‘Nothing is too much,’ she said. ‘Tell me.’
‘You must weave six shirts from starwort and river reeds,’ he said. ‘One for each of us.’
‘I will do it,’ Cora said. ‘I will walk beside the rivers and the lakes and I will do it. It will take time, but in the end you will be men again.
‘But,’ said her eldest brother, ‘you must not speak a single word nor make a single sound until the starwort shirts are on our backs, or the spell will never be broken in this lifetime.’
‘Not a sound?’ Cora felt her heart like a knot of hard wood in her breast.
‘Not the smallest sound in the world,’ he answered, ‘or we will be swans for ever.’
‘It will be hard,’ she said, ‘but I can do it.’
They nodded and went to the door of the hut. The sun’s last rays slanted in through the window and then there was a storm of snowy feathers and Cora saw the swans rising into the mauve twilight and growing smaller and smaller as their wide wings bore them away.
She started her work the very next day, and for many weeks all she did was wander beside rivers and streams and little brooks, picking starwort and the stoutest reeds that she could find, preparing herself for the weaving she would have to do. She took shelter under trees and in caves and hollows, and the rain fell on her and the sun burned her, and all the words she was forbidden to speak buzzed in her head and fixed themselves
‘River reed and starwort stem
cut and dry and weave and hem
twist and stitch and pull and bind
let white silence fill my mind
gather plant and gather stalk
stifle laughter stifle talk
sew and fold by candlelight
all the hours of every night
like a statue let me be
till my brothers are set free
freeze my words before they’re spoken
let the evil spell be broken
river reed and starwort stem
cut and dry and weave and hem.’
The weeks passed and the months and the making was slow and hard. At first, Cora’s fingers bled from working the sharp grasses but, after a while, she grew used to the weaving and at the end of the year, when the snow began to fall, she had finished one shirt, and she folded it carefully and put it into her basket.
One day, when Cora was sitting in the lowest branches of a tree, a Prince came riding by on a fine white horse, and his courtiers came with him.
‘Look, Your Highness,’ one said. ‘There’s a young woman in this tree. Shall we pull her down?’
‘Leave her,’ the Prince said. ‘I will speak to her and ask her kindly to step down.’
Cora did step down when he spoke to her, but not one single word did she utter in answer to his questions.
‘She cannot speak,’ the Prince said to his men. ‘She is mute.’
To Cora he said: ‘I will take you back to my castle and you shall be dressed in the finest gowns and I will hang necklaces of silver round your white throat, for you are the bride I have been seeking.’
And so she went with him. She married him and lived in a castle and her days were easier. Still, she did not make a sound, and still she had to wander the country round about, searching for river reeds and starwort stems.
By day, Cora worked at her loom, and by night she slept in a soft bed next to the husband she had grown to love. She would have been happy, but for the Old Queen, her mother-in-law. Always, she felt her presence, as if she were a black spider hanging in its web in a shadowy corner of the room. The Old Queen’s hatred touched Cora like a breath of cold air. She spoke openly to the Prince, saying: ‘You are a fool, my son. Cora is no mute, but an evil enchantress. See how her eyes widen! She knows I can smell secrets all over her. Oh, she is not what she appears!’
‘Hush, Mother,’ the Prince would answer. ‘One more wicked word and I will banish you for ever.’
The Old Queen smiled, and soon her dark words were for Cora’s ears only, and she was careful, very careful, to say nothing when her son was nearby.
The months passed. Cora continued to weave, and soon two shirts were finished. She put them into a cedar-wood chest, folding them carefully so that the prickly stems did not break, and then she set to work on the next garment. And after a time, her first child was born. During the birth, she could not cry out when the pains gripped her, but she was glad to be suffering, for soon, she knew, her own baby would be there, nestled close to her breast.
As soon as the child was born, the Old Queen appeared at the side of the bed. She picked up the baby.
