Richard Baron

Fairy stories.

Recently there was an article in one of the leading newspapers citing that fairy stories were too scary for children. The wolves, witches, and woodsmen found within these tales regarded as being not only terrifying, but overtly sexual; the themes to adult, the violence to real. Now, I don’t know what fairy tales they are reading their kids but I don’t seem to recall the big bad wolf banging away at little red riding hood or the woodsman revving up his chainsaw to indulge in an orgiastic bloodlust. Perhaps, I would have enjoyed them more if they had, but let’s stick to the status quo for now.

Of course there are sexual undertones to a lot of fairy stories, the tale mentioned above being full of them, but do you really think a child of five is going to get these underlying themes? If you have a young child who stops you half way through reading them a bedtime story to ask ‘Mummy, do you think that’s a metaphor for cunnilingus?’’ then it’s not the story you should be worrying about but your parenting skills. The same goes for violence. Yes, in the wonderful Grimm’s tales there’s a lot of beheadings, people burnt alive and all manner of inventive deaths but I don’t think a child will go to bed imagining the tearing of flesh or rivers of blood. I would think they go to bed happy that the princess was rescued and good triumphed over evil.

Of course, I can only go by my own experience. My sister and I were read to every night (Bless my father for this) and in those tales we encountered the entire spectrum of ghoulishness. Did we wake up screaming every night? Nope, we slept through and the next day asked for more. I also think had my father thrown the fairy books away and began reading something without the virtues of terror, my sister and I would have gotten bored very quickly and turned on the TV. Thank God that didn’t happen. Those tales were the seeds from which our hunger for books began, our eagerness to read flowered, and our passion for language grew.  And that surely, even if we had of woke up screaming, would have been worth a few sleepless nights.

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The mention of this reminds me of an encounter I had as a young boy. My memory of the following events is a little hazy with the passing of time, but the effect it had on me is as clear to me now as it was when I was seven years old. So let us for a moment turn the clock back, peel back the years and arrive at a circus situated by the English sea-side of Great Yarmouth.

It’s a grey afternoon; the drizzle that began earlier that morning has made good its promise of rain and is now slickening pavements and chasing the unwary to café’s in search of a hot drink to warm their hands. Sea-gulls circle over head in search of discarded chip wrappers, squawking angrily at the lack of pickings and as the wind picks up from the north sea, the lamps that line the sea-front spring into life in a futile attempt to make the walkways seem more inviting to those looking out from behind rain splattered windows. The majority are wise though. They shut their curtains against the cold and fall back to their comfy chairs by the fire, but not before they notice a small boy standing in the rain, his hair flat upon his head, the duffel coat he wears two sizes to big dwarfing his frame. They watch for a moment, wondering what the youth is doing, then the rain seizures the glass of their window once more and dampens their curiosity. The boy must be a fool, standing out there in the cold.
… the cold. The boy doesn’t feel it. So entranced is he by the image of the big top with its towering canvas and spider-web ropes that he is oblivious to the elements, lost in his own thoughts, and having wandered off as children do… lost to his parents also.

