The Crown Princess, a fairy tale (in English & Danish)

This fairy tale is coming here now to honor a 22-year old African woman in Denmark.  Earlier this Summer, some two months ago, she met a Dane in Spain, who lured her to Denmark with all sorts of promises.  Upon arriving at his farm, she was soon shackled, forced to eat dirt, raped in unimaginable ways and forced to sleep naked with his dogs.  Friday, September 11, she managed to escape all bloodied to a nearby house across a field.  The 36 year old Dane was arrested, but the true tragedy is that since the African woman's identity papers are not in order, she too has been arrested.  Below, you'll find it in the original Danish, for those of you who can...  My hope with publishing the story in this way is that this young African woman will now be treated like the princess she is.

The Crown Princess

by Bent Lorentzen © 2009

“This fairy tale… exquisitely engages some very serious problems in our [Danish] society”

--Jørgen Poulsen, former General-secretary, Denmark’s Red Cross,

current Member of Parliament

Not so far away from the Christiansborg parliamentary castle, on the other side of the little canal and past the bronze Bishop Absalon on his mighty horse, sleeps a middle aged man.  He lies so quiet under an obscure overhang between two boutiques all lit up for Christmas, and seems unaffected by the cold drizzle so typical to December in Denmark that has soaked his tattered clothes.  He is dreaming.  But his dreams are not like those walking past him on Strøget, the famous Copenhagen shoppers’ walking-street, who are thinking about how much they’ve overdrawn their VISA card, or that evening’s Christmas dinner, or what awaits them under the tree.  The man lying there is definitely not thinking about a new laptop or the latest MP3, which is exactly what many of the well-dressed youngsters towing their parents along the cobblestone street are manipulatively whispering intimations of.

No, he is dreaming of his youth in a far-away land with his beautiful wife and their lively daughter, who walked to the palm-leafed school down the winding dirt trail every morning with her talkative friends from their ancient village.  Electricity and television was still a bit of a mystery to their village back then.  There was talk of these modern conveniences existing beyond the jungle, or up in that strange place called Europe or across a vast lake in America, where this seemed taken for granted.  But here on most evenings, the village entertained itself with elders or a great-grandmother, who told endless stories of the distant past, of the Great-One-Who-Needs-Nothing who kept the devil at bay for her Original People as they enjoyed life together without much fuss.  This was a time when lion cubs and baby antelope frolicked together with the fearless village young, as a gentle sun always warmed and brought rain when needed.

Then one day, came the war.  Why it violently arrived to their little isolated valley between the two huge jungle mountains none of the village elders could explain.  Not even the sleeping man’s mother - then the queen to this tiny domain - had an explanation.  But it came with explosive and instant destruction.  Soldiers in huge rumbling jeeps shot hot lead into the village huts, and blood flowed like nothing anyone had a memory of.  The soldiers then jumped out of their noisy machines and began hacking the screaming villagers to pieces with machetes.  The last image the sleeping man had of his wife and child was of their bloody bodies falling lifeless to the jungle floor, and then he himself was brutally hit over the head by the butt of a machine gun before being thrown into the back of a jeep like a sac of coconuts.  How he eventually made it safely to Denmark after many years is a story to itself.

And of course now, the man’s dreaming has turned into the nightmare he so well knows… and a little boy with his father on Strøget, is startled by the sleeping man’s fitful trembling.

“Dad,” asks the warmly dressed boy, “what’s wrong with that man?  Why is he sleeping there without a coat?  He’s all dirty!”

“Come now, Esben,” scolds the father, yanking him by the hand. “We have to hurry to grandmas for warm cocoa.  He’s just a drunk illegal.”  The father looks up and sees who’s coming.  “Look, son, it’s all right.  See the police; they’ll take care of him.  Come now, this has nothing to do with us.”

***

A little north of Copenhagen, in the coastal town of Ellsinore, made famous by Shakespeare’s Hamlet, awakens a very ancient man known to all Danes since the Viking era.  His incredibly long and white beard has grown into the oak slab of the table where he’d laid his head to fall asleep in Kronborg castle centuries earlier.  Something has disturbed his well-earned dreaming of a strong and beautiful Denmark.  He shakes the cobwebs from his head, tossing his long, scraggly hair every which way, and lets out a huge burp from an old beer that still bothered his stomach from when he’d drunk it in another era.  Then he stretched out his log-thick arms and yawned very noisily, huge white teeth glistening in the dark.  The noise of that burp and yawn could awaken the dead.

“Who has woken me up NOW!” he screams, the wrinkles in his face becoming as deep as canyons because of how upset and worried he is at the same instant.

But no one answers.  It is dark and the window that once upon a time could watch over enemy ships has been bricked over.

“NO!” he screams, now quite mad.

His ancient eyes peer through the dark to the castle room’s door.  Taking in a huge breath that almost empties the old room’s air, he slowly and creakily rises from his bench, and totally ignoring how his beard rips free from the table, he yanks out his huge sword from its scabbard and with one mighty heave, cleaves into two the 5-inch thick oak of the nailed-shut door.  Then he crashes through the sundered doorway to the familiar staircase.  But there, half way up the worn stone steps leading to the castle’s Great Hall, hovers a golden light that nearly blinds him.

Is he dreaming or has he awakened?  Good question…

*

“WHAT!” screamed Holger the Dane, his 50 pound sword playing menacingly in the air as if it were a swan feather, ready to cleave whatever and whoever stood in his way.

“Take it easy, dear Holger.  Just take a deep breath now…”

“I’m the one who tells anyone around here what to do,” screamed Holger.  “Put out that confounded light so I can see who you are.  Dot it NOW!  Or I’ll send you directly to God!”

“Interesting you should say that,” said the golden light, “because I’ve just come from God.”

“What!  Don’t try to confuse me with your tongue.   Spit it out!  Confound you!  Thor's name, who on earth you are?”

The strong hovering light came closer by a couple of stony steps.  Holger raised his sword and pointed it directly at the golden light, as he again demanded, “In God’s name, are you friend or foe to Denmark?”

“My dearest Holger, how much ale did you drink before falling asleep?  I just told you.  God sent me.  Don’t you remember Bishop Absalon, who enlisted your help to keep away pirates while he built Copenhagen?”

Holger blew out a breath from of his huge mouth.  “I don’t want to hear about that stupid man.  He wasn’t all that good.  He still thought it was just fine for a rich murderer to offer his younger and more stupid brother’s head on the executioner’s block.”

