The daughter agreed, setting a date for the marriage, all the while planning for her escape. Donning the donkey skin as her disguise, she left her father’s castle and headed into the forest.
She traveled as far as her resources and stamina would allow. Still wearing the donkey skin, she came to the castle of a minor lord. She knocked on the door of the servant’s quarters and begged for work. The cook was a kind old woman who knew that no one would hire such an ugly girl. She gave Donkeyskin a meal and questioned her knowledge of cooking. Donkeyskin’s mother had shared long hours in the kitchen, baking for fun, so the girl knew her way around an oven. The cook took pity on the girl and hired her.
Donkeyskin lived in fear of her father, the king. So she stayed in her disguise, and after time, she was forgotten by everyone but the cook, who pitied her.
One day, a prince on a quest stopped at the castle. He was a tall, handsome young man with coal-black hair and eyes like sapphires. The lord extended every courtesy, providing the prince with lodging and meals. The latter was of primary interest to the prince, as he had not eaten since early morning. Supper would not be served until the winter sun set, so the lord’s footman delivered the prince to the kitchen for a quick meal to tide him over. Sitting near the cook’s hearth, the prince looked up from a bowl of stew and biscuits to notice Donkeyskin.
The girl hunched over a cutting board, brushing folds of animal hide from her face, peering down at her knife and its intended target, a pile of onions. The prince frowned, forgetting the stew for the moment. What was so compelling about the girl? She was ugly to be sure, but something in her shape called to him—not the actual shape that shuffled and scraped behind the wooden table, but rather the suggested shape beneath the folds. She looked up, as if sensing his gaze. Her eyes shone, reflecting firelight. Then she looked away.
The prince smiled. Perhaps the girl had a story.
Later that evening, he went exploring. He’d learned the location of the servant’s quarters from the lord’s footman. Creeping down stairs and darkened halls, he came to a tiny room behind the kitchen. The wooden door was slightly ajar, just enough to peer inside.
The storyteller paused and smiled. “Convenient, no?” He chuckled. “Therein lies the happy economy of a children’s story. No closed doors. And so our hero rushes to his fate, unimpeded by clumsy circumstance.”
He emptied his cup and motioned to the innkeeper. Glancing back, he asked, “Another draught? Don’t let me drink past you, my friend. My tale has a certain distance to go, and we should arrive together.”
He looked around the room, his gaze settling on a young girl tending the fire. “Do you see that lass there? Handsome thing, though her hair is a bit unkempt. And even at this distance, you can see that her eyes are set too close together. Shame.” He paused. “Now imagine her more lovely still—her eyes reset, her hair curled about her face like a frame around a picture, her breasts ever-so-slightly larger. A pleasant picture, but not enough to match what the prince found behind the door. Not enough by half.”
For she was the most beautiful woman the prince had ever seen. Eyes like onyx in the firelight, a nose upturned at the last moment to give perfection its finishing touch. Dark hair cascaded over her naked shoulders, her breasts, full and ripe, her nipples covered by the very hair he admired but suddenly could not forgive. She pulled free of the donkey skin that had marked her as ugly, discarding her disguise for the night.
He sighed, a reflex that gave him away. She started, crossing her chest with her arms, her lips pressed tight. The prince might have tendered an apology and backed away from the door, but then the story would be over. Instead, he pushed forward, putting a finger to his lips to quiet the girl. “No harm will come to you,” he promised, and indeed, he would not have allowed a single hair from her head to be plucked. He was already in love.
The next morning, he requested that the girl bake him a cake. Once again hidden beneath the donkey skin, the girl appeared loathsome and dirty, so the castle’s lord could scarcely believe the request. But princes are known to be capricious, and so the cake was baked under the watchful eye of the head cook.
The poor girl did not notice that her ring, a memento from her departed mother, was missing until after the cake was nestled in the bread oven.
That evening, the cake was served, topped with sugars and treats. The prince took a huge piece, and sat staring at the girl as he chewed. Then he bit down on the ring.
