here she
remained, looking out from
her window at night, as the
waves crashed and tumbled,
singing a lament in the cold,
chiming tongue of her
people. Her breath as she
sang was like clouds of
snowflakes falling in a mist.
It fell slowly to meet the
restless surface of the sea,
each flake for one moment a
glistening star before it was
gone forever.
Each week, the king
would unlock the door of the
queen’s chamber with an iron
key, and bring her down to
the room beneath her own, a
cold room with gloomy
tapestries and a panelled
bed. There he would embrace
her roughly and, with each
embrace, one icicle strand of
the queen’s hair would break
off and fall to the ground with
a crash. When the king was
gone, the queen, returning to
her chamber, would weep
and mourn the breaking of
her delicate hair, shedding
hailstone tears. These too
would fall into the night, and
the wind would carry them
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away into the heart of the
sea.
Now, beneath the waves
that roared about the island,
lay the kingdom of the merfolk. For long centuries
beyond the accounting of
men, they had ruled the
ocean depths. But unlike the
king above the surface were
they, because they ruled with
equity and not by the sword.
Although their king wielded
the trident, and the power of
the waves was at his
command, he seldom used it.
He took counsel among the
lords of the mer-folk, and
understood the ways of the
many creatures that swim
the unseen depths, and the
pulse of the ocean was the
beating of his own heart.
So it happened that, as
the mer-folk feasted at night
upon thrones of pearl and
shared the fellowship cup
together in their coral
gardens, they looked far
above them and saw the
glittering of stars. It seemed
to them that there were
constellations in the heavens.
Each star gleamed for one
moment and then went dark
as another appeared, as
unlike the first as it was
unlike the next. Magical and
mysterious to the lords of the
sea were the stars that were
the breath of the ice queen.
It happened also that, as
they swam in clear lagoons
beyond the knowledge of
mariners, pearls fell softly
through the sea towards
them, no bigger than the
scales of the tiniest fish. But
when they tried to touch the
pearls that were the ice
queen’s tears, they melted in
their hands.
And the king of the merfolk declared that they should
all swim up to the surface to
see what these marvels were,
that came to them from the
world of air. So they rose
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together at night upon the
back of a wave, singing their
haunting songs. There, in the
window of the tower, they
saw the ice queen with her
clear blue eyes, weeping into
the night.
The queen looked
through her tears and beheld
the mer-folk riding the waves
and their hair blowing about
them in the windy night. She
lifted up her voice and sang
mournfully in the chiming
tongue she had learned
beyond the mountains. Then
the mer-folk were glad, for
they saw again those stars
beneath the stars that had
glittered on the surface of the
sea. But the deep green eyes
of their king were thoughtful
and sad. Long into the night,
the ice queen and the merfolk sang together in a
strange and mysterious
harmony. At last, as the first
light of day showed pale
upon the mountains tops, the
mer-folk turned and dived
into the sea with a splashing
of their powerful tails.
From that night onwards,
the lords of the sea would
often rise from their thrones
to sing with the ice queen.
All along the rocks they
would sit, the jewels of the
ocean gleaming wet on their
blue-green breasts. And,
from high in the window, the
snowflakes of the ice queen’s
breath would flutter around
their heads. All the while, the
deep green eyes of the merking were fixed on the lonely
ice queen, with her rainbowwhite skin and her beautiful,
broken hair. So it came to be
that the king of the sea
conceived in his heart a love
for the queen in the tower.
And she, looking down at his
noble face, wise with the
changeable mysteries of the
sea, also felt the pangs of
love, for the very first time.
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At that time, their love
was a secret, locked deep in
the heart of each. The silence
between them could not be
broken, for the language of
the ice queen was as strange
to the mer-folk as theirs was
to her. But, as one night
gave way to another, so they
gradually came to understand
one another, and to speak,
as well as to sing, together.
The ice queen told the merpeople of her home in the
frozen north; of the glittering
palaces of crystal with many
turrets, and the sleighs
drawn by white reindeer that
once carried her through
frozen forests of silver glass.
She told of the battles with
the king from the south and
of how he had carried her
away, far from her home and
all she loved. And the tiny
pearls of her hailstone tears
rained into the ocean. The
mer-king told her of the
gardens beneath the sea
where fish of a thousand
colours swim through endless
grasses. He told of the hearts
of those who rule the sea,
which are gentle and loving
toward the tiniest creature
that floats there. And,
beneath the moon and the
stars, their talk became ever
more tender.
Now the queen dreaded
more than ever the turning of
the iron key, and she wept
more bitterly at the
roughness that broke the
icicle strands of her hair.
Each time the king
summoned her down stairs,
she feared that he would see
the heart of the ocean
beginning to creep into her
blue eyes. All that consoled
her was the coming of the
night and the pounding of the
waves. Then one day, when
she felt she could endure no
more, the king did not appear
at his appointed hour.
Instead, the squire who held
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his horse came to tell her
that the king had fallen in
battle to the warlike princes
of the scattered isles, and
would visit her no more.
Then the iron lock was
broken and the queen walked
for the first time on the grass
and rocks of the island, and
sang a song of freedom that
swirled in frosty clouds about
her. The song of the ice
queen pierced the sea and
came to the ears of those
who sat on thrones of pearl
That night, the mer-king
rose from his ocean kingdom
alone, and his wave lashed at
the rock like thunder. In his
hand he held a necklace of
coral with a jewel that glowed
with every colour under the
sea. He held it out to the ice
queen with words of love,
and humbly begged that she
would come back with him to
the kingdom of the mer-folk
and sit beside him forever.
Now the heart of the ice
queen was filled with pain.
She said to the mer-king, “I
love you more than all the
crystals of the silver forest.
But in your kingdom I should
dissolve away to nothingness.
Where you swim I cannot
follow, except in my heart.”
And though the salt of
the ocean came to the merking’s eyes, he knew that it
was true. “Then let me take
you to your father,” he said.
“We shall make for you a
carriage pulled by rays and
bring you to the foot of the
snowy mountains.”
“No,” said the ice queen.
“I cannot now return to my
father’s house with my hair
snapped and broken and the
heart of the ocean in my
eyes. I shall remain here on
this island; and this tower,
once my prison, shall become
my home. I shall weave from
the grass and the seaweed
new tapestries, that the
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generations to come may not
forget me.”
Then the mer-king
delicately kissed the hand of
the ice queen, and dived
back into the sea. The
necklace of coral he lay in a
pool on the rock. And the
queen picked it up and put it
around her neck. It melted a
small patch over her heart,
for it was wet with the sea,
but she never removed it.
Every day for as long as she
lived, she wove tapestries for
the walls of her tower. And
every night she would stand
on the rocks and sing, and
mariners would see from far
off the mingling of the
snowflakes with the spray,
which was the love of the ice
queen for the mer-king.
Illustration by Marina Rees
Issue 2
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- 11 -
Jorab
the Selfish
by Jeanette D’Arcy
A young woodcutter called
Edward lived alone in a tiny
house in the forest at
Farwick. Sometimes he was
very lonely, but he loved the
forest and would never think
of leaving it to live in the
village. One cold winter
morning Edward dressed in
his warmest clothes, put
money in his wallet and set
off for the market to buy
provisions for himself.
