Once Upon a Curse

by Peter Beagle

  She walked off the edge of the cliff, there. She did not look down. She did not pause.

  We all pay for our sins.

  That is what I have become.

  I see you in your weakest moments, and I strike, merciless, harsh, and without stay or reprieve. It does not matter who you are, or what you were, what good you have done or plan to do. All that matters is now.

  This is what my father condemned me to in his last words to me. It seems to me a cruel punishment, but he was disappointed. He thought I would turn out better than my sister.

  Most of you are not as dark a sinner as I. After all, I am responsible for the deaths of two people. What you have done is nothing compared to me. And yet, I judge you. I do so because I must.

  “The poor woman was cast out from her family?” Eleanor rinsed the petticoat, inspected it one last time, then wrung it out and hung it on the line. “Poor thing.”

  “She murdered two innocents through her actions.”

  “She didn’t really. She didn’t know what would happen.”

  I helped her carry the wash tub to a corner of the yard, where we dumped it.

  “But she was selfish. If she had been good, and thoughtful, things would not have come to pass as they did.”

  Eleanor looked unconvinced, but her shoulders moved under her ragged dress, as if to push it aside. “Thank you for the story, it really did pass the time. It is so rare to receive such a treat. I am very grateful.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, “If you like, I can come back.”

  There was a clattering at the gate, and she looked up, resigned.

  She moved forward as the coach came into the yard, and then looked behind her, to say something, perhaps to warn me.

  I knew she would be punished if her family saw me, so I became invisible.

  She frowned, looked around, but they were calling her name, barking it shrilly, so she hurried away.

  There were two sisters, one tall and very pretty, though her face was quite pinched. She would have to wed soon, for when the bloom of her youth was gone in its place one would see a sour, bitter visage.

  The second was a bit shorter, homier looking. Weak, I could see. Left with good people she would have blossomed and been quite sweet, but she did not have the inner strength to fight her family.

  Lastly, out came the girls’ mother. I drifted back, shock running along my being. I knew her. I knew her like my own self, but could not place her. She was beautiful, with a cruel mouth that seemed forever twisted in some secret joke. I was surprised she was not married again already, but then, perhaps her husband was not dead.

  “You stupid girl! You’ve hung the laundry too close to the front gate,” she said, though I could tell from the curve of the drive that she had ordered the coachman to steer toward the clothesline.

  He looked uncomfortable and ashamed.

  Eleanor said nothing, but the look she gave the driver was kind.

  It was true that the dust from the carriage coming off the drive and into the dry courtyard had risen like a thick cloud and drifted toward the laundry, but not one speck of dirt had landed on the newly washed sheets and clothes. I had made sure of it, so when the stepmother wandered over to inspect her handiwork she saw nothing to complain about. She frowned and walked into the house, her daughters following.

  I did not need to follow, to see the kind of life she lived. I already knew. Instead, I decided to find the other half of the puzzle.

  The castle was huge, a long bridge leading across the moat to marble stairs that led up to the entranceway, a huge gate thrown open to the world, but guarded by soldiers who flanked every step.

  No one stopped me, not even when I entered the palace proper, because they saw me, and yet did not, so it was easy for me to enter the gilded sunroom where the ladies of the court settled, to bow to the queen, who nodded and waved me aside. No one asked me who I was or what I was doing there. Some of them frowned at me, but ignored the questions in the back of their minds, knowing that I must belong right where I was, and everything was perfectly the way it should be.

  “As I was saying,” the queen spoke to the woman in gold and green on her left, “I don’t know what goes on in his mind. Surely he realizes that he should marry, but he wants to wed for love. Love! Can you countenance such foolishness? Surely I cannot.” She took a sip of wine.

  The other woman muttered something incoherent, as if afraid of being understood.

  “Exactly. I certainly didn’t love his father, but I did well enough, did I not?”

