King of the World
There was once a little boy who thought he could have everything in the world
For he was a king.
He said: “Everything I wish for, I shall have
For I am the king”.
He wished for the greatest palace
And it was his.
He wished for servants
And they were his.
He wished for the earth
And it was his.
He wished for the sun, moon and stars
And then he said:
“I am no longer just a king,
I am God.”
And on the very Earth that he held like a bauble,
The Sand Witch
When everyone goes home at the end of the day, the beach is left bare and empty. The surf burns red on the edge of the world and the sky is as deep blue as ink. The air is still warm, but there is a sudden hush. This is when the Sand Witch comes out.
The Sand Witch lives in a cave of slippery black stone covered with sprinkles of tiny periwinkles. During the day, the tide rushes in and her home is full of foamy water. But at night, the tide goes out and this wakes the Sand Witch, just as you wake when your mother pulls the blankets off your sleepy self.
For the Sand Witch sleeps in the sea. She loves its crisp, clear saltiness. She breathes it in like a fish, but she does not have a tail like a mermaid. She has long arms and legs and is completely green. Her hair is like the waving arms of an anemone. It is many colours and is never still. Her eyes are black and her nose is pointy and she smiles a thin black smile.
The Sand Witch wears long flowing dresses made of seaweed. Not the green sea weed that you see close by, but the pinks and purples of the deep ocean.
Every night when the Sand Witch comes out of her cave, the sky is full of stars and the moon is a shiny white marble.
She begins to dance, although people have never seen her. They think it is the wind that settles the sand back into place, as though no human foot had ever trod there. The first person to set foot on the beach at sunrise thinks, “Aaah,” and there is a long sigh and a great peace at being the first person to step onto the silken sand and make their mark.
This is the gift of the Sand Witch. She dances with her elegant legs and pointed toes and whirls and wisps the sand back into place. It is smoothed over as soft as cream.
Then the Sand Witch begins her real work. She looks for any rubbish that people may have left behind. Any bottles or cans or plastic packets. She shakes her head angrily because these are very dangerous for the sea animals and then she waves her arm and all the rubbish is whirled into a swirling, twisting cone that she clamps into a small box.
Some animals get stranded by the tides. Sometimes the Sand Witch has to help a hermit crab find his way home, or throw a starfish back into the sea. Then she sits with her feet dangling in a rock pool and sings.
It is a very strange and eerie song, like beads of glass trickling onto a crystal xylophone. Some people can hear her and the sound makes them feel like laughing.
The Sand Witch has a special friend - a fish of rainbow colours. He swims up to the Sand Witch’s toes and she tickles his belly. He tells her the stories of the deep ocean and she tells him the stories of people.
Then she rides on the back of an old sea turtle, ancient as the sea itself, and dips her hands in the light of the moon and dusts the sea with its silvery sheen.
The dolphins come out to play. They dive and dart and smile and in the distance, an old blue whale calls a warning that dawn is near.
The Sand Witch dances across the sea. She makes bracelets of foam at her wrists. Then she races the emerald seahorses home - back home to the cave so still.
THE HAND-KNITTED ARMY
The King of all Velcruvia had called all his people together for a special meeting.
“Fellow Velcruvians,” he said, “things have got pretty terrible. In fact I must warn you that we may be in for a spot of bother.”
“A spot of bother,” muttered the Prime Minister, “What does he mean?”
“I mean just this!” the King said crossly. “I have no army. What am I supposed to use to defend myself? How am I to go to war? How can the King of Velcruvia hold his head up high among the other nations of Sizzlepot and Windyteeth when he has no army!”
“Excuse me sir,” said the small private secretary, “You do have two soldiers.”
And the rest of the crowd all nodded their heads and muttered, “Two soldiers? Two soldiers – yes that’s right.”
“Two soldiers is not enough!” the King stamped his foot, “I want tanks and airplanes and ships and submarines! I want weapons no one else has ever heard of before! I want people to be afraid of me!”
“Is that because your family used to make marshmallows before you became king?” asked one of the children.
