Ecurb
01-15-2013, 08:23 PM
(I sometimes write stories for my nephews and nieces (7-11 years old) for Christmas. Here's this year's. I rushed to finish it for Christmas, and have some ideas on how to improve it, but welcome any suggestions. I'm cutting and pasting -- we'll see if the illustrations show up here -- whoops, doesn't look like it.)
The Witch and the Prince
People say that I am a seer, and it is true that I can see things others cannot. I live alone in a cave in the mountains. Just downhill from my cavern, a spring gushes from the grey rock. A small stream runs from the spring to a tiny, black pool. When the moon is bright, I look into the pool. There, lit by the moon, I see things that are far way; I see things that are long ago; I see things that are yet to be.
In those black waters I watch what is hidden from others. I do not always know where those events are happening, or when they have happened, or when they will happen. But I look in the pool and wonder at what I see, and I whisper to the black waters, “So it is, so it was, so it shall be.”
One night when the sky was fretted with fire and the moon was new, I walked down the worn path from my cavern to the pool, and looked into its dark depths. I saw a small house sitting on the floor of an ancient forest. Vast cedars and hemlocks surrounded the house. The forest floor was dim, and still, and silent. In the house was an old woman, bent with age. She used a crooked walking stick, and she had a long, crooked nose. There was a wart on her nose, and a single long hair grew from the wart.
A great, black cauldron hung over the fire in the hearth, and the old lady stirred it, pausing at times to look into an ancient book that lay open on a table. She read from the book, and then went to a cabinet filled with jars of brightly coloured herbs – red, green, and orange. She took a pinch of an orange herb and added it to her cauldron, repeating a strange rhyme:
“Horum, sunt divorum,” she said. Orange smoke, or mist, arose from the cauldron and curled about the rafters in the ceiling, hiding for a moment, and then peeping out from behind the beams. The old woman rubbed her hands together, as if to ward off the cold. Then she heard a knock on the door. She was curious, as if she never had any visitors, and peered through the window to see who was entreating entry. Outside was a handsome young man, and his coal black horse was tethered nearby.
The crone opened the door. “Good morning,” said the paragon. “I bring greetings from my father, the King. It is he who told me to come here, and ask you to teach me your craft, the better that I might some day be king. I will pay for my lessons.”
“Pay me?” said the old lady. “What shall you pay me? Cold metal, from the earth?”
“Silver and gold,” said the Prince.
Then the old lady chanted softly, as if from memory:
“A prince brings silver, a prince brings gold
To hear these secrets, seldom told
To see the future in starlit nights,
Or in the wing-ed’ eagles’ flights.
Change lead and copper into gold
Bewitch the flames from hot into cold
Now a prince and then a king
Summer, autumn, winter, spring.
“I shall listen,” said the Prince. “And I shall come to you every day to do so, if you will teach me.”
Just then, a cloud covered the reflection of the moon in the pool (for, you will remember, it is I, the seer, who saw this encounter in my pool). The pool went dark, and the prince and the old crone vanished from my sight. “So it is, so it was, so it shall be,” I said, and returned to my cave.
…………………………………………
One night, when the stars hung from the sky like a jeweled veil, I returned to the pool. It was morning, outside the crone’s hut. The Witch and the Prince were sitting at a table piled high with books. “Where shall we start?” asked the old Crone. “What do you wish to learn first?”
“I wish to learn how to be a good king,” said the prince.
“Fine! Fine!” said the crone, impatiently. “But I am no king, so I don’t know what you need to know to be a good king.”
“Well, said the Prince, thinking hard, “I think I should know how to be just in my judgments, clever in my negotiations, bold in my battles, and wise in my policies.”
“Very well,” said the witch. Then she led the prince to a table behind the small house. The table was piled high with dozens of books. “These books will teach you HOW to be just in your judgments, clever in your negotiations, bold in your battles, and wise in your policies. Read them all, and we will talk again.”
