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PREFACE

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Slovene literature has a peripheral place on the map of world literature. It is a literature comparable to other so-called minority and/or small European literatures, such as Basque, Slovak, Catalan, Lithuanian, Icelandic, etc., and although it shares with them the small number of speakers, it differs in the historical circumstances in which it arose and developed.

The features that can be seen in Slovene literature through the 20th century are: its oral and religious character (the first book in Slovene was published during the Reformation in 1550), the importance of translation (this has a constitutive character, as the first published books were actually translations), its polycentric character (until the beginning of the 20th century Trieste in Italy and Klagenfurt in Austria were also important Slovene cultural centres) and the establishment of the literary system in the 19th century.

However, despite having no more than two million potential readers, it has managed to attract international interest thanks to a few contemporary authors, such as Slavoj Žižek, Vladimir Bartol, Boris Pahor and Lila Prap.

The purpose of this short essay is to outline the current Slovenian literary field, highlighting some of the most important characteristics within the market and looking at translation into the Spanish language.

The Authors

The first Slovene authors were translators. Although since the Renaissance the role of the writer has changed from illustrator (18th century), artist (19th century, early 20th century), avant-gardist and dissident, translation is still important, especially considering that the number of translations exceeds the number of works originating in Slovene. Many authors combine their writing with translation and other activities such as teaching, journalism, etc. In this they resemble the profile of translators, who, in addition to working as translators and interpreters, have to take on other jobs (albeit related to their main occupation) in order to survive in the small Slovenian market.

At present, the Slovenian Writers’ Association has 342 members (not all of whom are active), with 119 women among them. Here lies the main difference with translators: according to the data provided on its website by the Slovenian Literary Translators’ Association, among its 233 members, 173 are women.

Since most of the literary production in Slovenia is translations, translators should also be included among authors, although this is not always the case.

Despite being a constant subject of literary research, it would be very difficult to depict a ‘typical’ Slovene author. However, the profile of translators is better studied. According to the data gathered in the Translation White Paper 2018, the majority are women, highly educated (60% are graduates, 16% with Master’s degrees and 17% with PhDs), predominantly trained in Philology and Translation and Interpreting. Most of them, as mentioned above, combine translation with other jobs, and tend to be self-employed.

Generally speaking, and with the exception of the genre, the characteristics of the average author could correspond to this profile. However, it is significant that, among them, about 50 write predominantly for young people; while the number of children’s book authors to date has been 339, 135 have been women. Among the authors, including those translated into English, there are writers of a different nature: dissidents (Boris Pahor, Drago Jančar) and literary producers as conceived by the theory of polysystems (Boris Pintar, Helena Kraljič), who know the rules of the market well and know how to adapt to them. They come from different cities, not all of which are located within the Slovenian state, such as Trieste (Boris Pahor, Vladimir Bartol) or Buenos Aires (Zorko Simčič).

Readers are a wide-ranging group, as they include both children and adults, whose backgrounds and needs are very different. According to studies

conducted in 2015, only 58% of adults have read at least one book in the last year, which is less than adults in the USA and the most widely read European countries. In Slovenia, women read more, and the group that reads the most (80%) is aged between 15 and 24 years old. With age, the number of people who do not read increases, so non-readers between 35 and 49 years is at 30%, and increases to 36% from the age of 50 onwards.

Education has an influence on reading rates: among those who have only completed primary school, the number of non-readers is 64%; those who have completed professional studies is 40%; and those who have completed university education, readers account for 70%, although this is the group that has undergone the greatest changes between 1998 and 2014, when the number of readers in the previous survey was 90%.

What can we say about young readers? The fact that children students are the most dedicated readers is very significant. International research such as PISA shows that Slovenian students are above the OECD average in reading comprehension results, yet have one of the largest differences between boys and girls.

III The Institution

Despite its beginnings in the 16th century, Slovene literature began to function as an institution only in the 18th century, but it was in the 19th century that the infrastructure literature needed for its development became apparent.

At present, literature – both Slovene and world literature – and comparative literature are the subject of study at four universities (Ljubljana, Maribor, Litoral, Nova Gorica), at the Institute of Slovene Literature and Literary Studies (part of the Research Centre of the Slovene Academy of Sciences), and, of course, it is part of the curriculum for the educational system.

In addition to the Ministry of Education, the Ministry of Culture and various institutes (pedagogical, educational, children’s literature, etc.) and associations (the Association of Slovene Writers, the Association of Slovene Literary Translators, the Association of Publishers, etc.) are also part of the literary infrastructure of the country.

The network of public libraries is vital for disseminating literature, as seen through its high library lending (in 2021, for example, there were almost 19 million book loans, while in the same period about 1.1 million books were sold). Equally important is academic research published in scientific and specialised journals both within and outside Slovenia.

Special attention is devoted to children’s literature, as publications for children and young people are reviewed annually, which results in lists of recommended titles/authors, among which the best are awarded quality prizes.

There are other prizes both for children’s and adult literature. These include the Kresnik (a prize awarded by the newspaper Delo for the best novel), the Večernica (prize awarded by the newspaper Večer for the best children’s book) and the Veronika (prize for the best book of poetry).

Major newspapers, national radio, national television and specialised magazines (Literatura, Sodobnost, Dialogi, Otrok in knjiga) publish reviews as well as excerpts from literary works.

There are magazines that also publish translations into Spanish (namely, Verba Hispanica) and occasionally into other languages (Rp. Lirikon21). Slovene translations can also come about through several festivals: Con sabor latino and Pranger.

The Slovenian Writers’ Association has published several translations into English in its collection for the promotion of Slovenian authors, including, LiteraeSlovenicae:AnthologyofContemporarySlovenianPoetryandProse (1982); Contemporary Slovenian Short Stories (1993); Contemporary Slovenian Poetry (1995); the multilingual anthologies by Kajetan Kovič (1997) and Veno Taufer (1997); Ivo Svetina’s Scheherezade:AWesternEasternOpera (2009); Evald Flisar’s ThreeTheatrePlays (2012), Zorko Simčič’s The Man on Both Sides of the Wall (2013); and Jedrt Lapuh Maležič’s HeavyMentals(2021).

The public institution supporting translations of Slovenian authors into other languages is the Public Book Agency, which publishes excerpts of translated texts on its website and subsidises translations (www.jakrs.si/en/).

The Centre for Slovene Literature (www.ljudmila.org/litcenter) is also very active in promoting Slovene literature among Spanish speakers, having published a bibliography of translations of Slovene literature into the languages of the Iberian Peninsula up to 2008, and having organised several author readings in Latin America (Colombia, Venezuela, Mexico, Argentina, Chile, Uruguay, Cuba) and Spain. In addition, several Slovenian publishers promote their authors among Spanish speakers: Beletrina, Sodobnost International and, lately, the publishing house Malinc, which specialises in publishing Spanish-speaking authors in Slovenia and was the first to organise the visit of two Slovenian authors of Slovenian LIJ to Spain.

IV

The Repertoire

Slovenian authors are studied in schools and the Ministry of Education, Science and Sport is the body responsible for preparing the curriculum. The literary canon, i.e. the list of authors studied, is also influenced by academics and the other institutions mentioned above, including the Pionirska - Centre for Youth Literature and Library Science, which evaluates all publications for children and young people. The results of their studies

are published annually in quality book manuals, which are also available on the Centre’s website.

Other noteworthy projects include the digital library of Slovene literature (http://lit.ijs.si/leposl.html), the digitisation of collections carried out by the Slovene National Library (www.dlib.si), several attempts to establish a digital literary history on Wikipedia (sl.wikisource.org/wiki/Wikivir:Slovenska_leposlovna_klasika) and several lists of Slovene authors, among them the still very incomplete list of translations of Slovene children’s books into foreign languages (https://sl.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seznam_slovenskih_mladinskih_besedil_v_tuji h_jezikih).

V

The (Book) Market

According to data provided by the National Library, there are currently three publishers in the Slovenian market publishing more than 100 titles per year (Mladinska knjiga, Beletrina, Učila), several smaller publishers (Sanje, Goga) and some specialised in children’s books (Miš, Sodobnost International, Morfem, Malinc, etc.).

In recent years, book buying habits have changed considerably: books are sold less and less in bookshops and more through websites and in shopping centres. The number of regular book buyers has also fallen. More than 20 books a year are bought by around 1% of the population, between 17 and 20 books by 4% of the population, while 22% of the population are sporadic buyers, 24% are casual buyers and 49% have not bought any books during the year.

Another factor to be taken into account in the Slovenian book market is libraries, as publishers make 6% of their turnover with libraries. It is significant considering only 7% of the population does not go to libraries, which means that even those who do not consider themselves readers visit libraries and borrow library material (music, films, specialised magazines and newspapers, etc.).

The latest surveys indicate that 20% of all readers also own e-books, 55% of which are in English. Slovenian e-books can be bought and borrowed through the Biblios portal, and they can also be borrowed from libraries, which also offer various devices on which e-books can be read.

Audiobooks are also increasingly present on the Slovenian book market. Although audiobooks can be bought and borrowed via the Audibook platform, the number of books published in this form is still quite small (800 titles).

The Product

Since Slovene literature began as a secular literature in the 18th century, various literary genres have since been cultivated: poetry (from the poetic almanac Pisanice), drama (from Anton Tomaž Linhart’s Micka, the Mayor’s Daughter, 1780), short stories (from Janez Cigler’s Grace in Misfortune, 1836) and novels (from Josip Jurčič’s The Tenth Brother, 1866).

Currently, around 5,800 titles are published annually. Novel writing is the most important, with approximately 200 novels published each year, and children’s and young adult literature with around 1,000 titles annually. The 1990s was the era of the short story; essays and poetry remain a minority, although very much cultivated; and drama is a literary genre with a low production but a large output in various theatres (Drama, MGL, Mladinsko gledališče, etc.), and with internationally successful tours, such as Scheherezade and other plays staged by Tomaž Pandur.

The Slovenian philosopher Slavoj Žižek is a worldwide success, and has more than thirty books published in Spanish as well. Other translations published into Spanish to date that are worth noting include Vladimir Bartol’s Alamut, which is published in ten editions and by different publishers, as well as a range of authors across poetry (16), novels (10), short stories (5), essays (2) and drama (2).

There are a number of translations in children’s literature, but Lila Prap stands out, and can be read in both Spanish and Latin American editions. Other authors available in Spanish include Helena Kraljič, Jana Bauer, Peter Svetina, etc.

BarbaraPregelj

Barbara Pregelj is a translator and culture promoter. She is joint professor at the University of Nova Gorica. Her research is related to the literary canon and literary system, and also to different aspects of the reception of Spanish literature in Slovenian literature, Slovenian literature in Spanish speaking countries, traductological problems as well as literary interpretation. She is also the author of several books and articles, participating actively in conferences, round tables, festivals, presentations, workshops etc. She organized some important conferences and cultural events. Her work and translations link Spanish, Basque, Catalan, Galician and Slovenian literatures and cultures.

barbara.pregelj@malinc.si

ABOUT THE TRANSLATORS

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Michael Biggins

Professor Dr. Michael Biggins, an esteemed lecturer in Slavic studies, translator, and prominent advocate for Slovenian literature and culture in the USA, earned his degree in Slavic languages from the University of Kansas. Presently, at the University of Washington in Seattle, he leads the Department of Slavic Studies and East European Literature, where he teaches Slovenian language and literature. Through his translations, Michael Biggins has made significant contributions to the dissemination of Slovenian literature abroad. He has translated numerous works by Slovenian contemporary classics, including authors such as V. Bartol, D. Jančar, E. Kocbek, L. Kovačič, F. Lipuš, K. Marinčič, F. Milčinski, B. Pahor, T. Šalamun, and G. Vojnović, among others. In recognition of his translation work, he was awarded the Lavrin Diploma by the Society of Slovenian Literary Translators in 2015. Furthermore, in 2020, he received the prestigious Trubar Award from the National and University Library in Ljubljana for his outstanding contributions to the preservation, presentation, and promotion of Slovenia's national written cultural heritage.

Contact: mbiggins@uw.edu

Erica Johnson Debeljak

Erica Johnson Debeljak is a writer, translator, and educator. She graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in French Literature from Columbia University, earned her M.B.A. from New York University and holds an M.F.A. from the University of New Orleans, specializing in Fiction. From 1994 she has worked as a freelance writer, columnist, and translator from Slovenian into English. She has also served as an Instructor of Creative Writing at Northwestern University, guiding students in workshops focused on short fiction writing. She is also the author of several well-received novels. Her novel Devica,kraljica,vdova,prasicawon the Best book of the year award at the Slovenian book fair in 2021.

Contact: ejdebeljak@gmail.com

Jon Derganc

Jon Derganc is a translator and an artist. From 1994 to 2001, he lived and studied in Australia with his mother, Katarina Mahnič, a translator and writer. During that time, he became familiar with Australian YA literature. Since returning from Australia, he has occasionally translated into English, from technical and art-theoretical texts (monographs, catalogs) to children's poems. After completing high school in Ljubljana, he enrolled in the painting study program at the Academy of Fine Arts and Design in Ljubljana, where he graduated in 2011. He also spent half a year in Dublin, Ireland, as an exchange student.

After completing his undergraduate studies, he received a scholarship from the Government of India (ICCR), and in 2014 completed his Master's

studies in graphics in Calcutta, India, where he also collaborated with the Sampark Publishing House.

During and after his studies, he regularly translated into English and proofread various shorter and longer texts. He also often collaborated with Katarina Mahnič on translations of fiction. In recent years, he has also collaborated several times with the SIJ Group, the Association of Blind and Visually Impaired Associations of Slovenia, and translated the texts of the educational program of the 25th International Festival of Computer Arts.

Contact: jonderganc@gmail.com

Katarina Kogej

Katarina Kogej graduated in English Studies and Comparative Literature and Literary Theory. She worked as a literary critic and educator. She cooperates with Malinc Publishing House with reading motivational workshops and other projects.

Contact: katarina.kogej@malinc.si

Polona Konjedic

Polona Konjedic holds an MA degree in English and Comparative Literature and Literary Theory. She worked as an educator and literary critic. She prepared the content for several manuals with reading motivational strategies to encourage reading in children and teenagers and also held reading motivation workshops at schools and kindergartens. She participated in round tables in the field of children's and youth literature at different book fairs and other events.

Contact: konjedicpolona@gmail.com

Milan Šelj

Milan Šelj is a poet, journalist, and translator. He graduated in 1985 from the Faculty of Arts in Ljubljana. He is the author of four poetry collections which have been critically well-received in Slovenia and abroad. His poems have been translated into Croatian, German, Albanian, Estonian, Spanish, Catalan, English, Hebrew, and Italian. He attended and led various poetry workshops, including translation workshops at the University of Nottingham and UCL School of Slavonic and East European Studies. In 2020, he published his first picture book for children titled Kosmaticeillustrated by Marta Bartolj. The picture book Ozimnica(Stores for the Winter) by Nina Mav Hrovat, with illustrations by Marta Bartolj, is his first translation from Slovenian to English in cooperation with Peter Davey.

Contact: milan.selj@gmail.com

LANDSCAPES OF CONTEMPORARY SLOVENIAN LITERATURE A PRIMER

Klarisa Jovanović

Klarisa Jovanović is a professor of French and a comparative literature graduate. She translates mainly from Greek, but also from Serbian, Croatian, Macedonian, Italian, and French. She has published three books of poetry. In 2007, she published the poem ZgibanprekMure, which was nominated for the best debut next year. Her poem Izgnanawas nominated for Veronikinanagrada award, the literary award given to the year’s best collection of poems. She is also an interpreter of poems set to music and folk songs.

NicktheGymnastChasesOfftheCrook

Illustrated by Štefan Turk

NicktheGymnastChasesOfftheCrookis Klarisa Jovanovič's first picture book. It tells the story of a gymnast who detects a thief while doing his exercises in the park. The scene makes him so angry that he decides to catch him. The thief steals a baby's rattle and, on another occasion, a magnifying glass from an old lady who visits the park. The thief’s third criminal attempt in a row consists in trying to steal the tablecloth which a poor man puts on his table to embellish it on Sundays. This time, Nikolaj will catch him and recuperate all the stolen items.

NicktheGymnastis written in verse, in a humorous and very skilful way. Even if posing the ethical question of whether stealing is acceptable or not, it does it without moralizing.

For rights acquisition, contact: barbara.pregelj@malinc.si

For the translation, contact:: jonderganc@gmail.com

There once lived a man by the name of Nick. He worked out all the time, and he knew every training trick. He had muscles like a factory canteen steward would. And a moustache, bristly like the savory in our garden bed.

He was kind and helpful whenever he could. A gentle soul, rarely cross and very well bred. So, now to the matter at hand. One day, when he was training in the park and counting every other forward bend and somersault: two, four, six, eight, ten,

a good-for-nothing caught his gaze.

The fellow, well dressed though he was, stole a poor baby’s rattle, right out of its pram.

All the while the baby’s mummy dear, seated on a bench, was taking pictures, well, selfies, to be exact, like that was her career.

The baby gave a tremendous shriek, and the mummy screamed:

“Catch the thief!”

Good old Nick almost sprained his shoulder such was his surprise, but the brigand bolted, and was gone in a tick.

