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“Hypochondria” by Robin KleinI’m delicate, fragile, and highly at risk. If I made my own bed, I could get a slipped disc. Me? Wash the dishes? With my dermatitis? Dusting? You’re kidding! I’d get sinusitis! If spring cleaning, don’t include me in the action – I might break a leg and spend six months in traction. I don’t just get colds, but pneumonia (protracted), nor ordinary toothache, but molars – impacted! Help clear the table? Oh, didn’t I mention I need lots of rest for acute hypertension? Black plague, malaria, beriberi, jungle rot – I’m the only one in history who’s had the whole lot! So don’t boast to me of your migraines and flu. Nobody suffers the way that I do. “Beauty and Pock Face” (a fairy-tale) There were once two sisters; the eldest was very beautiful and everyone called her “Beauty”; but the younger had a face covered with pock marks, and everyone called her “Pock Face”. She was the daughter of the second wife, and was very spoilt, and had a bad character. Beauty’s mother had died when her daughter was very small, and after her death she had turned into a yellow cow, which lived in the garden. Beauty adored the yellow cow, but it had a miserable existence, because the stepmother treated it so badly. One day, the stepmother took the ugly daughter to the theatre and left the elder one at home. She wanted to accompany them, but her stepmother said: “I will take you tomorrow, if you tidy the hemp in my room”. Beauty went off and sat down in front of the stack of hemp, but after a long time she had only divided half. Bursting into tears, she took it off to the yellow cow, who swallowed the whole mass and then spat it out again all clearly arranged bit by bit. Beauty dried her tears, and gave the hemp to her mother on her return home: “Mother, here is the hemp! I can go to the theatre tomorrow, can’t I?” But when the next day came, her stepmother again refused to take her, saying: “You can go when you have separated the sesame seeds from the beans.” The poor girl had to divide them seed by seed, until the exhausting task made her eyes ache. Again she went to the yellow cow, who said to her: “You stupid girl, you must separate them with a fan.” Now she understood, and the sesame and beans were soon divided. When she brought the seeds all nicely separated, her stepmother knew that she could no longer prevent her from going to the theatre, but she asked her: “How can a servant girl be so clever? Who helped you?” And Beauty had to admit that the yellow cow had advised her, which made the stepmother very angry. Without, therefore, saying a word, she killed and ate the cow, but Beauty had loved the cow so dearly that she could not eat its flesh. Instead, she put the bones in an earthenware pot and hid them in her bedroom. Day after day, the stepmother did not take her to the theatre, and one evening, when she had gone there herself with Pock Face, Beauty was so cross that she smashed everything in the house including the earthenware pot. Whereupon there was a crack, and a white horse, a new dress, and a pair of embroidered shoes came out. The sudden appearance of these things gave her a terrible fright, but she soon saw that they were real objects and, quickly pulling on the new dress and the shoes, she jumped on to the horse and rode out of the gate. While riding along, one of her shoes slipped off into the ditch. She wanted to dismount and fetch it, but could not do so; at the same time she did not want to leave it lying there. She was in a real quandary, when a fishmonger appeared. “Brother fishmonger! Please pick up my shoe,” she said to him. He answered with a grin: “With great pleasure, if you will marry me.” “Who could marry you?” she said crossly. “Fishmongers always stink”. And seeing that he had no chance, the fishmonger went on his way. Next, an assistant of a rice shop went by, and she said to him: “Brother rice broker, please give me my shoe.” “Certainly, if you will marry me,” said the young man. “Marry a rice broker! Their bodies are all covered with dust.” The rice broker departed, and soon an oil merchant came by, whom she also asked to pick up her shoe. “I will pick it up if you consent to marry me,” he replied. “Who could want to marry you?” Beauty