Tale #133: The Three Sons

A lord had three sons. One day, when they were fully grown, he took them to the top of the tallest tower of the castle and made them fire an arrow over the parapet and into the town. And wheresoever the arrow fell, there his son would find his wife.

The first son, the lord’s favourite, and upon whom the lord had lavished his entire life’s fortune and love, fired his arrow and his strength was such that the arrow flew out beyond the town to the castle of the neighbouring kingdom. It flew through the window and struck the headboard of the bed where the king’s fairest daughter was sleeping. And so the lordling and the princess were married that very afternoon.

The next day, the second son, about whom the lord was largely indifferent, fired his arrow, and his strength, though not as great as his elder brother’s, was still such that the arrow flew out over the town towards the church, where it struck the gate of the vicarage. The bishop’s only daughter was cleaning in the yard, and so the second son and the bishop’s daughter were married that very afternoon.

On the third day, the youngest son, who the king despised, fired his arrow. After years of abuse and neglect, the young man was so weak and useless that the arrow tumbled straight down into the market place below, where it struck a travelling merchant in the throat and killed her instantly. And so the third son and the corpse were married that very afternoon.

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Notes:

1. Written on the 18th May, 2016
2. So I’m not sure why it’s taken me so long to include it here.
3. Perhaps cause it was a bit too bleak and cynical
4. Even for me.
5. (And the same applies for next week’s one, too)

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Tale #85: Married Hearts

After the ceremony, as is traditional, the bride and groom are seated together at the banquet table at the head of the hall. As their friends and family watch on, the couple each take a knife from the table, and still smiling their newly-wed smiles, cut out their own hearts and let them drop onto the silver plates on the tabletop before them.

While they wipe the blood from their hands on silk napkins, the plates are passed around the gathered families, who inspect each one for signs of defects, anomalies, lies, deceptions.

At today’s event, the groom’s heart is a slender thing, stunted and withered through years of both neglect and cossetting. Never had it needed to fight or fend for itself, never had it needed to buttress itself against failure or calamity.

The bride’s family nod their heads in acceptance, the groom’s smile thinly with imperceptible pride.

When it is passed back to the bride, she slices it into two and pops each morsel into her mouth whole and swallows them without chewing.

The bride’s heart, however, sits heavily on its plate, like a beached and blood-red whale. As the plate is passed around the room, the groom’s family make numerous comments admiring the heft of the heart, the density of the muscle, the brightness of the blood, the volume of its chambers, and the depths they conceal.

Eventually the groom receives the heart, impatient and eager, taking the plate with both hands and placing it down reverently before hime. He slices a sliver away and takes a delicate bite so as to savour the taste.

The heart on the plate looks unchanged.

The groom finishes the first morsel of his bride’s heart, takes another slice, and chews this one as deliberately as the first. The next cut is bigger, and eaten more quickly. And the next, and the next.

Still the heart looks unchanged.

Or perhaps it looks bigger now, made somehow stronger and more defiant with every cut and laceration and frenzied stab. A huge solid lump of flesh that could sustain a man for the rest of his life.

Once the guests have gone, the groom’s decorum slips away entirely. He grasps his wife’s heart in his hands and tears great chunks of flesh from it with his teeth. Blood up to his elbows, his shirt as stained as a butcher’s coat.

He keeps on eating, his face as red as fury, his teeth as black as death.

The bride picks up a napkin from the table and carefully, caringly, wipes droplets of herself from his chin. She wonders when he will stop, when he’ll finally have had his fill.

She wonders, too, whether to take her heart out of his hands. Take it back and put it back and keep it for herself.

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Notes:

1. Written between August and November 2016

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The Wedding

My older sister was to marry a minor dignitary, and so for months the entire focus of our family had been preparations for this momentous event, which was quite unlike anything we had known before (or since).

On the morning of the ceremony, my mother, having been excluded (either by design or by callous accident, I did not know) from my sister’s preparatory entourage, instead fussed excessively over my appearance, and dressed me in a suit so uncomfortable I found myself almost entirely unable to move.

Once we had arrived at the cathedral, my mother and I were ushered to our places at the front of the crowds, and while mother greeted, and was greeted by, an endless series of well-wishers both known and unknown, I sat by her side as silent and motionless as a porcelain doll.

