Enchantment (Vol. 9 No. 2)

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Volume 9 Issue II:“Enchantment”


t is easy during times of hardship to become disillusioned and disenchanted with life, forgetting about the multifaceted and colourful possibilities which may open up in the future. It is said that art often imitates life, and translation is no exception: it is an art which can be defined as inherently metamorphic. Indeed, translations can be literal, loose, or take the form of an adaptation or even an updating of the original source. André Lefevere saw the act of translation as a form of rewriting, and rewriting inevitably needs the mediation of a creative mind in order to be effective. This is meant in the sense that the translators have to insert themselves within the original framework of interpretation, but 'rewriting' means to provide a different perspective, breathe new life into some aspects that perhaps had been neglected or undeveloped in the original, for one reason or another. The translator is as important as the author in this process, and makes no less important choices when pondering how to best transpose a text from the context which saw its genesis to an often completely different one.

U 2

Edward Robert Hughes, Midsummer Eve, 1908.

nderstanding translation in such a manner thus adds a further dimension to the Latin

etymology of the word: translatio (trans + ferre), literally 'carrying across' or 'bringing across'. For to translate is to regenerate, to imbue with new life, to revitalize. And this is precisely what we desired to do with the spring issue of this journal, in the spirit of the rebirth already brought by the season. Here, we present to you many possibilities to enchant and be enchanted by, through the lens of different languages and cultures. You will find that the symmetry of this volume has been carefully planned to provide you with a treasury of works to cherish and be amazed, ranging from Irish folklore, to deadly and yet alluring femme fatale figures, to the visual artworks of many talented artists, even to an actual spell! We are also extremely proud to feature an exclusive issue of the journal with none other than five unique translations in Irish!


his is the last issue of the year for the current editorial team, and in many ways 'Enchantment' is also my very own testament to the year I spent as Editor-in-Chief of this publication. I wish to thank my editorial team for accompanying me in this enchanting journey to say the least, and the wonderful contributors who have made all of this possible. A very warm welcome to the Spring issue of the Trinity Journal of Literary Translation! May it keep you spellbound until the end.

Martina Giambanco

Editorial Staff 2020/21 Editor-in-Chief and Layout Deputy Editor Donnchadh Curran

Assistant Editors Cameron Hill Constance Quinlan Cian Dunne Maeve Lane

Cover Art Liadan Ruaidhrí Stockman

Faculty Advisor Dr Peter Arnds

Martina Giambanco


Table of Contents Editorial


Hannah artwork by Penny Stuart

Tír nAill (Otherworld) photograph by Alexander Fay



Enchanted circle of life artwork by Cristina Keiko Tomita

On My Honeymoon Portuguese-English translation by Michael McCaffrey


Slí Isteach (Way In) photograph by Alexander Fay



Heart, Crown and Mirror French-English translation by Bowen Wang

Machnamh (Reflection) photograph by Alexander Fay


Rima XXI Spanish-Irish translation by Emma Gilheany


La Belle Dame sans Merci English-Irish translation by Cian Dunne


Masuku artwork by Penny Stuart


A Clothes Album Italian-English translation by Amelia O'Mahony-Brady A Fashionable Fairytale artwork by Amelia O'Mahony-Brady Echoes German-English translation by Samuel Oliver Maguire What Did I Do To Deserve You English-Irish translation by Aislinn Ní Dhomhnaill






Róisín (Little Rose) photograph by Alexander Fay Selene artwork by Evvie Kyrozi Full Wonder artwork by Jerie MacApagal Aestus – ‘Alexandría’ Spanish-English translation by Nathaniel Makin Two Sonnets English-Russian translation by Phelim Ó Laoghaire Procession artwork by Oz Russell Prince Caspian – ‘The Return of the Lion’ English-Irish translation by Rebecca Coxon


26 28 29


36 39


Three Comrades German-English translation by Anastasia Fedosova How Diana gave birth to Aradia Italian-English translation by Meg Kellett-Whitwham



Morrígna (Great Queens) artwork by Alexander Fay


Continuity of Parks Spanish-English translation by Conor Brendan Dunne


Fionnradharc (Fairview) photograph by Alexander Fay


The Deargadaol Irish-English translation by Peter Weakliam Begone the Raggedy Witches - ‘A Tongue-Tied Crow ’ English-French translation by Sophie Drummond Notes on Contributors (in order of appearance)




Alexander Fay, Tír nAill (Otherworld) 5

Cristina Keiko Tomita, Enchanted circle of life 6

Alexander Fay, Slí Isteach (Way In) Alexander Fay, Machnamh (Reflection)



La Belle Dame sans Merci by John Keats

Keats’ poem features a knight who finds himself under the spell of a mysterious, alluring lady. Keats’ language is enchanting in itself. His use of exotic, unfamiliar words,

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel’s granary is full, And the harvest’s done. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too. I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful—a faery’s child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery’s song. 8

Penny Stuart, Masuku


added to the cyclical nature of the poem’s structure, gives the impression that the reader too has unknowingly fallen victim to the beautiful lady’s beguiling ways.

La Belle Dame sans Merci aistrithe ag Cian Ó Duinn

Ó cad a d’fhéadfaí cur isteach ort, a ridire, I d’aonar agus ag fálróid thart le lí an bháis ort? Tá an cíb feoite ón loch, Agus ní chanann éan ar bith. Ó cad a d’fhéadfaí cur isteach ort, a ridire, Chomh caite sin agus cloíte ag an mbrón? Tá iothlainn an iora lán, Agus tá an fómhar istigh. Feicim lile ar d’éadan Le crá bog agus drúcht an fhiabhrais Agus ar do phlúca rós atá ag meath Feoite go tapa freisin. Bhuail mé le bean sa mhóinéar, Spéirbhean–páiste sióige, Bhí a gruaig fada, a coischéim éadrom, . Agus a súile allta. Rinne mé bláthfhleasc dá ceann, bráisléidí, agus zón cumhra; D’amharc sí orm mar a bheadh sí i ngrá, Agus í ag éagaoineadh go binn Chuir me ina sui í ar m’each falaireachta Faic a chonaic mé an lá ar fad, I leataobh a chromfadh sí, agus chan sí Amhrán sióige. 9


She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said— ‘I love thee true’. She took me to her Elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. And there she lullèd me asleep, And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!— The latest dream I ever dreamt On the cold hill side. I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci Thee hath in thrall!’ I saw their starved lips in the gloam, With horrid warning gapèd wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill’s side. And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.



D’aimsigh sí dom fréamhacha le blastán milis, Agus mil fhiáin, agus drúcht manna, Agus cinnte i dteanga ait a dúirt sí“Dáiríre táim i ngrá leat.” Thóg sí mé chuig a pluais shíofrach, Agus is ansin a chaoin sí, lig sí osna pianmhar, Agus ansin dhún mé a súile fiáine allta Le ceithre phóg. Agus ansin chealg sí a chodladh mé, Agus ansin bhí brionglóid agam–Á! scéal bróin!– An aisling dheireanach a bhí agam riamh, Ar thaobh fuar an chnoic. Chonaic mé ríthe mílítheacha agus prionsaí freisin, Gaiscígh bánghnéitheacha, dath an bháis orthu go léir; Scairt siad– “Tá tú faoi gheasa ag La Belle Dame sans Merci!” Chonaic mé a mbeola stiúgtha sa chlapsolas, Oscailte le rabhadh leathan gránna, Agus dhúisigh mé agus anseo a bhí mé, Ar thaobh fuar an chnoic. Agus sin an fáth a chuirim fúm anseo, I m’aonar agus ag fálróid thart le lí an bháis orm, Cé go bhfuil an cíb feoite ón loch, Agus ní chanann éan ar bith.



Album di Vestiti by Paola Masino

Penned by hand in an assemblage of old school notebooks, Paola Masino’s Album di Vestiti weaves bewitching accounts of clothes as biographical artefacts.

Era il 1922. Un anno importante per me, perché fu la prima volta che mi innamorai (o almeno credetti). I nostri costumi son sempre stati rimediati alla meglio; ce li faceva mamma, in casa, con abiti vecchi e con qualche metro di stoffa che riusciva a comprare. Prima del famoso costume rosso, ne ricordo uno verde, a pagliaccetto, e un altro blu, a gonna aperta sui fianchi, orlato di verde, con verdi bretelle. Sul petto m’ero appuntata un rotondo di stoffa su cui avevo ricamato: “Amore coroni di lauro la mia speranza” frase tolta dalla Vita è sogno di Calderón de la Barca. Il costume rosso fu una vera creazione di mia madre. Scollato in tondo, due nastrini di zagana nera riunivano la stoffa sulle spalle in un accenno di manica. In vita una cinta rossa. Sui fianchi dalla gonna spaccata usciva uno spicchio di lana bianca traversato da zagane nere. Fu un successo per tutto Forte dei Marmi. Ogni tanto, non paga di quel successo, aumentavo la mia rara eleganza avvolgendomi il capo in una sciarpa di crespo bianco, i cui capi lasciavo pendere al lato del volto e mescolarsi ai capelli sciolti. Sulla sommità infilavo a guisa di diadema quell’erba palustre che sembra ferri da calza. Rigida, leggermente fusiforme, mi faceva raggiera e con quell’acconciatura ferii il cuore di un giovane poeta, che, a sua volta, ferì il mio con i suoi endecasillabi. La storia di questo amore è troppo breve perché valga la pena di raccontarla. Eravamo entrambi timidi, sentimentali e, forse, inesperti. Non ci dicemmo d’amarci. Quando noi tornammo a Roma era l’ottobre del ’22. Quando ricevetti la sua prima lettera e l’aprii con mani tremanti, a San Lorenzo i fascisti sparavano sui comunisti. La lettera comincia: “Dilettissima donna Paola…”. I fucili sparavano, io mi lasciai cadere la lettera sulle ginocchia. Ginocchia ricoperte da un vestito di lana verde bottiglia, quella lana verde bottiglia che era stata per tanti anni un cappotto militaresco, su cui portavamo il basco rosso degli Chasseurs des Alpes o un colbacco di finta talpa. Sembrerebbe a questo punto – l’incontro con i primi sommovimenti dell’amore – che i miei anni infantili, ormai calzati e vestiti, debbano allontanarsi senza più voltarsi indietro e mandarmi richiami. L’adolescenza batte alla porta e io dovrei ritirarmi dalla finestra da cui sto contemplando lo sciame di piccole Paole che si rincorrono e spingono in fondo alla via e andare ad 12


Replete with painterly prose that openly delights in the colours and textures of dress, Masino’s nostalgic descriptions prove as spellbinding as any archetypal fairy tale passage.