said with a sigh. “Oil merchants are always so greasy.” Shortly after a scholar came by, whom she also asked to pick up her shoe. The scholar turned to look at her, and then said: “I will do so at once if you promise to marry me.” The scholar was very handsome, so she nodded her head in agreement, and he picked up the shoe and put it on her foot. Then he took her back to his house and made her his wife. Three days later, Beauty went with her husband to pay the necessary respects to her parents. Her stepmother and sister had quite changed their manner and treated them both in the most friendly and attentive fashion. In the evening, they wanted to keep Beauty at home, and she, thinking they meant it kindly, agreed to stay and to follow her husband in a few days. The next morning her sister took her by the hand and said to her with a laugh: “Sister, come and look into the well. We will see which of us is more beautiful.” Suspecting nothing, Beauty went to the well and leant over to look down, but at this moment her sister gave her a shove and pushed her into the well, which she quickly covered up with a basket. Poor Beauty lost consciousness and was drowned. After ten days, the scholar began to wonder why his wife had still not returned. He sent a messenger to inquire, and the stepmother sent back a message that his wife was suffering from a bad attack of smallpox and was not well enough to return for the moment. The scholar believed this, and every day he sent over salted eggs and other sickbed delicacies, all of which found their way into the stomach of the ugly sister. After two months, the stepmother was irritated by the continual messages from the scholar and made up her mind to practise a deception, and to send back her own daughter as his wife. The scholar was horrified when he saw her and said: “Goodness! How changed you are! Surely you are not Beauty. My wife was never such a monster. Good Heavens!” Pock Face replied seriously: “If I am not Beauty, whom do you think I am then? You know perfectly well I was very ill with smallpox and now you want to disown me. I shall die! I shall die!” And she began to howl. The tender-hearted scholar could not bear to see her weeping, and although he still had some doubts, he begged her forgiveness and tried to console her, so that gradually she stopped weeping. Beauty, however, had been transformed into a sparrow, and she used to come and call out when Pock Face was combing her hair: “Comb once, peep; comb twice, peep; comb thrice, up to the spine of Pock Face.” And the wicked wife answered: “Comb once, comb twice, comb thrice, to the spine of Beauty.” The scholar was very mystified by this conversation, and he said to the sparrow: “Why do you sing like that? Are you by any chance my wife? If you are, call three times, and I will put you in a golden cage and keep you as a pet.” The sparrow called out three times, and the scholar bought a golden cage to keep it in. The ugly sister was very angry when she saw that her husband kept the sparrow in a cage, and she secretly killed it and threw it into the garden, where it was once more transformed into a bamboo with many shoots. When Pock Face ate them, an ulcer formed on her tongue, but the scholar found them excellent. The wicked woman became suspicious again and had the bamboo cut down and made into a bed, but when she lay on it innumerable needles pricked her, while the scholar found it extremely comfortable. Again she became very cross and threw the bed away. Next door to the scholar lived an old woman who sold money-bags. One day, on her way home, she saw the bed and thought to herself: “No one has died here, why have they thrown the bed away? I shall take it,” and she took the bed into her house and passed a very comfortable night. The next day, she saw that the food in the kitchen was ready cooked. She ate it up, but naturally she felt a little nervous, not having any idea who could have prepared it. Thus for several days she found she could have dinner the moment she came home, but finally, being no longer able to contain her anxiety, she came back early one afternoon and went into the kitchen, where she saw a dark shadow washing rice. She ran up quickly and clasped the shadow round the waist. “Who are you?” she asked, “and why