“That has nothing to do with it!” the king snapped, “And my family owned the marshmallow industry, they didn’t make them.”
“Still, it was a rather democratic choice your majesty don’t you think,” the Prime Minister said, “On the part of the people. They must have thought you would make a rather good king.”
“Righto,” the king said, “Let’s all go for a walk in my gardens.”
The crowd followed the king through the gardens, oooohing and aaaahing at the exquisite pear trees and pearly pomegranates.
“Now,” said the king, (he was talking out loud to whomever happened to be nearest to him – at the time a small girl) “Now, I hear that the schools have everything they need, is that not so?”
“The schools are rich sir,” the little girl said, “I don’t know of a single school that does not have the most up-to-date equipment, textbooks, stationery supplies, teachers, teacher training courses and fully subscribed extra-mural activities.”
“That indeed sounds wonderful,” the king said, “Yes, and indeed I do remember we said we would make education our top priority. You expressed yourself very well. How old are you?”
“I am six years old sir,” the little girl said.
“Well then I do believe we are educating you very well,” the king said.
“I would have to agree sir,” the little girl said. She plucked a strawberry from a bush at her feet and ate it.
The king continued walking.
“Do you know why?” he said, again thinking out loud, “Why it is that education is doing so amazingly well and schools are rich and pupils are well-spoken and polite, if perhaps a little quick to nick the King’s strawberries?”
“Why is that your majesty?” asked a little boy who was also eating strawberries.
“Because we gave the schools all our money,” the King exclaimed. “Do you think that was such a good idea? Now look at the fix I’m in.”
“Well,” said a plump woman, “no one in the country goes without food.”
“And no one,” said a clever-looking man, “is without a job.”
“Everyone is very well looked after,” said another woman, “without having to pay.”
“And all because you gave the money to the schools.”
“Now what do I do for an army?” the King moaned.
“I think you should have a cake sale,” a little girl said, “If all the cooks at the castle baked cakes and then you sold them, you might have enough money for an army.”
“What a good idea,” said the King, “I shall do just that.”
So the King of Velcruvia had a gigantic cake sale. There were all sorts of cakes: strawberry cakes, lemon tea cakes, coffee cakes, chocolate cakes, caramel cream cakes and bubblegum-chocolate-chip cakes.
The sale went very well and enough money was made for an army. (But not a real army.) The King decided that his granny should knit him an army of many different colours.
“You see son,” Granny said, “It’s knit one, pearl one, knit one, pearl one and then we can sew on buttons for eyes and I’ll knit an angry sort of nose and angry sorts of eyebrows. If you like, I can make them snarl, showing their knitted teeth?”
“Well,” the King said, “We don’t want to scare people too much. Just make them think twice about raiding my strawberry patch. Er, by the way, is the strawberry tart done?”
“Just about,” Granny said, continuing to knit. “Do you know that I heard from the postmen from Sizzlepot and Windyteeth that their armies are nothing but patchwork?”
“How would postmen know?” the King said, inspecting the strawberry tart and finding that it burnt his fingers.
“They have started to unravel,” Granny said.
“Aha!” said the King. “After all, a hand-knitted army won’t be able to hurt anyone really, but they will still look very intimidating in their many colours.”
Granny nodded and all the people had to agree with him. After all, he was the wisest King they had ever chosen.
WOLFDOG
(In memory of all the wolf-dogs that did not find homes.)
When Wolfdog was a puppy, he was very cute and fluffy. He was taken from his mother and given to a boy for a pet one cold and snowy Christmas.
The boy was too lazy to give Wolfdog his food and water every day or to brush his coat. Wolfdog was kept outside. He grew out of his fluffy coat and was not cute anymore. He was sad and very lonely and he whined.
“I can’t stand that dog’s noise,” the lazy boy’s mother said, “Get rid of it.”
When Wolfdog was put in the car, he jumped up and down and ran round in circles. He was so excited. He thought he was going somewhere fun.
