Author's Note: So, after years of hunting around, I at last obtained a copy of the book that "The Elm-Chanted Forest" was based on- "Čudesna Šuma". Unfortunately, it's all in Croatian. Now, I don't know about you, but I don't speak, read or write Croatian. So translating this book is a little bit tricky. Basically, I'm armed with a Croatian-English dictionary and a book on basic Croatian grammar. Thank God this is a children's book, (junior novel, whatever.), so it's not too difficult. Nonetheless, I have to splice and guesstimate a little on some of the sentences, but this is as literal a translation as I could get. I figure there are some people out there who may share my love of the "Elm-Chanted Forest", but lack the drive, or the interest, or the non-existent social life that I have to actually try and translate it. So, here's my latest pet project. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: All right, how about this- doesn't the concept of FAN fiction imply that you own nothing? But here, I truly own nothing but the choice of words. Everything is truly owned by Sunčana Škrinjarić.
There was once a painter, young and alone in the world. He was still an amateur in his craft, but still wanted to become a master of it. He had lost his parents early, and of brothers and sisters he had none. He was fully alone. He might have fallen in love at times, as he was sort of handsome, but was very naïve. What he loved most was painting, which was, of course, his life. Many famous painters live long. Mean is that long life. The painter was neither lodged nor employed. It was a very hard life. The painter was only a boy and was not yet famous. His images were pretty and peculiar, but people would rather buy the works of famous artists and acknowledge the signature.
The painter lived his hard life in a small room. The landlady had increased the rent and was angry that the painter used electronics and the shower together in the bathroom. To the painter, that pleasant landlady was invisible. Once her temperament was ruffled, she could not be swayed.
'Another trip.' Thought the painter as he wiped his brush on an old, shabby towel. He could not say when the trouble began, but the landlady, who had not received a cheque, had ambushed him the morning after a bad night, and simply delivered notice of his eviction.
Patiently he packed his items into a travel bag, and his accessories for painting in a wooden suitcase. "Perhaps it's better this way." Viewed the painter. "Now, again, I can begin anew, and that is always exciting."
The painter became aimless amidst the summer, and that gentle season which began regularly for traveling. Perhaps he would be traveling in shade, or to the summit of a sublime mountain, where he could hear a swelling call. But neither rest by the sea, nor recovery in the shade, or beside a mountain lake, nor pleasure by a peculiar landscape somewhere near a whimsical river… everything was inaccessible to the young painter. In reality his pocket money was far from stable, due to his withdrawal from his lodging and all the advantages of city life.
The painter was careless on the city street, heading randomly toward the suburbs, without purpose. As he walked he swung his travel bag, and with some enthusiastic singing he was on his way, leaving, alone toward the far woods. Something in the outline of the suburbs was unsociable, this place where people and automobiles gathered. Still the painter went merrily on foot, and was generally unseen. By easy light his leather shoes had only covered a kilometer in distance, having dawdled in the densely populated area that was too full in its decay. The painter jumped a worm-eaten fence, guarded by a few stray cats.
He approached the woods, delicate and stunted, with branches low and thunderous, and untidy trails covered in moss, comfortable to a tired foot traveler. The painter marched through the forest paths, following them until they disappeared before him. Everything he saw was like a drawing.
On a little hill grew a huge tree with beautiful, proportionate branches, and a powerful, sturdy trunk. The appearance of this tree to the exhausted painter seemed a welcoming resting place. He leaned his luggage against the rough trunk, and then leaned against it himself. The smells of the forest covered him, and he could hear a frog croaking. The painter inhaled the fresh air, and soon slipped into the calm sleep before dreams. In his mind, the town was disappearing, as was the landlady. The tree was an oak tree, although he had not recognized it at first- its roots reached into the depths of the earth and pulsed a power through it, and from there into the painter. Inside himself the painter could feel a magic power growing, for whoever slept beneath the tree would be able to understand all the languages of nature, after he would awaken changed and somehow light, deprived of all everyday worries.
Three little hedgehogs crawled out from their shelter.
"Look! A human!" said the first hedgehog. "He has no spines."
"People don't have spines." Instructed the middle hedgehog. "Dad told me that we must not associate with them, but this one I like. Is he dangerous?"
