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Long ago, Frith made the world. He made all the
stars, too, and the world is one of the stars. He made them by
scattering his droppings over the sky and this is why the grass and
the trees grow so thick on the world. Frith makes the rivers flow.
They follow him as he goes through the sky, and when he leaves the
sky they look for him all night. Frith made all the animals and
birds, but when he first made them they were all the same. The
sparrow and the kestrel were friends and they both ate seeds and
flies. And the fox and the rabbit were friends and they both ate
grass. And there was plenty of grass and plenty of flies, because
the world was new and Frith shone down bright and warm all day.
Or that he is betrayed?
I'd have him love the thing that was
Before the world was made.
--W.B. Yeats, A Woman Young and Old
Now, El-ahrairah was among the animals in those
days and he had many wives. He had so many wives that there was no
counting them, and the wives had so many young that even Frith could
not count them, and they ate the grass and the dandelions and the
lettuces and the clover, and El-ahrairah was the father of them all.
And after a time the grass began to grow thin and the rabbits
wandered everywhere, multiplying and eating as they went.
Then Frith said to El-ahrairah, 'Prince Rabbit, if
you cannot control your people, I shall find ways to control them.
So mark what I say.' But El-ahrairah would not listen and he said to
Frith, 'My people are the strongest in the world, for they breed
faster and eat more than any of the other people. And this shows how
much they love Lord Frith, for of all the animals they are the most
responsive to his warmth and brightness. You must realize, my lord,
how important they are and not hinder them in their beautiful lives.'
Frith could have killed El-ahrairah at once, but he
had a mind to keep him in the world, because he needed him to sport
and jest and play tricks. So he determined to get the better of him,
not by means of his own great power but by means of a trick. He gave
out that he would hold a great meeting and that at that meeting he
would give a present to every animal and bird, to make each one
different from the rest. And all the creatures set out to go to the
meeting place. But they all arrived at different times, because Frith
made sure that it would happen so. And when the blackbird came, he
gave him his beautiful song, and when the cow came, he gave her sharp
horns and the strength to be afraid of no other creature. And so in
their turn came the fox and the stoat and the weasel. And to each of
them Frith gave the cunning and the fierceness and the desire to hunt
and slay and eat the children of El-ahrairah. And so they went away
from Frith full of nothing but hunger to kill the rabbits.
Now, all this time El-ahrairah was dancing and
mating and boasting that he was going to Frith's meeting to receive a
great gift. And at last he set out for the meeting place. But as he
was going there, he stopped to rest on a soft, sandy hillside. And
while he was resting, over the hill came flying the dark swift,
screaming as he went, 'News! News! News!' For you know, this is what
he has said ever since that day. So El-ahrairah called up to him and
said, 'What news?' 'Why,' said the swift, 'I would not be you,
El-ahrairah. For Frith has given the fox and the weasel cunning
hearts and sharp teeth, and to the cat he has given silent feet and
eyes that can see in the dark, and they are gone away from Frith's
place to kill and devour all that belongs to El-ahrairah.' And he
dashed on over the hills. And at that moment El-ahrairah heard the
voice of Frith calling, 'Where is El-ahrairah? For all the others
have taken their gifts and gone and I have come to look for him.'
Then El-ahrairah knew that Frith was too clever for
him and he was frightened. He thought that the fox and the weasel
were coming with Frith and he turned to the face of the hill and
begin to dig. He dug a hole, but he had dug only a little of it when
Frith came over the hill alone. And he saw El-ahrairah's bottom
sticking out of the hole and the sand flying out in showers as the
digging went on. When he saw that, he called out, 'My friend, have
you seen El-ahrairah, for I am looking for him to give him my gift?'
'No,' answered El-ahrairah, without coming out, 'I have not seen him.
He is far away. He could not come.' So Frith said, 'Then come out of
that hole and I will bless you instead of him.' 'No, I cannot,' said
El-ahrairah, 'I am busy. The fox and the weasel are coming. If you
want to bless me you can bless my bottom, for it is sticking out of
the hole.'