Then in the middle of nowhere, the car stopped. Wolfdog was pushed out and the car drove away. At first, Wolfdog thought it was a terrible mistake. They had forgotten him! He ran and ran as fast as he could to catch the car, but it disappeared out of sight.
Wolfdog stood and howled. He howled for being alone in the middle of nowhere. He howled for knowing that his family had never wanted him and he howled for feeling totally lost.
Then he began to walk. He walked until his feet grew sore and he limped. He limped into a small town on the edge of the sea and there he learned to be afraid.
When he was a puppy he had learned to be sad and to whine. Now that he was grown, he learned to be afraid and to be very quiet. His eyes were watchful and his nose was keen. He knew where to find scraps so that he wasn’t always hungry and he knew the streets where he could not walk because people would throw stones and shout, “Go away Wolf!”
Wolfdog did not know what he looked like. He did not know that he was thin and rangy as a wolf with ice-blue eyes and people were afraid of his teeth.
His eyes had a constantly hungry look, but he was not starving for food. He was hungry for a kind look or a pat on the head. If a person were able to give him a pat on the head and a bowl of water, he would guard that person with his life. His loyalty was like the blood running in his veins. His heart belonged to one person. But he could not find that person.
At the top of the village at the end of a winding road, was a small house. Inside was an old woman as twisted and bent as a stick. She had a garden full of herbs that she used for medicines and so she was strong and her eyes were bright. Her hair was white and wild as a bird’s nest and so the children would say, “There goes the witch.”
“She’s not a witch,” one girl said, “She helps people.”
“Well, she looks like a witch,” a rude boy said and laughed.
And the children did not know that the old woman’s heart was sore when she heard these words and that she was terribly lonely and sad.
And then it happened on that very rare day when the old woman came into town to buy some groceries. She had hardened her heart as usual, expecting the cruel words. But she did not expect to see Wolfdog, standing alone and silent, watching with his ice-blue eyes, pretending to be invisible.
The old woman looked into those eyes and he looked into hers. She saw him. She actually saw him! And for once he did not see anger or hatred. He saw her eyes grow soft and his ears pricked up. He still waited while she did her shopping. He waited till she came back outside and then he trotted a few steps closer.
He did not hear anyone or anything else. He was intent on following that soft look.
The old woman walked, stopped and turned around. Wolfdog was still following at a distance, ears pricked up, one foot lifted, waiting, scenting the air.
She walked and stopped and looked. He followed, stopped and waited. He did not know. Would she grow angry? Would she throw stones? Would she shout? His ears moved this way and that, sensitive to a whisper.
The old woman reached her house. She opened the door and went inside, but did not close the door. She came back outside with a bowl of water and set it down on the step. Then she stood waiting with that soft look in her eyes that he thought might be kindness. Then she went inside. But the door was still open.
Wolfdog hesitated. He remembered being a puppy. He remembered being hungry. He remembered the car and the great nowhere. He trotted closer and before he knew it, his tongue was lapping up great slurps of cool water.
Then, totally unprepared, he felt the gentle pat on his head. Wolfdog’s heart dissolved. He grinned. But the old lady was not scared of his teeth. She could see the truth behind his ice-blue eyes. She patted him again and Wolfdog knew. This would be his home. He lay down on the step and regarded the world before him.
“This person is mine,” his eyes said, “and I will protect her with my life.”
And his heart said that he had never known the joy of being a puppy. So sometimes on summer days, he darts to fetch a stick on the beach or charges at the water. He jumps back and forth and barks; a joyous sound that he never heard before. He runs and snaps at the moths on moonlit evenings and chases his tail to make the old woman laugh.
But mostly he eats his food, laps his water and lies on the step with a great sigh of contentment for the pat on his head and the love in his heart.
All stories copyright Ingela Richardson.
dangling from his wrist,
A baby cried
And the king turned
A boy laughed
And the king ground his teeth in anger
A man spoke
And the king wept.
“I will give you everything,” the king said to the man.
“It is mine to give, if you will say I am God.”
But the man said
No.
