Not So Grimm

10

Not So Grimm

    “Father, why have you hauled me BACK?” shouted Isabella, her cheeks very red.

    “Yes, why?” agreed Robin.

    Oberon looked down that straight nose. “Go away, Robin. This is nothing to do with you.”

    Looking defiant, Robin crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, it is. She may be your daughter, but she’s my sister, too!”

    He shrugged. “Then stay. You won’t like it, mind.”

    Robin glared, but stayed.

    Oberon ate a small nut, looking unconcerned.

    “FA-THER!” shouted Isabella.

    “Don’t shout,” he said mildly. “I fetched you back—not hauled,” he noted—“because he’s about to drag you off to a land that’s full of...” He hesitated, but both Isabella and Robin were too cross with him to be able to enjoy the moment. “Unfortunate associations or connotations—undertones, if you will.”

    “I think he’s talking about mortal history,” decided Robin. “Murdering each other by the millions: disgusting. Not even for food. Only mortals would ever do that, you’d never find it in the animal world.”

    Isabella nodded. “The associations are only for mortals, surely, Father?”

    “Not them!” he said irritably. “Well, in a sense them, too, it’s all connected...”

    His children looked at the frown uncertainly.

    “The place is famous for its fairy tales,” he said finally.

    They gaped.

    “Some of them based on— No, well, some time ago in mortal terms, your mother, your brother Ferdinand and your sister Belinda— Well, never mind. Suffice it to say they met some mortals that they took a fancy to—several fancies, in his case,” he added with a wince—“and told them more than they should have. Not to mention, showing them far more than was necessary or desirable.”

    They looked at him blankly.

    “They didn’t TELL me about it!” he shouted terribly.

    After some time the echoes ceased quivering and Isabella managed to coax Brian Beetle out from under the dock leaves he’d shot under.

    And Robin admitted: “We get it. And by then it was too late to do a forgetting spell, was it?”

    “Yes. Have you ever heard of books?” he said nastily.

    They gaped at him.

    “The Book?” croaked Robin.

    “NO, you ass’s head! Mortal books!”

    “Yes, of course, Father,” said Isabella meekly. “But what have they got to do w—”

    “They’d WRITTEN them, you ass’s head, and by that time all the mortals were reading them!” he shouted. “With some of HER stories in them!”

    On cue, there was a soft flutter of wings and a tinkle of tiny fairy bells, and down she came. “Of course they were, darlings! Lovely stories!” she fluted.

    “Titania, some of those stories are extremely nasty,” said Oberon through clenched teeth.

    “Yes, but those aren’t my ones, darling! Those were the ones they got off the funny old mortals living in those dreadful hovels. –The people who couldn’t read books,” she reminded him kindly.

    “Thank you for that, Titania,” he said acidly.

    “But what he’s trying to say, Isabella, darling, is that that whole land is redolent with emanations—he’d call them connotations, no doubt—emanations of bad fairies and wicked witches and horrid spells.”

    “Bad vibes, the mortals say,” put in Robin unexpectedly.

    “Yes, that’s right, dear,” Titania agreed. “Too many nasty stories, you see? Especially of mortals coming to really sticky ends.”

    “Sticky, faerie Mistress?” piped Brian Beetle hopefully.

    “Oh, there you are, Brian, darling!” she smiled. “Nothing to do with jam, dear. Meeting horrid fates, it means. It’s a mortal saying—silly, isn’t?”

    “Do you mean I’m going to meet bad fairies?” said Isabella uncertainly.

    “Are there any bad fairies?” asked Robin dubiously.

    “No, of course not!” replied Titania cheerfully. “That’s a mortal idea! Hobgoblins and some goblins can be bad—yes. And wizards, but of course your father can control all of them! And trolls are—well, not bad, exactly, my darlings, but very grumpy. For nothing, I do assure you! It’s just their natures. And gnomes are sometimes grumpy, but certainly not bad. And a spoonful of honey will get them over their grumpiness in no time!”