A Clothes Album

translated by Amelia O'Mahony-Brady

It was 1922. An important year for me, as it marked the first time I felt in love (or so I believed). Our costumes were always mended as best they could be; Mum repaired them at home, with old clothes and several metres of fabric she had managed to purchase. Before my famous red costume, I remember one in green, a romper suit, and another in blue, the skirt slit at the hips, edged in green, with green braces. I pinned a round of cloth to my chest, upon which I had embroidered: “Love may crown my hope with laurel”, a phrase extracted from Calderón de la Barca’s Life is a Dream. The red costume was a true creation of my mother’s. Its neckline round and revealing, two black ribbons gathered the fabric at its shoulders, hinting at sleeves. At its waistline was a red belt. A wedge of white wool emerged from the skirt’s side-splits, traversed by black trim. It was a hit with the whole of Forte dei Marmi. Every now and then, unsatisfied by that success, I would enhance my rare elegance by enveloping my head in a white crêpe scarf, the ends of which I let hang down the side of my face, melding with my loose hair. Atop my head, as if it were a tiara, I donned that marshy grass that resembles knitting needles. Stiff and slightly spindle-shaped, it gave me a halo, and with that hairstyle I broke the heart of a young poet who, in turn, broke mine with his hendecasyllables. This love story is too short to be worth telling. We were both shy, sentimental and, maybe, naive. We didn’t say we loved each other. When we returned to Rome, it was October of ‘22. When I received his first letter and opened it with trembling hands, the fascists were shooting communists in San Lorenzo. The letter commenced: “Most beloved donna Paola...”. The shotguns fired, I dropped the letter onto my knees. Knees covered by a bottle-green wool dress, bottle-green wool that had been a military coat for many years, worn with a red Chasseurs des Alpes beret 13

ITALIAN aprire alla mia nuova età. Ma una raffica di vento bonario solleva da terra, ov’erano rimasti senza che io li vedessi, e mi fa volteggiare d’intorno quali foglie strappate dai rami i cappellini che in questo cammino a ritroso ho scordato di cogliere. Suonano e tinnano, battendo sui vetri, mi chiamano, vogliono raccontarmi i pensieri infantili che levitarono sotto le loro ali, le paure, i pudori, le gioie che mi corsero la fronte rincantucciata nella loro ombra. Prima, querula, molle, leziosa, volteggia davanti ai miei occhi un’esigua falda rivestita di seta marrone. La cupola di quel cappellino era tonda, floscia, non sorretta da alcuna teletta. Attorno alla cupola un nastro a strisce minute color zafferano, celeste, rosso, marrone, verde e ancora zafferano, celeste, rosso e marrone. Me lo avevano fatto mamma e la Pietrina, che regalò seta e nastro; e fu uno dei miei prediletti. Quella faldetta che andava a sghimbescio, per la poca maestria di fattura, attorno al mio capo, mi ombreggiava la fronte quasi ammiccando, mi ricordava il cappelluccio di foglie del David di Donatello. E mio solo sconforto era che il mio cappello non avesse, come quello del David, un peduncolo, in cima alla cupola. Dietro a lui, cappello invernale color di foglia macerata nel fango, volteggia una paglia verde finissimamente intrecciata. E, benché la sua falda rialzata torno alla cupola porti sul ventre rotondo tralci di piccoli pampini e minuti grappoli di uva nera e dorata, esso non mi ricorda l’autunno; mi parla, per contro, di primavera.


Amelia O'Mahony-Brady, A Fashionable Fairytale

or a faux mole-fur hat.


It would seem at this stage - in encountering the first tremors of love - that my childhood years, now worn and shod, should have distanced themselves without ever looking back or sending reminders. Adolescence was knocking at the door and I should have withdrawn from the window, from which I contemplated the swarm of little Paolas that chased and pushed each other down the street, and opened up to my new age. But a gust of kind wind swept me off the ground, where they remained without my seeing them and it makes the little hats I had neglected to grasp on this backwards journey twirl around me, like leaves torn from a branch. They rang and jingled, banging the windows, they called me, they wanted to relay the childish thoughts that floated under their wings; the fears, the shyness, the joys that sped by my brow hidden in their shadow. First, querulous, soft, coy, a slim brim covered in chestnut-brown silk twirled before my eyes. The crown of that little hat was round, limp, unsustained by any toile. Around this crown was a thinly-striped ribbon in saffron yellow, powder blue, red, brown, green and more saffron yellow, powder blue, red and brown. It was made for me by mum and Pietrina, who gifted me silk and ribbons; and it was one of my favourites. That brim, by dint of poor craftsmanship, hung crookedly around my head, shadowing my brow almost like a wink, reminding me of the hat of leaves on Donatello’s David. My only discouragement was that my hat didn’t have, akin to David’s, a peduncle atop its crown. Behind him, a winter hat the colour of mud-steeped leaves, twirled an exquisitely-woven green straw hat. And although the raised brim encircling its crown bore on its rounded womb small vine-leaf shoots and delicate clusters of black and golden grapes, it didn’t remind me of Autumn; conversely, it spoke to me of Spring.



Echos by May Ayim Es gibt ein Timbre der Stimme Es entsteht wenn du nicht gehört wirst Und weißt dass du nicht gehört wirst Bemerkt nur von anderen Überhört aus demselben Grund Der Geschmack der Mitternachtsfrucht Zunge ruft deinen Körper durch dunkles Licht durchbohrt die Verlockung der Sicherheit zerreißt das Glitzern des Schweigens das dich umgibt Blende mich mit Farbe und vielleicht bemerke ich nicht bevor du gegangen bist. Deinen Geruch nach heißem Korn eingebrannt In jedes neue Gedicht widerhallend Jenseits der Flucht lausche ich in diesem Grenzgebiet zwischen Verlangen und Ewigkeit der Grabesstille vor der Wahl


The poem represents enchantment on two fronts; firstly a longing of the narrator to be enchanted by a lover, to revel in a state of rapture under their Da meine Zunge sich löst in welchem Abgrund wird der Schrei hängen ungesungen Und zittert die Spitze an den Rädern des Niemals niederschreiben welche Träume heilen welcher Traum töten kann Einen Mann erdolchen und seinen Körper verbrennen Zur Tarnung entdeckt werden im Liebesakt mit einer Frau die ich nicht kenne


spell. It also seeks to resist disenchantment, raging a battle against a precarity and an abyss into which it ultimately acquiesces.

There is a timbre of the voice It emerges when you are not being heard And know that you will not be heard Noticed only by others Unheard for the same reason The taste of midnight fruit Tongue calls to your body through dark light pierces through the lure of safety tears apart the glimmer of stillness that surrounds you Blind me with colour and maybe I will not notice before you are gone

Echoes translated by Samuel Oliver Maguire As my tongue unfurls in which abyss will the scream hang unsung And the tip quiver on the wheels of nevermore committing to paper those dreams which heal those dreams which can kill To stick a dagger in a man and burn his body For camouflage to be discovered in the act of love with a woman who I don’t know

Your scent of hot liquor burned into every new poem echoing Beyond the escape I hear in this borderland between desire and eternity the deathly stillness before the choice



What Did I Do To Deserve You by Rachel Coventry

Rachel Coventry’s poem relates to enchantment as the narrator evokes a feeling of sadness while also being

We exist so the universe can experience loneliness you may think if everything is one, it will be content, there will be no suffering you are wrong if there is just one thing there can only be longing with nothing to long for so here we are, splinters in the dark, no other purpose but to break each other’s hearts.

Penny Stuart, Hannah 18


enchanted with the universe and their place in it, and the person to whom they are speaking.

Conas atá tú tuillte agam

aistrithe ag Aislinn Ní Dhomhnaill

Táimid beo ionas go mothaíonn an chruinne uaigneas b’fhéidir go gceapfá má tá an uile rud in éineacht leis féin, beidh sé sona, ní bheidh fulaingt ar bith tá tú mícheart mura bhfuil ach rud amháin ní féidir a bheith ann ach dúil gan tada dúil a bheith agat ann agus sin mar atá muid, scealpa sa dorchadas, gan aon cuspóir ach croíthe a chéile a bhriseadh.



En el viaje de novios by Javier Marías

This short story shows the ephemeral nature of enchantment. The man has been enchanted many times in his life and, even after finding the love

Mi mujer se había sentido indispuesta y habíamos regresado apresuradamente a la habitación del hotel, donde ella se había acostado con escalofríos y un poco de náusea y un poco de fiebre. No quisimos llamar en seguida a un médico por ver si se le pasaba y porque estábamos en nuestro viaje de novios, y en ese viaje no se quiere la intromisión de un extraño, aunque sea para un reconocimiento. Debía de ser un ligero mareo, un cólico, cualquier cosa. Estábamos en Sevilla, en un hotel que quedaba resguardado del tráfico por una explanada que lo separaba de la calle. Mientras mi mujer se dormía (pareció dormirse en cuanto la acosté y la arropé), decidí mantenerme en silencio, y la mejor manera de lograrlo y no verme tentado a hacer ruido o hablarle por aburrimiento era asomarme al balcón y ver pasar a la gente, a los sevillanos, cómo caminaban y cómo vestían, cómo hablaban, aunque, por la relativa distancia de la calle y el tráfico, no oía más que un murmullo. Miré sin ver, como mira quien llega a una fiesta en la que sabe que la única persona que le interesa no estará allí porque se quedó en casa con su marido. Esa persona única estaba conmigo, a mis espaldas, velada por su marido. Yo miraba hacia el exterior y pensaba en el interior, pero de pronto individualicé a una persona, y la individualicé porque a diferencia: de las demás, que pasaban un momento y desaparecían, esa persona permanecía inmóvil en su sitio. Era una mujer de unos treinta años de lejos, vestida con una blusa azul sin apenas mangas y una falda blanca y zapatos de tacón también blancos. Estaba esperando, su actitud era de espera inequívoca, porque de vez en cuando daba dos o tres pasos a derecha o izquierda, y en el último paso arrastraba un poco el tacón afilado de un pie o del otro, un gesto de contenida impaciencia. Colgado del brazo llevaba un gran bolso, como los que en mi infancia llevaban las madres, mi madre, un gran bolso negro colgado del brazo anticuadamente, no echado al hombro como se llevan ahora. Tenía unas piernas robustas, que se clavaban sólidamente en el suelo cada vez que volvían a detenerse en el punto elegido para su espera tras el mínimo desplazamiento de dos o tres pasos y el tacón arrastrado del último paso. Eran tan robustas que anulaban o asimilaban esos tacones, eran ellas las que se hincaban sobre el pavimento, como navaja en madera mojada. A veces flexionaba una para mirarse detrás y alisarse la falda, como si temiera algún pliegue que le 20


of his life and marrying her, he is once again enchanted by this mysterious woman, for whom he soon shall open the door for.

