Tell me a story. A long one, until I fall asleep.
Hmm. Dragons this time?
No. With a princess. And the prince rescues her. And I’m the prince.
Ah. And who’s the princess?
I don’t know her name. Just tell me the story. Not out of a book, out of your mouth.
Once upon a time there lived a young bloom of a girl who desired everything and had as yet experienced nothing. Her father had betrothed her to a cold and arrogant suitor who would provide for her handsomely. Distraught, she fled to the hills and took refuge in a rocky cave. In that damp sanctuary, exhausted and starving, she slipped into a deep sleep while her spirit wept and wandered.
She awoke to the sound of a haunting rune with words she could not understand. As she stirred, an old woman stopped her high-pitched crooning and bent over her, offering a steaming brew. Its very smell revived her. The girl clasped the cup and drank the broth. The one who had given her life again was an ancient husk of a woman, her skin stretched like parchment over brittle fingers. Her red-rimmed eyes transfixed the young girl. “What is your story, child?” Her words were like rasping reeds in the wind.
The young girl told her story, and the hag struck a bargain. She would provide sanctuary in return for the maiden’s tale. “I am a weaver of legends,” said she, “and yours is yet but a golden thread. Give it to me. I will make of it a tapestry, intertwining your gold with my own rich tones. I will weave it over years and generations and across the oceans that divide the people.”
To the desperate girl there was no need of deliberation. “May I watch, Mother?” she asked.
“No, my child. My magic is too powerful for mortal eyes. I change form and voice even as the story grows beneath my fingers. You will sleep safely until your part in the story ends, and you awaken with a touch of a worthy one of my choosing.”
And so it came to pass that in return for shelter and protection from the dreaded bridegroom, the girl surrendered herself to the hag and would remain in a lonely tower until the time of her rescue, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps eons in the future. And her redeemer will love her with a love so pure, so selfless, that he will sacrifice his heart’s desire so that she might have hers. Indeed, that very thing shall be required of him, because the test of intention is the act that must follow.
**********
“What happened to the girl, Old One? Did someone rescue her from the old hag?” Yuri seldom had patience for his master’s reveries.
The storyteller paused to drag on his pipe. His eyes closed in pleasure as he exhaled, and the smoke curled around his hoary beard, wrapping him in mystery.
“No, my boy. Still she sleeps. Many brave youths have tried to end the story, but all have failed.”
“Did you ever try to find her, Old One?”
“I am only the storyteller, Yuri. It is not for me to go adventuring to strange lands in search of glory.”
“Then who will save her?”
“I do not know. That is why I tell the story to everyone who will listen. Her rescuer has no doubt been chosen, and when he hears the story, he will know what to do.”
The old man turned to his craft, his hands deftly twining the gleaming threads, humming softly as he worked.
Many travelers sojourned with the craftsman and his young apprentice. They haggled over the old man’s tapestries, leaving provisions and sometimes gold or silver in return, and as Yuri grew older he heard the tale repeated to all of them. Some shook their heads in bewilderment; others doubted or scoffed; a very few felt desire kindled in their spirits and resolved to find the maiden one day. For Yuri, though, finding the legendary beauty became his only quest, surpassing worldly ambitions. Her story dwelt richly within him and its rhythms became his heartbeat. Even his dreams were overtaken with visions of his love, for he did love her.
The storyteller watched his apprentice grow to a pensive young man, no longer content to listen to stories at his master’s knee. One day the old one rose at his customary early hour to find Yuri dressed for a journey, a sack of provisions slung over his shoulder. “Surely this does not surprise you,” said the young man. “You have been filling my head with her story since I was a small boy. I shall not rest until I rescue the maid; there is nothing in the world for me to do save to finish the story. For this I was born, was I not?”
“I have known it,” murmured the old man. He placed his hand on Yuri’s shoulder and gazed into his eyes. “Farewell, my young friend. I am old now, and my story ends as yours begins.” As the storyteller stepped back a mist curled around his feet, slowly swirling upward to envelop his bent form. It spread and thickened, obscuring him from sight. Yuri charged into the cloud, groping blindly and calling the old man’s name, but the mist dispersed about his waving arms. The master had left nothing behind but the story that lodged in Yuri’s heart; he had bartered the last small tapestry for a meal only the day before.
The young man’s journey took him far from home. His ears strained to hear the magical rune in the old tale that would give him direction, but if he heard it at all he was unable to separate it from the voices in his head. He came to a twisted wood and wandered deeper and deeper within, sometimes hacking a path through dense and thorny vines. Always his eyes fixed on a point in the distance, searching for a tower that would rise, cold and forbidding, above the forest.
Did the girl beckon him? He fancied that she guided him with a song that sounded like a nightingale in the wood. She hung a lamp in the tower, and suddenly a thousand reflections winked in the black sky. He was alone with the nightingale and the laughing stars. Twelve moons had brimmed full and waned to slivers as he wandered in the dark wood, and the hope that had once gleamed bright lay dull and cold in his heart. Overcome with exhaustion and disappointment, he sank to the ground.