“Read them all!? There must be 200 books here! I thought you would teach me some magical method of being just, clever, bold and wise!”
“Hocus, pocus,” said the witch, and walked back into the house, leaning on her cane.
Weeks later (for the visions in the black pool can skip through time like a stone skipping across still water), the Prince finished the last of the books, and closed it with a clap. The crone was standing behind him, reading over his shoulder.
“There,” cried the Prince. “I have finished reading the last book.”
“Have you learned what it is to be just, and clever, and bold and wise?” asked the witch.
“I have learned what it is,” said the Prince. “These books are filled with stories about people who are just or unjust, and clever or naive, and bold or cowardly, and wise or foolish. But these are just stories. I have learned what I need to be King, but I haven’t learned how to get there. It’s like looking at a map of a distant country. You know where the country is on the map – but you don’t know how to get there. All these stories are about other people – not about me – and they are told in the words of others – not in my own words.”
“He who would find himself must lose himself,” said the Crone.
“But how can I be a King if I have lost myself, and do not know who I am?” said the Prince.
“You cannot find yourself by looking for yourself,” said the witch. “You can find yourself only by looking for something else.”
The witch led the Prince into her hut. There on the table were piles of colored powders, and a large, black cauldron. “Mix each of these powders with each other powder. Then see what happens. When you have tried every possible combination of two, three, four, and up to all twenty ingredients, call for me.”
“That will take forever,” complained the Prince. “There are 20 different piles of colored herbs here. That means I will have to try…” The Prince was attempting the mental calculations necessary to figure out how many combinations he would have to try, but it soon became too complicated.
“Call me when you are done,” said the witch. “Make sure to clean the cauldron before mixing new ingredients.”
Weeks later (for the visions in the pool can skip through time like the pages of a book riffled with one’s thumb), the Prince called out to the Witch. “I have finished!” he said. “And nothing has happened.”
“Nothing?” asked the witch. She stood behind the Prince, with her had upon his shoulder. She raised her right hand, with the palm facing the cauldron. A cloud of orange smoke rose from the great, black bowl. Then, suddenly, the smoke vanished with a bang, and a large, black raven stood perched on the cauldron, crowed once, and flew up to the witch’s shoulder. “You have eyes,” said the witch. “But you see not. To see with the eyes of the raven, you must listen and learn. To see with your own eyes only is a form of blindness.” And, with a great cry, the raven flew from the witches shoulder out of the hut and into the great, wide world.
Weeks later (for the visions in the pool skip through time like the ripples from a pebble tossed in still water) the witch and the Prince were sitting beside each other outside the hut, studying the entrails of a chicken. “You have learned to see with the eyes of a Raven,” said the witch. “And you have learned to see the future in the body of a chicken. Now it is time for one more lesson.”
“Follow me,” said the witch, and she led the Prince to the side of a small lake, not far from her hut. “Sit there, and tell me what you see. Remember, though, that we bewitch our intelligence through the use of language.”
The Prince and the Old Witch sat by the lake, old hunched shoulder against young, strong shoulder, looking out toward the setting sun. A shrill raven-croak floated, faint to their ears, across the surface of the lake. Looking toward the cry, they saw the raven flying across the western sky until it vanished into the setting sun. They continued to gaze, squinting into the glare, and on the same path on which the raven had been flying a pure white swan flew out of the sun, glided down toward the lake, and landed on the water with a small, graceful splash. The Prince and the witch looked at each other. “Did the raven turn into a swan?”
asked the Prince.
The witch shrugged. "I don't know," she said.”What did you see?”
“I saw a raven vanish into the brightness of the sun, and a swan appear, flying on the same path.”
“Was it a swan, or a raven?” asked the witch. “Perhaps we should ask the raven.” And just then the raven alit on the ground before them and hopped up onto the witches shoulder. “Are you a swan, or a raven?” asked the witch. The bird croaked a hoarse “caw” in response, but, just then, a cloud covered the moon, and the vision in the depths of the pool, (for you will remember that I, the seer, am seeing all this through my magical pool) vanished. “So it is, so it was, so it shall be,” I said, and returned to my cave.