As he whistled his way
through the misty woods the
leaves crunched underfoot
and the frost made beautiful
silver patterns everywhere.
Edward had many friends at
the market and he got a good
price for the salted meat,
bread and lamp oil he
bought, because everyone
knew that Edward was a
kind, generous man. It was
well known that Edward’s
house was never closed to
travelers in the wood and
many of the villagers had
welcomed his hospitality
Issue 2
when they were tired and
needed to rest on a long
journey. Often Edward did
not have much food left for
himself because he always
ended up giving most of what
he had to his visitors, so
much did he love their
company, and enjoy seeing
them comfortable.
It was becoming dark as
Edward left the market and
the trees were full of strange
shadows, but he had never
feared the forest that was his
home and he walked with
confidence through the trees.
On the way to his house,
Edward had to pass through
a crossroads, at which stood
the largest tree in the forest.
The top of the tree was
barely visible and Edward
craned his neck to look at the
pretty outline of the topmost
branches against the grey,
cloudy sky. The branches
swished in the wind, shadows
mixing and merging and
rushing as they waved back
and forth. One shadow in
particular caught Edward’s
eye; it did not move with the
rest of the tree’s limbs but
seemed to be moving against
the wind.
There came a snicksnick-snick from the top of
the tree and down thumped
the great monster Jorab. He
had yellow claws on his feet
and shiny scales on his belly,
and his breath came
steaming from his great big
beak, smelling of rotting
meat. He was hairless and
pink and naked and shivering
in the cold winter air.
Gripple-gripple-gripe went his
empty belly. “Ah-HA!’
shouted Jorab, ‘Who is this
crunching through my home?
A little man!” Sniff sniff went
Jorab’s nostrils, high up in his
great sharp beak. “What
have you got in your bag,
little man? Something to fill
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my belly and stop me
shivering?”
“You are welcome to
share what is mine,” said
Edward. He opened his
knapsack and the monster
stuck its great head inside,
chomp-chomping its way
through the meat, chewchewing its way through the
bread and even slurpshlupping its way through his
lamp oil until there was
nothing left.
Jorab belched happily.
“Very good, little man!” said
the monster, sticking out his
shiny gut, “My belly is full!
The meat was tasty, the
bread was filling and the oil
was warm - but I am still
shivering. Your clothes look
lovely and warm. Give them
to me.”
“You are welcome to
share what is mine,” said
Edward. He took off his warm
winter clothes and stood
naked and shivering in the
icy air.
Jorab squeezed himself
into his new outfit, tut-tutting
as the breeches ripped and
struggling to pull the coat
over his massive scaly back.
Pleased with himself, he sat
on the lowest branch of the
tree and clicked his tongue,
turning this way and that to
admire his new attire.
Edward set about making
a fire to warm his naked self.
He gathered leaves and
branches, and ripped his now
empty bag into strips of
kindling.
“What are you doing,
little man?” called the
monster.
“I am making a fire to
warm myself,” Edward
replied.
Jorab had never seen a
fire, but he could still feel the
cold through the holes he had
made in Edward’s coat, and
cold made him miserable. “If
it will keep me warm, I want
- 12 -
this fire!” bellowed Jorab,
beating his chest with his
fists. “You will make it for
me!”
“You are welcome to
share what is mine,” said
Edward, and he began to
make the fire at the base of
Jorab’s tree. Soon the fire
was blazing merrily and
licking at the tree’s trunk.
Jorab wiped the sweat from
his gigantic forehead. “Phew!
This fire really is warm!” he
said. He took off Edward’s
coat. “A little too warm!” he
panted, removing Edward’s
breeches. It was not long
before Jorab, pink and
hairless, sat naked once
again on the lowest branch of
his great tree. Edward took
back his clothes and put
them on, though now they
were stretched and ripped,
and stood warming himself at
the foot of the trunk.
Jorab thought what a
very clever monster he was.
He had been planning to eat
the little man, but perhaps he
would not after all; better to
keep him here, to make fire
for Jorab and keep him warm
through the winter.
Edward gathered more
wood to add to the fire.
“What are you doing,
little man?” called Jorab.
“I am feeding the fire so
it will grow,’ said Edward,
throwing more logs onto the
blaze.
“And what does a fire
eat, little man?” asked the
monster.
“Wood is best if you
want it to grow,” replied
Edward, “a fire loves to eat
wood.”
“Ah, little man, you are
not very clever,” grinned
Jorab, “for now you have told
me the secret of the fire I
may feed it myself and have
no need of you! Now I may
eat you and still keep warm
Issue 2
through the winter!” Jorab
laughed gleefully.
“You are a very clever
monster,” said Edward, “but
do you know what else a fire
eats?”
The flames leaped
upwards. One of them
touched Jorab’s foot on its
raw, pink sole and he
screeched, jumping to the
next highest branch. “This
fire bites!” he cried. “I do not
like it any more!”
“You asked me to build a
fire for you.” said Edward, “I
have been very generous - I
have shared everything I
own. You are a very
ungrateful monster.” He
threw two more logs onto the
flames.
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Jorab jumped to the next
highest branch, flames licking
his heels. “Tell me, little
man,” he asked fearfully,
“what else do fires eat?”
“They love to eat oil,”
said Edward.
Jorab howled. He jumped
up to the highest branch but
the fire was soon all around
him. The lamp oil in his gut
bubbled and spat as it began
to heat up. He danced from
foot to foot, trying to avoid
the flames. “Oh-ooh!” said
Jorab, clutching his shiny, oilfull belly. “Ah-ow!” bawled
Jorab,as the oil rose in his
throat. “Eee-aargh!”
screeched Jorab as the oil
caught fire in his mouth.
Ooom-foom-BOOM! went
Jorab’s belly, and smoke
- 13 -
came belching from his great
beak as the flames consumed
him.
Although it was nighttime now the crossroads was
as bright as day, such was
the size of the blast. All the
village came running to see
what the eruption was, and
were amazed to behold the
largest tree in the forest
burning fiercely against the
starry sky. Edward told them
what had happened and they
rejoiced that the great
monster was dead and gone.
When they heard that Jorab
had eaten Edward’s winter
supplies they were outraged.
The butcher sent his son
running back to the village to
fetch the choicest meat, the
tastiest loaves and the best
lamp oil.
“I could never eat all
this, even if I took all winter!”
cried Edward when the boy
returned. “But you are all
welcome to share what is
mine.”
So Edward had a
different visitor every night at
his tiny home in the forest,
and as well as offering his
hospitality, he could now
offer them the best of fayre.
He was very happy and his
house was always warm and
full, as it was so tiny he could
only fit one visitor at a time
as well as himself!
Before long the king
came to hear the tale of
Edward’s clever defeat of the
great monster Jorab. He
asked Edward what he would
like as a reward for ridding
the village of such a beast.
Edward asked only for his
company and the king
happily obliged. He visited
Edward regularly and they
became great friends.