And the king built a cross and killed the man and said:
“That is the End.”
But the man rose from death and said:
“I am the Beginning.”
And all who knew pain,
Knew love.
And all who knew fear,
Knew love
And all who had been thrown away by kings on the rubbish heap of the world
Knew that they were sanctified.
They were in a place of safety
In the home of the One who Was,
Is and Always will be
God.
The Sand Witch
When everyone goes home at the end of the day, the beach is left bare and empty. The surf burns red on the edge of the world and the sky is as deep blue as ink. The air is still warm, but there is a sudden hush. This is when the Sand Witch comes out.
The Sand Witch lives in a cave of slippery black stone covered with sprinkles of tiny periwinkles. During the day, the tide rushes in and her home is full of foamy water. But at night, the tide goes out and this wakes the Sand Witch, just as you wake when your mother pulls the blankets off your sleepy self.
For the Sand Witch sleeps in the sea. She loves its crisp, clear saltiness. She breathes it in like a fish, but she does not have a tail like a mermaid. She has long arms and legs and is completely green. Her hair is like the waving arms of an anemone. It is many colours and is never still. Her eyes are black and her nose is pointy and she smiles a thin black smile.
The Sand Witch wears long flowing dresses made of seaweed. Not the green sea weed that you see close by, but the pinks and purples of the deep ocean.
Every night when the Sand Witch comes out of her cave, the sky is full of stars and the moon is a shiny white marble.
She begins to dance, although people have never seen her. They think it is the wind that settles the sand back into place, as though no human foot had ever trod there. The first person to set foot on the beach at sunrise thinks, “Aaah,” and there is a long sigh and a great peace at being the first person to step onto the silken sand and make their mark.
This is the gift of the Sand Witch. She dances with her elegant legs and pointed toes and whirls and wisps the sand back into place. It is smoothed over as soft as cream.
Then the Sand Witch begins her real work. She looks for any rubbish that people may have left behind. Any bottles or cans or plastic packets. She shakes her head angrily because these are very dangerous for the sea animals and then she waves her arm and all the rubbish is whirled into a swirling, twisting cone that she clamps into a small box.
Some animals get stranded by the tides. Sometimes the Sand Witch has to help a hermit crab find his way home, or throw a starfish back into the sea. Then she sits with her feet dangling in a rock pool and sings.
It is a very strange and eerie song, like beads of glass trickling onto a crystal xylophone. Some people can hear her and the sound makes them feel like laughing.
The Sand Witch has a special friend - a fish of rainbow colours. He swims up to the Sand Witch’s toes and she tickles his belly. He tells her the stories of the deep ocean and she tells him the stories of people.
Then she rides on the back of an old sea turtle, ancient as the sea itself, and dips her hands in the light of the moon and dusts the sea with its silvery sheen.
The dolphins come out to play. They dive and dart and smile and in the distance, an old blue whale calls a warning that dawn is near.
The Sand Witch dances across the sea. She makes bracelets of foam at her wrists. Then she races the emerald seahorses home - back home to the cave so still.And there where the air is balmy and the water is warm, she slips beneath the ocean’s arm. Yawning and stretching her long green arms she pulls up her soft sea covers. Then blows a kiss to an orange octopus and dreams of a seagull, a sandpiper, a shell in the dune grass and happy children playing on golden sand.
THE HAND-KNITTED ARMY
The King of all Velcruvia had called all his people together for a special meeting.
“Fellow Velcruvians,” he said, “things have got pretty terrible. In fact I must warn you that we may be in for a spot of bother.”
“A spot of bother,” muttered the Prime Minister, “What does he mean?”
“I mean just this!” the King said crossly. “I have no army. What am I supposed to use to defend myself? How am I to go to war? How can the King of Velcruvia hold his head up high among the other nations of Sizzlepot and Windyteeth when he has no army!”
“Excuse me sir,” said the small private secretary, “You do have two soldiers.”
And the rest of the crowd all nodded their heads and muttered, “Two soldiers? Two soldiers – yes that’s right.”