He woke to the vision that had haunted his dreams for a year and a day. A castle loomed over the tops of the distant trees in the mist. Yuri dared not take his eyes from it lest it disappear; he pressed onward through the wood until he reached the outer drawbridge that had been lowered over the moat. His footsteps echoed bravely as he crossed, but his heart quaked as he approached the door. For another had reached the castle before him; he stepped out from behind the stone wall at the end of the drawbridge and stood poised with his axe drawn before the wooden door. A magnificent white steed in full battle array stamped and nickered impatiently behind him.
Many had heard the legend, and of course the strongest would prevail. Yuri’s blood boiled with an urge to rush upon the intruder, to overpower him and force the axe from his grasp, but his leaden feet would not move. His spirit sank in dejection as the forest resounded with cracking wood. Finally the axe shattered the stout plank that had barred the door from the inside. After flinging his iron aside, the stranger put his shoulder to the door and strained, groaning with the effort. The door swung open grudgingly on rusted hinges. Eyes closed in concentration, the knight never saw the horror that rushed screeching from its perch within.
A shriek chilled Yuri to the bone and he dropped to the ground, hiding his face. The screams of his rival lasted only seconds, after which the frantic retreat of the mighty steed nearly trampled him. When he dared to look up, he gazed upon a bird of prey as big as a man, talons bloody and beak dripping with gore. The intruder lay lifeless on the threshold, his blood staining the boards.
Horrified, Yuri recoiled and covered his face with his hands, willing himself to be still. He listened for the rush of wind and wings and the predator’s cry which would bring his death, but all was eerily silent–no birdsong in the wood, no rustling grasses. He raised his head to meet his doom.
The castle door rose immense before him, a smooth expanse, unviolated.
The floor boards shone in the morning sun, with no trace of stain. Where was the body of the dead knight? Yuri shook his head in wonder, rubbing his eyes. The months of wandering alone had addled his brains, he reasoned, altering his perceptions and giving life to delusions. Then he saw the axe.
He was indeed the chosen one. His rival had been vanquished before his eyes, leaving his weapon behind. Yuri shouldered the axe, then raised it before the door as the knight had done before him. He stood thus for several seconds, breathing deeply, pondering, remembering another tale his grandfather had once told him. In the tale a young warrior was promised a maiden to wed if he could enter her room without breaking the door. He pressed his shoulder to the great portal, shoved with all his might, and tried various keys to no avail. He chanted a spell in an effort to dissolve to a vapor and seep through the cracks, but he was not well versed in wizardry and succeeded only in breaking into a cold sweat.
Finally he recalled that in one of the Old One’s stories a young man simply called to the maiden to open the door lest he die of desire, and without hesitation she complied. A silly story, and yet the Old One had ended it by smiling smugly and intoning that there is much wisdom in wit.
Yuri flung the axe into the moat and sank to his knees before the door. In an agony of longing akin to prayer, he implored the maiden to open it. Yet there was no sign that she heard, and in his heart he knew that still she slept. Where then was the wisdom in the story? The door in the story had been opened from the inside, by the one who dwelt in the room. Dare he presume to ask the awesome creature that lurked behind the portal?
He poured out his story with power and eloquence, a story infused with the passion of youth and the wisdom of the ancients, a living thing born of his desires but spiraling in ever widening circles beyond his control. Finally he finished, breathless, astounded at what had escaped his lips and completely ravished him, and watched with mingled horror and elation as the door swung open.
The fearsome guardian of the castle cocked its head and fixed a cold glare on Yuri. Certain that his death was at hand, he approached the great bird and returned its gaze. He did not know how long they stood thus, but slowly a sense of peace pervaded him. Though they exchanged no words, all was understood.
Confident that the chosen one would follow, the bird walked heavily through winding corridors and did not look at him again. They passed through cavernous passages, their walls covered with wondrous tapestries that brought Yuri’s old grandfather to mind. He followed his guide in a labyrinth of ways through which he knew he would never return. The guardian did not pause at the winding staircase leading to the tower, but climbed deliberately, using its beak as a pivot to shift its bulk around the sharp angles of the passage. As Yuri followed, he became aware of a song that sounded like the nightingale in the wood, but now the words were clear and very close:
Come within and set me free
Bring the chosen one to me.
It was she. It had to be. Outside the birds were still silent; the voices in his head had subsided and he imagined that the very stars had flickered and gone out, since he had no need for them any more. Her song swelled in the air around him and drew him on. The guardian had reached the top of the stairs and stopped at a massive stone door. The great bird stepped aside and bowed, its beak nearly touching the floor, eyes closed. Powerful pinions sagged in exhaustion, and the bird gave no indication of their next move. Stretching forth his hand, Yuri dared to touch the soft down of its throat and thrilled to the hot pulse beneath the skin. Though he felt muscles tensing and heartbeat quickening, the bird did not open its eyes.
