We did magic, in kindergarten. There’s no two ways about it. Oh, we didn’t say that we did, there was no system, no thought-out rituals or organised worship of strange deities or devils, but there was magic. Step on the wrong log, and you were cursed to die. Slit your thumb on the sharp rock, and you were safe. Dance in puddles to make it rain, sing songs to make the sun come out. If that’s not magical thinking, then I’ve misunderstood the concept. So, under the guidance of the Magi, the ones blessed with both active imaginations and a penchant for leadership, we did magic.
I never believed in Santa Claus, and I’ve never known anyone who did, but we knew, knew, that there were trolls in the mountains and elves1 in the forest. Examining the mountains across the fjord through playground binoculars, we could see the trolls’ caves. And as for the elves, well, one of them would show up at least twice a year! A very pedagogically minded elf, he taught us not to litter in the forest. We knew, of course, that it was one of the minders dressed up with a wig and a fake tail, but it was also an elf. Both were there at the same time, the elf temporarily inhabiting the minder, who took the role of the shaman channelling the spirit world. There were elves.
And then, one day, there weren’t. It was just a minder in a wig. The log was a log like any other, and dancing in puddles only got your feet wet.
I suppose this is something that has to happen, but I miss the magic world, though by now I hardly even remember it. I think, perhaps, my love of speculative fiction comes from the search for those occasional books which, for a brief time, can put me back in that world. And oh, how I long to capture it on paper myself.
1 - “elves” is an imprecise translation. Don’t go thinking Tolkien or Tinkerbell. In Norwegian, we might call them subterraneans, and they’re not so distant from the trolls as all that.