09/30/2018
Torfdoen
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Torfdoen
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The Story of the Thorn King
In the realm of fairy tales, the news went that there was a kind of wild rose at the foot of a mountain in a place that was always in the shade of which no instinct had previously been able to be stolen. The boldest speculations literally ran around this plant. Life force. Undescribable grace. But also dark antics of nasty ferocity, sensual enchantment and death could be found in the many voices and stories, each of which had its own. Yes, there was even talk of a mythical creature that should stand up to you when you passed the entrance of the forest. Only a courageous woman and her faithful companion were known, who set out to turn the remotest corners of Italy upside down, to salvage the legendary goddess perennial and to do news. More light, and to soften the terrible tendency of the possessive population, was their incentive (Note, - the possessive population). The results have been handed down and can be studied for all edification and joy in the sacristy of Parfumo.
They also inspired that hero or nobleman, or better: the ignorant globetrotter, to embark on the arduous journey of capturing a breath of this obscure, but extremely tempting specimen and carrying it into the world. He came into possession of a map describing the way to the Rosenweihestätte and set out to leave his small village to visit the remote steppe. He was a funny guy. He would win this rose for himself, he thought.
For a long time one did not see him, thought he had disappeared, but then he came back to the village, visibly changed. He told of a field of dry thorny undergrowth through which he passed, with shoots that no flower had ever allowed to sprout. He spoke of a desolate landscape, tormenting like needlesticks, and when you looked into his eyes, you found yourself in it. Dull veils surrounded him, fumes laced his throat and irritated his eyes, but he continued to greedily draw in the beguiling, sharp smoke that flowed towards him.
The thicket of sickles and bristles seemed insurmountable. Exhausted he sank down and cursed his misfortune.
Certainly already sufficiently lost to the spirit, a revelation or the like must have come to him. At least his descriptions become confused at this point.
The tendrils shall have opened and he walked towards the rock massif, where a mirror was laid out on a prickly throne, framing the brave man's image - but also not.
He should have seen himself - and please forgive this, dear reader, if I reproduce the anecdote in its ridiculous completeness - in the midst of endless shoots and woody shrubs as their origin and source of life, as king of the pond of roses under the shady mountain.
And so he is said to have endured many hours, unable to detach himself.
Just imagine the picture.
They also inspired that hero or nobleman, or better: the ignorant globetrotter, to embark on the arduous journey of capturing a breath of this obscure, but extremely tempting specimen and carrying it into the world. He came into possession of a map describing the way to the Rosenweihestätte and set out to leave his small village to visit the remote steppe. He was a funny guy. He would win this rose for himself, he thought.
For a long time one did not see him, thought he had disappeared, but then he came back to the village, visibly changed. He told of a field of dry thorny undergrowth through which he passed, with shoots that no flower had ever allowed to sprout. He spoke of a desolate landscape, tormenting like needlesticks, and when you looked into his eyes, you found yourself in it. Dull veils surrounded him, fumes laced his throat and irritated his eyes, but he continued to greedily draw in the beguiling, sharp smoke that flowed towards him.
The thicket of sickles and bristles seemed insurmountable. Exhausted he sank down and cursed his misfortune.
Certainly already sufficiently lost to the spirit, a revelation or the like must have come to him. At least his descriptions become confused at this point.
The tendrils shall have opened and he walked towards the rock massif, where a mirror was laid out on a prickly throne, framing the brave man's image - but also not.
He should have seen himself - and please forgive this, dear reader, if I reproduce the anecdote in its ridiculous completeness - in the midst of endless shoots and woody shrubs as their origin and source of life, as king of the pond of roses under the shady mountain.
And so he is said to have endured many hours, unable to detach himself.
Just imagine the picture.
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