“Rotten wretch!”

Nick exclaimed. “Slovenly thieving louse. Yuck, be ashamed!”

A couple of days later, on the green in the city park, Nick was once more training

his chiselled physique, and counting as was his habit: two, four, six, eight, ten. And then: who's that he sees again?

That shameless crook. Even though Nick was at that moment standing on his head, he recognised the rascal by his gait and his look, and especially by his long, thieving fingers.

The scoundrel swiped from a little lady, solving crossword puzzles on a bench, her magnifying glass, and took to his heels as if somebody had lit a fire under his wheels.

The poor old thing flailed her arms, but it didn't do a bit of good. Less than a bit.

That was when Nick swore an oath on his skipping rope,

which he'd been willed by an Olympic skipping champ (his late PE teacher), that next time he'd get that thieving rattle tugger, and if need be, he'd chase after him until, until, until… until he got that crafty mugger.

The opportunity arose in a few short days.

Our Nick was training on his balcony and as usual counting:

two, four, six, eight, ten, when, entirely unprepared, he once more set eyes on that loutish man. The crook was dragging, through the window of his neighbour's hovel a tablecloth, yes, a tablecloth, the only tablecloth the poor man had, with which on Sundays he’d adorn his table.

Our Nick bounded down

the stairs, opened the door a crack, then slunk up thievishly, like a cat stalking a mouse, behind the pickpockets back.

“Now I've got you, you villainous moth,” he roared, and the crook was so shaken that he dropped the tablecloth and ran into the garden behind the house, and from there to the road and then hopped onto the city-bound bus.

Our dear Nick, who, naturally, took off after him, caught him by his coat just as he was about to jump onto the bus, and tore open his pocket –and from that pocket fell the baby’s rattle and the magnifying glass.

And so, you see, justice was served.

Our good old Nick finally, this time at least, chased off the

sneaky crook, who since has not dared to give that poor man’s house a second look. He’d never again think of trying to steal the tablecloth, which on sunny Sundays decorates that pauper’s table, set up – where else but in his garden nook.

TranslatedbyJonDerganc

Jakob J. Kenda

Holding a Ph.D. in Literary Sciences, author and editor Jakob J. Kenda is the author of many publications, from anthologies to readers. He lectures and writes about literature and film for various newspapers and magazines. He is known as the translator of dramatic texts and the Harry Potter series. In 2004, he received the Honorable Mention Award of the International Federation of Youth Literature for his translation of the works of Phillip Pullman. With his two popular travelogues, Appalachian Trail: 3500 Kilometers of Hills and America (2018) and Transversal (2020), for which he received several awards - Krilata želva 2019 (all-Slovenian award for the best travel novel), Best literary debut 2019 and Best self-published prose work 2019 – he established himself as one of the most prominent authors of Slovenian literary travelogues.

TheTransversal

The travel novel Transversal (2020) by Jakob J. Kendo is a sequel of sorts to the author's award-winning bestseller Appalachian Trail (2018). In 2019, Kenda determined the course of the entire route of the Slovenian Transversal, which had only been completed halfway since 1951, and walked it together with his two children. A distinctly unifying and uniquely circular route with a length of 1,200 kilometers and a total ascent of 70 kilometers now finally embraces all the diverse faces of the Slovenian mountain world. With picturesque, rich language, replete with humor, the author follows a path that winds through his own land, and the narrative offers an insight into the past but, above all, the contemporary times of the author's homeland. Interwoven with anecdotes and topics, the story delves into various facets of Slovenian culture, intricately connected by the underlying motif of love in its many forms.

For rights acquisition, contact: mateja.s.kenda@gmail.com

For the translation, contact: mbiggins@uw.edu

You and your two kids have been on the trail for several weeks now and once again you’ve put at least twelve hours of hiking behind you. Even so, today you manage to tack a good half hour’s extension off of the main trail onto that without anybody complaining. For at the end of that side-trek you know a modest clearing awaits you, its surfaces aglow in the golden light of the summer evening’s setting sun. On the edge of the clearing there’s a perfect spot for two tents, with a fire pit neatly edged in small stones nearby. On all sides of the clearing there are jagged cliffs looming up that lend even the least bit distinct sound an uncanny echo. And nestled at the foot of those craggy peaks are the barely accessible slopes of a primeval forest, which, it’s believed, no human hand has touched since the last ice age, at least.

And so it’s no wonder that your kids quietly attend to all of their immediate business so they can join you at the campfire as soon as possible. Not just so they can press close to you, as longer and longer shadows press in, as the darkness finally engulfs even you, until at last all that’s left of the whole wide world is your intimate circle of light and steady warmth, but because you’ve set up a small stove in that circle with a pot on top of it that bubbles reassuringly, sending out all kinds of delectable aromas and scents. And then there are the bags of snacks and treats, the heaviest bags of all, which have to be emptied. Especially if you’re a growing girl or boy. That’s when your life depends on snacks and treats. Even if you have polished off a double portion of supper, you’re driven to stuff those things into your mouth as if there will be no tomorrow.

But of course the most delectable treats of all aren’t contained in any bags. They’re sitting next to you, literally clinging to you, and you can’t help nibbling and sniffing at them, at least just a bit. Or, amid that onrush of happiness, thinking how you might treat them even more.

“How about a story?” you ask.

“They first arrived in these parts sometime around the sixth century,” you say and fall silent.

Your kids look at you expectantly, then start to fidget. Then they realize that they’re supposed to react somehow.

“In the sixth century? In these parts?” your daughter repeats, and then when you nod,

“Oh! You mean the Slavs, who came here from the north and the east, from beyond the … beyond the … what were they?”

“From beyond the Carpathian Mountains,” you smile. “That’s where they’d been living alongside vast rivers that flow through those vast plains. Along the Pripyat, for instance. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you? That’s the same

river that some other Slavs built the Chernobyl nuclear power plant beside some fourteen centuries later.”

“Oh.”

“That’s right. And a lot like the way Chernobyl sent radioactivity into the atmosphere in the twentieth century, what happened way back in those ancient times caused a chain reaction, too.”

“No!”

“Oh yes, it did. The plains all around those vast rivers to the east were like the reactor of a nuclear power plant when it blows up. What caused the chain reaction is anyone’s guess. Maybe climate change was at fault, or maybe there had suddenly come to be too many people. It’s also possible they were fleeing nomadic tribes from much farther east that had begun making incursions into their territory. Maybe all of these were causes, along with some other factors, as well. At any rate, that reactor exploded and sent a whole bunch of tribes flying out of it, especially toward the west, into the domains of the Roman Empire, which was then in a centuries-long process of disintegrating, and in the course of those chain reactions some of those tribes merged and still others perished. The inexorable force of that migration of peoples brought about the demise of the nomadic Avars, the long-bearded Langobards, the Vandals, the Gepids and the Kugrigurs among many others, even if they were among the most powerful tribes of their time and had decided the fates of many less powerful ethnic groups.

And among the smallest of these last were the Slavs, who arrived in the lands of the Eastern Alps after an arduous migration from the north. Of course, the tiny patch of earth that they settled hadn’t just been empty. In spite of the hordes that had already traversed these lands, here and there you could still find some declining city of the formerly powerful Roman Empire with the descendants of its original local inhabitants and colonizers. But there weren’t that many of them. So the newcomers gradually began to merge with the remnants of those earlier populations that were still here. They acquired a lot from each other, just as in the course of the many centuries to come they would acquire new bits of identity from the foreign warlords and merchants and soldiers and refugees and so many others who would wander into their sphere.

The shared identity of the people who lived in these breathtaking eastern Alpine valleys continued to evolve over time. All sorts of constituent parts of what they called “us” continued to mix and remix until, many centuries later, those of us living on this patch of earth began to refer to ourselves as Slovenes. And it’s downright incredible when you think about how through all this mixing and remixing the imprint of the Slavs who settled here in the sixth century CE remained essential to our identity.

The language that had been the most obvious link among the people in these parts was at the core of that imprint, its most intimate connecting tissue. Even though from the very beginning we had never been numerous and even today we scarcely number two million, the oldest preserved document in Old Slovenian was from the end of the 10th century CE, and it

doubles as the oldest preserved Slavic document written in the Latin alphabet. Some six centuries later we yet again demonstrated how central our shared language was to us. In 1584 Slovenian became one of the first languages into which the complete Bible was translated. And to this day, language has retained its exceptional significance for our sense of identity. The conviction continues to dominate that we really only know how to swear using phrases that we’ve borrowed from other languages, because we lack any real swear words of our own. Or at most just one or two broadly ridiculous ones, such as “Three hundred hairy bears!”

Of course, this is an opportunity that neither kid can pass up.

“Or ‘So kick me chicken!’” your daughter bursts out in uncontrollable laughter.

“And ‘May your sprouts rot!’” your younger son gets his chance to contribute.

“You’ve got it exactly,” you tell them. “We’re supposed to save our language for finer things. Which isn’t exactly true, though it comes close. Ultimately we can use it to show what hopeless romantics we are. And the fact that Slovene has a dual number, in addition to a singular and plural, must be definitive proof of that fact.

But in addition to language there were other things that the Slavic newcomers contributed to the imprint that they left on our shared identity. Their journey had been long and hard. When they arrived in these valleys, they must have had the feeling that they deserved them outright. At the same time, more than once they must have felt as though they were intended for them, that the valleys had been waiting precisely for them to show up. For you see, this was no untouched backwoods. There were fields and roads and quarries and who knows how many other things in these beautiful valleys, which were otherwise almost devoid of human habitation. Is it any wonder that the Slavs immediately took to this place? Especially considering all the wondrous new things they discovered here, such as grape vines, which were tremendously appealing, too much so for some of them.

They also grew attached to the vast, deep, nearly impassable forests. Partly because they were so rich in resources they could use, but also because they were so wild, mysterious and for the most part untouched. They could also escape into them from the valleys whenever some hostile horde or other came barreling through. It was thanks to the forests that their imprint wasn’t simply obliterated in the course of incursions by various conquerors.

But even more than the valleys and forests, there was yet something else they fell in love with. They were simple folk who had lived for countless generations alongside the slow-moving waterways that wended their way through the vast plains far to the east, and they had never before seen mountains such as these. And so these mountains became the superficial image of this land for them and a sign of their tribal cohesion. But the mountains also became something far more complex. Their trek here had been long and arduous at a time when the world was descending into the

Middle Ages, and the mountains proved to be an even more dependable retreat than the forests. They were like deities protecting the scree that dwelled at their base from the tempests of history, despite the fact that life in their shadow was hard and the deities themselves cold and ruthless. But above all they were beautiful, endlessly beautiful.

How could those simple people not have been moved by the sight of them?

So on that distant evening when they arrived at the foot of these mountains, their migration came to an end. Looking up at them in awe, they collectively formed a tightly woven mass, with something like the words from poet Gregor Strniša’s poem The Barbarian’s Prayer pouring forth from them in a single voice: Mountain, mountain in the night!

You call out this last line straight toward those echoing cliffs that loom over your camp site, provoking a strange echo that sounds like a dense crowd of people repeating in unison, Mountain, mountain in the night!

When you turn back toward your kids, you see them staring at you with wide-open eyes. You give them a smile.

And then you add very quietly, “Source of frigid, pristine waters! Home of dark renewal! In our hearts rise up and let us be like you! Mountain, mountain in the night, o great mountain in the night!”

Fortune,UnityandGrace

We have so many different names for these trails. The Americans refer to them as long trails, the French as grandes randonnées , big treks. Characteristic of the formidable German tradition of wordsmithery is their Fernwanderwege, which appears to have been the inspiration for the panEuropean designation of long-distance trails. In Slovenia we call them transversals.

Every transversal is something completely unique. One might be a traditional pilgrims ’ trail, another an ancient trade route, and yet a third might map to a series of mountain ridges and passes. The most popular of them provide endless opportunities for social interaction, while you can hike the most obscure ones for days without running into a living soul. Some of them are well marked from beginning to end. On others there are segments where you have to blaze your own trail, at least for a stretch. But for all their variety these long trails have a number of fundamental features in common. The most obvious, of course, is the fact that they’re truly long. Anyone who has ever traversed the full length of one of them can attest that therein lies their meaning. Every genuine transversal requires at least a month’s worth of hiking, and preferably two. This is the only way it can provide the hiker with what he’s seeking more than anything else - for instance, by revealing the true face of the land it wends its way through, concealed behind all the common clichés about it, or perhaps by helping him back on his feet after enduring one of life’s heavier hardships. Or it can acculturate him to the simplicity of life on the trail, so he can enjoy it to the fullest. All these and a number of other great things are the potential rewards of hiking any genuine transversal.

Among the less obvious strengths that transversals share, one of the most important is their propensity for bringing people together. For the most part in the same way, by enabling the hiker to merge into the lands and populations the trail leads through. Yet each of them facilitates this merging in its own way. The more than two thousand mile long Appalachian Trail connects the American North and South, which haven’t reconciled some of their fundamental differences to this day. The Via Francigena, which leads from Canterbury to Rome, connects the opposite shores across which two churches have faced each other for centuries. And vice versa. It’s unfortunate that it’s proven impossible to extend some of these “longdistance trails” across a certain number of countries of Europe, and it’s unfortunate that there are whole segments of established trails that have fallen into disrepair to the point of becoming impassable - a sign that in some places in Europe bonds between neighboring countries haven’t really been established and that they’ve grown weaker in others.

Within the comparatively small European continent there’s an even smaller patch of the world, identified as Slovenia, where we’re fortunately quite bullish about this type of interconnectedness. In contrast with many other countries of Europe, of which even the largest barely accounts for one percent of the world’s population, we’re far more acutely aware of our diminutiveness. This is also a big reason why we tend to get our hackles up whenever one of the other European patches of land starts making noises about how it wants to make itself great again. A small patch, so our thinking goes, can only make itself great again at the expense of the patches around it, the way a number of them have been great in the past at our expense. As far as we’re concerned, those days are long over.

And anyway, because we come from such a geographically dynamic part of the world, we’ve always been enthusiastic about all kinds of dynamism. So enthusiastic that in spite of our insignificant numbers, we’ve succeeded again and again in placing ourselves among the world’s top performers in various athletic pursuits. Of course we’re inordinately proud of that record and we’re not shy about using those accomplishments to create some name recognition for ourselves in the world. But for all our joy in competitive dynamic activities, by far the most significant, worthwhile and beloved of those pursuits that we engage in right here at home entails competing with no one, except perhaps with yourself.

So it should be no surprise that we enthusiastically seize onto every international initiative that comes along to establish a new long-range trail. Even decades before we officially became a member of the European Union, we participated in the creation of various trans-European long-range trails. After we achieved independence in 1991 and were no longer subject to a government staunchly opposed to every kind of faith-related pilgrimage, we began to restore our local versions of the Camino de Santiago, which in centuries past had functioned as part of a European-wide network connecting to that many-branched walking route. More recently we’ve joined in some international efforts primarily focused on mountaineering trails, such as the Via Alpina, whose longest itinerary clocks in at some 1,500 miles charting an arc through the Alps from Monaco to Trieste. We’ve also engaged in some mountain trail initiatives that have stubbornly refused to

take shape, such as the Via Dinarica, whose main route aspired to link the most important ridges and peaks of the Dinaric range stretching from Slovenia to Albania.

As far as efforts to connect internationally are concerned, the only thing that can be said of us is that we’re really first-rate and in the forefront. After all, for the lyrics of our national anthem we chose precisely the stanza from our great national poet France Prešeren’s poem “A Toast” that celebrates peace among nations, “Long live every nation / that longs to see the day / when where the sun holds sway / strife is banished from creation….” But we’re a lot less first-rate and at the forefront with respect to something else that’s articulated in the same poem just a few lines further on, “May fortune, unity and grace / return to rule our ranks at last.” At least two centuries have passed since those ideals forsook this country. Prešeren was already missing them in the early nineteenth century. And they remain in scarce supply to this day.

Admittedly, we’re capable of uniting every now and then, sometimes even to an astonishing extent. Take as an example our plebiscite in 1990, when nearly ninety percent of us voted in favor of uncoupling ourselves from the increasingly fratricidal republics of Yugoslavia to the south in favor of adopting democracy and joining Europe. But we’re incapable of unity in the long run, not to mention our complexes involving social reconciliation (grace) and the pursuit of happiness (fortune). Regarding the latter, surveys have shown that we rarely rate ourselves more than a tepid seven out of ten, and if in an odd year the number ticks up by a fraction or two, the media begin to trumpet an upsurge in happiness. This is also borne out in international surveys, where out of 150 countries we typically rank somewhere between fortieth and sixtieth, in amongst such company as Uzbekistan and Kosovo, Nicaragua and Thailand, Belarus and Libya. Because those countries have far greater challenges to deal with than we do, that outcome suggests that we ourselves must be responsible for driving much of our happiness away by undervaluing our actual circumstances. Much the same holds true for reconciling the polar ideologies that dominate our society. This strife of ours is so old now that it really ought to have been long since buried and forgotten. Some have speculated that it’s hardwired onto devices embedded at some exceptionally unpleasant depth in our collective psyche. But no matter whether this age-old division has survived naturally or if we’re keeping it artificially alive, there’s no question that it does us no good.

