Fairytale Ending

Another one based on Heather Sutton photoprompt: a shot of a track through some woods, where the overhanging branches form a natural pergola; and a shot of a fire on a beach at night.

Don’t ask me how I got from those to this story, because I don’t know

*****

Once upon a time there lived a young man. His house was a tiny cottage in the woods near a small village. The young man was strong and tall, but he was ugly. His right eye was closed by scars, his right cheek was disfigured with a dark red birthmark, his mouth was twisted in a permanent snarl. He was the son of a duke, who lived in a great castle, but the duke’s wife liked only pretty things and beautiful people. She saw her son and insisted her husband sent him away. The little baby was sent to live with a wet nurse in a cottage, where he grew up, and stayed when she died.

Every Wednesday, the young man went to the market in the village. His father gave him a generous allowance, leaving money with the village priest for safekeeping. The young man would walk to the village, visit the priest, get his money, and go to buy the few things he needed. Bread and milk, cheese and meat, honey. He spent little, and often gave the rest away. He was polite and quiet, and popular with the villagers because he gave himself no airs about being the son of a duke.

One Wednesday he went to market as usual. But it was not a usual week, for on Saturday it would be his twenty-first birthday, and the villagers had decided to make it a special week for him. When he went to see the priest, he was given a small carved wooden box that had once held frankincense. The tailor gave him a new velvet waistcoat. The baker’s wife had made him a special cake. One of the dairymaids gave him a soft cheese wrapped in nettle leaves. The innkeeper gave him a flagon of the new season’s cider, and his wife gave him a small square of fine silk as a neckerchief. He added these treasures to the foodstuffs in his scrip.

As he left the village to go home, the village wise woman shuffled out of her dwelling. Like him, she had been ill blessed by nature, and he felt an affinity with her. She stopped in front of him, and thrust a small sprig of dried herbs into this right hand. She took his hand with the herbs and pressed it against his breastbone. ‘Here. Next to your heart.’ She turned and went back to her house, closed the door.

Carrying his scrip, and with the herbs pressed to his breast, he headed off on the mile or so to home. Although his cottage was in a clearing, the last part of the track went through a thick part of the woods. The trees grew close together, and their branches entwined overhead like the arched roof of a church, green in summer, bare black in winter. It was always dark in the arch, even on the brightest of days.

As he approached the darkest part of his journey, his right hand began to prickle. He looked, and saw that the herbs the wise woman had given him were glowing, as if on fire. Hurriedly he threw them onto the ground, which was always damp and cool, but for an instant it was as if the ground caught fire. Orange flames leapt, golden sparks flew, it was as light as day in the gloom. Then the flames were gone as fast as they had appeared. But on the ground where the herbs had been there was a small area still glowing gold. He looked down.

In the middle of the golden glow, he saw a woman. In the golden light, she had hair the colour of summer sun, eyes the green of the deepest oceans, skin as white as alabaster with a brush of coral across her cheeks and the nipples on her breasts. A beautiful woman, but tiny. She was no taller than the length of his hand. He bent down and she stood and reached out to him.

He took his new neckerchief off, and spread it across his hand, and put his hand on the ground. She stepped onto his palm as daintily as you please, sat down, and snuggled the silk around her. He picked up his scrip, and carefully made his way back to his cottage.

At the cottage, he made himself a simple meal while the woman went exploring. When she found something that excited her she clapped her tiny hands, with a noise much softer than even the beating of a butterfly’s wings. She skipped around. She found that soot was black, and that butter was slippery, and that breadcrumbs will bounce, and that cheese smells funny. Everything interested her, and her delight was obvious, though she made no sound except the tiny clapping of her hands.

When he went to bed, he took the box that priest had given him, and put some soft strands of wool in the bottom, covered that with his new neckerchief, and laid her down, covered her with the spare cloth. She seemed to sleep even before he could turn away.

At breakfast the next morning, he saw with surprise that she had grown. She was now maybe a foot in height. And although she ate nothing, and ran ceaselessly from one delight to another, she grew even more during the day. When it was time for bed he had to use an old drawer out of the dresser for her to sleep in. He lined it carefully with his new velvet waistcoat.

The next day the same thing happened. She was taller and taller still. When she had explored every corner of the cottage, she eventually went to sleep in the old linen chest the young man’s nurse had had as a wedding present.

The next day, Saturday, was his birthday, and by the time it came for him to have his birthday supper, she was fully grown, and as beautiful as ever. She wrapped herself in a blanket, and he could see the hair the colour of the summer sun, and the eyes the green of the deepest oceans, and the skin the white of alabaster, and the brush of coral across her cheeks. She watched as he ate his cake, and drank the cider, and when he was finished she stood, and took his hand, and led him to his bed. She held his head, and gently kissed the scarred eye, stroked the ugly birthmark, kissed his misshapen mouth with passion, and made love to him. She still said nothing at all. Not a word.

When the first light of dawn was in the east, she slid from under the blankets, and tucked them in neatly around his quiet body. She smiled, then stood to her full height, spread her arms, and spun gently round. For a second her lovely face seemed to take on the look of that of the wise woman, then there was a sudden flash of orange fire, a scattering of golden sparks, and she was gone as suddenly as she had arrived.

When the young man failed to turn up to church on the Sunday, the priest became concerned. He and the mayor discussed the matter, and sent a messenger to tell the duke that his son had not come into the village for worship as he always did. The duke arrived on his great white horse, and the three men made their way up the track, through the tunnel of darkness, and thus to the clearing where stood the cottage. The front door was open, and no trickle of smoke showed from the hole in the roof. The men stepped into the gloom. The fire was unlit, no candles burned to light the dark. But even in the half-light, they could see the shape of the body in the bed. They gathered to look down The priest crossed himself.

‘That’s not my son!’ said the duke, with a catch in his voice and a tear in his eye.

‘It must be, my lord. For that is your ring upon his right hand, where it has been for all the time I have known him,’ said the mayor.

‘But where is his scarred eye? The birthmark that disfigured him from the day he was born? That snarl of a mouth?’

‘I don’t know, my lord,’ said the mayor. The priest crossed himself.

‘And why in the name of all that’s holy is that clean fresh face smiling? No man goes to meet his maker with a smile on his face.’

‘I don’t know, my lord,’ said the priest and the mayor together. The priest crossed himself again.

‘He will be buried at the great castle. Arrange it!’ snapped the duke. Fighting back his tears he stumbled from the room, leapt upon his great horse, and galloped away. The mayor and the priest walked slowly to the door. It was then that the priest noticed something on the floor. He stooped, picked up a sprig of dried herbs, and placed it in a fold in his robes.