“I would like to bring my
family to meet you, Edward,”
said the king one day, “what
a shame that your house is
Issue 2
so tiny you can only have one
visitor at a time!”
Edward smiled sadly.
“Yes, but I could never leave
my forest,” he said.
The king gave him a
grin. “I have a surprise for
you,” he said. The king led
Edward to the crossroads
where once had stood Jorab’s
tree. Edward had been so
busy with visitors that he had
not travelled to the village for
months. To his surprise,
where there had been an
immense blackened stump
now stood a tremendous,
towering house! It was so big
Edward had to crane his neck
to see the pretty outline of its
chimney stacks against the
bright spring sky. People
were hanging out of every
window to greet him - the
butcher waved happily from
the very top while his son
stood in the doorway,
beaming.
“Well, what do you
think?” said the king as
Edward stared in amazement,
“The villagers have been
working day and night to
build it for you. They were
tired of only being able to
visit you one at a time – now
they can all come at once,
and so can I and my family!”
Edward laughed
delightedly and ran into his
new home to make everyone
welcome. The villagers talked
and laughed and slapped
Edward on the back
affectionately as he went
about preparing a huge meal
to thank them for their work.
Everyone agreed they had
never met a better man.
Among the crowd, Edward
noticed a face he did not
recognise – a young woman
was sitting amongst the
villagers, joining in their
raucous conversation and
guffawing loudly at the
butcher’s jokes. Edward had
never seen anyone so
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beautiful. Every chortle
chortle she uttered made him
want to hug her. Every clink
clink of her glass on his
brand new table made him
want to declare his love.
“I told you I wanted you
to meet my family,” said the
king, “This is my daughter
Sarinda.”
Sarinda looked up from
her drink and gave a
fantastic smile which seemed
to stretch from one side of
the room to the other, so did
it fill Edward’s heart with
warmth.
Before long Edward and
Sarinda were married and
now they live together with
their family in the big house
at the crossroads of the
forest. Their doors are always
open to visitors and their
rooms are always filled with
happy, laughing people.
Everyone in the village
agrees that nowhere will you
find better company and
contentment than at the
house of Edward and
Sarinda.
Illustration by Lucy Smith
- 14 -
The
Story-blind
Princess
of the genre. There she lived
and grew, alone, for many
years. Oblivious to the ways
of her people, she never once
dreamed that anyone would
discover her hiding place and
rescue her from this life.
by Pauline Masurel
When his first child was born
the King assembled a flotilla
of swans. He commanded
them swim the length of the
river and proclaim her birth.
Only then did he look into the
cradle and say to his new
daughter, “Take an old story
and make it new.”
The nurse who attended
the birth coughed softly and
tugged at his ermine-clad
elbow.
“What?” said the King.
“Royal Majesty…”
“What is it, woman?”
“Your Majesty, that little
‘un wouldn’t know a story if
she were poked in the eye
with it.”
“What do you mean, you
impertinent bundle?” asked
the King. He sounded
exceedingly narked, in a
most un-royal way.
The nurse lowered her
voice so that no courtiers or
members of the royal
household would hear. “The
poor scrap is story-blind,
Your Majesty. She can
neither tell nor apprehend a
tale.”
The King looked at the
infant and knew that what
the nurse said was true. His
pride turned to a dented
mourning, laced with ire. He
must be the unluckiest of
fairytale monarchs ever, to
have sired a princess without
the slightest sense of story.
So the King recalled the
swans and locked his
daughter in a remote tower,
according to the conventions
Issue 2
One morning the story-blind
princess awoke to a
transformed kingdom. She
opened the shutters and
looked out. The whiteness
was so sharp it snatched
away each breath before she
could catch it from the air.
Snow had fallen in the
night and the lake was lightly
frosted across. The trees
shouldered more powdery
depth of snow than they
could bear and were
discarding it, not one way but
many. There was the slow
trickle of a melt against
trunks where the morning
sun caught them. Loose falls
of flakes spilled softly. Quick
firecrackers fizzled, denser
lumps broke free and snaked
to the ground. Hollow flumps
came from tiny pillows or
moundy growths of albino
moss that toppled, slid or
plummeted. Increasingly
frequent were avalanche
cracks, which opened and
widened until, with a
sickening slither, the skin of
snow fell away and exposed
raw bones of bark beneath.
Everywhere, stray clumps
and sprinklings escaped their
perch and clotted or dredged
the ground to remake the
forest’s underlay.
The snow had settled on
each tree, and after it had
shuffled and fallen further it
settled again. Into this view
rode the boy with only one
shoe.
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The mare was accustomed to
the feel of suede in a stirrup
against her right flank and
callused human skin against
her left. The uncovered foot
gripped her girth firmly at a
gallop. The sole was
employed to stroke a
companionable
encouragement as horse and
rider made their way up a
hillside at more leisurely
pace. This morning they were
riding on new territory and in
no sort of a hurry. Toes
tickled her from time to time
and then drew back.
The boy set out over
fresh snow for the joy of
exploration and rode his
horse further across the hills
than he had ever been
before. When they reached
the lake he stopped and
shaded his eyes against
winter sunlight. On the
opposite shore stood a tower
with gilded roof. The dizzying
light sprang off golden tiles
and flew back, illuminating
the snow. He patted the
mare’s neck with his left foot
and then dismounted, sinking
into powdery whiteness up to
his ankles.
The cold engulfing his
left foot was enervating,
more shocking than the air.
Crystals of frozen water
melted against flesh. The
other foot, insulated within
layers of brushed wool and
leather, made a satisfying
scrunch as he moved around
a boulder, brushing snow
from its top surface with a
broken branch. The boy
removed his saddlebag from
the horse’s back and splayed
it across the flat surface of
the rock by way of a rough
cushion. He sat for a while,
leaving his horse to nuzzle
for grass in the depressions
left by his footsteps.
This slim tower of ivory
stone across the lake, almost
indistinguishable against the
- 15 -
snow, couldn’t possibly be
home to any ordinary
subject, so the stories told
about a locked-away princess
must be true.
The boy carefully dried
the sole of his foot and then
flicked between his toes with
the fringes of the horseblanket. He examined its
landscape. Right there, up
close, pitted, with whorls.
The contours were encrusted
with dirt. He twisted it this
way and that, wrinkling the
blue veins, stretching the
skin. Through the birthaccident of a fractionally
elongated leg he had always
known what it was like to
walk through the world with a
foot in both camps. One shod
and insulated, the other bare.
He’d grown up walking
around his own village on the
verges. Every journey was an
equal combination of the
metalled and the turfed.
The boy watched as the
King’s swans patrolled the
lake. He sighed to think that
across the water there lived a
woman who would never
experience the sights he had
encountered this morning,
purely by chance. Worse still,
people said she had no
concept of her own
predicament, no wish for a
life freer or larger than one
lived within those walls.
The mare was chewing
away at a choice mouthful of
grassy sorbet. The boy
stretched his leg to scratch
her gently behind the ear
with his toenails. “No time for
that,” he said. “Come along,
we’re going to rescue a
princess.”