“Two soldiers is not enough!” the King stamped his foot, “I want tanks and airplanes and ships and submarines! I want weapons no one else has ever heard of before! I want people to be afraid of me!”
“Is that because your family used to make marshmallows before you became king?” asked one of the children.
“That has nothing to do with it!” the king snapped, “And my family owned the marshmallow industry, they didn’t make them.”
“Still, it was a rather democratic choice your majesty don’t you think,” the Prime Minister said, “On the part of the people. They must have thought you would make a rather good king.”
“Righto,” the king said, “Let’s all go for a walk in my gardens.”
The crowd followed the king through the gardens, oooohing and aaaahing at the exquisite pear trees and pearly pomegranates.
“Now,” said the king, (he was talking out loud to whomever happened to be nearest to him – at the time a small girl) “Now, I hear that the schools have everything they need, is that not so?”
“The schools are rich sir,” the little girl said, “I don’t know of a single school that does not have the most up-to-date equipment, textbooks, stationery supplies, teachers, teacher training courses and fully subscribed extra-mural activities.”
“That indeed sounds wonderful,” the king said, “Yes, and indeed I do remember we said we would make education our top priority. You expressed yourself very well. How old are you?”
“I am six years old sir,” the little girl said.
“Well then I do believe we are educating you very well,” the king said.
“I would have to agree sir,” the little girl said. She plucked a strawberry from a bush at her feet and ate it.
The king continued walking.
“Do you know why?” he said, again thinking out loud, “Why it is that education is doing so amazingly well and schools are rich and pupils are well-spoken and polite, if perhaps a little quick to nick the King’s strawberries?”
“Why is that your majesty?” asked a little boy who was also eating strawberries.
“Because we gave the schools all our money,” the King exclaimed. “Do you think that was such a good idea? Now look at the fix I’m in.”
“Well,” said a plump woman, “no one in the country goes without food.”
“And no one,” said a clever-looking man, “is without a job.”
“Everyone is very well looked after,” said another woman, “without having to pay.”
“And all because you gave the money to the schools.”
“Now what do I do for an army?” the King moaned.
“I think you should have a cake sale,” a little girl said, “If all the cooks at the castle baked cakes and then you sold them, you might have enough money for an army.”
“What a good idea,” said the King, “I shall do just that.”
So the King of Velcruvia had a gigantic cake sale. There were all sorts of cakes: strawberry cakes, lemon tea cakes, coffee cakes, chocolate cakes, caramel cream cakes and bubblegum-chocolate-chip cakes.
The sale went very well and enough money was made for an army. (But not a real army.) The King decided that his granny should knit him an army of many different colours.
“You see son,” Granny said, “It’s knit one, pearl one, knit one, pearl one and then we can sew on buttons for eyes and I’ll knit an angry sort of nose and angry sorts of eyebrows. If you like, I can make them snarl, showing their knitted teeth?”
“Well,” the King said, “We don’t want to scare people too much. Just make them think twice about raiding my strawberry patch. Er, by the way, is the strawberry tart done?”
“Just about,” Granny said, continuing to knit. “Do you know that I heard from the postmen from Sizzlepot and Windyteeth that their armies are nothing but patchwork?”
“How would postmen know?” the King said, inspecting the strawberry tart and finding that it burnt his fingers.
“They have started to unravel,” Granny said.
“Aha!” said the King. “After all, a hand-knitted army won’t be able to hurt anyone really, but they will still look very intimidating in their many colours.”
Granny nodded and all the people had to agree with him. After all, he was the wisest King they had ever chosen.
WOLFDOG
(In memory of all the wolf-dogs that did not find homes.)
When Wolfdog was a puppy, he was very cute and fluffy. He was taken from his mother and given to a boy for a pet one cold and snowy Christmas.
The boy was too lazy to give Wolfdog his food and water every day or to brush his coat. Wolfdog was kept outside. He grew out of his fluffy coat and was not cute anymore. He was sad and very lonely and he whined.