"This? He can't speak yet." Shrewdly concluded the last hedgehog. "He looks nearly as good as a hedgehog." Having said that, he began to seek a suitable toy among the artist's possessions. He brought all the accessories out into the open, while the painter still slept. The hedgehog tried to sketch something on the notebook, but it was already covered in scrawls and worn out, but not completely. The painter continued to sleep.
"But I don't see how he can play with us." Continued the youngest hedgehog. He cautiously touched the painter's brush, and was repulsed when his paw came away covered with paint.
"Well when he wakes in the forest," the middle hedgehog said, "I only hope the Cactus King doesn't get a hold of him…"
"Something happened the last time. The King's malice could be ready again." Worried the oldest hedgehog.
"Papa told me a story how the Cactus King was very, very powerful. The whole forest was his." Added the youngest hedgehog, which already showed intelligence above his brothers'.
"But hedgehogs will always outwit him." The oldest hedgehog immediately interrupted. He wished his brothers would realize how late it was. "It is written in hedgehog history."
"Brothers, look over there! Beaver is here! He probably left his dam." The middle hedgehog moved quickly toward the forest.
"Mama said to wait for us!" insisted the youngest hedgehog. "Sweet of blueberry… Outlaw!"
The painter went on sleeping, and perhaps dreaming as the little hedgehogs left him. Only he was unaware of the beaver that came from the depths of the forest dignified, surly, and angry.
Severe had been the existence of the beaver, whose age and life did not favor him. His family had been respected and powerful, old natives who had lived continuously in the forest. They were skillful builders and had built their dams in countless lakes. Their lives had been free and harmonious. But men, greedy for their fur, had hunted down this respected family. The beaver who appeared at the tree was the last in this majestic forest. Because of this he was looked upon as exceptional, but also because of this he was lonely and sad.
The old raven, always curious, flew over the scene. The beaver observed the unknown creature in the grass. The little hedgehogs rolled toward their modest homes. Finally, the painter opened his eyes. He saw and sensed in a new way. He had entered into an adventure. He jumped up and in an instant had set up his stand with some linen. He reached for his brush and began painting great strokes. What he saw was the beaver, a creature he'd only seen in photographs. Without thought he began to talk to the beaver.
"Oh, remain just thus, honored beaver! Just an instant, please be patient, allow me the rare honor for which any needy, troubled painter would wish for beaver…"
And the painter was surprised when he understood the beaver's own language, as the beaver, faced with such obvious flattery said, "Rather, what only the naïve wish for, who should appreciate our building skills and unusual manner of life. That indeed, perhaps, would be original, truly artistic."
The beaver expressed himself in and ornate, old-fashioned manner. But near the end of his sentences he would whistle, which gave his speech a particular charm.
"I am not a famous, I am just an artist. In town I painted many things, but famous painters especially paint images of nature, and feel close to animal and plant. I know that, in reality, they were all kept alive by the great, intricate forests and lonely painting, painting, painting all that moves, flies, smells…"
"Dear friend," said the beaver in his kindly, old-fashioned way. "The old residents of this wood say that this oak is bewitched, this tree is magic. It is not exactly famous, for it arrived from far away, far to the north. Whoever sleeps under this tree gains a miraculous power, and experience an incredible adventure…"
"An talk with beavers, no, no, there's no one who'd believe me." The painter muttered to himself, still attempting to convey the beaver's image on the linen. "No one would believe me…"
"And if a beaver were to offer you hospitality, would you accept it? A flat in a modest log cabin that my family and I built, would serve as a place for you to stay. You could remain in the woods and paint animals, and remain however long you desire."
"Oh, what brilliant kindness! Dream or not, I must consider. Noble beaver, I accept your offer!"
"Let us thus set off into the woods! I am situated on the shore of a river. Allow me to assist you to that place…"
"Incredible, incredible! Or perhaps just a dream…"
The painter quickly re-gathered his accessories, while the beaver accepted the painter's travel-bag and brush, then both set off toward the woods. The raven, still high in the air, was excited- "Painter in the woods!" He flew awhile without meaning, then suddenly turned toward the pointed and ominous Cactus Castle. 'I must first notify the King of this unusual news.' He thought.
