A Nature's Tale

There was once a princess Frigida who could never keep warm at night. Every morning she would come down to breakfast complaining of the cold. Now the king, Boris by name, and his wife, had not spoken in twenty years (which was exactly nine months more than the age of the princess) so each pondered the princess’s plight in their own way.

Hmmmm thought the king. What she needs is a lusty prince to warm her up with his hot blood. So he summoned his ostler and told him to make ready his horse that he might visit the neighbouring kingdom that very day. He reached the palace of his neighbour King Maurice by nightfall and dined king with king. But when he raised the matter of hot blood to warm his daughter’s nights, King Maurice shuffled and mumbled and went slightly pink. It transpired his son only had the hots for young squires and was not, in any wise, a princess warmer.

Next day the king travelled on to another kingdom, that of King Horace, and here he learned that the prince was so in love with himself that all the mirrors had had to be removed from the castle to stop him getting heatstroke. That night king Boris slept uneasily. Not only was he having no luck finding a hot blooded prince to warm his daughter, but he could not think of any more king names to rhyme with Boris, Maurice and Horace.

The next morning he rose, and at breakfast enquired of the neighbouring kingdom. He was met with blank looks. Finally, someone whispered “PC” in his ear and he realised he had not said “king-or-queendom”. Smiles erupted all round, and king Horace told him that the queendom of Queen Doris was just on the other side of the forest. The forest was charmingly benign; no wild animals, mythological beasts or highwaymen at all. Such is the nature of this tale. By nightfall he was dining with Queen Doris who declared: “I have just the prince for you, he’s called Randolph - and all our serving wenches already have.
I’ll send him over.”

Next morning king Boris rode back to his castle, well pleased.

But Boris’s queen, queen Desista, had not been idle. After going “hmmmmm” just as king Boris had done, she called the royal rubber technician to her side and demanded that a hot water bottle should be fashioned, a princess-sized hot water bottle, hardly smaller than king-sized, to hold enough water to last the night. The rubber technician was a man of rare skill, who had made bottle for the ice queen, just before her collapse in Narnia - attributed, wrongly, to another - and for a very old dragon whose fire had gone out.
But whether he misunderstood, or had a quirky sense of humour, is argued to this day.
Suffice it to say, after much labour, for many days, long into the night, he had made a replica of the princess, accurate in every detail (with a cunningly hidden filling point.)

Now it came to pass that the bottle was ready the very day that that prince Randolph arrived all fired up with the thought of warming the princess. Princess Frigida took one look at Prince Randolph, went hot and cold - and then hot with rage, and vowing never to be touched by him, ran to her mother. And so one plot was hatched and another precipitated.

That night prince Randolph went to the bedchamber of the princess, slipped under the sheets beside her, and did his worst. He was beside himself with ecstasy. He had never known such submission. Such total acceptance of his every peccadillo. Her skin was heaven to touch, her lips so firm and welcoming, and the heavy organic aroma of her perfume captivated him.  Never again would he bother the serving wenches.
That same night mother and daughter slept in each other’s arms and both were warm for the first time in their lives. Such is the nature of this tale.

So it was, children, that prince Randy got into rubber fetishism, Frigida and Desista became incestuous lesbians and with the help of those other two dodgy princes, they all heralded in the current era.

                                                            THE END  (advisedly)

17.5.07

The Elephant in The Room

(A Maybe So Story.)

