Sonja Danowski – Zoltán Sopotnik: The cord that made her sad

Beyond the Seas, International Fairytale Project in Hungary
El Proyecto Internacional de Cuentos Allende Los Mares, Hungría
Translated by Luca Szabó

At the end of Floppy Street, there was a bush. Everyone called it a bush, even the colour dragons, even though they had to have a good reason to call someone or something that. A supernatural and secret reason. The bush was as big as a flat with three rooms; it was a real, unknown plant, whose name nobody could remember – even the person with the best memory forgot it in three minutes. Floppy Street was full of wonders and miracles, but everyone was afraid of it, even Lieutenant-Colonel Feeble, which was surprising, as the clods have already sipped all love out of him. Twice. In this plant-flat there lived a little girl, whose name was Acacia. At least as far as everyone knew. Noone ever saw her enter or leave, but it was a kind of unwritten rule that she lived there. Just like magic blood. Acacia spoke a language that nobody knew; not even the magicians could translate a word of it, yet everybody understood what she was saying when she spoke. She was always kind and all smiles, but at the bottom of her eyes there sat something resembling a cord, and it was sad. It was stretched there, yes, that’s the word. Sometimes it spiralled around her neck like a scarf; on days like that, she didn’t look like a little girl, but like a well-behaved angel, or even a goddess. She had two pets to keep her company; one was a big dog with exciting eyes, the other a green parrot which kept pecking at the green cord around Acacia’s neck. But if this wasn’t strange enough, the dog squawked like a bird, and the parrot barked. It isn’t extraordinary that on one occasion even the stall-keepers of the market in Bump Street fled when she set out to buy shuddering mushrooms. The cord in her eyes or on her neck became thicker. That was the day when the magician Fop wanted to buy spelt sage to cure his migraine; he got really angry. No, he wasn’t angry, he was rather sorry for the girl, and he had a feeling that he had to look into the matter. As he was a magician, he felt the threatening sadness; he could almost see the cord snaking at the side of the road. That evening he called Lieutenant-Colonel Feeble and Amelia the colour dragon to discuss the problem.

Illustration made by Sonja Danowski, german artist

“Isn’t it strange that we don’t even know how long this little girl has been living in the neighbourhood?” asked Fop quite wisely. “Isn’t it strange that we don’t know what language she speaks, but we understand her nonetheless?” he went on.

Anne Pikkov – Mónika Egri: Curse Criers

Beyond the Seas, International Fairytale Project in Hungary
El Proyecto Internacional de Cuentos Allende Los Mares, Hungría
Translation made by Luca Szabó

There’s no way of knowing when the stories about them started. The meadow whispered them, the leaves on the trees murmured them, the sky thundered them, the bell tolled them. All signs were blurry, everyone heard only wafts, or saw only a shadow. But they were all quite sure that there was something in the woods.
At daytime, gloom covered the thousand-year-old, mossed trees, and as night came, whirling fog started to billow from the depths of the cave. It floated silently, slowly, and it drew strange figures in front of the moon.
Most villagers never ventured near the forest, and if they did, they made the sign of the cross, and they put their best foot forward.
“I’m telling you we should chop down all the trees and burn them. Then we would find out what lives in that forest,” said Goodwine, the old woodworker in the tavern.
“Wouldn’t you be sorry for that much nice wood? How many cupboards and beds could be made with it!” the bootmaker joked. He was as afraid as anybody. So much that his thick moustache was shuddering.
“No, I wouldn’t if that’s what it gets us rid of… them,” but he didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he gulped down another strong shot.
“This is a cursed forest, even though they say that in that cave there’s a treasure…”
“Who says that?” the landlady leaned closer. “I don’t know anyone who would have ventured as far as thirty feet from the edge of the forest. And no one has ever set foot in that cave, not since I was born. And I was born a good long time ago, and, believe me, I know everyone in this village. Noone would risk being captured by the curse criers, nor having their life soured.”

Ilustration made by estonian artist, Anne Pikkov

“Hush now, woman,” the landlord scolded his wife. “Don’t you dare to say their name here! This is a sacred spot. The tavern is a sacred spot, just ask anybody. Even the priest buys the wine for the mass from us. It is so, isn’t it, lads?