    “Yes!” chirped Brian Beetle, cheering up immensely. “A spoonful of honey makes the grumpiness go down! –Or jam, of course.”

    “Exactly, Brian, darling!” she beamed.

    Oberon took a deep breath. “Your beetles’ stomachs apart, Titania, your daughter’s mortal lover is about to drag her off to the Land of Grimm!”

    “Oh, I see! –Lovely boys, they were,” she said reminiscently. “And Ferdinand was really fond of the other one—that was further towards the North Pole, if I remember rightly! What was his name? Somebody’s son... Well, never mind! He had some very pretty stories, but most of his were made up, he was a very clever fellow. And of course Ferdinand’s always liked making up stories, too: they had a lovely time together!”

    “Uh—do you mean what I think you mean, Mother? I thought Ferdinand had married a mortal woman?” said Robin uncertainly.

    “Oh, several, dear! What has that do with anything?” she fluted.

    He shrugged. “Nothing, apparently.”

    “Can we keep to the SUBJECT” shouted Oberon terribly.

    Fortunately Titania had seen this coming and was holding the timid Brian Beetle’s hand tightly. “Really, darling, must you shout?” she sighed.

    “Clearly, yes! –Isabella, you won’t like it, you won’t like what your mother calls the emanations, you won’t like the place’s blood-soaked history, and you most certainly won’t like the stories! –Not yours,” he said nastily to his spouse. “And before anyone says anything, they’re in the air, you’ll be picking them up all the time, Isabella!”

    “But her mortal’s very sweet, Oberon,” Titania objected. “Who were you with, that last time you were there?”

    He was actually seen to hesitate, again. This time Isabella and Robin exchanged amazed glances.

    “See?” said Titania smugly. “She was half-fairy, dears. A very spiteful woman indeed. Terrifically attractive, of course. But the sort of mortal who actually enjoyed all those stories of people being killed in horrid ways and punished far too heavily—those two poor unattractive sisters, for example, whose feet were too big to fit into the magic slipper and so they couldn’t marry the mortal prince. One version of that story tells how their eyes were picked out by pigeons as a punishment for being nasty to the pretty little stepsister who got the prince! Whereas not getting him would be quite enough punishment for any female, wouldn’t it?”

    “Um, yes,” said Isabella weakly, as everyone else was looking stunned—except for Father, he was merely looking unreadable, he was good at that.

    “Yes,” said Titania with a little sigh. “Their tales are full of wicked stepmothers, too, victimising their husbands’ children. Sometimes boys and girls, sometimes only a girl... And there’s a really horrid story about a wicked mother—now, this is unbelievable, darlings!—who decides to kill off all her dear little sons—I think there are twelve, they seem to think there’s some magic about the number: ridiculous, of course: every fairy knows that eleven and thirteen are much more magic numbers!—anyway, to kill them off in favour of her only daughter!”

    They goggled at her. Finally Robin said very weakly: “Mother, darling, are you sure that’s right? Don’t mortals usually favour their sons?”

    “Yes—so silly, isn’t it? Because you’re both so lovely!” She beamed at them. “And beetles, of course, Brian, darling!” she beamed.

    “Yes,” agreed Isabella weakly. “Um, but could even a mortal mother do that?”

    “I don’t know if one could do it, but they can certainly make up a story about it.”

    “Mm,” said Oberon, suddenly coming down out of his cloud of abstraction and sitting down beside her. He put his arm round her waist. “Exactly. That’s really quite deep, darling. And that female I met was certainly the sort who enjoyed such stories. If you insist on going there with your mortal, Isabella, I’ll protect you as much as I can. But it’s the mortal realm, remember. You may have bad dreams.”

    “Not if she thinks of pleasant things, darling!” cried Titania. “I know! I’ll tell you a pleasant story!”—Robin began to edge away but caught his father’s eye, and stopped.—“Now, what about the story of the bean?”

    “It is nice and short,” Oberon conceded, the face unmoved. “Yes, go on, my darling.”

    “Fairies, come hither!” she called.