‘I will wash him,’ she said to Cora, ‘and return him to you.’
So Cora slept, and when she woke, her arms were empty. She looked into the cradle and that was empty, too. The Prince and his mother stood by the bed, and the Prince was weeping bitterly.
‘She has devoured her own baby!’ the Old Queen shrieked. ‘Look at her mouth! Her mouth is full of blood! Throw her to the wolves in the forest!’
Cora shook her head from side to side, and threw herself from the bed, and clung to the Prince’s knees, but she did not speak.
‘No,’ said the Prince, and he lifted her up. ‘I will not believe that you have done such a thing. I know you are innocent. And you, Mother, will never speak such poisoned words ever again, on pain of banishment.’
Cora wept and wept. She wandered through the long corridors of the castle like a madwoman, peering behind every curtain, and listening for the faintest sound of a crying child. The Old Queen watched her. She was the one who had smeared Cora’s mouth with lamb’s blood. She had stolen the baby and sent it far away to be cared for by one of her own maids in a cottage beyond the mountain, but no one in the palace knew this secret.
Two years went by. Cora continued to weave the stiff stems of the starwort plants into a garment, and there were three finished shirts folded into the cedar-wood chest in her bedchamber. Then, in the spring of her third year of marriage, she was once more expecting the birth of a baby. Cora felt the Old Queen watching her as she grew large; felt an icy wickedness reaching out to her, wherever she went.
When Cora’s second child was born, the Old Queen stayed far away, and instead allowed the servants to attend her daughter-in-law. One of them came to her after the child was born, and gave her a glass of cool water to drink, but this woman was the Old Queen’s creature, and did her bidding at all times. She had put a sleeping draught into the cup and before long, Cora’s eyes closed and she slept.
When she woke up, the baby had disappeared, and the blood was caked and dry in the corners of her mouth. Once again, the Old Queen shrieked terrible accusations at her son, and once again his wife lay silent and turned her face to the wall. The weeping Prince stood at the foot of the bed and refused to believe his mother. And Cora once again became like a madwoman, fretting and weeping and roaming the dark corridors in absolute silence.
After five years, five shirts were ready, and lay carefully folded in the cedar-wood chest. Cora began to dream of the day when the spell that bound her brothers would be broken for ever. Then she found that she was pregnant again and her heart was full of fear. Still, she did not stop weaving the dry stems of river reeds and the green starwort stalks, either by day or by night.
On the day that her third child was born, the sixth shirt was complete but for the left sleeve. When my baby is here, Cora told herself, I will finish it and all will be well for ever.
When the baby was born, everything that happened twice before, happened again. This time, the Prince had to believe his mother and he condemned Cora to death. She would be burned at the stake, he told her, weeping, because that was the customary punishment for witches.
As the time for the execution drew near, Cora went to the cedar-wood dth cedar-chest in her bedchamber and unfolded the starwort shirts that she had made. She carried them as she went to the stake, and all who saw her wondered at the strange garments that filled her arms as she walked
. Cora thought of nothing but her brothers, and she closed her eyes and prayed for a miracle.
Then, all at once the air was filled with the sound of beating wings, and the crowd looked up and saw six white swans flying overhead. Down and down they fluttered to where Cora was standing, and they surrounded her in a cloud of feathers. Cora took a shirt and covered the first swan, and as she did so, the bird’s neck shrank and shrank, and its head grew and grew and soon a man stood before her. She did the same with the other shirts she had woven, and there all at once were her six beloved brothers: complete men but for the youngest who, because she had not woven the left sleeve of the sixth shirt, still had one swan wing. Cora cried out with joy and her brothers kissed her and held her in their arms and rejoiced in their new human forms.
‘You have saved us, little sister,’ they said. ‘You have saved us with your silence, and now your own life is in danger. Speak. Tell your husband everything.’
Cora said: ‘My heart is singing to see you again, my brothers, and you, my dear husband, must now know the truth, which I could not speak before.’
