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‘mairy / ˈmɛri /, adj. a portmanteau of the words merry and fairy.’
The Oxfurd Dictionary, 122nd edition
Once upon a time, not so long ago, in a land not that far away, there lived a farmer and his wife, whose only blessing was a son called Joner. The couple showered great love upon the boy, and through exemplary temperance, abstinence and obedience to God’s Word, they raised what they thought was a fine young man, whom they promised would one day, when they entered God’s Kingdom, inherit all they possessed.
But young Joner was having none of this ‘waiting-for-his-inheritance’ crap, so on his eighteenth birthday and in eager anticipation of a happy-ever-after life filled with booze, broads and bawdy ballads, he slaughtered his parents and fed them to the pigs. But, alas, Joner’s plans came unstuck, for in his greedy haste he was unaware of a farm mortgaged to the hilt and a banking account drawn empty. With the farm and his parents’ chattels repossessed, Joner cursed his parents’ improvidence and set upon the open road, carrying only the frayed clothes on his spindly frame and a grim determination to find fame, fortune and his fairy-tale ending.
All day long, Joner walked along the dusty open road until as dusk approached he, weary and hungry, came upon a brick cottage at the edge of a great woods. Curls of wispy smoke rose from the cottage chimney, and the delicious aroma of cooked, seasoned meat drifted from the open windows. Joner’s mouth drooled and his stomach churned as he traipsed up to the front door and knocked.
‘Who the fuck is that?’ a voice said from within, and after a clacking of heels and much oinking and huffing and puffing, the door opened, and before Joner stood a porky, pink pig holding a crinkled napkin in one trotter and a shish kebab of greasy meat in the other.
‘Good evening, my friend,’ Joner said. ‘All day I have been on the open road and am weary. Would you be able to provide a bed for the night for an unfortunate being?’
The pig raised its snout in disdain and said, ‘Look, pal, I’d love to help you, but I’m full up at the moment. My brothers had a minor housing problem with a wolf, and they’re shacked up here with me while my broker sorts out the insurance.’
‘Are you able to spare some food as I have not eaten all day and am hungry?’
The pig whipped the skewer behind his back. ‘I’m sorry. We’ve just finished dinner. Tomorrow’s shopping day, and we’re out of food until then.’
‘Well, thanks for your time.’ Joner’s shoulders slumped as he turned and headed away from the cottage.
‘Hey,’ the pig called out to Joner, followed by a belch. ‘If you follow the path into the woods, you’ll come across a cottage where a little old lady lives. Try her.’
‘OK. Thanks again.’
The door slammed shut, and the pig within shouted, ‘Right, you lot. Who the fuck ate my wolf shank?’
Joner entered the great woods and followed a narrow path lit by a twilight mottled by the woods’ canopy. He soon came upon a quaint cottage covered in ivy and surrounded by neat vegetable plots. As he went to knock on the front door, he heard groans and moans and entreaties to deity coming from within.
Muted whispering greeted Joner’s knock, followed by stifled giggling and shushing. After a short silence, the door opened with a prolonged creak, and a wolf’s head, panting and red-hooded, appeared.
‘Whattauwant?’ the wolf said.
‘My friend,’ Joner said, ‘would you be able to provide a bed for an unfortunate being?’
The wolf looked Joner up and down. ‘Sorry, buddy, love to help, but there’s only one bed here.’
‘Then a meal?’
‘Bit preoccupied at present.’
A frail voice behind the wolf said, ‘Come on, you big bad boy, I want you to feast upon my flesh at least twice more before that goody-two-shoes of a brat of a granddaughter of mine turns up.’
‘Sorry,’ the wolf said to Joner. ‘Duty calls. Try the mill further down the path.’ The door slammed shut, and a mighty howl rose from within.
As Joner continued along the path, night cloud hid the gibbous moon, and the path darkened. A golden light spilt from a small window ahead and guided him to the mill.
Joner knocked on the mill door, and the golden light within dulled. A beautiful black-haired woman—in black stiletto heels, a black, skintight leather suit and brandishing a black whip—opened the door.
The smell of fresh straw filled Joner’s nostrils as he said, ‘Good evening, madam. Would you be able to provide a bed for an unfortunate being?’
‘I’m sorry,’ the woman said. ‘There are no bedrooms here. This is a working mill and only has a dungeon.’
‘Then are you able to provide a meal for a hungry soul?’
‘Sorry, dinner was served at six. We’re on a very tight production schedule.’ And she slammed the door shut.
As Joner turned to seek his way back to the darkened path, the woman within shouted, ‘Rumpy! Stilly! You boys better not be sitting on your half-arses, or you’ll feel the sting of my cat-o’-tails here.’ A whip cracked.
‘No, mistress,’ distant voices said, followed by subservient whimpering and nervous giggles. The whip cracked again. The mill wheel rumbled below, and the golden glow rose again from the bowels of the mill and spilt out its window. A third whip-crack released muffled cries of ‘O, mistress, thank you’ and febrile squeals of delight from below.
