(A short tale as old as the human race.)
MAGIC
My wife and I are driving down a road, towards the end of which we live. It winds by turn through fields and woods, and dwellings are few. It is a fresh, clear morning. The previous night had suggested but not produced a frost. Winter is coming in these northern hills.
Suddenly, we encounter a strange sight. On either side of the road are large, rectangular sheets of heavy, blue paper covering the grass. It as if it has been covered to prevent damage from frost. Driving on, we come to a small house by the side of the road. Outside and scattered all about are members of a family. It is a large family, represented by three generations. Children play, while the older folks busy themselves with chores. Collectively, they express an air of innocent enthusiasm.
We stop and get out of the car, drawing the family’s attention. We are approached by a middle-aged woman. She expresses concern about deer getting into the kitchen garden and eating the vegetables she and others are planting in neat rows to one side of the house.
“Gather some dog hair and tie it with string into small balls,” I advise. “Then attach each to a stake and plant them around the garden: four on each side and two at the ends. Deer don’t like the smell of dog,” I explain. “It will keep them away.”
Her question and the family’s naive manner suggest that they are likely those responsible for the blue papers on the grass. I perceive them as newcomers from the south, where deer in kitchen gardens and frosts are unknown.
We are invited into the house. Going around the back, where there is a small deck, we enter a living-room. My wife goes into another room with the grandmother, leaving me alone with the daughter. An open-faced woman of about forty, she wears simple clothing – a plain, light pink dress open at the neck, revealing clear, pale skin. Her manner is friendly and unassuming. There is a fey air about her.
I am fascinated by a mobile attached to the ceiling, from which hang many small, crafted animals, among them cows, horses, wolves, giraffes, camels and hippopotami. Their colors are shades of gray and brown. Each is well formed and made from papier mâché or wood. On a wooden shelf, high up on a wall above a fireplace, stands a row of religious ikons, their rich gilded frames worn with age.
As I talk with the woman, I learn that she is a crafts person.
“Oh,” I say, “you will be able to do very well up here. They love crafts. You can practice magic, too!”
She appears uncomfortable with the suggestion, and I set out to explain myself.
“Someone will come and ask for a frog that turns into a prince. You will say there is one waiting outside on their car. You won’t really believe this, but you will say it anyway. The person will go out and there will be a frog, as you have said. They will be overcome with gratitude. Despite your astonishment at the frog, you will gracefully accept their thanks. The grateful party will tell a friend, who will come with a similar request. You will promise the frog as before, even though you still don’t believe in it. Again, a frog appears. You will shrug this off, considering it merely a coincidence. The next time it happens, you will begin to believe that you have a special power. Word will spread and many come. However, the supply of frogs is unreliable. When a frog fails to appear, you will say that it is there; it is just that the person can’t see it. When he or she tells this to others who have got frogs, they will be told that they have got their frog but must work harder to see it. They will believe this.”
I pause, considering other things people might want.
“Someone will ask for a car,” I go on.
“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” she replies anxiously.
“It’s not a problem,” I reassure her. “My wife and I will push one in front of the house.
She is shocked, but I still have her attention.
“Soon, your reputation will have spread far and wide. The roads will be jammed with people coming to see you. The town officials will come and beg you to stop. The community is being ruined by all the traffic, they will say. You will reply, ‘Stop what?”
Turning away I walk into the kitchen, where my wife is talking with the grandmother and another woman. We invite the family down for dinner on the next Tuesday.
The frogs? Doesn’t everyone know they turn into princes?
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