She turned to the Old Queen and pointed at her. ‘You took my children from me and murdered them. You are the wickedest of women.’
‘No, no,’ cried the Old Queen. ‘How could I murder my own grandchildren? They are living in a cottage beyond the forest.’
The Prince spoke sadly: ‘You may not have murdered them, Mother, but you were willing to stand by and see my wife go to her death. You will perish instead of her.’
And so the Old Queen was burned at the stake, and Cora’s children were brought back to the palace and lived happily there for many years, listening over and over again to the story of the six swans. They knew that it was true, because the youngest of their uncles still had one wide, white wing hidden under his cloak.
The Twelve Dancing Princesses
Retold by Anne Fine
Illustrated by Debi Gliori
ONCE UPON A time, in a faraway place, there lived a king who had twelve daughters. Some were pret s.tty, and some were clever, and the youngest was as rosy as the dawn.
But was the king pleased with them? No, he was not. For each morning, as the sun rose, his daughters’ nurse tapped on his chamber door and showed him a pile of tattered shoes.
‘Again, Nursie?’
‘Again, Sire.’
And the two of them stared forlornly at the twenty-four tattered shoes and shook their heads in amazement. For no one in the palace could understand how twelve girls could wear their freshly-stitched shoes to ribbons in a single night.
Each morning, as the sun crept over the palace wall, the king sent for his grand vizier.
‘Again, Sire?’
‘Again, Grand Vizier.’
And the king sighed. And the nurse sighed. And the grand vizier sighed. And all of them wished that the queen was still living, so that she could speak sharply to her daughters.
After his morning coffee, the king sent for Letitia. And Lottie. And Lola. And Lulu. And Louisa. And Lily. And Libby. And Lavinia. And Lena. And Laura. And Lisa. And Lara.
In they skipped. ‘Morning, Papa!’ ‘Morning, Papa!’ ‘Morning, Papa!’ ‘Morning, Pa—’
But he was in no mood to listen to their chirruping.
‘Daughters!’ he interrupted, pointing sternly to the heap of ruined shoes. ‘Have you been dancing?’
And the pretty ones giggled, and the clever ones were silent, and the youngest one peeped at her bare toes.
‘Now, girls,’ scolded Nursie. ‘Tell your father how it is that I can shoo you into your high, high tower room, and sit outside all night and not hear a peep, and in the morning all your freshly-stitched shoes are danced to ribbons.’
‘Again!’ scolded the grand vizier.
And still the pretty ones giggled, and the clever ones said nothing, and the youngest one peeped at her toes.
So the king sent them off with Nursie as usual, in disgrace. Then he spoke to the grand vizier.
‘Easy enough to trick poor old Nursie, with her thin grey hair and her clouding eyes. Let them try tricking you!’
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So the next night it was the grand vizier who shooed the twelve merry princesses into their high, high tower room, and sat outside the door and heard nothing.
And in the morning, all the freshly-stitched shoes were danced to ribbons.
‘Right!’ stormed the king. ‘Easy enough to fool the grand vizier with his beard down to his knees and his head full of worries. Let them try tricking me!’
So the next night it was the king himself who shooed his daughters, twittering like sparrows, into their high, high tower room, and sat outside all night.
And in the morning, all the freshly-stitched shoes were danced to ribbons, as usual.
Then the king lost his temper. Calling the grand vizier to his chamber, he made a proclamation and ordered him to write it down.
I, the king, proclaim that
Whosoever shall solve the mystery
of the twelve dancing princesses
(viz: where they go,
what they do,
and how their shoes are
danced to ribbons)
shall choose his favourite for a wife,
and have my kingdom, too,
when I retire or die.
Nursie was horrified. ‘But this Whosoever will see my precious girls in their nightgowns,’ she wailed. ‘And that won’t do at all.’