The canter around the lake
was a delight. The boy drew
Issue 2
close to a drawbridge that
lead across the moat to the
great wooden gate. He
dismounted, let his mare
resume her grazing and
hunkered down behind a
snow-capped bramble thicket
to spy out the situation.
Moments after the boy’s
arrival, a loud growl ran
along the driveway. Chutes of
snow kicked up to either side
as it howled to a halt. A
dozy-looking guard sauntered
out to greet the rider, who
flipped back his visor and
unstraddled the motorcycle.
The man was clearly
petitioning the guard. His
black-and-silver-leather-clad
stance made it clear he
expected to be successful.
The boy watched as an
enormous wad of money
changed hands. Then, the
booted suitor left his helmet
on the pillion, back-combed
his hair and stomped across
the bridge with a
commanding gait and into
the tower.
The boy realised that he
wasn’t the first potential
rescuer to discover the
whereabouts of the princess.
He was smart enough to
realise that he must be
participating in something of
a trail, judging by the three
neatly marked parking spaces
at the end of the long
driveway approach.
Barely ten minutes after
the motorcyclist had gone up,
he returned, looking ruffled
and disgruntled. With bad
grace he got back on his
bike, started it up and roared
away.
The boy removed a
blanket from the mare’s
saddle-bag and sat on it,
cross-legged, in a sun-melted
patch beyond the thicket,
hidden from view. This was
not going to be easy.
While he considered his
options a white Rolls Royce
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drove into view, camouflaged
against the landscape. It was
visible more by its chrome
than the bodywork. It wound
its stately progress up the
driveway. The car pulled up
and a chauffeur scurried out.
He held the door for a
passenger whose robes
cascaded in lush ripples, right
down to his ankles, to skim
the hems of their purple and
gold silk against the snow. He
handed something to the
guard, who had lumbered out
as before.
The boy craned forward
across the thicket, trying to
see better. Snow smudged
the front of his jerkin. The
guard brought his hand to his
mouth, bit down on
something, and then held it
up into the winter light. He
hid it away smartly in his
pocket, made an obsequious
bow and let the visitor pass.
The boy realised he had
no gifts to indulge in this
expensive sport of princess
wooing. He was almost
disheartened enough to turn
around and ride home. It
wasn’t long before the latest
arrival had swept down the
stairs. The chauffeur redonned his cap, and drove
them both back to
civilisation.
The boy tethered his
horse behind the brambles,
where a sweet, green clump
of grass was widening in the
sunshine. He slipped around
behind the tower to see if he
could find an alternative
entrance. The ring of the
moat was frozen solid, so he
slid down the bank and
slithered across the ice.
The climb up the tower
was taxing. It took all the
boy’s strength and
concentration. In the lower
reaches of the building he
had to find footholds for his
left foot on the coarse-haired
trunks of ivy and avoid the
- 16 -
mingled thorns of the rose
tree. A few stunted scarlet
blooms had struggled into
bud. Higher up there were
scant handholds in the pockmarked stone, or where lime
mortar had washed away.
He dare not look down. The
descent would be impossible,
particularly if encumbered by
the burden of a regal
escapee. He would have to
find another way down.
When he reached the
single window at the top of
the tower, the boy was
relieved to find a latch on the
outside. Perhaps it had been
designed with the assumption
that no one would scale this
high to release it. Or it could
have been built in the
expectation that one day a
young hero would make such
a climb.
As the boy clambered
into the room, a textile
rainbow drew his gaze,
spiralling back to the centre
where its creator sat within
her encircling web. At first
glimpse he imagined the
walls and ceilings were
carpeted but the true nature
of their coverings was
stranger than this. A canopy
of midnight chenille, shot
through with stars of spun
silver threads, gave way to
sunshiny spells lacing the
opposite corner. Flocks of
swift cables flew in bursts as
though startled into flight.
Piled in mounds lay strata of
textured marls, in clover,
lavender and heather. They
lead to outcrops of russet and
donkey-hued ridges that
faded into a fernery of flecks
and moss stitch in the darker
recesses. A ribbed ocean of
waves washed around an
intent young woman, whose
head was bent above her
labour. Her wrists turned and
flexed with each stitch.
Issue 2
She had the most
beautiful fingers that the boy
had ever seen.
The princess worked, as she
did every day, knitting from
around dawn to the brink of
dusk, pausing only from
necessity. When she was
much younger, her nurse
tried to teach more
appropriate accomplishments
for a shut-away princess,
such as spinning and fine
embroidery. However, it
seemed that knitting was her
chosen craft. She didn’t
fabricate garments, or
anything recognisable as a
product. The princess’s
creations consisted of colours
and textures that were
exquisite when viewed
locally, yet they splayed out
into wide plains and rivers of
yarn after yarn that never
submitted to pattern or shape
or sense.
The old nurse had finally
died, vindicated in her
prediction at the child’s birth.
Since the princess was
already of age, the King
employed no other regular
companion. Thereafter she
took care of her own
education, increasing,
decreasing, casting on and
off according to her own
contrary whims and without
hint of objective.
The princess heard a sound
at the window and looked up
from a purl row. A boy
dropped into her room. She
set her knitting needles down
in her lap and stared at him.
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No visitor had ever called on
her by this route before.
Although she was
accustomed to ignoring the
pleas of voices, accompanied
by tapping and thumping,
from beyond her door.
He was a scruffy fellow,
with scratches on his cheeks.
He wore a relieved smile and
his eyes were bluer than the
sky above snow. She looked
into the deep piles of
multicoloured knitting lapping
around his feet and noticed
that the boy wore only one
shoe.
There was nothing
uneven about his gait as he
picked his way carefully
across the room to stand
before her. “Don’t be afraid,”
he said.
“I’m not,” she replied.
For why should she be? If
you’ve always lived a safe life
and don’t believe in stories,
then it’s difficult to develop
any concept of fear.
“Come away with me,”
he whispered.
“But where?” The
princess was perplexed.
“To the ocean. For a day.
We’ll be back by nightfall. No
one need know.” The boy
looked out of the window, to
where his horse waited
patiently. Across the lake a
line of trees marked the place
where the land dipped
downwards, towards the
coast. A boundary beyond
which the princess had never
seen.
“Where is this…ocean?”
“Beyond the horizon.
Further than your eye can
apprehend. We’ll have such
fun on the journey. I’ll show
you the fields of your father’s
lands. Where the river goes
when it leaves this lake. Do
say you’ll come.”
“You’re a fool. There’s
nothing beyond the horizon.
This room is everything.” The
princess picked up her
- 17 -
needles and resumed
knitting.
The boy tried tack after tack,
line upon line. Nothing could
convince the princess that
freedom might be grander
than her life here.
Everything he cited in favour
of the outside world was
imperiously denied. She
pointed to some patch or
fragment of knitting that was
brighter, more harmonious,
vivid or subtle, contrasting,
wild or constrained. Her life
seemed to exist stitch by
stitch. He was quite unable to
invoke in her any longing for
a wider view.
The day wore on and the
light from the single window
became threadbare. The
princess set down her
creation and seemed ready to
settle to sleep.
