Fairy Tale: The City of Will-o’-the-Wisps
Once upon a time, there was a man who used to know many fairy tales, but later he told everyone that he had forgotten them all because the Fairy, who used to visit him, no longer knocked on his door.
No one knew why.
First of all, it had been a long time since our friend had thought about the Fairy. But on the Fairy’s side, she did not return to the land that had been ravaged by war and then plunged into poverty and mourning, the constant companions of the flames of war.
The storks and swallows returned from warmer lands. They did not expect the calamity that had befallen. But when they arrived, they found their nests destroyed, their houses burned down, the meadows desolate, and the enemy’s horses trampling on the ancient tombs. However, the period of hardship and gloom had passed, and the Fairy did not return to knock on the door of man or tell stories.
Or had the Fairy died?
Our friend thought so.
But the Fairy never dies.
It had been a whole year since he had been waiting to meet the Fairy again.
– I wish the Fairy would knock on my door again, he thought.
Then he remembered all the people the Fairy had once disguised herself to visit him, sometimes as a young spring, sometimes as a maiden wearing a wreath of leaves and holding a branch of hawthorn in her hand. Her eyes were like the deep waters of a lake in the forest, sparkling in the sunlight. Sometimes the Fairy turned into a peddler, opening her basket and selling long silks with poems and fairy tales written on them.
However, the most beautiful was when the Fairy turned into an old woman with silvery hair and large, calm eyes. The old woman told stories of ancient times, when the princesses still spun gold, surrounded by coils of snakes who admired them. She told such fascinating stories! And occasionally she told such horrifying stories that the listener thought the earth was filled with blood. Yes, those stories, though gruesome, were so interesting. Anyway, those stories happened a long time ago.
– Hasn’t the old woman knocked on my door anymore? – Our friend thought.
He looked at the black wood chips scattered on the floor. He wondered if they were bloodstains or mourning flowers from the days of suffering.
As he sat in contemplation, he thought that perhaps the Fairy had run away like the princess in the fairy tale, and he wanted to find her. This time, if he found her, surely the Fairy would be radiant, brighter than ever.
– Who knows? Maybe the Fairy is hiding in the straw swirling in the corner over there? Or is the Fairy hiding in a pressed flower in the big books in my library?
To reassure himself, he opened the newest book, but there were no flowers in it. The book talked about Ogie of Denmark and recounted that Ogie’s adventures were just made up by a French monk and were a French novel translated into Danish. That Ogie of Denmark was not real, so he could never appear as the Danish people often imagined, some even imagined themselves to be that person! The story of Ogie of Denmark is just like the story of Guillaume Ten, it’s just a legend. The book explained this very scientifically.
Illustration.
– Whatever! – he told himself, – there can be no path if no one walks on it.
He folded the book, put it back in its old place on the shelf, and went to smell the fresh flowers on the windowsill.
Maybe the Fairy was hiding in the red-rimmed lilies or in the pretty roses, or maybe in the beautiful camellias. No! The sun shone between the flowers, but the Fairy was nowhere to be seen!
He continued to think. In the dark days, there were more beautiful flowers here, but they were picked, woven into wreaths, and placed on a coffin also covered with a flag. Perhaps they buried the Fairy with those flowers? But if so, surely the flowers, the coffin, and the earth must know, and the new grass that grew must have told the story too.
Maybe, in the days of suffering, the Fairy came knocking on my door? But at that time, no one was in the mood to listen to stories. All hearts were still gloomy and weak, and it was almost uncomfortable to hear the chirping of the swallows and see the revival of nature with the spring.
At that time, we couldn’t sing the old folk songs, we had to hide them along with our innermost thoughts. Yes, maybe at that time the Fairy came knocking on my door, but I didn’t hear it, didn’t welcome her warmly, so the Fairy left. I want to find the Fairy, I must find her, whether she is in the countryside, in the forest, or even on the sandy beaches by the ocean.
Up there, stood an ancient castle, its red-colored walls studded with loopholes, and a flag fluttering on the tower. Nearby, a nightingale sang in the canopy of white hawthorn leaves. He looked at the blossoming plum trees in the garden, mistaking them for roses. It was here, in the summer sun, that the bees worked tirelessly and hummed, crowding around the queen bee.
It was here, when autumn came, that the storms told stories of Vanderma’s hunts and the devils flying by with the leaves. It was here, on Christmas Eve, that the swans cried, and inside the ancient castle, people sat happily by the fireplace, listening to songs and fairy tales. The man seeking the Fairy was strolling down the shady path of hawthorn, in the old garden. It was here that one day the wind told the story of Vanderma and his daughters, and his mother, transformed into a dryad, told him the story of The Last Dream of the Oak.