“What is this?” he cried, holding the trinket up for all to see. Donkeyskin shuddered with fear. Would the prince beat her?
He stood and, in a voice that rattled the rafters, declared that he would marry the woman whose finger fit the ring. The head cook scurried forward to try, but her little sausage fingers did not fit so well. When Donkeyskin came forward, her slender finger slipped into the ring easily, and the prince was engaged.
His parents, of course, had to be convinced of the wisdom of the union. But when they saw the girl dressed in the fine gowns she’d taken with her when she fled her father’s house, they realized that the girl came from nobility, and they agreed to the marriage.
Shortly after the ceremony, the prince and his bride received a message from the girl’s father. He’d learned of the marriage and sent congratulations, along with news—he’d finally found someone as beautiful as his deceased wife, and married her. Given the happy circumstances for all parties, the two families formed an alliance, and everyone lived in perpetual joy.
“The end,” the storyteller said. He took another drink, and then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic. He set the tankard down with a thump. The innkeeper jumped at the sound.
“Yes, you know the tale. Probably know it well. Children fall fast asleep to the happy conclusion. But what of the story itself? Is there a lesson to be culled?”
Another draught delivered, he took a huge swallow. His voice became louder, and some of the other guests made their way from the room, perhaps preferring sounds of the storm and the comfort of a warm bed to the storyteller’s tale. Within a few minutes, the Great Room of the Inn had cleared, leaving only the Innkeeper, the cook’s girl and the sot with the odd walk to hear the rest of the story.
“The moral of Donkeyskin lies in the nature of relations. Daughters marry and leave. Donkeys, on the other hand, are forever.” He paused, and then burst out laughing—the sound of a two-handed saw cutting through the trunk of a dead tree.
“A jest, merely a jest,” he continued, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “There is no lesson. A purpose? Perhaps, but a purpose hidden in the folds of the tale.” He closed his eyes. “You see, I know the truth behind the prince and Donkeyskin. A hidden truth.”
To begin, the prince was not a prince. He was the eldest son of a landed noble, on an errand to pay taxes, secure some needed supplies and see to his father’s investments in Boston. You see, the young man was native to the Americas, not the old country.
On his return trip, he took a less-traveled road, through dark woods and narrow glens, over streams and brooklets that gurgled past moss-covered rocks and tumbled over broken ledges into deep pools. At length, he came to somewhat gentler slopes, and a manor house. Presenting himself, he was welcomed as an honored guest.
Impatient for a meal, the traveler sought out the kitchen. There, he encountered a servant girl, who was at once, ugly and fascinating. He resolved to seek her out—a diversion, and nothing more. Later that evening, after paying due attention to his host, the young man went searching. The servant girl’s door, so conveniently open in the story you know, was in fact open. Herein lies a lesson: history turns on small details. Why did the girl leave her door cracked? Did she anticipate a visit? Was she so certain of her privacy that she gave the door no thought?
Either way, the traveler was surprised to discover a beautiful girl standing naked in front of a full-length mirror. Though her back faced the young man, her lovely face was visible in the mirror’s reflection. The girl wore no animal hide.
She was the victim of a horrific condition of the skin that left her covered in scabs and scales.
She did not notice him. Instead, she concentrated on peeling the layers of desiccated flesh that marked her as ugly from the raw, pink flesh beneath, stripping the leathery folds as if shucking an ear of corn. A pile of discarded pieces lay at her feet.
When she noticed him, her face betrayed her thoughts. First, the pure, open-mouthed despair of having been found out. Then her face acquired a tight-lipped sort of resolve, shoulders thrown back, gaze cast down, silently waiting for the derision that was sure to follow.
But the girl had a pretty face.
For the next three days, the noble traveler and the girl stole every private moment together. Being a poor servant, she would have no dowry, but when the girl revealed her true lineage, the last obstacle to their union dropped away. After the third day, the traveler announced his intentions. He would marry the girl and take her with him.
His father was against the marriage. The girl’s affliction was not temporary. The hideous skin that covered her grew like a fungus, and had to be pruned. Freshly plucked, she skinned over like a peeled carrot within days.