The boy looked
mournfully around at the
folded waves of fabric lining
this upper chamber of the
tower. He wondered whether
servants were obliged to
periodically cut away and
clear some part of this labour
to avoid her drowning in this
confused, woolly world.
The boy gently tucked
the princess into a silken
corner and waited until a low
murmur of snoring arose.
Then, finding no other
suitable materials on which to
write, he took off his shoe.
Holding it against the stone
sill of the window, by
moonlight he inscribed a
message on its battered sole.
When the princess woke, the
only trace of the boy was a
trail of knitting slung from
the window and an
abandoned shoe bearing the
following words: ‘No one is
immune to story. Even if you
can’t see story, it can see
you.’
Illustration by Louise Grant
Issue 2
www.newfairytales.co.uk
- 18 -
The
Terrible Troll
by Dave Jeffery
Once upon a time, or so they say
There was a wild wood where no children could play,
For in its middle was a deep dark hole,
And in this lived a Terrible Troll.
And there in the gloom, by an enormous, hot pot
The Terrible Troll stirred a terrible broth,
Singing songs as all great cooks do,
As he searched for things to add to his stew:
Cabbage and broccoli, sprouts and tripe;
All of the things that most people dislike,
But his tummy still rumbled with a hideous din,
When he thought of the children he would catch and throw in!
Now the troll was so lazy he would sleep until noon,
But noon to the troll was still too soon,
And many a day he would wake with a yawn,
Then fall back to sleep ‘til the following dawn.
Late in the evenings the Troll loved to read
From a big book of stories that were scary indeed!
Stories of things that snarled and growled,
With red, shiny eyes and slavering jowls,
But the troll merely laughed at the goblins and ghouls
Most of them were his old friends from school!
When the troll went on trips he would put on his cloak,
Which was held together by a big brass brooch,
Then came boots of the finest leather,
Thinner than silk and light as a feather,
When the troll went for walks, it’s of little surprise,
That the kind hearted creatures would run and hide,
The foxes with the rabbits, the squirrels in their tree;
The badger in the bushes, where the troll would not see,
And the troll was happy to be all alone
For his heart was as cold as the standing stones.
So it came to pass that on one fine day,
The terrible troll made his terrible way,
Down forest tracks, through bracken and brush,
Over muddy banks, slurry and slush
And just before he began to get bored,
He heard someone giggle, and another guffaw,
So he climbed a tree, riling raven and rook,
The terrible troll could not believe his luck,
Because there in a clearing, unaware of this sneak,
Were two little girls playing ‘Hide and Seek’.
Issue 2
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- 19 -
“Stay where you are!” the troll said with glee,
“I’m the Terrible Troll, and you’re coming with me!
Tonight you’re my supper, and tomorrow: a pie,
And the day after that, a pudding to try!”
“I don’t think so,” one girl said in haste,
“To tussle with us would be a mistake!
We don’t want to be on your menu,
Go on your way, so we may go too!”
“Enough of this nonsense!” the troll said in temper,
“Two cheekier girls, I cannot remember!
Time for you to be in my pot,
Braised and buttered and served with shallots!”
But there was no way that these girls would give in,
For they were, in fact, the Terrible Twins!
They scuffed his boots and ripped his cloak,
They broke to pieces his big brass brooch,
And just when he thought they could do no worse,
They covered his head with a bucket of dirt!
Muddy and moaning he ran all the way home,
And put out a call on his Trollophone,
To warn other trolls all around the world,
To stay out of the way of these terrible girls!
So, these days, a troll is far too scared,
To show its face in the open air.
More often than not, they stay underground,
Hiding in shadows, not easily found
The more brazen will only peer out of their homes,
A face of a cliff, or big pile of stones,
So think of the places where you have been,
Have the rocks always been what they seem?
Issue 2
www.newfairytales.co.uk
Illustration by
Alex Craggs
- 20 -
A Lighter
Load
by Sophie Ward
Nikolai was fond of the small
pleasures in life. Of other
matters, he had no interest.
So it was that marriage,
work, children, his own
home, had left little
impression on the ambitions
of the farmer’s son from
Åkerlänna. Hours could pass
watching the beetles as they
picked their unsteady path
between the cobblestones,
and whole afternoons were
spent sucking his pipe and
feeling the sweet smoke
pluming from his nostrils. In
such a way, although he was
healthy and strong and
nearing his middle years, his
parents were obliged to care
for him.
His mother and father
had never worried about their
only child. He had arrived
long after they had stopped
knitting tiny sweaters or
carving toy boats. He had
been born when his mother’s
breast had emptied and
drooped and yet he had
fattened. He had been born
in a winter of disease and
spoil and yet he had thrived.
Issue 2
They could ask for nothing
more.
And so the family lived in
contentment until the day
came when Nikolai’s father
could no longer guide the
plough and Nikolai’s mother
could no longer carry the
pails. His parents knew that
Nikolai could do nothing on
the farm for what had they
taught him? Winter was
chilling the pastures and soon
the harvest would lie beneath
blankets of snow. Nikolai’s
parents decided their son
must go to the city and sell
all they had that was
valuable: some sacks of grain
and barrels of fine herring,
their best silver plate and the
golden goblets given to them
on their wedding day.
“The city people will
afford these luxuries!” cried
Nikolai’s father, “In the city,
even the fence is made of
sausage. With the money you
make we can hire a fine
worker and live the rest of
our days in peace.”
Nikolai had never been
to the city and his parents
were not strong enough to
make the journey with him,
but it was a straight road and
there was a good cart with
which to carry the goods. His
mother packed his lunch
while his father loaded the
cart and the next morning,
Nikolai set off.
It was a cold day and
Nikolai had wrapped warmly
for the journey. Light drifts of
snowflakes became heavier
as he walked and the lonely
wind found the man and his
cart sporting playmates as
they travelled along the
exposed country road. After a
few hours, Nikolai’s arms
grew weary. He propped the
cart by the side of the road
and sat down to eat his
lunch. As he ate, he resolved
to turn back to the farm.
“This journey is too far and
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the road is too hard,” he said
to himself, “I cannot go any
further.”
Some magpies had
drawn round him as he
scattered his lunch upon the
ground, unused as he was to
being careful. After he had
spoken, the smallest bird
turned to Nikolai and said,
“Why do you travel with so
heavy a burden? You are a
long way from home and the
way is not clear.”
“I was going to sell my
wares in the city,” replied
Nikolai, “but I cannot go
further, the road is too hard.”
“You are right,” said the
magpie. “Give me your heavy
load and I will fill the sacks
with feathers. My friends and
I will carry the precious
objects to the market and
when you get there you can
give us back our feathers.”
Nikolai was delighted
with the offer and accepted
immediately. The sacks were
unloaded and the feathers
placed inside.
“You must be careful,”
said the magpie, “The
feathers are light and
delicate. Treat them as
though they were your home
and they will give shelter.
Treat them as though they
were your wife and they will
give comfort. Treat them as
though they were your
children and they will give
love.”
So Nikolai set off toward
the city with the cart of
feathers and he made good
progress with so light a load.