  I cleared my throat, and inched forward on my knees. “Your majesty, I beg your leave to speak?”

  She looked at me, as if trying to place me. She knew I belonged there, but how? Was I a trouble maker? Was I a sycophant?

  I smiled shyly, not raising my eyes.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “May I venture the idea that, perhaps, an illusion of love will do? Hold a ball. Invite the finest and most eligible women, dressed in their most marvelous clothes. Surely, one will catch his eye, and maybe even his heart. If you move quickly, you can have him wed before the shine comes off of her.”

  I put careful power behind my words. I made the idea feel like her own. I made it feel like the most magnificent idea ever.

  “Yes.” She leaned back in her chair, her eyes a little dazed.

  I might have pushed too hard.

  “We will have a ball. And whom he chooses, he shall wed.” She smiled a little, and I rose and disappeared from the room and from their memories.

  “A ball? Do you think they will really hold one?” We were in Eleanor’s kitchen, where she was kneading bread.

  “I have heard it would be so from the most reliable of sources. All the eligible maids of the kingdom will be invited. It was the queen’s own idea. Apparently they are quite desperate to marry him off.”

  Her blue eyes went dreamy. “I should like to marry him. You will not believe me, but when I was a child and papa still alive, I met the prince. We played together in the garden while papa and the king talked about things. I never knew what. The prince was the sweetest boy. And a handsome man, now. I wonder if he would recognize me? I have not been a part of genteel society for so long…”

  There was a long silence, as she remembered the boy she’d known. I wonder if they’d recognized each other, even as children.

  “You are melancholy. Let me tell you another story.”

  She smiled at me, looking up through her eyelashes. “I should like that above all things.” The bell at the front clanged, and she sighed. “Duty first. You will wait, won’t you?”

  As always, the silence gave me time to think. I sat on a stool in the sun and looked out at the yard, at the goat, the chickens, the small garden.

  I knew the tale I would tell her. When she came back, I told her the following story, more or less.

  Once upon a time, I was freed from my prison. I wandered the world, my wooden cloak the only thing to keep me warm, my silver knife my only possession. The rest was imagination. I found myself following the stars, like her, but unlike her I did not fall, I kept my gaze down. I became a fish and swam to new lands, and eventually I ended up in a land made of patches of verdant green and lush riverbanks edged with an endless desert.

  The people there lined their eyes with kohl and wore fine linen, their flesh never seeming to know winter. I spelled my cloak away and let the hot sun pour into me. I made my hair dark and carefully cut, my skin bronze, and gave myself a beautiful pleated sheath of linen decorated with gold and jewels. Excitement made my heart pound, but I did not know why. Perhaps it was simply being part of the world again.

  I saw a man beating his slave. I turned his staff into a snake, and it bit him. I gave the frightened slave a jar of ointment and told him how to use it to cure his master. I was about to switch the souls of a mistress and her servant, so that the kind, gentle servant could live the live the life that the hard-eyed, calculating mistress took for granted, when I hea
rd someone call.

  Many guards; oiled, handsome, strong men surrounded a litter. On it rested a man whose eyes were never still, who despite looking relaxed, seemed to be taking in every detail of his people.

  “Do not look directly at Pharaoh, girl! Your eyes will be burnt out, as if by the sun!” the mistress hissed at the servant.

  His eyes met mine, and it felt for a moment as if the words proved true, that I was burning. I smiled, coyly, and dropped my eyes, but I could feel the weight of his stare as he passed.

  My heart leapt in my breast, for I realized that my lover had been reborn. I walked away as if on air. He was handsome; kohl outlining eyes that seemed brighter than the gold that decorated the tombs. That had not changed. And his body was still so strong. How to get to him? How to meet with him again?

  I had wandered into the slave market unknowing and I found myself looking at a girl with eyes like the sky.

  “A foreign slave! Look at this jewel from another world! Hair like gold, eyes like lapis lazuli!”