    There was a great fluttering and scuttling and fairly soon, after a certain jostling for places, they were all comfortably settled, and Titania could begin.

The True Story of How the Bean Got Its Black Seam

    Once upon a time a bean was dropped on a hearth before it could go into the pot with the other beans. It found itself next to a straw and a coal which had rolled away from the fire. They all felt happy to have escaped the usual fates of coals, straws and beans, and decided they would get right away from the pot and the fire while they could. So off they went!

    Soon they found their way barred by a stream. But the straw had a bright idea, and laid itself down so as the other two could use it as a bridge. But unfortunately the heat from the coal burned the straw in the middle, so that it broke, and fell into the water, closely followed by the coal—splash! Hiss-ss! And so the two were drowned. The bean, who had prudently waited on the bank, couldn’t help laughing fit to bust itself at the sight of the straw and the hissing coal going down in the water so unexpectedly—and, in fact, did burst asunder! And would certainly have been undone forever, if a kindly travelling tailor hadn’t happened by. Quickly he took out needle and thread and stitched it together again. The bean thanked him fervently, not minding that he’d sewn it up with black stitches. And that is why, beloved fairies and beetles and everybody, all beans since then have a black seam down the middle!

    Under cover of the general applause Robin and Isabella rolled their eyes madly at each other. “Could that appeal to any mortal?” he hissed.

    “I don’t think so!” she whispered, collapsing in giggles.

    The beetles were applauding like anything—why, exactly, wasn’t quite clear. Well, not immediately.

    “Might any of those stories be about jam, respected Mistress?” asked Brian Beetle, very respectfully.

    “Ooh, yes!” cried Bertie Beetle. “Or honey, perhaps, Great Queen?”

    “Well, there is one about a tailor who bought some jam, but the way the mortals tell it, it’s rather long.”—Robin groaned.—“But I can tell you the fairy version!” said Titania brightly.

    Isabella got up. “I think I’ll go back—”

    Oberon immobilised her. “No. It’ll be an antidote.”

    “Help to cheer you up, he means,” sighed Robin. “Tell us, Father, what’s cheerful about a poor straw and a poor coal falling into the water and drowning?”

    “It was only a story, silly boy,” said Titania calmly. “But if you don’t want to hear about the valiant little tailor—and I admit one doesn’t get the full flavour of it, in the shorter version—I could tell you about the maiden in the tower. And I dare say there could be jam—why not?” she added kindly as the beetles’ antennae were seen to droop.

    “Hurray!” they cried.

    “Hurray!” cried the whole train.

    “Yes: hoo-ray,” muttered Robin sourly.

    And so Titania told them the story of Rapunzel with the golden hair. There was jam in it, all right. Everyone ate it—the girl’s mother, the witch who imprisoned the girl in the tower, Rapunzel herself, and the prince who rescued her.

    “Hurray!” cried the train, clapping like mad.

    Oberon cleared his throat. “Er—yes. Very nice, darling: thank you. I dare say there could be Jam Today.” He waved a hand negligently. There was jam, all right. Masses of it. And fresh bread and golden butter.

    “Eat,” he said sternly to his daughter.

    “I was going to. I must say, mortal food can be very boring.”

    “Will that have worked?” said Robin sourly to his male parent as Isabella then took off back to the mortal realm, rather full of bread, butter and jam.

    He looked down the nose. “Of course. It will sweeten the whole experience for her.”

    “It’ll sweeten the whole experience for her, Prince Robin!” cried Liam Lizard.

    Robin got up. “Sycophant,” he said sourly, disappearing.

    After a moment Titania said sadly: “He’s getting quite good at that... I suppose he is growing up.”

    “Mm.”

    “Oberon, dearest, he hasn’t shown any signs of wanting to settle down with a mortal woman,” she offered cautiously.

    “Yet,” he noted tightly.

    “Well, that’s good!” she said brightly. “Off you go, then!”

    He looked down the nose. “I beg your pardon?’