Then Frith felt himself in friendship with
El-ahrairah, who would not give up even when he thought the fox and
the weasel were coming. And he said, 'Very well, I will bless your
bottom as it sticks out of the hole. Bottom, be strength and warning
and speed forever and save the life of your master. Be it so!' And
as he spoke, El-ahrairah's tail grew shining white and flashed like
a star; and his back legs grew long and powerful and he thumped the
hillside until the very beetles fell off the grass stems. He came
out of the hole and tore across the hill faster than any creature
in the world. And Frith called after him, 'El-ahrairah, your people
cannot rule the world, for I will not have it so. All the world will
be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they
catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you, digger,
listener, runner, prince with the swift warning. Be cunning and full
of tricks and your people shall never be destroyed.' And El-ahrairah
knew then that although he would not be mocked, Frith was his friend.
And every evening, when Frith has done his day's work and lies calm
and easy in the red sky, El-ahrairah and his children and his
children's children come out of their holes and feed and play in his
sight, for they are his friends and he has promised them that they
can never be destroyed.
The world is holy. Nature is holy. The body is holy. Sexuality
is holy. The mind is holy. The imagination is holy. You are holy. A
spiritual path that is not stagnant ultimately leads one to the
understanding of one's own divine nature. Thou art Goddess. Thou art
God. Divinity is imminent in all Nature. It is as much within you as
without.
If you go far enough back, all our ancestors practiced
religions that had neither creeds nor dogmas, neither prophets nor
holy books. These religions were based on the celebrations of the
seasonal cycles of nature. They were based on what people did, as
opposed to what people believed. It is these polytheistic religions
of imminence that are being revived and re-creatred by Neo-Pagans
today. This book is the story of that Pagan resurgence.
It is easy for strangers to Witchcraft, feminist
spirituality, and Paganism to get sidetracked by odd words and
customs and to think that a book like this is really about "cults" and
"odd sects." If this had ever been the book's main subject, it might
well not be in print today, for cults and sects come and go.
The real message of Drawing Down the Moon is that
the spiritual world is like the natural world--only diversity will
save it. Just as the health of a forest or fragrant meadow can be
measured by the number of different insects and plants and creatures
that successfully make it their home, so only by an extraordinary
abundance of disparate spiritual and philosophic paths will human
beings navigate a pathway through the dark and swirling storms that
mark our current era. "Not by one avenue alone," wrote Symmachus
sixteen centuries ago, "can we arrive at so tremendous a secret."
The dominant spiritual trend of the 1980s is militant
fundamentalism worldwide. Children in Iran are sent to die as
martyrs in Iraq; Christians in America throw textbooks in the
flames; Sikhs war in the Punjab; and in Israel Jewish fundamentalists
continue to destroy the hopes of Israeli and Arab peace activists.
When Drawing Down the Moon was published, the Iranian
revolution was still new, Ronald Reagan had not entered the White
House, and "detente" was still a word in common usage.
The fundamentalist impulse--coupled with the inevitable
rise of apocalyptic millenialism as we approach the year 2000--is,
along with nuclear war, the most dangerous peril facing the human
race. Most fundamentalists, whatever the name of their religion or
country, are at war with the diversity of life and ideas. Like
corporations that reduce Latin American countries to poverty by
turning all acreage to sugar, the belief that there is one word,
one truth, one path to the light, makes it easy to destroy ideas,
institutions, and human beings. As the historian James Breasted
wrote almost seventy-five years ago, "Monotheism is but imperialism
in religion."
Perhaps most dangerous, most fundamentalists do not
believe this world, this earth, these bodies we inhabit are holy.
Since they see this world as sinful and this time as evil, they seek
a world that comes after. Several hundred years ago, the Inquisitors
felt they were acting with the greatest human kindness when they
tortured, burned, and hanged those they called "Witches" in order
that their souls might be saved. They are not so different from
their descendents in the 980s who wistfully yearn for salvation,
even if it takes the form of nuclear war.
Drawing Down the Moon espouses radical polytheism.
It is grounded in the view that reality is multiple and diverse. It
stands against all of the totalistic religious and political views
that dominate our society. It says, "Strive to be comfortable in
chaos and complexity. Be as a Shaman who walks in many worlds. Try to
feel strong and whole and at home in a world of diversity." The
book's basic assumption is that your own spiritual path is not
necessarily mine. In fact, Islamic and Christian fundamentalism are
seen here as appropriate individual spiritual paths as long as
each is seen as merely one flower in the garden. Polytheism always
includes monotheism. The reverse is not true.