--------------------------------------------------
The next evening, when the moon rose and hung in the sky like a golden coin, I returned to the pool and looked once again. I saw the Crone was sitting on a rough bench outside her house. A cart laden with goods and pulled by a donkey drove up to the house. The peddler driving the cart was a dwarf. “Good morning,” he said to the crone.
“Good morning,” said the witch. “What do you have in your cart today that might interest me?”
The dwarf, who was something of a showman, capered about his cart in excitement. “I have three fabulous trinkets to show you – but you may only choose one of them.”
Then the dwarf dug through the mound of goods piled in his cart, his head buried in the heap of brightly colored gewgaws. He emerged holding a golden ring, and showing it to the witch.
“I see it is a golden ring,” said the witch. “But it must be more. What powers does it have?”
“This ring was forged by Proteus of old,” said the dwarf. “If you put it into your mouth, you can change yourself into any animal, bird or beast, fish or fowl. However, you must decide which beast you will become before putting the ring into your mouth – for it can only change you into one creature. Once you are altered, you need only take the ring out of your mouth, and you will become yourself again. You can change back and forth as many times as you wish.”
“Hmmm,” said the witch, and she looked like she was thinking about which animal she would choose. An eagle? A lion? A swallow? “What are the other two trinkets?”
The dwarf dug deeper into his pile of goods. His head once again popped out of the depths, and he showed the witch an intricately patterned woolen nightcap, strange letters were woven in the colored thread. “I see it is a nightcap,” said the witch. “But it must be something more. What powers does it have?”
“This nightcap was woven by Morpheus of old,” said he dwarf. “If you wear it at night, it gives you the power to have whatever dreams you desire. You can, for the hours of sleep, become a hero, or a God. You can dream that you are Achilles in his moment of triumph, or Moses, parting the Red Sea. You can be Juliet on the balcony, or Lancelot in the lists. When you wake, you will remember all, as if it really happened to you, but you will be yourself again.”
“Hmmm,” said the witch, and she looked like she was thinking about which dream she would choose. Juliet? Moses? Lancelot? “What is the final trinket?”
Once again the dwarf burrowed into the depths of his cart, and emerged holding a vial, filled with a red elixir. “I see it is some potion,” said the Witch. “But it must be something more. What powers does it have?”
“This elixir was brought from afar by a disciple of Prester John,” said the dwarf. “If you drink it, you will become young and beautiful beyond the words of men to tell. However, youth is the handmaiden of ignorance, and when you have drunk the draught, you will forget all your lore, acquired with age, and become as other young girls. The other two trinkets cannot be sampled, only bought. But if you wish to sample this elixir, I can give you one drop. You will become young and beautiful – but not forever – only for one week. You will not remember the wisdom you know now, but when the potion wears off in a week, you will once again be as you are now, and you will remember everything from your week-long youth that Prester John’s potion created. Then you can decide whether to drink the entire vial, which will make the alteration permanent, or choose one of the other trinkets.”
“Hmmm,” said the witch, and she looked like she was thinking about which magical trinket to choose.
“Can I sample the ring or the cap before I decide?” asked the Witch.
“No,” said the dwarf. “They must be yours for the magic to work. But you can sample the potion, and then decide.”
“That sounds fair enough,” said the witch. The dwarf drew the stopper out of the vial, and dropped just one drop of the red potion on the witch’s outstretched tongue.
Just then, a dark cloud obscured the moon, and ripples -- the wind on the water -- were all I could see in the pool. “So it is, so it was, so it shall be,” I said, and I returned to my cave.