As a consequence some people think that a full-fledged, fully domestic longrange trail could do us a great deal of good, the sort of trail that in the course of two months ’worth of first-person, physical contact would connect the hiker with his own country and its people. Experience has shown that it almost can’t help but imbue the hiker with a sense of happiness that endures long after trail’s end. Not least of all, without any doubt it erases any possible need the individual might feel for needless bickering.

So it should be no surprise that there was a proposal to build precisely this kind of trail across our native terrain as early as 1951. The plans for its routes, though otherwise rather sketchy, still show clearly that the average

person would have needed just about two months to complete it. The proposed Slovenian transversal would have led primarily across uplands and mountains, thus building on what was probably the finest tradition of hiking in this part of the world. It would also have been something unique, because up until then there had never been any extended trail describing a circuit. As such, its very shape would have been unifying. What’s more, it would have been a trail without a beginning or end, a fact that has downright metaphysical implications incorporating a number of no less promising practical implications, such as, for instance, that you could begin a grand tour at any point and in any direction and ultimately arrive back at your point of departure; or that you could even set out on it from home and then, from the very outset, be heading back home even as you moved on.

In that early post-war period this magnificent proposal was seized on enthusiastically and so, for a time, things looked very promising for the creation of our Transversal. In just two years - by 1953 - it was already wending its way through the Pohorje Range (our Appalachians), the Kamnik-Savinja Alps, the Karawanks and the Julian Alps. But once it proceeded southward from there, it ran into roadblocks. Completion of the segment from Porezen to Nanos dragged on into the 1960s, but even then it wasn’t completed to anyone’s satisfaction. From Nanos on, at scarcely a third of the entire way, the momentum faltered.

When the idea of a proper, unifying transversal circuit first drew my interest a number of years ago, I of course began wondering why it had never been fully realized in that first effort. The whole concept was so brilliant, even fundamentally important, that it should have been a top priority from the start. Had some flaws in its execution brought it to a halt? If I could determine what those were, would it be possible to avoid them? Or had it been confronted back then, in the 1950s, with some insurmountable obstacles? Perhaps now it would be possible to bypass them - if they even still existed.

When, as a student, I began to look into what had prevented the completion of a transversal circuit, I met one of the people who had been involved in the creation of its first half, a certain Mr. X. In his opinion, at least, the principal problem was the government that we had from the end of the Second World War all the way up to our independence in 1991. Those people, he said, would never allow a trail to be built from Nanos across the Gottschee Region. For any number of reasons, but above all because Gottschee had become a symbol of those mine shafts where those bones were concealed. And that, he said, was why the authorities hinted to the planners of the transversal that it would be far better for them if they continued the trail from Nanos west to the Adriatic coast and had it end there. That way the Slovenian grand tour would celebrate the fact that the last and most problematic part of our border with Italy was just then being settled. And that’s why the final segment of the upland trail was drawn, against all logic, along that part of our western border that was finalized in 1954, through a decidedly lowland terrain that ends at the coast.

With time it turned out that there had been a whole sequence of interrelated factors that had brought the project to a halt and that it was very important

to be aware of them. Not just in order to avoid the same errors and obstacles this time, but because one or another very interesting trait of this country and its people was mirrored in them. And amidst all the circumstances that prevented the Transversal from becoming a transversal, toward the very end of my preparations I realized how critical it was finally to turn it into a reality as soon as possible. The less than half of the original transversal that we now have isn’t doing too well. The most beloved transversals, whether intended for pilgrimages, mountaineering, or general purposes, have seen a doubling of their foot traffic every decade from the 1960s on. As far as our Slovenian Transversal is concerned, that trend obtained until the 1970s only. In the 1960s some nine hundred mountaineers traversed its full length, while the number increased to 1,600 in the 1970s. But in the 1980s and 1990s that important indicator of the vitality of our trails stopped rising, and in the first decade of the new century the number even began to drop. In the second decade that drop became dramatic. Over the past decade, interest in our grand tour has dropped below the level of the 1970s. So it would be wise to act, and as soon as possible. Yesterday.

And there really is no insurmountable obstacle to doing that. It’s been more than twenty years, for instance, since we opened the formerly closed regions of Gottschee (which we call Kočevje in Slovene) and elsewhere to the general public, and marked trails have begun to proliferate even there.

Preparations

It takes quite a while for them get on their feet and start walking. And then it takes a good deal more time after that for them to really learn how to walk, because walking only superficially strikes us as something simple. It’s a good thing they’re made in such a way that you can’t help but help them. Those wide open eyes, the tiny hand timidly reaching out for yours and taking hold of it. And once you’ve helped them take their first steps, you’re hooked. You’ve made those wide open eyes so happy that now they look at you with unalloyed love.

But the lessons that walking entails are demanding, so sometimes those eyes need powerful encouragement - for instance, the kind of encouragement that our boy got on our first joint, multi-day hike through the gentle terrain of the trail that leads through the uplands of one of our least challenging mountain ranges, Pohorje. If your seven-year-old can find enough energy on a trek like that to begin throwing a tantrum about not being able to go on, you need to look him straight in the eye and tell him with an absolutely serious face:

“I understand. If you can’t go on, you can’t go on. Lučka and I are going to go ahead to that hikers’ lodge where they make those incredibly scrumptious Pohorje omelettes. You just find a tree stump here to sit on and wait for the bears to come. You’ll get to see how big they are, so big they can down little ones like you in one or two gulps. It almost doesn’t hurt at all.”

Of course, in practically no time all three of you have made your way to the aforementioned lodge, with each of you sitting in front of your own plate of scrumptious delight. But more delightful yet is the whole parallel ursine universe that comes into being as a result. Those furry bruins begin to trail after you wherever you go, whatever challenges you face. As they did one day on the transversal when nothing seemed to be going right for Lučka. She’d been tripping over things practically all day, her legs lagging a good kilometer behind her, and to top it all off some bird decided to poop on her head. When we stopped for our snack, all she could do was cry big, fat tears of despair onto her processed cheese.

“Hey, dad,” Aljaž said then, “did you hear about the bear that went bounding through the forest?”

“No,” I said, looking up, my interest piqued. “Why was he bounding?”

“He was so excited! He absolutely had to tell somebody. And then he ran into the fox. ‘Hey there, fox! Fox! Have you seen her?’ the bear roared, completely beside himself. ‘Seen who? Oh, you mean her?!’ the fox said.

‘That’s right! Have you seen her?!’

‘No, I haven’t! That Lučka’s really a fast one, isn’t she?’”

There followed a moment or two of silence and then I couldn’t tell if she was crying or laughing as she rushed over to hug him. And for the rest of the day she was sure-footed and quick.

And then there was the time several years ago when the bears made an appearance as the kids took to complaining about having to eat fish for dinner all the time. Salmon today, mackerel tomorrow, and then mom packs tuna sandwiches in bags for the trail. All I could do was sigh.

“All right,” I announced. “I’ve been feeding you fish, especially salmon and tuna on purpose. I imagine you know how expensive all that fancy foreign fish is, so you can bet I haven’t been buying it just to make the two of you happy. I’ve had a special reason for doing it.”

For a moment or two they look at me suspiciously, as if to say wouldn’t you know, dad’s always got something up his sleeve.

“So,” I continued, “let’s say one night a bear makes his way into our camp and comes up to my tent and roars, ‘HUN-GRY!!!” What am I supposed to tell him? Now I can say, ‘I’m just a gristly old jade.’ And then I’ll point to your tent and say, ‘Wouldn’t you rather have some nice, tender sushi?’”

But even more gratifying than the parallel ursine universe is when you see what those wide-open eyes grow up to be. When it began to look like things were coming together for me to hike the entire transversal in 2019, I seized the opportunity. We intensified our preparations and in the process tried out various segments and spurs to map out the best possible master route for ourselves. In the course of these dry-runs I arranged a number of times for sunset to catch up with us while we were still on the trail. It really helps

when you’ve already put, say, forty kilometers behind you to cover the final twenty or so in the dark without any problem. And it teaches you so much, that darkness. As it did, for instance, on the Kočevski Rog loop trail when we deliberately set out at eleven one morning to cover its 63-kilometer length and 1,700 meters of altitude gain. There, toward the end of the trail, when we’d almost made our way out of the forest where very real bears are often seen to be padding about, along with other scary and marvelous beasts, there, toward the end of the Kočevski Rog trail at eleven at night, amid the pitch black darkness, two hours before we arrived back at our point of entry onto the loop trail, something came over me that caused me to stop and turn around to face the oncoming glow from their two hiker’s headlamps.

Hey, aren’t you two scared at all?”

“Why should we be?” Aljaž wondered when he caught up to me and stopped.

“Of course not,” Lučka said after him. “Not when we’re with you, daddy.”

Clearly, from that point to the end of the Rog trail I floated more than walked. Despite that, I was even more elated to think of all the trails the two of them could manage now without any problem and what all our hiking had taught them. Such as how to stand up for themselves.

Bent over a table covered with maps that have various electronic devices loaded with hiking applications and programs humming on them, we’ve almost achieved our goal: we’ve charted a working route that takes in the entire Transversal circuit. Of course, a number of practical and technical problems will need to be worked out along the way, and even a few particularly stubborn parts of the trail have yet to be included. But all in all it’s done and now we can use some complex calculations to determine fairly precisely how long the entire trail is going to be. Nearly 1,200 kilometers, Aljaž calculates and adds look at this, it has a total elevation gain of seventy kilometers! No doubt, Aljaž’s numbers further inform us, our Transversal is one of the bounciest in existence. Some of the more famous upland trails, like the Pacific Crest Trail, have barely half as much elevation gain over a comparable distance. And the most famous branch of the Camino de Santiago, leading from the town of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port in France to Cape Finisterre at the far western end of Spain’s province of Galicia has barely a third of the elevation gain per kilometer that our long trail does.

“To cite just two of the better-known examples,” Aljaž sums up, but he has one more calculation to share. “Can you guess how many ascents of Everest it would take to achieve the same elevation gain as on the Transversal? Eight! You’d have to climb Everest eight times, and not from the base camp, but from sea level all the way to the top.

Both kids, of course, are excited about these grandiose numbers. At the same time they grow a shade more skeptical at the thought of their sheer magnitude. Lučka gives me a very searching look.

“Can you calculate one other thing,” she says to Aljaž while her eyes remain fixed on me. “How much time will the Transversal take?”

“At what sort of pace?”

“With distances like those? With twenty-five pounds on your back, thirty for dad? At whatever the pace is for disabled people!”

“So you mean standard German hiking speed…,” he nods seriously.

“Hey!” I frown at hearing that, “are you suggesting that German hikers are disabled?” But Aljaž has already moved on to his calculations and doesn’t hear what I’ve said. The numbers are already dancing in front of his eyes, apparently performing quite the quadrille.

“German hiking speed is the least demanding,” he nods at last. “And based on it the trail should take 670 hours to hike, which if divided by twelve hours per day … comes to almost two months. And with the usual one day off from hiking per week, it easily comes to two months and closer to a week or so more.”

Both kids look at me for a while.

“But, dad,” Lučka finally speaks up, “what did you have in mind? That Aljaž and I were going to spend our whole summer vacation just hiking, or what?”

“Oh, my!” I pretend that something has begun to worry me at hearing that question.

“We’d have to be moving awfully fast to do that. I think the two of you are in good enough condition to maintain that pace, but I don’t know about me. There’ll already be enough for us to do along the way just checking out and charting the alternate forks, not to mention the places where we’re going to have to explore multiple forks to figure out which one works best and that sort of thing. I probably couldn’t complete a route like that in much less than three months.”

Of course the kids couldn’t care less what I could or couldn’t do. The bit about two months was already beyond the pale for them, and now this business with three is downright insane.

“I see,” Lučka says at last in a voice that suggests just how far out into view the claws have extended. “And how are the two of us supposed to find the time to go hiking the mountains with you for three months?”

“Oh, you know,” I shrug innocently. “There’s the two months of summer vacation, then you could maybe skip school for a month or so.”

This statement strikes my children as so absurd that the electric charge in the air is instantly neutralized. Sure, that’s like telling Harry that he can just forget about Hogwarts. No, it’s even crazier: it’s like saying that to Hermione!

“You know how much we love hiking with you,” Lučka assures me after she’s finished laughing and wiping her eyes. “We’d hike two tours of the Transversal with you, even three! But we can’t really afford even one at the cost of a whole summer vacation. It only lasts two months and we’ve got so many obligationsover the summer.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We do. We’ve made plans to go with our cousins to Rogla for a week, then with one grandma to Lož Valley for a week and then to spend atleastone week visiting the other. And we’ve promised mom that we’d take walks with her into the Ljubljana wetlands to soak our feet in the ditches. And I know that’s hard for you to understand, because you spend every day from morning to night in front of the computer. But some of us actually have a social life and we have to tend to it or else before you know it, it’s gone. That’s why I absolutely have to go with my girlfriends to downtown Ljubljana two times at least every summer, and to the stores to shop…”

“That’s right, I have a social life, too, and I absolutely have to go with my buddies out to the movies. With my buddies and popcorn!” Aljaž lends his support to the petition.

Of course the list of absolutely essential obligations goes on. And of course that suits me just fine. There’s no question that both my kids are wonderful company, but at the same time they pose additional concerns, particularly in an environment that poses far more challenges than does our planned community on the southern, wetland extremity of Ljubljana. And although they’re wonderful company, the fact is that each of us has a need for a certain amount of solitude. To spend a solid two months in the mountains, which are practically made for solitary contemplation, and not have a single day to yourself would be the height of folly. Anyway, I tell myself, the Transversal is the kind of project where it would be good, at least for a while, to have people hiking with me who are complete strangers to this patch of earth. Because, as the tried and true comparative method tells us, you can only ever really come to understand what’s yours by comparing it with what’s not.

But of course you don’t try to explain all that to your twelve- and fifteenyear-old, no matter how terrific and great they are. Partly so that they can learn on their own how stand up for themselves. At last we reached an agreement that was ideal for everyone: that our joint hike would be planned to last four weeks. And of course we did some calculations, because that’s what we like to do. In those four weeks, taking all eventualities into account, along with the possible practical and technical problems as Aljaž tallied them up, we would probably be able to make it across all of the Adriatic Littoral, Inner Carniola and Lower Carniola as far as the town of Krško.

It wasn’t until this agreement was reached that Mateja joined in the discussion. I found it positively entertaining to watch how she managed to suddenly merge with the woodwork at any point when the conversation turned to the Transversal all the way up until then, so that none of us would be tempted to count on her participation in all that nasty climbing up rock faces, let alone with a load on her back in the high summer heat. And in

spite of that, every time in the course of our preparations when the kids and I needed to set out somewhere, by some miracle a special treat would show up in their knapsacks, some bandages, now and then even a five- or teneuro bill. In these and many other ways she let us know that she saw the physical exercise and engagement of hiking as being of existential importance for the kids and deserving of every possible support. Which she, true to character, offered even now.

“You’re going to have the best trail mom any kids have ever had, so good in fact you couldn’t wish for better,” she promised. “Do you know what a trail mom is?”

Of course they knew and Aljaž was quickest to show how well.

“A trail mom comes out to the trail to visit you now and then and brings you things you can’t get in a lot of smaller towns. She always knows where you are and she can come to your aid if something goes wrong. Or at least she can tell the authorities where they can find your remains.”

Mateja gave him a big smile, then turned to me.

“So you’re going to hike the remainder all by yourself?”

“Some part of it, at least,” I replied. “As for the rest … well, you remember when I promised our American friends last year that I’d show them around our mountains?”

Settingout

Before every substantial segment of the trail the kids and I would discuss its succession of terrains one last time, along with dozens of its other particulars. But when, after long preparations, we finally set out from home, we found it impossible to talk any more about the approach that we’d planned from Ljubljana to the Transversal or about the old half of the route south of the Julian Alps that urgently need to be fixed. We were going to leave all of that for later, we decided. Now we needed to focus on whether the introduction to the trail that we’d proposed was really the grand dramatic progression it needed to be. Was is it really such a great idea to start from our own front door and then, at the end of the Ljubljana access trail, just beneath the summit of Tošč near Polhov Gradec, turn left onto the Transversal circuit, onto the loop that then proceeds toward Žiri and Idrija and subsequently farther south?

Certainly the beginning struck us as quite grand. Perhaps because we were so flawlessly equipped and much of the kids ’gear was completely new. Or was it our backpacks that leant the beginning such weight? Maybe it was grand because we were able to bid farewell to the city we love in such a unique way, on foot? From the paths that the kids used to take, first to go to preschool, then to school and music lessons. From the streets where their friends lived, at that moment still asleep. From the Botanical Garden that had recently opened a second entrance on its other side, so that now we had a much nicer and shorter walk through it and over the Prule Bridge to

the center of town. From the Ljubljana Old Town, which is like a museum, but one that wakes up early every morning to yet another lively day of the summer tourist season. And it felt as if we were headed to some special ceremony, which was undoubtedly a result of the fact that we were first headed past the monument to Prešeren. For the Ljubljana access trail’s formal beginning is at the foot of that statue, because Prešeren stands at the beginning of so very much that defines this patch of earth and its people.