“I can’t stand that dog’s noise,” the lazy boy’s mother said, “Get rid of it.”
When Wolfdog was put in the car, he jumped up and down and ran round in circles. He was so excited. He thought he was going somewhere fun.
Then in the middle of nowhere, the car stopped. Wolfdog was pushed out and the car drove away. At first, Wolfdog thought it was a terrible mistake. They had forgotten him! He ran and ran as fast as he could to catch the car, but it disappeared out of sight.
Wolfdog stood and howled. He howled for being alone in the middle of nowhere. He howled for knowing that his family had never wanted him and he howled for feeling totally lost.
Then he began to walk. He walked until his feet grew sore and he limped. He limped into a small town on the edge of the sea and there he learned to be afraid.
When he was a puppy he had learned to be sad and to whine. Now that he was grown, he learned to be afraid and to be very quiet. His eyes were watchful and his nose was keen. He knew where to find scraps so that he wasn’t always hungry and he knew the streets where he could not walk because people would throw stones and shout, “Go away Wolf!”
Wolfdog did not know what he looked like. He did not know that he was thin and rangy as a wolf with ice-blue eyes and people were afraid of his teeth.
His eyes had a constantly hungry look, but he was not starving for food. He was hungry for a kind look or a pat on the head. If a person were able to give him a pat on the head and a bowl of water, he would guard that person with his life. His loyalty was like the blood running in his veins. His heart belonged to one person. But he could not find that person.
At the top of the village at the end of a winding road, was a small house. Inside was an old woman as twisted and bent as a stick. She had a garden full of herbs that she used for medicines and so she was strong and her eyes were bright. Her hair was white and wild as a bird’s nest and so the children would say, “There goes the witch.”
“She’s not a witch,” one girl said, “She helps people.”
“Well, she looks like a witch,” a rude boy said and laughed.
And the children did not know that the old woman’s heart was sore when she heard these words and that she was terribly lonely and sad.
And then it happened on that very rare day when the old woman came into town to buy some groceries. She had hardened her heart as usual, expecting the cruel words. But she did not expect to see Wolfdog, standing alone and silent, watching with his ice-blue eyes, pretending to be invisible.
The old woman looked into those eyes and he looked into hers. She saw him. She actually saw him! And for once he did not see anger or hatred. He saw her eyes grow soft and his ears pricked up. He still waited while she did her shopping. He waited till she came back outside and then he trotted a few steps closer.
He did not hear anyone or anything else. He was intent on following that soft look.
The old woman walked, stopped and turned around. Wolfdog was still following at a distance, ears pricked up, one foot lifted, waiting, scenting the air.
She walked and stopped and looked. He followed, stopped and waited. He did not know. Would she grow angry? Would she throw stones? Would she shout? His ears moved this way and that, sensitive to a whisper.
The old woman reached her house. She opened the door and went inside, but did not close the door. She came back outside with a bowl of water and set it down on the step. Then she stood waiting with that soft look in her eyes that he thought might be kindness. Then she went inside. But the door was still open.
Wolfdog hesitated. He remembered being a puppy. He remembered being hungry. He remembered the car and the great nowhere. He trotted closer and before he knew it, his tongue was lapping up great slurps of cool water.
Then, totally unprepared, he felt the gentle pat on his head. Wolfdog’s heart dissolved. He grinned. But the old lady was not scared of his teeth. She could see the truth behind his ice-blue eyes. She patted him again and Wolfdog knew. This would be his home. He lay down on the step and regarded the world before him.
“This person is mine,” his eyes said, “and I will protect her with my life.”
And his heart said that he had never known the joy of being a puppy. So sometimes on summer days, he darts to fetch a stick on the beach or charges at the water. He jumps back and forth and barks; a joyous sound that he never heard before. He runs and snaps at the moths on moonlit evenings and chases his tail to make the old woman laugh.
But mostly he eats his food, laps his water and lies on the step with a great sigh of contentment for the pat on his head and the love in his heart.
All stories copyright Ingela Richardson.