---------------------------
I eagerly awaited the next moonlit night, when I could return to my pool, and looked into its depths. Which magical trinket would the witch choose? Would she fall in love with her own ignorant youth? Would she choose the ring, so she could become an eagle and soar on the winds? Would she become a dreamer, and live nights of miracles, genius, and rapturous love? I could think of little else. Which, I wondered, would I choose? If the ring, which animal would I choose to shapeshift into? If I chose the nightcap, whose life would I dream of? Then, one night, the moon hung from the firmament like a ghostly lamp, and gleamed in the depths of the pool. I looked into the clear waters.
It was spring, and the former witch, now as fresh as the morning dew, and lovely as the dawn, went outside into the warm sun to await the prince. Around the house grew hemlock and henbane. The road to the house carved through Spanish jasmine and pink hyacinths. The aroma of lilac and lavender perfumed the air. The (now) young maiden breathed the sweet scented air deep into her lungs and said, “Bliss is it to be alive on such a dawn, but to be young is very heaven.”
Down the flower-lined road came the prince on his chestnut stallion. The former witch gasped. He was as handsome as ever, and the young maiden-witch gasped to look upon him.
“Where is the old grandmother, my teacher?” asked the prince.
‘I don’t know,” said the maiden. “I don’t even know where I came from, or who I am.”
“You don’t know who you are?” exclaimed the Prince. “I don’t know who I am, either! The old grandmother (some say she’s a witch) who lives here has been teaching me. I read hundreds of books, I mixed thousands of magic powders, I talked to swans and ravens, I learned to make potions and to see things far away. But – best of all – I finally think I’m beginning to know who I am. Maybe if you read the same books, talk to the same birds, and see the same things that I did, you can learn who you are, too.”
The prince led the maiden to the pile of books next to the witch’s hut. “Read these books,” he said
“But these books won’t tell me who I am,” said the maiden. “They are about other people, not about me.”
“He who would find himself must lose himself,” said the Prince. And he opened the first book and began reading it aloud to the beautiful girl. She listened carefully.
All night I watched in my pool as the Prince read the books to the maiden, and then mixed the powders with the maiden, and then sat by the lake with the maiden – just as the witch had done with him. Once again, as the couple sat arm and arm by a golden lake, a raven flew into the sun, and out flew a beautiful swan. “Did the raven turn into a swan,” asked the maiden. But the Prince didn’t answer. Instead, he kissed her. Just then, a cloud covered my pool, and the vision disappeared.
“So it is, so it was, so it shall be,” I said, and returned to my cave.
................
The next night I eagerly ran down to the pool. What would happen with the Prince and the maiden? Were they falling in love? Would the maiden turn back into the witch? And when she did – then what would happen?
I looked into the dark waters of the pool. Outside the witch’s house stood the old crone, restored to her bent old-age. The peddler and his cart had returned. “Have you decided?” asked the dwarf. “Do you want the potion – so that you can remain a maiden whom the Prince thinks is beautiful? Or do you want the shape-shifting ring of Proteus? Or, perhaps, the nightcap of Morpheus to enlighten your dreams? Which will it be? Have you decided?”
“I have decided,” said the Witch. “I will take the…..”
But just as the witch was about to announce her choice, a cloud hid the moon, and the vision in the pool disappeared. I have returned to the pool many times, trying again and again to discover what happened to the witch, and the Prince, and the maiden. Which trinket would the witch choose? When she was a maiden, she loved to learn from the Prince, and make him feel wise and strong and handsome. So she might choose the potion. When, as an old crone, she remembered her life as the beautiful maiden, she might despise its ignorance, so she might prefer TEACHING the prince to learning from him. Or perhaps she (who clearly loved the Prince) would choose not what she thought was best for herself, but what was best for him. Was he happier learning “secrets seldom told”, or teaching those same secrets?
The vision of that little hut in the forest, surrounded by Spanish jasmine and pink hyacinths, and perfumed with lilac and lavender never again appeared in my pool. Maybe, some day, I will discover what happened to the Prince and the Witch and the Maiden. Until then, I can only guess which trinket the witch chose, and what happened when she chose it. What, dear reader, do you think?