The golden light had slowly hovered a few more feet closer to Holger.  “Dear Holger, listen to yourself.  Even the worst of people can sometimes shine a little light in the dark.  Once upon a time, you yourself thought that sort of Viking justice were righteous.  And remember how you once believed that the Hero’s Hall of Valhalla was the highest heavenly reward a human could achieve.”

“Yes yes, Absalon was always talking about this son of a carpenter from Bethlehem who taught of a different way to understand God, but then the bishop got a bit power and money hungry.  Wasn’t that man he talked about nailed to a piece of wood at the end?”

“In a few short days, my dear Holger, the spirit of that legend will be born again in many people’s hearts.”

“I said it once, and I’ll not say it again!  Don’t use double talk with me.”  But this time, Holger’s sword was pointed down toward Kronborg’s ancient stone foundation rather than raised against a possible foe.

“It’s almost Christmas, and Denmark desperately needs you.”

“You don’t need to tell me.  Last time I got woken up, and it was just for a moment…”  and Holger clawed his left hand through his unruly white beard.  “Oh yes, that was when that irritating fairy tale writer with the odd black hat woke me up.  –Well, if God has sent you, then you know very well that I only wake up when Denmark is in great danger.”

“Yes, my dear, Denmark is in danger.  Please come upstairs with me.  It is late, and the guard up there, well, he’s asleep.”

“He’s asleep!?” shouted Holger.  “Kronborg’s guard is ASLEEP!”

“Well, yes and no.”

Holger shook his mighty head.  “Did I not tell you to stop speaking in riddles?  When you speak to me, say what you mean!”

“Alright, it’s a deal.  The guard is asleep because I gave him a little dream.  I did this so I can show you Denmark.  I do believe that it might be a good idea for you to put your sword back in its scabbard.”

Holger raised his sword slightly again.  “I’ll make that decision.  So, who are you?”

“I am an angel and a rather strong one if I might say.”

“Who cares!  -Alright, just show me what you want to show me, and I’ll be the one determining whether or not you are a strong angel.”

The golden glow retreated up the stone stairs with Holger slowly ambling behind, rather irritated over the whole thing.  The huge portal at the top stood open, and the Great Hall came into dim view from strange illumination he had never before seen.  There rose no flames from this sort of light.  But then, Holger had seen many strange things in his very long life.  The golden glow led Holger to a small desk made of thin, shiny wood before a rather flimsy looking chair.  Holger was more used to thick oak benches and tables and that sort of thing.

“It’s genuine Danish design,” said the angel.  “It will support your size and weight nicely.  Come, you need to see into this special window that looks out on Denmark and the world around.”

“I’ll decide what can support my body around here,” said Holger as he hesitantly sat down on the chair while keeping a hand clasped around the hilt of his sword.

A flatscreen on the table was lit, and without anyone touching anything, it began to show Holger what had happened to his beloved Denmark.

After a few hours – and now it was nearly midnight, the 24th -  Holger had had enough.  He said, “God, this can’t be?  I’ll slaughter those responsible with one swing of my sword.”  He gripped his sword’s hilt with massive hands that easily could snap off the heads of a whole legion.

“Once upon a time, maybe,” said the angel.  “But you know that’s not God’s will.  God gives humans free choice for a good reason.  You know that, don’t you?  Denmark is no longer in its Viking era.”

“What the dragon’s breath do you want me to do, then?”

“Well,” said the angel slowly.  “For starters, maybe a good shave and some new clothes.”

And you can well believe that this came to pass with cosmic speed.

***

KNOCK KNCOK KNOCK KNOCK!!!

The loud knocking on the door of the Church Meeting House could have awakened the Queen, who slept a few miles up the road at Amalienborg Castle.  But the angel was kind enough to catch the sound waves before they disturbed her dreaming, and gently awakened Her Majesty in a more ceremonial way.

The Bishop of Copenhagen was just putting on her coat in the house’s foyer, on her way out after a huge meeting with the other bishops of Denmark.  She peeked through the door’s peephole for a moment, and saw only the night lights of the little Copenhagen suburb.  Frederiksberg is a very quiet, wealthy neighborhood.

Suddenly, she saw a movement to the left, and there came into view a huge Dane like one she’d never seen since an image from a Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale.  He was very well dressed in a sharp three-piece suit and an overcoat, a well-trimmed bush of short white hair.  His deeply wrinkled face framed eyes that seemed to peer into her soul.

She opened the door and tried smiling as she irritably looked to her watch.  “Yes?  And who are you?”

“Holger.”

“That’s interesting,” said the bishop, nodding her head.  “Doesn’t ring a bell for me.  What’s your last name? ”  She looked past him out to the quiet street.  “Where’s your car or a taxi.  Don’t you know better than coming here in the middle of the night?  If you need to see me, you should make an appointment with my office…”  She looked at her watch again. “-At a more reasonable hour.  You caught me here purely by chance.”

“Nothing in my world comes about by happenstance.”  Holger reached into his pants’ back pocket and drew out his wallet, and handed her his Danish ID card. ”This should clear things up.”

She pulled out her reading glasses from her coat pocket and set them over her attractive nose and wise eyes.  Her blond eyebrows knitted a little together “This is a joke, right?”

“Search my name on the Kingdom file thing you have access to in that smart machine you must have in this house,” said Holger as kindly as possible.

For a moment she put a hand into a coat pocket to trigger the special little cellular phone the National Police had given her in case of a problem.  But the next moment, the previously cold clear air with stars shining brightly from above, blew into a blinding snowstorm.

That is exactly what happened.  One moment there were no clouds, and the next, a blinding snowstorm.  The native people of Greenland have a special word for this type of snowstorm.  Actually, they have many names for snow.

The snow blew horizontally into the open door of the old house.  “Err, maybe you should come in… for a moment,” said the bishop.

“Very kind of you.  I think I will.  Do you have any beer?”

She was utterly caught in something that simply made no sense no matter how her mind wrapped itself around it, but there was something quite mysteriously ancient about it all that prevented her from rejecting any possibility.  “What about a fine wine?”

“No, that’s for Frenchmen.  I believe I knew one a long time ago – odd king by the name of Charlemagne.  No, a good beer in a huge skull bowl will do fine for me.”

“Skull bowl?  A human cranium?”