But as the snow continued to
fall, Nikolai worried that the
feathers would get wet and
he took off his coat to place it
on top of the sacks. He
carried on walking until it
grew dark.
“Those sacks look
comfortable,” said Nikolai. “I
will climb on the cart and
sleep. With my coat for a
- 21 -
roof, I will have a good rest.”
And he settled down amongst
the sacks and slept.
In the morning, Nikolai
woke as a band of gypsies
passed him on the road.
“Good morning,
traveller,” they said. “What a
fine bed you have. We could
use a bed like that. Would
you sell it to us?”
“It is a fine bed,” replied
Nikolai. “But I cannot sell it
to you. I must take care of it
and make sure it gets to the
city safely.” And Nikolai
packed up his things and
went on his way, glad that he
had such a fine load upon his
cart.
When he reached the
city, Nikolai pushed his cart
through the powdered streets
looking for the market. He
came to a small street where
he left his cart while he asked
for directions in a nearby
café. When he returned, the
cart was gone and the sacks
of feathers were lying in the
snow. Nikolai fell to the
ground and picked up all the
sacks, afraid that they were
damaged. “I have left the
cart and abandoned the
sacks of feathers. I cannot go
to market and find the
magpies,” said Nikolai,
hugging the bags. “All is
lost.”
Just then, the smallest
magpie flew down.
“I am so glad to see
you,” said Nikolai. “My cart
has been stolen and I cannot
walk with these sacks. Please
could I have back some
valuables that I may sell
them and find a new cart to
carry the rest of the heavy
load?”
“We have eaten all the
herring and stored the grain,”
said the magpie, “The gold
and silver now line our
nests.”
Issue 2
At this, Nikolai became
angry. “I have nothing to sell
at the market. These feathers
will not buy a new worker for
the farm.”
The magpie stood on the
top of the sacks and looked
at Nikolai. “You do not need a
worker when you can do the
work.”
“But I cannot work,” said
Nikolai. “I do not know how.”
“When you carried the
sacks of feathers, you treated
them as though they were
home and they gave you
shelter. You treated them like
your wife and they gave you
comfort. And now you treat
them like your children, you
will have love. Go home and
help your parents on the
farm. You have shown you
can work for what is
important.”
So Nikolai returned to
the farm with what he had
learned and spent his days in
the fields. He married and
had children and built a new
home on the farmland. And
on fine days, when the work
was done, he sat with his
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children and watched the
beetles picking their unsteady
paths through the
cobblestones.
Illustration
by Annie Dalton
- 22 -
The
Goblin
King and
the Pig
by Oliver Eade
Jimmy Halliday was an
ordinary schoolboy who came
from an ordinary home in an
ordinary town somewhere in
the centre of England. At
least, he thought he was until
that Monday morning when,
cycling to school, he was
forced to squeeze the breaks
and skid to a halt, almost
colliding with an old woman
lying in the road. Strangely,
he only saw her at the very
last moment. Even more
strangely, despite the busy
traffic, she seemed unharmed
when he crouched down
beside her. “What are you
doing lying in the middle of
the road?” he asked.
Cars blared their horns
as they skirted past Jimmy
and the woman. It was a
miracle she hadn’t been
killed.
“Waiting for you.” She
picked up her walking stick
and struggled to her feet.
“And you’ve passed the first
test,” she continued, gazing
vacantly into the distance.
“Please, let me help you
to the pavement,” Jimmy
supported the old woman’s
arm, steering her out of
danger.
“And the second!” she
added, a faint smile distorting
her wrinkled face.
“Sure!” said Jimmy,
grinning. “Well … better be
Issue 2
going. Late for school
already.” He paused. “But will
you be okay? Can I help you
to wherever you’re going?”
he asked.
“No.”
“Fine … er … bye, then!”
Jimmy got back onto his bike.
“What about the third
test, Jimmy?”
Jimmy’s jaw dropped.
“You know my name?”
“I know your name, and
everything about you, except
for one thing.” Jimmy stared
at her. “Whether or not you
can pass the third and final
test?”
Jimmy shrugged his
shoulders. Maybe she was
more than just a bit dotty.
Could be totally off her head.
And the name thing? Perhaps
she was an old friend of his
parents he’d forgotten. “I’ll
try, what …?”
“To save my
granddaughter from the
Goblin King. She’s a fairy
princess.”
“Oh! Well, er …”
Of course, he could have
pushed his foot down on the
pedal and just cycled away,
but he didn’t. Something was
preventing him.
“Thank you for
committing yourself. There’s
no turning back now. I can
take you as far as Goblin
Hollow, and turn you into a
pig, but after that you’re on
your own.”
“A pig?” Call for help?
The police, a doctor? Jimmy’s
mind was whirl.
“Just follow me.”
Before he had a chance
to say ‘sorry, no way!’ the old
woman flew upwards. For the
first time he saw her four
diaphanous wings, like those
of some enormous damselfly. He began pedalling like
mad, but he, too, shot up off
the ground, the bike following
the woman as if pulled by an
invisible thread.
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“This isn’t happening,”
muttered Jimmy as he
peered down at the busy
streets through half-closed
eyes. But he knew it was.
Soon they’d left the town
and were soaring over fields
and woods. Having no head
for heights, he gripped the
handle bars for all he was
worth as his feet spun the
pedals. Soon the bike began
to descend. He had no idea
where he was. He always
thought he knew the
surrounding countryside well,
but the group of hills ahead
was totally unfamiliar. They
landed below the crest of the
largest hill.
“And this is where I must
leave you until you’ve passed
the third test … or not, as the
case may be … for only a
mortal can save the girl from
the goblins.”
Jimmy felt truly afraid. A
pig? He’d already seen what
she could do.
“You must offer yourself
up in the place of my
granddaughter. The Goblin
King wants to cook her and
eat her. Just tell them a pig
is far tastier than a young
fairy.”
A dead pig? End up as
pork chops? Jimmy struggled
with his bike, trying to turn it
the other way so he could
take off down the hill, but the
thing had a mind of its own.
It would only face the brow of
the hill.
“Leave your bike here. If
you succeed, she will lead
you home.”
“If not?”
But there was no reply.
Gradually the old woman was
becoming invisible. The bike
fell sideways when Jimmy’s
trotters could no longer hold
on to the handlebars. He
could see the end of his
snout, twitching, and he
became acutely aware of an
unpleasant smell wafting
- 23 -
down from the hill-top. Like
old socks, only a thousand
times worse. But it was
something else that forced
his fat body to hurry up the
slope. Something his large,
flapping ears now picked up.
The voice of a girl,
screaming.
He waddled to the very
top of the hill and looked
down.
In the hollow below, a
large fire was ablaze, and a
crowd of hideous goblins
danced around the fire,
whooping and brandishing
spears. A particularly fat
goblin, dressed in splendid
gold and purple finery, sat on
a stone throne watching the
spectacle, his face stretched
into an evil grin. But it was
the vision of the girl tied to a
tree that held the pig-boy
transfixed. Long, wavy black
hair to her waist, a small
crown of colourful flowers on
her head, he’d never
imagined anyone could be so
beautiful. But her silvery
dress was in tatters, and her
glistening wings drooped. Her
screams cut him to the quick,
and snorting and squealing
with fury he capered down
the hill, scattering the
dancing goblins asunder. He
trotted up to the Goblin King
who emitted the same putrid
smell that had invaded his
nostrils on the other side of
the hill.