The hardy log cabin to which the beaver brought the painter was built with exceptional skill. Situated near a wide brook it had all the comforts of an old-fashioned home, including an old bake-oven and plenty of space for painting. It was with skill that the beavers shaped the timber, smoothing it into a carefully selected shape that would accommodate to the environment. A small footbridge over the stream led deeper into the forest, where three were several smooth stumps. The painter could see a trail leading to it that generations of quiet beavers had worn away in their work. The last beaver would not have descendents to carry on in that way, and would not speak of it.
The painter had not yet spread out his things in his unusual quarters when at the door appeared a luxurious and beautiful fox. She began to speak to him, and although her voice was higher than the beaver's, thanks to the influence of the tree's sorcery, he was able to understand her.
"The forest people are excited." The fox said with some affection, but lacking the arrogance he expected. "Good morning, sir, already everyone is speaking of you, the silly raven spread the news. Also, that you wish to paint portraits of the forest animals…"
"Oh, and all animals interest me equally… Although I may fear a wolf or a bear." The painter hesitated. "But I am just a painter, not a hunter."
"What kind of bear… or wolf… would lower their worth by a hair from their renowned tails by threatening you? I had hoped that mine would be the first portrait that you would paint. I alone am queen of the forest creatures. The woods in spring are restless and changing. Therefore I would like my portrait made. A kind of surprise for my neighbor, the badger."
"Oh, you are neighbor with a badger? Interesting! I will paint you with care…"
The painter listened with interest.
But the fox resisted. "Beloved sir, don't suspect anything in your good taste. The slow badger and I…" The fox described and praised the badger, but insisted that he lived in a fairy-tale world. "No, no and no!" Alone, the species of the fox held cunning enough to measure up to a human.
"Forgive my indolence, I meant nothing against you, wise, attractive one!" flattered the painter. "I will be content to paint your portrait. I will color your fur and the worth of your tail will be made famous."
The fox confidently moved in front of the stand. Behind her the timid youngest hedgehog appeared, but the painter was already absorbed and possessed by his painting, and so didn't notice him at first. In fact, many of the woods peoples had gathered around the log cabin. The beaver watched them all to pass the time, and was already a little jealous. Understand that the painter from now on would rarely be alone, and it was perhaps better that way.
The raven, in the meantime had continued his flight. It wasn't long before he reached the spiny Cactus King, calling "Painter in the forest!" This news did not delight the surly Cactus King one bit, as he sat on his throne of thorns. He wore a crown of spines on his head and carried a dangerous scepter in his sharpened hand. Near him was a trembling, thin, plain magician called Štapić.
"Magician Štapić, what is this intolerable occurrence in my woods?" growled the Cactus King "Where is the guard, where is the cactus force? And why are you, magician, still here? What is this, again? What kind of painter in the woods? Who permitted him to enter my forest?"
"Your exaltedness," the magician began, "That artist who has come in has slept under the magic tree before your woods. The Beaver has offered him hospitality in his comfortable hut."
"Ah, the Beaver!" raged the King. "They have not yet all died out? Conceited fool! The previous Cactus King Osvajaču did not build a manor of sticks. Their family resided in an ordinary hollow, until the humans burned it. How will this one destroy us?"
"Your exaltedness," pleaded the magician "against our investigation, report and statistics, it would appear that this is not really a nightmare. The painter could make friends among the animals, and decide that he likes life in the woods. Perhaps he could prepare an exhibition…"
"Blockhead!" yelled the Cactus King, stabbing at the magician with the pointed end of his scepter. "That's what we need to prevent! We have no need of an artist here!"
"But your exaltedness!" the magician further pressed, "Perhaps you could take in the painter as daily help? Maybe he could immortalize your exalted, noble image?
"I do not believe in his talent." The King immediately replied. "He is a painter of animals, flowers. That does not inspire confidence. Why bother… Hm, perhaps I might invite him to lunch…"
"Excellent idea, your exaltedness!" The magician immediately said in exaggerated flattery. "You always have wonderful ideas… and the menu, I'll compose a wonderful menu…"
From his shabby robes he drew out a slip of paper and a quill. "For example, fish with paprika, garnished with parsley and lemon?"