“Best served if the skull-bowl is inlayed in cold silver.

She tried anchoring her thoughts in what she’d learned long ago as a theology student at the University of Copenhagen, where she’d learned of the ancient Viking roots to this practice that led to saying “Skaal!” when drinking with people.  But it just wasn’t enough.  She shook a little as she said, “Well, err, there’s probably a few good elephant beer somewhere.  Personally I’m not all that familiar with the house.”

He smiled.  “Perhaps we should close the door.”  Snow had begun to accumulate on the floor.

She timidly backed away from his omnipotent presence now that the door was shut, and nervously walked into an office where she moved a mouse a bit for the screen to come to life.  She looked up to Holger for a moment, her eyes shifting from wonder to fear and back again.  Then she looked at the screen as she typed in his Danish registration number, whispering to herself: “Over a thousand years old.  Holger the Dane.  No way… he’s just a legend, right?”

“Err, the beer?”

She looked up, a bit startled.  “Oh, hmm, yes.  Down the hall, to your left, there is a refrigerator.”  She saw his puzzled look.  “Big tall white metal box thing on the floor.  You’ll probably find a beer in there.”

Holger had learned while searching the world on that screen up in Ellsinore that Danes now drank their beer from glass bottles with a metal top that often wasn’t that easy to get off.  The only weapon that angel up in Ellsinore allowed him to take with him to Copenhagen was a short, legal-sized pocketknife, so he used it to knock off the cap of the Elephant beer.

The bishop stood by the office doorway in the hall when Holger came out of the kitchen.

“You are registered.  But how?  We’ve only had this registration of people since the late 1960’s.  More than a thousand years old?  I mean, please tell me; this is some sort of a Christmas joke on me from the other bishops, right?”

“I’m afraid not.  Denmark has awakened me.  Now, we have a lot to do, many others that need to be gathered, and not a whole lot of time to do it all.  The Kingdom must be protected.”

“Yes, that’s what the central registry says.  You are “The Protector of Denmark’s Heart.”  She let out an old breath.  “I have to tell you, that all my years of studying religion and philosophy at the University has never prepared me for this.  A legend that has come to life.  Why?”

“Yea, well, you’ve all awakened me.  The whole kingdom.  But apparently you are the only one right now that’s not totally asleep to the problem.”

“What problem?”

“We really need to get going, ok?”

“Where?”

“To pick up the Queen.”

“Now wait just as second.  No way!  Absolutely not.  You can’t simply go over there to knock on her door and ask her to come along on some mysterious errand.  That’s just not done.”

“Well, the angel has told me, that the Queen will be expecting us.”  With that, he opened the door, and wind-driven snow again blew into the house.

“Angel?” she asked, pulling her scarf up around her throat and following Holger out.  “What angel?  Tell me, have you just escaped from Saint Hans?”

“Saint Hans?” he shouted above the din of the storm.

“Just a place for people with problems in their minds.  Oh, just forget it.”  She shook her head slowly, briefly closing her eyes to the wind-driven snow.   “But we simply cannot just drive up to the queen’s castle and pick her up without some very special procedures.”

She could not see more than a few feet in front of her with the snow stinging her eyes, and shouted, “I’m not very good at driving in such weather.”

“Don’t worry,” shouted Holger to her, walking towards the near-unseen street, as he took one last mighty swig from his beer bottle.  And then she saw it.  “We are being picked up. Come!”

There, on the street, waited one of Copenhagen City’s big yellow busses.

She shook her head and whispered to herself, “These busses just don’t drive through this little neighborhood; certainly not in the middle of the night.”

“Come,” repeated Holger.  “We haven’t much time.”

He took the bishop’s small hand in his large callused hand and led her to the bus’ door, which then opened with a whoosh.  Just before stepping up, she peeked at the bus’ sign.

“Not in route?”  she whispered to herself again.  Suddenly, she remembered that perhaps she ought to pray to that God she had studied so hard to understand all those years ago.

Rather than the expected chauffeur, a golden light hovered over the driver’s seat, and it gently said to the bishop, “God thanks you for your little prayer.  But God also says, in answer to that prayer, that you have no cause for fear.  It is entirely up to you if you wish to continue on this journey.  God says that you have the free will to decline.”

“Are we really going to Amalienborg Castle?” she asked, wondering for a moment where the golden light had its ears.

“She is waiting for us,” came the soft reply.

“She’s waiting for us?” whispered the bishop, as she sat next to Holger a few seats behind the chauffeur.

The sweet little streets meandering through Frederiksberg toward the inner city, with all the pretty mansions, were hard to see in the snowstorm.  The snow was quickly accumulating but the bus stayed warm and snug, and the driving progressed very safely.  Suddenly, the lit statue of King Christian X on his frozen horse came into brief view as the bus turned into the entrance to the royal palace.

“For the King of Denmark, the hearts stand guard,” whispered the bishop to herself.

“What was that?” asked Holger, as he attempted to comb a hand through his absent beard.

“Oh, something from a poem about a terrible war some decades ago.  Our King always rode his horse without his royal guard in the middle of Nazi-occupied Copenhagen.”  She managed a tiny smile.  “But I guess that was just a moment ago for you.”

And there, on the snow-swept cobblestone plaza in front of Her Majesty’s royal palace stood several white police cars, with their blue lights strobing alongside a long black limousine marked with the license plate “1.”  Several royal guards stood with stoic stillness around her car as several National Police officers in civilian suits jumped out of the white cars while muttering into their hidden microphones.  The rosy-cheeked queen, in all her regalia and her unceasing smile, was helped out of the limousine by her beloved 14-year old son, the Crown Prince.  He gently smiled to her, and held her hand tight to his chest to warm it, as he led her to the bus.   Her royal guards held a tight in-step circle around the pair but did not enter the bus, out of respect to her wish.  A police officer, though, approached Her Majesty, and suggested that at least one of them be allowed to accompany her on the bus.

“No,” she said sweetly and strongly, “that’s quite alright.  But please do follow if that makes you feel better.”

As the pair walked up the bus’ steps, the bishop and Holger stood and briefly curtsied.  The two waited until the queen and her son were seated on the other side of the aisle before they again sat.  Everyone smiled politely to one another.  The bishop had often led a Sunday service for Denmark’s mother and her son at the church in Old Copenhagen and had been invited on several occasions to a royal banquet at the Queen’s Summer Palace.

