It is not my fairy tale, by the way. It was written by someone else.
My business is small: to invent a storyteller, which suddenly has taken and come to me as a guest to tell the story. As for me, I am just sitting in the corner, listening and summarizing on the gland as it is used to do among us, the writers.
But, to tell the truth, I am not so great foreman to think out storytellers. But my guest also does not hurry to execute his duty. He frowns, scratches his nape, demands for the tea, coffee and cognac. While I finish bringing water up to a stage of boiling known for the tea enthusiasts under the name of "a White key" and look over the first aid set searching for a poison, my storyteller is coming up with the ideas. Does he recollect or hastily compose ? who knows?
It is unenviable for him to rule the situation: he has run into debt a fairy tale to me, very long ago, in the nick of time when both of us has not been even born. Well, the time to give back the duty has come, it is impossible to postpone and poor fellow frowns. He does not know the way out.
I take pity upon imaginary but nevertheless still alive essence and prompt:
- Very long ago?
- Ah, yeah, - he quickens. ? It is valid. Really so.
Well, the business went, it seems.
Very long ago, in immemorial times, in some undercover place the young and kind-hearted man lived. He was an alchemist?s apprentice on a trade and Rescuer of Mankind on a calling.
Well, that young man was really very good. He went to a service at night, where he industriously pounded basilisk?s nails, milled gangrenous extremities and collected bats? excrement with the help of special dustpan ? usual everyday life of the ordinary alchemist?s apprentice, routine and mortal boredom. But on dawn, falling asleep in the small room, young man dreamed that he would grow up, invent an elixir of immortality and make the mankind happy and everything would be cool.
There is nothing to say that the dreams that he dreamed after such reflections were mostly soulful.
Once the young man has received a day off and went to the picnic. And on the road he has helped (completely casual, as it was accepted among the fantastic heroes) to a decrepit old lady to cross the rough river. And that grandmother was not some ordinary local Miss Marple but whether goddess Amaterasou, whether Athens Palladium, whether insufficiently known Shiva or simply the god of the above mentioned river ? in short, she was an all-powerful essence.
According to the laws of genre the grateful lady ordered the young man to state any desire and it would be executed urgently. The young man required without thinking the recipe of the happiness and immortality elixir. Íå said he could not live without making the mankind happy and immortal. That?s it.
The deity has surrendered not at once. She tried to bring the young man to reason. She explained, supporting her arguments with not less divine gestures. In short, you would not keep it in your hands, you would not manage to distribute it between all the requiring men equally, you would not persuade them to try your elixir. Hey, guy, you would rather better work with your own skills! There were very many other interesting things in the world!
All without sense: the young man was really tough. And as it is found, the deity was compelled to execute the promise. Well, she said, go home and undertake your job. And remember: any structure you prepare will be required as the elixir. Everybody who tries it will find immortality or even probably happiness ? the alchemist?s apprentice did not believe his ears? Will any structure have such properties? Is it not necessary to know any confidential formulas? No, it is not necessary.
The grateful deity has risen where it was necessary having assured her vis-à-vis in absolute respect. And the young man spitted upon the picnic and went back home. All night he prepared the magic herb ? much, so that it was enough for everybody and nobody was offended. The next day he was, certainly, killed?
The storyteller stops on this place. I clap my eyes, I do not understand, what?s the matter? I ask:
- Why was he killed? What?s the reason? Have the competing pharmaceutical firms tried their best?
The storyteller sighs. Well, everything should be chewed for me. Alas, it is so. It is necessary.
- Well, understand me, - the invented visitor speaks, - this boy was the alchemist?s apprentice. His vital experience testified that it was not possible to mix any acceptable herb without mortuary pus, kikimora?s tears and snake?s sweat. He worked all night long, threw different filth into the boiler. He was brought up in such a tradition. He decided: more awful ? more effective. Nobody can spoil the porridge with the butter, you know?
The grateful deity has constrained the promise: the received herb was a valid elixir of immortality and happiness. But it looked so filthy and stank so that all the inhabitants of ten nearest settlements locked themselves in cellars having left their farms without supervision. It was clear, that the people, to which the young man began to offer his wonderful elixir, ran from it as from a plaque. If the potential rescuer of mankind insisted on, they beat him. And when he tried to add his elixir to the drink of some drunk knight, he cut him with either pole-axe or machete or even cavalry sword. It is possible to understand that knight, really?
The storyteller continues, having wiped uninvited tear:
- I do not even say that this poor boy did not guess to mix morning dew and honey with the petals of the mountain edelweiss. No ? and it is not necessary. But you see, he could simply? Well, I do not know, he could cook a compote?
- I suppose, he could not cook the compote?
- That?s it, - the storyteller. ? He could not learn how to cook the compote and then decided to rescue the mankind.
The minute of silence. The ashes of the innocently killed batfish knocks on my heart.
The fairy tale was finished on it; the invented story teller has turned into the pieces of a morning fog even without tasting a water hemlock. From myself I should add that everything is really incorrectly arranged among the people. The elixirs of immortality eternally appear bitter and stinking and the compotes give only oral pleasure and no rescue of the soul.
And we, the inhabitants of iota and lambda, are extremely indignant by such circumstance and, probably, shall sometimes complain.
The author: Max Frei "Fairy tales and histories"
