Once upon a time, such a little door did open, that a boy did enter in. He peered around, unknowing...all the natural world to him. For, he was fey, his mother said, and he did wander all about, without the least of fear or doubt, for those fair wonder's hid. His eye's could see, that other's nay. They had no sight of those green borders by the way, where, for hours he would disappear.
They watched him and they followed far, as well as could, but little of the path he trod, could they. They could not find him on the soft green mosses, where he lay, or know those things he tasted, touched and felt of, beyond the door. When ending, home, at cease of time to play...he'd settle to a corner off the side, for he was shy. Yet times were some, he could not keep a tale in, then, would he share same at the table, round.
And there, they listened...and they wondered, but they would not speak. These things, so said, the family kept beneath their thumb. Nor ever once, encourage such a tale be told, but never said...he lied, nor ever thanked him for the gold he gave. But they were not without there gentle way, to lay it on the son they loved, though he was diff'rent than they all. They simply could na gee the bit he begged, the freedom of the tongue, to tell.
That hurt him so, for what it said was, he could not be of this world. He was of another where. So every day, then...he would wander to the border of the veil, that separated he from that, to gaze at yonder mansions in the sky, the salmon in the streams...the great white birds on high, the Swift, the Merlin hawk...the Owl that stood beside him, in the gnarl at even...start'ling him..."Who?", it say. "Just me. the boy returned."
At water's edge he'd sit, and there, to listen to the twilight voice of other creature's...lonely as himself. The Loon, about the lake, diving, silver trout, to take from water, still as glass. That call, the Loon will cry, most haunting of them all. Then, he would 'still', from stones he'd skip...gazing up the lake, through thick'ning twilight dark to lamplight lit; the lodge upon the shore.
Thus, he would take himself toward that, that single lantern in the night, the gibbous moon to guide his fated feet long mud packed path. From wild to home he'd race, from wolf and moon...to warm and lantern love, to all those little things you could, then, close the door upon, and feel safe...once more, for just a little while, just a little while more.
The old man sat upon the porch, another place...the same old moon...a different age, sipping on his sage...his different ways of seeing things. He sighs. He's not afraid. He never really was afraid of this. He only pray's...he might not be startled by some revelation. He calls the moon..."Goodnight" he says, "I'll go on in now, see you later", and he smiles...the night is their's.
He listens to the farm dogs, barking at the light, remembering...something. Then, he goes inside, to write down...'Once upon a time.'
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Google pic, artist unknown
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
| Ruth Manning-Sanders | |
|---|---|
| Born | 21 August 1886 Swansea, Wales |
| Died | 12 October 1988 (aged 102) Penzance, Cornwall |
| Occupation | Author |
Ruth Manning-Sanders (21 August 1886 – 12 October 1988) was a prolific British poet and author who was perhaps best known for her series of children's books in which she collected and retold fairy tales from all over the world. All told, she published more than 90 books during her lifetime.
"There can be no new fairy tales. They are records of the time when the world was very young; and never, in these latter days, can they, or anything like them, be told again. Should you try to invent a new fairy tale you will not succeed: the tale rings false, the magic is spurious. For the true world of magic is ringed round with high, high walls that cannot be broken down. There is but one little door in the high walls which surround that world – the little door of "once upon a time and never again." And so it must suffice that we can enter through that little door into the fairy world and take our choice of all its magic." (Foregoing quote, from Ruth Manning-Sanders)
"Once upon a time" is a stock phrase used to introduce a narrative of past events, typically in fairy tales and folk tales. It has been used in some form since at least 1380 (according to the Oxford English Dictionary) in storytelling in the English language and has opened many oral narratives since 1600. These stories often then end with "and they all lived happily ever after", or, originally, "happily until their deaths".
The phrase is particularly common in fairy tales for younger children, where it is almost always the opening line of a tale. It was commonly used in the original translations of the stories of Charles Perrault as a translation for the French "il était une fois", of Hans Christian Andersen as a translation for the Danish "der var engang", (literally "there was once"), the Brothers Grimm as a translation for the German "es war einmal" (literally "it was once") and Joseph Jacobs in English translations and fairy tales.
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