Even in a bad mood, a discussion of food could always succeed in distracting the Cactus King. On his throne of brambles and thorns, he laughed. "Oh, and that special broth… Invite that cook! Burr and thistle… heh heh, it begins to amuse me, this feast…"
"…Worthy of your greatness." The magician said. "Do you think that a toothpick would get stuck in his throat?"
As the Cactus King and his magician composed the deadly menu for the artist, the carefree painter was still in the beaver's log cabin. The hedgehog had not yet moved from the doorway, and much of the excitement had not died down.
"Ah, look at all these interesting animals! For example, this little hedgehog…"
"I hadn't noticed, really hadn't noticed… tiny, prickly, ridiculous." The fox noted. "But I ordered my portrait first. It is a large luxury to have painter, don't save your colors, sir!"
Confused by the fox's arrogance, the little hedgehog attempted to draw the painter's attention. "My Mama… My brothers… My family would be very happy… My Mama and my Papa hedgehogs…"
The harmless creature's stuttering confused the painter. He decided to interrupt the conceited beauty's session.
"Drop in again tomorrow, beautiful fox. My work is still not entirely finished. It's necessary that it the morning I get black from the raven, bleach white from the swan, gold from the pheasant, green from the grass…" The painter rinsed his brush as the fox left.
"Until I see you again, sir! Till tomorrow!" She showed no concern to the hedgehog, of course, only the painter. The hedgehog uneasily turned toward his goal.
"Did you want something of me?" the painter asked kindly.
"Oh, that my Mama, and my Papa, and my two brothers… and I… we would think ourselves lucky… very lucky… if…"
"Don't hurry," the painter tried to help the little hedgehog. "We have much, much time. Perhaps you would like me to do a drawing?"
The little hedgehog considered abandoning his message, but when he turned around he noticed another guest. It was the magician Štapić, now a delegate of the Cactus King. The painter looked at the new comer with interest. In a purple, shabby frock and a large, tattered hat the magician was not delightful to look upon. His was a sad and funny appearance, but also dry and important. He unrolled some leaves that bore his message from the Cactus King and read them aloud.
"From my Noble Lord,
The shrewd and sharp Cactus King,
I bear a message for the painter…
Summons to lunch at the Cactus Palace
With the King, his radiance,
Who is honored by all the residents of the forest!
Today, at noon, with the emperor,
You, who shall
Taste delightful, choice foods
With our merciful sovereignHis greatness the Cactus King!
The jay will guide you to the hilltop castle,
Your destination!"
Magician Štapić took an ominous baton in hand, and caused the leaves to vanish before leaving. The little hedgehog reversed himself with worry for the painter. Instantly, his care for him returned his coherent speech.
"Oh, no! Not at all, no!" the little hedgehog nearly shouted.
"What, why?" the astonished painter asked. "Are you scared of that funny looking creature? And who is this 'Cactus King?' What does he want from me?"
"Oh, he is powerful, and violent, and malicious! My Mama, and my Papa, and my two brothers…"
"So he is a conceited master?" the naïve painter thought.
The little hedgehog tried again. "Yes, yes, to take one's meals with the Cactus King… no… no… don't leave at lunch… not at all, no…"
"Why not?" the painter was surprised. "A summons at lunch, delivered in such a strange manner, I find it quite attractive. What services could I offer a King? Do you suppose the king likes flowers?"
"Oh, do not jest!" The little hedgehog cried, at once serious and anxious. "The Cactus King is wicked, he will try to poison you! Yes, yes, it is a story my grandfather told me."
"Oho, that would be exciting!" the painter jested. "Well, some poison, an example… Do you have any more advice to give me?"
"That's not good… That's not at all good, lunch with the Cactus King." The little hedgehog replied.
"And what disposition will the jay be of?" the painter asked, with an exaggerated bow.
"Don't… don't be near this house." The little hedgehog was deadly frightened. "My Mama, and my Papa and my two brothers… and me… would be so happy if you came with us to lunch."
"Oho! Two invitations to lunch!" the painter was sincerely glad. "What powerful hospitality in these woods… Lodging and food… and models just turn up…"
"Oh, you won't have any regrets!" began the little hedgehog. "For lunch we're having blueberry pudding, stewed berries, young mushrooms, and strawberries in honey…"
"My young friend, that sounds most attractive! I doubt even the King's menu could be better… Besides, your family seems more safe."