On My Honeymoon

translated by Michael McCaffrey

While my wife slept (well, she seemed to have fallen asleep when I put her to bed and tucked her in), I decided to keep quiet. And the best way for me to keep quiet was to peek my head out over the balcony so I wasn’t tempted to make noise or to talk to her out of boredom. So, I looked down at the Sevillians passing by and noted how they walked, dressed, and talked. However, I couldn’t hear much more than a murmur because I was far from the street. I looked without really looking, like when you look at people arriving at a party that you know the only person you are interested in won’t be there because they stayed home with their husband. And that person was behind me, veiled by her husband. I looked outwards and thought inwards. All of a sudden, someone caught my eye. I was drawn to them because they were different from the others who would pass by and disappear in an instant. This person stayed in one spot. It was a woman and from afar she appeared to be in her 30s, wearing a blue short-sleeve blouse, a white skirt, and white high heels. She was waiting. She was undoubtedly waiting as every so often she would take two or three steps to the side and on the last step, drag her sharp heel in: a gesture of restrained impatience. Hanging from her arm was a huge purse, like the ones that all the mothers had when I was a kid. My mother had a great big black purse that would hang from her arm, not over her shoulder the way people wear it today. This woman had sturdy legs that struck the ground each time she stopped pacing after her two to three steps and heel drag. They were so sturdy that they dominated her high-heels, and it was them who drove her heel into the pavement, like a knife into wet wood. Occasionally, she would stretch out one leg, look back at it, and smooth out her skirt, as if one single fold would make her ass look terrible. Or maybe she was just adjusting her scandalous panties through the material that covered them. Night was approaching and the gradual loss of light made her appear even more alone, more isolated, and even more condemned to wait in vain. Her date would never arrive. She stood in the middle of the street, 21

PORTUGUESE afeara el culo, o quizá se ajustaba las bragas rebeldes a través de la tela que las cubría. Estaba anocheciendo, y la pérdida gradual de la luz me hizo vea cada vez más solitaria, más aislada y más condenada a esperar en vano. Su cita no llegaría. Se mantenía en medio de la calle, no se apoyaba en la pared como suelen hacer los que aguardan para no entorpecer el paso de los que no esperan y pasan, y por eso tenía problemas para esquivar a los transeúntes, alguno le dijo algo, ella le contestó con ira y le amagó con el bolso enorme. De repente alzó la vista, hacia el tercer piso en que yo me encontraba, y me pareció que fijaba los ojos en mí por vez primera. Escrutó, como si fuera miope o llevara lentillas sucias, guiñaba un poco los ojos para ver mejor, me pareció que era a mí a quien miraba. Pero yo no conocía a nadie en Sevilla, es más, era la primera vez que estaba en Sevilla, en mi viaje de novios con mi mujer tan reciente, a mi espalda enferma, ojalá no fuera nada. Oí un murmullo procedente de la cama, pero no volví la cabeza porque era un quejido que venía del sueño, un aprende a distinguir en seguida el sonido dormido de aquel con quien duerme. La mujer había dado unos pasos, ahora en mi dirección, estaba cruzando la calle, sorteando los coches sin buscar un semáforo, como si quisiera aproximarse rápido para comprobar, para verme mejor a mi balcón asomado. Sin embargo caminaba con dificultad y lentitud, como si los tacones le fueran desacostumbrados o sus piernas tan llamativas no estuvieran hechas para ellos, o la desequilibrara el bolso o estuviera mareada. Andaba como había andado mi mujer al sentirse indispuesta, al entrar en la habitación, yo la había ayudado a desvestirse y a meterse en la cama, la había arropado. La mujer de la calle acabó de cruzar, ahora estaba más cerca pero todavía a distancia, separada del hotel por la. amplia explanada que lo alejaba del tráfico. Seguía con la vista alzada, mirando hacia mí o a mi altura, la altura del edificio a la que yo me hallaba. Y entonces hizo un gesto con el brazo, un gesto que no era de saludo ni de acercamiento, quiero decir de acercamiento a un extraño, sino de apropiación y reconocimiento, como si fuera yo la persona a quien había aguardado y su cita fuera conmigo. Era como si con aquel gesto del brazo, coronado por un remolino veloz de los dedos, quisiera asirme y dijera: 'Tú ven acá', o 'Eres mío'. Al mismo tiempo gritó algo que no pude oír, y por el movimiento de los labios sólo comprendí la primera palabra, que era ¡Eh!', dicha con indignación, como el resto de la frase que no me alcanzaba. Siguió avanzando, ahora se tocó la falda por detrás con más motivo, porque parecía que quien debía juzgar su figura ya estaba ante ella, el esperado podía apreciar ahora la caída de aquella falda. Y entonces ya pude oír lo que estaba diciendo: '¡Eh! ¿Pero qué haces ahí?' El grito era muy audible ahora, y vi a la mujer mejor. Quizá tenía más de treinta años, los ojos aún guiñados me parecieron claros, grises o color ciruela, los labios gruesos, la nariz algo ancha, las aletas vehementes por el enfado, debía de llevar mucho tiempo esperando, mucho más tiempo del transcurrido desde que yo la había individualizado. 22

ENGLISH not leaning up against the wall as was custom so as to not block someone else’s path and save them the trouble of waiting to get past. She had problems avoiding those passing by. One even said something to her, and she responded angrily and threatened him with her huge bag. Suddenly, she looked up towards the third floor where I was. It seemed like she had spotted me and was scrutinizing me. Then, as if she was nearsighted or had on smudged glasses, she squinted. It almost appeared that she was staring at me. But I didn’t know anyone in Seville. Plus, this was my first time here, on my honeymoon, with my new wife, who was behind me sick. I hoped it was nothing. I heard a murmur from the bed, but I didn’t look back because it was just a groan one makes in their sleep. You quickly learn to distinguish the sounds of those you sleep with. The woman took a few steps in my direction and, without waiting for a light, began to cross the street and dodge traffic. She wanted to quickly get closer so she could see me, peeking my head out of my balcony, better. However, she struggled to walk and went slowly. It seemed like she wasn’t used to heels, or that her legs were ill-suited for her, or that her bag was weighing her down, or maybe she was dizzy. She walked how my sick wife walked back to the room as I helped her get undressed and into bed, and then tucked her in. The woman on the street stopped crossing. Now, she was a bit closer, but still a good distance away. We were separated by a field that lay between the hotel and the street. She kept looking up at me or to my height in the building and made a gesture with her arm. It was neither welcoming nor signalling a friendly approach. It was more like one used to approach an acquaintance, like I was the person that she had been waiting for and she had a date with me. It was as if, with that gesture and a closing of her fist, she wanted to grab me and say: “Come here” or “You’re mine.” At the same time, she shouted something that I couldn’t hear. But by the movement of her lips, I understood the first word was “Aye!” but said with indignation. The rest of the sentence did not reach me. She kept coming closer, smoothing her skirt out with purpose now because whoever was meant to judge her figure was now in front of her. They could appreciate the way her skirt laid. Now, I could hear what she was yelling: “Aye, what are you doing here?” I could hear and see her better. She was about 30 years old, her squinted eyes a light grey or plum colour, her lips thick, and her nose somewhat wide and flaring in anger. She must have been waiting a long time, much longer than since I spotted her. 23


Cœur, couronne et miroir by Guillaume Apollinaire


Calligrammes: Poems of Peace and War (1918) shows that the enchantment of typography and its spatial/visual arrangement of words could transform the concrete poetry into a shape of “calligram".

Heart, Crown and Mirror translated by Bowen Wang ENGLISH

The English translation here allows us to see how this captivating and experimental style of writing will display across different linguistic traditions with its enchanting themes on love, external art, as well as the reflective self.








Rima XXI by Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

The following piece is a translation of Rima XXI by 19th century Romantic poet Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer, a poem that undeniably illustrates the

¿Qué es poesía?, dices mientras clavas en mi pupila tu pupila azul. ¿Qué es poesía? ¿Y tú me lo preguntas? Poesía… eres tú.

Alexander Fay, Róisín (Little Rose) 26


beautiful enchantment of love. The adoration held in the poem is so powerful that the speaker is momentarily rendered speechless in the concluding line.

Rann XXI aistrithe ag Emma Gilheany

Cad í an fhilíocht? D’fhiafraigh tú ag breathnú i mo shúile le do shúile gorma. Cad í an fhilíocht? Agus chuir tú an cheist ormsa? ‘Sí an fhilíocht… thú


Evvie Kyrozi, Selene 28

Jerie MacApagal, Full Wonder


Estío – ‘Alexandría’ SPANISH

by Merche Montero

The source text is an extract from the short story Alexandría, from the 2018 climate fiction collection, Estío. Enchantment is embodied in the characters

La Biblioteca Alexandría era uno de los escasos lugares estratégicos de Compostela cuya ubicación era, para la inmensa mayoría de sus habitantes, incierta. Tras décadas de desertización, la población estaba muy lejos de interesarse por su existencia; algunos la consideraban una ensoñación mitológica propia de aquellos que añoraban la Galicia verde fabricando fantasías a la altura de su desarraigo. Qué podría haber más absurdo que almacenar libros en un mundo que se deseca, repetían, si ya por entonces disponían de la tecnología necesaria para guardar todo el saber conocido y el que estuviese por producirse. Por eso Josephine Bernhardine Nilsson pestañeó con incredulidad cuando su superior Jens Christian Torp le comunicó que tendría que llevar a cabo una investigación documental en ese preciso lugar. El escaso ingenio demostrado para bautizar la primera y hasta la fecha única biblioteca secreta de Galicia se compensaba con la audacia que habría sido necesaria para descubrir su entrada. Josephine firmó una innumerable cantidad de documentos jurando que se llevaría el secreto a su urna funeraria (burocracia multicopiada que sin duda iba en contra del afán de ocultismo), no sin antes recibir copia certificada de la lista de represalias que serían tomadas en su contra y en la de todos sus ascendientes o descendientes en caso de saltarse lo acordado. Cubiertos ojos y oídos, pronto adivinó que estaban adentrándose en alguna ciclópea estructura granítica por la náusea que flotaba en su estómago. La humedad que en tiempos revestía la arquitectura gallega ya solamente existía en el olor que emanaban sus piedras. No conseguiría nunca racionalizar lo ocurrido a continuación, aunque su sensación fue que había sido abducida por una ventosa gigantesca hacia un abismo. Entonces la hicieron caminar por algún lugar que percibió inundado de un frío más antiguo que el origen de la ciudad hasta que sus manos, alzadas en el aire que se extendía ante ellas, toparon con una puerta metálica. Alguien la empujó con delicadeza y ella avanzó, dudosa. Cuando se hubo cerrado a sus espaldas notó cómo la venda caía de sus ojos en un movimiento casi mágico, arrancada por las manos de un fantasma. -Buenos días. 30

Aestus ‘Alexandría’ ENGLISH

– a protagonist enthralled by a supernatural matrix of books, an enigmatic android – as well as the setting – a mysterious library.

translated by Nathaniel Makin

The Alexandría Library was one of the few strategic places in Compostela whose location was, for the vast majority of its inhabitants, uncertain. After decades of desertification, the population was far from interested in its existence; some considered it a mythical reverie typical of those who yearned for green Galicia, fabricating fantasies at the height of their estrangement. What could have been more absurd than keeping books in a desiccating world, they repeated, if back then they already had the technology needed to store all knowledge, both known and to be known. Therefore, Josephine Bernhardine Nilsson blinked in disbelief when her superior, Jens Christian Torp, informed her that she would have to carry out documentary research in that very place. The little ingenuity shown by naming the first and so far only secret library in Galicia was made up for by the audacity that would have been needed to discover its entrance. Josephine signed a myriad of documents swearing that she would take the secret to her grave (well-documented bureaucracy that no doubt contradicted their desire for concealment), not without first receiving a certified copy of the list of punitive actions that would be taken against her and all her ancestors or descendants were the agreement breached. Eyes and ears covered, she soon guessed – by the nausea swelling in her stomach – that they were going deep inside some cyclopean granite structure. The moisture that in times past cloaked the Galician architecture now only existed in the smell that emanated from its stones. She would never come to rationalise what happened next, though she felt as if she had been sucked through a gigantic tube towards a chasm. Then they made her walk through a place she sensed was flooded with a cold more ancient than the city, until her hands, raised in the air that faced them, came to a metallic door. Someone pushed her delicately and she moved forward, doubtful. When it had closed behind her back, she noticed how the blindfold fell from her eyes in an almost magical movement, torn off by phantom hands. “Good morning.” 31

