New Fairy Tales Issue 1 by New Fairy Tales

New Fairy Tales

Issue 1 Contents Letter from the Editor, page 2 List of contributors, page 3 The Mountain Ringer by Elaine Crinnion, page 5 The Tower by Lucy Ann Wade, page 8 Cloudberries by linda sarah, page 11 Moth and the Jade Rabbit by Jacqueline Gabbitas, page 12 Three Sisters by Anna Novitzky, page 15 The Princess and the Pig by K. A. Laity, page 18 The Silent Kingdom by Claire Massey, page 20 Creatures from the Curiosity Cabinet - No.1 by Particle Article, page 22

Illustration, Star, by Faye Durston Issue 1

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Letter from the Editor Welcome to the first issue of New Fairy Tales. We are a free online magazine featuring brilliant new fairy tales and beautiful illustrations. We aim to provide a home for original fairy tales and fairy tale art on the web. We don’t believe the fairy tale canon is complete or that we should only retell old stories. We believe that there are many new fairy tales out there waiting to be written and read and loved. We welcome work from previously unpublished writers and illustrators alongside the more established. We’re free so that we can reach as many people as possible and we’re hoping to raise money for a good cause, Derian House Children’s Hospice, in Chorley, Lancashire, UK. If you enjoy the magazine please do take the time to show your appreciation by making a small donation to them through our website; it really means a lot. We don’t believe fairy tales are just for children. It is well known that many of the original literary fairy tales were intended for an adult audience and can be read on many levels. And we don’t believe in watering down fairy tales or patronising anybody; children often love fairy tales with the gruesome or scary bits left in. We hope you will agree that the contents of the magazine are suitable for all ages. We received lots of submissions for this first issue and my job, as Editor, has been a very difficult one but the stories you are about to read all really stood out to me. Some feel traditional, some more modern. The stories are all original but of course no story can exist in isolation from the amazing literary history we all share. So you will find familiar fairy tale elements, including princesses and towers and you will find characters from myth used in a new way. For me all of these stories have the essential mark of a good fairy tale: I wanted to read them again. I would like to thank the following people for their generous help, support and kindness: Graham Dean – for all the technical help!, Emma Hardy – Creative Writing Tutor with the Open University for all her good advice and help with the final selection decisions, Lin Dean for her amazing and unending help, Greg Massey for his support and patience and Elizabeth Burns for her helpful feedback on my own stories. Claire Massey Editor

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Illustration, Cherry Tree, by Faye Durston

Important Copyright Notice Copyright of all the work contained in this magazine remains with the individual writers and illustrators. The magazine is intended for personal and educational use only. Please respect copyright; all enquiries about the work contained in the magazine should be directed to editor@newfairytales.co.uk We will pass your enquiry on to the relevant writer or illustrator.

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Contributors The Writers

The Illustrators

Elaine Crinnion is a graduate of The University of Portsmouth in combined English and creative arts; is a former children’s story writer and illustrator for Portsmouth & Southampton TV; has been published as a poet in a variety of media including: online in Jackie Kay’s National Poetry Day blog, 2006; on cds; in short films; on the Portsmouth radio station Express FM, and in pamphlets, anthologies, and journals; has read - under the name Stella Mandella - at fringe festival events from Brighton to Edinburgh; has won prizes for her poetry; runs poetry events and workshops for children; and is the director of the children’s poetry performance group The Wordipops. Elaine (as Stella Mandella) is also one half of the poetry duo The Disparate Housewives, with London-based poet Jacqueline Saphra, the other. Elaine is currently writing the narrative for a children's picture book about jungle wildlife, and is also close to completing a pre-teens' novel in the fairy tale genre. Originally from Surrey, Elaine currently shares a terraced cottage in Southsea, Portsmouth, with Philip Crinnion and three offspring between six and twenty-three years of age. www.myspace.com/stellamandella

As a child Faye Durston spent most of her time dressing up, writing stories and painting (messily). As a grown up, Faye still spends most of her time dressing up, writing stories and painting (slightly less messily). She lives in a cottage on the North East coast of England, and her first book for children is due to be published my MacMillan in 2010. You can see more of her work at http://fayedurston.blogspot.com/

Lucy Ann Wade is 27 years old and lives in Leicester. Her short story Calypso was recently included in the anthology Lands End, published by Inkermen Press (August 2008). Her story Lupus was highly commended in the Leicestershire short story competition in August 2007, and was subsequently adapted into a dramatic monologue and performed at a fundraiser event for the Ladyfest Festival (Leicester, 2007). She has written two plays, High Street Aphrodite and Hoodies, which received rehearsed readings at the Momentum Playwriting Festival (Nottingham, 2005 and 2007 respectively). Lucy is currently working on her first novel. For more information, please see http://lucyannwade.blogspot.com/ Jacqueline Gabbitas was born in Worksop, Nottinghamshire. Her poetry has been published in magazines and anthologies, including Poetry Review, Oxford Magazine and Images of Women (Arrowhead Press, 2006). In 2007 she was shortlisted for the New Writing Ventures Awards and her pamphlet, Mid Lands was published by Hearing Eye Press. She has been awarded a Hawthornden Fellowship to complete her first poetry collection. Jacqueline is an editor on Brittle Star magazine and works for Enitharmon Press. Her website is www.jacquelinegabbitas.net