Two police cars led the way in front of the bus, but even with their blue lights, it was difficult to see anything through the blinding snow.  The bus passed Konges Nytorv, then over the canal to Christiansborg’s Parliamentary castle near the Danish Supreme Court.  There waited several large BMWs, with smoky steam issuing from their huge tailpipes that mixed with the dancing snow.

The Prime Minister suddenly stepped out of the backdoor of one of the large dark cars, and yet more National Police jumped about every which way as they muttered into their private little microphones.

“Quite a different Denmark than the one I once knew,” remarked Holger.

“What was that?” asked the bishop.

“Yes, my dear Holger,” said Her Majesty loudly.  “It definitely is a different world.”  She smiled sweetly and said, “Thank you for waking up.”

The bishop quickly began to pray again.

The angel then said, “God says, that from now on we are all equal.”

Her Majesty gently smiled to herself.

The Prime Minister had reached the ticket puncher by the driver’s seat, and his face seemed exhausted until suddenly he saw whom the passengers were.  His face blanched, as he attempted a curtsy.  “Your… err, Your Majesty.  And… err, Your Highness, the Crown Prince… err.  I didn’t know…”

“Easy does it, Sir,” said Her Majesty with an inner smile.  “It’ll be just fine if you calm down.”

He continued being confused as to how to behave.  This was an unprecedented situation.  He wasn’t even sure where to sit, since the royal family sat in the first pair of seats behind the handicapped bench to the front, and the Bishop of Copenhagen and a huge tall elderly man occupied the seats opposite.  He didn’t think he could manage a walk past the royals to a seat behind them.  He decided to sit in the handicapped seat; thus he wouldn’t have his back turned to the Queen and her son.

And who or what is this driver? he thought to himself.  But he decided not to voice that question for fear that he would look the fool to the other passengers, who apparently thought nothing of a strange glow in the driver’s seat.

With a slight thump and no pomp, the bus began driving again with its escort of police cars.

But it was a very short drive through the deep snow across the canal again.  Bishop Absalon on his snow covered bronze horse briefly came to blurry view.  The bus drove directly to the walking street, Strøget, and turned left toward Copenhagen City Hall.  It stopped after a few hundred feet, right in front of a restaurant still open so late on Christmas Eve, with lovely colored lights strung across its window and a blinking wreath on its door.  In the bus’ strong headlights through the blinding snow by a decorated dumpster, lay the crumbled figure of a black girl perhaps no older than fifteen.  A pair of young men hovered over her, about to rip her clothes off with an old fat man cheering them on with a greasy grin.  The sudden lights of the huge bus shocked them still.

The queen rose out of her seat with one sweeping motion and ran out the bus, with the door opening just in time with a whoosh.  Totally uncaring of the cold wind and snow, Her Majesty jumped towards the girl with her son running just as fast behind her.  She shouted something very loud, and immediately several police officers grabbed the two young men and the old fat man, and they were handcuffed and led to the backseats of the police cars.  The Royal Guards came upon the scene then – their huge black-furred hats snow decked and rifles at the ready – prepared for any eventuality to protect their Queen.  National police ran in all directions and into the restaurant to secure the area.  The Prime Minister was unable to close his mouth.  The bishop, on the other hand, smiled with pride.  This was not exactly the Queen everyone saw on television when she gave her talks, which always ended, “God save Denmark.”  There was something about all this that was utterly ancient, which she had read about while a little girl in grammar school.  Holger simply said, “Well, now, that was just in the nick of time.”  The beer he’d had back in Frederiksberg chose that moment to burp loudly out of his mouth.

The bishop looked to her ancient escort, and said, “You’re excused.”  But her humor was short-lived.  She looked to her Prime Minister and said, “We need to go out and help Her Majesty.  She’s rather alone out there.”

That brought him back to reality, and he followed her and Holger out of the bus, through the wind-driven snow to where the queen sat with her son and the still girl.

Her Majesty held the teenager in her lap within her open ermine coat, as she ordered her Royal Guard to call for an ambulance.  The young Crown Prince held the girl’s frozen little hands in his, violently rubbing and blowing on them.  When she suddenly opened her dark eyes, the young prince fell in love at first sight with the most beautiful princess he had ever seen.

The three - Her Majesty, the Crown Prince and the gorgeous young princess from Africa - began talking about everything.  The queen and her son could speak in the French that was a common language to the region around the tiny kingdom where the girl had come from

“She has come to Denmark in search of her father,” said the queen to those nearby.  “Her mother is dead due to a civil war near her homeland, and she has been told that her father should be nearby as a beggar, among the many homeless now in Copenhagen.  She has sat here in the cold selling cigarette lighters, but could not sell a single one nor did anyone help her with a bite to eat.”  Her Majesty swallowed slightly.  “What has happened to my Denmark?” she finally asked without looking at anyone in particular.  The Prime Minister was the only one to look away from the scene.

Then came one of Her Majesty’s royal guards to say, “Your Highness, I have just learned that this afternoon a police squad took her father into custody and drove him to St. Hans Hospital, where they sent him to a refugee camp.”

“Why is that?” she asked sharply.

“Your Highness, the police thought he was psychotic because he would not stop crying as he tried explaining that he is a royal and that his wife and daughter were murdered.  But the hospital sent him to the camp because he could not prove legal entry into Denmark.”

The little dark princess asked the queen to interpret what was being said, after which the girl said in French, “But I did not die.”

“You almost did, my dear,” said the queen in French.  And in Danish she said, “But we’ll fix it now.”  She looked up to the Prime Minister for a moment.  “And not just for her and her father.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” gulped the Prime Minister.

“Are we not all princes and princesses in God’s heart,” whispered the Queen.

Holger felt the Bishop take his hand, and they looked into each other’s eyes.  Not even Holger could hold back a tear. They both looked back to the bus, for now the snow had begun to stop falling and the wind had let up.  The golden glow by the driver’s seat was gone, and the illuminated sign above the bus’s windshield now read “TO DENMARK.”  It was now on the right route again.

Finally, everyone heard Her Majesty, as she strongly said in Danish while her young Crown Prince translated to French, “My dearest, please forgive the world’s oldest kingdom for having fallen asleep.  But we are wide awake now.  God save Denmark.”

***

Den oprindelige dansk udgave...