do you cook food for me?” The shadow replied: “I will tell you everything. I am the wife of your neighbour the scholar and am called ‘Beauty’. My sister threw me into the well and I was drowned, but my soul was not dispersed. Please give me a rice-pot as head, a stick as hand, a dish-cloth as entrails, fire-hooks as feet, and then I can assume my former shape again.” The old woman gave her what she asked for, and in a moment a beautiful girl appeared, and the old woman was so delighted at seeing such a charming girl, that she questioned her very closely. She told the old woman everything, and then said: “Old woman, I have got a bag, which you must offer for sale outside the scholar’s house. If he comes out, you must sell it to him.” And she gave her an embroidered bag. The next day the old woman stood outside the scholar’s house and shouted that she had a bag for sale. Maddened by the noise, he came out to ask what kind of bags she sold, and she showed him Beauty’s embroidered bag. “Where did you get this bag?” he asked. “I gave it to my wife.” The old woman then told the whole story to the scholar, who was overjoyed to hear that his wife was still alive. He arranged everything with the old woman, laid down a red cloth on the ground, and brought Beauty back to his house. When Pock Face saw her sister return, she gave her no peace. She began to grumble and say that the woman was only pretending to be Beauty, and that in point of fact she was a spirit. She wanted to have a trial to see which was the genuine wife. Beauty, also, would not admit herself in the wrong, and said: “Good. We will have a test.” Pock Face suggested that they should walk on eggs, and whoever broke the shells would be the loser, but although she broke all the eggs, and Beauty none, she refused to admit her loss and insisted on another trial. This time they were to walk up a ladder made of knives. Beauty went up and down first without receiving the tiniest scratch, but before Pock Face had gone two steps her feet were cut to the bone. Although she had lost again, she insisted on another test that of jumping into a cauldron of hot oil. She hoped that Beauty, who would have to jump in first, would be burnt. Beauty, however, was quite unharmed by the boiling oil, but the wicked sister fell into it and did not appear again. “The Child” by Valerie Church I saw him standing on the corner, A small boy watching the traffic. But to others he was no ordinary boy, For his incomplete brain Punctured his simple exterior. He was totally happy in his world, Gazing, Unaware of cruel eyes And the mocking voices of other boys On the opposite kerb. He ignored them completely, And the mocking grew more intense. Suddenly he turned his gaze from the road, And smiled simply at the onlookers, Who turned away ashamed. From “Falling Towards England” by Clive James In Trevor’s living-room, my suitcase against the wall served as a headboard. Folded clothes made a pillow. Beyond, into the centre of the room, stretched the brown paper bag, forming my bed. Wriggling into it took some time, but once inserted I could settle down in comparative warmth for a long night of turning from one side to the other. It was the hardness of the floor which compelled frequent movement. A lot of this I could do in my sleep, because my body, albeit much abused, was still young and supple, and I have always had Napoleon’s gift of falling asleep at will, although unfortunately it has not always been accompanied by his gift of walking up again. The problem resided not in how the hardness of the floor affected my sleep, but in how the noise the paper bag made affected Trevor. As he lay there in the darkness on his enviably luxurious convertible divan, it was as if, somewhere nearby, a giant packet of crisps was being eaten by one of those cinema patrons who think that they are being unobtrusive if they take only a few crisps at a time and chew them very slowly. When Trevor could bear no more he would switch on his modernistic tubular bedside light, wake me up and tell me to be quiet. Invariably I would discover, upon waking, that my bladder, which was already showing signs of being weakened by the steady inundation of cider, demanded emptying. So I had to get out of the paper bag, go away, pee, come back