A Story I’ve Read Before

Artwork by Madeleine Vitanza, staff artist.

The crone in the moon is spinning tonight. Her wheel spins as the earth rotates about its axis, tugging upon lost cotton in the wind, forming the thread that connects the stars. The crone in the moon is spinning tonight and I am following the needlepoint shooting star that disappears behind the glass mountain.

I think I may have read this story before: the mountain, the moon, something lost, something found. The glass mountain where heroes go to die and are then revived. The glass mountain nestled deep within the jungle. Every story begins when the clever peasant or the wayward prince finds themselves in the forest. I hold the lantern in my hand and let it illuminate the mouth of the jungle that I know like a forgotten memory, an imprint of something primal. It casts shadows deep beyond the twisted trees.

I find you under the shawra tree, and I should warn you of the shakchunni who lives there. The ghost of a girl haunted by the cruel hands she suffered in, and the love she longed to find in them. Well-meaning mothers warn their daughters to tie their hair into a perfect bun, lest the wraith grabs them to join her misery. I heard these words of caution from around the corner; I was never one to be the illustrious daughter.

The ghost’s bitter heart hanging from the trees and her wild jet black hair look a lot like mine. She wants to be angry. She wants to be perfect. She doesn’t know if she wants to slit the traveler’s throat or follow him home. I should warn you of the shakchunni who will kneel beside you when she finds you at her door. But I don’t, I sit down next to you under the green canopy. I let my red shawl slip past my shoulders.

You don’t sleep. I see you watch for the glass mountain, now invisible in the darkness. I see your eyes flicker but you hold your head self-assured, and don’t let me know where the image cracks or when you’ve lost your way. By the daylight, I would be able to watch you write in the journal you keep beside you. I can make out scribbled findings, plans, and cautionary words from the wise men who sent you here. By the moonlight, you tell me stories to pass the time. You tell me about a faraway land, maybe another planet beyond the spun stars. You tell me about a palace in the desert, that sounds like a story I have heard before. There was a palace, and a desert, and two half-brothers. One born of a rakosh (monstrous giant with an appetite for human flesh in Bengali folklore) and another born of a human. Their bond was stronger than their instincts, and despite it all, they saved each other.

I don’t know who you are yet, but I think I have an impression. Your eyes are tired and your teeth are kind. You don’t look like a painted hero in confidence and glory and neither do I. I’m not quite tailor, not quite damsel, and definitely no prince. The crone in the moon offered divine blessings but her palace swarmed with curses and prices to pay. The ghosts choke with vengeance, but live in the leaves because only the trees pray for them. In the stories, this jungle is a fleeting setting, the arena for the hero’s trials, but it is home to me. This jungle raised me. I’ve read by stolen candlelight, that not everything is as it seems. I know you’re not the traveler you claim to be. I know you look a lot like me.

Artist Statement

This short story was inspired by the fairy tales I grew up with, and some that I have come across more recently. My favorite fairy tales/folk tales that I grew up with were Grimm’s Fairy Tales, such as “The Singing, Soaring Lark” and many variations of a story about a glass mountain (and the trials of heroes to surpass this obstacle). I also grew up with Bengali fairy tales about the shakchunni and other vengeful ghosts. I’ve also recently come across the tale of the two half-brothers, Sashara Dal and Champa Dal, which has quickly become a favorite. Despite the various cultural backgrounds of these stories, they hold many character archetypes in common. The inspiration for this story was my appreciation for how these archetypes represent how people view their best and worst qualities, what they desire, and what they fear. We see ourselves in every aspect of these stories, and they impart lessons as to how we can approach the world. As simple as they appear on the surface, these archetypes are also nuanced and show dimensional characters.

Fatema Rahaman is the creative writing team director and a poet for the Incandescent Review. Her work is often inspired by her culture and love for imagery and nature. She has been previously published by Hey Young Writers and her work has been recognized by New York Times and Molloy College.