Jeg deler dette eventyr således, i mindelse af en 22-årig afrikansk kvinde som var lukket til Danmark fra Spanien af en dansk landman.  På hans gård i Lolland var hun bundet nøgen med hundene, tvunget til at spise jord og udsat for seksueltortur i flere måneder.  Den 11. september lykkedes det hende at flygte over en mark til en nærliggende bopæl, hvor hun, helt nøgen og blødende, banket på døren.  Den 36-årig dansker var senere anholdt, men tragedien er, at hun også er blevet frihedsberøvet af ordensmagten, fordi hun er illegalt i Danmark.  Forhåbentligt kommer hun straks ind på den rette behandling, som en ægte prinsesse fortjener

Kronprinsessen

af Bent Lorentzen © 2009

”Dit eventyr... påen meget fin måde tager fat pånogle meget væsentlige menneskelige problemer.”

--Jørgen Poulsen, fhv. generalsekretær, Dansk Røde Kors,

nuværende Folketingets medlemmer

Ikke så langt fra Christiansborg, på den anden side af den lille kanal og forbi Biskop Absalon på sin  mægtig hest, sov der en midaldrende mand.  Han lå helt stille i den halvvåde kulde, der var så typisk for årstiden i Danmark, i en lille krog mellem to julesmykkede butikker for de rige. Han drømte. Men ikke som de mange gående på Strøget, som kun tænkt på hvor mange penge der var tilbage på deres Dankort, eller julmiddagen sammen med kollegerne, eller hvad der ville ligge under træet til dem om et par dage.  Han drømte heller ikke om en ny bærbar eller den nyeste MP3, som flere fintklædte børn hviskede i deres kloge forældres ører, som en hentydning til deres ønskeseddel til jul.

Nej, han drømte om sine unge dage i et fjern land, og sin smukke unge kone og deres lille livlige datter, der gik til den lille palmetaget skole, ned ad en mudder-sti, sammen med andre børn fra deres ældgammel landsby.  El og TV var et mysterium i den landsby.  Jungletrommerne fortalte om de store lande nordpå eller på den anden side af havet, hvor den slags blev taget for givet.  Nej, familiens underholdning dengang bestod af bedstemors uendelige fortællinger fra dengang, Den Udødelig Der Aldrig Mangler For Noget og hendes folk bare morede sig med hinanden uden problemer.  Løveunger og antilopeunger legede med hinanden sammen med landsbyens unge i strålende sol, som et billede fra tidernes morgen. Men så kom krigen.  Hvorfor den kom til deres lille isolerede dal mellem to kæmpe jungle-bjerge, kunne ikke engang de klogeste i landsbyen forklare. Selv ikke mandens mor, som var dronningen over det lille bitte kongerige.   Men den kom.  Soldater med larmende jeeper,  maskingeværer der spytter bly... og blod, og machete der huggede hans kone og deres lille ned. Altså, det var det sidste billede han havde i sit hoved, inden han selv blev bortført af soldaterne.  Hans lange, lange rejse til Danmark er en hel historie i sig selv.

Hans drøm blev nu lidt vanskeligt, og en lille dreng med sin far på Strøget, lagde mærke til, hvordan den sorte mand skælvede i søvne.

”Far, hvad er der galt med ham?  Hvorfor sover han der, uden frakke eller noget?  Han er helt beskidt.”

”Kom nu, Esben, vi skal hjem til mormors varme kakao.  Han er bare en beruset flygtning.  Og se, her kommer politiet.  De vil nok tage sig af ham.  Kom... væk.  Det har ikke noget med os at gøre.”

***

Men lidt længere nordpå, i Helsingør, vågnede en meget gammel mand med et skæg, der var begravet i det træbord, han var faldet i søvn på, for længe længe siden.  Noget havde også forstyrret hans drøm, og han plejede altid at drømme om hvor stærkt og smukt hans Danmark var.  Han rystede søvnigheden ud af sit hoved, bøvsede af den øl fra for flere hundred år siden, der stadig generede hans mave, og gabte højt med en mund fuld af stærke tænder.

”Hvem har vækket mig NU!” råbte ham med ansigtet lagt i både sure og lidt bekymrede folder.

Ingen svarede.  Det var mørk, og vinduet, der engang holdt vagt med fjendtlige skibe på sundet fra Helsingborg, var blevet muret til.

”NEJ!” råbte ham, nu ret gal.

Hans ældgamle øjne kunne se døren, og med et mægtigt åndedrag, rejste han sig op, uden at bryde sig om sit skæg, og med en kæmpe bevægelse, trak han sit store tunge sværd og splintrede den tyve centimeter tykke egetrædør.  Det tog kun en et øjeblik, og så var han på den så velkendte stentrappe op til  Kronborgs hovedsal.

Nogle trin oppe skinnede et stærk gyldent lys, der næsten blindede ham.

”HVAD!” råbte Holger Danske, med sit 50 kilo sværd i højre hånd, så let som om det var en svanefjer, parat til at kløve hvad- eller hvem som helst, der kom i vejen.

”Rolig, kære Holger.  Rolig nu...”

”Her er det mig, der taler,” råbte Holger. ”Kom af med det lys. Lad mig se dig!  NU!  Ellers går du direkte til Gud.”

”Ja, men dog,” sagde det gyldne lys, med blid og stærk stemme. ”Det er der, hvor jeg lige kommer fra.”

”Hvad!?  Du… ikke nogen tvetungethed.  Spyt det ud!  For pokker, hvem er du?”

Det stærke, svævende lys kom et par trin nærmere.  Holger rystede lidt med sit sværd.. ”Jeg mener det.  I Guds navn, er du fjende eller ven af Danmark!”

”Kære, kære Holger, hvor mange øl drak du, inden du faldt i søvn, eh?  Jeg har lige sagt til dig, at jeg er kommet fra Gud.  Kan du ikke huske Biskop Absalon, som fik dig at hjælpe sig med at holde de vendiske sørøver væk fra hans nyfødte København...”

”Hold nu op med den mand.  Han var ikke altid så god.  Han syntes det var helt i orden at en rig mand kunne slippe godt fra mord, ved at ofre sin mindre rige brors hals.”

Det gyldne lys var nu kun et par meter væk. ”Kære Holger, hør engang hvad du siger.  Selv de dummeste mennesker kan nogle gang skinne lidt i mørket.  Du syntes selv engang, at den slags retfærdighed var helt i orden.  Og at den højeste himmel man kunne nå som et menneske, var Valhalla.”