Deeper into the woods Joner walked. Narrower the path became. Blacker the verge and Joner’s mood grew. He had all but given up hope of food and shelter when he stumbled into a clearing, amid which stood a dwelling shaped like a huge mushroom. Joner climbed a ladder resting against the mushroom’s stalk and knocked on a trapdoor above the top of the ladder. The door squeaked open, and a young, bald woman looked down upon Joner. She had black mascara smeared around her eyes, ruby lipstick smudged across her cheeks and fluffy pink slippers adorning her feet. Her tight T-shirt emblazoned with #FairyTaleHeroinesToo failed to hide her voluptuousness, and a cigarette, three-quarters ash, hung from her pouty lips.
‘Hello,’ she said, followed by a hiccup. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I hope so,’ Joner said. ‘Would you be able to provide a meal and a bed for the night for one down on his luck?’
‘Is that all?’ she said with the tiniest glint of naughtiness in her big, blue eyes.
Joner went to answer when a voice called from within, ‘Who’s that, Rapunzel?’
The woman at the door giggled and said, ‘Why, Talia, it’s a young man.’
‘Is he tall, dark, handsome and princely?’
‘Not really. More short, pale, plain and commonish.’
‘Well, tell him to bugger off. I can’t stand those little pricks that put you to sleep with their man-whining. Get him to show you the loot, Punz, or give him the boot.’
‘Sorry. Her house, her rules,’ Rapunzel said to Joner, and she closed the trapdoor.
As Joner climbed down the rungs while cursing his luck, the trapdoor creaked open. He looked up, hopeful, and saw Rapunzel’s head poke out.
‘Psst, Cutie,’ she whispered. ‘Come back Tuesday, after I’ve had my hair done.’ And having given him a flirty wave, a lascivious lick of her luscious lips and a mischievous giggle, she closed the trapdoor.
Onward Joner tread along the path. Soon the night sky filled with clouds, and blackness inked the woods. He crept forward with his hands outstretched and cautious steps until he came upon a great tree trunk, and at its base he lay down and covered his body with leaves and rested his weary head upon an aerial root cushioned with spongy forest lichen. As his eyelids heavied and sleep beckoned, a brilliant white light appeared in the distance and drifted towards him. The woods glowed emerald as Joner shielded his eyes. The brilliant light stilled before him, and a girl—of his age and of pale skin, blonde hair and white robe—appeared.
Awed, Joner said, ‘Who are you?’
‘I am called Gilda of Gethsemane,’ the girl said with a voice as soft and pure as a snowdrift.
‘And what are you?’
‘I am a wood nymphomaniac.’ And before he could ponder what such a creature might be, Gilda shed her cloak and her inhibitions and jumped upon a startled Joner and ravaged him. Thrice the wood nymph crowned, and thrice the wooded cock crowed, before the young lovers collapsed in embrace and slept.
Next morning, Joner woke to a dappled light upon his naked, love-sore body. He turned towards the cloaked form sleeping beside him. Gilda! Was she his fairytale ending? His one true love? If so, frolicking and fornicating amidst the woods wouldn’t be too shabby a life. O Gilda! His love, his life, his lust. His fairytale beginning. His happy-ever-after.
Joner’s one true love stirred and turned and bade him a good morning. And Joner jumped to his feet! Before him lay not the ethereal beauty of last night, but an old, haggard buzzard of a woman: hooked-nosed, toothless, wrinkly, warty and green-tinged. Her hair rose north. Her breasts sagged south. And her hips spread east and west.
‘Who are you?’ Joner said as he cupped his hands over his manhood and shuddered.
‘I am she who ravaged you last night,’ she said, and a gummy, pink smile flashed between her saggy jowls.
‘I don’t think so. What have you done with Gilda?’
‘I am she.’
‘Like hell you are.’
‘Oh dear! It always happens. They go to bed with Gilda and wake up with me.’
‘Who’s me?’
‘Baba Yaga.’
And the witch laughed and clicked her fingers. A mortar and pestle appeared before her, and she hauled herself and Joner’s clothes on board, and with another click of her gnarled fingers and a mighty cackle, she flew off into the woods and disappeared.
Joner hobbled on for two days and two nights. He licked dew from fern fronds to slake his thirst and rested his weary body at the base of elegant elms that wrapped their gnarly boughs around him to protect him from the woods’ nasties. During the day, Joner limped on, alone except for his nakedness and the dull thud of his footfall. At night, he, in fitful sleep, witnessed tinkerbelles—blind drunk on meadow mead and high on fairy dust snorted from atop magic mushrooms—rave about fire’s edge, and moustachioed giants fee-fi-fo-fum as they goose-stepped through the underwood, and conga lines of scruffy dwarfs hi-ho-hi-ho as they set off to work the mines underground where night reigned eternal, and noble knights sit around campfires, saddle-sore from their day’s riding, and feast on dragon meat and polish their armour to a brilliant sheen and tell tales yearning for the olden days of valour, conquest and distressed damsels.
On the third day a wood-worn, foot-sore Joner staggered from the other end of the great woods and collapsed, and as he drew his last breath, a great whiteness fell upon his nakedness and he, like this fairy tale, came to a rather sad end …
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