    “There’s no need for that: you don’t impress me, silly one!” she said gaily. “I know you want to keep an eye on her: off you go, then!”

    He scowled horrifically, but went.

    Titania licked a jam spoon slowly. “Now, has everybody had enough to eat?”

    Everybody had, in fact most of them could barely move.

    “In that case,” she trilled, “we’d better all have a lovely snooze!”

    And on the instant, they were all asleep. Liam Lizard was motionless, one arm raised to pick a leaf to shade his face, Bertie Beetle was upside-down, he’d been turning over, Brian Beetle was poised with one leg on a mushroom, a bluebell fairy was motionless in the air not six inches from Brian’s face, a primrose fairy was half in, half out of a nasturtium, Larry Lizard was half in, half out of his jacket— Everyone was immobilised. Even the dewdrop that was just sliding down the bell of a bluebell had ceased in its progress. It was just like in the story of the Princess Briar Rose who slept for a hundred years! But then, a hundred mortal years or a hundred mortal minutes were all the same, in the Faerie Realm.

    “That’s where she works,” said Franz Wette glumly, looking up at the shining glass-sided office building.

    “I see,” replied Isabella kindly. Franz was a lovely young man, and since he wasn't important in the company he worked for he’d been told off to look after her while Ben had meetings with his bosses. So far looking after her had largely entailed taking her to a bar where everyone drank lots of beer and ate hot sausages and telling her a lot, very gloomily, about a lady exec who was far above his touch and worked for another company. He’d met her—well, been introduced, but that was all—at a conference. She’d been giving a paper. He’d only been in the audience. He’d bumped into her once after that. A party, well, work-related, expected to turn up for the networking, kind of thing. He had managed to say hullo but that was it. She’d been surrounded by top execs, all giving her the eye. She’d given no indication of realising he was alive, and why should she?

    “That’s her floor, the twenty-fifth,” he said sourly.

    “I see. Quite high up. Um, maybe you could—” Help, not scale the shiny glass tower by climbing up her golden tresses, no! “Um, send her some flowers, Franz.”

    “She’ll wonder who the Hell they’re from,” he said sourly. “I’m sure she won’t even remember my name.”

    “But isn’t it better than not sending any?”

    “Um, maybe... I might,” he said gloomily.

    “Um, well, could you bump into her on the street by accident, Franz? But it’s so cold she won’t want to stand around chatting. Um, bump into her at lunchtime and suggest lunch?”

    “She doesn’t come out for lunch, or if she does it’s only to get straight into a taxi and whirl off to somewhere expensive. Um, I followed her once,” he admitted. “I had to tell the driver, ‘Follow that cab,’ he thought I was mad. Or a stalker, probably. She was lunching with damned Peter Rasmussen from the Bundesbank.”

    Isabella had no idea what this was or who the Peter man was but she said kindly: “I see. Is he a top exec, too?”

    “High enough,” said poor Franz on a vicious note.

    Oh, dear! Mortal life was all very difficult, wasn’t it? “Um, could you find out the sort of thing she likes and, um, well, do it, too?”

    At this he plunged into a long story about googling and something about faces—was it?—something like that—yes, it must be, because profiles were in there somewhere—but eventually she gathered the essential fact that it hadn’t worked because he hadn’t found out anything about her personal likes, dislikes or interests.

    “Um, well, ask someone from her company about her?”

    “That’s an idea... Only the thing is, while we’re not business rivals as such—”

    Oops.

    Franz looked longingly up at the shiny glass tower. “If only I could get near her!”

    He had, according to his own report, at that party, and he hadn’t managed to make her notice him, had he? Nevertheless Isabella said slowly: “Look, maybe I could help. Say I made up a story about wanting to speak to her about something important to do with work and I took her out to lunch and you pretended to bump into us there, and I asked you to join us!”

    Franz’s jaw had sagged. Finally he managed to croak: “Isabella, that’d work, but could you do it? I mean, you’d have to make contact with her in the first place, and then you’d have to have a really convincing story to get her to agree to a meet.”