linda sarah is an artist and writer who lives in London. You can visit her website at http://singandfly.com and her blog for illustrated poems and stories at http://travelandsing.com Kevin Dean trained at the Royal College of Art, he has worked as a illustrator and designer since 1983. His client list includes The BBC, The Natural History Museum and numerous publishers including Chatto & Windus and The Readers Digest. 'Jungles Hide & Seek' a children's book produced in collaboration with Prof John Norris Wood has sold nearly a million copies worldwide. Kevin is particularly interested in Jungles and he has lived with tribal peoples in Borneo and South America. He has also designed marble floors and archways for a Mosque in Abu Dhabi, one of the floors is bigger than a football pitch! www.kevindean.co.uk Graham Dean has been taking photographs for over 40 years, but more seriously in the last 10 years, since the onset of digital imaging. He’s had one solo exhibition to date, and work accepted at national and international exhibitions from Malmö to Miami. Website www.grahams-gallery.co.uk Esther Johnson studied illustration at the University of the West of England where she discovered a passion for fairy tales and children’s stories. She is currently based in Cheshire where she is studying a creative writing course to further her knowledge of the balance between word and image. Her websites are www.estherjohnson.co.uk and http://ewoketty.deviantart.com/ Jeanette Salvesen is 19 years old from Oslo, Norway. She is currently studying art at "Einar Granum Kunstfagskole" in Oslo with the goal of becoming a children’s book illustrator. You can see more of her work at http://dreamsofalostspirit.deviantart.com/

Anna Novitzky lives in south London, in a tall house filled with stuffed animals which move when no one is looking. She has previously been published as a music journalist, an opinion columnist and a civil servant, but her heart truly lies in fantasy fiction. Anna loves Hallowe’en, fireworks and long lie-ins, and she misses her pet snake, Thierry.

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The Writers (continued)

The Illustrators (continued)

K. A. Laity teaches medieval literature, film and popular culture at the College of Saint Rose in Albany, New York. In between writing very serious essays about Anglo-Saxon literature and Old Norse sagas, she also writes very silly things like "The Rules for Fimble Fowl (for 3 players or 4)" and imaginary donation letters for Wonderland. See her website, www.kalaity.com for links to her blog and publications, including her fairytale novel, Pelzmantel, and new short story collection Unikirja, inspired by Finnish myths and legends.

Particle Article are sisters Amy Nightingale and Claire Benson. Amy graduated in 2007 from Nottingham Trent University with a BA (Hons) in Textile Design where she specialised in embroidery and developed pieces with a handmade, precious feel, fusing metals, plastics, fabrics and found materials, combining traditional and contemporary techniques and styles. Claire has been an Occupational Therapist in Mental Health since 1997. She uses creative activities to enable recovery from mental illness. Together they create intricate, quirky sculptures of winged creatures from abandoned and reclaimed materials, both organic and manmade. Their fragile figurines often resemble insects, fairies, angels, or hybrids of these. They have exhibited their work across the UK. See their website www.particlearticle.co.uk for more details, stockists and forthcoming exhibitions.

Claire Massey is the founder and Editor of New Fairy Tales, she is based in Chorley, Lancashire. She loves reading fairy tales, reading about fairy tales and writing fairy tales and she wishes someone would invent a laptop she could use in the bath.

The Story Princesses by linda sarah

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The Mountain Ringer by Elaine Crinnion There was once a woman who lived in a village at the bottom of a mountain. Every morning, while it was still dark, she left her house and tramped up the long, steep, mountain path to the mountain top. As the sun was rising, she lifted the almighty wooden mountain mallet, and began work, for she, Felicity, was The Mountain Ringer. The mountain had three sides: The sunny village side; the dappled forest side; and the dark, dark, ravine side.

At its stony summit, all three sides had a circle polished into the stone, the size of a porthole. Felicity started at the sunny village side: With a heave of the mallet, she struck the centre of the sunny-side stone circle: Ding! it chimed, on a high note. Then she ran to the dappled forest side, and with another heave of her mallet, struck the centre of the dapple-side stone circle: Dang! it rang, Issue 1

on a deep note. Then she ran to the dark, dark, ravine side, heaved her mallet again, and struck the dark-side stone circle: Dung! it sung, on a low note. Then she ran back and started again. On and on she ran, round and round the mountain top, striking the plates in turn: Ding!, Dang!, Dung! At first, the, Ding!, the Dang!, and the Dung! sounded out separately, each note dying off before Felicity reached the next strikingplace. But by the third round, the notes began to join up: Dinggg!Danggg!Dunggg! After that, every striking brought the notes closer still, until, on the seventh hit, the plates played a chord of the three notes combined: Dong!Dong!Dong! and Felicity knew she’d finished her work for the day. She lay down, catching her breath, waiting... When the last Dong! had almost faded away, the mountain began to vibrate. Felicity felt it tingling through her strong mountain-ringer back. ‘Here it comes…’ she thought with excitement. And here it was: one final, enormous, ground-rippling DONNGGGGG!!! resounding from the middle of the mountain. Loose rocks bounced down the mountainside into the ravine; flocks of birds flew from the forest; calling; and in the village, everyone woke up. By the time Felicity had made her way back down the long, steep, mountain path, the baker had filled his shop with bread and cakes, the farmer had milked the cows, fetched the eggs, and churned the butter, and the butcher had prepared the meat. “Here’s some bread and pies for you Felicity!” hailed