At the same time this preliminary part of the trail, if you begin it from Ljubljana and then turn left beneath Tošč onto the Transversal loop, gently rocks you between the urban and natural worlds. Our capital city is not big and tongues of the countryside, even mountainous ones, extend far into it from every direction. From the east the Lower Carniolan range culminating in Golovec Ridge and Castle Hill extends all the way up to the original old city core and the monument to Prešeren. Barely two short blocks west of that and you’re already in Tivoli Park where you can climb up into the gently rolling uplands of Rožnik. That’s followed in turn by a bit of city around Dravlje, but that’s a very wooded neighborhood that even has a fishpond and certainly a lot of foot trails. Its least pleasant part, congested with roads, is the suburb of Podutik, but even here you only need to log a few paces and, before you know it, you’re in the Polhov Gradec foothills.

The trail rocks you on from here. These are hills where you occasionally get the feeling you’re in a nature preserve, which the Polhov Gradec region is actually supposed to be. But then you hit patches that have lost the fight to defend themselves from development and you feel as though you’ve wandered back in amongst city villas, except that many of the ones here are even more ostentatious than the ones in Ljubljana. Along the way you also run into regular settlements of vacation houses and can hear the strains of turbofolk tunes pouring out of a number of them even at this early hour, along with the forced jollity of powerful voices toasting each other. But as you proceed, pastures and grasslands and forests begin to predominate. Little villages huddle at intervals along the exposed ridges of hills, with individual farmhouses clinging still farther up from them to the steepest and uppermost slopes. Here we encounter the first real peaks of the upland world, such as Tošč, some of which are so beloved amongst the locals that they have their own clubs of admirers devoted to them.

As we proceed through the Polhov Gradec region the last remnants of the city continue to peter out until we reach the Žiri region, where we can say at last that we’re really in the countryside and where the uppermost stretches and steepest slopes have been preserved in a breathtakingly pristine state. Of course, in the town of Žiri proper the path tends more toward the urban, much as all across the highlands before we reach Idrija there’s a proliferation of houses that ought to have been built down in the valley where their owners actually work. But then after Idrija solitude predominates once again and even rural traces of human habitation become sparse. A few relics of the region’s industrial past, followed by the rare, isolated farmstead or hamlet, then after Mrzla Rupa barely a living soul for nearly a day’s hike in any direction ahead: this is the Trnovo Forest, the first real forest along the way, which is so deep that many of its remoter reaches have never been

touched by the hand of man, full of crevices and ravines and sinkholes, desolate peaks and cliffs so remote that golden eagles nest there.

Thus the route along the Ljubljana access trail, then counterclockwise along the Transversal gently rocks you out of your urban habitat into a virtually untouched wilderness. It’s a magnificent introduction, and it’s all the more interesting for being strewn from the very outset with all sorts of natural and cultural gems, many of the latter sacral in nature. Just before the trail down from Tošč levels out, as you come out of the forest into that quintessentially Slovenian meadow, you catch sight of the Church of St. Gertrude (sv. Jedrt in Slovene). All bristly and perched on its slope it reminds you instantly of the character Gertrude from Svetlana Makarovič’s children’s book The Mišmaš Bakery. Among the countless little natural treasures here, many are unprepossessing and hospitable to the wayfarer, much the way the people of this region are, such as the lone rustic bench that’s been put in place in the midst of a grassy ridge, sheltered by a birch growing above it. A bench with a view onto the hills around Škofja Loka that changes so much with variations of the light and the weather, but is continually so arresting that it compels you to stay sitting there, watching it. And all the historical sites, among them Pasja Ravan (Dog’s Flat), which at 1,029 meters was once the highest point in the entire Polhov Gradec uplands, but has since ceded first place to neighboring Tošč (1,021 meters). The Yugoslav People’s Army quite simply flattened the top of Dog’s Flat, reducing its elevation by nine meters so that a missile launch site could be built there. The times have since changed for the better and the mountain’s bare, leveled peak is now home to a peaceful weather radar station. The Žiri region has similarly interesting historical remnants of the Rupnik Line, where you can have your trailside snack alongside one of the deliberately preserved bunkers that were once part of the Kingdom of Yugoslavia’s defense system before World War II, designed along the same principles as the Maginot Line in France. Despite the huge investments in both lines, they turned out to be useless as obstacles to the invading armies, which is how at least parts of the Rupnik Line have survived.

This introductory segment leading from city to wilderness, scattered with so many little historical, cultural and natural treasures, takes a few days. Our first day on the trail was particularly dramatic, because the weather forecast, which had predicted an especially spectacular collision of two storm cells and thus the probability of downpours and high winds, was turning out to have been accurate.

“Wonderful,” I said, looking up at the sky as we reached the Prešeren monument and rubbing my hands at the sight of dark clouds roiling over the poet’s head. “Right at the outset we’re going to have a chance to prove that we have the qualities of every good long distance hiker - as sweet as we may be, we’re not made out of sugar.”

Indeed, that very morning we had the chance to prove we weren’t made of sugar. Though we kept dry all the way across Rožnik, by Dravlje it was beginning to drizzle and soon after that it was raining full force, with a bit of lightning to boot. But none of that deterred us in the slightest and the long ascent from Ljubljana to the first Polhov Gradec ridges did nothing to

diminish our steam, so early that afternoon I proposed that we celebrate our display of virtue by having lunch at an inn.

“That’s still possible here, but farther on we’ll be in some pretty remote territory,” I said to justify my suggestion, though there was really no need. Both of the kids immediately said yes.

The inn that we chose was typically Slovene in a number of ways, not least of which was the size of the portions, which were nothing short of overwhelming. But they were just right for us, so after the meal I quoted Nietzsche, as I’m inclined to do when life confronts me with such Herculean labors.

“Thereismuchthatisdifficultforthespirit,thestrongreverentspiritthat wouldbearmuch,”I philosophize with a straight face, patting my stomach. “Butthedifficultandthemostdifficultarewhatitsstrengthdemands.”

For the kids this first stop of ours was a triumph pure and simple, but sweetened by something else yet again, for we’d called mom to see if she’d be inclined to come join us, and because the severe weather conditions had her worried for us, she drove out straight away. At the inn she let the kids persuade her that that the entire hike that day had been a breeze, in spite of the rain. No, they weren’t cold at all, as they sat soaking wet at the table. Mom, this is merino wool. It keeps you warm even when it gets wet. And it dries best while you wear it, because essentially you’re an oven set to 98.6 degrees. Yes, of course we’re going to keep hiking with dad! And once she was convinced, she said she couldn’t believe how brave the two of them were and how proud she was of them. And this she said in a voice so loud and distinct that everyone at the tables around us could hear and began looking in our direction with expressions of admiration. The kids made as if they were embarrassed, but in fact they were smiling from ear to ear.

To top it all off, the weather obliged us with an excellent end to the day. Toward evening it died down for just long enough that we were able to make camp in peace precisely at the place where we’d enjoyed the first of the day’s magical views, as the mists gathered over the subdued colors of the steep slopes and clouds swirled threateningly over the peaks. Barely had we squared everything away for the night when it really let loose. Of course, in your tent you have the exciting feeling that there’s nothing separating you from all those Wagnerian drum rolls and the howls of the wind. Against its taut nylon the patter of the rain seems all the more forceful and each flash of lightning more vivid. Yet despite all this you’re dry and even wrapped up in the goose down warmth of your bedroll. This coaxes a satisfied smile onto your face and in spite of the elements raging around you, sooner or later you drift off into a restful oblivion.

TheŽiriRegionandIdrija

One of the commendable features of the old half of the Transversal is that, in contrast to the most orthodox wilderness trails, it doesn’t deliberately avoid the smaller towns and villages along its way. The complete Transversal Circuit retains that feature, of course, so when it needs to cross

a valley to get from one peak to the next, it doesn’t hesitate to go straight through one or more of the settlements along the way. In this it mirrors a pleasant trait of the people in these parts, who have a way of rolling their eyes at fanatical principles when they begin to verge on the inhuman. But more importantly, it’s precisely the detours from the upland world that reinforce two things. These villages provide a contrast which makes the trail all the more admirable for its upland qualities and at the same time they reinforce the insight that every hiker on a long trail gain into his country and its people.

Because transversal hikers rarely stay over in any one place for long, this insight takes shape gradually out of many tiny impressions. A case in point would be the impression we got that first day in Žiri, which reminded us that all sorts of assumptions many of us have about this patch of earth we inhabit could do with some further scrutiny. Such as one that we’ve already mentioned, that the Slovene language as our national communion chalice is incapable of producing salty swear words. Because when we visited a cozily packed café in Žiri where some of the customers had extremely tempting dishes of ice cream on the table in front of them, one of these tipped over into the lap of somebody sitting at a nearby table. This triggered a barrage of powerful, inventively interlinked obscenities that lasted so long it seemed like a veritable cursing chromosome. On the other hand, Žiri is a splendid example of how certain stereotypes about Slovenes sometimes hold true to the last jot, because there’s no doubt that these parts are home to some remarkably enterprising and diligent folks.

As a textbook example of diligence let me cite the gray-haired couple we encountered on a hillside above Žiri. She was raking and he was pushing an old manual lawnmower up an incredibly steep slope. The work was strenuous and even a bit dangerous, but most of all it was Sunday and the sun was already getting close to the horizon. In the course of a short conversa-tion it turned out that “the weather had been screwing us over for the longest time,” but that the forecast for the following day, a holiday, was for clear skies all day at last. This meant that whatever they managed to mow today would have time to dry, and that’s why they were mowing so late today in anticipation of making the most of a day’s raking and gathering tomorrow - on a holiday, like plenty of other people in the area, where in spite of the rainy start to the summer everything had been scrupulously worked over or mown like an English lawn down to the very last nook and cranny.

The best authorities to ask about how enterprising they are, are the people of Žiri themselves, who take inordinate pride in telling you about all the locally based companies that have been successful. But from the trail alone you can tally up quite a few that are clearly doing quite well, at least three of which it’s impossible to miss, since the route goes right past them. As important as the length of the list is the fact that this pride is not directed at any of the region’s better known old warhorses. Ask the locals about any of these and they’ll just make a sour face. They’ll tell you that those old warhorses did not do well in the transition from the times when “everything belonged to all of us.” That they’re still majority owned by the government because the politicians can’t bring themselves to let go of them. That the

politicians ’personal financial interest is the reason some of those horses have been slowly dying. If there’s any grain of truth to this mudslinging at venerable politicians and no less praiseworthy old state-held enterprises, then what Žiri has accomplished appears in an even better light. Not just because it made good use of opportunities it was given to advance in the decades since World War II, but also because it didn’t rest on those laurels after Slovenia gained independence. Clearly, much was learned from the mistakes made in raising those old warhorses and with the same sort of effort the region has raised a fine little new herd in the meantime. May it thrive and suffer from as few new-fangled design flaws as possible!

Idrija put us in as good a mood as Žiri. We were equipped for the trail down to the last buckle, all our new items of equipment had been tried out and we ourselves were in first-rate condition. We were taking our time during our first days on the trail, so as not to overdo it at first and get ourselves into trouble, as had happened to me on a previous occasion or two. But apparently our crew can’t do without some unplanned fun at the outset, so even though Aljaž had tried to break his new hiking boots in beforehand, they insisted on giving him blisters now and his heels needed a rest. I had stupidly tripped and fallen, doing nasty damage to something in my knee, so nasty that I was unable to continue without a brace, which I had to keep on all the way Gottschee.

We were treated to some friendly therapy in the drugstore we hobbled into as soon as we reached the bottom of the hill leading down into Idrija. In spite of our ripe state after two days on the trail, the attendant, a lady of Mediterranean kindness, took all the time we needed, especially to help out “such a good, brave and handsome boy!” By the time she was finished, Aljaž was as red as a boiled crayfish, though of course grateful for the maternal attention. A couple of meters farther on from there, when we were served with our first course of žlikrofi, Idrija’s most special therapy of all for broken-down hikers, both of the kids were as good as new. Seriously, at the end of our trek, anytime I asked them what was most memorable from our time on the trail, a fog of bliss would veil their eyes and in tones worthy of Garfield they’d simultaneously purr, “The žlikrofi!” Before we left Idrija, we absolutely had to visit that restaurant again and by all reports the žlikrofi were even better the second time. My Idrijan trout, which I commanded be brought before me on that second visit, was indeed so criminally delicious that it deserved every last bit of the oil used to pan fry it.

As in the restaurant, there were crowds of both Slovene and foreign visitors present on the tour of the mine shafts. Apparently the word was out that those were the two biggest highlights of a trip to Idrija. And the mines really are worth the visit. On the guided tour of that monument to our industrial history you’re treated to an expertly curated array of information spanning diverse fields ranging from mining technology and folklore to the history of medicine and geopolitics. Everything else in Idrija tends to be a shade bit lonely or even falling apart. Which is a pity, because it’s an interesting place. Fine, the museum’s collections could be made a bit more exciting and the town could do with some cultural and night life - not to mention less car traffic. But the castle that houses the museum has undergone a first-rate restoration. The oldest secondary school in Slovenia, the old Miners

’Warehouse that now houses the municipal library, and of course the Miners ’House are all impressive places to visit. And there’s much more, including the hostel overlooking the town center, where things weren’t running at full steam when we were there, but precisely for that reason made us feel like lords of the manor. In spite of the holiday, besides us there was just some student playing the part of receptionist, and even she was only there for a few hours each afternoon, leaving us entirely on our own until early evening. Who wouldn’t want to have such a magnificent concrete colossus all to themselves, so typical of the monumental construction dotting these parts that dates to the period between the two World Wars when Fascist Italy ruled over the westernmost quarter of Slovene territory from the Adriatic Littoral all the way east to Idrija and Postojna.

TranslatedbyMichaelBiggins

Lučka Lučovnik

Lučka Lučovnik holds a university degree in translation. She started her career as a self-employed professional in the field culture and later became an independent entrepreneur. Her extensive translation portfolio includes subtitling for broadcasters like Pop TV, Discovery Channel, and Fox and collaborations with the Anna Monroe Theatre. For over a decade, she translated for National Geographic Junior magazine, wrote stories for the Around the World section, and translated educational books. She now teaches English at a primary school and currently works on a collection of children’s books No way! with the Malinc Publishing House.

Brilliant!

Brilliant! is a sparkling collection of short notes in which Lučka Lučovnik presents some of the quirkiest ideas humanity has come up with. From the airplane as an ice cream maker to the curious world of restrooms, stock markets, and even chocolate, the author skillfully combines informative prose with humorous inputs and practical crafty ideas for readers to create after reading. Maruša Žemlja’s charming illustrations complement the delightful narratives.

Each narrative is completed with a glossary, a fun fact and a brilliant experiment with instructions readers can try at home.

For rights acquisition, please contact: barbara.pregelj@malinc.si

For the translation, contact: lucka.lucovnik@gmail.com

Heavenlyicecream

Brilliant Idea: An airplane as an ice cream maker

Location: Palau Islands in the Pacific Ocean

Time: 1944 (during the Second World War)

In the middle of the vast Pacific Ocean, there's an island country called Palau, and one of its islands is named Peleliu. A tropical island – pure paradise! Except for a while when this island was hell on Earth. During World War II, American war pilots stayed there, flying airplanes and fighting battles with the Japanese. But when there were no Japanese planes around, the American pilots got bored. They had plenty of food and drinks, but still, the heat was just unbearable. You know how awesome ice cream is in the summer, right? But how do you get ice cream on an island without a freezer? Yeah, that might be a problem.

But the pilots got this brilliant idea. High up in the sky, it's super cold. They needed an airplane – check! And someone to fly it – check! They also needed canned milk and some cocoa powder – check! They filled a waterproof can for storing bullets with the ice cream ingredients and put it in the airplane's spare fuel tank. A pilot/ice cream maker had to fly at an altitude of 9,000 meters (33,000 feet) for half an hour before the mixture froze. The soldiers thought the engine’s vibrations would help mix the ingredients. Brilliant, right? Well, not really. The first attempt didn't work out at all. The shaking engine actually heated the ingredients up instead of the cold air freezing them. So, the pilots bolted the cans with the promising mixture onto their wings, away from the planes’ hot engines. They even installed small propellers to spin and blend their delicious treat while airborne. Sure enough, the plane did come back with creamy ice cream –check!

That's how Peleliu became a paradise island again. Lying on a sandy beach and enjoying their ice cream, the American pilots were just crossing their fingers, hoping no Japanese warplane showed up – the good times would be over and the ice cream would melt!

What does that mean?

(You probably know but just in case.)

- aircraft carrier: a huge warship big enough for airplanes to take off and land on

- altitude: height

Fun Fact:

Floating ice cream shop: during World War II, American aircraft carriers used to sail across the Pacific Ocean. They carried not only airplanes but supplies of ice cream as well. If a small ship’s crew rescued a pilot who had crashed into the sea, the carrier would reward their saviours with ice cream.

Get brilliant!