    “You could make one up, couldn’t you?”

    He gulped. “Well, I—well, yeah.”

    “I’d only have to use it as a hook. Then at lunch I could have an urgent call on my cell, and have to hurry away!” she beamed.

    “Then it’d be up to me,” said Franz in a hollow voice.

    “Mm. You’re very attractive, I’m sure she won’t give you the brush-off,” said Isabella kindly. “Come on, let’s go and grab a sandwich and work it out!”

    So they did that. It wasn’t exactly a sandwich, he chose more hot sausages, but at least this bar managed to produce bread and cheese for her.

    “But how will you manage to contact her in the first place?” asked Franz, once the essential plot had been worked out.

    “I’ll try calling her at work. If they won’t put me through I’ll think of something else, don’t worry.” –Ask Father, if all else failed!

    “I can’t thank you enough!” he said fervently, squeezing her hands hard, as they waited in the lobby of his building for Ben.

    “I haven’t done it yet!” replied Isabella with a loud giggle as Ben came up to them.

    “Why the Hell were you holding hands with young Franz Whatsisname?” he said as they bundled into a taxi.

    “I wasn’t, he was holding mine. He was thanking me for something I’ve promised to do.”

    “What, for God’s sake?” he said, staring.

    “Help him to meet a lady, her name’s Liselotte Schomburg, have you heard of—” She broke off: he obviously had, he’d collapsed in splutters.

    Tears oozed out of Ben’s eyes and he was incapable of speech for some time. “The Valkyrie of Wache, Messenhauser & Vacca! The guy’s crazy!” he gasped at last.

    “Hah, hah,” said Isabella crossly. “And is that even a German name?”

    “What? Oh—Vacca? No, probably Italian in origin, but there’s lots of foreign names in Germany. Seriously, Isabella, the guy must be nuts! She’s about six-two to his five-ten for a start, broad in the shoulders to match and—well, your blonde Valkyrie to the life! Plus and the greatest ball-breaker in Europe.”

    “What?”

    “She eats little guys like him for breakfast, hon’,” he explained kindly. “Four at a time, probably. And goes for a ten-mile run afterwards!” More splutters.

    “You might at least show some sympathy, Ben! The poor boy’s in love with her!”

    Ben wiped his eyes. “He thinks he is. But do your best for him, by all means.” His shoulders shook. “Poor guy!”

    Oberon hovered about six inches above the end of Isabella’s bed while she brushed her hair. “The consequence of sending innocent little guys up tall towers to rescue golden-haired maidens is frequently that they end up blinded by having to jump down when they find the girl’s vanished, and having their eyes put out when they land in a thorn bush.”

    “He didn’t!” she cried indignantly.

    “Not in your mother’s version, no,” he drawled. “In one version that the mortals tell, he wanders blinded in a wood for years until he stumbles across Rapunzel again and she cries over him and her tears heal his eyes. Let me see... Today’s mortal equivalent would probably be after being sent about his business by the beloved’s elderly lover from the bank in no uncertain terms, your little mortal wanders in the wilderness of an unsuccessful career for years until, let’s say twenty mortal years down the track—by which time she’s a fat middle-aged hag—she offers him a job as—well, take your pick.” He shrugged. “Secretary, or some such? Personal Assistant? A job he has to take because the alternative is to starve.”

    “You can be really horrible, Father!”

    “Uh—I’m sorry, my darling. But it does seem all too horribly likely, to me.”

    Isabella glared. “Not if you don’t let it happen!”

    “Your attitude to mortal self-determination is extraordinarily inconsistent, isn’t it?” he drawled. “Why is it all wrong for you to use fairy dust or any other sort of magic on Ben, while it’s— Don’t look like that, I’ll do it!”

    “Thank you, Father.” She swallowed. “I’m sure she isn’t at all like that bad lady that you met here,” she said in a small voice.