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the baker merrily, as soon he saw Felicity returning. “And here are some eggs, milk, and butter!” cried the farmer, cheerily. “And here’s a chicken for you!” called the butcher, with a jolly grin. “Why thank you!” said Felicity graciously. The villagers were good to her: Her mountain ringing got everybody up out of the right side of bed. Felicity went home for a grand cook-up. She needed it. She was a big, hungry woman. Like all The Mountain Ringers before her, she had chunky, mallet-swinging arms with massive hands to match; trunky mountainclimbing legs, with huge feet at the end; and a hunky mountain-ringing body in the middle. This was perfect for her work, but she did wonder if she might’ve found a husband by now, if only she was a little daintier. Whenever she went to barn dances, no man could lift her. She thought most of them probably couldn’t even lift her mallet! She ended up throwing her partners round instead and they didn’t dance with her again after being spun about like a lady. Although Felicity lived alone, she was still hopeful of finding herself a good husband, until, one day, she found a single white hair among her bright red locks… “Oh my!” she wailed, plucking it out. “A fine woman like me going to waste! If someone doesn’t snap me up soon, I’ll be too old to bother!” Felicity was so upset, she couldn’t sleep that night. She turned and turned in her bed whimpering “Oh my!” and by the morning, she wasn’t herself at all. Rubbing her eyes, she made her way up the long,

steep, mountain path, as usual, and her first Ding! went to plan, but when she swung the mallet to strike the first Dang!, it whizzed out of her hands and disappeared into the forest. Felicity went white: The mallet had been handed down to her through centuries from past Mountain Ringer to Mountain Ringer, like an Olympic torch, its flame, as-yet, undying… Then she went scarlet: And there was only one mallet like it in the whole wide world… Then she went back to her normal colour. ‘Shame,’ she thought. ‘But it’s obviously fate. I shall become a seamstress instead, and grow dainty. When the men see what a splendid creature I really am, I’ll marry the pick of the lot. The village will simply have to learn to wake itself up from now on.’ And with that, Felicity made her way down the long, steep, mountain path, back to her house, and began learning to sew. Before long, there was a bashing on her door. It was the baker. “I didn’t wake up till half-way through the day and burnt all my bread!” he complained grumpily. Next came the farmer. “I slept in, and the cows escaped! There’s no milk, no butter, and no eggs either, for anybody!” he moaned. The butcher followed. “Where were you this morning?!…” he barked. They all blamed Felicity for not waking them up and insisted she go and look for her mallet right away. She argued she’d never find it in all those trees, but the villagers begged and bullied her till she reluctantly put her sewing down, and set off for the dappled forest. In the forest, Felicity came across a young man

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she’d never met before; the woodcutter. He lived on his own in the forest, in a wooden house he’d built with his own hands. “Hello, I’m Seth Silvester,” he said, smiling. “Well, I’m Felicity Pringle, The Mountain Ringer.” said Felicity, feeling rather sulky about still having to call herself ‘The Mountain Ringer’ rather than the dainty seamstress she wanted to be. “I know: Like you, I rise before dawn. I see you going up the long, steep, mountain path every day - and down again. You’ll be looking for your mallet.” said Seth. “Ay, that I am,” said Felicity sadly. “That’s good - because I’ve been looking for it too and I’ve found it!” he said picking up the mallet from where he’d hidden it behind him, and holding it out to her as if it were no heavier, or less beautiful, than a rose. Felicity thanked him politely, but none too graciously. “You don’t seem too happy to have it back!” Seth commented. “I thought it was fate I’d lost it!” she sighed. “I think it is!” said Seth. “No,” said Felicity. “It was merely a blunder. If it was fate, my life would be different, but now you’ve returned it, I’ll be ringing the mountain on and on same as ever!” The very next morning, Felicity was back up the long, steep, mountain path to the mountain top. Today, not only was Felicity’s first Ding! perfect, but so was her first Dang! Unfortunately though, when she was about to strike, Dung!, the mallet flew out of her hands again, this time, landing in the middle of the deep, fast, river at the bottom of the dark, dark, ravine.

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‘I shall become a seamstress after all!’ thought Felicity, and set off homewards down the long, steep, mountain path, to carry on sewing and becoming dainty. When the villagers hammered at her door, Felicity shouted at them: “The mallet’s lost for good, in the ravine! No point looking this time!” And eventually, they went away. One of the callers was Seth Silvester. When he heard Felicity bellowing that the mallet was in the ravine, he went away too. By the evening, Felicity thought the villagers had given up banging her door, beseeching, and bossing; but there was another knock. “The mallet’s gone I say!” called Felicity, exasperated. She was no daintier, and the sewing wasn’t going too well either. “No! The mallet’s here!” the caller declared. Felicity opened the door. There was Seth, dripping wet from the river, on his bended knee, presenting the mallet to her as if it were no less cumbersome, or less precious, than an engagement ring. He’d dived to get it back. “Felicity Pringle,” Seth declared. “You dropping this mallet is fate! Don’t become a seamstress! Marry me, and continue being The Mountain Ringer!” Felicity looked at the tangled mass of thread and material she’d accidentally stitched to her dress - and laughing - she agreed. Seth picked her up in his strong arms, kissed her, then gently put her down again. A strange thing happened… Felicity felt a thrum and a rattle and a rumble coming from the mountain, tingling through her hefty mountain-stomping

feet. “Oh my!” she said, in surprise: “DONNGGGGG!!!” rang the mountain! Everyone in the village came out of their houses, amazed. “I’m getting married!” Felicity announced, holding Seth’s hand in one hand, her mallet in the other and waving them at the villagers. “And I’m The Mountain Ringer again!” “Hooray!” cried the villagers, and music and dancing began there and then, with Felicity and Seth taking turns to throw each other round in joyful celebration.