The book focuses on modern Neo-Paganism and Witchcraft
because these religions turn out to be a surprising and amazing
attempt by Westerners in the heart of our industrial society to
create non-authoritarian and non-dogmatic religions. There are many
anti-authoritarian religious groups from liberal Christians to
Unitarians. What's unusual about modern Pagans is that they remain
anti-authoritarian while retaining rituals and ecstatic techniques
that, in our culture, are used only by dogmatic religions or are the
province of small and forgotten tribal groups.
While Neo-Paganism and modern Wicca are very anarchistic
religions and it is probably wrong to say all Pagans believe this or
that, there are some basic beliefs that most people in this book
share:
In our culture which has for so long denied and
denigrated the feminine as negative, evil or, at best, small and
unimportant, women (and men too) will never understand their own
creative strength and divine nature until they embrace the creative
feminine, the source of inspiration, the Goddess within.
While one can at times be cut off from experiencing the
deep and ever-present connection between oneself and the universe,
there is no such thing as sin (unless it is simply defined as that
estrangement) and guilt is never very useful.
The energy you put into the world comes back.
This book is the only detailed history of the origins of
Neo-Paganism in the United States. In preparing this new edition,
there was a constant tension between keeping the book as a piece of
history and the desire to bring people up to date. Many people wrote
to me requesting that there be additions instead of changes.
Moreover, there was no time for a truly massive reconstruction of
a book that took more than four years to write. In the end, I took a
middle course---leaving most of the book intact, adding several new
sections, making small changes here and there, and creating an
extensive Resource Guide to Pagan groups, festivals, and journals.
There are new sections on Norse Paganism and men's
sprirituality as well as a new section on Pagan festivals and their
extraordinary impact on creating a national Pagan subculture. There
is also new data compiled from a survey in 1985. There are some
new developments in the history of Gardnerian Wicca in light of
writings by Stuart Farrar and Dorreen Valiente. The Resource Guide
reflects the extraordinary expansion of groups and newsletters.
There are now more than one hundred Pagan periodicals worldwide,
and more than fifty regional and national Pagan festivals in the
United States, Australia, and Canada.
While there are more Pagan and Wiccan organizations
in the United States and Europe today than ten years ago, some of
the groups described in detail in this book no longer exist, or
no longer participate in the broader Neo-Pagan community. It is
important to remember that many of these organizations set the
terms of the Neo-Pagan religious critique. They originated or
developed key concepts that play an important role in creating
a modern Pagan viewpoint--concepts like the difference between
a tribal and a credal religion, between a religion of imminence
and one of transcendence, between a polytheistic and a
monotheistic outlook, between religions based on words and
religions based on experieicne.
Finally, remember, no one converts to
Paganism or Wicca. You will find no one handing you Pagan
leaflets on the street or shouting at you from a corner. Many
people came across this book, or The Spiral Dance (or
any of a number of related books), in some isolated corner of
America or the world. Often they found it in a small-town
library, or in a used bookstore, or stashed away on a friend's
bookshelf. Upon opening its pages, perhaps they said, "I
never knew there was anyone else in the world who felt what I
feel or believed what I have always believed. I never knew my
religion had a name." To these people, this edition is dedicated.
Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.
Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.
But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.
"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"
"Not really."
"Your favorite type, then?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her on the street."
She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.
After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How can I approach her? What should I say?
"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"
Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.
We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.
I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.
Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.
Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.
"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.
As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?
And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.
The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.
One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.
They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.
Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fourteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don't you think?
Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.
He was very much admired indeed. `He is as beautiful as a weathercock,' remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; `only not quite so useful,' he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.
`Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?' asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. `The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.'
`I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy,' muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.
`He looks just like an angel,' said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks, and their clean white pinafores.
`How do you know?' said the Mathematical Master, `you have never seen one.'
`Ah! but we have, in our dreams,' answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.
One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.
`Shall I love you?' said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.
`It is a ridiculous attachment,' twittered the other Swallows, `she has no money, and far too many relations;' and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came, they all flew away.
After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love. `She has no conversation,' he said, `and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.' And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtsies. `I admit that she is domestic,' he continued, `but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also.'
`Will you come away with me?' he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.
`You have been trifling with me,' he cried, `I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!' and he flew away.
All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. `Where shall I put up?' he said; `I hope the town has made preparations.'