He walks forward, off the pavement now and onto grass upon which the towering structure sits, his eyes looking up to the flag which is being buffeted by the cold wind, it’s black and red design unfamiliar to him.
‘’It represents the people of Kebart’’
The boy turns to see who the one who spoke.  A thin wisp of a man is standing at the big tops entrance dressed in a floral jacket and orange trousers. It’s a strange combination, in fact, he can’t ever recall seeing such ridiculous attire. ‘’I’m sorry’
‘’The flag. It’s called the d’Jyre’’
‘’Oh, I see.’’ Though, if he was being honest, he didn’t see at all.
The man laughs, it’s a sound that’s almost musical, more in keeping with a woman’s voice than a mans. ‘’It doesn’t matter. The tribes are mostly forgotten now; and those of us who are left are becoming forgetful. The world does that to you know. People have no need of us, not when science can put a man on the moon and beam images and sounds across the air like… so much magic. Ah, but where are my manners. With a theatrical flourish the man bows and curves the air with his hand ‘’Palwon Kerpechsky, conjurer, juggler and of course… magician, at your service. ‘’ He looks up from his crouching position and raises eyebrows so long they threaten to escape the confines of his face. ‘’And…’’
‘’And?’’
‘’My dear boy, it’s still customary is it not to precipitate is it not?’’
‘’Recipt..tee…’’
‘’Your name dear boy, your name’’
‘’Richard’’
‘’Pleased to make your acquaintance …Richard. Now may I be so bold as to ask what exactly are you doing standing in the rain?’’
‘’I’m not sure, I was just-‘’
‘’Just looking. Asking what wonders reside in such a place and hoping that with luck you may find out. Well, it looks as though luck is smiling upon you. Time for answers and of course… wonders’’
What was it the boy’s parents said ‘never talk to strangers’?
‘’I really should be going.’’ The boy looks back along the sea front only to find it empty. Had he wandered so far? ‘’My parents will be worried’’
‘’Ah, of course. But perhaps if not a tour, a sample. Think of a colour’’
The boy is still scanning the rain, searching for movement in the grey. ‘’A what?’’
‘’A colour dear boy. And let’s make it more difficult. An object too. Anything you like. A tea pot, ladder, a bicycle. Think hard and concentrate’’
The boy turns to look at the man once more. The man isn’t much taller than he, not the most imposing figure. Nothing like what the magicians on the television looked like with their top hats, white gloves and pretty assistants. The man before him looked as though he had fell into an oil puddle and been painted by its colors. Magic: hardly.
‘’Come on… think’’
What harm would it do? The boy sighted on the big tops entrance, its dark folds… black. And ropes, each leading from ground to canopy in a criss-cross that defied logic.
‘’Ok, I have something,’’
‘’No no no. To easy. I can see what you’re looking at, what you’re thinking. Try harder. Imagine.’’
The boy huffs then moves his eyes searching for something else. Railings, sky, crisp packets, birds. All too easy. Think. And then it comes to him. Snowflakes. And purple. Purple snowflakes. Let’s see how he likes that.
The magician Kerpechsky sees the boy smile and knows he now has to prove his worth. He closes his eyes and slows his breath, clears his mind and slowly raises his hand, reaching out to grasp the boy’s thoughts.
‘’Well?’’, the boy asks.
‘’Patience’’
The boy watches as the magicians face contorts with concentration, the thin hand trembling in the air. Snowflakes: the boy wills the image wanting it to pass through the air. Purple snowflakes. Purple snowflakes. Purple snowflakes. The magician’s arm is shaking now, trying hard to catch the boy’s thoughts.
‘’Matches. Orange matches’’
The magician lowers his hand and beams that huge smile again. ‘’Orange matches my boy’’
‘’No’’
‘’No. What do you mean no?’’
‘’It wasn’t orange matches’’. The boy laughs.
‘’Are you sure?’’
‘’Yes, quite sure. You’re not much of a magician are you?’’ The boy asks it in good humor feeling the man before him has played a harmless joke on him. The man Kerpechsky smiles back.
‘’It must be the rain. Interferes with the thought patterns’’
‘’Must be.’’
Another smile.
‘’Tell you what. Here-‘’, the would be magician reaches down into the folds of his coat and produces three pieces of card. ‘’Bring your parents along with you to the show tomorrow. The rain may have cleared by then, so who knows. You may yet see some real magic.’’
The boy looks apprehensive. The folds of the tent in which the man is standing look so dark. So uninviting now.
‘’Here, take them’’
A voice calls in the distance. It’s one the boy recognizes for it his name that carries through the rain. He turns to see a figure moving closer. A woman, her hand up in a futile attempt to stem the downpour, his coat buffeting in the wind. The boy sensing the nearing safety of his mother darts forward and grabs the ticket before quickly turning and running from the looming tent.
‘’Where have you been? You’re soaked. I’ve been worried sick’’
‘’I got tickets for the circus mum. The magician gave me them’’
‘’Magician? What magician?’’
‘’Him’’. The boy turns but the man has gone. The folds of the tent closed.

Minutes seem like hours when a child is waiting for something, hours like days. The next day the rain had moved to a different town and the sky, though not yet blue, did allow the sun to be seen, even if it did appear to be a grey white ball. The boy watched its slow movement willing it to move faster, but the sun was in no more hurry than the clock that ticked behind him, it’s passing seconds achingly slow. He moved back to his bed, dislodging an accumulation of comics, their black and white interiors spilling onto the carpet, and laying his head closed his eyes to think about the circus. Would there be lions? Elephants? The tent certainly looked big enough to house all manner of animals. His thoughts suddenly moved to a memory of himself watching King Kong on the television with his parents. Maybe they have a huge gorilla.

The evening did of course come… eventually.

The boy is holding his mother’s hand though he feels he is a little too old to be doing so. He is told it’s because there are lots of people around and he may get lost, he suspects it’s more to do with the fact his mother forgot her gloves and is using him to keep her hands warm. His father, also by his side, is wearing thick woolen ones. His father it seems is more organized. The boy’s thankful that it’s he who has the tickets. The three of them stand in a throng of people slowly moving towards the huge tent, the top of which obscures the now setting sun, its highest point threatening to pierce the sky. It looks to the boy, bigger and more imposing than when he saw it the day before. Perhaps, he thinks, it grew having taken sustenance from the rain. They move closer and the boy’s father hands three tickets to an attractive young woman at the tents entrance. A few words are exchanged and the woman laughs, the boy’s mother scowls at her husband who in turn looks down at his son and winks. It is a gesture that is lost on him. And then together they move inside.