Illustrations by Kevin Dean

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The Tower by Lucy Ann Wade

Tommy Frobisher and his younger brother, Ryder, could often be seen riding their bikes around the estate and over to the park during the school holidays. Tommy was more confident than his brother, agile and sporty, and he often had to persuade his brother to put down his computer games and join him, for their parents did not want either of them cycling off alone. Tommy was always hungry for exploring. Ryder preferred to stay indoors. Each day during the summer, the boys would ride around the streets, past the newsagent’s and the butcher’s shop, past the chemist and the greengrocers, and then onwards to the park. The park was much better for cycling; a big country park on the edge of the town, it divided the suburban from the countryside. They took their bikes off-road and cycled across the grass and mud and through the section at the edge of the park which had been left by the parkkeepers and had become a wilderness. On this particular day, in mid-July, the boys cycled onwards, and as they rode, Ryder began to notice the trees getting denser and denser. “Tommy, stop!” Ryder called, and Tommy stopped, waiting for Ryder to catch up. “I think we must have ridden through the park and into the wood.” Swithen Wood lay on the other side of the park, on Issue 1

the borders of the town, usually visited only by tramps and weirdos. Tommy checked his watch. “That’s ok; we have ages before we have to be home. Let’s go explore.” Tommy moved off, and Ryder, reluctantly, as was always the case, peddled after him. The wood was pleasant and cool. They followed a dirt path, past a stagnant pond, and a fallen down tree, before Tommy decided to take a detour. “Come on, this way!” Tommy called, and Ryder followed, off the dirt path, and into the forest. As they rode further, the canopy above them grew thicker, and the way grew darker. “Let’s go back now,” Ryder said. Riding through a thicket of bushes, both boys found themselves in a clearing. In the centre of the clearing stood a large stone tower, round and old, the sunlight through a break in the canopy cascaded down over it in such a way that it looked almost dreamlike. What a tower was doing in the middle of Swithen Wood, neither of them could guess. Tommy began to climb off his bike. “What are you doing? I thought we were going back?” Ryder said. “Come on, we can check it out. It might make a good club house.” Tommy said enthusiastically. Ryder dropped his bike in the dirt and followed Tommy as they found the entrance, the door long since decayed to nothingness, and they both went inside. “I’m not sure this is safe,” Ryder said. Through the entrance, the walls were brick and cobwebs and dirt, and the room was dominated

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by a stone staircase. There was nowhere else to go but up. “Come on!” Tommy said, and he began to climb carefully up the old worn-out steps. Ryder followed behind. They climbed up the steps, and climbed, and climbed. On the outside, the tower did not look this tall, but to the boys, whose legs had begun to ache with fatigue, it felt as though they were climbing to the stars. Finally, after what seemed like hours later, the stairs ended, and they found themselves at the very top of the tower, in a dusty room with little light. In the centre of the room there stood a crimson chaise longue and there, lying neatly in the middle of it, was the most beautiful young woman the two had ever seen. She lay quite still, dressed in silks embroidered with gold; her long, flowing honey-coloured hair framing her heartshaped face. Her skin was the colour of ivory, and her cheeks and lips were flushed. Her body was untouched by the dust and damp in the room, and seemed to glow in the dim light. She was asleep, breathing shallow breaths, yet her lashes did not stir. The air in the room was still, and smelt of must. Both boys were in awe. Tommy crept closer. “Don’t, you’ll wake her!” Ryder whispered, standing back against the wall. Tommy turned and smiled to his brother. “What’s she doing, asleep up here anyway? And look, her clothes are ancient.” Ryder still kept his distance. “I don’t want to get into trouble,” he said. Tommy had an idea. “It’s like in a story, remember, where the girl is put under a spell, and can only be woken

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up with a kiss. I’m going to wake her.” “You’re going to kiss her?” Ryder, being the younger of the brothers, was revolted. Tommy gave his brother a thumb’s up, and edged closer to the sleeping figure. He imagined he could smell flowers in the air around her as he moved closer. She truly was beautiful, he thought, beautiful in a way he did not quite understand. He gulped, and leaned over the sleeping girl. As he placed his lips onto hers, the odour of flowers was replaced by the odour of something older, something almost sour and rotten. Before he knew it there was a bang, and he felt a jolt through his entire body. Ryder ran over to his brother, who had been thrown backwards, as if electrocuted. The boy looked stunned, and for a few minutes was so dazed and confused that he could not speak. The girl on the chaise lounge, however, remained just as still, just as oblivious as ever, her chest gently falling and rising, her perfect body perfectly still. “Come on, let’s go home,” Ryder said, in a frightened whisper. The air in the room had turned cold, and he was suddenly aware of how long they had been gone for. He helped his brother to his feet. Tommy still looked shocked, and could barely walk straight. Ryder put his arm around his waist and helped him down the stairs. This time, the journey seemed shorter, and soon they were back outside, once more in the lateafternoon sun, and Ryder picked up both of their bikes, and helped his brother back to the dirt path. Tommy did

not speak at all, but kept looking around him, as though he was afraid that they were being followed. It took Ryder a long time to guide them back to the park, and once there, he was able to make Tommy take his own bike, and finally they reached their house, where their mum had been worried sick about them being gone all day long. “What do you think that was in the tower?” Ryder asked his brother that night. “A booby trap or something?” “We must never go back there. Promise!” Tommy had not spoken since they had returned, but his words were now forceful, and there was a quiver of fear behind them. “OK, I promise,” Ryder relented, and let the subject drop. The boys never did go out riding their bikes again. Tommy seemed too clumsy somehow to manoeuvre his, and Ryder was never all that keen. And soon Ryder forgot all about the tower anyway, as he went back to his computer games and his TV programmes. Tommy worried his parents. He always seemed to be hungry, as though he hadn’t eaten in weeks. His temper was shorter too, and as he grew, he became clumsier, knocking into people and furniture. “It’s almost like he’s a different person,” his mum said one day to Ryder, as Ryder helped her wash the dishes. Ryder thought for a second, but then shook his head. He did not tell his mum or his dad about their bike ride, or the tower, or the sleeping beauty. Tommy never mentioned it either, but then, Tommy doesn’t speak much these days. Inside the tower in the middle of Swithen Wood, the beautiful girl slept on, and

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still sleeps to this day, paralysed, waiting until someone comes to awaken her from the spell. Inside her beautiful, ageless head, the real Tommy Frobisher is screaming.

