Trick or Tale

A streak of white light paints the cozy camp white for a beat. It is so bright that I see it through the small crack in my coffin, under the soil. And it means Halloween has begun.

Oh, I want to lie about what will happen, but I can’t! What I will do is elegant yet sly, thoughtful yet playful. I am forced (by myself) to wait for this year’s Halloween for seven hundred thirty moons; if it is only three hundred sixty-five moons my dear citizens will grow too fond (or envy) of me, for my gorgeous countenance will allow them to feel nothing but obsession, search for nowhere but my grave, look at no one but me.

I push the coffin’s crown…Oh, there is no coffin. I dig the dusty and grimy soil that is pushing down on me until I have created a hole large enough for my head to poke out from. Behind my head is a headstone with my name carved out on it. It reads: Queen E…No, now that I think about it – I must not speak my name, for there might be someone listening in on me. Before me are families of elm trees that are awaiting my command. But it is a curse to only be able to see them when the sun is sleeping, for their color is like mine, walnut brown. The elm trees respond to my command; they reach out their hands to where I am and start scooping out the soil. I scramble to my feet and brush the dirt decorating my black frock. I don’t need to or want to, but underneath the dirt are elements much more pleasing to the eyes; small circles with twigs in them. Pleasing, are they not? Anyhow, I must leave my fellow dead people in the cozy camp and go greet the citizens, for it is my biennial duty. After hiding a treasure behind my back, I leap into the air and bullet through the dark, misty sky. A figure with a cloak on appears behind one of the elm trees, but I ignore it; for the smell of putrid air is too aromatic to not immerse in. 

Enveloped in the smell, I glide for the moonlight-lit kingdom that is a few elm trees away from the cozy camp. I reach for the gray, web-like mist in the air and feel its hands cocooning and fleeing my skin at once. Then the mist disappears, and a series of houses reveal themselves; they are circling a square that has a painting of a leaf in the center, and beneath the painting are words that read: .dehtribeR .deiD . werG 

Yes, they are meaningless. I can’t understand what is written there, and the citizens doubtlessly can’t, too. The owner of this painting must be so deranged or drunk – or both! But one thing I understand, after having revisited this kingdom a few times in the past, is that the last word is pointing at a castle; I look to my right, and there it is: the evil, green castle. Upon closer look, I realize the castle is uninhabited. And that means what I just said was wrong – the castle isn’t evil; it is beautifully and naturally cobwebbed (by spiders) and painted juniper-green (by many entangled vines). The metal gates are decorated with rust and more cobwebs. What picturesque sight they give! Sprouting seeds crack the concrete floor from beneath. And I am able to speed up their growth, for they were the seeds of elm trees. But if I am to speed up every seed there, I will not meet a single citizen before the start of November. So, I glide back to the houses and – oh, so lucky I am! – I meet a fine young man. I land right behind his curly, blonde hair, right on his witch’s cat black shadow, and tap on his left shoulder.

“Trick or tale, Handsome,” say I.

He turns around to reveal his pale, innocent, freckled face, but says nothing. The small basket in his hands shivers as the treats inside spill. I know he is stunned by my looks but, young man, keep it together!

“Trick or tale,” repeat I, wanting to get it over with as soon as possible.

“T– T– T– Treat!” say he, and the fine young man fishes for the basket’s contents, only to toss them at me. ‘Treat’ isn’t even one of the options, and what rude manner he has. I frown as he stumbles into the crowd – a brownish orange branchprint apparent on his left shoulder – and the crowd follow suit. Then screams erupt from them. Are my looks so angelic? Perhaps too angelic? I make for the air and sing a little song.

It grew,

Oh, it did!

It died,

Oh, it died!

It was rebirthed,

Oh, a new elm seed has sprouted!