Then he saw the statue on the tall column. `I will put up there,' he cried; `it is a fine position with plenty of fresh air.' So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.
`I have a golden bedroom,' he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. `What a curious thing!' he cried, `there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness.'
Then another drop fell.
`What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?' he said; `I must look for a good chimney-pot,' and he determined to fly away.
But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw - Ah! what did he see?
The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.
`Who are you?' he said.
`I am the Happy Prince.'
`Why are you weeping then?' asked the Swallow; `you have quite drenched me.'
`When I was alive and had a human heart,' answered the statue, `I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot choose but weep.'
`What, is he not solid gold?' said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.
`Far away,' continued the statue in a low musical voice, `far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move.'
`I am waited for in Egypt,' said the Swallow. `My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.'
`Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, `will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad.'
`I don't think I like boys,' answered the Swallow. `Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect.'
But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. `It is very cold here,' he said; `but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger.'
`Thank you, little Swallow,' said the Prince.
So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.
He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. `How wonderful the stars are,' he said to her, and how wonderful is the power of love!'
`I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball,' she answered; `I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy.'
He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his wings. `How cool I feel,' said the boy, `I must be getting better;' and he sank into a delicious slumber.
Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done. `It is curious,' he remarked, `but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold.'
`That is because you have done a good action,' said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy.
When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. `What a remarkable phenomenon,' said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. `A swallow in winter!' And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand.
`To-night I go to Egypt,' said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, `What a distinguished stranger!' so he enjoyed himself very much.
When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. `Have you any commissions for Egypt?' he cried; `I am just starting.'
`Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, `will you not stay with me one night longer?'
`I am waited for in Egypt,' answered the Swallow. `To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.'
`Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the prince, `far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint.'
`I will wait with you one night longer,' said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. `Shall I take him another ruby?'
`Alas! I have no ruby now,' said the Prince; `my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play.'
`Dear Prince,' said the Swallow, `I cannot do that;' and he began to weep.
`Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, `do as I command you.'
So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.
`I am beginning to be appreciated,' he cried; `this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play,' and he looked quite happy.
The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. `Heave a-hoy!' they shouted as each chest came up. `I am going to Egypt!' cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.
`I am come to bid you good-bye,' he cried.
`Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, `will you not stay with me one night longer?'
`It is winter,' answered the Swallow, `and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea.'
`In the square below,' said the Happy Prince, `there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her.'
`I will stay with you one night longer,' said the Swallow, `but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then.'
`Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, `do as I command you.'
So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. `What a lovely bit of glass,' cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing.
Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. `You are blind now,' he said, `so I will stay with you always.'
`No, little Swallow,' said the poor Prince, `you must go away to Egypt.'
`I will stay with you always,' said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince's feet.
All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.
`Dear little Swallow,' said the Prince, `you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there.'
So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another's arms to try and keep themselves warm. `How hungry we are!' they said. `You must not lie here,' shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.
Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.
`I am covered with fine gold,' said the Prince, `you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy.'
Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. `We have bread now!' they cried.
Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.
The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker's door where the baker was not looking, and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings.
But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more. `Good-bye, dear Prince!' he murmured, `will you let me kiss your hand?'
`I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,' said the Prince, `you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.'
`It is not to Egypt that I am going,' said the Swallow. `I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?'
And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.
At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost. Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: `Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!' he said.
`How shabby indeed!' cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with the Mayor, and they went up to look at it.
`The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer,' said the Mayor; `in fact, he is little better than a beggar!'
`Little better than a beggar' said the Town councillors.
`And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!' continued the Mayor. `We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here.' And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.
So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. `As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful,' said the Art Professor at the University.
Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. `We must have another statue, of course,' he said, `and it shall be a statue of myself.'
`Of myself,' said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.
`What a strange thing!' said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. `This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away.' So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying.
`Bring me the two most precious things in the city,' said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.
`You have rightly chosen,' said God, `for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me.'
Most of the jobs advertised these days insist on a non-sleeper. Sleeping is dirty, unhygienic, wasteful, and disrespectful to others. All public spaces are designated "Non-Sleeping," and even a quick nap on a park bench carries a fifty-pound fine. You can still sleep in your own home, but all new beds are required by law to have a personal alarm clock built into the mattress. If you get caught on a bed check with a dead alarm, that's another fifty-pound fine. Three fines and you are disqualified from sleeping for a year.
