A wonder tale I wrote, back in 2003
Sep. 7th, 2014 08:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
capri0mniOver in dialecticdreamer's journal, there's a discussion of favorite and least favorite plotlines/tropes, here: The bones of story. And I mentioned that I'm fond of "Beauty and the Beast" motif in folktales. I was sure I had posted this story, somewhere in my journal, before this. But no. I'd posted it to another forum, instead. It's time I rectified that. So, here:
THE BAREFOOT QUEEN
In olden times, when wishing made things so, there lived a princess loved by rich and poor. So fair was she, in face, and heart, and mind, that all who knew her wished to bring her joy. She never raised a hand, or spoke a word, or took a step, except in sheer delight. And so she grew within the palace grounds, becoming even sweeter day by day, for kindness was the only thing she knew.
But childhood and time will never stay, and many nobles sought to call her "wife." The king, dissatisfied, dismissed them all. Each seemed too harsh or proud for her kind heart.
And then, one day, a prince arrived at court whose manner was so easy, warm and free that all agreed he was her very match. The wedding feast was held, and songs were sung, and tears were shed, when loved ones said "Good-bye."
The princess, for her part, was unafraid. The man beside her on the carriage seat was kind as any she had ever known. And though the land grew stranger with each mile, she only saw new wonders to behold.
So when, at length, her husband took her hand, and said: "I ask of thee a solemn vow," no apprehension rose within her heart. "Of course," she said, "whatever it may be," (if his own courage wavered as he heard the ease with which she spoke, I cannot tell).
"I promise thee," he said, "I shall be true, and yet, a shadow lies across my fate. From dawn to dusk, we'll share in every joy, but when the darkness comes, then I must go. Do not follow me, at any cost."
"I promise, Love," she said, "so do not fear. Shadows come and go, and never stay."
And so it came to pass as he foretold: each moment spent together was a joy. From sunrise till its setting in the west, they shared sweet songs, and sweeter loving words. But when night's shadow spread across the sky, he slipped into the hall without a sound and seemed to vanish as though he were a ghost.
Then loneliness began to spread its ice through that young heart, which once knew only joy.
The princess searched her mind to find a way to ease the burden of her doubts and fears and yet still keep the solemn vow she made. "I will not follow him," she told herself, "but just explore this palace as a game. Then, if, by chance, I stumble on his room, no one can ever say I was untrue."
And so, next morning, as they walked along, she called a game of "Tag," and sped away.
Just managing to stay ten steps ahead, she tried each door until she found the one -- the only one - which bore a heavy lock. She peered into the keyhole and she saw a cobbler's bench with all the tools laid out, and pieces cut and waiting to be sewn -- but not of leather, as one would expect. No, every piece was iron, cold and hard, with finished iron shoes upon the shelf.
She turned as quickly as she could and ran back to her husband's arms as though in sport, and, laughing, kissed his cheek and called him "Dear," as though no shadow spread across her heart.
But in the evening as she lay alone, she thought of him at labor through the night: his shoulders hunched and fingers blistered red, and wept to think that Fate could be so cruel to one as kind as her own prince had been.
And so one day, she sang to him a song -- she sang until he slumbered deep and sure, and then went back to find that door again, to see if she could break the spell by force.
But when she placed her hand upon the lock, fire blazed, thunder sounded, stones tumbled and vanished, and the wind churned the very earth. And when, at last, the tumult died away, no palace stood, and her true prince was gone -- only the iron shoes he made remained. A narrow path, paved deep with iron thorns, stretched on ahead, hemmed in by thorny trees.
There was nothing she could do, she knew it then, but journey on, and hope that at road's end she'd find her love, and kiss him once again. But her silk slippers would not take her far.
So she put her feet into an iron pair, and slung the bag of shoes across her back. She strode forth, spurred on, for the first time in her life, by love's sweet pain, and by strong hope. Blisters arose, and the blood flowed from her feet, and iron couldn't keep out winter's cold. But her legs and back grew strong, in time. And as she wore the soles of each pair down, she marveled at the distance she had come.
And as her final pair were wearing thin, the thorny path, at last, came to an end.
A woman sitting there beside the road looked up, and called the princess by her name. "I know you by the shoes upon your feet. I know you've come to save our noble king." She handed her a shining golden flute. "Keep this safe and hidden well," she said, "for it will help you in a time of need."