In the days of his grandmother’s death, there were many bushes here, but now there are only nettles and bindweed climbing on the broken statues. The eyes of the statues were covered with moss, but that did not make their eyes less sharp than before. The man seeking the Fairy was not as happy as those statues, he searched but could not find the Fairy. So where is the Fairy?
Above him, flocks of magpies flew and cried, “Still far away! Still far away!”
He left the garden, crossed the moat surrounding the castle, and entered a field of bindweed, where there was a tent, a chicken coop, and a duck coop. The old lady of the house sat in the tent, remembering exactly the number of eggs and chicks since they were born. She was not the repository of stories that our friend was looking for. She could only show him the baptismal certificates and vaccination certificates, all kept in a large box.
Outside, not far from the house, there was a mound full of thorns and broom.
There was a tombstone as big as a stone, brought from the city cemetery for many years. The statue of the mayor was engraved on the tombstone. His wife and five daughters in flared skirts stood with their hands clasped around him.
It is impossible to look at the statue without feeling touched. The statue seemed to tell the story of the past days. More than anyone else, our friend was also touched.
As he approached, he saw a very beautiful butterfly perched on the mayor’s forehead. The butterfly flapped its wings, flew around, and then perched near the tombstone, as if to hint that there was a treasure there, a clump of trefoil, each branch with four leaves, growing together.
Our friend plucked the trefoil and put it in his pocket, thinking that it was a good omen, and thought to himself, “Good luck is precious, but a unique and interesting story is even more precious to us.” Unfortunately, he couldn’t find any stories.
The sun set, big and red. Smoke rose from the meadow.
The Swamp Witch was brewing.
One night, our friend was sitting alone in the room, looking out at the flower garden, the meadow in front, and, a little further on, the swamp. The moon shone brightly. Smoke rose. The meadow looked like a large lake. Indeed, according to legend, it used to be a large lake. The moonlight cast a magical glow over the scene. Our friend thought of the book he had read, which said that Guillaume Ten and Ogie of Denmark never really existed, but had become an idol of the people, just like this lake. He told himself:
– So there will come a day when Ogie of Denmark will appear.
As he was thinking, he suddenly heard a rather loud knock on the window. Was it a bird? A bat? An owl? If they flew and hit the window, no one would open it. But the window suddenly opened, and an old woman appeared, staring at him.
– What does she want? Who is she? How did she get up to this floor without using the stairs? – he wondered.
The old woman said:
– Do you have trefoil, each branch with four leaves, in your pocket? There are seven branches in total, one of which has six leaves.
– Who are you?
– I am the Swamp Witch, specializing in plucking grass to brew beer. I was busy with my work when a helper untied the knot at the bottom of the barrel, causing the beer to flow out, and now it’s all gone!
– Tell me…
– Wait, I have some work to do.
Then the witch disappeared.
Our friend was about to close the window when the witch reappeared. She said:
– I’m done now. But if the weather is good tomorrow, I’ll brew another half barrel of beer. Well! What do you want to ask me? I came back because I always keep my promises, and also because you have seven branches of trefoil, each branch with four leaves, one of which has six leaves. Not everyone can find this kind of trefoil. Look, what do you want to ask me? If you just stand there like a statue, I’ll go back to my beer!
Our friend asked if she had seen the Fairy anywhere.
– Heavens! – The witch exclaimed. – There are so many of your stories, aren’t they enough? I thought you were fed up with stories! Nowadays, people are busy with other things. Even children are fed up with old stories! Give the boys a cigar, the girls a new dress, they like it much more. Sit and listen to stories? Enough, enough! There are a hundred thousand other things to do.
– So what? You just live with toads and will-o’-the-wisps, how would you know anything else in this world!
The witch replied:
– Don’t underestimate the will-o’-the-wisps! I let them out, and now I have to talk to them a lot! But you come with me, I need to go back to the swamp now. When I get there, I’ll tell you everything. Hurry up, hurry up, or the seven branches of trefoil will wither and the moon will set.
Saying that, the witch disappeared.
The church bell rang twelve times. Before the fourth ring, our friend had already left the yard, crossed the garden, and walked towards the meadow. The mist had cleared because the witch had stopped brewing. She said:
– People walk so slowly. That’s why witches walk faster than humans.
– What do you want to tell me? Are you going to tell me about the Fairy?
– So is there anything else you want to ask me?
– So can you tell me about the future of poetry!