”Ja, al den snak Absalon kørte med hele tiden, selv da han blev lidt magtsyg, om den tømrers søn fra Betlehem.  Blev han dog ikke korsfæstet?”

”Om få dage, min kære Holger, bliver han født igen.”

”Igen!” råbte Holger. ”Jeg sagde dig, slut med din tvetungethed.” Men nu var hans sværd rettet mod Kronborgs ældgamle fundament.

”Det er næsten jul, men Danmark har brug for dig.”

”Det behøver du ikke sige til mig.  Sidste gang jeg vågnede, ja, hvad var det nu -?” Holger kløede sig lidt i sit uglede, lange hvide skæg. ”Nåh ja, den irriterende eventyrforfatter eller noget.  Hvis Gud har sendt dig, så ved du, at jeg kun vågner, når Danmark er i fare.”

”Det er Danmark nu, min kære.  Kom med mig op.  Det er ret sent, og vagten deroppe, ja, han sover.”

”Han sover!” råbte Holger. ”Kronborgs vagt SOVER!”

”Ja og nej,” svarede det gyldne lys.

”En gang til.  Når du siger noget til mig, så sig det lige ud!”

”OK, det er  en aftale..  Vagten sover, fordi jeg gav ham en lille sød drøm.  Og det gjorde jeg, så jeg kan vise dig Danmark.  Jeg synes bare, at du måske kunne sætte dit sværd i skeden.”

Holger hævede sværdet lidt. ”Det bestemmer jeg.  Hvem pokker er du?”

”Jeg er en engel, og en ret stærk én, hvis jeg selv skal sige det.”

”Pyt med det.  Bare vis mig hvad du vil, og så vil jeg fortælle dig, om du er stærk eller ej.”

Lyset svævede op af de kolde sten-trapper, og Holger fulgte med, ret irriteret over det hele.  Døren til hallen stod åben, og var oplyst af noget helt ukendt for Holger.  Men han havde set mange mærkelig ting i sit liv.  Den gyldne oval lys førte Holger til et lille bitte bord bag en skrøbelig udseende stol.  Holger var mere bekendt med tykke egetræsbænke og den slags.

”Den er ægte dansk design,” sagde englen. ”Den kan sagtens bære din krop.  Kom, du skal se på det her lille vindue, der kigger ud på hele Danmark og resten af verden.”

”Jeg bestemmer selv, hvad der skal bære min krop!” Han sad ned, med hånden på sværdets fæste.

Et fladskærm midt på bordet var tændt, og uden berøring, begyndt den at vise Holger hvad der var sket med hans Danmark.

Efter flere timer - og nu var det næsten midnat den 24. december - endelig sagde Holger, ”Gud, det passer ikke.  Jeg slår de ansvarlige ihjel med det samme.” Han strammede grebet så meget, at det ville have knust et almindelig sværd.

”Engang, måske,” svarede englen. ”Men du ved godt, at Gud har givet mennesker en fri vilje, ikke?  Danmark er ikke længere i vikingetiden.”

”Hvad pokker vil du have, at jeg skal gøre?”

”Ja, måske en barbering og noget nyt tøj.”

...Og det skete, kan man nok sige, med guddommelig fart.

***

BANK BANK BANK BANK!!!

Den hårde banken på døren til Folkekirkens hus, kunne have vækket dronningen, der hvor hun sov på Amalienborg.  Men englen fangede lydbølgerne, inden de generede for mange, og gjorde Hendes Majestæts opvågning meget prægtigt.

Københavns biskop var lige i husets foyer, på vej ud, efter et stormøde.  Hun kiggede lidt ud af døren.  Frederiksberg var et trygt område.

Der stod en kæmpe stor dansker, med kort, velplejet hvidt hår, dybt-rynket ansigt og øjne der udstrålede et intenst nærvær.  Han var klædt i et luksus jakkesæt.

Biskoppen kiggede på sit ur, med lidt irritation. ”Hvem er du?”

”Holger.”

”Ja,” nikkede biskoppen blidt. ”Det siger mig ikke noget.  Har du et efternavn?  Du ligner lidt den store erhvervsmand, der lige har mistet sin kone efter 65 år” Biskoppen kiggede ud på vejen. ”Hvor er din bil?  Jeg kan heller ikke se nogen taxa.  Sædvanligvis skulle du lave en aftale med sekretariat ...” Hun kiggede igen på sit ur. ”-og på en meget mere behagelig tid.  Det er helt tilfældigt, du fik fat på mig nu.”

”Intet er tilfældigt i min verden.” Holger hev sin tegnebog op af lommen, og viste biskoppen sit sygesikringsbevis. ”Det skulle nok kunne forklare et eller andet.”

Hun tog sine briller fra frakken og satte dem på sine kloge øjne.  Hun rynkede sine lyse øjnebryn. ”Det er en joke, eh?”

”Slå det op på din smarte maskine,” sagde Holger, så pænt som muligt.

Hun stak hånden i lommen for at trykke på den særlige nødalarm på sin mobil, som PET havde givet hende i tilfælde af, at der skulle blive problemer. Men i næste øjeblik blev den stille fugtig-kølige luft, med stjener blinkende på den stor himmel over Frederiksberg til en snestorm. Helt ærligt, på et øjeblik, eller mindre.

Sne blæste lige ind af døren. ”Måske skulle du komme ind... for et øjeblik,” sagde biskoppen.

”Mange tak.  Har du en øl?”

Hun var nu fanget i noget, som hun absolut ikke kunne forstå, men der var noget ved det hele, der virkede bekendt... måske noget ældgammelt. Hun kunne bare ikke sige, hvad det var: "Hvad med vin  ?”

”Nej, det er for franskmænd.  Tror nok, jeg husker én ved navnet af Charlemagne.   Nej, en god øl i en stor skål.”

”Skål?”

”Ja, helst i et sølvbelagt kranium.”

”Ja,” svarede hun, mens hun forsøgte at bevare roen, selv om hun rystede indvendigt.  Sølvbelagt...  kranium? tænkte hun til sig selv. ”Huset har nok en elefantøl et eller andet sted.  Jeg kender desværre ikke så meget til huset.”

”Skal vi ikke lukke døren?” Og han lukkede den.