The boy can’t remember ever seeing so many people. They stretch round the vast interior in rows of seats each a dozen deep, head upon head, a continuous flow that circles the big tops centre, all with eyes large in expectation. The boy and his parents find their seats, two rows from the front. It gives them a level view of the circus ring; its surface layered with sawdust and discarded flyers. The boy waits with expectation. The lights dim, darkness gathers momentarily only to be broken once more by a spotlight, its glow presenting a tall man dressed in a red jacket, black trousers and top hat.
‘’Ladies and gentleman.’’, the tall man announces, ‘’Welcome to the show. I am Mr. Relanus. And this is my circus.’’ There’s a cheer and the sound of clapping. The show begins.

There were no lions, tigers or elephants or giant gorillas, but there were monkeys dressed in jackets that juggled. Knife throwers, trapeze artists (the boy’s father enjoyed the spectacle of the leggy gymnast a little too much judging by his mothers frownl) and of course clowns, their painted faces bringing forth more scares than laughs from the children.  But it was the magician the boy waited for. Not because he was certain the man would put on a good show (if his display of power yesterday was anything to go by, it would be poor) but because in their brief meeting he had felt a sort of kinship pass between them. An understanding that though the world may not play host to magic, the idea it might was enough. As it was, the magician was the last to appear. At first the boy didn’t recognize him. Gone were the bright trousers and floral jacket, this time replaced by the more traditional magician’s attire of black trousers and jacket with tails. It made him look a little taller than the boy remembered, but was that platforms he spied upon the bottom of the man’s shoes?
‘’Palwon Kerpechsky, master magician at your service. And I welcome you to my world of magic’’
Well, it wasn’t exactly a world, but there were tricks and illusions abound. The crowd gasping as Kerpechsky appeared to levitate (all done with wires the boy’s father told him), and oohing as he reached into a small box only to pull out number upon number of white doves. Act upon act of wonderment and tricks or not, it was obvious he was the star of the show. Not bad for a funny little man the boy thought. The lights dimmed once again as the show reached its conclusion and Kerpechsky , cast now in a soft spot light addressed the audience.
‘’Now, for my final act, I ask you all to be quiet. I need no distraction as I call upon all my powers as I summon the very air to do my bidding… please be silent and observe’’

A hush flowed from the rows of people, each leaning forward slightly having been so entranced by the magician. All watching with expectation as the small man in the centre of the ring played to them.
‘’Quiet’’ he said again. ‘’Quiet’’
The crowd watched as the man closed his eyes, moved his head back upon his neck and raised his arms, fingers outstretched.
‘’What’s he doing’’ someone asked.
‘Shush’ replied another.
The boy like many others he suspected, held his breath, afraid the sound of air escaping his lips would break the silence and in turn destroy whatever was about to take place.

A moment passed.

Another. The boy’s heartbeat sounded loudly in his ears, he urged it to still. Not yet, stop, just for a moment, just until the trick is complete.
And then it began.
Slowly at first. The boy felt something on his hand. An ever so slight cold touch. He looked down but could see nothing in the gloom of the tent and discarded it as a breeze or Goosebumps. But then it came again this time upon his nose and then yet again once more upon his hand. He looked up and could just make out something falling from the tents canopy. Was it leaking? Others now were also becoming aware of it, face upon face looking up at the dark canopy overhead, each seeking some explanation for the cold feather-like drops falling to their skin.
And then the lights came on.
‘’My God’’ the boy heard his father say.
Snowflakes were falling. Thousands, millions perhaps. Each tumbling softly downwards to the crowd below.
‘’It’s not possible’’ the boy heard someone say. Perhaps it was his mother. Whoever it was the boy knew they only grasped half of the magic at work here. For those who took time to look closely would have noticed that the snowflakes were not white, but purple.
The boy looked back over at the man standing in the centre of the ring. Kerpechsky still had his head raised but sensing the boys gaze now returned to meet his eyes and smiled. ‘Tricks…’ that smile told the boy ‘… and illusions are easy. But magic… now that takes a little time.’
—————————————————————————————————
I never saw or heard of the magician again, though I did recently look for him online when the idea of writing this occurred to me. My mother and father told me it was a trick done with a see through bag filled with confetti placed above the audience; though I could see by their faces they knew what they told me wasn’t true. I suppose being adults they tried to find a scientific explanation where there was none, and to this day they still stand by that it was a trick. I have noticed though that whenever it snows my father shudders a little.

And he no longer can stand the color purple.