I am not rich but my sister is. She works for a German giant called Fafner UK. Their business is other people's money and the more they have the more they want. My sister was one of the first to give up sleep for the sake of her career. She works a twenty-hour day in two time zones. She worries about me.
This morning, I decided to go to the park and feed the rubber ducks. The real ducks died, because so many people were feeding them in the new twenty-four-hour working day that not a drake nor a duck had a moment to itself. Some sank under the weight of soggy bread, others exploded.
I go to the sleep bar at the week-ends. It's called Morpheus's Cave. It's dark, silent, racked with beds and open arms. I was hoping to find a girlfriend there, groping round with a flashlight, looking for a nice face. The trouble is, it's difficult to know how we'd get on when she is awake.
And so it was morning and I went to buy the paper. I came back to my flat and went into the kitchen to make coffee. I took a cup to the bedroom and that was when I discovered that the bedroom was no longer there.
by Oscar Wilde
by Jeanette Winterson (from The World and Other Places)
After three months they decided to go on a quest.
'What shall we seek?' they asked each other.
The first said 'Gold.'
The second said 'Wives'.
The third said 'That which cannot be found'.
They all agreed that this last was best and so they set off in fine array.
After awhile they came to a house that celebrated ceilings and denied floors. As they marched through the front door they were only just in time to save themselves from dropping into a deep pit. While they clung in terror to the wainscotting, they looked up and saw chandeliers, bright as swords, that hung and glittered and lit the huge room where the guests came to and fro. The room was arranged for dinner, tables and chairs suspended from great chains. An armoury of knives and forks laid out in case the eaters knocked one into the abyss.
There was a trumpet sound and the guests began to enter the room through a trap door in the ceiling. Some were suspended on wires, others walked across ropes slender as youth. In this way they were all able to join their place setting. When all were assembled, the trumpet blew again, and the head of the table looked down and said to the three friends, 'What is it you seek?'
'That which cannot be found.'
'It is not here' she answered, 'but take some gold,' and each othe diners threw down a solid gold plate, rather in the manner of the Doge of Venice used to throw his dinnerware into the canal to show how much he despised worldly things.
Our three friends did not despise worldly things, and caught as many of the plates as they could. Loaded down with treasure they continued on their way, though more slowly than before. Eventually they came to Turkey, and to the harem of Mustapha the Blessed CIXX. Blessed he was, so piled with ladies, that only his index finger could be seen. Crooking it he bade the friends come forward, and asked in a muffled voice, 'What is it you seek?'
'That which cannot be found.'
'It is not here,' he said in a ghostly smother, 'but take some wives.'
'The friends were delighted, but observing the fate of Mustapha, they did not take too many. Each took six and made them carry the gold plate.
Helter skelter down the years the friends continued their journey, crossing continents of history and geography, gathering by chance the sum of the world, so that nothing was missing that could be had.
At last they came to a tower in the middle of the sea. A man with the face of centuries and the voice of the wind opened a narrow window and called,
'What is it you seek?'
'That which cannot be found ... found ... found' and the wind twisted their voices into the air.
'It has found you' said the man.
They heard a noise behind them like a scythe cutting the water and when they looked they saw a ship thin as a blade gaining towards them. The figure rowed it standing up, with one oar that was not an oar. They saw the curve of the metal flashing, first this side and then that. They saw the rower throw back his hood. They saw him beckon to them and the world tilted. The sea poured away.
Who are they with fish and starfish in their hair?
by Jeanette Winterson (from The New Yorker magazine)
I had woken as usually to the noises of singing drills and chirpy workmen, an aviary of tradesmen building nests out of the hollow of a derelict house.
I went out into the waking streets to buzz a newspaper off a sleep-deprived vender. Like the rest of the poor-in-sleep of the coming twenty-first century, he was a money junkie, trading shut-eye for a tight fist. Nobody can afford to sleep anymore. Do you realize how much it costs?
I am single. I have a girlfriend. I have a nice flat with a kitchen, a sitting room, and a bedroom, and in the bedroom, with the curtains drawn, or sometimes open, sometimes in the middle of the day, sometimes for pleasurable hours all morning, naked, warm, I sleep.
How did it start?
