Have you ever been in a large forest and seen a strange black tarn hidden deep among the tall trees? It looks bewitched and a little frightening. All is still—fir trees and pines huddle close and silent on all sides. Sometimes the trees bend cautiously and shyly over the water as if they are wondering what may be hidden in the dark depths. There is another forest growing in the water, and it, too, is full of wonder and stillness. Strangest of all, never have the two forests been able to speak to each other.

By the edge of the pool and out in the water are soft tussocks covered with brown bear moss and wooly white cottongrass. All is so quiet—not a sound, not a flutter of life, not a trembling breath—all of nature seems to be holding its breath listening, listening with beating heart: soon, soon.

words by Helge Kjellin – pictures by John Bauer

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From goldenstone the shy sun fills the vale with swathes of light and the mistle thrush, her song catches in my throat for it is all as the words climbed aloft and made true. Some things are real my loves, some things are real.

Over beacon hill, draped in oak and beech with squirrels in every bole and my shadow caught in the Devil’s grave. Onwards and upwards, for I must find the iron gates and whisper ‘Emalagra’ and if they will not open there is Holy well and copper pennies, bright as stars.

Fallen logs are dragons here, it is their right, and none climb the hill after dark. An elfmade wall holds back the rhodendrons and the Morthbrood, and Her. I am often alone, up on Saddlebole with a touch of fear in my toes and the Wizard warns me not to drink the water. This is the Edge.

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I’m always inside when the wind howls. Wolf of the great world. I can not bear to have it whistle through my ears and around my fragile skull, it makes me sleepy and silences the sweet voices that keep me warm, dead poet’s words, balm for wounded hearts. The wind is loud, tries to drive me out, out through the chimneys and the gap under my door.

The more I stay inside the more it roars, but you see, it all overwhelms me, the fractured lights and the noises, especially BANG and worst of all the people. They feel too much, oh, how they rush about while their moods seep out like milky sap, forcing me to swim. Alice in the sea of tears, that is what it means to go out. My tissue paper soul, so quickly torn by the wanting and the weeping and the fierce, deep shame. They are all so frightened, clinging, cloying to the wind.

Oh, but this is not you, they will say. You are not afraid of wolves, where is your crown? We need you to smile for us, flash of white teeth, radiance. I can be tin solider brave, but I am not impervious, dear ones, and I soak it all up more than bread and butter pudding, more than you could ever know. For all I have are picture books to hold the wolf at bay.

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And he came to me, star browed and milk breathed, all gentleness and yet as tall as I was with those great, heavy eyes. He searched my pockets for sugar cubes and I laughed, which startled him. Neither of us was very brave, but we each wanted something desperately from the other. I held out my hand, cold fingers, silver rings and hope, he pawed the ground in answer. I knew at that moment he would soon forget me, when I no longer came with the dawn and the dew, when I slipped from his world with the last of the summer.

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She was not sure if it was the stone, or some fey quality of the light but everything was golden. Gilt lamposts and the crown of Isis, molten in the canals and all the birds sung like wire nightingales from the towers. Did they have to wind them up? She wondered. Faces peered from cornerpieces, faces with tusks and horns and dainty claws, but she was not frightened, she knew who they were meant to keep out. From Hamelin she came, following the sound of a flute which led to a curly haired boy, but he dissapeared. Fauns in the gardens, robins on fences and croquet in the meadows. Evensong and bells that shook the stones themselves. Bicycles clattered over cobblestones as the wind made raven wings of scholar’s robes and she lost her way, looking for sighs. These pages were old and yellowed, they crackled underfoot, muffled by the dust.

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‘…Oxford, where the real and unreal jostle in the streets; where North Parade is in the south and South Parade is in the north, where Paradise is lost under a pumping station; where the river mists have a solvent and vivifying effect on the stone of the ancient buildings, so that the gargoyles of Magdalen College climb down at night and fight with those from Wykeham, or fish under the bridges, or simply change their expressions overnight; Oxford, where windows open in to other worlds…’ Oscar Baedecker, The Coasts of Bohemia

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There is still cornish dust under my fingernails and dry oak leaves fall from the folds of my frock but in my eyes everything is grey now, so long have they been soaked in green watercolour light. Dear England, I shall write you love letters and hide them under my pillow at night so that someday you’ll call me home again. Until then I shan’t forget, I won’t. Not the sleepy hills and mossy becks, nor the windy cliffs will leave me. Wrens will flit through my dreams like mice with wings and I will wake in the night thinking I have heard a blackbird’s song and lay down again to the scent of bluebells in May, all the while whispering in my sleep, forget-me-nots, forget-me-not.

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Seventeen hours in cloud land, then on to yesterday. I doze through the daylight with stories whispered in my ears and then, only then, does the journey begin. Read. The chapter opens with one Lost Princess, looking for ancient kingdoms revealed to her twelve year old self in the stained pages of second hand books. Following crumpled maps from Radnor Mere to Kanchenjunga and over Paradise Hill to the bay where the evening primroses grow. Two miles for each page, she walks through a land made of books, a kingdom dressed in stories, but will she find her inkworld? Her heart is made of words, words and ink, afterall.

I will be back in a month, dearhearts.

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To do magic or work miracles you need strength of spirit. To become a witch the most important thing is strength of will. The power to make up your mind and do what you’ve decided to do. Until you can overcome that most difficult part, you might not get what you want. But give it a try anyway. 西の魔女が死んだ (The Witch of the West is Dead)

Whenever I go out in to the world, I see so many Kenji-sans and I cry when they cut down the trees or dig up the earth in my sanctuary. I want to stay at Grandma’s house, where time stands still and there are fields of wild strawberries for birthday presents and biscuits baked at midnight and flowers in my tea cup. I would never leave.

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My sister is in love with a bear. He comes every night to our house, through the snow which he tracks in, big muddy footprints on the rug. We sit by the fireside, Maman and Snow and the Bear and I. The light flickers in her eyes and turns her cheeks sweet pink. Maman says we must be nice to the bear, and I try to see beyond his ivory teeth.
The nights are cold, and we huddle together in the one small bed, as always. Whispering secrets, telling tales, my sister and I. Now she only speaks of the bear, “Do you think he’ll come again?” she asks. I roll over and shut my eyes tight.
In the summer he will be gone, I’m sure, and we will return to the woods to pick acorns and apples and hunt for mushrooms in the loam. Just the two of us. We will find the deer grazing in the meadow and the hare, to feed him cabbage leaves. At night we will lay down on the moss and the star child will watch over us, as always.
My sister is in love with the bear, but he always looks hungry to me.

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