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A Modern-Day Fairy Tale

I fear, dear reader, that it is only fair to warn you that these accounts are not actually about a Hanna but about a Herman. For you see, during a short period of this Herman’s life, he had adopted the name Hanna for reasons which seemed like a good idea at the time. The name stuck and so became the title of this modern-day fairy tale. Though Herman did not exactly live happily ever after – as is custom with any self-respecting fairy tale worthy of an award placed on a shelf next to an elf to collect dust and lose the little value it had in time – he was considerably less unhappy after certain issues and persons involved had been dealt with accordingly. This is a part of his unhappy story. Alas. 

Once upon a time, in a land quite far away – but not quite far enough to not be a nuisance to most of the rest of the world – just a couple of trees removed from the hustle and the bustle of the hectic village life, stood a mediocre ivory tower that would have been ignored by the majority of people were it not that the King and the Queen happened to have made it their dwelling. Together with their middle-aged son Herman the Unhappy who had, for many a year, been known as Hanna, they tried to make the best of life. So far, it had not been quite a success. 

At a local tavern, sat a sharp-dressed traveller and a regular at a round table drinking ale whilst engaged in a conversation that was overheard by all and sundry, as they could not keep their voices down.

“So, Hanna had not always been a Hanna?” asked the traveller. 

“No. Before Hanna was a Hanna, Hanna was a Herman. Both names did not spark joy.” 

“What, I beg of you, might have happened in royal Herbert’s life that had made him so unhappy?” 

One customer opined, “It must have been his birth.”  

And all that knew the members of the Royal Court well agreed upon this. Yet, there were those in a corner of the inn who had a different look on this matter.  

“I must insist,” the cheerful elf in green tights and pink tutu mentioned, “that Herbert must have even been a very unhappy spermatozoid that had never really wanted to reach the egg in the first place. But when he accidentally did, he was pushed in against his will. The others must have done it just to spite him.” 

There were some hearty laughs and slapping of the thighs. The innkeeper was a pot-bellied ogre with a filthy shirt that could not entirely cover the enormous gut, and all could see the belly fluff that had been gathering there for weeks. Many of the customers were wondering the same thing, “How come belly fluff is black, when the shirts worn are white?” Before anyone could ask, the innkeeper looked them gravely into the eyes, and said with a sincere and low voice, “You have, I gather, never heard the story of how poor Herman, woe is him, became Hanna. Let me then, my fellows, tell you the tale of our unhappy prince.”  

He walked to the round table and climbed on it staring round at the now silent folks in his tavern. Raising his pint and toasting to the health of Hanna the Unhappy, he started his tale. 

“He was called unhappy, chaps, for this adolescent young, spoiled brat was severely depressed and not even the bestest of jesters of the royal court had ever been able to lift his spirits and conjure even the tiniest of smiles upon his sad, chubby resting bitchface. It had – a long, long time ago – been known throughout the lands that he was an unhappy lad and the king, tired of his miserable son, sent for the three wisest of men in the world to come and cure what ailed him. 

“Soon the three so-called wise men appeared at the royal court to see Herman, woe is him. The first one walked up to the royal, yet plain, throne upon which the unhappy lad was seated. With a grave voice he spoke unto Herman, woe is him, about life. His views and thoughts were shared on great many things, though it all seemed unrelated to the situation. Next, Herman, woe is him, was shown a gift that had been brought for him by this grey-haired, bespectacled geezer. It was his belief that this would surely make the melancholy minor the happiest man alive. 

“From a suitcase he pulled a nice-looking yellow dress and a pair of ladies’ shoes. They were presented to the unhappy teenager, and he was told to wear them because, as the wise, old coot explained, women have all the fun. Women do not carry the burden of hard labour and deep, troublesome thoughts. They can spend all day making daisy chains and gossip about the neighbours over a hot cup of tea with biscuits. Try it and you will see that happiness will have come over you out of the blue before the next full moon.” 

It was at this point that the innkeeper had to stop as the whole tavern had erupted in bouts of laughter. As these people were not as wise as the old man at the ivory tower, they could not see the wisdom behind his thinking. They were, of course, but the working class and did not know any better. The laughing ensued as a result of ignorance. Glasses were raised after the laughing had stopped to urge the innkeeper to continue as it was all most entertaining. 

“Herman, woe is him, put on the frock and matching shoes and pranced around the room mopingly. It did not make him the least bit happy and would not do so within the time set by the first wise man. So, the second one was called forward. He curtsied as he approached the prince who was still wearing the yellow dress and shoes.  

“Sire, I have come from a long way away and carry knowledge unbeknownst to anyone. He spoke of the Universe and, much like his predecessor, carried on not once making any sense to anyone. ‘Get on with it,’ the king ordered and, somewhat taken aback by this sudden interruption, he sheepishly dug deep into the pocket in his black overcoat. From it, he pulled up a small bottle containing a nasty smelling potion that, according to the dark stranger, contained the purest form of happiness distilled from the bark of the only tree growing in the desert surrounding his country. A few drops should be taken at breakfast for at least a month, and the prince would see, happiness would come over him before even the month was out. 

“Herman, woe is him, drank some of the potion on the morrow and he felt immediate changes come over him. Not so much as to his unhappy disposition, but he started losing some of his bodily hair. Soon, it appeared to him he was growing what looked like breasts and his spoke with a higher voice. It did not make him happy.” 

Once more, the entire crowd broke out in laughter and the innkeeper had to wait for the quiet to return. These ignoramuses could not see for they did not know. They could not be held responsible for their disrespectful reactions as they did not have all the dots on their dice. After a deep sigh and a deep breath, the storyteller continued.  

“After a month he said unto his father and mother, ‘I am still not happy. Woe is me.’ The third and last wise man was brought forward. Dressed in rags and smelling foul the man spoke through blackened teeth of everything. It was unintelligible nonsense. His last words, however, were spoken clearly and with the voice of an angel, “My advice, young sire, is to change your name, for your burden lies within it and without it thou shall be free. I have spoken and bid you adieu. 

The following day the king announced to the whole of the land that his son would no longer go by the name of Herman, woe is him, but would henceforth be known as Hanna.

The hysteria that followed was one for the books. Elves, orcs, people and creatures of all kinds were rolling on the floor kicking and laughing. “This,” the elf in green tights and tutu conveyed, “must really be the most royal dim-witted lot the world has ever known.’ But I beg of you, dear reader, to not hold them in contempt. It is not their fault they were not as well-educated as those scholars. 

“For a year and a day,” the innkeeper went on, “the unhappy prince was referred to as her, she and Hanna. She was not happy. The three wise men were called to court once more. They faced the princess and smiled when they saw the results of their joined effort. The princess did not smile. “I am not happy,” she proclaimed. And upon those four words, the three wise men were shot. She tore off her dress, kicked off her shoes, and spit upon their dead bodies. This made him feel a little bit better. And so he lived a little less unhappily ever after.” 

“Wait,” one the drunk traveller said baffled, “you mean to say these three wise men had not succeeded in making the young lad happy by turning him into a girl?” 

“No. Now sod off.” 

All went home and lived considerably happier ever after than Herman, woe is him, did.