When I was born, Pharaoh-domed and blue. Pointed and Picasso'd. A Cubist baby of lines and planes. Not a breathing human yet. Still corded to God's architecture. Small gasps and liquid eyes. I slept.
When I was a wiggler, a crawler, a toddler, an upright, a walker, a runner, a high-flier, spaced out, I slept. It came naturally to me. I lay down, closed my eyes. I slept.
Everyone I knew slept, too. Even my parents. And then...
I don't have a new bed. When I invited my last girlfriend to my flat for the first time, she had never seen a bed like mine.
"Wow. Is that an antique?"
"Do you like antiques?"
"Well, they're so...old."
"This is my bed. My one and only."
"What do you use it for?"
"I sleep in it."
"On special occasions?"
"Every night. Nine or ten hours every night."
"You mean every week."
I took her in my arms. I asked her to sleep with me.
"You mean lie awake with you? Everybody wants to know if we're lying awake together."
"Sleeping together."
She was worried. "Nine or ten hours a night?"
I nodded, addicted, dumb, sleep-hooked, sleepy.
She left.
I advertised in an underground magazine called Snooze. "Girlfriend wanted. Must have own bed."
"Hello. It's your sister."
"It's the middle of the night."
"I was worried about you."
"Don't worry about me."
"I saw your small ad in Snooze."
"How did you know it was me?"
"You put your name, address, and phone number."
She told me to see a doctor and get some waking pills. She offered me a job. I asked her why she had been reading Snooze. She didn't like that. She knows it's pornography. If you can find it in a shop it's always the top shelf, and by top shelf I mean you have to ask the assistant for a ladder. It takes a particular kind of somnolent courage to clatter on the aluminum teps through the eager beavers in the Hobbies section and clamber past Adult Entertainment, S & M, Snuff, Necro, until you can fumble for the plain brown paper wrapper of Snooze.
I have asked the assistant to keep it under the counter for me, the way she does with the incest magazine, Motherfucker. She shook her head. "I can't do that with Snooze. Not Snooze. In any case, from next month you'll have to sign for it."
So there I was, with a sleep magazine on prescription. Yes, prescription. Doctor's orders, dear Sister. It's my new job, didn't I tell you about that?
I am a dreamer. I should write that with a capital, it has a title, it exists. Someone has to do it. I don't know how many of us there are. My I.D. card says "civil servant" and I try to dream as politely as possible. Dreaming is my job and my dreams are tele-electronically recorded and transmitted at Dream-points around the city.
When the no-sleep life style was pioneered, it was soon discovered that people functioned better if they had a dream-boost. A pad on the heart and the wrist can electronically lull the body into a sleep state in seconds, but it can't dream. I can, and if you'd like to try me, my last night's dream will be on the headset in about an hour.
"You're working as a Dreamer?"
"Yes, and you're ringing me in the middle of the night."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I had no idea you were official."
"Shall I send you a free disk?"
"Oh, I'd love that. Mark it private, will you?"
She put down the phone. Tough girls don't dream.
The sun shone. Maddeningly, it wouldn't shine during the night, but I'm told they're working on it.
I walked quickly, purposefully, through the dead-eyed crowds until I got clear of the feeding areas and onto a crisp grassy knoll. No one ever comes up here, it's too aimless, no swings, no cafe, not even a bench.
I flung myself down and watched the clouds bumping each other, the break and mend of a morning sky. My body was relaxed and the ordered chords of my mind began to separate into component notes, to replay themselves without effort, without purpose, trailing into...sleep.
I dreamed I was a single moment in a single day. A note struck and vanished. A sounding. A reckoning. Gone.
I was awoken rudely. Far too rudely. The keeper prodded me with a sharp stick as though I were a beast in a zoo. I opened my eyes and the clouds were gone. A gray face, a dirty uniform, and the clenched fist scrawling a ticket.
Do you remember when park keepers used to spear litter and chat to mothers at the sandpit? No more. These scabrous patrols have stun batons and two-way radios. They clean up homosexuals and sleepers and prefer to be known by their official tag of Public Space Enforcement Officers.
Unfortunately, this one had fallen over. It happened suddenly. He was punching out his fine code when he toppled forward, face down into the grass. I turned him over and felt his pulse. Now I would be charged with murder.
He was not dead. He was snoring.