– Don’t be impatient, I’ll answer. You only ask me about Poetry and Stories. Yes! I know a lot about poetry. When I was young, I was a beautiful elf, often dancing with other elves in the moonlight. We listened to the nightingales singing and wandering in the forest. Sometimes the Fairy sat all night in a flower in the meadow, sometimes she sneaked into the church, hiding in the flowers on the altar.
– Do you know a lot?
– About that, I know no less than you… Fairy and Poetry also have the same mother. Put them anywhere. And they don’t cost much. I’ll give you some for free. Here is a chest full of bottled poetry. The purest essence of poetry, sweet and bitter. In my bottles are all that mankind demands of poetry, just sprinkle a little on the musk every Sunday and it will be enough.
Our friend exclaimed:
– I’m very surprised. Do you really have poetry in bottles?
– Of course. Haven’t you heard the story of the girl stepping on bread so as not to dirty her shoes? That story has been written and published.
– I was the one who told that story.
– Well, you must know that the girl came to my house on the day the grandmother of the Devil came to visit me. She saw the girl and asked me to give her as a souvenir of her visit. I gave the girl to her and she gave me a treasure chest in return. She advised me to put it somewhere. They’re all still there. You go and see. You have seven branches of trefoil, one of which has six leaves, thanks to them you can see those bottles.
Indeed, our friend saw the chest of the Devil’s grandmother in the middle of the swamp. The witch and all those who knew where the chest was, regardless of their era and nationality, could open the chest. It could be opened from the front, back, and all sides. This is a very precious chest, in which the poets of all countries, especially of our country, are introduced, their works refined, corrected, condensed, and bottled. With a firm hand, if not a genius, the grandmother of the Devil collected from nature all that suited the style of a poet, and then mixed in a little of the devilish, so that all the poetry of all the poets was bottled to be used forever after.
Our friend asked:
– Let me see!
– Well, it’s better to listen.
– Just take a look. There are so many different sizes of bottles. What’s in this bottle? What’s in that bottle?
The witch replied:
– This bottle contains the essence of May. I haven’t tried it, but I know that if you drip a drop on the ground, you will immediately see a very beautiful pond, surrounded by meadows full of cinquefoils and wild thyme. If you drip two drops on a student’s notebook, the notebook will turn into a fragrant play, so fragrant that just smelling it will make you fall asleep. I’m honored that they put my name on the label of the bottle: “The Swamp Witch’s Refreshment”. You see?
“And here are the bottles containing the shameless stories. They look like pure, clear water, don’t they? Yes, but they are mixed with three spoons of lies and two drops of truth, plus a little blood of fishermen and a little meat of teachers.
“Then there are the bottles of moral poetry. Each drop that falls sounds like the creaking of a door to hell.
“That huge bottle over there, which takes up half the chest, is the most precious bottle containing all the ancient and modern stories. The bottle is tightly stoppered to prevent the liquid from evaporating. All the national dishes of all nations are in it. Just turn the bottle upside down and scoop it up, the Germans will find their philosophical sauce in it, the English will find their educational broth, and the French will find their hodgepodge, which the Danes call duck soup. But in my opinion, the best is the Copenhagen soup.
Our friend was deep in thought. The Swamp Witch continued:
– You’ve seen and know what’s in my chest. But I want to tell you something more important than that, something you don’t know yet: “There are will-o’-the-wisps in the city”. This is more important than Poetry and Stories. I shouldn’t say more, but a mysterious force compels me to proclaim: “There are will-o’-the-wisps in the city! They’ve been let out! Humans, beware!”
– What? I don’t understand.
The witch continued:
– Sit on the chest for a while, but don’t crush the chest and break my bottles! You must know the value of what’s in them! I will tell you the great news that happened yesterday.
Yesterday, there was a big party in this swamp. You try to imagine, there were twelve will-o’-the-wisps born. They are
Indulge in the Refreshing Sweetness of Che Thach: A Taste of Old Saigon
In the heart of Saigon lies a gem of a dessert shop, a haven for sweet-toothed foodies – Hiển Khánh Che, a Chinese-inspired dessert house that has been a beloved institution since the 1950s.
The Ultimate List of Clever and Creative Couplets for Tet Holiday 2021
The art of writing couplets during Tet, Vietnam’s most celebrated holiday, is a long-standing tradition. Each year, as the vibrant season approaches, the art of crafting these couplets, known as “Cau Doi”, takes center stage.
Who is the only teacher in Vietnam’s history to be revered as a scholar?
Do you know who is the only teacher in Vietnamese history to be revered as a scholar?
The oldest king to ascend the throne in Vietnamese history: Skilled poet who once didn’t want to be king.
Tran Nghệ Tông was the 8th king of the Tran dynasty. He was the oldest king to ascend the throne in Vietnamese history.