I turn around and turn at the nearest street block. Before me are only a few citizens. Strange it is. But thrill there is none. A woman emerges from the shadows of the trees behind her. She looks like she is close to my age; a few crow’s feet decorate the edges of her eyes and a witch’s hat dangles from her tresses. A soil-black gown shows only her wrinkly limbs and head and a thin and unfilled fabric bag hangs from her boney forefinger. She is gorgeous, but not as much as myself. Perhaps if she has twigs and barks to ornament her dress she will be as gorgeous as I…No, she won’t – no one’s beauty will ever reach mine. I want to greet her, but she has presumably seen me, for I am across from her; and it isn’t fun to say 'trick or tale’ to someone whose reaction will certainly be inauthentic. So, I make a gamble: if the trees behind her are elm trees, I will command them to seize her (so that her reaction will be a wee more authentic and enthusiastic). But if they are not elm trees, I will leave the woman alone (and she will become an unfortunate citizen, for she isn’t greeted by me). And, oh, luck is on my side, or should I say, her side. The trees’ branches reach for the woman’s arms and fix them still as I near her.

“Trick or tale,” say I, enthusiastically.

“Oh, are you a star? I think I saw you two years ago, and your beauty remains unbeatable,” says she.

This is the first time someone has spoken about my allure, and not just retreat or be petrified by reason of it.

“Thank you, Granny.”

“I can already tell, your life will take a turn for the better, as in the field of beauty you prosper. But be aware of the blind man in the town hall, for he may lead to your great downfall.”

I know my age is around hers, but I’m not unhinged like her. The words she has uttered have no ground; therefore, they are as trifling and petty as the cloaked figure at the cozy camp.

“Trick or tale,” say I.

“Only a person whose mind has been tirelessly honed will answer the latter, for they are the fuel to the matter.”

 “What matters right now is your answer to my question. Trick or tale!” I raised my voice, growing repugnant to her nonsense.

“Trick, Dear. And it would be best if you use whatever you’re hiding behind your back as a part of your trick.”

“Unhinged and unwitty you are. I shall pose another question. Is there anything in the fabric bag of yours?”

“Only two white balls that hold no value. You can take it if you desire.”

“There’s no point in doing so, for it won’t add to my allure.”

The branches loosen their grips, leaving brownish orange branchprints on the woman’s arms. And she walks past me. What audacity! I take to the air once more and sing my little song to calm myself.

It grew,

Oh, it did!

It died.

Oh, it died!

It was rebirthed,

Oh, a new elm seed has sprouted!

Exhausted, I scan the kingdom for a lively place to regain my enthusiasm. A place that will house many partygoers and citizens who are more enthusiastic and less mundane than the pedestrians. And then I find just that. A massive, dilapidated, and blackened building, its canary worm-yellow windows smashed, its brick walls smoothened with thick cobwebs. What elegance! I land before the large structure’s doors and push them open.

“Hi-ya, Gal. Looking for some booze, eh?” says a man. A rather ugly one.

“No,” say I.

“What is it that you’re looking for, then?” asks he.

“People like you – strange and enthusiastic.” say I, pointing at the ugly man.

“Well, aye, the latter I sure have. The former I’m afraid not,” say he, and I laugh for the first in who knows how long.

“Well, it seems to me you have both,” say I, grinning.

“I don’t,” says he, then the ugly man pointed at a person sitting alone at a table. “I bet he’s the one you’re looking for.”

I look over at the person the ugly man is pointing at…He seems so dull and boring. He even has a cloak on!

“What do you reckon, eh?”

“I don’t think you understand what I’m saying. He doesn’t look strange or enthusiastic. He’s just an ordinary man. Below ordinary, in fact. He doesn’t even have tankards on his table!”

“Trust me. He’s got the two traits you’re seeking. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go amuse myself with some more booze!”

The ugly man struts drunkenly into a group of men toasting and drinking and spilling and vomiting. How can the ugly man leave a queen out of his own accord so casually? Is everyone just simply ill-mannered? The idea of greeting the cloaked man is as boring as watching a flying squirrel crack a hickory, so I walk around the room and greet as many citizens as possible, of course avoiding the cloaked man. And how truly lucky I am! None of them are a coward like the young blonde man or as deranged as the wrinkly witch. But sadly no one is as strange or enthusiastic as I wish. I look over at the table the cloaked man is sitting at, and he is still there. Who can be more boring and lifeless than him…No one! But I walk up to him at last, for there are no new citizens left to greet.

