Mother's Stories

I warned you about Mother telling her stories. I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen. I warned you about the magic of golem and djinn, about lilac walks and mysterious circuses. Stranded mice, abandoned mice, runaway mice, unexceptional princesses, all fodder for the worst sort of daydreaming. I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen. Sisters telling stories in bird language as they browse bookstores in Paris and tapestries of tales told by women who are unicorns invite all sorts of imaginings, nothing practical, all frivolous flights of fancy. I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen. Leave Avalon to lie in the mist, allow the city of chains to fall into the abyss, let wolf-women run through Rome’s seven hills alone. Close your ears to Mother’s stories, cover your eyes so you aren’t ensnared by the magic of gesture. Let the story end, leave the queen encased in crystal and the flower-maiden weeping in underground halls; don’t send the children out to peek under toadstool and fern forests for wee wicked folk. I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen. Tell them no, you’ll not hear the hoofbeats as the horseman stalks the village, rabbits don’t wear watches, mermaids don’t dance, fillies don’t fly. Tell the children no, abandoned princesses don’t wear crowns of stars, maids don’t marry monsters in return for a single rose, they don’t marry the north wind, they don’t spin dynasties on outlawed spinning wheels. I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen. See what comes of Mother’s stories: the children run wild through the wood seeking musical menageries, they wade into seaside caves singing for selkies. They ask for tales told by orphaned princesses hiding in palace gardens and songs sung by shieldmaidens. They want stories of women made of glass and sagas sung by lionesses, princesses who save miners’ sons and princesses who save themselves. I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen. No good will come of Mother’s stories, I said, and now all is topsy-turvy and the children have run off to the goblin market.