And, the girl was estranged from her wealthy father.
But Donkeyskin still had some belongings (others having been given to the lord who’d sheltered her and provided her with a servant’s position), including a beautiful full-length mirror, which found a new home in the bedroom of the noble traveler’s parents. Thus convinced of the girl’s virtues, the traveler’s father agreed to the union.
On the night of the wedding, Donkeyskin tore at her carapace so that the marriage could be consummated, even though she’d recently plucked herself raw. Bloody patches being slightly preferable to dead tissue, the deflowering commenced. And that should have ended the true story of Donkeyskin, for since the time of the Bard, the wedding bed is where good stories end.
But not this one.
As the storyteller paused, the wind howled outside, rattling the inn’s shutters. Inside, the fire had begun to dwindle, but when the innkeeper approached it with a fresh log, the storyteller waved him off and then pointed to empty tankards. The storyteller’s mood had changed. His voice dropped low, matching the moan of the storm. Rain battered the roof, seeming to further dampen his spirits. His gaze darted from room corner to room corner, peering into the shadows with what appeared to be dread. A single crack of thunder caused him to jump, nearly spilling his drink. “Nearly a tragedy,” he joked, but his voice carried no humor.
The poor drunk in the corner, Pizzle, had fallen asleep, his head cocked back, mouth open. Only the innkeeper stood watch. The cook’s girl had gone to bed.
“You might well ask, how do I know the true story of Donkeyskin?” He leaned forward, his voice dropping, as if in conspiracy. His left eye twitched as he spoke. “The young traveler who married Donkeyskin was my older brother.” He sat back, and glanced away. His lip trembled slightly, giving some small air of credibility to his claim.
“It seems the girl left her father for the very reason told in the children’s story. He was a vile man, without Christian virtue. He wanted her as his bride. Even so, my father sent me to inform him of the impending nuptials. I gathered what directions I could from Donkeyskin—yes, that’s what I called her, though she was to be my sister-in-law—and I set out to deliver my message.
I’d been warned that the road to her father’s manor was rough business, cut through primal wilderness. Along the way, I found nothing but ruin. Old stone chimneys, shattered wood and broken brick littered the poor patches of earth where homes had once stood. The trees were stunted—poor, twisted things with tortured trunks and slick gray leaves that blotted out the sun. The undergrowth ruled the road, choking it with weeds. As the day passed, the road narrowed, and I heard the rustle and slither of the underbrush.
I had begun to despair finding my destination when the road came to an abrupt end in a copse of trees. Had I taken a wrong turn? With sunset approaching, I began to search for a safe place to spend the night. I dismounted and tied my horse to a tree branch, careful to knot the bridle, for the horse was uneasy and might have bolted.
I walked through the copse, hoping for a resumption of the road. Instead, I found the manor where Donkeyskin’s father lived. There was no mistaking the two-story house, the old stone well and the low, flat barn, situated in a perfect triangle as she had described prior to my leaving.
The sun was setting, so at first, I doubted my eyes. The triangle that marked the manor’s grounds was circumscribed by a perfect circle of gray, which did not appear to be grass. As I approached, my steps slowed. The ground gave way like sand. The poor scrub underfoot thinned and then disappeared altogether, leaving a surface that was more ash than earth.
I could detect no sign of life. The front door to the manor stood open, but my gaze could not penetrate the darkness within. I stopped by the well. A stench from below turned my stomach. Once, when I was no more than ten years old, my father’s cook spilled hot oil, burning her legs horribly. The burns festered, and she died of the infection. Though my father was against any such kindness, my mother sent me to the cook’s bed with some wine for the pain. The old woman’s legs smelled like that well.
Huge trees ringed the house, more gnarled and hideous than any I’d yet seen. The only other vegetation in sight was a patch of something foul, more gray than green, pasted to the north wall of the manor house. My gaze drifted to the second floor of the crumbling building. There, peering through a small window, I saw a face.