“Oink, oink, oink!” he
demanded. He knew what he
wanted to say: ‘Let her go at
once! Take me instead!’ But
all that came out was ‘oink!’
The ugly goblin roared
with laughter.
“What makes you think
I’d be interested in roast pig
when I can feast on roast
fairy?”
Jimmy was suddenly
reminded of the delicious
smell that came from the
kitchen whenever his mother
Issue 2
cooked pork on a Sunday,
but uncertain what to do
next, he dithered.
“Put her on the fire! If
we have room in our bellies
afterwards we’ll cook the pig
as well!”
So he would die anyway!
Jimmy glanced at the fairy
princess and their eyes met.
He saw the anguish and the
despair in those beautiful
eyes. He scampered over to
the fire, turned around and
stuck his bottom in the
flames. The pain was awful,
but he refused to budge until
his nose could detect that
same deliciously-tantalising
aroma his mother always
produced from a pork joint.
The goblins watched, mouths
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agape, when Jimmy returned
to the Goblin King and stuck
his bottom in the creature’s
face.
“Mmmm!” said the
Goblin King.
Jimmy felt something
stab into his hind-quarters.
He heard a crunching sound,
and turned his head enough
to see that the Goblin King
was holding a knife in one
hand and in the other a hunk
of meat coated with crisp
pork crackling. On the
goblin’s face was an idiotic
expression of sheer ecstasy
as he chewed the pork
crackling.
“Let’s swap them round,
boys!” shouted the Goblin
King, his mouth still full.
- 24 -
“This pig is seriously good.
We can finish off with the
fairy. She’ll be our dessert!”
There were further
agonising stabs at his
haunches and his sides, and
Jimmy was aware of chunks
of meat being flung in all
directions to other goblins
who greedily fought over the
mouth-watering morsels of
himself. He glanced again at
the distraught fairy, and was
about to return to the fire to
roast what remained of
Jimmy the pig, when he
became aware that the only
sound was that of a sobbing
girl. The goblins had gone
quiet, and the Goblin King
was now still, his eyes closed.
Jimmy crawled over to him,
nudging him with his snout.
No response. The others lay
motionless around the fire.
Then Jimmy realised there
was a large hole over his
bottom where the Goblin King
had hacked chunks of roast
pork from him. He wriggled
backwards and squeezed
himself out of that hole,
emerging as Jimmy the
schoolboy. Whether the
goblins were dead, or
sleeping after overfeeding on
pork, Jimmy didn’t wait to
find out. He rushed over to
the fairy princess, untied her
from the tree, took her by
the hand and together they
ran as fast as they could back
up the hill.
“My … er … bike,” he said
shyly, pointing to the bike on
the ground. When she looked
at him with those eyes of
hers he feared his legs would
buckle.
“Thank you,” she said
softly. “You’ve saved my life.
Granny will reward you for
sure!”
“Oh … it was nothing
really. Look we’d better get
going. Can you … er …?”
She giggled, “Fly?
Wouldn’t be a fairy if I
Issue 2
couldn’t!” She spread her
damsel-fly wings, and, after
springing gracefully into the
air, hovered above Jimmy.
“Follow me!” she called
down.
Jimmy leapt onto his
bike and started to pedal
furiously. It came as no great
surprise when he found
himself climbing into the sky
rather than wheeling down
the hill.
Not for a second did he
take his eyes off the fairy
princess as they flew over
meadows, farms and villages.
He almost felt disappointed
when he saw the town ahead,
for he now wished he could
travel on forever with the
beautiful fairy girl in front of
him. Only too soon, they had
landed together in the very
same street where he’d
braked hard to avoid hitting
the old woman.
“Is … is this it then?”
asked Jimmy, not quite
knowing how to say farewell
to a fairy princess. The girl
smiled and, reaching up on
tip-toes, kissed him on the
cheek.
He held his hand to the
spot where she’d kissed him,
watching her face and body
become transparent before
vanishing.
“Curses! I didn’t even to
think to ask for her name or
find out how we can ever
meet up again,” muttered
Jimmy, feeling cross with
himself as he rode on to
school.
her eyes that he could be
certain. “Prin …” he was
about to say when he’d
finally recovered the power of
speech.
“You can sit down,
Jimmy,” interrupted the
teacher. “I was just
introducing our new pupil,
Gabriella, to the class. I’m
sure, like everyone else,
you’ll want to make her most
welcome.”
And when their eyes met
Princess Gabriella winked at
him. He was pleased to see
she no longer had wings, for
he had no head for heights.
So this is my reward,
Jimmy thought, happily, as
he sat at the back of the
classroom still unable to take
his eyes off the girl who was
once a fairy princess.
Illustration by Steve Lawson
“Sorry, I’m late, sir! I was …
um … er …” the boy began
after rushing breathlessly
into the classroom.
He was rendered
speechless by what he saw.
He stared at the girl sitting
behind a desk in the front
row. He’d have known her by
her long, wavy, black hair
alone, but it was because of
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- 25 -
The
Siren’s
Child
by Tori Truslow
Once there was a young
sailor who lived in an old port
town that was always cold
but always beautiful, full of
stone houses with coloured
glass in their windows and
winding streets where a salty
breeze was forever chasing
its tail. But on the night that
this story starts he was far
from home, his ship sunk, his
shipmates drowned, and the
dark sea pulling him down to
join them.
Just as he was about to
give up his struggle, he was
spotted by three sirens who
were flying home from a
party. “Look!” said one, 'A
drowning man- we must
rescue him!'
“Yes!” cried the other
two. The three of them lived
on a tiny island with a jagged
rocky shore and a lovely
garden beyond, full of flowers
and music. Their job, since
time began, had always been
to lure men in boats onto
those sharp rocks - but
tonight they were in high
spirits and thought it would
be more fun to carry this
man to their garden and talk
to him. So they did, but
instead of talking he slept for
Issue 2
a very long time. Eventually
he woke, delighted to be
alive, and saw three lovely
winged women standing over
him. They brought him fruits
and fresh water, and he
thanked them. They asked
him where he was from and
he told them of his home,
how beautiful it was and how
he longed to return.
“See that island?” said
one of the sirens, pointing.
“There's a small town there
where ships stop. We have
an old rowboat we can lend
you if you promise us a
favour.”
“Anything!” cried the
sailor.
“We have a sister who
was taken by fishermen to
that town, where she is kept
prisoner. We can't go there
because of old magic that
keeps us from flying to the
dwellings of men. But you
can find her, free her, then
go on your way.”