Hun trak sig langsomt tilbage og gik ind på et lille kontor, hvor hun bevægde musen på en af kirkens computere.  Hun kiggede op på Holger med øjne, der udstrålede en mellemting mellem forvirring og en ny, ukendt tro. ”Over et tusind år?” hviskede hun ud i luften. ”Holger Danske.”

”Øllet?”

”Nåh, ja.  Ned ad gangen, til venstre, der er er et køleskab.  Der kan du nok finde en øl.”

Holger havde set på skærmen oppe i Helsingør, at danskerne nu drak deres øl fra flasker med en metal top.  Det ene våben, som englen i Helsingør havde sagt, at han måtte tage med sig, var en lille lommekniv på lovlig størrelse, og den brugte ham nu til at hive kapslen af flasken.

Biskoppen stod ved kontorets dør, da Holger kom tilbage til indgangen.

”Du er registreret.  Men hvordan?  Mere end et tusind år.  Altså, det her... er det ikke bare en stor jule-joke fra de andre biskopper, eller hvad?”

”Niks!  Nu, vi har meget at lave og flere andre at hente, og ikke ret mange tid.  Kongeriget skal bevares.”

”Ja, det siger det centrale register.  Du er ’beskytter af Danmarks hjerte.’” Hun trak vejret dybt. ”Så mange år på Københavns Universitet, og så alligevel helt uforberedt på det her.  En myte, der er kommet til live.  Hvorfor?”

”Tja, I har vækket mig. Og du er den eneste lige nu, som ikke sover midt i alt det her.”

”Midt i hvad?”

”Nu skal vi gå.”

”Hvorhen?”

”For at hente dronningen.”

”Nej.  Absolut ikke!  Ikke tale om!  Det er forbudt bare at tænke på det.”

”Englen har fortalt mig, at hun venter os.”

”Englen?  Helt ærligt, Holger.  Er du stukket af fra Skt. Hans?”

”Skt. Hans?”

Hun rystede på hovedet. ”Glem det.  Men, vi kan ikke bare køre op til dronningens bolig og hente hende. Sådan gør man ikke i Danmark i dag.” Vinden tog fat i huset. ”Jeg er ikke ret god til at køre i snevejr.”

”Nej,” sagde Holger, mens han tømte flasken i en eneste kæmpeslurg. ”Vi er blevet hentet nu.  Kom.”

Holger åbnede døren, og selv om det var svært at se gennem den hvirvlende sne, holdt der en helt almindelig gul bus lige ude på vejen.

Hun rystede på hovedet igen, og hviskede til sig selv, ”Den plejer da ikke at køre den her vej...og så midt om natten?”

”Kom,” gentog Holger. ”Vi har ikke ret meget tid.”

Han tog biskoppen i hånden, og de gik hurtigt hen til bussen, der åbnede døren med et sus.  Lige inden hun trådte op på trinene, kiggede hun på skiltet.

”Ikke i rute?” hviskede hun til sig selv.  Så kom hun i tanke om, at det måske var tid til at bede lidt til Gud.

I stedet for en chauffør sad der en gylden glød, som sødt sagde til biskoppen, ”Gud takker dig for din lille bøn.  Men Gud også siger, som svar, at du ikke behøver at frygte  Vil du gerne videre med bussen?  Gud siger, at du har en fri vilje.  Du kan godt sige fra.”

”Skal vi virkelig til Amalienborg.”

”Hun venter på os.”

”Hun venter påos?” hviskede biskoppen, da hun sad ved siden af Holger.  Der var ikke ret meget plads, men det var den mindste af hendes bekymringer.

De stille små veje, med de mange smukke huse, kunne ikke rigtigt ses mere.  Sneen akkumulerede hurtigt nu, men bussen var varm og kørsel fornuftig.  Og pludselig kunne hun se Kong Christan X på sin frossen hest midt på slotspladsen.  ”Står hjerterne vagt...” hviskede biskoppen til sig selv.

”Hvad var det?” spurgte Holger, mens han søgte efter sit manglende skæg for at røre ved det, lige som i gamle dage.

”En digt fra en forfærdelig krig for mange år siden...” Hun lyste op i et lille og meget sød smil, ”Eller for dig er det jo kun et kort øjeblik siden.”

Og der på den sne-dækkede slotsplads stod flere små politibiler sammen med en lang, sort limousine med nummerpladen ”1.” Flere livvagter stod med stoisk ro rundt om bilen og PET-personale hoppede ud af politibilerne, mens de snakkede ind i deres små hemmelige mikrofoner.  Dronningen med alle sine regalier og et vedvarende smil blev hjulpet ud af bilens bagdør af den 14 år gamle prins, hendes kære søn.  Han smilede sødt og klogt til hende, og holdt hende i hånden, mens hun med høje vished, gik hen til bussen.  Livvagterne, som omringede dem begge to, holdt sig borte fra døren.  PET-direktøren spurgte Hendes Majestæt, om de ikke skulle tage med.

”Nej, nej,” svarede hende. ”Det bliver ikke nødvendigt.  I kan bare følge efter i jeres biler.”

Biskoppen og Holger rejste sig og nikkede kort til dronningen og kronprinsen. De ventede, til de havde sat sig på sæderne til højre for biskoppen og Holger. Så satte de sig også. De smilede sødt til hinanden.  Biskoppen have tit deltaget i selskaber med dronningen, og havde flere gange gjort tjeneste i kirken for Danmarks mor og fremtidig far, andre i den kongelige familie og fra ministeriet.

To politibiler kørte foran bussen, men det var svært, selv for dem selv, at se de blinkende blå lys gennem snestormen.  De kørte direkte forbi Kongens Nytorv og over kanalen til Christiansborg, lidt til højre for Højesteret.  Der holdt flere mørke BMW-biler. Røg og damp stod ud af bilernes udstødningsrør og blandede sig øjeblikkelig med den dansende sne.

Pludselig stod statsministeren ud af en af bilernes bagdøre, og sammen med ham endnu en PET-betjent, som snakkede ind i sin hemmelige mikrofon.

”Sikken et nyt Danmark,” hviskede Holger.

”Hvad var der?” sagde biskoppen meget stille.

”Yes, Holger,” sagde Hendes Majestæt højt. ”Det er bestemt en ny verden.  Tak fordi du kom”.

Biskoppen begyndte at bede igen.

Englen fra chaufførsædet sagde, ”Gud siger, at fra nu af er vi allesammen lige.”