    Oberon sighed. He was damn sure she was. Oh, well. With any luck it’d be a brief fling and then the boy would come to his senses. And better him looking after the thing than Titania—perish the thought! The boy would end up married to the creature before the cat could lick her ear! That or installed in her apartment as her permanent lap-dog. One or the other.

    Liselotte Schomburg had taken the call, though she couldn’t, really, think why. But she’d taken it and agreed to meet the woman. She seemed awfully young. Though the restaurant she’d chosen was all right—well, the Coq d’Or, Rasmussen favoured it. Not too modern, decent food, but they understood that these days not everyone wanted to wallow in the fat-laden pâtés, greasy sausages, and cream-slathered desserts their forebears had gone in for. The waiter recognised her—flattering. After they’d ordered she urged the girl to tell her some more. The details were rather sparse and she didn’t seem to have brought any documentation. Liselotte was just wondering whether to skip it, her metabolism probably didn’t need the Coq d’Or’s Pintade chasseur, when the girl brightened and waved.

    “Franz Wette! Do you know him?”

    “Er... Oh, yes, I think we have met,” said Liselotte as he came up to them beaming all over his face. Well, this Isabella Whatsername was certainly pretty, and the dark blue suit didn’t disguise the fact that she had a very nice figure, more especially as she only seemed to be wearing some dark blue lace under it. Liselotte considered that look entirely inappropriate for work and in fact did not hire any junior execs who went in for it. And discouraged the secretaries from wearing such gear. Did you see Angela Merkel going round with her bosom half-exposed? –No. If you wanted to be taken seriously in your profession you had to dress seriously. She herself was in a severe dark grey trouser suit. Well cut, yes. But extremely modest. Under it she was wearing a thin grey knit sweater. One pendant pearl, not too big, was allowed to appear at the neck. Period.

    Unexpectedly, as the good-looking young man reached their table Liselotte felt a wave of loathing for the trouser suit, the sweater, and every stitch she had on—together with a hot wave of hatred for the blameless Isabella Whatsername.

    Isabella watched with a smile in her eyes as the handsome blonde Liselotte flushed and acknowledged that she did remember Franz—yes. –That golden hair was really lovely, very thick, and though she was wearing it in a big bun you could see it would be gorgeous if it was loose. Franz wasn’t hiding the fact that he admired her—well, good!

    Firmly not wondering just how much of a finger Father had had in this particular pie, Isabella made the cell phone Ben had given her ring, answered it, and duly pretended to be called away.

    She’d got as far as the restaurant’s pretty little lobby when there he was!

    “Must you do that?” she hissed.

    “No-one noticed, I do assure you. –Satisfied?”

    “Yes; thank you, Father!”

    Oberon gave her an ironic glance. “Mm. Well, I dare say it may last. She seems to have a much nicer nature than that frightful blonde woman I met, anyway.”

    Isabella had seen that for herself. “Yes. No spiteful thoughts at all!” she beamed.

    “Possibly I should shush you,” he drawled, as two hefty figures huddled in heavy winter overcoats came in. “Or possibly not,” he added as they caught sight of him, gasped, turned an unlovely purple shade, bowed very low, and almost fell over each other in their rush to exit. “She’ll manage him within an inch of his life, as they say here, but it seems to be what he wants—not to say, needs.”

    “Yes,” said Isabella faintly. “I mean, he does want it... Who were they?”

    “Harry Hobgoblin and Toby Troll—known here as Heinrich Schmidt and Tobias Mann—original, no?” He raised the eyebrows.

    Isabella swallowed. “Um, no. –And I won’t say you didn’t warn me!”

    “Good. Come and have some lunch, I know a nice place that’ll do us a fresh salad and a yummy dessert.”

    Limply Isabella agreed. He actually wanted to walk—goodness only knew why! Reliving his past, maybe? So they walked in the frosty streets.

    “Ooh, it’s a vegetarian place!” she cried.

    It was quite a simple little bistro, you had to order at the counter from the blackboard menu. The proprietor himself was serving. “An honour, Sire!” he said quickly, bowing.