SPANISH Era un androide de mirada melancólica. -Buenos días. Me llamo Josephine Bernhardine Nilsson. -Bienvenida, señora Nilsson. El androide había adoptado acento danés, en deferencia hacia su apellido. Un ingeniero con ganas de torear había otorgado a sus rasgos el aspecto de una santa mártir de Bernardino Luini. -Acompáñeme, por favor. Siguió al androide por un aséptico pasillo blanco, fascinada por su modo insonoro de deslizarse. El corredor trazaba una curva suave, por lo que, tras pocos segundos de camino, el espacio a sus espaldas y el que se extendía ante ella eran indistinguibles. No se divisaban otras puertas o el final de recorrido. El androide la miró furtivamente en un gesto que no pasó desapercibido a Josephine. Por fin alcanzaron una nueva puerta que se abrió segundos antes de que el androide llegase a ella. Entonces se detuvo en un movimiento preciso, girando ciento ochenta grados sobre sus pies para volverse hacia su acompañante. -Está usted en Biblioteca Alexandría. Esta tarjeta -Le extendió una pequeña lámina roja con su nombre grabado- le permitirá acceder a todas las secciones y documentos. Josephine agarró mecánicamente la tarjeta, absorta en la contemplación del espacio que se extendía ante ella. Era una caverna en penumbra de dimensión desconocida. Un único sendero marcado con una luz violácea levemente fluorescente se perdía en la oscuridad. A izquierda y derecha del camino principal se abrían líneas de luminosidad aún más débil, en torno a las cuales se arremolinaban estanterías de altura incalculable. Los libros parecían crecer en ellas sin orden aparente, pero se posaban unos sobre otros en extraña armonía natural, como insectos que se asocian gracias a un sabio proceso evolutivo. El androide adivinó sus miedos y siseó: -No hay humanos gestionando la biblioteca. La iluminación no es estrictamente necesaria para nosotros, pero la Xunta consideró oportuno humanizarla colocando algún rastro de luz. Josephine exploró los ojos vacíos de su interlocutor. 32

ENGLISH It was an android with melancholic eyes. “Good morning. I am Josephine Bernhardine Nilsson.” “Welcome, Ms Nilsson.” The android had adopted a Danish accent, in deference to her surname. An engineer, and wind-up merchant, had gifted their features the look of one of Bernardino Luini’s martyr saints. “Please come with me.” She followed the android down an aseptic, white corridor, fascinated by the soundless way they slid along. The corridor traced a smooth curve, by which, after just a few seconds walking, the space behind her and that which extended in front of her were indistinguishable. It was not possible to make out any other doors or the end of the walkway. The android looked at her furtively with an expression that didn’t go unnoticed by Josephine. Finally, they reached a new door that opened seconds before the android came to it. The android then stopped with a precise movement, turning one hundred and eighty degrees on its feet to look back at its companion. “Welcome to the Alexandría Library. This card,” it gave her a small red sheet bearing the name, “will permit you access to all sections and documents.” Josephine automatically grabbed the card, lost in contemplation of the space before her. It was a shadowy cavern, of unknown dimensions. A single path marked with a lightly fluorescent violet light was lost in the darkness. To the left and right of the main walkway shone even weaker beams of light, around which were crowded bookshelves of incalculable height. The books seemed to grow on them in no apparent order, but they perched on top of each other in a strange, natural harmony, like insects that collaborate thanks to a wise evolutionary process. The android sensed her fear and whispered: “There are no humans running the library. The lighting is not strictly necessary for us, but the Xunta considered it appropriate to install some traces of light to humanise the place.” Josephine explored the empty eyes of her guide. 33

SPANISH -¿Cómo me orientaré yo? -Le dejaré un mapa digital. Puede buscar las palabras que necesite y el mapa trazará su ruta a través de la biblioteca. -¿Qué pasa si mi mapa falla o se apaga? -¿Sabe de algún mapa de esta naturaleza que haya fallado? La entonación tenía retranca, actitud poco habitual en un androide. Reparó entonces en una pequeña marca en su frente, un diminuto punto color turquesa que parpadeaba. -¿Usted aparecerá si tengo algún problema? -¿Qué tipo de problema? El androide extrajo una lámina flexible enroscada en alguna ranura de su costado y se la entregó a Josephine, objeto que ella identificó como el mapa prometido. A continuación abrió la palma de su mano izquierda, en la que aparecieron varios comprimidos. -Tenga. Use esto si tiene hambre. Encontrará surtidores de agua en varios puntos de la biblioteca. Están debidamente señalizados. Procure no demorarse más de siete u ocho horas; no tengo autorización para que permanezca aquí pasada la medianoche. -¿Y si necesito más tiempo? -¿Tal vez solicitar un segundo permiso? Aunque sería improbable que se lo concediesen. Dio por terminada la conversación girándose hacia la salida. Josephine lo siguió con la mirada. El androide abrió la puerta, pero entornó levemente la vista para espiarla antes de desaparecer. Blam. El eco resonó y se perdió entre los libros.


ENGLISH “How will I orient myself?” “I will leave you a digital map. You can search any words that you may need, and the map will trace your route through the library.” “What happens if my map breaks or loses power?” “Do you know of any map of this nature that has not worked?” The intonation had a hidden meaning, uncommon behaviour in an android. She then fixated on a small mark on its head, a tiny turquoise dot that blinked. “Will you appear if I have any problems?” “What sort of problem? The android extracted a flexible sheet coiled inside some slot in its side and gave it to Josephine, an object she identified as the map she was promised. Next, it opened the palm of its left hand, revealing various pills. “Please, take this if you are hungry. You will find water fountains at various points in the library. They are properly signposted. Try to stay no longer than seven or eight hours; I cannot authorise you to stay here past midnight.” “And if I need more time?” “Perhaps request another permit? Although it would be unlikely for you to receive one.” It terminated the conversation, turning towards the exit. Josephine watched it go. The android opened the door, but squinted slightly to spy on her, before disappearing. Blam. The echo resonated and was lost amongst the books.



Two Sonnets by John Ashbery

The way in which Ashbery uses language is always enchanting in itself.

Dido The body's products become Fatal to it. Our spit Would kill us, but we Die of our heat. Though I say the things I wish to say They are needless, their own flame conceives it. So I am cheated of perfection. The iodine bottle sat in the hall And out over the park where crawled roadsters The apricot and purple clouds were And our blood flowed down the grating Of the cream-colored embassy. Inside it they had a record of "The St. Louis Blues."



Here he seems to recognise the positive, negative, and even the mundane enchantments of the world too.

Два Cонeта

translated by Phelim Ó Laoghaire

Проказа Сами отходы тела становятся Ему смертельным. Наши слюни Бы убили нас, но мы Умираем с тепла нашего. Хотя я говорю те вещи, что хочу сказать Они не нужны, их собственное пламя это творит. Так что я обманут от совершенства. Бутылка йода сидела в зале И за парке, где ползли родстеры, Абрикосовые и фиолетовые облака были И наша кровь текла по решетке Кремового посольства. В нутрии у них была пластинка "Сент-Луис Блюз".



The Idiot O how this sullen, careless world Ignorant of me is! Those rocks, those homes Know not the touch of my flesh, nor is there one tree Whose shade has known me for a friend. I've wandered the wide world over. No man I've known, no friendly beast Has come and put its nose into my hands. No maid has welcomed my face with a kiss. Yet once, as I took passage From Gibraltar to Cape Horn I met some friendly mariners on the boat And as we struggled to keep the ship from sinking The very waves seemed friendly, and the sound The spray made as it hit the front of the boat.



Идиот О, как этот угрюмый, небрежный мир Не знающий о меня есть! Эти камни, эти дома Не знают прикосновения моей плоти, и нет ни одного дерева Чья тень знает меня за друга. Я по всему миру бродил. Не человека, которого я знал, не дружелюбного зверя Пришел и сунул нос в мои руки. Ни одна горничная приветствовала мое лицо поцелуем. Но раз, когда я взял проход Из Гибралтара до Мыса Горн Я встретил добрых моряков на лодке И когда мы изо всех сил старались удержать корабль от затопления Сами волны казались дружелюбными, и сам звук Брызги делали, попадая в переднюю часть лодки.

Oz Russell, Procession



Prince Caspian –‘The Return of the Lion’ By C.S. Lewis

The concept of enchantment will always evoke associations with children’s fantasy literature. In this extract from Prince Caspian, a novel in the classic children’s

Lucy woke out of the deepest sleep you can imagine, with the feeling that the voice she liked best in the world had been calling her name. She thought at first it was her father's voice, but that did not seem quite right. Then she thought it was Peter's voice, but that did not seem to fit either. She did not want to get up; not because she was still tired—on the contrary she was wonderfully rested and all the aches had gone from her bones—but because she felt so extremely happy and comfortable. She was looking straight up at the Narnian moon, which is larger than ours, and at the starry sky, for the place where they had bivouacked was comparatively open. "Lucy," came the call again, neither her father's voice nor Peter's. She sat up, trembling with excitement but not with fear. The moon was so bright that the whole forest landscape around her was almost as clear as day, though it looked wilder. Behind her was the fir wood; away to her right the jagged cliff-tops on the far side of the gorge; straight ahead, open grass to where a glade of trees began about a bow-shot away. Lucy looked very hard at the trees of that glade. "Why, I do believe they're moving," she said to herself. "They're walking about." She got up, her heart beating wildly, and walked towards them. There was certainly a noise in the glade, a noise such as trees make in a high wind, though there was no wind tonight. Yet it was not exactly an ordinary tree-noise either. Lucy felt there was a tune in it, but she could not catch the tune any more than she had been able to catch the words when the trees had so nearly talked to her the night before. But there was, at least, a lilt; she felt her own feet wanting to dance as she got nearer. And now there was no doubt that the trees were really moving—moving in and out through one another as if in a complicated country dance. ("And I suppose," thought Lucy, "when trees dance, it must be a very, very country dance indeed.") She was almost among them now. 40

A n P rionsa C aispian –‘F illeadh an L eoin’


series, The Chronicles of Narnia, Lucy finds herself amidst the enchanting scenes of dancing trees, where she will finally find her dear mystical friend, Aslan.