  She looked a little scared, but also brave, as if she would make the best out of the situation.

  Of course, if he was born again, so was she. I did not feel great joy at this, but as if a heavy weight had been placed upon my shoulders. A good weight, I tried to tell myself, a chance at redemption.

  A man, heavy, but not grossly so, looked at her with quiet longing. Finally, he started bargaining with the seller, another man competing with him. The three haggled until I be-spelled the newcomer, causing him to forget his interest in the girl. He wandered off, and the first man purchased her, gently untying her and taking her hand. He said something earnestly to her, and she nodded.

  I followed them home, becoming nothing but shadow. I could do nothing else, for I knew she was my lover’s intended bride. If I wanted to appease my angry father, I must find a way to make things right.

  Still, my stomach hurt with anger at the thought of her having him while I could not. It did not seem fair.

  Her name was Rhodopis. His name was Amasis.

  My name? Well, my name is not one that anyone remembers, not even me.

  Rhodopis’ master loved beauty, even though he was too sick to truly enjoy it. He slept most of the time in a walled garden, while his slaves—one dozen beautiful women—tended the house and lived a gilded life. Rhodopis was his favorite, for her unusual coloring made her glisten like a star in the darkness, and her gentle nature made her a joy to be around. This caused the other women to hate her. They beat her. They tried to starve her, and they spoke to her cruelly. I watched her carefully, this time a bird that sat in the tree overlooking the garden, but she said nothing.

  “I knew the great Aesop, and he told me such stories, my lord. Shall I tell them to you, and ease your rest?” she would ask him, and he would smile gratefully and say yes. She tended him lovingly, dutifully, the only one to do so without being asked.

  If there were a pitcher emptied, it was filled before the inside could fully dry. Her capable hands washed his brow, her sweet voice rivaled the songs of birds. The others lounged around and bickered when they had no further duties, but he was too kind to say anything against them.

  One night when he was particularly upset, she stood up and quietly swept the blue tile floor. I hopped a branch closer, and watched as she brushed her feet off, then leapt forward onto the smooth tile, and spun. She spread her arms, her hands and wrists moving slowly and gracefully, turning into the steps of the dance.

  It was eerie, for she made not a sound save for the slightest shuffle of her bare feet on the stone. There was no music, just the silence as all of us, her jealous fellow slaves, her kind master, and I, watched her move with precision and grace, as if one of the temple spirits had come to visit us.

  They say, in stories, that birds weep. They cannot, so all I could do was bury my eyes under my wing while my heart bled, and beneath me, soundlessly, her master wept the tears I could not.

  She finished by throwing herself to her knees, inches away from the pillows her master rested upon. I looked in time to see him come forward, rest both his hands on the back of her bowed head, and lower his face to kiss her hair. “What can I do for you? Shall I free you? Shall I give you this house when I am gone? Tell me, dear child.”

  She looked up at him. “I want shoes.”

  With that, I flew away, and as a woman I wept, and pounded my hands against the dirt, devoured by guilt as ugly as hate. Though her mind did not know why, her soul still longed for the shoes her beloved had been carving for her the day we met.

  And oh, what slippers he, her master, gave her. They were made of rose-colored gold, crafted especially for her by one of the best slipper makers in the kingdom. They were patterned with ocean waves. She wore them constantly, both because she loved them, and because, if she did not, one of the other servants would surely steal them.

  In the mean time, I often went to see Amasis. I watched him in his rooms, mentally stabbing myself in the heart as he paced alone. The excuse was that I was waiting for a chance to do my duty, for it was not easy to bring together a slave girl and a Pharaoh, but the truth was that I so loved being near him that I could not stay away.

  I was there when he called for his scribe. “We will celebrate the consecration of the temple to Ptah at Ineb Hedj.” He played with the end of a parchment, rolling it idly. “I want the entire kingdom to be invited, from the most insignificant to the greatest. We will have great sacrifices. I am told that our stores are well filled with grain, so we shall celebrate by feeding all those who attend.”