    Yes, well. Emil Elf. The waitress was Elli Elf, fancy that. They were very quickly seated at a little table by the wall, where it was nice and cosy, and assured they could have anything they liked to order. Father ordered Rapunzel salad, fancy that. The plant wasn’t in season—no, it wouldn’t be: true, it was the root part you ate, but this was the depths of winter. Assuring the elves kindly that it was no problem, he waved a lordly hand...

    It was a lovely salad, yes, but there were some mortals having drinks at the next table and trying to decide whether to have lunch here or not, and they wanted what they were having! Poor Elli looked over at Father in dismay. He merely looked bland.

    “Um, it’s off!” the poor creature gulped.

    Emil hurried up. “Very sorry, the rampion’s all gone, but we’ve got some lovely fresh black radish today; very crisp.”

    Isabella glared at Father, but he just looked bland. Quickly she gave the people the idea that sliced black radish would be lovely, and they ordered happily.

    “See? You can do it if you try,” he drawled.

    Isabella sighed. “Just be quiet. Think about what you’d like for pudding.”

    His Majesty might have been seen to gulp. She’d sounded just like her mother!

    “Well, that’s that!” said Ben, rubbing his hands. “Two good prospects, real solid-looking businesses. Had a feeling Germany would be the go!”

    Mm. The only drawback was that the businesses were run by gnomes, on the one hand, and hobgoblins and trolls, on the other!

    “Um, yes. Did you actually like those men?” Isabella asked limply.

    “They were okay—sure! Well, none of them would qualify for Mr Congeniality, I guess!” he admitted with a laugh. “Nothing wrong with them, though.”

    “No, if you like hobgoblins and gnomes and trolls,” said Isabella limply.

    “That’s a bit strong, hon’! Not that any of them was good-looking, you’re not wrong there!” He went into a spluttering fit.

    “I liked Frau Schenkel, though.”

    “Sure! Real pleasant woman! And her daughter-in-law, huh?”

    “Brigitte. Yes, she was very nice. And we had a lovely time at their firm’s crèche!”

    Sure she had! Spent the best part of a week there, in fact. Young Brigitte Schenkel wasn't a junior exec like her husband, she had three little kids and she helped out in the firm’s crèche. The Germans sure knew how to look after their workers.

    “Now that just leaves the Danish proposition,” said Ben, consulting his laptop. “Sounds quite interesting: an IT firm, into CAD-CAM, they design integrated manufacturing systems. Not very big: reading between the lines it’s these two guys’ baby, and they want to expand, take on more international jobs. Well, not original in itself, I guess, more custom-designing the system to suit the individual cases, but their clients have been very satisfied with their work. It’ll still be very cold there, I’m afraid, honey.”

    “That’s okay, Ben, I don’t mind the cold.”

    “No—good. And the central heating in Europe seems to be real efficient, huh? Okay, well, nice dinner, and then an early night?” he suggested, twinkling at her.

    Isabella giggled. “Yes, please, Ben!”

    He had the weirdest dreams that night. Couldn’t have been the dinner, it was just a mild chicken thing, and there was certainly nothing wrong with the brandy after it. Probably her mention of hobgoblins and gnomes and trolls—well, who knew what prompted dreams? Anyroad, he found himself in Fairyland, and Isabella kept telling him it wasn’t a dream, he really was in Fairyland—she was wearing wings again—and her mother was there, a very beautiful woman, not dark like Isabella but blonde, and she of course was the Fairy Queen—right, that was logical, all the other fairies and lizards and so forth—beetles, right—kept calling Isabella “Princess,” so her mother would be— Uh-huh. Plus and her father, boy was he an intimidating personality! Real good-looking guy, so wherever he’d come from he sure wasn’t based on any of the guys Ben had just done business with in Germany—but he did look very like her brother Daniello. Older, though. No grey hairs, so either you didn’t go grey in Fairyland or the guy dyed his hair even in a dream!