Photography by Graham Dean

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Cloudberries by linda sarah

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Moth and the Jade Rabbit By Jacqueline Gabbitas

This is a tale of a boy who loved the Moon. From the day he crawled out of his cradle, to the day he crawled into his grave. Even as he lay in his crib, before he had language and could name things and bring them into living, he would gaze out of his window looking for his beautiful moon. His mother took nearly two weeks to name her baby boy. He was born while the moon was so new you could see it only in space. From Earth, it was lost to the sky and the black vista we know as night. On the morning of the first day, his mother looked down into her baby's face - there was no name there, calling from his eyes, calling from his soft breath. On the evening of the first day, with the moon's crescent a silver bow newbent in heaven, his mother looked down on her child, light as pumice in her arms and wrapped in his grandmother's crocheted shawl. There, in the time it took for her to brush the fringe from her own eyes, she fancied she saw, flickering on his long lashes, the start of a name. She blinked, and it was gone. On the second day, she Issue 1

held her baby to her breast and watched a splinter of moonlight cutting through her curtain. Her baby boy giggled in her warmth. On the third day, as mist rose around the Sea of Crises, the baby turned in his sleep, restless. And so the days went on. And the nights grew full of light. The baby slept in the day and played in the soft light of the small hours. On the thirteenth night he fell asleep. He slept as if he was under a spell. He slept even though the moon was fullest. He slept so that the moon could deliver him his name. And it did. Laying crooked in his mother's elbow (as she stoked up the fire, with the radio chattering in the background), fire-light played shadows over his beautiful face. And in the shadows and from the fire-light, the mother saw her baby's name land on his sleeping eyes. In the morning, as his father dished up porridge for breakfast and his mother poured strong tea into two white mugs, he awoke and started to cry. "Moth's awake", his mother said.

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His father said, "Moth?" The mother looked up from the tea, and put the pot carefully on the table. "It's a good name, what d'you think?" Moth's father cocked his head to one side and listened to the boy bawling in the crib. "Be alrate", he said. "Aaahhhh. Moth? Aah. Moth." Moth cut his teeth on the moon. No matter how many soothers he was bought, the only toys to pacify him were a soft, yellow moon with a tinkling lullaby, and a white plastic moon bigger than his head. He sucked on the white moon's horns until they were rounded from his saliva, his lovely, warm tongue and from how he bit down with his chalk-white nubs of new enamel. Moth learned a lot from the moon. By the names of the craters, rilles and seas he learnt his letters. His numbers came to him by how many peaks he could see adding one to another, this was the way he learned how sums worked. As he grew much older, Moth would understand misery from the Sea of Crises; he would find the silence in his heart, the silence we all have, from the 12

Sea of Tranquility; from the Marsh of Decay he would experience death and from the Marsh of Despair, learn how to grieve. His father, who loved him with the heart of a father, thought he would be an astronaut. His mother, who loved him with the passion of a mother, thought an artist. He decided he would be both and become a lunar astronomer. For twelve years he read only books about the moon. He emptied the local library of books and magazines and papers about the moon. He emptied the School library too. Moth read poems about the Moon Goddess and laughed because the moon had no goddess. He visited exhibitions - in front of sculptures and canvases filled with the moon, he would hold his head to one side and whisper to no one in particular "That's where you come from." Then he would smile. When he smiled, you couldn't help but believe what he said. At night, beside his notebooks and his large digital watch, he would hold up his eye to the small telescope his father had bought him for his ninth birthday and count the minutes under his breath as the moon climbed into the sky. Each night, his father would poke his head around the corner to make sure he was in bed. Three nights out of four, he would pick up his son and slide him, quietly, beneath the eiderdown. Then on his thirteenth birthday, Moth fell sick. His mother cried for ten days, his father cried for ten days more and still Moth would not recover. They brought doctors from the North, physicians from the East, sawbones from the South, and medicine men from the

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West. Still Moth grew sicker. His breathing slowed. His eyes clouded. His head burned like the fire in the grate. When the moon was high in its lunation, its bright, beautiful light shone through the window and illuminated the boy's fragile, aching body. Through crusted eyes, he saw, in the shadows of the moon's surface, the shape of a small rabbit hunched over an even smaller cauldron. The Jade Rabbit. The rabbit that made herbal potions and medicines. Moth called his mother and told her what he thought he saw. "But it doesn't exist," he said, â&#x20AC;&#x153;it's not real."

No one would admit to how they did it, but strings were pulled, favours called in and an expedition was mounted to go to the moon. If the boy had known he would have begged, on his sick-bed, to be part of it. Money was taken, vast amounts of money that no one could afford. Carrots too. Fine grasses packed in cool trays. All gifts, bribes, payments to the Jade Rabbit. No one would talk later of the details, of how the mother and father headed the team, of who carried what equipment, what treasures and for how long. None will talk even now of the despair when the Jade Rabbit rejected first the gold and silver.