Aistrithe ag Rebecca Coxon Dhúisigh Lucy as tromnéal cumhachtach agus í cinnte go raibh an guth is fearr léi ar domhan ag cur glao uirthi. Ag an tús cheap sí gur ghuth a hathair a bhí ann, ach níor chosúil di go raibh sin i gceart. Ansin cheap sí gur ghuth Peter a bhí ann, ach ní raibh ceachtar acu ceart. Ní raibh sí ag iarraidh éirí; ní mar gheall ar an dtuirse – a mhalairt i ndáiríre – ní raibh sí tuirseach a thuilleadh agus bhí an pian a bhí ina corp imithe. Bhí sí gealgháireach, suaimhneach. D’amharc sí díreach suas ar ghealach Nairnia, a bhfuil níos mó ná ár gceann, agus ar an spéir lán le réaltaí,toisc go raibh an áit ina raibh siad ag biobháig sách oscailte. “Lucy,” chuala sí an glao arís. Níor ghuth a hathair ná Peter a bhí ann. Shuigh sí suas agus í ag crith, ní le heagla ach le scleondar. Bhí an ghealach chomh solasta go raibh cuma an lae ar an gcoill a bhí timpeall uirthi, ach beagáinín ní b’fhiáine. Taobh thiar di bhí an choill ghiúise; barra mantacha na haillte ar thaobh thall den altán ar a deis; díreach os a coinne, bhí limistéar oscailte féarmhar os comhair plásóige choille faoi urchar saighde di. D’fhéach Lucy go géar ar chrainn na plásóige choille sin. “Ara, sílim go bhfuil siad ag bogadh,” a dúirt sí léi féin. “Tá siad ag siúil thart.” D’éirigh sí agus a croí ag preabadh go tréan, agus shiúil sí ina dtreo. Bhí torann sa phlásóg cinnte, torann a dhéanann na crainn sa ghaoth mhór, ach ní raibh fiú aithleá ann anocht. Níor ghnáth-thorann na gcrann a bhí ann ach an oiread. Mhothaigh Lucy go raibh port sa thorann, ach ní raibh sí in ann an port a thuiscint, díreach cosúil leis an oíche roimh ré nuair nach raibh sí in ann na focail a chluinstin nuair a bhí na crainn beagnach ag labhairt léi. Ar a laghad, áfach, bhí rithim ann. D’éirigh dúil ina cosa a bheith ag rince agus í ag éirí ní ba chóngairí. Anois ní raibh aon amhras ann go raibh na crainn ag bogadh – ag bogadh isteach agus amach tríd a chéile cosúil le rince tuaithe casta. (“Déarfainn, nuair atá crainn ag déanamh rince tuaithe, gur rince fíor-thuaithe atá ann go dearbh,” a smaoinigh Lucy.) Bhí sí beagnach ina measc anois. 41

ENGLISH The first tree she looked at seemed at first glance to be not a tree at all but a huge man with a shaggy beard and great bushes of hair. She was not frightened: she had seen such things before. But when she looked again he was only a tree, though he was still moving. You couldn't see whether he had feet or roots, of course, because when trees move they don't walk on the surface of the earth; they wade in it as we do in water. The same thing happened with every tree she looked at. At one moment they seemed to be the friendly, lovely giant and giantess forms which the tree-people put on when some good magic has called them into full life: next moment they all looked like trees again. But when they looked like trees, it was like strangely human trees, and when they looked like people, it was like strangely branchy and leafy people—and all the time that queer lilting, rustling, cool, merry noise. "They are almost awake, not quite," said Lucy. She knew she herself was wide awake, wider than anyone usually is. She went fearlessly in among them, dancing herself at, she leaped this way and that to avoid being run into by these huge partners. But she was only half interested in them. She wanted to get beyond them to something else; it was from beyond them that the dear voice had called. She soon got through them (half wondering whether she had been using her arms to push branches aside, or to take hands in a Great Chain with big dancers who stooped to reach her) for they were really a ring of trees round a central open place. She stepped out from among their shifting confusion of lovely lights and shadows. A circle of grass, smooth as a lawn, met her eyes, with dark trees dancing all round it. And then—oh joy! For he was there: the huge Lion, shining white in the moonlight, with his huge black shadow underneath him. But for the movement of his tail he might have been a stone lion, but Lucy never thought of that. She never stopped to think whether he was a friendly lion or not. She rushed to him. She felt her heart would burst if she lost a moment. And the next thing she knew was that she was kissing him and putting her arms as far round his neck as she could and burying her face in the beautiful rich silkiness of his mane. "Aslan, Aslan. Dear Aslan," sobbed Lucy. "At last."


IRISH Ar an gcéad amharc, bhí cuma ar an gcéad chrann a chonaic sí gur fhear mór le féasóg ghiobach agus mothall gruaige air a bhí ann in ionad crann ar chor ar bith. Ní raibh eagla uirthi: chonaic sí a leithéid de rud cheana féin. Nuair a d’fhéach sí arís, áfach, ní raibh ach crann ann, ach bhí sé fós ag bogadh. Ní raibh sé soiléir an raibh cosa nó fréamhacha aige, ar ndóigh, toisc nach mbíonn crainn ag bogadh ar bharr an thalaimh nuair a bhogann siad; spágálann siad tríd an talamh cosúil linne nuair a bhogaimid san uisce. Tharla an rud céanna le gach crann ar a d’amharc sí. Nóiméad amháin bhí cuma fathaigh chairdiúla orthu, an cuma sin a chuireann lucht na gcrann orthu nuair a chasann draíocht mhaith orthu: an chéad nóiméad eile bhí cuma crann orthu arís. Ach nuair a bhí cuma crann orthu, bhí siad cosúil le daoine ar bhealach aisteach, agus nuair a bhí cuma daoine orthu, ba dhaoine aisteacha, duilliúracha iad – agus fós an torann ait, ceolmhar, siosarnach, socair, aerach sin fós ann. “Tá siad beagnach múscailte, ní go fóill,” a dúirt Lucy. Bhí a fhios aici go raibh sí féin ina lándúiseacht, ní ba mhúscailte ná a bhíonn an gnáthdhuine. Chuaigh sí go neamhfhaiteach ina measc, í féin ag rince agus ag léimneach anonn is anall chun a páirtithe móra a sheachaint. Ach ba bheag an spéis a bhí aici iontu. Bhí sí ag iarraidh dul taobh thall dóibh go rud éigin eile; is ón dtaobh thall a tháinig an guth dil chuici. Tháinig sí tríothu go gairid (ní raibh sí cinnte an raibh sí ag úsáid a lámha chun na craobhacha a chur uaithi nó an raibh sí ag tógáil lámha na rinceoirí a bhí ag cromadh síos chun slabhra mór a dhéanamh léi) toisc gur fháinne crann thart ar áit lárnach oscailte a bhí iontu i ndáiríre. Shiúil sí amach as ruaille buaille na soilse áille agus na scáthanna. Chonaic sí fáinne féir, chomh mín le faiche, le crainn dorcha ag rince timpeall air. Ansin cuireadh gliondar ar a croí! Bhí sé ann: an Leon mór, ag lonrú go geal i solas na gealaí agus a scáth mór dubh faoi. Murach gluaiseacht a eireaball, d’fhéadfadh sé a bheith ina dhealbh, ach níor smaoinigh Lucy air sin. Níor stad sí chun machnamh a dhéanamh ar leon cairdiúil nó naimhdeach é. Dheifrigh sí chuige. Mhothaigh sí go raibh a croí chun pléascadh dá gcaillfeadh sí nóiméad. An chéad rud eile bhí sí á phógadh agus ag cur a lámha thart ar a mhuineál chomh fada agus ab fhéidir léi agus ag brú a haghaidh ina mhoing aoibhinn, shíodúil. “Áslan, Áslan. A stór, Áslan,” arsa Lucy agus í ag gol. “Faoi dheireadh.” 43


Drei Kameraden by Erich Maria Remarque

From Helen of Troy, to Keats’s La Belle Dame, to the Femme Fatale — women have been enticing, and charming, and magnifying.

Ich liebte es, so still dazusitzen und Pat zuzusehen, während sie sich anzog. Nie empfand ich das Geheimnis des ewig Fremden der Frau mehr als bei diesem leisen Hin- und Hergehen vor dem Spiegel, diesem nachdenklichen Prüfen, diesem ganz In-sich-Versinken, diesem Zurückgleiten in den unbewußten Spürsinn des Geschlechtes. Ich konnte mir nicht gut denken, daß eine Frau sich schwatzend und lachend ankleidete – und wenn sie es tat, dann fehlte ihr das Geheimnis und der undeutbare Zauber des immer wieder Entfliehenden. Ich liebte bei Pat ihre weichen und doch geschmeidigen Bewegungen vor dem Spiegel; es war wunderbar anzusehen, wie sie nach ihrem Haar griff oder einen Augenbrauenstift behutsam und vorsichtig wie einen Pfeil an die Schläfen führte. Sie hatte dann etwas von einem Reh und von einem schmalen Panther und auch etwas von einer Amazone vor dem Kampf. Sie vergaß alles um sich her, ihr Gesicht war ernst und gesammelt, sie hielt es aufmerksam und ruhig ihrem Spiegelbild entgegen, und während sie sich ihm ganz dicht zuneigte, schien es, als wäre es gar kein Spiegelbild mehr, als sähen sich dort aus der Dämmerung der Wirklichkeit und der Jahrtausende zwei Frauen mit uraltem, wissendem Blick kühn und prüfend in die Augen.



One does not have to be a witch to do so: here, Pat enchants her lover by apparently ordinary, but in truth, extraordinary every-day process.

Three Comrades

translated by Anastasia Fedosova

I loved to watch Pat getting dressed. Never did I feel so strongly the eternal mystery of the woman more than in these moments of her quiet wandering back and forth before the mirror, her pensive scrutiny, her total self-immersion, gliding back into the unconscious instinct of her sex. I could not possibly imagine a woman getting dressed whilst chattering and laughing – and if she did so, she would be lacking the secrecy and inexplicable charm of that which constantly eludes fixation. I loved Pat’s soft and supple movements when she was standing in front of the mirror; it was wonderful to see her tucking her hair, or carefully and gently raising the pencil to her eyebrows, like an arrow. At those moments, she reminded me of a fallow deer, or a lithe panther, or even an Amazon ready for battle. She ceased to notice anything around her, her countenance became earnest and collected, she studied her reflection attentively and calmly, and when she leaned too closely, it seemed as if there was a reflection no longer, but two women, boldly and searchingly looking into each other’s eyes from the twilight of reality and millennia, with a gaze of knowledge.



Come Diana diede alla luce Aradia

By Anonymous

Below is a prayer or spell, originally translated in Aradia, or The Gospel of the Witches and allegedly chanted by a Tuscan group practising La Vecchia Religione, Italy’s ancient

Diana disse un giorno a sua figlia Aradia: É vero che sei uno spirito, Ma tu sei nata per essere ancora Mortale, e devi andare Sulla terra e fare da maestra A donne e a uomini che avranno Volontà di imparare la tua scuola, Che sarà composta di stregonerie [...] Tu sarai sempre la prima strega, La prima strega divenuta nel mondo. Tu insegnerai l’arte di avvelenare, Di avvelenare tutti i signori, Di farli morti nei loro palazzi, Di legare lo spirito dell’oppressore. E dove si trova un contadino ricco e avaro, Insegnerai alle streghe tue alunne Come rovinare il suo raccolto Con tempesta, folgore e baleno, Con grandine e vento. Quando un prete ti farà del male, Del male colle sue benedizioni, Tu gli farai sempre un doppio male Col mio nome, col nome di Diana, Regina delle streghe… 46


tradition of witchcraft. This invocation, of Diana to Aradia, the witches’ Goddess, was repeated as an enchantment and incitement to insurrection.