I had not had a religious upbringing, so for me the architecture of the cathedral was both distractingly exotic and strangely mundane (for I had no basis of comparison, and as such assumed all churches – and, indeed, weddings – were of equal size and splendour), and I found myself leaning back in my pew and gazing at the wondrous complexity of the ceiling.

Beams of marble (or, at least, of what appeared to be marble – I suspect it was actually wood simply stained as white as bone) stretched across the expanse of the hall in complex interlocking patterns, which pleasingly resembled the fractals I so enjoyed drawing on graph paper at home, and my eyes could not help themselves but trace out lines and pathways through the dense maze above me.

Lost in these pleasing geometric reveries, I missed much of the ceremony, and it was only when my mother subtly elbowed me in the ribs did I return my attention to my sister, who was by now at the altar, dressed voluminously in white, and well on the way to what for me seemed to be the important part of the occasion – the receiving of the ring.

The groom had, in a rare moment of bonhomie, taken me into his confidence some days before, and shown me the ring he intended to bind my sister with. It was gold, and round, and as heavy and featureless as his personality. Yet I knew my sister would be greatly enamoured by it, for it was excessively expensive, and therefore proof, simultaneously, of his commitment and her worth.

And indeed, from her expression, she was certainly impressed, although my sister has always known how to use her face to convey whatever emotion she intends to individuals and crowds alike, sometimes managing to say one thing to one and another to the rest with a single complex expression, so what her true feelings were, usually, in any given moment, essentially unknowable. Although I suppose this is trivially true for all but the most unguarded, naive, and unworldly of children.

As my sister and her husband kissed at the bishop’s request, a great spider, several metres across, lowered itself deftly down from the ceiling. It grasped the bishop in its legs, sank its fangs into his shoulder, and then, as it began to roll him up in silk, as neat as a cigar, swiftly retreated back to its lair above the bone-white rafters with his body.

I could not help but feel that this was a highly portentous incident, although, as my mother pointed out afterwards, the lack of surprise from the groom, his family, and the assorted other attendees from the upper echelons of our society, suggested such an occurrence was in itself quite a commonplace affair, and of little interest or import for members of their social class.

My sister would not stop screaming, and was hospitalised some weeks later.

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Notes:

1. Written on July 29th, 2019
2. And inspired by (or perhaps based upon) The Wedding by Silvina Ocampo
3. Which also includes a wedding
4. And a spider
5. But which is, unsurprisingly, much better than this

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Tale #33: The Offered Daughter And The Promised Sons

A lord came to town and said to the mayor, “Whosoever makes my daughter happy for a year and a day shall have her hand in marriage and inherit a great wealth.”

The mayor, who was poorer than he believed was his right, said, “I am the father of many sons. I promise you that at least one will make her happy, if you are kind enough to allow them the chance.”

The lord assented, and the very next day the mayor held a ball in the lord’s honour. Arriving in a great carriage, the lord and his daughter alighted to gasps of astonishment from the gathering crowd, for she was more beautiful than any woman that had ever been seen before, or would ever be again.

The mayor’s eldest son, who the mayor loved with all his heart, said to his father, “Let me be the one to please her.” His father agreed, and the eldest son took the lord’s daughter by the hand and introduced himself.

He was a very charming man, and as they danced throughout the evening a smile of joy played across her lips. And the mayor’s son smiled too, for he thought even then of his success, and the great rewards it would bring.

Over the coming days and months, they went everywhere together. Her beauty seemed to grow greater by the day, and he revelled in the attention he gained at having such a woman upon his arm.

Yet every night, when he took her to his room and undressed her by his bed, her appearance changed and when she stood naked before him her slender body looked to him like that of a haggard and wizened old crone. He could not bring himself to touch her, nor share his bed with her, and he made her sleep alone.

And this strange behaviour continued for a year, beauty by day yet beastly by night.

When the lord returned to town and met with the mayor, the mayor said, “Our children have now been happily together for a year and a day. Will you grant my son your daughter’s hand in marriage, and with it pass on the great wealth you promised us?”

“They have been together for a year it is true, but not happily, and it is happiness you promised your son would bring,” the lord said. “You son may take great pleasure in wearing her in public like a jewelled ring on his finger, yet cannot bear to be with her in the privacy of his own bed.”

The mayor was shaken by this, and frightened of losing out on the great wealth this arrangement could bring, said, “I am sorry my eldest son was unable to bring your daughter the happiness she deserves, but I promise you my second son will be able to grant her joy, and will be only too pleased to devote his attentions to her needs.”