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"I have the sun for gold and the stars for silver," he quipped. Then he rejected copper, iron, bronze. "I make medicine, not sculptures" He thought for forty seconds about the carrots, forty more about the cool, cool grasses but nothing was good enough. "I should go home," he said. "You've nothing for me. I watch you from up here. You burn the copper, iron, bronze. You burn the beautiful grasses and the tasty carrots. You spy on us, all the planets, looking for our gold, our silver. You offer gold to me now, but one day you, your son maybe, will come hunting, stripping, ravishing. It's inevitable. It's your nature." And the Jade Rabbit turned his back to the party and chopped his mystical herbs. He was a cold rabbit, but not so cold that the sobbing of a mother couldn't turn his head. Slowly, like the turning of the moon. Never would anyone say there were three ingredients in the medicine they brought back. Or that one was herbs. One was moonstone. The other was a true secret (though some might have said a mother wiped her hand across her eyes with the back of her hand and what fell into the cauldron was a son's miracle). They would say it was the moon saved Moth's life. The moon he loved, knew everything about, the moon he lived by. And Moth, on his fourteenth birthday looked up into the sky knowing he wasn't saved by the moon, but by medicine. Good, strong medicine. He liked that his friends and neighbours thought it was the moon saved him. He liked

the stories they told. He laughed at the thought that a rock, as beautiful as it is, could bring him back from death and that his parents would know how to get to it when he, even in his fever had only dreamed of rabbits, and rockets and small bronze statues.

Illustrations: on page 12, Once in a Blue Moon, by Esther Johnson on this page, M책ne Kanin (Moon Rabbit), by Jeanette Salvesen the image of the moon on page 13 is taken from http://www.wpclipart.com, can you spot the Jade Rabbit?

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Three Sisters by Anna Novitzky

Once upon a time, when the stars were young, three sisters lived in a house in the woods. The youngest was called Birth; the second was called Life; and the oldest had many names. One morning the oldest sister wakened early. She roused her sisters and said, “Listen! I dreamt that I was sitting and spinning yarn on the doorstep when up a wolf, with clear blue eyes like the sky in spring, came to me. I asked what he wanted but he said nothing, only sat down and watched me spin. When I had finished the pile of fleeces the wolf stood up and took my spindle in his mouth. Then he turned and walked back into the woods, his grey tail swinging.” Birth, the youngest sister, who had light brown skin and pale blue eyes and golden hair like the last of sunlight, yawned. “Well, and?” she said, “What does this mean?” Life, the second sister, with her nut-brown skin and hazel eyes and chestnut hair like shining bronze, tapped her own nose thoughtfully. “It is a dream of that which is to come,” she said, “for the wolf is the leader and teacher, and the woods are the future, through which we Issue 1

travel blindly. But I do not know what it tells us.” The oldest sister, whose skin was as white as new paper, whose eyes flashed green, whose hair was black as ravens’ wings with a stripe of white above one eye, leant forwards. “My sisters,” she said, “this dream is an instruction. We must each go out into the world a different way, until we find our guides. Then we must follow where they lead.” Now, Birth and Life knew of old that when their sister spoke of such things she was usually right, so they resolved to do as she suggested. That very morning, Birth packed a comb and some clothes in a small sack, took a little food and drink, and set off for the south. Her sisters waved until they could no longer see her. Birth followed her nose through the trees until the sun was high overhead. Then she sat down on a fallen treetrunk to eat some bread. As she ate, a little golden lizard ran out from under the bark of the tree and began to pick at the bread. At first Birth was angry, and shooed it away, but it did not flee; it sat and stared at her with its orange eyes. Then Birth was afraid, and she shooed it again, but it spoke to her and said, “Ah, Birth, Birth! Why do you flap at me? Can’t you see that I am your guide? Let me share your food and ride on your shoulder and I will lead you on your rightful way.”

Birth saw that this was true, and the lizard climbed up her arm and clung to her shoulder with his claws like little pins, and they went on their way together. Presently

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they came to a castle where, on the lizard’s advice, Birth knocked on the door. The door was opened by a servant who wept. She ushered Birth into the throne room, where the king and queen and all the courtiers sat and lamented most terribly. Birth asked what the matter was, and between the wails and sobs the king explained that a great dragon had stolen away all their cattle and razed their crops to the ground so that they had nothing to eat and soon would perish. “But,” he said, “if you can help us, I will give you whatever you wish, and even make you my heir.” At first Birth did not want to take the risk of fighting a dragon, but the lizard assured her that he would tell her what to do, so she consented and was given a horse and a sword. As Birth rode out through the courtyard, she caught sight of the king’s daughter, waving luck to her from a window. The princess was so beautiful, with her creamy skin and flame-red hair, that Birth fell quite in love. Before Birth had ridden quite up to the dragon’s cave, she stopped the horse and the lizard told her where, nearby, she could find a magic stone and rope which would help her to defeat the dragon. She found them, and rode into the cave. As soon as it saw her, the dragon reared up and struck at Birth with its long claws. Birth leapt off her horse and touched the magic stone in her pocket. At once she was turned into a golden lioness, and she fought the dragon until it was subdued. Then she returned to her woman’s form and, taking the magic rope from her pocket, slipped it around the dragon’s neck.

The beast became quite tame, and she led it back to the castle, followed by the cattle, which she found in the back of the cave. The king and queen were so overjoyed that they gladly gave the princess in marriage to Birth when she asked. They lived together happily and adopted many poor children from the surrounding lands. In time the king died and Birth ruled the kingdom wisely, the princess sitting at her left hand and the golden lizard at her right, advising her well. The dragon was used often in hunting and became a favourite pet of the castle.

Now, when Birth left her sisters’ house, her oldest sister hung a green leaf on the wall. When the time of Birth’s wedding came, the leaf turned brown and the oldest sister knew that it was time for Life to set out on her journey. The next day Life, with a sack containing a comb, some clothes, and a little food and drink, set off into the north. The oldest sister waved until she could no longer see Life among the trees. Life followed her nose until the sun was high overhead, and then she sat down on a flat stone to eat some bread. As she ate, a chestnut brown falcon flew down from the trees and took some of the bread. Life was angry and shooed the falcon away, but when it stared at her with its deep amber eyes she stopped and asked, “Are you my guide?” The falcon replied that it was, and Life offered it some food, then she set off down the path again, the falcon flying above

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her with slow beats of its steady wings.