‘It will be perfectly fitting,’ the grand vizier assured her. ‘Because this Whosoever will soon be the husband of one, and the brother-in-law of all the others. So he won’t tell.’
‘But what if he fails?’ wept Nursie. ‘Then this Whosoever might travel far and wide through our dominions telling of my girls in their nightgowns.’
But the king had had too little sleep to be reasonable. Snatching the quill from the grand vizier, he scribbled at the bottom of the proclamation:
ze=eight="
And Whosoever fails shall
lose his head.
‘Happy?’ snapped the king.
All the blood drained from Nursie’s face. The grand vizier trembled. But before he could summon a word of wisdom or warning, the king had given the order to send the proclamation far and wide.
And far and wide the word spread. A kingdom! And a princess! Simply for staying up all night and keeping your wits about you! Young men came running: princes and paupers; butchers and candlestick makers; huntsmen and stable boys; beggars and woodcutters; minstrels and bird-catchers – everyone you could think of (except for the shoemakers, who were already doing very well). Soon there were so many waiting outside the palace walls that the grand vizier could only give them three nights each. So every evening the staircase of the high, high tower rang with some man’s confident footsteps as he ran up to sit outside the princesses’ door. And on his third and last morning, the staircase was deathly quiet as, sadly, he shuffled down again.
And through the taverns and market-places of a dozen kingdoms, the same tale was told. ‘I heard it all went well. Paul (or Peter, or Percival, or Pedro) spread his cloak outside the door of the princesses’ high, high tower room. And Letitia (or Lottie, or Lola, or Lulu) came in her nightgown and handed him a goblet of the finest ruby wine. “Good night,” she said prettily enough, and shut the door. And though Paul (or Peter, or Percival, or Pedro) heard nothing, by morning, all twenty-four shoes had been danced to ribbons!’
Years passed. Till one night a soldier who had fought his share of wars and was no longer young, saw something flapping from a tree in a dark wood.
It was the proclamation, torn and faded. The soldier read it through.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘The hand of a princess is a fine thing to win. And I could bear with a kingdom, so long as I had a grand vizier to run it for me.’
He read down to the last line.
And Whosoever fails shall
lose his head.
‘Well,’ said the old
soldier. ‘I have lost two of my fingers and all of my youth in the king’s wars. But not my courage. Losing your head is a high price to pay for failing. But I think I shall put myself to the test.’
And on he walked through the dark wood, till th=till caught up with an old woman dressed in black, hobbling along the path with a basket.
‘Give that to me, Old Lady,’ said the soldier. ‘For even if it’s filled with rocks, it will be lighter than any pack I carried in the wars.’
‘Wars!’ grumbled the old woman. ‘Crops trampled! Cottages burned to ashes!’ But she handed him the basket gratefully, and to be pleasant in return, asked him where he was going.
‘Laugh if you will,’ said the soldier. ‘But I hope to discover the secret of the twelve dancing princesses, and win a wife and a kingdom.’
The old woman looked him up and down, scars and all, and told him: ‘I should think you would make a sensible enough king. And though I should not like to marry you if I were rosy as the dawn, for the eldest princess you will be a fine match.’
Then, when they parted, she gave two things to the soldier.
First, a shabby black cloak. ‘It is a lot more precious than it looks,’ she warned. ‘When you put it round your shoulders, you will become invisible.’
Then, some advice. ‘It is a lot more important than it sounds,’ she warned. ‘Don’t drink the wine the princess brings to you.’
So the soldier went on to the palace and told the king and the grand vizier that he wanted to try his luck. The grand vizier looked at him sadly, because it seemed to him a shame that a man should lose two fingers (not to mention his youth) in the king’s wars, and then come to lose his head, too. But the rule was that anyone might try. So as the sun sank behind the palace walls, the soldier climbed cheerfully up the steps of the high tower, and spread his shabby black cloak on the stone floor outside the princesses’ door.
Magic Beans: A Handful of Fairytales From the Storybag Page 2