Making homemade ice cream can be a bit tricky, and it doesn't always turn out great – it usually isn’t creamy. Sometimes, you have to be resourceful, just like pilots on a dessert island… sorry, desert island. And just in case you don't have a plane at hand right now, you can quickly make some DIY ice cream like this:

INGREDIENTS FOR 4 PEOPLE:

- 3 bananas

- 1 small cup of yoghurt

- 200 grams of frozen raspberries, blueberries, or strawberries

- A big spoonful of honey

INSTRUCTIONS:

1. Peel the bananas and slice them into 1-centimetre-thickrounds. Chill them in the freezer for half an hour.

2. Take the bananas out of the freezer and put them in a blender (or other container if you plan to use a hand blender). Add the other ingredients and blend everything together until it's well mixed.

3. Serve the ice cream in bowls and enjoy it with your family or friends right away.

Dig in!

Long-distancecallwithoutaphone Brilliant idea: Whistled language

Location: Canary Islands, La Gomera Island

Time: From the 15th century (when Europeans became extremely interested in exploring the world) until today

The Canary Islands are located in the Atlantic Ocean near Morocco in Africa, and they are part of Spain. They are known for their spectacular natural surroundings and an enchanting climate that feels like eternal spring. The original inhabitants were the Guanches, but in the 15th century, the Spanish conquerors arrived on the islands – and were there to stay.

Back then, there were no phones for people to talk to each other over long distances, and there were neither roads nor cars for people to move from one place to another just to have a chat. But the Guanches on the island of La Gomera came up with a brilliant idea. They transformed their language into whistles that were louder than speaking voices. They could even be heard up to five kilometres away! This way, people could communicate over long distances when telephones didn't exist yet. Plus, their whistled language wasn’t understood by the Spanish newcomers.

Interestingly, the whistled language has survived until today because the Spanish settlers eventually learned it, too. It only faded away a bit in the middle of the 20th century when many people moved away from the Canary Islands. Another reason was that whistling was no longer considered cool. The city folks thought of it as a language of peasants whom they looked down upon. And there was one more thing: the islanders got telephones! That meant they didn't need to whistle anymore to communicate with people on neighbouring hills.

But now, whistling is back! Tourists love it, and children from La Gomera even learn it in school. Just imagine how easy it is now. You can call your friend, who lives in a nearby block of flats, on the phone and tell them to step onto their balcony so they can hear you better. Then you can have a conversation or exchange whistles from one balcony to another. You might still encounter some problems, though. Others might hear you, and there might be several neighbours whistling at the same time...

What does that mean?

(You probably know but just in case.)

- the Guanches: the indigenous inhabitants of the Canary Islands who likely arrived there from the northwest coast of Africa. Interestingly, the islanders did not have boats and were not sailors. You might be wondering how they got to the islands in the first place. Well, scientists are asking themselves that very question.

- indigenous inhabitants: the first people who lived there

Fun fact:

- Although part of the African continent, the Canary Islands actually belong to Spain and, therefore, the European Union. The archipelago consists of seven islands: Tenerife, Gran Canaria, Lanzarote, El Hierro, La Palma, La Gomera, and Fuerteventura.

- The whistled language is called silbo gomero (the Gomeran whistle) – silbo means whistle in Spanish, and gomero is derived from La Gomera, the name of the island where this whistled language was most commonly used.

Get brilliant!

There is a small chance that your whistling skills are so good that you can master the silbo gomero, sure. But let’s face it, it's much more likely that you either don't know how to whistle yet or can't do it very loudly or melodically. If you fall into the second (larger) group, read the instructions below and learn how to whistle. Remember: practice makes perfect, so practise!

Basic whistling course:

1. Pucker up your lips as if you were about to say “ooh”.

2. Try to exhale air through your mouth while paying attention to the air coming from your throat.

3. Change the position of your lips little by little and move your tongue until you manage to produce a sound. Keep experimenting with your lip and tongue positions until you let out a squeak.

4. Now, practise. And then practise some more. And, yeah, if we haven’t mentioned it already: don’t forget to practise!

Advanced whistling course (using your fingers):

1. Place the index and middle fingers of one hand in your mouth with the tips of your fingers facing you. The fingertips should be resting against each other, but not too firmly. Your fingers should be deep enough in your mouth so that you can touch them with the tip of your tongue. Gently enclose your lips around the tips of your fingers.

2. Try to exhale air through the gaps between your fingers and your tongue. Adjust the positions of your lips, fingers, and tongue until you squeak like a rubber ducky.

3. You know what’s next, right? Practise!

NOW, GO MAKE SOME NOISE!

TranslatedbyLučkaLučovnik

Nina Mav Hrovat

Nina Mav Hrovat is an educator and mentor who publishes articles on various websites. Recently, she began creating picture books and writing books for young readers. In 2013, she became the president of the Mlin Radomlje Cultural Association. In 2014, she completed her postgraduate studies in Preschool Education.

StoresfortheWinter

In StoresfortheWinter,a squirrel gathers hazelnuts to prepare her supply for the winter. The work is tiring, so she asks her friends for help. Everything is easier done together. Together, they work, have fun, and snack on hazelnuts every day. The work is pleasant, but there is nothing left for the winter supply.

Something will have to change. But what? Will the squirrel manage to prepare stores for the winter?

For the rights acquisition, contact: info@zalozba-zala.si

For the translation, contact: milan.selj@gmail.com

A squirrel was gathering hazelnuts for the winter.

“Oh, what a beautiful pile of hazelnuts!” she rejoiced.

She tried to lift them onto her shoulders.

“Oh, dear! They are heavy, so heavy!” she moaned.

Just then a mouse came by.

“Little mouse, would you help me carry these hazelnuts, please?”

“Sure”, said the little mouse, and she picked up the first hazelnut.

They had only just started, and already they were panting.

They spotted a hedgehog who was on his way to an orchard.

“Hedgehog, would you help us carry these hazelnuts, please?” begged the squirrel.

“Of course,” the hedgehog said and he put a few hazelnuts on his back.

And off they went, the squirrel, the little mouse and the hedgehog.

“Ugh, what a load!” all three moaned louder and louder.

A jay flew past them.

”Jay, would you help us carry these hazelnuts, please?” the squirrel pleaded.

“Over here with them, put them into my beak,” said the jay.

And then the little company marched forward through the forest.

The squirrel, the little mouse, the hedgehog and the jay gasped loudly.

“Oh, it’s hard, so hard,” grumbled the little mouse.

”The path is long,” nodded the hedgehog.

From somewhere a rabbit hopped happily.

“Rabbit, would you help us carry these hazelnuts, please?” the squirrel asked.

“Said and done!” replied the rabbit, and he quickly set to work.

They hadn’t walked for long, yet complained about the effort.

From a nearby treetop, a hazel dormouse watched them.

“Can I help you with anything?” he offered.

“Thank you for your kindness. Sure, we would be so happy to have your help!” enthused the squirrel.

It went well! Now they could pick up and carry all the hazelnuts.

»The snow will fall, but never mind, to sleep with hazelnuts –how sweet and fine!«

»Oh, I am so hungry!« exclaimed the squirrel.

“Me too, me too,” repeated the mouse, the hedgehog, the jay, the rabbit and the hazel dormouse one after another.

“Let’s eat! After such an effort, we really deserve a few hazelnuts!” the squirrel proposed.

The snack gave them back their strength and will power and they set forth. They were breathing heavily as they approached the squirrel’s hollow.

By then, dusk had fallen.

“I don’t hop around at night either.

The fox is on the alert in the dark!” the rabbit worried.

“I can’t see anything at night.

How am I supposed to fly home?” complained the jay.

“It’s best you sleep with me!”

The squirrel offered them her home.

“You’ve been helping me all day, after all.”

»Excellent! That way we will be safe and we will be able to have fun and be merry late into the night!” they cheered delightedly.

“For dinner we will have … hazelnuts!” the squirrel suggested.

And they did. They ate, told stories and laughed … until they fell asleep tired.

At dawn, the little mouse woke up and asked,

“What’s for breakfast?”

“Hmm, hazelnuts,” the squirrel replied sleepily.

“Where are they?” The little mouse asked.

“Oh dear!” croaked the jay.

“We ate them all,” established the rabbit.

“Some for lunch and the rest for dinner,” shrugged the hazel dormouse.

“No matter,” said the squirrel.

“If you help me, we can gather them up again.”

“Sure, happy to work!” they exclaimed and hurried to fetch them.

»The snow will fall, but never mind, to sleep with hazelnuts –how sweet and fine!«

They gathered hazelnuts again, and carried them until their tummies grumbled.

“We’ll have some hazelnuts for a snack,” the squirrel decided.

By the time they reached the hollow, it was already getting dark.

They ate the hazelnuts and almost started to snore where they were sitting.

And in the morning … in the morning there were no more hazelnuts.

“My feet hurt so much,” the little mouse squealed.

“I’m sorry, I can’t anymore.”

She waved awkwardly and was already mincing her way off.

“If I think about it thoroughly,” wavered the hedgehog, “I’d rather eat … apples.”

And off he tottered in the other direction.

“Good luck, hedgehog!” cried the squirrel, the jay, the rabbit, and the hazel dormouse.

»The snow will fall, but never mind, to sleep with hazelnuts –how sweet and fine!«

“Oh, this is really exhausting,” the jay said, as hazelnuts fell out of her beak. She said her goodbyes and flew away.

“I … I … like carrying hazelnuts, but … I prefer to gnaw carrots,” the rabbit uttered, and he was no longer there.

“I understand,” nodded the squirrel and waved him goodbye.

“What now?” the hazel dormouse asked.

“I don’t know,” sighed the squirrel.

“You must certainly be tired too.”

“A little bit, but you still don’t have your winter stores gathered. I will help you.”

“Oh, thank you, good hazel dormouse,” exclaimed the squirrel.

“But, my dear friend,” began the hazel dormouse cautiously. “Maybe it would be wise to enthusiastically collect and carry the hazelnuts home, but feast a little less. That is, if we want to accumulate winter stores!”

The squirrel thought.

“It’s true. We have to work harder, have less fun and enjoy ourselves less with hazelnuts.”

»The snow will fall, but never mind, to sleep with hazelnuts –how sweet and fine!«

Thus, the squirrel and the hazel dormouse diligently gathered hazelnuts every day and carried them to the hollow. For lunch, they each ate only half a hazelnut, and one each in the evening. Thus the pile in the hollow grew larger and larger.

“Hazel dormouse, I think there are enough of them,” said the squirrel. “Thanks for your help! You can visit me any time, I will be glad to see you.”

The hazel dormouse waved to the squirrel and lowered his eyes sadly.

“What’s wrong?” asked the squirrel sympathetically.

“It’s going to be winter, and I haven’t prepared a home or any stores for the winter,” he cried softly.

“Oh dear!” exclaimed the squirrel. She thought for a moment and said, “Winter with me! There will be enough hazelnuts and space for both of us.”

“Can I really stay?” asked the hazel dormouse.

“You’re my best friend!” exclaimed the squirrel and sang:

»The Snow will fall, but never mind, we’ll be together, both warm and fine.”

The hazel dormouse was overjoyed. He began to dance with the squirrel and together they sang again:

»The snow will fall, but never mind, we’ll be together, both warm and fine.”

»The snow has fallen, but never mind, we are together, both warm and fine.”

TranslatedbyMilanŠeljandPeterDavey

Miha Mazzini

Miha Mazzini (1961) works as a writer, director, columnist, screenwriter, filmmaker and lecturer. He completed his postgraduate studies in screenwriting at the University of Sheffield, UK, and his PhD in anthropology of everyday life at the Institutum Studiorum Humanitatis in Ljubljana. Mazzini has written more than 30 literary books, which have been published in 11 languages. He has received numerous awards for his work, including the prestigious Kresnik Prize for his novel Childhood (Otroštvo) in 2016. His short stories have appeared in international anthologies (Best European Fiction, Bristol Short Story Prize Anthology) and he was awarded the American Pushcart Prize in 2012 for his short story collection Ghosts (Duhovi). He has also won awards in the field of film as a director and screenwriter and has also worked on interactive and multimedia projects.

MagicWords

Words have a lot of power. Sometimes they are so powerful that they make us unrecognizable. The picture book MagicWordstalks about the pressure we put on children through our expectations and our responsibility for the message we give them.

For the acquisition of rights, contact: barbara.pregelj@malinc.si

For the translation, contact: katarina.kogej@malinc.si

Egon had just finished his tennis lessons when his parents came to pick him up. In the car park they started talking to the other adults who were also collecting their children.

The children sat on a bench, too tired to talk.

However, their parents would not stop talking. First about how beautiful tennis was and how healthy it is to exercise. Then about how talented their children were.

Egon was wiping his sweaty forehead when he heard his father say, “Well, have you noticed our son? He has the eyes of a hawk. He doesn’t miss a single ball!”

Egon’s vision suddenly blurred and he felt a pressure in his head, as if his eyes were moving apart. He closed them and, when the pressure was gone, he opened them again and… there, in the distance, far off in the mountains, he could see some mountaineers climbing the rocks!

He touched his face and couldn't believe it: his eyes had slid to the sides where his ears used to be. This couldn’t be really happening! He ran out to his parents' car to look in the side mirror.

As the other parents also began to praise their children, Egon turned to the bench and saw that his teammates were also changing.

Then Egon’s mother said, “And his stroke is so powerful! His right arm is stronger than a wrestler’s.”

Egon didn’t even have to turn his head to see his right arm swell. It grew so large that it crushed his cheek and partially covered one of his eyes.

“Yes,” added his father, “and let's not forget how flexible he is. It’s like he’s made of rubber!”

Egon’s knees suddenly buckled and, when he tried to straighten them, he became so flexible that he folded over three times.

His mother went on praising him. “And his jump! Have you noticed how high he gets? As if he had springs in his legs.”

Egon’s legs grew longer.

He felt a breeze that made him sway like a puppet. He tried to grab onto a car antenna, but his right arm was so muscular that he crushed it in an instant.

Finally, his parents said goodbye and came to find Egon. They looked at their son shocked and astonished, repeating his name with concern.

It was a long time before they managed to get him into the car. Egon’s rubber body slid across the seat, and his spring legs kept bouncing so much that they barely managed to close the car door.

They sat in the front seats and looked guiltily at their son.

Egon shouted at them, “What did you do? What were you saying about me? You were exaggerating and puffing yourselves up like frogs!”

At that moment his mother and father turned into two big frogs. “Ribbit,” they said, and although they raised their heads and jumped up and down on the seats, they couldn't see anything through the car window.

His father tried to start the car, but the button was not made for frog fingers.

“Ribbit, ribbit,” groaned the parents.

“Oh,” Egon covered his other eye for a moment. “We changed as we described each other. I didn’t realise that words could change a person. Me into a bizarre creature, you into animals.”

They looked at each other sadly, wondering what to do.

“I've got it!” Egon said. “It’s just that you’re not really frogs, but my mum and dad, and sometimes you exaggerate a bit, but I love you all the same...”

The two frogs became his parents again.

“And we have to say,” said his mother, “that you are our son Egon, who we love so much. Even if you don’t have hawk’s eyes, a rubber body or springs in your legs.”

“Nor muscular arms," added his father.

At that moment, Egon was back to himself again.

They hugged each other in the car. When they realised that the seats were in the way, they got out and stayed in each other’s arms for a long time before going home.

TranslatedbyKatarinaKogej

Desa Muck

Desa Muck is a writer, dramatist, publicist, actress, screenwriter, and freelancer. She has written over 60 literary works for children, teenagers, and adults. Many of her works have been reprinted and translated into several other languages, making her one of the most widely read Slovenian authors for many years.

Her works for children include the popular collections about Anica and Megi the Miraculous Flea. She also wrote a well-received collection called "Blazno resno …" (Dead serious), aimed at teenagers, which presents topics such as sex, drugs, fame, and education in a humorous way. She has received several awards for her work.

Additionally, she is the author of several novels for adults and columns that have been published in various magazines.

TheGiantHenorHowSloveniaGotits Shape

InTheGiantHen,youwilldiscoverthatitisnotapurecoincidencethat Sloveniatakestheshapeofachickenonthemaps.Infact,thisstorybegan inthetimesofthedinosaurs,whenMimi,agiantchicken,livedinthe territoryofSlovenia.

For rights acquisition, contact: igor@muck-blazina.eu

For the translation, contact: ejdebeljak@gmail.com

A long, long time ago when dinosaurs still rumbled around the earth, everything was bigger than it is today. You can ask anyone you want. Ferns, for example, were taller than all of the trees we see today. Dandelions too. Only people were about half the size they are now. Some animals that are still around today were also smaller. The horse, for one, was about the size of a cat. But other farm animals were enormous, really enormous, much bigger than today's farm animals that are a completely ordinary size. You will probably say that no one has ever found the remains of a gigantic pig or cow, as big, for example, as a mountain. Of course they haven’t — that's because the people in those long-ago days ate them and made tools with their bones. One of the most enormous and most beloved animals back then was the hen.

In the little tiny country that is today called Slovenia, there lived a giant hen named Mimi. Even now, it is often said that she was the biggest hen in the whole world. She was as big as Šmarna gora, the high hill right next to Ljubljana, the capital of present-day Slovenia. As it happened, Mimi, the giant hen, lived near that very hill. Mimi was white with lovely brown eyes and a beautiful red crown on her head that could be seen glistening in the sun from very far away. She was a shy and peaceful animal. All day long, she patiently pecked on fern seeds as big and round and nice as footballs, though it would not be so nice if one of them fell on your head. What she liked most of all was to pull earthworms that were miles long out of the soil. At such times, you could hear her clucking happily to herself.