After a time they came to a city, with high walls and pointed roofs. On the falcon’s advice, Life went into the city. Inside, all was dusty and dry. Life walked through the streets, following the shadow of the falcon, until she came to the iron doors of the town hall. She knocked and was let into the council chamber, where the mayor and all the council sat with grave faces. Life asked what their trouble was, and, in a voice which came in croaks from his parched throat, the mayor explained that the wells of the city had run dry and there had been no rain for many months, so that soon they would all perish of thirst, every man, woman and child. “But,” he said, “if you will help us, I will marry you to my eldest son and you may be my heir.” Life consulted with the falcon, which said that it would tell her what to do, and she agreed to the mayor’s terms. Life went out into the city to look at the wells, and soon saw that something was drinking all the water. The falcon told her that a great sphinx in the mountains had swallowed the clouds and was drinking the water besides. It also told her where in the city to find a magic harp that would help her to defeat it. So Life went out into the mountains and called for the sphinx. It came out of its cave and roared at her from its human mouth, its lion body rippling with muscles, but she took the harp and played so sweetly that the sphinx became quite sleepy. It

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yawned hugely and as it did so, all the rain clouds escaped from its stomach, came out of its mouth and flowed away down the mountain. The sphinx was so entranced by the music that it did not care, but fell asleep and did not wake up. Life went back to the city, which was beset by a mighty thunderstorm as the clouds released the rain that they had been hoarding for so long. All the people cowered in their houses with fright but were grateful also, and they showered Life with praise and thanks. At length the rain stopped, although the people knew it would return, and they went out into the streets and saw that the wells were full. They rejoiced, and Life was soon married to the mayor’s son, who was a handsome boy, and kind. Life had three sons and three daughters, and when the old mayor died she became mayor in her turn and ruled wisely, her husband at her left hand and the falcon at her right, to advise her.

On the day of Life’s wedding, a second green leaf on the wall of her sister’s home turned brown, and the oldest sister knew that her time had come to go out into the world. She set off into the west with her sack, and walked tall and proud although there was no one to watch her go. When the sun was at its highest she sat down upon the ground to eat her bread, and when a raven black wolf with a white stripe along its spine came to her she smiled, buried her hands in its fur and said, "Greetings, my guide. Come, share my food and walk with

me. I will hear your advice with a good will.” The wolf looked at her with tawny eyes that dropped away to forever, and replied, “My thanks to you. Let us follow your path together.” Together they ate the bread, and then the oldest sister set off down the path, the wolf padding at her side.

After some time the forest ended, and the two walked on through open land. After many days they came to the top of a hill, and saw spread out below them a plain dotted with tiny villages. There were many houses but the oldest sister saw no people. She and the wolf went down into the plain, and in the first village they found that a plague was rife among the people. Many lay dying in their homes, and the healthy ran and hid in from the oldest sister, fearing that she brought with her more disease. Speaking to no one, the oldest sister went into the houses and began, with her knowledge of herbs and mysteries, to work to

help the people. Some she cured and helped to walk and speak again, and some she eased out of their pain, showing them the door to relief. All the while the raven black wolf leaned against her and gave her strength and was her companion. At length the oldest sister had banished the plague from the village but the people would not thank or praise her, for she had led people into death and they were afraid of her. The oldest sister did not condemn the people, but went forth from the village knowing she had done a good thing, with the wolf by her side. So it happened in the next village, and the next, until the plague was gone from the plains and she still had no reward. The oldest sister knew that she had done her work, but her heart was heavy and she lay for a night on the bare hillside, her head on the warm flank of the wolf, watching the stars and wondering. In the morning it came to her that she should return home to the forest. This she did, and the wolf went with her as her companion.

The oldest sister spent many years in the small house with the wolf. She spun thread, wove garments and cut the cord while the wolf slept and roamed the forests. They rarely spoke, but they were content, and the sound of the wolf’s howling in the night comforted the oldest sister much. In time the children of both Birth and Life grew tall and strong like saplings while their consorts aged and withered like cut grass. Birth and Life, however, grew no older and when at last their consorts died they knew that it was time to pass their authority to their eldest children and return to the forest. This they did, with their guides, and together the sisters lived: Birth spun the thread, Life wove the garments and the oldest sister cut the cord while lizard, falcon and wolf hunted and wandered and basked in the sun. There they lived, and, for all I know, there they may live still. Circle bends, my story ends.

Illustrations by Claire Massey Issue 1

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The Princess and the Pig By K. A. Laity There was a Princess Sophie And she had a little pig. It wasn't very clever And it wasn't very big. But it was just as loyal As the day is long, It could whistle, it could dance And it could sing a little song. "Pig," said princess Sophie, "Let's go to Bangalore! We'll see Dido, Queen of Cabbage And we'll take a river tour." "Splendid," said the little pig, "Let's go across the sea, With tortoises and porpoises, And jellyfish for tea." They sailed across the ocean's span On many a cresting wave, And washed ashore near Bangalore, Inside an enchanted cave. "Pig," said Princess Sophie, "Such treasures wait for us. Let's load our pockets with gold and jewels And spend them on a bus!" "Perfect," said the little pig, "A bus with big red wheels!

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We'll cross the land with a Flemish band And six electric eels!"

"Magic," said the little pig, "Flying horses and fairy rings."

The merry group in one fell swoop Raced across the rugged lands. They picked up a lonesome tiger

"Pig," said drowsy Sophie, as she closed her eyes to sleep, "It doesn't matter in the least,

Who juggled voles on the shifting sands.

As long as you're with me."

