A thousand and one tales

Tale #55: The Forgetful Prince And The Regretful Bride

A prince chose a peasant to be his wife, for she was the most beautiful woman in the land, and he desired her very much.

At the wedding, an old woman approached them at the altar and placed a curse upon them.

“The first year of this marriage the prince will forget and the second the bride will forget. Only then shall you know the truth of your love and the truth of each other. And whether there is regret or not is up to you.”

The prince laughed at the old woman’s superstitious ways and had his guards throw her out of the castle and into the woods. But the bride worried in her heart that the old lady’s words were true. Yet still agreed to the marriage, for she was newly in love, and she believed that love would never change, that the truth of love is there for all to see. That the truth of love is pure.

So for the first year of their marriage she did everything she could to make their love as perfect as possible, for if her husband was fated to forget it at least their happiness could live on in her memories. And afterwards, forever afterwards, she could share with him the great tales of their romance and their joy, and in this way give back to him the time they had lost. She believed that, through her telling, and the strength of her heart, their love could be regained, become stronger and deeper, sweeter and more sincere.

In this way the first year went by, in love and happiness, and with no small amount of joy. On the night before the first anniversary of their wedding, they lay together in bed, and between them lay their daughter, born earlier that day. They named her Anniversary Eve, and held her close all night. And as they slept they dreamt of the years to come.

***

The prince awoke the next morning to the realisation he was a father now, and over the coming days discovered he had new responsibilities and obligations which could not be avoided nor delegated away. In the tired days that followed sleepless nights, he often wondered where the reckless days of his youth had gone.

Even his wife’s love for him had changed. Where once there was an eagerness within her when they met, now there was little more than an acceptance, indeed an expectation, of his presence. He had moved from the foreground to the periphery, and the clear focus of her love was now not him but Eve.

His wife was older, too, he noticed. Less radiant, less joyous, less carefree, less, less, less. And every night the child would keep him awake and every day he would find himself feeling slightly unhappier than the day before.

He remembered one day the words of the woman at their wedding, and knew suddenly they were true. For it felt like only yesterday that his romance was in full bloom, when he and his bride-to-be were together endlessly, devoted to nothing but each other, lost in love, and lost together. Now, when his wife talked of those days, he found he did not recognise her memories, nor himself in them.

A great anger grew him in when she spoke of their past. Where now was his freedom to do as he wished, to go where he may, to be alone when he wanted, together when they needed.

So his bitterness grew. And if he was rude to his wife, what would it matter, for did not the old crone say that his wife would remember nothing of it? And if he felt pity for himself, what could his wife expect, for while he had lost the good years of his life, she had taken them as her own.

The second year of their life together passed with increasing rancour. They did not celebrate the anniversary of their wedding, nor even the birthday of their daughter. And if truth be told, they did not even remember they had forgotten.

***

She woke suddenly to the sound of her husband berating her. His unkind words escalated throughout the day, and that night sleep came to her as a relief. But the next day was the same, and the next day, and the next, and she wondered how it had ever come to this. The only joy in her days was the time she spent with Eve, who had grown so fast she felt a sensation akin to vertigo when she held her, so huge did the child seem now compared to the tiny newborn she still imagined her to be.

She thought one day of the old woman’s words, and a moment’s clearness came over her, and she saw, for the first time, as plain as can be, the truth of her and her husband’s love, and the truth of each other, and the differences in their hearts. And she did indeed feel regret.

***

She took Eve in her arms and together they left the castle and went out into the woods and were not seen again. Where it was they went from there the prince never did know, and together his bride and his daughter lived happily ever after.

The prince, alone, did not.

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Notes:

1. Written in May, 2016

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Tale #54: The Search For Lost Things

A couple lived together for many years, and many things went unspoken of between them. Eventually what was left unsaid was left forgotten.

At first this loss seemed inconsequential to them both and they carried on together as if nothing was any different. In this way even more years passed, and although something between them had changed they could not say what.

One day the thought of it returned, as if a fish had risen out of the murk and broken the serene surface for a much needed gulp of air. It did not surface for long enough to allow them to see its true shape, yet the ripples spread out across the lake of their minds and could not be denied.

The desire to reclaim what had been long forgotten, and longer lost, eventually consumed them. In their frenzied search they tore the house apart. They tore their friends apart, and their family too. They tore apart their past and their future, their happiness, their hope.

And there it was at last, in amongst the rubble and the blood of their shredded hearts. A crystal barb glinting in the firelight. Tiny and fragile. Huge, all encompassing.

One of them looked at it and turned away. He said, “Is that all it was? That tiny sliver of a thing? No wonder we let it go and left it where it lay.