and get back in, thus creating a double uproar. When Trevor switched his light off again I would lie there trying not to move. Only a dead man or a yoga adept can keep that up for more than twenty minutes. Judging that Trevor was asleep again, I would essay a surreptitious turn to one side, making no more noise than a shy prospective bride unwrapping a lace-trimmed silk nightgown from its tissues. This movement completed, for a long time I would lie there, inhaling and exhaling as shallowly as possible and waiting until the sound of Trevor’s steady breathing deepened into the second level of sleep. Only then would I make the necessary full turn on to the other side. A man tearing up a thin telephone directory while wading through dead leaves would have been hard put to be so silent. But if, after these maneuvers, I dropped off to sleep, it was inevitable that an involuntary shift of weight would sooner or later produce the full effect of a large, empty cardboard box being attacked by woodpeckers. I can be sure of this because sometimes the noise woke me as well. “Song of the City” by Gareth Owen My brain is stiff with concrete My limbs are rods of steel My belly’s stuffed with money My soul was bought in a deal. They poured metal through my arteries They choked my lungs with lead They churned my blood to plastic They put murder into my head. I’d a face like a map of the weather Flesh that grew to the bone But they tore my story out of my eyes And turned my heart to stone. Let me wind from my source like a river Let me grow like wheat from the grain Let me hold out my arms like a natural tree Let my children love me again. From “The Ruum” by Arthur Porges Shortly after sunrise Jim Irwin reached the lake. The ruum was close enough for him to hear the dull sounds of its passage. Jim staggered, his eyes closed. He hit himself feebly on the nose, his eyes jerked open, and he saw the explosive. The sight of the greasy sticks of dynamite snapped Irwin wide awake. He forced himself to calmness and carefully considered what to do. Fuse? No. It would be impossible to leave fused dynamite in the trail and time the detonation with the absolute precision he needed. Sweat poured down his body, his clothes were sodden with it. It was hard to think. The explosion must be set off from a distance and at the exact moment the ruum was passing over it. But Irwin dared not use a long fuse. The rate of burning was not constant enough. Couldn’t calibrate it perfectly with the ruum’s advance. Jim Irwin’s body sagged all over, his chin sank toward his heaving chest. He jerked his head up, stepped back – and saw the 22 pistol where he had left it in the lean-to. His sunken eyes flashed. Moving with frenetic haste, he took the half-filled case, piled all the remaining percussion caps among the loose sticks in a devil’s mixture. Weaving out to the trail, he carefully placed box and contents directly on his earlier tracks some twenty yards from a rocky ledge. It was a risk – the stuff might go any time but that didn’t matter. He would far rather be blown to rags than end up living but paralysed in the ruum’s outdoor butcher’s stall. The exhausted Irwin had barely hunched down behind the thin ledge of rock before his inexorable pursuer appeared over a slight rise five hundred yards away. Jim scrunched deeper into the hollow, then saw a vertical gap, a narrow crack between rocks. That was it, he thought vaguely. He could sight through the gap at the dynamite and still be shielded from the blast. If it was a shield ... when that half-case blew only twenty yards away... He stretched out on his belly, watching the ruum roll forward ... He aimed at the dynamite. And very calmly, very carefully, Jim Irwin squeezed the trigger of his pistol. Briefly, sound first. Then giant hands lifted his body from where he lay, then let go. He came down hard, face in a patch of nettles, but he was sick, he didn’t care. He remembered that the birds were quiet. Then there was a fluid thump as something massive struck the grass a few yards away. Then there was quiet. Shortly after sunrise Jim Irwin reached the lake. The ruum was close enough for him to hear the dull sounds of its passage. Jim staggered, his eyes closed. He hit himself feebly on the nose, his eyes jerked open, and