    The Fairy Queen—her name was Titania, straight out of Shakespeare, so this was a dream, all right—was telling them all stories, meantime they all sat round eating bread and butter with jam and honey. Real peculiar, wouldn’t you think that in Fairyland they’d eat something more, uh, well, magic? Honeydew? One of Isabella’s younger brothers was here: Robin—had she mentioned him? The name did seem vaguely familiar. After a while Puck turned up, he looked real like the Puck in an old illustrated Shakespeare of Dad’s, funnily enough. Along with a cat, kind of a plump cat, dark grey fur, at first Ben thought it was black, but it wasn’t, it was a very dark grey. Gee, its name was Grimalkin, couldn’ta guessed that! It could talk, but what else would you expect in a dream? So could all the lizards and beetles. The perspective was all wrong, most of the beetles and the cat were about the size of a kid of eight or so, but those goddamned fairy tale books of Mom’s were just the same, so there you were.

    Most of the stories were real peculiar—real peculiar, didn’t seem to go anywheres or have much point to them, but some kind of made sense. The one about the changeling wasn’t bad. Well, short.

Titania’s Story of The Elves and the Changeling

Some mischievous elves once took a child away from its mother, and left in its place a changeling with a big head and staring eyes, who did nothing but eat and drink. The poor mother asked the woman next-door what on earth she could do about it. “Take the changeling into the kitchen, me dear,” she said, “and put it near the hearth, and make up the fire, and then boil water in two egg-shells; for that will make the changeling laugh, and if he laughs, it will be all over with him!” So the woman did as her neighbour advised.

    And when she set the egg-shells of water on the fire, the changeling said:

“Though old I be

As forest tree,

Cooking in an egg-shell never did I see!”

And began to laugh.

    And suddenly in came a crowd of elves bringing the right child; and they laid him near the hearth, and carried the changeling away with them! And that, beloved fairies, is how a mortal may get back her child, or so the wise wizards say! But I cannot tell you if it be true.

    Everybody was smiling and clapping politely except the cat, so Ben did, too. In spite of the fact that during the whole of the story the woman was cradling a plump, curly-headed infant on her knee! He looked human enough—he certainly didn’t have wings. Ouch.

    “Mee-aow!” said the cat. “If you believe that, Mee-ortal, you’ll believe anything!”

    “One doesn’t have to believe it, silly one! It’s a story!” returned Titania with a laugh—rather like Isabella’s laugh, well, it would be. Given that he’d never met her real mother, what else would he base it on?

    “Have some cream, Grimalkin,” said the King of the Fairies in a bored tone. Immediately a saucer of cream appeared. The cat was pretty fat already, should it be drinking cream? Oh, well, this was only a dream!

    “Cream won’t do anyone any harm in Fairyland, Ben, dear!” said Isabella, hugging his arm. “And if you don't fancy bread and butter with jam or honey, you can have anything else you like!”

    “No, that’s okay, thanks, honey, I’m not hungry after that dinner last night.”

    “See? He calls her honey!” cried one of the beetles.

    “Honey’s nice. Jam’s nice, too,” said another.

    And with that they all seemed to be eating bread and honey, or bread and jam, with piles of butter...

    “I dunno why,” said Ben on a weak note as they headed to the airport next morning, “but I seem to have gotten fixed in my head an association of Germany with bread and jam, or bread and honey! –Don’t all laugh at once,” he added weakly.

    “I wouldn’t worry, darling Ben,” said Isabella, smiling serenely. “It’s a lot better than some other associations you could have!”

    “Uh—yeah, sure. But it’s... I was gonna say crazy, but that doesn’t quite cut it. What’s that word of Bob’s? A real English word. Um... bonkers! That’s it! –Uh, yeah,” he ended weakly, “bonkers.”

    To this his believed merely replied happily: “Well, as Mother says:

“Bread and honey or bread and jam,

With a big grey cat, and cream in the pan,

Mix it all up with a story or two,

And be sure no harm will come to you!”

    So he concluded they might as well be bonkers together. Couldn’t be bad, huh?

Next chapter:

https://isabelladowntoearth-anovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/little-mermaids.html