Long, long ago, on some lost land-mass, bathed in an ocean unremembered, clever monkeys rode lumbering beasts – much as the mahouts, today, ride the elephant. And because the beasts did all the necessary work, and all the apes had to do was instruct them, the beasts became more agile; while the monkeys lost the power of movement. Imperceptibly, as time passed, the two fused; the mind of the monkey evolved to ever greater cleverness and the beast stood up on its hind legs growing hands where front feet had been before – but they were still beasts. This, my children, we call evolution.
The beast remained strong and lusty, much motivated by the baser things of life, and the monkey, now reduced to a smart brain, did clever thinking and wonderful art and construction, courtesy of the new hands allied to strength and agility below.
But cleverness is the enemy of wisdom, and the monkey brain lost all track of the beast it rode; it took to calling itself “I”. In losing track, it lost respect. The clever brain lured the beast away from the earth it loved and from its natural ways, suppressed and perverted its procreative urge, ultimately denying its existence. Whenever the brains gathered for one of their interminable “brainstorming” meetings, in a much-prized high-rise office, they would sometimes mention “the elephant in the room” but they had no inkling that they, themselves, embodied that “elephant”. The farther they strayed from Nature, the more deranged the beast of them became. In its growing madness it would annexe the monkey brain and engage in bizarre pursuits that the brains, in their clever convoluted way, found enticing and yet reprehensible - even punishable - at one and the same time. So it was my children that you came to be where you are today. Time is running out. Engage with your beast, see to its needs, or one day soon you may feel it trampling on its own head. 

15.5.07
 

True  Magic

Walks like that don't happen any more; since the world turned its post-industrial back on chivalry in favour of equality, and gentility shrivelled.

We join our couple on rabbit cropped downs, where a path gives direction but walking - or stopping - is careless and random. It was late August, their hands spoke quietly of a  love of touch. Thumb stroked thumb, as life-force flowed and an age-old communion of souls re-established itself. The sun was warm, the breeze light, having no permission to be otherwise. Here were knight and lady, each “in their right place” as the

I Ching would declare it, and “there would be no error.”

As they walked; as they talked, this world of pain and anger and incongruity dissolved and they saw a new heaven and a new earth. With one vision, the eye of the artist, they saw idyllic villages nestling in comforting hills, were love would flourish. With one mind they absorbed the hill-line, that was couples entwined unselfconsciously in love-making. And with a mutual ear, in the rustle of trees, they heard the song of crisp sheets calling single-minded lovers to make their love-nest. No Shakespeare, no Tolkien could hope to put their experience into words. Pure joy, expanded to infinity by this chance encounter, had taken their being beyond the ken of even the most ethereal poetry or prose.

The sun rose higher and they sat together on the slope of the down, their hearts flying and swooping over the valley, then returning to kiss. They lay and looked; speaking in soft tones of pleasure - and reward for pleasure. Delight in each other's presence danced and sparkled in their eyes. They walked on and just as the sun's warmth became obtrusive, found themselves among the trees. The dapple-shade teased their forms, as if instructing them in the art of play. The path led gently down hill, the trees becoming more frequent - closer - seeming to urge communion

Now the sun was at its hottest. But they were deep in the cool arms of old woodland, fed by eternal water, held for its needs by the downs. Venerable old trees, witness to a thousand years of life, death and renewal, breathed quietly above them as they stepped down into a small mossy dell. Who knows how long they had walked; an hour a day, a life-time? They had long left the old path. The fusing of their spirits imbued them with such power that any future path they chose to take, would be the path. Day, night and compass points would be theirs to define. Such is the way of true magic.

17.8.05

Posted 3.5.06

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No one was really sure when the trees got into complex thought.
A cabinet maker, slightly unstable, decided to “go native” and make furniture in what he called “God’s wilderness”. On clement days, he would busy himself in a clearing in the forest, and as the trees looked on, he would skilfully turn their relatives into beautiful chairs, tables and other furniture.

The Old Oak watched and pondered, pondered and watched. Then he declared “When trees die, those who have lived a virtuous life are made perfect and live forever. He was so sure and persuasive, that soon the entire forest was made up of “believers”. On still nights he would address them. “This arduous life, struggling against drought, cold, disease and insects is but a prelude to a life hereafter, when we shall all be beautiful.
The inner beauty of each of you, colour, grain and markings shall all be made visible and you shall shine with the polish-perfect of Eternity."
When the cabinet maker took his chainsaw to the Old Oak, it all came true. He had never seen finer oak. He rendered it into planks and seasoned it in racks for seven years, before making exquisite pieces with it. His work fetched high prices all over the world, and went to the best homes.

It lives on.

Back in the forest young trees are taught that they are not just trees, their existence has a higher purpose - and who can argue?

13.3.05
Posted 3.5.06

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