So it is, so it was, so it shall be.
The End
The Witch and the Prince
People say that I am a seer, and it is true that I can see things others cannot. I live alone in a cave in the mountains. Just downhill from my cavern, a spring gushes from the grey rock. A small stream runs from the spring to a tiny, black pool. When the moon is bright, I look into the pool. There, lit by the moon, I see things that are far way; I see things that are long ago; I see things that are yet to be.
In those black waters I watch what is hidden from others. I do not always know where those events are happening, or when they have happened, or when they will happen. But I look in the pool and wonder at what I see, and I whisper to the black waters, “So it is, so it was, so it shall be.”
One night when the sky was fretted with fire and the moon was new, I walked down the worn path from my cavern to the pool, and looked into its dark depths. I saw a small house sitting on the floor of an ancient forest. Vast cedars and hemlocks surrounded the house. The forest floor was dim, and still, and silent. In the house was an old woman, bent with age. She used a crooked walking stick, and she had a long, crooked nose. There was a wart on her nose, and a single long hair grew from the wart.
A great, black cauldron hung over the fire in the hearth, and the old lady stirred it, pausing at times to look into an ancient book that lay open on a table. She read from the book, and then went to a cabinet filled with jars of brightly coloured herbs – red, green, and orange. She took a pinch of an orange herb and added it to her cauldron, repeating a strange rhyme:
“Horum, sunt divorum,” she said. Orange smoke, or mist, arose from the cauldron and curled about the rafters in the ceiling, hiding for a moment, and then peeping out from behind the beams. The old woman rubbed her hands together, as if to ward off the cold. Then she heard a knock on the door. She was curious, as if she never had any visitors, and peered through the window to see who was entreating entry. Outside was a handsome young man, and his coal black horse was tethered nearby.
The crone opened the door. “Good morning,” said the paragon. “I bring greetings from my father, the King. It is he who told me to come here, and ask you to teach me your craft, the better that I might some day be king. I will pay for my lessons.”
“Pay me?” said the old lady. “What shall you pay me? Cold metal, from the earth?”
“Silver and gold,” said the Prince.
Then the old lady chanted softly, as if from memory:
“A prince brings silver, a prince brings gold
To hear these secrets, seldom told
To see the future in starlit nights,
Or in the wing-ed’ eagles’ flights.
Change lead and copper into gold
Bewitch the flames from hot into cold
Now a prince and then a king
Summer, autumn, winter, spring.
“I shall listen,” said the Prince. “And I shall come to you every day to do so, if you will teach me.”
Just then, a cloud covered the reflection of the moon in the pool (for, you will remember, it is I, the seer, who saw this encounter in my pool). The pool went dark, and the prince and the old crone vanished from my sight. “So it is, so it was, so it shall be,” I said, and returned to my cave.
…………………………………………
One night, when the stars hung from the sky like a jeweled veil, I returned to the pool. It was morning, outside the crone’s hut. The Witch and the Prince were sitting at a table piled high with books. “Where shall we start?” asked the old Crone. “What do you wish to learn first?”
“I wish to learn how to be a good king,” said the prince.
“Fine! Fine!” said the crone, impatiently. “But I am no king, so I don’t know what you need to know to be a good king.”
“Well, said the Prince, thinking hard, “I think I should know how to be just in my judgments, clever in my negotiations, bold in my battles, and wise in my policies.”
“Very well,” said the witch. Then she led the prince to a table behind the small house. The table was piled high with dozens of books. “These books will teach you HOW to be just in your judgments, clever in your negotiations, bold in your battles, and wise in your policies. Read them all, and we will talk again.”
“Read them all!? There must be 200 books here! I thought you would teach me some magical method of being just, clever, bold and wise!”
“Hocus, pocus,” said the witch, and walked back into the house, leaning on her cane.