The next day, the mayor’s second son invited the lord’s daughter to his house for a meal, and together they ate a great feast. And later together they went to his bedroom, and he undressed her by the fire, and she looked as beautiful as any woman he had ever seen or would see again, and he gave himself to her pleasure.

So every night together they ate a great feast, and every night he undressed her by the fire. And every night in the firelight he took her to his bed and together they made love.

Yet, every morning when he awoke, the first thing he noticed was how different she was in the cold light of day. Her beauty would fade, her figure looked portlier, her face more plump, and she appeared to him like a tired old maid. He was embarrassed for them to be seen with her, and they rarely went outside together.

And this strange behaviour continued for a year, beautiful by night but beastly by day.

When the lord returned to town once more and met with the mayor, the mayor said, “Our children now have been happily together for a year and a day. Will you grant my son her hand in marriage, and with it pass on the great wealth you promised us?”

“They have been together for a year it is true, but not happily, and it is happiness you promised your son would bring,” the lord said. “You son may take great pleasure with her in the privacy of his own bed, yet he cannot bring himself to be seen with her in public.”

The mayor was shaken by this, and feared now he had lost out on the lord’s fortune for good. “I am sorry my second son was unable to bring your daughter the happiness she deserves. I only have one more son, an idle stepson who is forever sullen and unhappy. I am not sure he will bring joy to anyone, and so perhaps your daughter should look elsewhere for a suitor.”

The lord said, “You promised me your sons could bring my daughter happiness. If you have lied to me, I shall be greatly displeased.”

So the mayor sent his stepson to meet the lord’s daughter. She was now neither beautiful nor ugly, but as plain as you or I. The mayor’s stepson spoke to her as if to a friend, and she also to him. And when that night the lord’s daughter undressed in front of the fire, she was still as plain as you or I, and so was the stepson. They held each other in their arms and smiled and kissed and so much more.

The next morning they talked with each other as if to friends, and in this way a whole year passed, and a day, and then from there, together, the rest of their lives.

And the great wealth was the wealth of true love.

The mayor was most displeased.

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Notes:

1. Written November 2016
2. Structurally the same as The Cat Wife

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Tale #18: The King and His Weeping Wife

There was a king long ago who lived hereabouts, and who had been away at war. On his return to his castle he chose for himself a wife, and told her she was his one true love. They were married beneath the falling blossom of the orchard trees, and she wept throughout the ceremony, and on into the night, overcome by her emotions. And he called her his Weeping Wife, for she cried her tears of happiness from that moment on.

One day, the king went with his men to the woods to hunt. He caught himself a pale deer and returned to the castle, only to find it quiet there in a way he at first could not quite place. Eventually he realised it was the sound of no-one sobbing, and he welcomed the change that must have come over his wife while he was away. He took the deer to the kitchens and cut out its heart, for it was a rare delicacy much enjoyed by noble men. Satisfied with his meal, the rest of the animal was condemned to the fire.

It was only after he had eaten that he returned to his chambers, and in calling to his wife, realised she was gone. He had his men search for her, and after several days word reached him that she had been taken by her sister, who was a duchess of a neighbouring land. His wife, the messenger said, was so shocked and overcome by the ordeal that she no longer wept her tears of joy.

The king, to give himself time to think, went hunting in the woods once more. The hunt proved fruitless, and he returned to the castle empty handed. There he ordered his army to prepare for battle, and the next morning they rode out.

At the gates of the duchess’s castle, the king called out, “Give me my wife, so I may take her home with me.”

The duchess came to the window of the highest tower, and looking down at the king, said, “No, for she is not mine to give.”

To which the king replied, “Give me my wife, so I may take her home with me.”

His wife came then to the window, and stood beside her sister, and looking down at the king said, “I am not hers to give, nor yours to take. I am mine and mine alone. Leave, and let me be.”

The queen closed the window and went back inside, and she sat with her sister and did not cry, even though she knew what surely was to come. The king below smashed down the gates and rode into the courtyard and set fire to the buildings there, and to the castle itself, and to the fields all around and the nearby town, for there were none that his rage would spare.

On his return to his castle he chose for himself a wife, and told her she was his one true love. They were married beneath the falling blossom of the orchard trees, and she wept throughout the ceremony, and on into the night, overcome by her emotions. And he called her his Weeping Wife, for she cried her tears of happiness from that moment on.

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Notes:

1. Written in July 2014

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