Golden light streamed through cracks in the great door, and Yuri’s eyes brimmed with tears at his prospects–alone with this inert monstrosity, surely unable to budge the stone door himself. The light seemed to take on a will of its own, entrancing and terrible. He could no more turn from it than he could have turned from the guardian as it led him to his heart’s desire. As in a trance, casting away the fear that might have saved him, he approached the black portal framed in brilliant gold. Whatever fate lay beyond it would be infinitely better than this limbo, knowing that his heart’s fulfillment lay only steps away yet imprisoned by impenetrable stone.
“My moment of death,” he thought. “Either I die looking full at the source of that wondrous light, or I shall die with longing for her.” The mysterious song enfolded him. No longer a single voice, clear and sweet, it soared atop spectral harmonies. In desperation Yuri leaned upon the stone door. Silently it yielded, and the light that had so enthralled him from the cracks rushed forth and blinded him. The guardian was no more; though he could not see it, he sensed its physical presence crumble to ash and its essence streak past him to the source of the light.
Sight returned by degrees as Yuri’s eyes adjusted to the brightness. He gazed at last upon a girl as she lay sleeping on a dais at the far corner of the room. Cheeks lightly flushed with the warmth of dreams, waves and billows of golden hair flowing down the pillows, she stirred and woke. She was a being of light and music. Though her form was human, the air around her shimmered and sang. Her eyes opened, beholding the young man before her and knowing his story as he knew hers. She rose from her bed and embraced him, filling his senses with her warmth, her song, her scent. Yuri had lived his whole life for this.
He recalled all the other fairy tales he’d ever heard–the rescuer swept the beautiful maiden away on his white charger and they married amidst great pomp and rejoicing, to enjoy a long reign of peace and prosperity. How he desired her! He had loved her since he was a child, and that love had burned and purged until there was nothing left of himself.
As he held her and drank in her sweetness, he knew that he could not wish for the happy ending, for the simple reason that it would be indeed an ending. He could not hope to remain her rescuer for eternity, nor would she embrace him with such fervor when she became accustomed to his touch. He wanted to tell her that they must close the book here and make no promises, that he wanted nothing more. His heart fairly burst with tenderness at the prospect of her tears and protests, but he would hold her gently at arm’s length and explain that this was the happy ending, that he must forfeit his heart’s desire so that she might have hers, and thus prove his love.
Closing his eyes, he held her and memorized every detail for all eternity–the wonderful perfumed hair flowing past her hips, the soft folds of her garment over her warm flesh. How could he tell her? Where would she go, and who would care for her now that he had freed her?
He struggled to find the kindest words, but there was no need. He sensed her anticipation at discovering what awaited her beyond the castle walls as she released him and clasped both his hands in hers, meeting his gaze with sparkling eyes. Neither spoke. Quietly, eyes still smiling, she bestowed a kiss of gratitude for love freely given with no expectation of reward. And just as quietly, though with his heart racing, Yuri received her light and her song.
His flesh glowed, first a gleaming bronze, and gradually a blinding gold. His spirit soared, no longer consumed by desire, but rather fulfilled beyond the fantasies of mortals who perpetuate the tales of granted wishes and happy endings. He sank to the pillows, lost in dreams, his story finished for a time. She lingered for a long moment, watching him, perhaps imagining another ending to the tale. At length she departed, free and whole at last, as his spirit fled to wander the wide world and inspire the makers of legends while he sleeps.
*************
“Where is he now, Mother?” Amy had always asked that question as the story drew to an end. Even though it had been years since the woman who had taken her in as an abandoned infant had last sat by her bedside in the evening, they both remembered the ritual.
“He is still sleeping, my love, and so shall you before long. Close your eyes and think pretty thoughts. It was a long story and the hour is late.” She put her embroidery aside and trimmed the lamp, then kissed her woman-child and caressed her hair softly, touched that she asked for the old story now in the first bloom of womanhood.
Much later, in that silent hour before the sun reaches over the edge of the world to cast off the cover of night, the mother tossed fitfully in her bed. She rose and pulled her robe tightly around her, for the room was chilly and a winter wind moaned in the hills. As was her habit, she padded into her daughter’s room to make sure she was covered. Light from the full moon shimmered through the rippling lacy curtains and illuminated a neatly folded nightgown on the empty bed; the window was flung open wide.
Her mother sighed and held the garment to her cheek, breathing in the sweet scent. “I have known it,” she murmured as a mist curled about her feet. She reached for the needlework she had left on the lamp table, then changed her mind. “This small piece is finished,” she thought. “I will leave it for someone to find and return to my unfinished tapestry.”
Somewhere far away in a twisted wood a sleeper lay dreaming, unconscious of the story compelling and consuming a chosen one who would make it her own.