Weeks later (for the visions in the black pool can skip through time like a stone skipping across still water), the Prince finished the last of the books, and closed it with a clap. The crone was standing behind him, reading over his shoulder.
“There,” cried the Prince. “I have finished reading the last book.”
“Have you learned what it is to be just, and clever, and bold and wise?” asked the witch.
“I have learned what it is,” said the Prince. “These books are filled with stories about people who are just or unjust, and clever or naive, and bold or cowardly, and wise or foolish. But these are just stories. I have learned what I need to be King, but I haven’t learned how to get there. It’s like looking at a map of a distant country. You know where the country is on the map – but you don’t know how to get there. All these stories are about other people – not about me – and they are told in the words of others – not in my own words.”
“He who would find himself must lose himself,” said the Crone.
“But how can I be a King if I have lost myself, and do not know who I am?” said the Prince.
“You cannot find yourself by looking for yourself,” said the witch. “You can find yourself only by looking for something else.”
The witch led the Prince into her hut. There on the table were piles of colored powders, and a large, black cauldron. “Mix each of these powders with each other powder. Then see what happens. When you have tried every possible combination of two, three, four, and up to all twenty ingredients, call for me.”
“That will take forever,” complained the Prince. “There are 20 different piles of colored herbs here. That means I will have to try…” The Prince was attempting the mental calculations necessary to figure out how many combinations he would have to try, but it soon became too complicated.
“Call me when you are done,” said the witch. “Make sure to clean the cauldron before mixing new ingredients.”
Weeks later (for the visions in the pool can skip through time like the pages of a book riffled with one’s thumb), the Prince called out to the Witch. “I have finished!” he said. “And nothing has happened.”
“Nothing?” asked the witch. She stood behind the Prince, with her had upon his shoulder. She raised her right hand, with the palm facing the cauldron. A cloud of orange smoke rose from the great, black bowl. Then, suddenly, the smoke vanished with a bang, and a large, black raven stood perched on the cauldron, crowed once, and flew up to the witch’s shoulder. “You have eyes,” said the witch. “But you see not. To see with the eyes of the raven, you must listen and learn. To see with your own eyes only is a form of blindness.” And, with a great cry, the raven flew from the witches shoulder out of the hut and into the great, wide world.
Weeks later (for the visions in the pool skip through time like the ripples from a pebble tossed in still water) the witch and the Prince were sitting beside each other outside the hut, studying the entrails of a chicken. “You have learned to see with the eyes of a Raven,” said the witch. “And you have learned to see the future in the body of a chicken. Now it is time for one more lesson.”
“Follow me,” said the witch, and she led the Prince to the side of a small lake, not far from her hut. “Sit there, and tell me what you see. Remember, though, that we bewitch our intelligence through the use of language.”
The Prince and the Old Witch sat by the lake, old hunched shoulder against young, strong shoulder, looking out toward the setting sun. A shrill raven-croak floated, faint to their ears, across the surface of the lake. Looking toward the cry, they saw the raven flying across the western sky until it vanished into the setting sun. They continued to gaze, squinting into the glare, and on the same path on which the raven had been flying a pure white swan flew out of the sun, glided down toward the lake, and landed on the water with a small, graceful splash. The Prince and the witch looked at each other. “Did the raven turn into a swan?”
asked the Prince.
The witch shrugged. "I don't know," she said.”What did you see?”
“I saw a raven vanish into the brightness of the sun, and a swan appear, flying on the same path.”
“Was it a swan, or a raven?” asked the witch. “Perhaps we should ask the raven.” And just then the raven alit on the ground before them and hopped up onto the witches shoulder. “Are you a swan, or a raven?” asked the witch. The bird croaked a hoarse “caw” in response, but, just then, a cloud covered the moon, and the vision in the depths of the pool, (for you will remember that I, the seer, am seeing all this through my magical pool) vanished. “So it is, so it was, so it shall be,” I said, and returned to my cave.
