“And alone would roam this witch as certain tides of Spring, taking the form of a young girl in her beauty, singing among tall flowers in gardens of Erl. She would go at the hour when hawk-moths first pass from bell to bell. And of those few that had seen her was this son of the Lord of Erl. And though it was calamity to love her, though it rapt men’s thoughts away from all things true, yet the beauty of the form that was not hers had lured him to gaze at her with deep young eyes, till — whether flattery or pity moved her, who knows that is mortal? — she spared him whom her arts might well have destroyed and, changing instantly in that garden there, showed him the rightful form of the deadly witch. And even then his eyes did not at once forsake her, and in the moments when his eyes still lingered upon that withered shape that haunted the hollyhocks he had her gratitude that may not be bought nor won by any charms that Christians know. And she beckoned and he followed, and learned from her on her thunder-haunted hill that on the day of need a sword might be made of metals not sprung from Earth, with runes along it that would waft away, certainly any thrust of earthly sword, and except for three master-runes, thwart the weapons of Elfland.”

I use this passage from Lord Dunsany’s King of Elfland’s Daughter to test out new inks and practice with my still new Lamy fountain pen, so I’ve got it practically memorized which was part of the point of using it. It’s a truly beautiful piece, one of many. Dunsany’s work straddles the line between poetry and prose, accomplishing the aims of both with deceptive ease and grace.

So as I was slipping into sleep last night the sounds of the words were trickling through my brain like water over a pebble-strewn stream bed, and a thought struck me. In fairy tales, and stories of all kinds, the handsome prince must save the lovely princess from the evil, ugly witch and win her heart with his gallantry.

But what if the dashing prince, “this son of The Lord of Erl,” surrounded as he was by the shallow beauty of court, would roam alone “at certain tides of Spring” longing for an unidentifiable something that his superficial existence could not provide? When he saw the witch “singing among tall flowers in gardens of Erl” it was not “the beauty of the form that was not hers” that “lured him to gaze at her with deep young eyes” but the promise of the deadly witch within, and she saw in him the yearning for more than can be seen by the eyes of men that strained in her own heart. And “changing instantly in that garden there, showed him the rightful form of the deadly witch” as both a test, which he passed “in the moments when his gazed still lingered upon that withered shape that haunted the hollyhocks,” and an answer to the question hanging silently between then in the heavy air. And in that act proved to him her honesty and won his heart.

What a twist on the tale that would be! It is not the path that Dunsany’s classic wanders down, nor should it be. The handsome prince does not fall for the wicked witch for good reason. But what if, just once, he did?