  His scribe started discussing gently—for no one argued with Amasis—that giving away so much bread might not be the wisest thing, but my mind was filled with other things. This was the chance for Rhodopis to meet Amasis, at last.

  The master was pleased by the news, more than pleased. He hired a litter, so that if he needed to he could lie down, and called together his lovely servants, and gave all of them the finest clothes. They all received shifts of equal worth, but no one had slippers to rival the golden-haired one. I watched over her clothes with care, ready to scratch out the eyes of any who thought to despoil them. The ladies were too clever for that, instead, they took sand and dirt and threw them on the master’s bed clothes. The one who had once been the favorite ran, and told the master that Rhodopis had been neglecting her chores.

  They all stood gathered. Her face becoming pale under her tan as he came over to her, and took her chin in his hand.

  “Is this true? Have you been neglecting your work?”

  They all knew that if she said no, then all the women would be punished by not being allowed to go, and her life would be unlivable. If she said yes…she swallowed, and said, quietly, “I had not noticed that it was so. I beg you, let me stay and try to make up for it.”

  He looked sad. He knew what had happened, but he felt too weak to do anything about it, so he nodded and walked away.

  “I want to go see the celebration at Ineb Hedj, too.” I squawked at her.

  She did not understand, but put out a little grain for me before she went to the river to do her washing.

  I ignored it, pacing angrily.

  But, when was anything in life ever that easy, even for those who could do magic?

  When I finally followed her, she was singing as she worked.

  To hear your voice

  is pomegranate wine to me.

  I alighted next to her gold shoes, which sat, safe, on a stone.

  I draw life

  from hearing it.

  I tilted my head, and looked at the shoes, glittering in the sun. She was not looking, busily scrubbing at some spot, so I became a much larger bird, a falcon. I grabbed a slipper with my beak and flew off, not minding her pleas to come back.

  I found Amasis, diving so I could throw the slipper right into the Pharaoh’s lap, then I landed on the back of his throne, preening myself meaningfully while people murmured the name of Horus. I raised my wings and flew away to b
ecome a woman and wander the celebration.

  “Did you hear? Did you? Every woman in the Kingdom is to try on the slipper, and the one that can wear it, the Pharaoh will make his wife! It is the decree of Horus!”

  My eyes widened. I hadn’t considered that everyone would get a chance. I quickly went to get in line so I could watch. Thus far no one fit the slipper. I looked at it, willing it to shrink to refuse to take any foot that tried it on. By the time I got to the front of the line my eyes burned from the effort, and my head began to ache.

  I looked up at Amasis, and he looked down at me, and smiled.

  Somewhere he knew me, I thought. Somewhere he still was hunting for me. It was tempting to place my foot inside that slipper, to feel it cup the curves of my foot lovingly, to take my place at his side.

  I offered my bare foot coyly. He wanted it. I wanted it. Who would I hurt? I slipped my toe into the slipper, and I wondered, if his skin would still taste the same, all heat and honey and salt?

  “It doesn’t fit.” The servant in charge of the testing said. He, too, seemed tired.

  Amasis was disappointed. “Are you certain?”

  It took all my will power to turn my foot, to show the heel hanging a good portion out. “I am sorry, Great One.”

  “Sire?” It was Rhodopis’ master. “I have just now been able to see the slipper, and I know well who it belongs to…”

  I bowed and left. I did not look back, for I was filled with pain that was like to make my heart break.

  It felt less so when I changed again, became a fierce and strong falcon, and took to the skies looking for Rhodopis, as no one could find her.

  The bane of my life, that girl, I thought as I searched and found her hiding by the river, her other shoe hidden in some laundry. Ahead I could see Amasis in his barge. “I’m sorry, my lord, they cannot find her.” a servant said.

  He frowned. “Very well, then. We shall return to the palace.”