Carefully, I put his hat over his eyes and made a little palisade around him out of the plastic spokes and fluttery tape the keepers carry to cordon off areas of maximum security, like the rubber-duck pond.
As I went down the knoll I looked back. There was a faint blue gas settling at his head. I'd heard of this but I'd never seen it. It's what happens when the dreams return.
Last night I tried the Sleeping Beauty. It caters to a younger crowd, those who just want to drop off for an hour if they're passing. Maybe I'll find someone to talk to. Talking and dreaming. Dreaming and talking. All these clocks and no time.
In my city of dreams the roads lead nowhere, that is, they lead off the edge of the world into infinite space. Under my feet the road quickens, like one of those moving tracks at the airports. It's the road itself that carries me forward, until there is nothing under my feet but air. Where to now, without tarmac and map? What direction do I take now that all directions can be taken?
These dreams of mine are carefully screened for disruptive elements.
At the Sleeping Beauty I ordered a shot of brandy with a jug of hot milk in it and went to lie down in the Pillow Room. The Pillow Room is where most of the girls go. It's dark, soft, and there's a Dream Screen on the wall. When I walked in they were playing one of my dreams.
"That isn't how it ends," I said, before I could stop myself. "It was a nightmare. I wasn't running happily over the just planted earth."
A couple of girls got up and went off to the ZZZ Bar. I was left alone with a wide-awake redhead squirrelling out the contents of her handbag.
She offered me a sleeping pill. I shook my head.
"It's not sleep I need," I said.
She looked disappointed and lay back on the pillows watching the screen. The dream was over, we were in an advertising break, something about the quality of life on a new breakfast cereal called Go!
I rolled over beside her and kissed her surprised mouth. Horizontal contact is strictly forbidden in play-at-it bars like the Sleeping Beauty.
Later, walking home arm in arm, we talked about opening a fish restaurant by the sea. Holiday resorts are Sleep-Designated Areas. The difficulty is that everyone is too exhausted to eat. Most go intravenous for a fortnight in August.
"I'm lucky," I said. "I'm a Dreamer."
I don't know if she understood. Then came the tough question. The question I had been afraid to ask.
"Will you sleep with me?"
Under the night rug, the star rug, the man in the moon watching over us, Dog Star at his heels, we lay.
The planets were bodies in the solar system and so were we. You and I in elliptical orbs circling life. It was life we wanted, but we dared not come too close for fear that life, in its intensity, might burn us up. We called it life force, and it was, force enough to push the shoot through clay. Force enough to impel the baby out of nothing into light.
When I held you in that night-soaked bed it was courage for the day I sought. Courage that when the light came I would turn towards it. It couldn't be simpler. It couldn't be harder. In that little night-covered world with you, I hoped to find hat I long for: a clue, a map, a bird flying south. And when the light came we would get dressed together and go.
I called your name and there was no answer. I stared at the wall, the wall where the door had been, where the bedroom had been.
There was a noise behind me. It was my landlord.
"What are you doing here?" I said.
"Supervising the conversion," he said. "Didn't you get my letter?"
He was holding it in his hand. I read it. It informed me that my bedroom was to be made into a separate flat. My bedroom was surplus to requirements. It was quaint, out of date, something like a vegetable allotment in the age of the supermarket. It was a luxury. I couldn't afford it.
"But this is a one-bedroom apartment."
"You have a kitchen and a sitting room. What more do you want?"
"I want a bedroom."
He shook his head, in regret, in disbelief, offended, I followed him outside to where a couple of men were fitting a new front door into what had been my wardrobe space. There was a large box on the pavement, marked "Clothes."
"Where's my bed?"
"Don't need a bed if you ain't got a bedroom," said one of the workmen logically.
"Where is it, and where is what was in it?" There was a leer, or a sneer, or a jeer. They shrugged.
"Ask in the Macbeth," they said, pointing to the pub at the end of the road.
The Macbeth is a twenty-four-hour swill bar, a thug trough, a beer urinal. I ran down there, and as I crashed through the doors I saw my bed, trussed, trophied, pissed on, stabbed, emptied.
"Where is she?"
Sometimes I think I'll find her, as though I had never lost her. Sometimes at the draw and ebb of the sea on a clear night, I see her walking just in front of me and I swear there are footprints. She was a clue I tried to follow, but I live in a world that has lost the plot. Sleep now and hope to dream.