The princess thanked her and continued on. One day, and then another two days passed. And she walked on until she reached a gate so wide and tall there was no way around.
A watchman called to her from high above: "What business dost thou have beyond this gate?"
"I've come to see the cobbler -- is he here?"
"If that's thy answer, thou shalt never pass."
So she sat down and played upon the flute.
The next to call her was a regal queen (though sharp of face, and sharper still in voice): "Just ask thy price -- for I must have that flute!"
"It's not for sale -- not for the price you'll pay."
"Whoever told thee so was telling lies!" the queen then said. "Just name thy price. I'll pay!"
"Then let me spend one night within the room where your own cobbler sleeps," was her reply.
The queen agreed, and opened up the gate.
She led the princess in, and locked the door.
And there the good prince lay, in deathlike sleep. No matter how she called he would not wake -- and then, she saw the shoes still on his feet -- the laces were entwined with magic charms. And so she went to work -- untied them all. The rosy color of his cheeks returned, he drew a breath, awoke, and called her name.
They spent the night recounting all their tales.
As dawn approached he said: "Now listen well -- the queen that holds me here would be my bride. 'Twas she who lay that shadow on my fate. But when that final pair of shoes wears out, her power shall be gone forever more. And so before the wedding vows tonight, I'll call for celebration with a dance. And because thou walked the thorny way, thou shalt outlast them all, of this, I'm sure."
And so, that night, before the priest came in the prince called out: "This evening begs for sport! Let's have a dance, to lighten hearts and heels!"
And as the music sounded through the hall, the princess slipped into the crowd and danced. All heard the ring of iron on the floor that kept in perfect time with every tune, 'till no musician, either, could keep up. And with the final note, the iron cracked.
The queen, and all her courtiers, turned to dust. The princess and her cobbler-prince were free.
The priest came in, and found them standing there, heard their wedding vows, and blessed them both.
The prince was now the true king, and ruled well. And his bride -- the queen beloved by all -- took off her shoes -- ran barefoot in the grass.
I have no more to say - this tale is done,
To another person's house, now let it run.
dialecticdreamer's journal, there's a discussion of favorite and least favorite plotlines/tropes, here: The bones of story. And I mentioned that I'm fond of "Beauty and the Beast" motif in folktales. I was sure I had posted this story, somewhere in my journal, before this. But no. I'd posted it to another forum, instead. It's time I rectified that. So, here:THE BAREFOOT QUEEN
In olden times, when wishing made things so, there lived a princess loved by rich and poor. So fair was she, in face, and heart, and mind, that all who knew her wished to bring her joy. She never raised a hand, or spoke a word, or took a step, except in sheer delight. And so she grew within the palace grounds, becoming even sweeter day by day, for kindness was the only thing she knew.
But childhood and time will never stay, and many nobles sought to call her "wife." The king, dissatisfied, dismissed them all. Each seemed too harsh or proud for her kind heart.
And then, one day, a prince arrived at court whose manner was so easy, warm and free that all agreed he was her very match. The wedding feast was held, and songs were sung, and tears were shed, when loved ones said "Good-bye."
The princess, for her part, was unafraid. The man beside her on the carriage seat was kind as any she had ever known. And though the land grew stranger with each mile, she only saw new wonders to behold.
So when, at length, her husband took her hand, and said: "I ask of thee a solemn vow," no apprehension rose within her heart. "Of course," she said, "whatever it may be," (if his own courage wavered as he heard the ease with which she spoke, I cannot tell).
"I promise thee," he said, "I shall be true, and yet, a shadow lies across my fate. From dawn to dusk, we'll share in every joy, but when the darkness comes, then I must go. Do not follow me, at any cost."
"I promise, Love," she said, "so do not fear. Shadows come and go, and never stay."
And so it came to pass as he foretold: each moment spent together was a joy. From sunrise till its setting in the west, they shared sweet songs, and sweeter loving words. But when night's shadow spread across the sky, he slipped into the hall without a sound and seemed to vanish as though he were a ghost.
Then loneliness began to spread its ice through that young heart, which once knew only joy.
The princess searched her mind to find a way to ease the burden of her doubts and fears and yet still keep the solemn vow she made. "I will not follow him," she told herself, "but just explore this palace as a game. Then, if, by chance, I stumble on his room, no one can ever say I was untrue."
And so, next morning, as they walked along, she called a game of "Tag," and sped away.