And so she lived, content and satisfied. She only was unhappy when it snowed. Mimi would cower sadly in the middle of the meadow and, if she hadn’t had that bright red crown on her head, she would have looked for all the world like just another snow-covered hill. The people who lived nearby brought her fern seeds to eat. They didn't have any idea what hens could be used for, but in general thought that farm animals were only useful after they died. Mimi thanked the people for the fern seeds with a loving cluck or two.

One winter it was especially bad. People huddled around their fires and didn’t dare to venture out of their huts. Mimi realized that she might not survive in such cold, so she lifted her mighty body and slowly set out to find some shelter. The great bird walked in the direction of the sea, sensing it might be warmer there. Luckily the snow was so hard that she didn't sink into it but rather skated over it. She slided and glided, crying out in frightened excitement. Toward evening a blizzard struck. A cold wind blew right through Mimi's warm feathers and the red crown on her head was soon covered with ice. Blinking into the whiteness, she looked around for shelter. Suddenly she caught sight of a large gaping hollow. Today we call this place Postojna Cave but in those long-ago times before the Ice Age it was known as the Hen's Cave and you will soon understand why... Mimi used all her power to propel herself toward the opening and push her way in. She pushed and pushed but ended up stuck in the hole. She managed to push her head and chest into the cave but her rear end stayed outside. She stared into the darkness of the cave with her feathery bottom stuck out in the cold and waited for the bitter end.

After a couple of days it grew a bit warmer. The people put on their fur coats and went outside to look for food. They spotted Mimi’s enormous bottom poking out of the cave. Icicles hung from her feathers. The people gathered around her and wondered how on earth they would get her out. Mimi could hear them outside and they could hear her melancholy clucking coming from the cave. The people tied a rope around her legs. They pulled and pulled, but she didn’t budge. Not even a tiny bit. Someone thought that tickling her might help, but other than the sound of a faint giggling from the cave, nothing happened. Then someone else suggested filing down a stone to make it sharp and that is how the first tool was invented. It was used to chip away at the mouth of the cave that held Mimi so tight. The people worked for a long time, until night fell. They had to work very carefully in order to not injure Mimi. Finally enough limestone crumbled away from the entry of the cave that Mimi was able to breathe easier and finally push herself out of the hole. She nodded her head gratefully at the people outside the cave and cooed happily.

In the company of the tribe of human beings who had saved her, Mimi waddled back to her nest which looked like a giant ship floating high upon the swells of the meadow. Mimi was never afraid of people again. She often wondered how she could thank them for their help and one day she got an idea. She used her beak to plough the meadow and make a field for growing vegetables, and then she used her talons to break the clods of dirt. She gave the people the feathers that fell from her body. Her feathers were so big that a whole family could find shelter from the rain and sun under just one of them. Once she let the whole tribe hide from its enemies beneath her great wings. Sometimes she allowed the people to store gourds of fruit and water under her feathers. It was the ideal temperature for fermenting a tasty drink. When the people went hunting or on other errands, Mimi minded their children. She lifted the little ones so high in the air with her beak that they screamed with terrified pleasure. They were scared but they knew Mimi would never drop them, that she would always return them safely to the ground. And so the tribe of Slovenian people and the young hen Mimi lived together peacefully and happily.

Then one day something unbelievable happened. To her great surprise, Mimi laid an egg. It was the very first egg in her life and she had no idea what it was and how it had come out of her body. She was the only giant hen in this part of the world and didn’t know any other hens who could explain what was happening to her. At first she even thought she had pooped. Feeling ashamed and embarassed, she ran around the enormous egg — it was as big as a house — and clucked fearfully until the people came running to see what was happening. Even though it was so enormous, the people knew right away that it was an egg. They had seen the eggs of other birds. They admired it and praised Mimi for laying such a large and beautiful egg. That calmed Mimi down. She watched the egg for a long time after the people had left. After a while, she decided that she liked the egg. Liked it very, very much. Then it struck her that she had never before seen anything as beautiful as the egg. Anything as white, anything as smooth, anything as delicate. Looking at the egg, so fragile and alone in the world, Mimi began to pity it. It seemed to her that the egg must be cold,

and so gently, very gently, she sat down on it in order to keep it warm with her body.

Mimi changed completely in the days that followed. She grew so attached to the egg that she never left it. She worried that someone might do harm to it and so watched over it with great vigilance. She squawked at the top of her lungs when anyone came near. She cackled so loudly that the branches of the trees in the nearby forest broke. Once a huge piece of rock actually fell off a mountain as a result of all the noise she made, and the crevice that still gapes there today is called the Kamnik Saddle. She chased off dinosaurs by flapping her wings and even the most bloodthirsty of creatures were frightened off by the wrath of the powerful hen. She didn’t even let the people come near her anymore. She clucked nervously when anyone stepped too close. She only left the egg when she needed food and then quickly returned.

The people noticed what was happening and thought that it was a shame that such a large and beautiful egg – which, fried or made into an omelette, would have fed the whole tribe – should go to waste. They came to the amazing realization that hens are not only useful for ploughing the fields and breaking the clods, are not only useful after death, but they could also give people eggs. They talked about all the things they might do with the hen's giant egg, and each time they talked their mouths watered more and more. After all, she owed them the egg since they had saved her life that past winter! And so they decided to take Mimi's egg. One night they crawled out to the meadow and tried to pull the egg out from under Mimi. But she opened her eyes right at that moment and rushed at them. The people, fearing her enormous sharp beak, fled.

Then one of the oldest villagers remembered how it used to be said that a gigantic earthworm as long as the Sava River lived at Lake Cerknica. The people got the idea that they could use the earthworm to lure Mimi away from her egg. They walked quickly to the lake — it took them two days on foot — but they needed seven whole days to get back. They tied the gigantic worm to a harness that needed forty grown men to pull. Mimi spotted the enormous worm from a great distance. She had never seen such a huge and marvelous morsel of food in her whole life! She jumped off her nest and ran toward the earthworm. She hopped around the worm that had started to slither back into the soil and tried to grab it with her beak. She pulled it here and there and had so much work with the worm that for several hours she completely forgot about the other henly duties awaiting her back at the nest.

And so she didn't notice the people quietly rolling the egg from the nest and toward the forest. She didn't notice them setting nearly a whole grove of trees on fire. The fire slowly burned and the people were getting ready to cook the most enormous omelet ever. But as they rolled the egg toward the coals, the shell suddenly cracked. The egg shuddered and there was a sudden pop from inside. The people stepped back nervously. The shell broke into two halves, and a gigantic chick, wet and featherless, peeked out and began to chirp in desperation.

Mimi dropped the earthworm and made for her baby at a gallop. She ran across the meadow in such a hurry that she trampled down all the huts where the people lived. The people scattered in fear when they saw the hen approaching at such ferocious speed. But Mimi didn't care about them at all and could only gaze with adoration at the creature that had come out of the shell. She suddenly realized that she had known all along what was hidden inside. She gently stroked the chick around its little head and lovingly held it under her wings. Then she lifted her head and gave the people a look so fierce that they all knew that there was no kidding around with her anymore. She strutted away, tenderly holding the chick close to her. They left –nobody knew where they were going – and they never came back again.

Just as the two disappeared over the horizon, the wind rose and the fire in the forest flared brightly. The people had to use an enormous quantity of water from the Ljubljanica River to douse the fire and a lake emerged which they called the Ljubljana Marshes. From then on, the people had to set their houses on stakes and travel between them in boats that they crafted from the trunks of trees. Many of them carved the image of a hen above the entryways to their houses. The people missed Mimi and spoke of her often. Some recalled that as they approached the great hen wedged in the cave that long-ago winter, they spied a giant rooster running away. Travellers arriving in Slovenian lands told the people about the giant white hen and her sweet yellow chick that they had met along their journey, and said that the two always seemed very happy. Not long afterwards, other tribes began to settle nearby. The tribes argued endlessly over the land. Sadly, Mimi was no longer there to protect the Slovenian people and land was stolen from them on all sides. And that is how Slovenia gradually acquired the shape of a fleeing hen and it still has that shape today.

TranslatedbyEricaJohnsonDebeljak

Max,thebravestlynx

MAX,THEBRAVESTLYNXis a popular science educational story based on true events from the lives of lynxes, transported to Slovenia from Romania and Slovakia as part of the LIFE Lynx international project in 2023. The book is illustrated by Ana Šerbelj and also includes 20 documentary color photographs. The material was reviewed and approved by experts from the LIFE Lynx project and the Slovenian Forestry Institute. The story is narrated by the lynx Max. The reader learns of his early life as a young cub, the accident with a broken leg, recovery in Slovakia, moving to Slovenia, life in an adaptation pen, release into the natural environment, meeting other lynxes, looking for a mate, crossing the highway, fighting for territory and females, encounters with hunting dogs and hunters. The efforts of the international community of Slovenia, Italy, Croatia, Romania, and Slovakia are presented to prevent the re-extermination of this largest living cat in Europe, which is very important for maintaining the natural balance of the roe deer. The content is suitable for all ages, and the English translation is especially recommended for English learners in the last triad of primary schools.

For rights acquisition, contact: igor@muck-blazina.eu

For the translation, contact: ejdebeljak@gmail.com

Thelynxclub

I only got the name Max when I was brought to Slovenia. Before that, I was Adam. I never thought I would lose the name that my mother gave me. I am not a human being, thank heaven. Because you can’t trust human beings. They have a strange small that they often cover with other smells, and their voices constantly change. From a deep and rumbling sounds that go like a shudder through the bones, to high and warbling sounds that seem nice enough. But I’ve seen with my own eyes people use that sing-song voice to lure an animal, and then – bang! You can imagine what that means. Sometimes a person, when an animal works with him, will yell and even hit the animal. So you just can’t trust people because their moods are always changing. That is why I am proud that I am a lynx, that I am an animal, because you can trust a simple fly more than a person, because you always know what the intentions of a fly are.

I’ve known many people and I admit that they’re not all bad. Without people, I actually wouldn’t be alive today. I was born in the Endless Forest, far, far away. I had many problems even as a cub. I was the smallest in the litter, and the weakest. I had difficulties getting to my mother’s milk, and was always angry at my brother Alex and my sister Alina. Fortunately, my mother Agatha had a soft heart and she helped me to the teat so I survived. There are many lynx cubs who are not that lucky.

Mother was really great but it bothered me that she carried us everywhere. She grabbed us by the loose skin on the napes of our necks and carried us a few meters away, into another den. Then back again. She was afraid the Great Carnivore would sniff us out. And then at one point I got used to swaying in the air and I still miss it today.

She said to us: “I’m going hunting now so I will have enough milk for you gluttons! Be completely quiet while I’m gone! Do you understand? Because if the Great Carnivore that stalks the forest and feasts on little lynxes hears you. Oh, he’ll chew you up whole and not even a hair will be left!”

She told us that the Great Carnivore was bigger than a bear, black as a starless night, quick as lightning, and as clever as a fox. But, fortunately, an adult lynx is smarter and faster than the Great Carnivore and all the other beasts in the Endless Forest, which is why no animal has ever caught a grown lynx although in ancient times one just barely escaped. A Great Carnivore grabbed it by the tail and bit it. And that is why we lynxes have short tails. And that is also why we have to be even more careful of the Great Carnivore now, so it won’t bite our bottom too! I can’t imagine lynxes without bottoms!

Lynx cubs also have to watch out for eagles. Once, long ago, it happened that an eagle came from behind a cloud and plunged down at a cub, grabbed it by its ear, and tried to fly away with it. But the little cub scratched and hissed and flailed so much that the giant of the sky had to let it go and was left with only a few hairs from its ears. And since then we have little tufts of hair on our ears. That’s what our mother told us. And no mother lies. At least that’s what I believed then.

It’s great to be a little lynx: you play all the time, wrestle with your brother and sister, your mother nurses you and even brings you a little piece of meat now and then until you learn to hunt by yourself. I didn’t know that there were other lynxes until once when I was wrestling with Alex. He was already beating me when he suddenly let me go and started to sniff in the air. I also picked up a very special scent coming from a nearby bush. It was not a roe deer, not a fox, least of all a bear which really stinks. It was… the scent of a lynx!!! The leaves of the big hawthorn bush rustled and the smell became stronger. We both rolled on our backs in fear. I even peed a little. Then we ran to our mother. Alina was lying between her paws, her eyes wide and bewildered.

“It’s a lynx, mama!” I squealed. “A lynx!”

I swear that my mother actually smiled. Then she purred: “It’s true. A beautiful lynx!”

A shadow from behind the bush fell on a nearby tree trunk and then disappeared as if it had never been there at all.

“Mama! Do you know that lynx?” Alina asked.

“Of course I know him. That’s your father! Big Adam. You were named after him.” She poked me with her paw. I rolled over. “I thought you would be big like him,” she sighed sadly. I knew what she meant. My brother and sister were both stronger and bigger than me. We were always competing, who could jump farther, onto the highest rock. I was never first. Not even once. And there was always something wrong with me. I often coughed and sniffled, and I was clumsy. I had unusually long legs, and when I ran fast, they got tangled up beneath me, and I toppled onto my nose. Alina and Alex made fun of me and they were right to. I landed on the ground more like a big frog than a lynx. Even I had to laugh.

Theaccident

Once, when we were almost as big as our mother, I decided that I had had enough. I was going to jump farther than anyone. I climbed to the top of a high rock and yelled – “I am the king of all lynxes!” – and pushed off. I really flew far, very far. I cried out with joy while in the air, but when I landed on the ground, I felt a sharp, unbearable pain at the front of my left paw. It lay limply beside me like a broken branch. My mother ran over with concern, tried to lift me on my legs, but I couldn’t stand. The pain was too much. She licked my head until I fell asleep. I was alone when I woke up. Night had begun to fall. I was covered with leaves as if my mother wanted to protect me for the last time.

I got up in pain and shook the leaves off of me. I began to pull myself forward with my three healthy paws, following the scent of my mother, Alex, and Alina, but I soon collapsed and lay on my side. Behind me was a steep cliff, around me bushes, and so, thank goodness, it was hard to see me. I tried to fall asleep and stay asleep until my family returned. But it didn’t

work. Not just because of the pain, but because lynxes never sleep at night. They roam around and hunt. The hunger became worse than the pain, but the worst of all was the thirst. If I closed my eyes, a clear stream with cool pools immediately appeared before me. I threw myself into it, and drank and drank, and when I realized I was only dreaming, I was overcome by a powerful fear. Perhaps we lynxes are not immortal after all. Maybe we can also die, and not only the animals that we kill. I mewled from sadness, as only a very young, sick, hungry, and lonely lynx can mewl. An owl hooted above me. I knew her from before, because owls also hunt at night. She sounded angry. I immediately understood that she wanted me to be quiet. I remembered my mother’s warning. Of course! A predator could find me if I made noise.

There was a rustling in the bush in front of me. My heart stopped. A bear? A bear wouldn’t have any pity on a dying, young lynx! Although it might wait because bears like dead meat. Or maybe it was a wolf?! A wolf wouldn’t wait… Oh, Mother! Where are you?! But it was a fox. She stole through the leaves and began to sniff at me. Her eyes shone dangerously in the darkness, then she grumbled and left. I was too big for her and she would also wait… for me to… to… She would return when I’m… My eyes stung and soon my whole snout was wet. Whoever thinks that animals don’t cry couldn’t be more mistaken. Many females, even the greatest predators, have dark marks under their eyes. These are the tracks of the tears that they shed when they lost their young. My mother also had them because we weren’t her first cubs. I sighed deeply. I knew my mother didn’t have any choice. She had two other youngsters who needed a month or two more for her to feed them and teach them to hunt. She couldn’t keep carrying me around in her mouth anymore. I was almost as big as she was. Lynxes have to keep moving around on their territory. She had to leave me to… to… you know… to die. I finally said the dreadful word.

Whendeathisnear

That night, thankfully, no other animal came sniffing around me. Of course, I was awake: I’m a lynx. By morning light, I was already very tired, but through my bleary eyes, I noticed birds of prey circling around the crowns of the trees above me. I saw a buzzard, two jays, and a whole flock of ravens. They know that I will be their lunch today. The fox also ran by again, sniffed around quickly to check if I was a corpse already, and then trotted away. I began to feel an unbearable itch, right there, where I couldn’t reach with my paw. I thought I would go crazy. Now and again, an animal would come by but they didn’t notice me. I dozed, I felt my terrible hunger and thirst, and was certain I was already dead. A whole day passed and another night. In the morning, I noticed that the ravens were not circling high above anymore but had settled onto the branches of the nearby trees, chattering and quarreling no doubt about who would get the first bite. My paw did not hurt as badly anymore. It was numb. I looked at it and noticed red ants running over the wound, there where my bone was sticking out, and keeping themselves very busy with it. I squealed. Ants were devouring me! A still living body! But I slowly realized that they were actually helping me. They

carried away the dead and rotten pieces of flesh, and cleaned the wound with their ant acid, which also numbed the pain a bit. I was finally able to put weight on my paw and take a few painful steps. The ravens cawed angrily and followed me.