--------------------------------------------------
The next evening, when the moon rose and hung in the sky like a golden coin, I returned to the pool and looked once again. I saw the Crone was sitting on a rough bench outside her house. A cart laden with goods and pulled by a donkey drove up to the house. The peddler driving the cart was a dwarf. “Good morning,” he said to the crone.
“Good morning,” said the witch. “What do you have in your cart today that might interest me?”
The dwarf, who was something of a showman, capered about his cart in excitement. “I have three fabulous trinkets to show you – but you may only choose one of them.”
Then the dwarf dug through the mound of goods piled in his cart, his head buried in the heap of brightly colored gewgaws. He emerged holding a golden ring, and showing it to the witch.
“I see it is a golden ring,” said the witch. “But it must be more. What powers does it have?”
“This ring was forged by Proteus of old,” said the dwarf. “If you put it into your mouth, you can change yourself into any animal, bird or beast, fish or fowl. However, you must decide which beast you will become before putting the ring into your mouth – for it can only change you into one creature. Once you are altered, you need only take the ring out of your mouth, and you will become yourself again. You can change back and forth as many times as you wish.”
“Hmmm,” said the witch, and she looked like she was thinking about which animal she would choose. An eagle? A lion? A swallow? “What are the other two trinkets?”
The dwarf dug deeper into his pile of goods. His head once again popped out of the depths, and he showed the witch an intricately patterned woolen nightcap, strange letters were woven in the colored thread. “I see it is a nightcap,” said the witch. “But it must be something more. What powers does it have?”
“This nightcap was woven by Morpheus of old,” said he dwarf. “If you wear it at night, it gives you the power to have whatever dreams you desire. You can, for the hours of sleep, become a hero, or a God. You can dream that you are Achilles in his moment of triumph, or Moses, parting the Red Sea. You can be Juliet on the balcony, or Lancelot in the lists. When you wake, you will remember all, as if it really happened to you, but you will be yourself again.”
“Hmmm,” said the witch, and she looked like she was thinking about which dream she would choose. Juliet? Moses? Lancelot? “What is the final trinket?”
Once again the dwarf burrowed into the depths of his cart, and emerged holding a vial, filled with a red elixir. “I see it is some potion,” said the Witch. “But it must be something more. What powers does it have?”
“This elixir was brought from afar by a disciple of Prester John,” said the dwarf. “If you drink it, you will become young and beautiful beyond the words of men to tell. However, youth is the handmaiden of ignorance, and when you have drunk the draught, you will forget all your lore, acquired with age, and become as other young girls. The other two trinkets cannot be sampled, only bought. But if you wish to sample this elixir, I can give you one drop. You will become young and beautiful – but not forever – only for one week. You will not remember the wisdom you know now, but when the potion wears off in a week, you will once again be as you are now, and you will remember everything from your week-long youth that Prester John’s potion created. Then you can decide whether to drink the entire vial, which will make the alteration permanent, or choose one of the other trinkets.”
“Hmmm,” said the witch, and she looked like she was thinking about which magical trinket to choose.
“Can I sample the ring or the cap before I decide?” asked the Witch.
“No,” said the dwarf. “They must be yours for the magic to work. But you can sample the potion, and then decide.”
“That sounds fair enough,” said the witch. The dwarf drew the stopper out of the vial, and dropped just one drop of the red potion on the witch’s outstretched tongue.
Just then, a dark cloud obscured the moon, and ripples -- the wind on the water -- were all I could see in the pool. “So it is, so it was, so it shall be,” I said, and I returned to my cave.
---------------------------
I eagerly awaited the next moonlit night, when I could return to my pool, and looked into its depths. Which magical trinket would the witch choose? Would she fall in love with her own ignorant youth? Would she choose the ring, so she could become an eagle and soar on the winds? Would she become a dreamer, and live nights of miracles, genius, and rapturous love? I could think of little else. Which, I wondered, would I choose? If the ring, which animal would I choose to shapeshift into? If I chose the nightcap, whose life would I dream of? Then, one night, the moon hung from the firmament like a ghostly lamp, and gleamed in the depths of the pool. I looked into the clear waters.