“And now we’ve found it, what good will it do us? What benefit will it bring? We should have left it where it was. And we should bury it now, as deep as we can, and carry on again as if it had never been found.”

But the other kept her eyes upon it and did not look away. Could not look away.

Would not look away.

He saw the tears in her eyes Trying not to see what those tears reflected back at him, he said, “Was it worth it, all this destruction, all this fury and despair? Was it worth it, for something so small, from so long ago?”

“The truth is worth whatever it costs,” she said, and reached down and picked the bones out of the ruins of her old heart.

“But we were happy,” he said.

“Yet all of it was a lie,” she said.

And she put the forgotten things back where they belonged and made herself whole again.

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Notes:

1. Written in June 2016

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Tale #53: A Finger For A Favour

There was an old woman who lived in the house that stood, thin and forgotten, between the hospital grounds and the churchyard.

If, between the wedding and the birth, you wished, perhaps, for a girl, or wanted, maybe, a boy, the old woman would grant you this favour, for a price. Place your finger in her mouth, push it between her lips, let it rest on her tongue. Close your eyes, count to three. Wish, wish, wish. And try not to scream, try never to cry.

Be good, she said. Be good, as her dry tongue rasped away the blood, as her red lips kissed the wound better, as the burning wax she dripped from her fingers cauterised it closed. Be good now, my daughter, until the birth, and your favour shall be granted.

And so for three months, for six, for nine long months, you were good, you were good, you were so, so good. But were you good enough? Only your child would show, only you would know.

Later, if, between the morgue and the graveyard, you wanted to secure a place in heaven for some dear departed soul, she would grant you this wish, too, for a price. Always for a price. Place your hand in her mouth, push it between her wide red salivating lips, let it rest on that panting hungry tongue. Close your eyes, count to three. Wish wish, wish. And try not to fall, try never to faint.

Be good, she said. Be good, as the blood ran across her lips and dripped, dripped, dripped, from the bottom of her chin. Be good now, my daughter, and hope.

And so you stand by the graveside, handless, and hopeful. Close your eyes. Hope. Hope. Until death, hope.

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Notes:

1. Written on October 2nd, 2018

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Tale #52: The Silk Gloves

There was an old lady who lived in the woods, in a cottage by the river where the wild roses grow, their stems as white as bone.

Inside she would sit at her wheel and spin strands of her hair into silk. And with this silk she would weave gloves, each as thin as a veil and as soft as skin.

From the towns, on the nights before their weddings, young women would come. They made their way, as quiet as they could, by the light of the moon, through the woods and down, down, down, to the cottage by the river where the wild roses grow, their stems as white as bone, their thorns as thick as fingernails.

A knock on the door, and the old lady would say “Come in”. Held out hands offered payment, and the old lady would take her cut.

The gloves the women wore as they made their way back home, and for the rest of their married lives. Their thumbs the old lady planted in her garden by the river where the wild roses grow, the stems as white as bone, the thorns as pale as fingernails, the roses as red as a scream.

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Notes:

1. Written on September 7th, 2017
2. The line “where the wild roses grow” is from Where The Wild Roses Grow, by Nick Cave and Kylie Minogue (obviously)

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Tale #51: The Cat In The Graveyard

“I saw a cat here once.

“It was walking along the path from gate to gate, from grave to grave. I was sat on the steps of that old tomb there, just waiting around like today. Loitering, lingering. And I watched it walking around for a while. It hadn’t seen me, or if it had it hadn’t cared enough to show it, and I felt as if I was witness to some great secret, or some intimate privacy. Something, anyway, that I wasn’t supposed to see.

“And so, really, I shouldn’t have made myself known. It’s always a cruelty to do that, to someone who believed themselves alone. I should have left, and let it be. But I could not. It was a cat. A cat! How could I resist? So I called it to me on its next circuit past, made that old noise my mother used to use to call our cats in at night when I was a child, that horrible old sound they couldn’t ever resist, their ears and then their bodies turning inexorably towards the noise, towards my mother as she called. Vvvvvvvvvvrm! Vvvvvvvvvrm!

“The cat stopped in its stride and looked at me, and then came, slowly, towards me, head cocked to the side, meowing in return, imitating my sound as best it could. And then when it reached me it pushed itself heavily against my leg as if in greeting.

“As I leant down to stroke it, a shadow cast itself over everything, somehow, looming over me from behind. I felt a hand upon my shoulder, and the cat slipped past my legs and hurried up the steps on which I was sat.

“Yet when I turned to look there was nothing behind me but the sealed doors of the tomb.”

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Notes:

1. Written on 26th July, 2015
2. Although this pared down version is from July 2018

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