How Diana gave birth to Aradia translated by Meg Kellett-Whitwham

One day, Diana said to her daughter Aradia: You’re a spirit it's true, But born to be mortal Still; visit earth, you must go, And in your school, Serve as mistress To men and women willing To learn witchcraft [...] Ever the first witch, you the first brought to be, will teach those poisoning arts, Of killing rich men all in their estates, of shackling the despotic soul. And if you should find a farmer of wealth and avarice, teach your pupils, all witches, to spoil his crops with storms, and sparks, and hail and gale. And should a priest hide harm in blessings, you’ll hurt him twice over in my name; Diana’s name, Queen of the witches! 47


Quando i nobili e i preti vi diranno, Dovete credere nel Padre, Figlio E Maria, rispondetegli sempre, Il vostro dio Padre e Maria sono tre diavoli… Il vero dio Padre non è il vostro — Il vostro dio — io sono venuta Per distruggere la gente cattiva E la distruggerò… Voi altri poveri soffrite anche la fame, E lavorate male e troppo, Soffrite anche la prigione; Però avete un’anima, Un’anima più buona, e nell’altro, Nell’altro mondo voi starete bene E gli altri male...


And should priests or rich men tell you “Dovete credere nel Padre, Figlio, e Maria” Ever respond: Your god, that son, Mary? All three, devils!


For God is not your father truly I’m your godI’ve come to crush the wicked; I’ve come to destroy them. You the poor, who suffering starve and labouring for too little, your suffering, a prison. But having a soul and such a fine one, in another life, in another place, you’ll be happy while the others suffer still...

Alexander Fay, Morrígna (Great Queens) 49


Continuidad de los parques By Julio Cortázar

Have you ever been so enchanted by a text that its world became your world and your world its world? So bewitched that reality and fictional reality and the

Había empezado a leer la novela unos días antes. La abandonó por negocios urgentes, volvió a abrirla cuando regresaba en tren a la finca; se dejaba interesar lentamente por la trama, por el dibujo de los personajes. Esa tarde, después de escribir una carta a su apoderado y discutir con el mayordomo una cuestión de aparcerías, volvió al libro en la tranquilidad del estudio que miraba hacia el parque de los robles. Arrellanado en su sillón favorito, de espaldas a la puerta que lo hubiera molestado como una irritante posibilidad de intrusiones, dejó que su mano izquierda acariciara una y otra vez el terciopelo verde y se puso a leer los últimos capítulos. Su memoria retenía sin esfuerzo los nombres y las imágenes de los protagonistas; la ilusión novelesca lo ganó casi en seguida. Gozaba del placer casi perverso de irse desgajando línea a línea de la que lo rodeaba, y sentir a la vez que su cabeza descansaba cómodamente en el terciopelo del alto respaldo, que los cigarrillos seguían al alcance de la mano, que más allá de los ventanales danzaba el aire del atardecer bajo los robles. Palabra a palabra, absorbido por la sórdida disyuntiva de los héroes, dejándose ir hacia las imágenes que se concertaban y adquirían color y movimiento, fue testigo del último encuentro en la cabaña del monte. Primero entraba la mujer, recelosa; ahora llegaba el amante, lastimada la cara por el chicotazo de una rama. Admirablemente restañaba ella la sangre con sus besos, pero él rechazaba las caricias, no había venido para repetir las ceremonias de una pasión secreta, protegida por un mundo de hojas secas y senderos furtivos. El puñal se entibiaba contra su pecho, y debajo latía la libertad agazapada. Un diálogo anhelante corría por las páginas como un arroyo de serpientes, y se sentía que todo estaba decidido desde siempre. Hasta esas caricias que enredaban el cuerpo del amante como queriendo retenerlo y disuadirlo, dibujaban abominablemente la figura de otro cuerpo que era necesario destruir. Nada había sido olvidado: coartadas, azares, posibles errores. A partir de esa hora cada instante tenía su empleo minuciosamente atribuido. El doble repaso despiadado se interrumpía apenas para que una mano 50

Continuity of Parks


fictional reality of that fictional reality suddenly became permeable and started leaking into one another? You should try it some time. It’s terrifying.

translated by Conor Brendan Dunne

He had started reading the novel a few days earlier. He set it aside to tend to some urgent business, then returned to it on the train journey back to the estate, slowly allowing the plot and its characters to draw him in. That evening, after he had written a letter to his attorney and discussed the sharecropping issue with the steward, he resumed reading in the comfort of his study, which looked out onto the oak park. He settled into his favourite armchair with his back to the door, which would otherwise have annoyed him because it implied potential intrusions. He allowed his left hand to stroke the green velvet armrest as he turned his attention to the final chapters. The names and faces of the protagonists came back to him at once, and he was soon under their literary spell. He savoured the almost perverse pleasure of drifting away, line by line, from his surroundings, while at the same time remaining aware of his head resting comfortably against the tall velvet backrest, his cigarillos lying within reach and, on the other side of the picture window, the evening breeze dancing beneath the oak trees. Engrossed by the sordid predicament of the main characters, he allowed himself to be carried off, one word at a time, by the flow of rich and vivid images. He was there for their final meeting in the cabin. The woman arrived first, looking anxious, followed by her lover, whose cheek had been cut by a wayward branch. She tried to staunch the blood with her kisses, but he pushed her away. He had not come for the ritual of yet another tryst in this haven of dry leaves and secret paths. The dagger felt warm against his chest, and underneath an eager freedom was beating. A breathless dialogue streamed down the pages like a river of snakes, and it was as though everything had been decided since the beginning. Her caresses, which spun a web around his body as if wanting to detain and deter him, merely traced the abominable outline of another body that needed to be destroyed. Nothing had been overlooked – not alibis, not mishaps, not any potential errors. From this moment on, every instant had its meticulously assigned purpose. A ruthless double-check was only 51

SPANISH acariciara una mejilla. Empezaba a anochecer. Sin mirarse ya, atados rígidamente a la tarea que los esperaba, se separaron en la puerta de la cabaña. Ella debía seguir por la senda que iba al norte. Desde la senda opuesta él se volvió un instante para verla correr con el pelo suelto. Corrió a su vez, parapetándose en los árboles y los setos, hasta distinguir en la bruma malva del crepúsculo la alameda que llevaba a casa. Los perros no debían ladrar, y no ladraron. El mayordomo no estaría a esa hora, y no estaba. Subió los tres peldaños de porche y entró. Desde la sangre galopando en sus oídos le llegaban las palabras de la mujer: primero una sala azul, después una galería, una escalera alfombrada. En lo alto, dos puertas. Nadie en la primera habitación, nadie en la segunda. La puerta del salón, y entonces el puñal en la mano, la luz de los ventanales, el alto respaldo de un sillón de terciopelo verde, la cabeza del hombre en el sillón leyendo una novela.

Alexander Fay, Fionnradharc (Fairview)


ENGLISH interrupted for long enough to allow a hand to brush across a cheek. Night was starting to fall. They parted ways at the door of the cabin without so much as a shared glance, both utterly focused on the task at hand. She was to follow the path that went north. From the opposite path, he turned for a moment to watch her running away, her hair flowing loosely behind her. Then he ran, too, using the trees and bushes as cover until he spotted the driveway leading to the house through the mauve dusk haze. The dogs were not supposed to bark, and they did not. The steward was not supposed to be there, and he was not. The man climbed the three steps up to the porch and went inside. Along with the blood pounding in his ears he heard the woman’s instructions: first a blue hall, then a long corridor, then a carpeted stairway. Upstairs, two doors. No one in the first bedroom. No one in the second. Then, the door to the lounge, the dagger in hand, the light from the picture window, the tall backrest of a green velvet armchair, and the head of a man sat reading a novel.



An Deargadaol By Pádraig Mac Piarais

‘Deargadaol’ (pronounced ‘dyahr-guh-deel’) is the Irish word for the devil’s coach horse beetle. It is represented in Irish folklore as a cursed

Nuair a bhí mise i mo scorach, bhí bean ar an bpobal se’againne a raibh faitíos ar chuile dhuine roimpi. I mbothán uaigneach i mám sléibhe a bhí cónaí uirthi. Ní ghabhadh aon duine i bhfoisceacht dá teach. Ní thagadh sí féin i ngar do theach duine ar bith eile. Ní labhraítí léi nuair a chastaí do dhuine ar an mbóthar í. Ní chuireadh sise focal ná fáirnéis ar dhuine ar bith. Ba thrua leat an créatúr a fheiceáil agus í ag gabháil an bhóthair ina haonar. ‘Cé hí siúd,’ a deirinnse le mo mháthair, ‘nó tuige nach labhraítear léi?’ ‘Éist, a ghiolla,’ a deireadh mo mháthair liom. ‘Sin í an Deargadaol. Is bean mhallaithe í.’ ‘Céard a rinne sí, nó cé a chuir an mhallacht uirthi?’ a deirinnse. ‘Sagart Dé a chuir an mhallacht uirthi,’ a deireadh mo mháthair. ‘Níl a fhios ag duine ar bith céard a rinne sí.’ Agus sin a bhfuaireas d’eolas ina taobh go rabhas i mo stócach fásta. Agus go deimhin daoibh, a chomharsana, níor chuala mé ina taobh riamh ach go ndearna sí peaca náireach eicínt i dtús a saoil agus gur chuir an sagart a mhallacht uirthi os comhair an phobail i ngeall ar an bpeaca sin. Domhnach amháin dá raibh an pobal cruinn ag an Aifreann, d’iontaigh an sagart thart orthu, agus ar seisean: ‘Tá bean anseo,’ ar seisean, ‘a thuillfeas damnú síoraí di féin agus do chuile dhuine a dhéanfas caidreamh léi. Agus adeirimse leis an mbean sin,’ ar seisean, ‘gur bean mhallaithe í, agus adeirimse libhse gan caidreamh ná comharsanacht a bheith agaibh leis an mbean sin ach an oiread is a bheadh le deargadaol. Éirigh romhat anois, a Dheargadaoil,’ ar seisean, ‘agus seachain comhluadar dea-dhaoine feasta.’ 54


creature, and various legends are told about its evil ways. Although the beetle itself does not appear in this story, the curse associated with it runs throughout.