he saw the explosive. The sight of the greasy sticks of dynamite snapped Irwin wide awake. He forced himself to calmness and carefully considered what to do. Fuse? No. It would be impossible to leave fused dynamite in the trail and time the detonation with the absolute precision he needed. Sweat poured down his body, his clothes were sodden with it. It was hard to think. The explosion must be set off from a distance and at the exact moment the ruum was passing over it. But Irwin dared not use a long fuse. The rate of burning was not constant enough. Couldn’t calibrate it perfectly with the ruum’s advance. Jim Irwin’s body sagged all over, his chin sank toward his heaving chest. He jerked his head up, stepped back – and saw the 22 pistol where he had left it in the lean-to. His sunken eyes flashed. Moving with frenetic haste, he took the half-filled case, piled all the remaining percussion caps among the loose sticks in a devil’s mixture. Weaving out to the trail, he carefully placed box and contents directly on his earlier tracks some twenty yards from a rocky ledge. It was a risk – the stuff might go any time but that didn’t matter. He would far rather be blown to rags than end up living but paralysed in the ruum’s outdoor butcher’s stall. The exhausted Irwin had barely hunched down behind the thin ledge of rock before his inexorable pursuer appeared over a slight rise five hundred yards away. Jim scrunched deeper into the hollow, then saw a vertical gap, a narrow crack between rocks. That was it, he thought vaguely. He could sight through the gap at the dynamite and still be shielded from the blast. If it was a shield ... when that half-case blew only twenty yards away... He stretched out on his belly, watching the ruum roll forward ... He aimed at the dynamite. And very calmly, very carefully, Jim Irwin squeezed the trigger of his pistol. Briefly, sound first. Then giant hands lifted his body from where he lay, then let go. He came down hard, face in a patch of nettles, but he was sick, he didn’t care. He remembered that the birds were quiet. Then there was a fluid thump as something massive struck the grass a few yards away. Then there was quiet. Мужик, медведь и лиса Пахал мужик ниву, пришел к нему медведь и говорит ему: – Мужик, я тебя сломаю! – Нет, не замай; я вот сею репу, себе возьму хоть корешки, а тебе отдам вершки. – Быть так, – сказал медведь, – а коли обманешь – так в лес по дрова ко мне хоть не езди! Сказал и ушёл в дуброву. Пришло время: мужик репу копает, а медведь из дубровы вылезает: – Ну, мужик, давай делить! – Ладно, медведюшка! Давай я привезу тебе вершки, – и отвез ему воз ботвы. Медведь остался доволен честным разделом. Вот мужик наклал свою репу на воз и повез в город продавать, а навстречу ему медведь: – Мужик, куда ты едешь? – А вот, медведюшка, еду в город корешки продавать. – Дай-ка попробовать, каков корешок! Мужик дал ему репу. Медведь как съел: – А-а, – заревел, – ты меня обманул, мужик! Корешки твои сладеньки. Теперь не езжай ко мне по дрова, а то задеру! Мужик воротился из города и боится ехать в лес; пожег и полочки, и лавочки, и кадочки, наконец, делать нечего – надо в лес ехать. Въезжает потихонечку; откуда ни возьмись, бежит лисица. – Что ты, мужичок, – спрашивает она, – так тихо бредешь? – Боюсь медведя, сердит на меня, обещал задрать. – Небось, медведя, руби дрова, а я стану порскать; коли спросит медведь: “Что такое?” – скажи: “Ловят волков и медведей”. Мужик принялся рубить; глядь – ан медведь бежит и мужику кричит: – Эй, старик! Что это за крик? Мужик говорит: – Волков ловят да медведей. – Ох, мужичок, положи меня в сани, закидай дровами да увяжи веревкой; авось подумают, что колода лежит. Мужик положил его в сани, увязал веревкою и давай обухом гвоздить его в голову, пока медведь совсем окочурился. Прибежала лиса и говорит: – Где медведь? – А вот, околел! – Ну что ж, мужичок, теперь нужно меня угостить. – Изволь, лисонька! Поедем ко мне, я тебя угощу. Мужик едет, а лиса вперед бежит; стал мужик подъезжать к дому, свистнул своим собакам и притравил лисицу. Лиса пустилась к лесу и юрк в нору; спряталась в норе и спрашивает: – Ох вы, мои глазоньки, что вы смотрели, когда я бежала? – Ох, лисонька, мы смотрели, чтоб ты не спотыкнулась. – А вы, ушки, что делали? – А мы все