Dronningen kiggede mod englen, og nikkede stolt.

Statsministeren, der nu stod ved stempelmaskinen til klippekortene, med et meget træt udtryk i ansigtet blev helt forbavset, da han fik øje på passageren. ”Deres Majestæt,  err, og err, Kronprinsen, err.. jeg vidste ikke... err.”

”Rolig nu, min herre,” sagde hun med et glimt i øjnene. ”Det går nok.”

Han var lidt forvirret, vidste ikke, hvor han skulle sidde.  De fire passagerer optog den første række i bussen, og det ville nok være lidt uhøftligt bare at gå forbi dronningen og hendes søn, og så sætte sig bagved dem. Han besluttede sig for at tage det høje sæde lige bag chaufføren.  Sådan vendte han ikke ryggen til de kongelige.

Hvad for en chauffør er det?, tænkte ham.  Han måtte hellere se lidt klog ud, tænkte ham, hvad ville ellers hendes Majestæt og Kronprinsen tænke om ham!

Bussen kørt videre omgivet af alle politibilerne.

Det var ikke en ret lang tur.  De kom over kanalen endnu en gang, forbi Biskop Absalon, men nu videre direkte til Strøget.  Bussen kørte ind på Strøget, lidt ned af vejen mod Rådhuset, og standsede lige ud for en restaurant, hvor folk stadig spiste og drak, selv om det var midt om natten. Det sneede voldsomt.  I lyset fra bussens forlygter, bag en julepyntet affaldscontainer, lå en sortebevidstløs pige på omkring femten.  Et par teenagere var i gang med at gøre noget mod hende, mens en stor tyk mand med et modbydeligt smil opmuntrede deres voldtægtsforsøg.  Flere andre, der stod og kiggede på lidt på afstand, som var de tilskuere til en fodboldkamp, forsvandt, da lyset fra den store bus ramte dem.

Dronningen rejste sig straks op, og døren åbnede sig med en suse, og uden at tage hensyn til snevejret løb hun derover sammen med den unge prins.  Hun råbte noget, som ingen i bussen kunne høre, og straks løb flere betjente hen for at gribe de to unge mænd, der var lige ved at voldtage den bevidstløs sorte pige. De blev hurtigt sat ind på bagsædet af en hvid politibil. I samme øjeblik dukkede livvagterne op fra deres eskorte bag bussen, og hev, helt som det skulle være, deres geværer frem, parate til hvadsomhelst.  PET-agenter omringede området, og et par af dem løb ind i restauranten for at sikre stedet.  En anden tilbageholdt den gamle, tyk mand, som spillede helt uskyldig.  Statsministeren så til med åben mund.  Biskoppen skyndte sig at finde et lille klogt smil frem. Det var ikke lige den dronning, som man så i fjernsynet hele tiden.  Og der var noget her, fra en fortælling hun havde læst eller hørt for længe siden, helt tilbage i sin skoletid.  Holger sagde bare, ”Nåh...” Pludselig fik øllet fra Frederiksberg ham til at bøvse.

Biskoppen rejste sig op, kiggede et kort øjeblik på sin ældgammel følgesvend og sagde, ”Du er tilgivet.” Hendes smil forsvandt, og hun kiggede på statsministeren: ”Vi skal i gang nu.  Dronningen er derude alene”

Han blev ført tilbage til virkeligheden og fulgte efter biskopen og Holger ud i den sneen over mod dronningen og hendes søn og den lille pige.

Dronningen holdt hende i sin favn, mens hun befalede en af livvagterne at ringe efter en ambulance. Kronprinsen forsøgte at varme pigens hænder ved at puste på dem og holde dem i sine egne hænderne.  Pludsligt åbnede hun sine øjne, og det var kærlighed ved første blik.  Og du kan tro, at hun var smuk som en prinsesse, på alle niveauer.  De tre begyndte at snakke sammen, og både dronning og hendes søn var ret kloge på verden, så de kendte godt det franske sprog, pigen talte.

”Hun er kommet til Danmark for at finde sin far,” sagde dronningen til alle. ”Moderen er død i en borgerkrig midt i Afrika.  Der er nogen, der har fortalt hende, at hendes far tit befinder sig her i området for at tigge.  Hun har siddet her i kulden hele aftenen og forsøgt at sælge nogle cigaret-lightere, uden at nogen rigtig har lagt mærke til hende.  -Hvad sker der her, med mit Danmark!” Hun kiggeded ikke på nogen, men manden fra Christiansborg rystede meget inden i.

Kort efter nikkede en livvagt til dronningen. ”Vi har fundet ham.  Han er blevet ført til Skt. Hans hospital i Roskilde, og derfra kommer han videre til en indvandrerlejr.”

”Hvorfor?”

”Deres Majestæt, her i eftermiddags tvangsindlagde politiet ham der.  De troede, han var sindsyg, fordi han ikke rigtig kunne forklare, hvorfor han græd så meget.  Noget om at han havde mistet sin kone og sit barn for flere år siden.  Han blev ved med at sige, at hans døde datter er hans kongeriges kronprinsesse.  Men da politiet ikke kunne finde ham på CPR-registeret og heller ikke finde ud af, hvordan eller hvorfor han er havnet i Danmark, blev han tvangssendt til den indvandrerlejr.”

Kronprinsen oversatte forløbet til den lille prinsesse.

Den lille sorte prinsesse kiggede op på dronningen, begge helt dækket til af den hvide sne. ”Jeg døde ikke,” sagde hun på fransk.

”Det gjorde du næsten, her i aftes, min søde.  Men vi ordner det nu, ikke?” Og Hendes Majestæt kiggede for et øjeblik op på statsministeren. ”Og ikke kun for hende og hendes far.”

”Absolut,” sagde ham, med en gisp.

Holger mærkede biskoppen tage hans hånd, og han kiggede på hende, og sukkede.  Begge kiggede tilbage på bussen.  Den gyldne lys ved chaufførsæden var borte, og på skiltet over forrudet, stod der ”Til DANMARK.” Nu var den igen på rette vej.

Til sidst hørte de alle på dronningen, mens hun meget blidt sagde til pigen – men i virkeligheden til alle – på dansk mens kronprinsen oversatte til fransk, ”Min søde kære, undskyld hvis verdens ældste kongerige faldt lidt i søvn, men nu er vi vågnet igen. Gud bevare Danmark!”