I crawled to the nearest shelter where I could wait for death in peace. I closed my eyes and surrendered to the departing sounds and light. I became completely calm, not caring about anything. But all of a sudden a known scent roused me, the scent of a just killed animal. The smell of fresh blood filled my nostrils and intoxicated me. Food was nearby! Magnificent, beautiful food, and only roe deer had such a wonderful aroma. I dragged myself along my belly toward the smell, hardly feeling the pain, my hunger being much stronger. I feared the ravens would get there faster than me and I wouldn’t be able to fight them for a piece of the meat. But strange, very strange, they didn’t stir from their branches. Some even flew away with cries of warning.

Because I was so weak, I didn’t realize that I only smelled the fresh blood but not the scent of a lynx or a wolf which could be her only predators. I spotted the roe deer through the leaves. She lay on her side, dead, blood flowing from her throat. I checked again and it was true – there were no other suspicious scents in the vicinity. I crawled through the fern to the prey and, famished, dug into the fresh meat. I almost fainted from happiness and pleasure. All of a sudden, there was a loud banging in front of me. I looked around me and saw a net. I tried to push it away with the last of my strength, but it was too hard and stiff to move. I immediately realized what had happened! I was trapped! Our mother warned us many times that this could happen, and that traps were set by the most horrible and dangerous animals in the world. They were called people. She told us such terrible things about them that we were convinced that she had made them up. Then I heard their voices.

TranslatedbyEricaJohnsonDebeljak

Patricija Peršolja

Patricija Peršolja works as a speech and language therapist and deaf educator and is the author of many stories for children and young adults. She started publishing stories in magazines for children and wrote a series of children’s stories for the Slovene National Radio. In 2013 she was nominated for the Veronikina nagrada, the literary award given to the year’s best collection of poems, with her first book of poetry, Gospodinjski blues.

Justfivemoreminutes

Time is always precious, especially when you spend it with those people who you miss the most, even if you still have to get to know them. When they knock on your door, the world turns upside down. Even those things that you could not understand until today, eventually start making sense.

For rights acquisition, please contact: barbara.pregelj@malinc.si

For translation, contact: polona.konjedic@malinc.si

ALONE

it was just mum and me.

We used to live with grandma and grandpa until they found each other again on the Milky Way, as my mum liked to say. Then mom's brother sold their house and both the vineyards, so he could buy a faster car and build himself another house or two. We ended up in town. It wasn't so bad, I just needed more time to be able to find in other people some

KINDNESS.

ALONE,

That’s how I wound up, countless times, since mum was always at work.

I didn't have a computer or anything like that, because we had to live modestly. That's why I spent a lot of time by myself. That's when I really missed

MY DAD.

I wanted him back with all my heart and so bad that I was ready to forgive him and forget that he had left us. My mum wasn't exactly the best at that. That's why I was sometimes angry with her, too. Then I broke a glass or spilt milk. On purpose.

ABOUT HIM

I wasn't told a lot, although I was always asking about him. My grandma once said that he was a globetrotter and my grandpa claimed that he was an acrobat in a traveling circus.

Once, I heard my mum say that my dad was a coward. I don’t know why, but

I NEVER BELIEVED THAT.

ONE MORNING

a stranger was standing in front of the door to our house. Well, he wasn't one of those horrible kinds of stranger. He was wearing a funny checkered hat and right away his face was full of some sort of

KINDNESS AND WARMTH.

“I'M HERE

on behalf of the king to keep you company during these lonely hours,” he said formally, making a clumsy bow that almost touched the ground.

“But we don't have a king in our country,” I whispered through the peephole.

His smiling face leaned towards me and whispered back:

“In my country, every person who tries to do something good is considered a king. That's why so many people wear a crown there.”

I didn't move, because I felt I just had to STAY THERE.

I STAYED,

first behind the peephole, because it's important to be careful and not trust just any stranger.

I watched him for a long time.

I remembered my grandma's words: “To get to know someone, you need to take your time. And to open your heart to someone, you need to take even more time.”

WE SAW EACH OTHER

every single day. His schedule never matched with mum's, so I couldn't introduce them. But throughout my entire childhood, I never again felt

LONELY.

Crouching behind the door, I stopped waiting for my dad.

In time, I understood my mum better –her resentment towards my dad was just a bad excuse for sadness, a sadness as big as a huge flock of birds in autumn.

“WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU?”

I was hoping that he'd tell me he was from some parents' shelter, but it wasn't exactly like that. He scratched his head under his hat, winked at me and said: “I was a baker before I got completely lost, so you can call me Uncle Baker. Does that sound ok you ?”

I was ok with that, although I couldn’t understand how you can get COMPLETELY LOST in such a small town.

A SMALL HALLWAY

in our building was where we had all our adventures. Guided by Jules Verne, we imagined exploring the whole world. And also the whole universe.

Some conversations were tougher than others.

“Why do some parents leave their children?” I asked him straight out, as we were putting his old steam train onto the wooden rails.

I saw right away that Uncle Baker suddenly got sad.

“Some parents love their children immensely, but they don't know how to take care of them. Sometimes this can be too painful, so they'd rather

LEAVE.”

I LOVED

the warm pastries that Uncle Baker baked just for me, but I couldn't share them with my mum, since whenever she saw a chunk of bread she got a little bit

SAD.

“What you can't understand today, give it time. One day, time will give you the answer,” he said gently after I told him about my mum and bread.

THANKS TO HIM

I became a happier child. I did lots of things to entertain my mum. She really enjoyed the little performances I put on each night in front of the couch, when I played an illusionist, a clown or an invisible man. And most importantly – we weren't drinking out of plastic cups any more, nor cleaning up spilt milk with toilet paper. I felt that my mum and I were getting closer to each other.

THANKS TO HIM.

HE CAME

with a foldable camping table and two small chairs.

“If you never try them, you won’t know special picnics in the hall can be. We don’t have to worry about the weather and we can devote all our time to one another,”

Uncle Baker had explained to me on our hundred and first meeting.

“And to Dora’s spaghetti,” he added, praising our neighbour who prepared something delicious for us every day.

OUR FAREWELL

was the same every day. We started missing each other even before we said goodbye. And at the end of each meeting, Uncle Baker spoke those magical words:

“JUST FIVE MORE MINUTES, PLEASE.”

I WAS AFRAID

that one day he would leave forever. I couldn't imagine my life without him.

“I will leave when you don’t miss me anymore, when you're able to remember me without sadness, with just a smile on your lips.”

Uncle Baker never said

NEVER AGAIN.

THAT DAY CAME, of course.

Uncle Baker didn’t say much.

We stared at one another for a long time as if we were trying to memorize every detail of our faces by heart. Then he whispered:

“Just five more minutes, please.”

He took off his checkered hat, gave one of his unforgettable bows, and concluded:

“IT'S BEEN AN HONOUR FOR ME.”

“For me too, King,” I answered, panting.

MY DAD

made my childhood better, because he did everything he could to give me a part of his life. And himself.

Because the day came when time really did give me the answer.

We never met again.

I grew up, became my own king and fulfilled my childhood dreams. But I would give up any of them just to see him again once more, even

JUST FOR FIVE MINUTES.

TranslatedbyPolonaKonjedic

Breda Podbrežnik and Klarisa

Jovanović

Breda Podbrežnik Vukmir started her career as a Slovenian language teacher and continued as a professor of the Slovene language. She has been the director of France Balantič Library in Kamnik for 28 years and has participated in various professional organizations and meetings. She is the author of several articles, co-author of important articles on strategies and standards of general libraries, and winner of the Čopova award. She is also interested in folk science and is the co-author and editor of several fairy tale books. Besides, she is the organizer of the Križnik Fairy Tales Festival, one of the most recognisable Slovenian cultural heritage festivals.

Klarisa Jovanović is a professor of French and a comparative literature graduate. She translates mainly from Greek, but also from Serbian, Croatian, Macedonian, Italian, and French. She has published three books of poetry. In 2007, she published the poem Zgiban prek Mure, which was nominated for the best debut next year. Her poem Izgnana was nominated for Veronikina nagrada award, the literary award given to the year’s best collection of poems. She is also an interpreter of poems set to music and folk songs.

Howtheflowerscameintotheworld

The collection of fairy tales, myths, and legends HowtheFlowersCameInto TheWorld:TalesAboutFlowersFromAllOvertheWorldconnects different cultures and continents and illustrates the similarities and differences between them. Even though the stories are international, the Slovenian environment is the heart of the collection, not only because of the authors but also because it is the international perspective that can makes us see the richness of the tales, including Slovenian ones.

For rights acquisition, contact: barbara.pregelj@malinc.si

For the translation rights, contact: lucka.lucovnik@gmail.com

ABEDOFTULIPS

In a house at the edge of the village lived an old woman. She had a small vegetable garden and next to it, a large bed of tulips. The tulips cheerfully lifted their heads because the old woman took good care of them. She worked, weeded, and watered the bed, delighting in the beautiful colours.

Near the old woman's house, there was a meadow. In it, under the full moon, fairies danced and combed their long silky hair. The fairies always brought their little ones with them. Their dancing and singing usually lulled the little ones to sleep. Sometimes, when the moon shone almost like the sun, the babies couldn't sleep, and the fairies couldn't indulge in dancing and singing. However, at the sight of the bed of tulips, a saving thought occurred to one of the fairies: their little ones would surely fall asleep on the fragrant petals. Softer cradles could not be imagined. With the gentle night breeze that softly rocked the flowers, the little fairies would sleep, she was sure of it. Indeed, the fairies laid their little ones inside the tulip blossoms, sang them a lullaby, and then surrendered to carefree singing and dancing. Since then, the tulips have bloomed even more beautifully. And not only that! They began to smell like roses. The old woman was overjoyed and never picked a single flower.

One winter day, the old woman died. People who cared little for flowers moved into her house. They dug up the bed of tulips and planted parsley on it. The fairies, hurt and angry because the new owners destroyed their floral cradles, enchanted the bed, and the parsley seeds never sprouted. However, they didn't forget the kind old woman. They planted tulips on her grave and cared for them, working, weeding and watering the bed just as the friendly old woman had done. Everyone in the village wondered where the tulips on the old woman's grave came from, as no one had ever been seen visiting it. The fairies, of course, went to the grave when it was very dark on the night before the full moon. They sang and danced in memory of the kind soul who cared for the flowers as if they were her own children.

An English tale

TranslatedbyLučkaLučovnik

Breda Smolnikar

Breda Smolnikar (1941) is one of the most curious writers in contemporary Slovenian literature. She began writing at the age of nineteen, and in 1963, she debuted with the YA novel (Children, Life Goes On), followed by two more YA novels (The Little Mosaic of Names; Buds), addressing topics considered taboos at the time. Later, she published works for adults under the pseudonym Gospa (Lady), causing scandals due to politically incorrect topics related to the interwar era and the Second World War, leading to a three-month prison sentence in the 1980s. In 1998, she was invited to reside in Switzerland for a month, where she wrote the novel When the BirchesLeafOutUpThere, published the same year. The play led to a trial because five women recognized their late mother as the protagonist. The author was prosecuted for eight years until the Constitutional Court finally overturned all convictions and forced the author to remove her work from all libraries and bookstores in Slovenia. The author continued to publish various works and has until today published twenty-five books, including translations and reprints.

WhentheBirchesLeafOutUpThere

The novel takes place before World War I, during the great wave of emigration to the USA. The main character, Rozina, is a resourceful and successful saleswoman. Her love for Brinovc, a Slovenian boy she marries, contributes a lot to the success of her business ventures. The couple makes a good fortune selling brandy in the USA in the Prohibition Era. In 1941, they visit their homeland, but due to the outbreak of World War II, they cannot return to the USA, and their daughter Fanny remains there. Forced to stay in their homeland, Rozina quickly finds ways to make a living and successfully trades during the war. She also redeems the life of the partisan Zmaga, her fellow villager, by offering a bottle of American cherry brandy to a German officer. Rozina always succeeds in everything, despite the difficult conditions at the time, including her return to the USA after her husband's death. The story ends with the last period of the heroine's life and death.

For rights acquisition, contact: smolnikar.breda@t-2.net

For the translation, contact: mbiggins@uw.edu

those were Greek ships at anchor out in the harbor as she stood on shore like some faithful seawife ready to welcome her sailor husband back home from a voyage over the high seas, she waited with bags full of beans and dried mushrooms, she spoke English, or else she wouldn’t have been able to talk to the ships’ foreign captains, she waited for them at harbor’s edge in Sušak as they approached the shore in a launch from their ship that stood out at anchor, their faces at first showing surprise when they saw her, which then changed to admiration and interest as they unloaded their goods, she’d brought them dried mushrooms and beans, while they offered her raisins and figs, oranges and lemons, sometimes she’d bring a whole truck full of them home, and if it was the season for cherries, the truck’s driver would let her off by some village square on the way with those huge baskets of cherries and, while he was unloading or loading his goods, she’d sell the cherries that peasants up in the hills had picked for her, they had to be sold right away or they’d rot, she had everything organized so that bags full of beans and dried mushrooms would come trundling down from the hills to her and she would inspect whatever they brought, sticking her nose into the beans to make sure they’d been scrupulously sorted and, if not, she would yell at whoever brought them, no American is going to touch garbage like this, I’ll let it go this time, but next time you’d better make sure that they’re perfect, and then she would shake the motley beans onto the table and have her children pick through them for whole evenings on end, because her produce had to be top quality and perfect, she wasn’t about to let anyone accuse her of selling substandard stuff, just one time some ship’s captain had accused her of selling moldy beans and after that she never forgot her mistakes and never repeated them either, she particularly liked sticking her nose in the mushrooms, they had to smell fresh, not musty, they had to be cut in uniformly thick slices so she gave every mushroom picker she worked with precise instructions on how thick to slice them, how to dry them, how to store them, mushrooms had to be delivered to her in freshly laundered white linen bags or else she refused to accept them, she was very precise about mushrooms, with beans it didn’t matter as much, there wasn’t as much they could do to wreck those, we’ll have the kids sort through them, she would say to her husband, who sometimes chided her for pressing too hard on the hill farmers who supplied her with produce, I’m not paying good money for this garbage, she’d tell them, so that next time they’d be sure to bring better quality produce that she could take down to the coast, and once she’d moved all of her goods she would usually sit next to the driver on the way home, or wordlessly make her way back to the flatbed and sit among her bags of raisins and figs if somebody else was riding alongside the driver up front and there was no room for her; she didn’t much care where or how she rode back, as long as business went according to plan, she could wash and change clothes once she got home, the ride home didn’t matter, just as long as she was coiffed and fresh for her customers on the coast and wearing some of her gold jewelry from America, the way back didn’t matter, she’d made her impression and gotten her goods, so she took off the rings, necklaces, earrings and gold wristwatch as soon as she was back on the truck, put them into a large wallet, wrapped the wallet up in a big cloth, then put that in a basket which she covered with her cardigan sweater, took off her shoes with the high heels that she used to impress the ships’ captains, kicked them off in front of her onto the dirty bed of the truck and, barefoot, began to rehearse the next steps of her plan,

now’s where the work begins, on Friday I go to the market in Moravče, then Črnuče on Saturday, next week to Mengeš where the church will be celebrating the feast of its namesake on Sunday, and from there to Kamnik and Nova Štifta of course…, she recited as she sat among all the filthy bags that had just seen days in a ship’s hold and plenty of rats, then she threw a dropcloth over a stack of bags and sat down behind it, setting the basket containing her jewelry and lunch down before her, just in case, so that no one could steal it, and she broke off a chunk of the bread that she’d wrapped in a fresh napkin and put in the basket, ate an apple or two, depending on how hungry she was, slung a forearm through both basket handles and only then, secure from thieves, lay her weary head back on the bags with her shiny modern high heels cast off nearby, no need for them to show off for anyone here in the back of the truck, and until the truck with its rumble and jolts rocked her into a fitful sleep, she began calculating how much she would be able to earn at each stop and how much would remain, and how soon she would be back at the harbor waiting again, and so during all those years between one war and the next she sold produce at home, raisins were four dinars a pound in the stores, but she could sell them at markets in nearby villages and up in the hills for just two, people would come rushing down from the hills to buy raisins and figs and you could see her at virtually every marketplace in the region, and when her daughters got old enough, they began selling them too, she knew exactly how much they needed to earn, this much money for that much produce, she would say as she stuffed the money into her pockets before depositing it all in a stack up in the attic, the earnings were such that she weighed rather than counted them, (…)

TranslatedbyMichaelBiggins

Cvetka Sokolov

Cvetka Sokolov (1963) is a university Professor of English. Writing for children and adults is her pastime. Her first text for a picture book, The Red House (2004), was published in 2004, and many more followed. In 2013, her novel for young adults, What Doesn't Kill You, came out. She also writes children's poetry and riddles. The recurring themes of her work for children are small joys that arise from everyday events, genuine human contact, and opening one's eyes to the wonders of nature, while her novels for teenagers mostly deal with darker themes of physical, mental, and sexual abuse.