The Deargadaol

Aistrithe Ag

Peter Weakliam

When I was a boy, there was a woman in our community that everyone was afraid of. She lived in a lonely cabin in a mountain gap. No one went anywhere near her house. She didn’t come near anyone else’s house. People didn’t talk to her when they passed her on the road, and she didn’t speak a word to anyone. You’d pity the sight of the poor creature as she walked the road alone. ‘Who’s that,’ I’d say to my mother, ‘or why don’t they talk to her?’ ‘Quiet, boy,’ my mother would say to me. ‘That’s the Deargadaol. She’s a cursed woman.’ ‘What did she do, or who put the curse on her?’ I’d say. ‘It was a priest of God that put the curse on her,’ my mother would say. ‘No one knows what she did.’ And that’s all the information I got about her until I was a young man. And I tell you, neighbours, all I ever heard about her was that she committed some shameful sin early in life and that the priest cursed her in front of the community because of that sin. One Sunday when everyone was at Mass, the priest turned around to them and said: ‘There’s a woman here who’ll bring eternal damnation on herself and all that associate with her. And I say to that woman,’ he said, ‘that she is a cursed woman, and I say to you all not to have anything to do with that woman, no more than you would with a deargadaol. Get up now, Deargadaol,’ he said, ‘and stay away from good people from now on.’ The poor woman got up and went out the door of the church. All she was ever called after that was the Deargadaol. Her own name 55


D’éirigh an bhean bhocht agus thug sí doras an tséipéil amach uirthi féin. Ní raibh d’ainm uirthi ó shin ach an Deargadaol. Ligeadh a hainm is a sloinne féin as cuimhne. Deirtí go raibh súil fhiata aici. Dá mbreathnaíodh sí ar ghamhain nó ar chaora nár léi, gheobhadh an beithíoch bás. Bhí faitíos ar na mná a gcuid páistí a ligean amach ar an tsráid dá mbeadh an Deargadaol ag siúl an bhealaigh. Phós mise cailín dóighiúil nuair a bhí mé in aois mo bhliana is fiche. Bhí gasúr beag de ghearrchaile againn agus súil againn le leanbh eile. Lá amháin dá raibh mé ag baint mhóna sa bportach, bhí mo bhean ag beathú na héanlaithe ar an tsráid nuair a chonaic sí – Dia idir sinn agus an anachain – an Deargadaol ag déanamh uirthi aníos an bóithrín agus an pataire beag ina hucht aici. Bhí lámh na girsí timpeall muineáil na mná, agus a seál-sa á folach. Níor fhan caint ag mo bheansa. Leag an Deargadaol an cailín beag in ucht a máthar. Thug mo bheansa faoi deara go raibh a cuid éadaigh fliuch. ‘Céard a d’éirigh don leanbh?’ ar sise. ‘Titim isteach i Lochán na Luachra a rinne sí,’ a deir an Deargadaol. ‘Ar thóir bileogaí báite a bhí sí. Bhí mé ag dul thart ar an mbóthar agus chuala mé a scread. Isteach thar claí liom. Ní raibh ann ach gur rug mé uirthi ar éigean.’ ‘Go gcúití Dia thú,’ arsa mo bhean. D’imigh an bhean eile sula raibh am aici níos mó a rá. Thug mo bhean an ruidín beag isteach, thriomaigh sí í, agus chuir a chodladh í. Nuair a tháinig mé féin isteach ón bportach d’inis sí an scéal dom. Thug an bheirt againn ár mbeannacht don Deargadaol an oíche sin. Lá arna mhárach thosaigh an cailín beag ag caint ar an mbean a shábháil í. ‘Bhí an t-uisce isteach i mo bhéal agus i mo shúile agus i mo chluasa,’ ar sise; ‘chonaic mé tintreacha geala agus chuala mé torann mór; bhí mé ag sleamhnú, ag sleamhnú,’ ar sise; ‘agus ansin,’ ar sise, ‘mhothaigh mé an lámh timpeall orm, agus thóg sí ina hucht mé, agus phóg sí mé. Cheap mé go raibh mé sa mbaile nuair a bhí mé ar a hucht agus a seál timpeall orm,’ ar sise. Cúpla lá ina dhiaidh sin d’airigh mo bhean an cailín beag uaithi. Bhí sí ar iarraidh ar feadh cúpla uair. Nuair a tháinig sí abhaile d’inis sí dhúinn go raibh sí tar éis cuairt a thabhairt ar an mbean a shábháil í. 56


and surname were forgotten. It was said that she had an evil eye. If she looked at a calf or a sheep that wasn’t hers, the animal would die. The women were afraid to let their children out on the street if the Deargadaol was walking past. I married a pretty young woman when I was twenty-one years old. We had a little girl, and were expecting another child. One day when I was cutting turf on the bog, my wife was feeding the birds on the street when she saw – Lord save us – the Deargadaol coming up the road towards her with the little one in her arms. The girl’s arm was around the woman’s neck, and she was wrapped up in her shawl. My wife was speechless. The Deargadaol laid the little girl in her mother’s arms. My wife noticed that her clothes were wet. ‘What happened to the child?’ she said. ‘She fell into the Lake of the Rushes,’ the Deargadaol said. ‘She was trying to get water lilies. I was going past on the road and I heard her scream. I jumped over the fence. I just about managed to grab hold of her.’ ‘May God reward you,’ my wife said. The other woman left before she had time to say any more. My wife brought the little thing inside, dried her, and put her to sleep. When I arrived in from the bog she told me the story. The two of us offered up a blessing for the Deargadaol that night. The next day the little girl started talking about the woman who had saved her. ‘The water was in my mouth and in my eyes and in my ears,’ she said; ‘I saw white sparks and I heard a big noise; I was slipping, slipping,’ she said; ‘and then, I felt the arm around me, and she took me up to her breast, and she kissed me. I thought I was at home when I was against her breast with her shawl around me,’ she said. A couple of days later my wife noticed that the little girl wasn’t about. She was missing for a couple of hours. When she came home she told us that she had gone to visit the woman who had saved her. ‘She made a cake for me,’ she said. ‘There’s no one in the house but herself, and I told her I’d go to visit her every afternoon.’ 57


‘Rinne sí cáca dhom,’ ar sise. ‘Níl duine ar bith sa teach aici ach í féin, agus dúirt mé léi go ngabhfainn ar cuairt aici chuile thráthnóna.’ Níor fhéad mise ná mo bhean focal a rá ina haghaidh. Bhí an Deargadaol tar éis anam ár ngirsí a shábháil, agus ní bheadh sé nádúrtha a chrosadh ar an leanbh dul isteach ina teach. Ón lá sin amach théadh an cailín beag suas an cnoc chuici gach re lá. Dúirt na comharsana linn nach raibh sé ceart. Bhí sórt amhrais orainn féin nach raibh sé ceart, ach cén neart a bhí againn air? An gcreidfeadh sibh mé, a dhaoine? Ón lá ar leag an Deargadaol súil ar an gcailín beag thosaigh sí ag imeacht as, ag imeacht as, mar a d’imeodh tine nach ndeasófaí. Chaill sí a goile agus a lúth. Tar éis ráithe ní raibh ann ach a scáil. Tar éis míosa eile bhí sí sa gcill. Tháinig an Deargadaol anuas an sliabh an lá ar cuireadh í. Ní ligfí isteach sa reilig í. D’imigh sí a bealach suas an sliabh arís go huaigneach. Bhí trua agam don chréatúr, mar bhí a fhios agam nár mhó ár mbrón-na ná a brónsa. Chuaigh mé féin suas an cnoc maidin lá arna mhárach. Bhí fúm a rá léi nach raibh aon mhilleán agamsa ná ag mo bhean uirthi. Bhuail mé ar an doras. Ní bhfuair mé aon fhreagra. Chuaigh mé isteach sa teach. Bhí an ghríosach dearg ar an teallach. Ní raibh duine ar bith le feiceáil. Thug mé leaba faoi deara sa gcúinne. Chuaigh mé anonn go dtí an leaba. Bhí an Deargadaol ina luí ansin agus í fuar marbh. Ní raibh aon rath ormsa ná ar mo chomhluadar ón lá sin amach. Cailleadh mo bhean mí ina dhiaidh sin agus í ag breith a linbh. Níor mhair an leanbh. Tháinig galar ar mo bheithígh an geimhreadh dár gcionn. Chuir an tiarna amach as mo sheilbh mé. Tá mé i m’fhear siúil, agus bóithre Chonnacht romham, ó shin i leith.



My wife and I couldn’t say a word against her. The Deargadaol had saved our girl’s life, and it wouldn’t be natural to forbid the child from going into her house. From that day onwards the little girl went up the hill to see her every other day. The neighbours told us it wasn’t right. We weren’t sure it was right ourselves, but what could we do? Would you believe, from the day the Deargadaol laid eyes on the little girl, she began to fade away, to fade away like a fire left untended. She lost her appetite and her strength. After three months she was but a shadow of herself. After another month she was in the ground. The Deargadaol came down the mountain the day she was buried. She wasn’t let into the graveyard. She made her lonely way up the mountain again. I pitied the poor creature, because I knew that our sorrow was no greater than hers. I went up the hill the following morning. I wanted to tell her that my wife and I didn’t blame her one bit. I knocked on the door. I didn’t get any response. I went into the house. The embers were glowing red in the fireplace. There was no one to be seen. I noticed a bed in the corner. I went over to the bed. The Deargadaol was lying there stone dead. My people and I had no luck from that day forth. My wife died in childbirth a month later. The child didn’t survive. My animals were struck with disease the following winter. The landlord evicted me. I’ve wandered the roads of Connemara as a vagrant ever since.



Begone the Raggedy Witches - ‘ A Tongue-Tied Crow’

Irish author Celine Kiernan’s teenage fantasy novel Begone the Raggedy Witches follows the adventures of a young girl Mup as she is transported to the Witches

by Celine Kiernan

I didn’t let go, thought Mup. Nevertheless, when she awoke she was all alone and the world had changed. She leapt up, scattering the autumn leaves which had covered her. She was standing at the top of a small hill. It was covered in graceful trees, and as its base gurgled a bright and shallow stream. Across the stream were more trees – slender and airy, like the ones which surrounded her. They shed gold and copper leaves in luminous drifts, adding to the multitudes that already patchworked the ground. There was a building visible within the woods across the stream. Mup tilted her head, regarding it closely. If she squinted one eye and closed the other, the building almost looked like her house. Though someone had added a platform to it, and a signal booth and… my goodness, was it a train station? Mup shaded her eyes to see. Yes, she thought. It is. Someone has turned my house into a train station. What use can a train station be, though, when the tracks have been rolled up like liquorice? There really was no other way to describe it. Someone had taken the train track nearest Mup’s house and, working their way out into the countryside for about half a mile, rolled them back along themselves like some spectacularly large coil of wire. There was no way any train would ever get to that station. Mup shivered. I don’t like this, she thought. What’s become of my home? Where’s my mam? Where’s Tipper? A person coughed behind her and a young – if hoarse – voice said: “Doesn’t matter where your aim, No point waiting for a train… eh… here.” Mup turned to find a raven watching her from the lowest branches of the nearest tree. He was quite a young raven, very black and glossy, and he 60

Ouste les Vilaines Sorcières- ‘ Le corbeau a la langue dans sa poche’ translated by Sophie Drummond FRENCH

Borough and discovers her magical powers. After being separated from her mother, aunt and brother, she wakes up in a strange and enchanting world.

Je n’ai rien lâché, pensa Mup.