I stood for a long time, staring at the countenance, and I’m certain it stared back. Thin, pale, framed with dark, unruly hair. Yet, the face was so still, so motionless, that I began to doubt my eyes.
Already unnerved, I heard a cry issue from the barn.
I am not a religious man. I have my own kingdom—taverns and brothels—and I happily leave the rest of creation to God. But that demon’s howl might have sent me straight to seminary, so fierce was the sound, bubbling up from the bowels of hell. And I stood helpless as the sun dropped down—
Gone. The sun had set as I stood there, yet I could see. The trees behind the house seemed to glow. Even the ground beneath my feet had a soft, sickening sheen that lit the center of the triangle. You might call me foolish, and blame the reflection of the moon for the light, but the moon was hidden in the clouds that night. I tell you, the manor and its surroundings glowed.
I am not a timid man. Nothing of this world surprises or frightens me. Yet I trembled, that evening, standing in the circle of ash, for the scene was unnatural. A blight had taken hold of the manor and its grounds. The stench of the well permeated everything.
The unholy shriek came from the barn again, this time with urgency. I took a single step back, but the ground gave way beneath my feet, and I tumbled back flat, my hands splayed out into the repugnant soil. I stared at the barn door, waiting for the beast inside to emerge. When nothing happened, I forced myself up, first by grasping the walls of the well. The cold, vile texture of the masonry was like bone. What horrors nested unseen in the well’s depths? And who would dare drink from that festering hole? I let go and stood without further assistance, my eyes never leaving the barn door.
Then came a third howl, more frightening than any other that had preceded it. As I watched, struck dumb with horror, the door swung open. The creature that emerged was a mass of fluttering tissues and pus, lit from below by the glowing ash. Larger than any man by a factor of two, the thing raised its head and bellowed again, all anguish and pain. As it tossed its tortured head, bits of skin shook free and dropped to the ground. And then I recognized the beast for what it was.
The prize donkey from the story, alive but not well, suffering from the very skin disease that afflicted my brother’s fiancé.
The thing took a single step toward me. I screamed then, and I kept screaming as I ran from the manor house. My poor horse was gone—frightened, no doubt, by the hellish braying of
the donkey. I found the steed miles down the road. I believe that animal was as glad to see me as I was to see it.
The storyteller sat back, a silhouette in the cold, darkened room. The fire had burned down to embers—soft, glowing points like eyes in the dark. The wind continued to roar outside, spraying rain against shuttered windows. When he spoke again, his voice trembled.
“Yes, I promised to tell you about the name.” He pointed at the sleeping drunk. “That is my older brother. He doesn’t look like much now, but he was a fine one, a long decade ago. But after his marriage, we noticed a change. He took to drink. He ignored his wife, which seemed to cause her great sorrow. He stopped sleeping and acquired a haunted look, as if his wife were a succubus, draining him bit by bit. His face became thin and drawn, his eyes sunken and sullen.” The storyteller’s voice had become cold as the empty room.
“Then one night,” he continued, “he sat drinking in this very inn. All of a sudden, he began to scream and cry. As often as he drank, I thought him to be suffering from bottle ache. Then he pitched onto the floor, right there—“
The storyteller paused to point at a spot just five feet from the table. “That’s when we saw the lump in his pantaloons. The way he was screaming, as if he’d been bitten? We thought it was a rat. Others held him down while I slit the clothing open with a knife, ready to stab the vermin that had attacked my poor drunken brother. But it wasn’t a rat. The lump was his manhood, rotted off, and dropped down the leg of his clothing.”
“And that,” the storyteller said, “is why they call him Pizzle.”
The innkeeper stood against the back wall, staring down at the floor. A gust rattled the windows, and the embers in the fireplace seemed to shiver and then wink out. In the darkness, any atrocity seemed possible.
“And that is how I came into my fortune, for my father would not leave an inheritance to a son who was no longer a man. And that is also why I mistreat my fortune. I can never own it. I can only spend it.” He took one last draw from the tankard and set it aside.
A Mythos Grimmly Page 19