“Trick or tale, strange and enthusiastic cloaked man, '' say I, sarcastically.

He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even look at me. How rude of him.

“Trick or tale,” repeat I.

“Are you talking to me, Queen?” asks he.

“How do you know that? Your eyes haven’t met mine yet. Lift your head up, will you?” I whisper loudly.

The cloaked man do as I say, revealing a disgusting and hideous face; written on his forehead are unreadable words in cursive; plastered to his pale cheeks are coarse little spheres, to his chin is a leaf, a rather familiar one; in his eye sockets are nothing but hollowness, and they are the color of my frock, tinged with pumpkin orange. They are nasty yet charming, familiar yet foreign. I will gobble the two white spheres they used to hold, but it will be improbable and foolish to search for lost eyes at night. Curse the one who took his eyes!

“I was uncertain you were, but now I am certain, Queen.”

He is cheeky. I like him lots.

“Then you know what I’m about to say, Mr….”

“Zilke. Leod Zilke. And, yes, I know what you’re about to say.”

“What a strange name you have. Whoever named you must’ve been so deranged, much more than that wrinkly witch. Anyhow, what was I about to say?”

Mr. Zilke twitches and smiles at either the mention of the wrinkly witch or my reaction to his name. What a strange man he is!

“Trick or tale.”

“Trick or tale.”

“Tale, Queen.”

“You are the wisest of all! Now, immerse yourself in the tale of the drunk queen,” say I, slowly closing my eyes. “Once upon a time there lived a beautiful queen in a green castle. One night, after an hour-long binge-drinking session, she limped away from her castle, passed the shiny metal gates, passed the smooth, pristine concrete floor, to the square. With a few guards surrounding her, she fell to the floor and noticed the dullness of the square, so she decided to decorate it. She saw a leaf – an elm leaf – on the floor and decided that was her muse. The queen then ordered one of the men walking by to paint the center of the square and write words under it. Then she went back to her castle and sang herself a lullaby.

It grew,

Oh, it did!

It died.

Oh, it died!

It was rebirthed,

Oh, a new elm seed has sprouted!

But never a day can I strive,

without a heart.

So, elms,

I will not let anyone tear us apart.

She went to the square the next morning and saw the man writing the last letter. It read: .dehtribeR .deiD . werG

‘They’re backwards!’ she yelled.

‘Last night, you ordered me to write the words backwards. And I did just that, Ma’am,’ said the man calmly.

She thought back to last night and realized what the man said was true.

‘No, I did not,’ said she.

‘Yes, you di–’

‘No, I did not!’ she shouted. ‘Guards, get this liar out of my sight! Sew coarse, little spheres into his cheeks! Carve a– a– a leaf into his chin! Write– Write anything on his forehead! Gorge his eyes out! Give him a name someone would deem strange…like Zilke. Leod Zilke, that’s it. Call him Leod Zi–”

I purse my lips and open my eyes at once. I don’t know what to be shocked at – Mr. Zilke’s name or my treasure that was now in his hands.

“Leod Zilke. That’s my name, Queen…Elowyn,” say he, juggling my treasure: my heart.

I don’t respond, for I fear if I do, he will do something terrible to my beating heart.

“Looks like the elm seeds have sprouted and died and regrew a few times from your heart. You are no queen, Elowyn. You’ve harmed these elm seeds for years, and now I shall end their suffering,” say Mr. Zilke, as I cry, for I know everything he has said is true.

He digs his fingers into my heart as I screech with agony. And he sings.

It grew,

Oh, it did!

It died, 

Oh, it died!

It was rebirthed,

Oh, a new elm seed has sprouted!

But never a day can she strive,

without a heart.

So, elms,

I will now tear her apart.