Just managing to stay ten steps ahead, she tried each door until she found the one -- the only one - which bore a heavy lock. She peered into the keyhole and she saw a cobbler's bench with all the tools laid out, and pieces cut and waiting to be sewn -- but not of leather, as one would expect. No, every piece was iron, cold and hard, with finished iron shoes upon the shelf.
She turned as quickly as she could and ran back to her husband's arms as though in sport, and, laughing, kissed his cheek and called him "Dear," as though no shadow spread across her heart.
But in the evening as she lay alone, she thought of him at labor through the night: his shoulders hunched and fingers blistered red, and wept to think that Fate could be so cruel to one as kind as her own prince had been.
And so one day, she sang to him a song -- she sang until he slumbered deep and sure, and then went back to find that door again, to see if she could break the spell by force.
But when she placed her hand upon the lock, fire blazed, thunder sounded, stones tumbled and vanished, and the wind churned the very earth. And when, at last, the tumult died away, no palace stood, and her true prince was gone -- only the iron shoes he made remained. A narrow path, paved deep with iron thorns, stretched on ahead, hemmed in by thorny trees.
There was nothing she could do, she knew it then, but journey on, and hope that at road's end she'd find her love, and kiss him once again. But her silk slippers would not take her far.
So she put her feet into an iron pair, and slung the bag of shoes across her back. She strode forth, spurred on, for the first time in her life, by love's sweet pain, and by strong hope. Blisters arose, and the blood flowed from her feet, and iron couldn't keep out winter's cold. But her legs and back grew strong, in time. And as she wore the soles of each pair down, she marveled at the distance she had come.
And as her final pair were wearing thin, the thorny path, at last, came to an end.
A woman sitting there beside the road looked up, and called the princess by her name. "I know you by the shoes upon your feet. I know you've come to save our noble king." She handed her a shining golden flute. "Keep this safe and hidden well," she said, "for it will help you in a time of need."
The princess thanked her and continued on. One day, and then another two days passed. And she walked on until she reached a gate so wide and tall there was no way around.
A watchman called to her from high above: "What business dost thou have beyond this gate?"
"I've come to see the cobbler -- is he here?"
"If that's thy answer, thou shalt never pass."
So she sat down and played upon the flute.
The next to call her was a regal queen (though sharp of face, and sharper still in voice): "Just ask thy price -- for I must have that flute!"
"It's not for sale -- not for the price you'll pay."
"Whoever told thee so was telling lies!" the queen then said. "Just name thy price. I'll pay!"
"Then let me spend one night within the room where your own cobbler sleeps," was her reply.
The queen agreed, and opened up the gate.
She led the princess in, and locked the door.
And there the good prince lay, in deathlike sleep. No matter how she called he would not wake -- and then, she saw the shoes still on his feet -- the laces were entwined with magic charms. And so she went to work -- untied them all. The rosy color of his cheeks returned, he drew a breath, awoke, and called her name.
They spent the night recounting all their tales.
As dawn approached he said: "Now listen well -- the queen that holds me here would be my bride. 'Twas she who lay that shadow on my fate. But when that final pair of shoes wears out, her power shall be gone forever more. And so before the wedding vows tonight, I'll call for celebration with a dance. And because thou walked the thorny way, thou shalt outlast them all, of this, I'm sure."
And so, that night, before the priest came in the prince called out: "This evening begs for sport! Let's have a dance, to lighten hearts and heels!"
And as the music sounded through the hall, the princess slipped into the crowd and danced. All heard the ring of iron on the floor that kept in perfect time with every tune, 'till no musician, either, could keep up. And with the final note, the iron cracked.
The queen, and all her courtiers, turned to dust. The princess and her cobbler-prince were free.
The priest came in, and found them standing there, heard their wedding vows, and blessed them both.
The prince was now the true king, and ruled well. And his bride -- the queen beloved by all -- took off her shoes -- ran barefoot in the grass.
I have no more to say - this tale is done,
To another person's house, now let it run.
no subject
Date: 2014-09-07 01:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-09-07 02:19 pm (UTC)I actually originally composed it in blank verse, with each scene being ten lines each of iambic pentameter. That helped me keep the pacing up, and made it easier to commit to memory (performers always read their works off the page, but I preferred t memorize as much as possible). Then, I got rid of the line breaks, so I wouldn't fall into sing-songy mode.
(It also let me make the pun that: "Instead of putting my feet into shoes, I put my shoes into feet..." [/incorrigible]) ;-)