слушали, далеко ли псы гонят. – А ты, хвост, что делал? – Я-то, – сказал хвост, – все мотался под ногами, чтоб ты запуталась, да упала, да к собакам в зубы попала. – А-а, каналья! Так пусть же тебя собаки едят. И, высунув из норы свой хвост, лиса закричала: – Ешьте, собаки, лисий хвост! Собаки за хвост потащили и лисицу закамшили. Так часто бывает: от хвоста и голова пропадает. Морозко Жили-были дед и баба. У деда была дочка, и у бабы была дочка. Все знают, как за мачехой жить: перевернешься – бита и недовернешься – бита. А родная дочь что ни сделает – за всё гладят по головке: умница. Падчерица и скотину поила-кормила, дрова и воду в избу носила, печь топила, избу мела – ещё до свету... Ничем старухе не угодишь – всё не так, всё худо. Ветер хоть пошумит, да затихнет, а старая баба расходится – не скоро уймётся. Вот мачеха и придумала падчерицу со свету сжить. – Вези, вези её, старик, – говорит мужу, – куда хочешь, чтобы мои глаза её не видали! Вези её в лес, на трескучий мороз. Старик затужил, заплакал, однако делать нечего, бабы не переспоришь. Запряг лошадь: – Садись, мила дочь, в сани. Повёз бездомную в лес, свалил в сугроб под большую ель и уехал. Девушка сидит под елью, дрожит, озноб её пробирает. Вдруг слышит – невдалеке Морозко по ёлкам потрескивает, с ёлки на ёлку поскакивает, пощёлкивает. Очутился на той ели, под которой девица сидит, и сверху её спрашивает: – Тепло ли тебе, девица? Она чуть дух переводит: – Тепло, Морозушко, тепло, батюшка. Морозко стал ниже спускаться, сильнее потрескивает, пощёлкивает: – Тепло ли тебе, девица? Тепло ли тебе, красная? Она чуть дух переводит: – Тепло, Морозушко, тепло, батюшка. Морозко ещё ниже спустился, пуще затрещал, сильнее защёлкал: – Тепло ли тебе, девица? Тепло ли тебе, красная? Тепло ли тебе, лапушка? Девица окостеневать стала, чуть-чуть языком шевелит: – Ой, тепло, голубчик Морозушко! Тут Морозко сжалился над девицей; окутал её теплыми шубами, отогрел пуховыми одеялами. А мачеха по ней поминки справляет, печёт блины и кричит мужу: – Ступай, старый хрыч, вези свою дочь хоронить! Поехал старик в лес, доезжает до того места, – под большою елью сидит его дочь, весёлая, румяная, в собольей шубе, вся в золоте-серебре, а около – короб с богатыми подарками. Старик обрадовался, положил всё добро в сани, посадил дочь, повёз домой. А дома старуха печёт блины, а собачка под столом: – Тяф, тяф! Старикову дочь в злате, в серебре везут, а старухину замуж не берут. Старуха бросит ей блин: – Не так тявкаешь! Говори: “Старухину дочь замуж берут, а стариковой дочери косточки везут...” Собака съест блин и опять: – Тяф, тяф! Старикову дочь в злате, в серебре везут, а старухину замуж не берут. Старуха блины ей кидала и била её, собачка – всё своё... Вдруг заскрипели ворота, отворилась дверь, в избу идёт падчерица – в злате-серебре, так и сияет. А за ней несут короб высокий, тяжёлый. Старуха глянула – и руки врозь... – Запрягай, старый хрыч, другую лошадь! Вези, вези мою дочь в лес на то же место... Старик посадил старухину дочь в сани, повёз её в лес на то же место, вывалил в сугроб под высокой елью и уехал. Старухина дочь сидит, зубами стучит. А Морозко по лесу потрескивает, с ёлки на ёлку поскакивает, пощёлкивает, на старухину дочь поглядывает: – Тепло ли тебе, девица? А она ему: – Ой, студёно! Не скрипи, не трещи, Морозко... Морозко стал ниже спускаться, пуще потрескивать, пощёлкивать: – Тепло ли тебе, девица? Тепло ли тебе, красная? – Ой, руки, ноги отмёрзли! Уйди, Морозко... Ещё ниже спустился Морозко, сильнее приударил, затрещал, защёлкал: – Тепло ли тебе, девица? Тепло ли тебе, красная? – Ой, совсем застудил! Сгинь, пропади, проклятый Морозко! Рассердился Морозко да так хватил, что старухина дочь окостенела. Чуть свет старуха посылает мужа: – Запрягай скорее, старый хрыч, поезжай за дочерью, привези её в злате-серебре... Старик уехал. А собачка под столом: – Тяв, тяв! Старикову дочь женихи возьмут, а старухиной дочери в мешке косточки везут. Старуха кинула ей пирог: – Не так тявкаешь! Скажи: “Старухину дочь в злате-серебре везут...” А собачка – всё своё: – Тяв, тяв! Старухиной дочери в мешке косточки везут... Заскрипели ворота, старуха кинулась встречать дочь. Рогожу отвернула, а дочь лежит в санях мёртвая. Заголосила старуха, да поздно. |
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