Pourtant, elle se réveilla seule dans un monde qu’elle ne reconnaissait pas. Elle se redressa brusquement, ce qui fit tomber toutes les feuilles mortes qui la recouvraient. Elle se trouvait au sommet d’une petite colline. Celle-ci était couverte d’arbres élégants, et à son pied gargouillait un petit ruisseau. De l’autre côté du ruisseau se trouvaient encore plus d’arbres – fins et délicats, tout comme ceux autour de Mup. Ces arbres répandaient abondamment leur feuillage aux tons bruns et dorés sur un sol déjà tapissé de couleurs. Il y avait un bâtiment dans les bois de l’autre côté de la rivière. Mup pencha la tête et l’observa plus attentivement. En plissant un œil et en fermant l’autre, elle remarqua que ce bâtiment ressemblait presque à sa maison. Seulement, accrochés à la maison se trouvaient un quai, des feux de signalisation et… ça alors ! qu’était-ce donc, une gare ? Mup mit sa main en visière pour voir plus nettement. Oui, pensa-t-elle, c’est bien ça. Quelqu’un a transformé ma maison en gare. Mais à quoi peut bien servir une gare, si les rails ressemblent à des rouleaux de réglisse ? Il n’y avait vraiment aucune autre façon de les décrire. C’est comme si quelqu’un avait pris les rails près de la maison de Mup et, en avançant presque un kilomètre dans la campagne, les avaient enroulés sur eux-mêmes comme des fils de fer absolument gigantesques. Il était donc impossible pour un train d’atteindre cette gare. Mup frissonna. Je n’aime pas ça, pensa-t-elle. Qu’est-ce qui est arrivé à ma maison ? Où est maman ? Où est Tipper ? Un toussotement retentit derrière elle et une voix jeune mais rauque dit : « Peut-importe ta destination, Tu ne trouveras pas de train… euh… ici. » 61

ENGLISH watched her first from one eye, then the other, waiting for her to reply "Um…” she said, glancing around to be sure no one else could have spoken. “Um… pardon?” The raven hopped and fluttered. It sighed. Then, as if trying very hard to get every word correct, it said: “Though the trains here used to run, The queen has cancelled every one!” He seemed very pleased with this, and he hopped again and preened his feathers. “That definitely rhymed,” he muttered. Then he glanced at Mup in alarm and said, “Fine! It rhymed, just fine. Fined! It rhymed just find!” He trailed off, apparently deflated. “Have… have you seen my mam?” asked Mup. “A lady, with a baby in a… in a kind of bag. She might be with…” She trailed off, not sure how to explain Aunty’s ghost. “I’ve seen no baby in a bag, Not even carried by a hag.” “Lady, I said! Not hag!” The raven shook his feathers, flustered. “Can’t think of a word to rhyme with Lady… Shady…? Fadey…? Spadey…? Jadey…?” “Does everything you say need to rhyme?” The raven sighed. “Each and every single time.” “But why? Doesn’t it make it hard to talk?” The raven joggled and puffed up his feathers in frustration. “You know quite well that it is law, Rhyme’s the way we’re meant to… meant to…” “Caw?” suggested Mup. The raven glared at her. 62

FRENCH Mup se retourna et vit un corbeau qui l’observait depuis la branche la plus basse de l’arbre le plus proche. C’était un très jeune corbeau, au plumage noir et brillant. Il la fixa d’abord d’un œil, puis de l’autre, en attendant sa réponse. « Euh… » dit-elle, en jetant des coups d’œil aux alentours pour s’assurer qu’il n’y avait personne d’autre qui aurait pu lui adresser la parole. « Euh… pardon ? » Le corbeau sautilla et battit des ailes. Il poussa un soupir. Puis, comme s’il choisissait ses mots très attentivement, dit : « Avant, beaucoup de trains passaient par ici, Mais à cause de la reine, tout ça c’est fini ! » Ayant l’air très satisfait de sa prouesse, il sautilla de nouveau et lissa ses plumes. Il marmonna : « Ça c’est une bonne rime ». Puis il se souvint de Mup, la regarda furtivement, et s’empressa de dire « Rime... Euh… Cime ! C’est une bonne rime, jusqu’aux cimes… » Il essaya de finir sa phrase mais se découragea rapidement. « As… as-tu vu ma maman ? » demanda Mup. « Une dame qui porte un bébé dans… dans une espèce de sac. Et peut-être avec… » elle s’arrêta, ne sachant comment décrire le fantôme de Tatie. « Je n’ai rien vu hélas, Ni bébé, ni sac, ni vieillasse. » « J’ai dit une dame ! Pas une vieille ! » Le corbeau secoua ses plumes, l’air embarrassé. « Je ne trouve pas de bonne rime avec Dame… Blâme… ? Flame… ? Rame… ? Gamme… ? » « Pourquoi essaies-tu de tout faire rimer ? » Le corbeau poussa un soupir. « Parce que j’y suis obligé. » « Mais pourquoi ? Ça doit être difficile pour parler, non ? Il recommença à sautiller, cette fois en gonflant ses plumes en signe de frustration.


ENGLISH “By the feathers on my beak,” he said, “It’s the only way that we can speak.” “You seem to find it very hard,” observed Mup with sympathy. The raven sadly agreed: “That is true. All my rhyming sounds like…” “Poo?” suggested Mup. The raven fluffed and sputtered. “Don’t be mad!” cried Mup. “I’m trying to make you not so sad!” “Rhyming’s just a joke for you, For me it’s hard and feels like –” “Poo?” whispered Mup again – her brain apparently quite stuck on the word. The raven cawed angrily and fluttered into the air. “Easy to mock and bully and tease When you can speak just how you please!” He flew off into the trees, cawing angrily at the top of his voice. “I was only trying to help!” called Mup. She watched him go, thinking what a bad-tempered bird he’d turned out to be, and how glad she was to see the back of him. Then she realized that she was all alone in a strange wood (in a strange world) and she regretted him leaving. She pulled her coat tightly around her and regarded the leaves pattering down and the little stream at the foot of the hill and the strange little train station.


FRENCH « C’est la loi ! Tu dois bien être au courant ! C’est la seule manière d’exprimer… » « Votre chant ? » suggéra Mup. Le corbeau lui jeta un regard glacial. « Comme je suis un corbeau, Je dois faire rimer tous mes mots. » « Ça a l’air bien difficile » observa Mup, pleine de sympathie. Le corbeau acquiesça tristement : « C’est bien vrai, ça Mes rimes sont vraiment… » « Du caca ? » suggéra Mup. Le corbeau commença à s’ébouriffer et à bafouiller. « Ce n’est pas la peine de se fâcher ! s’écria Mup. Je voulais simplement t’aider ! » « Rimer n’est qu’un jeu pour toi, Pour moi c’est difficile et je ne fais que … » « Du caca ? » chuchota-t-elle de nouveau, l’esprit apparemment fixé sur ce mot. Le corbeau croassa visiblement en colère, et se prépara à s’envoler. « C’est bien facile de te moquer Lorsque tu peux parler comme il te plaît ! » Il disparut entre les arbres, en croassant furieusement aussi fort que possible. « J’essayais simplement de t’aider ! » cria Mup. Elle l’observa s’en aller, en se disant que cet oiseau était quand même très désagréable, et qu’elle était contente de ne plus avoir affaire à lui. Puis, elle se souvint qu’elle était toute seule dans une forêt étrange (dans un monde étrange). Elle regretta tout à coup qu’il soit parti. Elle serra son manteau contre elle et posa son regard sur les feuilles mortes, le petit ruisseau au pied de la colline, et l’étrange petite gare droit devant. 65

Notes on Contributors (in order of appearance) Alexander Fay is a a proud native of Dublin’s North Inner City, he studies physics and entered Trinity through the Trinity Access Programmes (TAP). 'Fay' has roots in Old French - 'fae', both spellings relating to 'fairy'. The 'aos sí' (people of the mounds) of Irish mythology are comparable to fairies. Cristina Keiko Tomita is a Japanese / Brazilian illustrator residing in France, born in Rio de Janeiro. Children’s book illustration is her main work. She is eternally searching the spiritual enchantment in life. Cian Dunne is a a Junior Sophister student of English Literature and Russian.

John William Waterhouse, The Siren, 1900.


Penny Stuart is an experimental and published Dublin artist. She draws from life with charcoal and also does very large abstract acrylic paintings that are strong colour and textural statements. Exhibitions include an exhibition with Trinity Arts Workshop at Pearse Centre Dublin, June 2019.

Amelia O’Mahony-Brady is a final-year History of Art & Architecture and Italian student currently on sabbatical. Her interdisciplinary research explores intersections between dress, identity, culture and heritage, with her evolving dissertation centred on fashion-and-art fusions across 20th century Italy. Samuel Oliver Maguire is a third-year English and German student at Trinity. His recent discovery of the activists and writers May Ayim, Semra Ertan and Katharina Oguntoye led him down a wonderful wormhole of diaspora literature and poetry in the German language, he thinks everyone should read them. Aislinn Ní Dhomhnaill is a Junior Sophister student of Irish and French. Michael McCaffrey is a student in Trinity’s M.Phil in Literary Translation Program, working with Spanish and Portuguese literature. Bowen Wang is a PhD student in the School of English and Early Career Researcher based at Long Room Hub. He holds an MSc in Literature and Modernity at University of Edinburgh. His literary translations have previously been published by the Washington Square Review, Trinity JoLT, and Penguin Books (China). Emma Gilheany is in her third year of Modern Irish and Spanish (TSM) in Trinity College Dublin and harbours a passion for both languages. Her admiration of the 19th Century poet Bécquer grew in her second year, leading her to translate some of his poems to Irish. Evvie Kyrozi is a visual artist from Greece. She studied animation, is a member of various artistic societies and has taken part in many group exhibitions in Greece and abroad. Works of hers can be found in private collections, public spaces such as museums and hospitals, and several publications. Jerie Macapagal: on all levels including physical, Jerie loves. She won't explain but she hopes you have a beautiful day. Nathaniel Makin is a MPhil Literary Translation student with an interest in eco-translation. He translations from French, Spanish and Japanese into English. Phelim Ó Laoghaire misses friends. Is having trouble sleeping. Will stay in touch. From all sides at once, goodmorning and goodnight. 67

Oz Russell is a third year History and Political Science student from Dublin, Ireland. Rebecca Coxon is a third year student in Trinity College Dublin. She is currently studying English Literature and Nua-Ghaeilge (Modern Irish). Anastasia Fedosova is a second-year English Literature student. Originating from Moscow, she is a Russian native speaker, and is currently learning German. Anastasia is fascinated by the twentiethcentury world literature, especially Modernism in various arts, and she is hoping to pursue her interests in this field in the future. Meg Kellett-Whitwham has read this spell out loud many times, but she promises you that nothing happened. Conor Brendan Dunne is a recent graduate of the M.Phil. in Literary Translation from Trinity College Dublin. He translates from French and Spanish into English. He has a soft spot for anything left-field, envelopepushing or tradition-smashing. Peter Weakliam is a PhD student in the TCD Irish department. His thesis will be on the theme of freedom in the work of contemporary prose writer Pádraig Ó Cíobháin. Sophie Drummond is a French student in Literary Translation at Trinity College Dublin. During her undergraduate studies in English and Linguistics at the University of Aberdeen, she has gained experience in audiovisual and literary translation. Today, she is passionate about translation in the fantasy genre.



Trinity Journal of Literary Translation Volume 9, Issue II (Spring 2021) www.trinityjolt.org Cover art by Liadan Ruaidhrí Stockman

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