ZojatheMagpie

ZojatheMagpiecollects everything that shines. When there is no space in her nest anymore, Zoja comes up with an idea: she will open a jewellery store. What a joy for her and the other forest animals!

The jewellery store is quickly running out of stock, but luckily for Zoja, there are even more precious treasures, treasures that the shiny junk can't compare to.

For the rights acquisition, contact: info@zalozba-zala.si

For the translation, contact: cvetka.sokolov@guest.arnes.si

“I must do something about it,” murmured the magpie Zoja.

There were so many glittering objects in her nest at the edge of the forest that there was hardly any room left for her in it.

She should have stopped collecting little rings, pendants, shiny buttons, safety pins, hair clips, glittering pieces of glass, gold-embroidered pieces of cloth and similar treasures – but they were so pretty!

She pondered and pondered, took a nap, and pondered again, until a flash of inspiration came to her.

“I know!” she exclaimed. “I’ll open a jewellery shop!”

First, she had to find an nice place that would be safe from burglars. A difficult task.

The magpie Zoja perched on a branch outside her front door and scanned the meadow.

“Oh, no!” she shook her head. “I must go deeper into the forest. My customers won’t dare come here, not in broad daylight.”

She flew into the dense forest.

She flew and flew until she landed in a clearing in the middle of the forest. She sat down on a branch of an old oak tree and looked around until she spotted the smooth surface of a large tree stump.

If she covered it with scarlet velvet embroidered with gold thread, it would be just right to house her rich collection.

A wall of rock surrounded the stump in a semicircle.

Who knows when a child built it when he or she stopped in the clearing with mommy and daddy.

It must have happened a long time ago. People did not come this deep into the forest anymore. Good for Zoja!

“I can do without kids filling their pockets with my treasures,” muttered Zoja, who rarely came here herself. “But business requires flexibility,” she said to herself for courage.

She flew to the stump and tested the rock wall for strength with her beak.

“If I make it higher, weave a roof and a door, and put a latch on it,” she spoke to herself, “the jewellery shop will be safe from good-for-nothings.”

A jay swung on a spruce branch casting shadows onto the stump.

“What are you doing?” she asked the magpie Zoja curiously.

“I’m weaving a sliding door,” replied Zoja.

“A sliding door?” wondered the jay. “What for?”

“I’m going to open a jewellery shop,” Zoja the magpie replied proudly.

The news spread like wildfire among the forest dwellers.

“The magpie is opening a jewellery shop, the magpie is opening a jewellery shop,” went from beak to beak and from snout to snout.

“A jewellery shop?!” growled the bear. “Nonsense!”

“I can’t wait!” thought the fox, who had long secretly wished for a necklace.

“I have been dreaming of a glowing red bow for ages,“ sighed the squirrel to herself. “Who knows if I can get it at the jeweller’s?”

Zoja the magpie worked hard from morning till night for three days. On the fourth day she brought all her treasures to the jeweller’s shop. What a long way it was from her nest to the clearing! When at last all the articles were transported, Zoja took a piece of wood and inscribed it with golden letters which read:

JEWELLER’S SHOP ZOJA’S TREASURES

Then she flew around the forest and announced as loud as a magpie, “Jeweller’s Shop Zoja’s Treasures opens tomorrow! Customers welcome! Do not miss the opening discounts!”

When she finally arrived back home, she collapsed on her bed.

“Finally enough room in the nest,” she muttered before falling asleep.

She rose at the crack of dawn the next morning.

She flew to the jewellery shop, opened it, and waited for customers.

She waited and waited but not even an ant crawled by.

“Bad day for business, eh?” asked a male magpie, landing beside her. Where had he come from?

“Stop wasting my time!” snapped Zoja. “Buy something for your wife instead!”

“I do not have a wife yet,” the male magpie said, making eyes at Zoja and introducing himself, “Stanislav.”

“What are you waiting for?” asked Zoja sarcastically.

“What about you?” retorted Stanislav.

“Can’t you see that I have no time for a family?” replied Zoja, pointing her wing at the jeweller’s.

A hare hopped by.

“Ms Hare,” Stanislav called after her. “Surely you don’t want to miss the opportunity to dangle those pretty earrings from your lovely ears?”

The hare looked around anxiously before stepping closer.

“They are really pretty,” she admitted, catching her breath. “How much are they?”

“Ten raspberries,” Zoja replied.

“They are rather expensive,” the hare hesitated. Most of the berries were eaten by the animals immediately so they were hard to find.

“But they are worth every berry,” Stanislav reassured her, “and tomorrow they will cost four berries more.”

The hare hopped into the forest. She came back with thirteen raspberries so that she could afford a glittering hairclip, too.

No sooner had she disappeared than the bear waddled by.

“A necklace for Mrs Bear?” Stanislav asked him in a sweet voice.

“A necklace?” roared the bear with laughter. “This is a forest, not a circus!”

“If you change your mind, we are at your disposal,” Stanislav called after him, “as long as we haven’t sold the stock by then.”

“I’m so glad the bear is not interested,” sighed the fox with relief, stepping out of the bush.

Then the squirrel bought the glowing red bow.

And the badger bought the bracelet.

And the bear’s wife bought the gold-framed mirror.

Now, the clearing was teeming with animals.

They bought and bought Zoja’s treasures, and the stacks of strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, mushrooms and other goodies grew higher and higher until …

… until all the treasures were gone.

After all the animals had left the clearing, Zoja broke down in front of the empty jewellery shop and began to cry.

“I’m left without all my treasures,” she sobbed. “I’ll have to close the jewellery shop.”

“There, there,” grumbled Stanislav.

“I have sold everything,” sniffed Zoja.

“Many would celebrate that,” Stanislav grinned and stepped a little closer.

“But my jeweller’s …” whined Zoja.

“Forget it!” waved Stanislav off with his wing. “If the shop is closed for a while, no one will complain. In no time you’ll be selling junk again.”

Junk?!

If anyone else dared to call her treasures junk, Zoja would scold them thoroughly. But Stanislav … not only had he helped her break the ice ... well, she kind of liked him, too, so …

He pecked her lightly and said, “I’ll help you get what you have earned to your storeroom if you want.”

Of course she wanted him to.

When the work was done, Zoja the magpie invited Stanslav to a cup of spruce syrup.

Fortunately, there was room enough in the nest for both of them, now that all the treasures had been sold!

They kept looking into each other’s eyes and talking until they agreed to have little birds together. The nest was ready and roomy enough, food supplies plentiful, and their little hearts beat in harmony, too.

In the spring, one by one, the little birds pecked open the eggshells, and began to open their little beaks. Who would think of the jewellery shop now!

But all children grow up one day, also little magpies. Who knows if they will also make the forest animals happy with their treasures when they leave their parents’ nest?

TranslatedbyCvetkaSokolov

Peter Svetina

Peter Svetina is a writer, professor and translator from Slovenia. He writes for children, young adults and adults, but his work often crosses the borders between different target audiences. Svetina’s works often play with occurrences and images arising from his everyday life, and have been translated into English, German, Spanish, Korean, Polish, Latvian, Estonian, and Lithuanian. His books have received some of the most prestigious national and international awards and are immensely popular among literary critics and young readers alike. His name was included in the shortlist of the 2020 Hans Christian Andersen Award.

TwoWiseHippos

The protagonists of TwoWiseHippos, Hubert and Marcel, use to sit under a London pane's shadow and spend a lot of time throwing mud balls into the brook. They talk to other animals, though (Carmela the elephant and Tanami the giraffe are among them) and sometimes try to do important things, like helping grasshoppers and commissioning paintings. They like to pose grave questions: How to make a bouquet of rhymes? How wide is the summer? Who is fundamental in this world? Why should we read a lighter book? How long does a downpour last? How to count penguins? The 21 short stories comprised in TwoWiseHipposare clear and short, poetic and tender, hilarious and wise.

For rights acquisition, contact: Barbara.pregelj@malinc.si

For the translation, contact: jonderganc@gmail.com

A bunch of rhymes

Hippopotamuses Hubert and Marcel were sitting under a plane tree and throwing mudballs into the water.

“I would really like to compose a poem,” Marcel said.

“Can I help you?” Hubert asked.

“Do you know what a poem is?” Marcel said.

“Hm, I don’t think so,” Hubert replied.

Then they sat quietly and kept throwing mudballs into the water.

“A poem is basically a bunch of rhymes,” Marcel explained after a while.

“What is a rhyme?” Hubert asked.

“A rhyme is greens – beans, for example,” Marcel replied.

“Which is the rhyme, greens or beans?”

“Both are the rhyme. Greens rhymes with beans, get it?”

“Aaah,” Hubert said, “now I understand.”

They got up around noon and said to the plane tree, “Well, best of luck to you.” And they left.

In the evening, Hubert knocked on Marcel’s door.

“Look,” he said, “I’m not sure if you’ll like it, but I’ve put together this poem.”

Hubert was holding in his front feet a bunch of grasses and collard greens and swiss chard and green beans and a head of cabbage and some parsley. All neatly tied together into a large bouquet – greens and beans.

“You’re a true friend,” Marcel said and invited Hubert into the living room.

“I doubt anyone else could compose such a good poem,” Marcel said once they had eaten the last leaf of parsley.

How wide is the summer?

Hubert and Marcel were standing in the brook under the plane tree and watching the sun.

“How wide do you think the summer is?” Hubert asked.

“Who knows, very,” Marcel replied.

“Shall we measure it?” Hubert asked.

“And how would you measure it?” Marcel asked.

“With a measure and an umbrella.” Hubert explained.

“Aha,” Marcel said, “I have an umbrella.”

“And I have a measure,” Hubert said.

The next day they planted the umbrella into the ground by the brook and measured the length of its shadow. A day later they measured it again, and again the day after that, and they continued doing so for many days. They measured in the morning and they measured in the afternoon. They sweated and they sweated again. They measured unceasingly.

Then a drop of rain fell on the umbrella.

“It has started to rain,” Marcel said, “the summer is over.”

“Then we’re done,” Hubert said.

“I’m quite exhausted,” Marcel said. “Now we can rest. What did our measurements add up to?”

“Two-hundred and seventeen metres and forty-five centimetres,” Hubert said.

“Well, now you finally know how long the summer is,” Marcel said while they were walking home with the umbrella over their heads. “Are you satisfied?”

“Yes,” Hubert said.

After a while he asked, “How high do you think the winter is?”

A picture with friends

Hubert the hippopotamus was standing in front of Ludwig the pelican’s studio.

“Ludwig, will you draw me a picture?” he asked him.

“I will,” Ludwig said. “What would you like me to draw for you?”

“My friends,” Hubert replied.

“Which friends?” Ludwig asked.

“All of them” Hubert answered. “All of them if you can. In one picture.”

A good week later Ludwig had finished the picture. All of Hubert’s friends were on it. Marcel the Hippo, Carmela the elephant, Richard the crocodile, Tanami the zebra, Zograf the frog, Maximilienne the baboon and Ludwig the pelican – all of them.

“What a pretty picture,” Marcel said when he stopped by Hubert’s house. “I’ll help you hang it.”

Hubert found a nail and Marcel put on an iron-shod glove. It is a well-known fact that hippopotamuses use an iron-shod glove to drive nails, not a hammer.

“Where do you want it?” Marcel asked.

“Here,” Hubert pointed.

Marcel positioned the nail and struck it.

Crrrrash! The wall gave in. He made a gaping hole in it.

“Whoops!” Marcel said. “I broke your wall.”

“Hmm, a new window,” Hubert said. “What can you see through it?”

Hubert stuck his head through the hole. He could see the road and Carmela the elephant sauntering along it.

“Hello, Hubert,” she said and gave him a wave.

“Yes,” Hubert said. “A friend walking by is, in truth, the prettiest of pictures.”

And he placed Ludwig the pelican’s painting on his bookshelf.

TranslatedbyJonDerganc

TheGirlWhoDeliveredBread

In Donostia there lived a boy who everyone called Jan Littlecross. When he still lived with his grandmother, she went with him to see the waves that approached the city from the open sea. These weren't little waves, foamy curls. No, they were waves that reached a height of three, four, five, sometimes even eight meters, and broke against the sand of the shore, in front of the city.

For rights acquisition, contact: barbara.pregelj@malinc.si

For the translation, contact: konjedicpolona@gmail.com

In Donostia there lived a boy who everyone called Jan Littlecross. When he still lived with his grandmother, she went with him to see the waves that approached the city from the open sea. These weren't little waves, foamy curls. No, they were waves that reached a height of three, four, five, sometimes even eight meters, and broke against the sand of the shore, in front of the city. When one of those tall waves arrived, the grandmother gave a shout of joy and crossed herself. And Jan, who was delighted alongside his grandmother, copies that same gesture he saw her make and crossed himself. Since then, he was called Jan Littlecross. And they still called him that even when he no longer crossed himself with every tall wave, for this nickname had stuck.

The grandmother died and Jan grew up. He still kept going to the sea to watch the waves. Together with the other kids he went to the end of a long pier that the mayor order to be built, far into the sea. He also ordered a breakwater to be built in front of the pier, made from enormous blocks of stones. The boys counted the waves, calculated how high they were, and squealed when a particularly tall one approached. It took skill to calculate the height of a wave. Would it break in such a way as to splash them? Could they escape in time from its waters and foam?

On the other side of the pier, where the wind blew with less force, were the girls. They talked amongst themselves, watching the boys. In this group of girls one found María, who everyone called María of the Angels. She had a clear face and smooth brow, and underneath severe black eyebrows she had deep, dark eyes. It might be that they gave her this nickname because of her face.

Often, after the boys, and also the girls, had abandoned the pier after counting the waves, and returned drenched to their homes, Jan Littlecross and María of the Angels remained there alone to continue watching the waves. Sometimes they talked, and then Jan proved to be even more of a chatterbox than María. Other times they were silent, just contemplating the waves that broke against the pier.

One day, Jan counted the waves together with the other boys, but María wasn't on the other side of the pier. And Jan abandoned his companions to go in search of her.

He didn't know where she lived, so he didn't know where to go look for her. Nor did he know how to find out. Then he had the idea that he could look for a voice that spoke of María of the Angels.

In the streets, he found the voice of the wind:

SssssssssssSSssssss! SHHHHHhhhhhh!!!

WooosssssSshshhhhhhh!

He stumbled upon the sounds of footsteps:

Se topó con sonidos de pasos:

Tap tap tap tap

Clip clop clip clop

Shuffle shuffle shuffle

He found the noise that cars make:

VRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrooom! Honk HONK!

Brrrruuummm brummbruuummmmm

Taratarat taratarat taratarat!

He heard the cries of the seagulls: chiiiiiiiiu! chiiiiiiiiu!

He heard a window being forcefully closed: Iiiiiii BOOM!

He heard a window being forcefully closed: Iiiiiii BOOM!

When he left the city, he ran into a different sound of the wind: sssssshhhhhhhhhsshhsshshshsshshshshshshsh

He listened to the whisper of the sand, along the shore:

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssk

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssk

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssk

He discovered the voice of the waves: sshrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrumshshshshshshshshshshshshshshshshshtplash shshshshshshshtrhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrruuumshshshshtaaaaftshshshshshsh shshshpsssssssssssssssssssss shtrrrrrrrrrrummmmmshshshshshshshsh

He stumbled upon the sound of the sheep graving in the meadow:

cinglinglcin jrsssmlimlihrsss cinglin

He found all these voices, but not one, not the slightest sign of a voice that spoke of María of the Angels.

After a few days he went back to the pier.

María of the Angels was there.

"Where were you?" he asked her.

"I had to help my father to deliver the bread," she answered. "My mother is sick. That's why I help him to do it now."

"I was looking for you," jan said. "I looked for a voice that talked about you. But I couldn't find one. Look how many voices I found," he said, showing her his bag, full of boxes and containers, in which he had stores the voices. "But I couldn't find yours."

"You couldn't find it because I was here," María of the Angels said. "When I finished delivering, I came here."

When María of the Angels didn't come to the pier, Juan Littlecross knew she was delivering the bread together with her father. Then he went and listened.

Jan Littlecross and María of the Angels have grown up. María mother passed away, her father become an old man. One day, on the pier, María asked Jan: "Would you like to help me work in the bakery?"

When he entered the bakery for the first time, Jan saw the shelves full of fresh bread, and also a mantlepiece full of little boxes and tiny containers.

"What's inside?" he asked.

"The voices my father found," María explained. "And the voices my grandfather found before him. Both of them used to say, 'Bread is the

nourishment the body needs, the voices are the nourishment the soul needs.' They were always here whenever they kneaded the bread. But I don't know if the bread is better because of the voices, because I've only known this kind."

Jan Littlecross also placed on the mantlepiece the voices he had found.

Together they prepared the bread and delivered it.

They had a daughter and named her Oihane.

She grew up in the bakery and on the pier, from where she saw the boys who counted the waves. Among them was Beñat. Only the two of them remained when all the rest returned to their homes, and they began to talk. Or just to watch the waves together.

When María of the Angels grew old, Oihane began to deliver the bread together with her father. Then Beñat abandoned his fellows to go in search of her voice.

This is the story of bread. Strange and mysterious, which repeats endlessly.

TranslatedbyPolonaKonjedic