The sailor promised to do
so, and rowed to the little
port, where everything was
rickety and ragged and
brightly painted, a different
song spilling from every door
and window. He searched
high and low, but found no
sign of a fourth siren, until he
came back to the docks and
saw a tavern he hadn't
noticed before. He went
inside to drink, and heard a
song that for a moment
made him forget who he wasall he knew was that he
wanted to stay and hear that
song forever, but that he also
wanted his home more than
ever. The song had no words,
only a melody almost too
sweet and strong to bear. He
looked for the singer and saw
her- at the back of the room,
in a giant birdcage: skin
smooth as driftwood, hair the
colour of a rusted anchor,
feathers all the shades of a
stormy sea. He fell in love
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with her in a moment, and
when the tavern closed he
left only to creep back and let
her out, saying, 'I've come to
rescue you, follow me.' But
instead of taking her to her
sisters, he led her onto a ship
that was about to sail, and
when they were on the open
sea, he told her he was
taking her home to be his
wife.
Then he went to the
captain and asked if the ship
was to stop at his town- but
the captain laughed long and
loud, and didn't stop until the
sailor asked for the tenth
time what was so funny.
“You're mad,” said the
captain. “How do you expect
us to stop at a town in the
middle of the desert?”
“But it's a port town!”
said the sailor. “I've sailed
from there every spring since
I was sixteen!” And the
captain laughed again. He let
the young man off at the first
port on the mainland and told
him to find his own way. The
sailor was sure he would find
a ship with a more intelligent
captain who could take him
home. But ask as he might,
he was treated like a
madman. His siren bride
followed him, her wings
bound inside a bundle on her
back, as he went from ship to
ship asking if they were
sailing near his home but
they only laughed and told
him to follow the road inland.
And at last, with no one left
to ask, he did.
He told everyone that he
passed on the road the name
of his town, and they always
pointed further down the
road, to where the land
became desert. At last he
came to a stony town. The
winding streets were the
same as the streets he had
grown up on, and the houses
were the same size and
- 26 -
shape and had the same
coloured windows as the
houses he remembered, and
there were the same
seashells in the plaster and
the seagulls still wheeled and
cried- but the sand was hard
desert sand, and no salt
breeze blew. He went into an
inn and the innkeep was the
same man, and the old
sailors with their mermaid
tattoos were the same and
the ale they drank smelled
the same and when he tried
it tasted the same- but no
man in that room had any
memory of the sea.
And when he met people
that he knew, they had no
memory of him. He asked his
siren bride if this was her
doing, but she never spoke,
only sang songs without
words. He turned to follow
the road back to his other
home, the ocean, but the
desert was so vast and blank
in every direction that he did
not know which way he had
come; the road seemed to
have become one with the
hot hard sand. So he stayed,
in a new part of town where
houses were being built with
no seashells in their mortar,
and found a new place to
drink that had no anchor
outside it, and tried to forget
the sea like everyone else
had done. But he dreamed of
it every night. So he lived for
his dreams, and the songs of
his siren wife, which scorched
his heart with guilt and
sadness but filled it, too, with
brief beauty. Until she died
bearing him a daughter. Then
he lived for the child. She
was almost fully human but
had talons instead of toes
and a scent of salt. He called
her Mar and tried to make
her love him but she never
listened to a thing he said. So
he retreated to his bed,
growing weaker every day,
Issue 2
and died when the girl was
thirteen years old.
Mar lived in the house alone,
feeding the seagulls from her
window and singing songs
that came into her head as if
from far away. She had
strange dreams, in which the
town was underwater;
sometimes she woke to see
ghostly shapes like those
things called 'boats' she had
seen in pictures, gliding over
the house. She would run up
to the roof and try to touch
them, but they had no
substance. She called to
them and they paid no heed,
only drifted out over the open
desert and cast down nets
that shone in the starlight.
She wanted more than
anything to go with them.
One night as a boat
floated slowly over the house
she tried singing to it. It
paused as if to listen, and
she saw the shapes of men
on it, looking down. It was
joined by another boat, and
more, all captivated by the
sound. She didn't think the
men could see her, so she
sang louder. She kept singing
all night, although she
wanted to lie down and sleep,
although her throat ached,
she sang and the boats
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clustered round her, unable
to pull away from her song.
But when the sun rose
the hoarse song was no usethe visions melted and there
was only heat in the air. The
next night she took her
father's old guitar with her
and sang them to her again,
although it soon became
painful to sing. She shivered
and sang still and tried to
touch the things in the night
air above her but could not,
and they melted in the
sunrise.
The next night she sang
to them again- and from the
darkness something spoke to
her.
It asked her if she
wanted to reach the boats.
“Yes!” she cried. “Who are
you?”
“A friend,” was the reply.
“I can see your town is kept
prisoner from the sea to
which it belongs. Would you
return it to its rightful place?”
“How?”
“You must string your
guitar with your own hairs
plucked at midnight and sing
to its tune till a boat comes
with nets of rain. You will be
able to get into it. Snare the
town in those nets and drag
it behind you, sailing to the
brightest star you can see.
By morning all will be set
right. But be sure to throw
the guitar into the sea before
sunrise, or the waves will rise
up and swallow you.”
And Mar thought she
could hear a hunger in the
voice as it said that.
So at midnight she pulled six
moonlit hairs from her head,
and strung the old guitar with
them, and sat on the edge of
the roof and sang until she
saw a boat approaching.
When it stopped she reached
up and found it solid, so she
pulled herself up and into it.
She looked down at the town
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so silent and silver in the
moonlight, before casting the
cold shining nets of rain over
it so that every single house
was snared. Then she pointed
the boat to the bright far star
and whispered “go!”
The boat responded,
flying towards the horizon
and carrying the stone
houses and streets of the
sleeping town in the nets
behind it. As the sky turned
blue the air below grew thick
and when she looked down it
was not air but dark cold
water slapping the sides of
the boat. The town dragged
behind her, underwater- but
she felt calm, and was
overcome by a longing to
sing songs she had never
heard or sung before. The
wind took her hair and trailed
it behind her like a ribbon;
the taste of salt filled her
mouth and at that taste her
tongue made strange songs
with no words, and her
fingers moved on the guitar
as fast as they could, trying
to keep up with the song.
Light began to creep from the
west and she remembered
she was supposed to throw
the guitar into the water, but
she wanted to keep on
singing- so she did, as the
sun rose bright and fresh.
A storm leapt suddenly
out of the sea and howled at
her. “You are mine!” it raged.
“A child of a sailor and a siren
is a powerful child and I will
have you for a slave!” But
Mar had not thrown her hairstrung guitar to the waves,
and the storm had no means
of controlling her. She carried
on till she found land, and
with a massive tug yanked
the town onto the shore,
where it settled with a sigh
into its old foundations.
Issue 2
She lives there now,
surrounded by seawater and
salty sky, singing sea-songs
and desert-songs, although
the people around her don't
remember the desert- not
even when they tend the
cacti that fill their gardens.
Illustration by Leila Peacock
www.newfairytales.co.uk
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Creatures from
the Curiosity Cabinet
by Particle Article
No.2
If you’ve enjoyed New Fairy Tales please remember to show your appreciation by
donating to our nominated charity, Derian House Children’s Hospice.
You’ll find the link at www.newfairytales.co.uk
Issue 2
www.newfairytales.co.uk
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