"Pig," said Princess Sophie, "I see it's getting quite late. If we don't turn back home real soon, They might lock the garden gate." "Nonsense," said the little pig,

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but it turned a shade more pink. "What we need is a red balloon that runs on India ink." Dido, Queen of Cabbage had That very thing to lend, And they sailed away at bedtime, Waving 'bye to all their friends. "I've had the most amazing day," The real Princess Sophie and Pig

She told the King and Queen, "Pig and I went everywhere and we've seen everything!" "Pig," yawned tired Sophie, "What will tomorrow bring?"

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The Silent Kingdom by Claire Massey Long ago and far away a Kingdom stood wrapped in silence. The streets were paved with blankets to smother the sound of footsteps and even the horses wore satin slippers. Everyone and everything lived their lives hushed and shushed; cooks stirred the soup without ever touching the spoon against the sides of the pan, teacups were kept from their saucers so that they couldn’t clatter, the church bells were dismantled and packed away in cotton wool, the clocks all had their tick tocks removed, dogs were banished to cellars where their howls couldn’t be heard, children played in the street with gags tied tightly round their mouths and all birds were swiftly shot with silent arrows. The silence was born of a spell. A spell that lay heavily upon the old King’s shoulders because he had asked for it. When his only child was little she had had the loudest voice in the Kingdom and she never stopped asking questions. From the moment she awoke to the moment she slept the Palace walls seemed to shudder with ‘whys?’; ‘Why are you King Daddy? Why isn’t it someone else? Why do we live in such a big house? Why are the other houses so small? Why do people beg for food outside the gate? Why are they so thin? Why do people

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get ill? Why can’t I have icecream for breakfast?’ The young Princess’s face was always bright with curiosity and she hunted determinedly for answers. The Wise Men in the King’s council muttered that it wouldn’t do, a female heir was bad enough, but one who was always asking questions was an outrage. She had to be stopped. The King agreed and he left the matter in the hands of his three wisest men. The first Wise Man said that they should enchant her tongue so that it would not speak. The second Wise Man said that they should enchant her mind so that it would not think to speak. The third Wise Man said that they should enchant her soul so that it would not want to speak. Unable to come to an agreement they decided to try all three. They spent many days and many nights concocting the spell, they sent for secret ingredients, they drew secret signs, they muttered secret words. And they messed it up. The Princess could still speak and still thought to speak and still wanted to speak but the moment she

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uttered a word tiny cracks began to appear on her face and hands. And not only that every sound seemed to shake through her; more and more faint cracks appeared as the Wise Men muttered and her tears hit the marble floor. The King sent at once for the old witch who lived at the edge of the Kingdom and the Princess was hurriedly covered with the thickest blankets that could be found but still every footstep, every whisper cracked her a little more. When the old witch arrived she dressed the girl’s wounds with bandages that had been soaked in silence and soothed her into a deep sleep so that the cracks could heal but she could not undo the spell. The Wise men muttered; they weren’t quite sure where they had gone wrong but they couldn’t undo the spell either. The old King realised how close he was to losing his only child so he outlawed all sound at once. The law was written on strips of paper that were passed mutely about the Kingdom: ‘All noise is punishable by death. Not a sound will be heard in this Kingdom again by order of his Royal Highness the King.’

The Kingdom fell silent and for a time even the wind abandoned it for the places where it was welcome to bluster and shriek. The sea pulled its tides away from the Kingdom’s shores so that the waves could not crash against the rocks. And no tree ever fell in the forest; they stood past their time, clinging to the ground with ancient roots. Years passed and the only sound in the Kingdom was the falling rain (try as they might the Wise Men could not banish the rainclouds) and as the Princess, now grown into a young woman, lay on her silken bed she lifted her golden earmuffs, just a little, so that she could hear the pitter and patter of rain knocking at her window, calling her out into the world. Each drop hammered through her body till she tingled with delight and she knew she had to escape. The old King was by now very old and his age and his worries were too heavy for him to cart around so he took to his bed. And as the servants fussed silently around him the Princess slipped out unnoticed.

She wore her golden earmuffs and a thick woollen cape with its hood pulled tightly around her head but she needn’t have worried, the people of the Kingdom had been scared into silence. Sshhpolice mounted on satin slippered horses patrolled the blanketed streets as the children played silently in the rain. It was the children she was drawn to watching. She followed them as they ventured from the city streets out into the open fields. They looked at her questioningly but they did not object. She followed them to the woods where they tumbled and rolled in the carpet of leaves and she lifted her golden earmuffs, just a little, so that the delightful sound could rustle through her. She followed them to the stream, where they paddled in the icy water, kicking and splashing and she lifted her golden earmuffs, just a little, so that the delightful sound could bubble through her. And finally she followed them to a cave. They were carrying lamps and baskets of sticks and they turned and smiled at her before they entered; inviting her to join their secret.

The cave was cold and dark and it seemed to swallow the children up ahead of her. But as the Princess’s eyes adjusted to the lamplight she saw that the children were untying each other’s gags. She felt their voices, heard their laughter spinning through her, despite her earmuffs. And slowly the children started to tap their sticks together and drum on rocks; the rhythm beating, throbbing, pulsing; they hummed in sweet, gentle voices and the music rose to the roof of the cave until the Princess could bear it no longer: she threw her golden earmuffs into the darkness of the cave and lifted her voice to meet theirs for one ecstatic moment. Then she shattered into a thousand shards. Heaped on the floor of the cave each shard sang a single note in the Princess’s clear, beautiful voice and the children gathered up the shards in an old wicker basket, where they shone and sang and the children sang too. And carrying the Princess’s voice they walked out of the cave into sunshine.

Illustrations by Claire Massey and Graham Dean

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Creatures from the Curiosity Cabinet We are pleased to present the first in our back page series of rare creatures captured and preserved by Particle Article.

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