It was spring, and the former witch, now as fresh as the morning dew, and lovely as the dawn, went outside into the warm sun to await the prince. Around the house grew hemlock and henbane. The road to the house carved through Spanish jasmine and pink hyacinths. The aroma of lilac and lavender perfumed the air. The (now) young maiden breathed the sweet scented air deep into her lungs and said, “Bliss is it to be alive on such a dawn, but to be young is very heaven.”
Down the flower-lined road came the prince on his chestnut stallion. The former witch gasped. He was as handsome as ever, and the young maiden-witch gasped to look upon him.
“Where is the old grandmother, my teacher?” asked the prince.
‘I don’t know,” said the maiden. “I don’t even know where I came from, or who I am.”
“You don’t know who you are?” exclaimed the Prince. “I don’t know who I am, either! The old grandmother (some say she’s a witch) who lives here has been teaching me. I read hundreds of books, I mixed thousands of magic powders, I talked to swans and ravens, I learned to make potions and to see things far away. But – best of all – I finally think I’m beginning to know who I am. Maybe if you read the same books, talk to the same birds, and see the same things that I did, you can learn who you are, too.”
The prince led the maiden to the pile of books next to the witch’s hut. “Read these books,” he said
“But these books won’t tell me who I am,” said the maiden. “They are about other people, not about me.”
“He who would find himself must lose himself,” said the Prince. And he opened the first book and began reading it aloud to the beautiful girl. She listened carefully.
All night I watched in my pool as the Prince read the books to the maiden, and then mixed the powders with the maiden, and then sat by the lake with the maiden – just as the witch had done with him. Once again, as the couple sat arm and arm by a golden lake, a raven flew into the sun, and out flew a beautiful swan. “Did the raven turn into a swan,” asked the maiden. But the Prince didn’t answer. Instead, he kissed her. Just then, a cloud covered my pool, and the vision disappeared.
“So it is, so it was, so it shall be,” I said, and returned to my cave.
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The next night I eagerly ran down to the pool. What would happen with the Prince and the maiden? Were they falling in love? Would the maiden turn back into the witch? And when she did – then what would happen?
I looked into the dark waters of the pool. Outside the witch’s house stood the old crone, restored to her bent old-age. The peddler and his cart had returned. “Have you decided?” asked the dwarf. “Do you want the potion – so that you can remain a maiden whom the Prince thinks is beautiful? Or do you want the shape-shifting ring of Proteus? Or, perhaps, the nightcap of Morpheus to enlighten your dreams? Which will it be? Have you decided?”
“I have decided,” said the Witch. “I will take the…..”
But just as the witch was about to announce her choice, a cloud hid the moon, and the vision in the pool disappeared. I have returned to the pool many times, trying again and again to discover what happened to the witch, and the Prince, and the maiden. Which trinket would the witch choose? When she was a maiden, she loved to learn from the Prince, and make him feel wise and strong and handsome. So she might choose the potion. When, as an old crone, she remembered her life as the beautiful maiden, she might despise its ignorance, so she might prefer TEACHING the prince to learning from him. Or perhaps she (who clearly loved the Prince) would choose not what she thought was best for herself, but what was best for him. Was he happier learning “secrets seldom told”, or teaching those same secrets?
The vision of that little hut in the forest, surrounded by Spanish jasmine and pink hyacinths, and perfumed with lilac and lavender never again appeared in my pool. Maybe, some day, I will discover what happened to the Prince and the Witch and the Maiden. Until then, I can only guess which trinket the witch chose, and what happened when she chose it. What, dear reader, do you think?
So it is, so it was, so it shall be.
The End