by Jane Yolen
“No, child, not if you want a dream.”
“We want a dream. Together, Dream Weaver.” It was almost a man’s voice, just out of boyhood but already gone through its change. “We made our pledges to one another today. We will be married by year’s end. We have saved a coin to celebrate our fortune and we have decided together on a dream. Give us a good one.”
The old woman smiled. “I have already spun one true love dream today. I do not know if there is another in these old fingers.” She held them up before her eyes as if she could see them. She was proud of them, her clever fingers. She knew that they were strong and supple despite their gnarled appearance.
“Oh, we do not need a true love dream,” came the girl’s quick response. “We have that ourselves, you see. Our parents would have married us to others—for gold. But we persuaded them to let us wed. It took a long time, too long. But …” She stopped as if to let the boy finish for her, but he was silent, simply staring at her while she spoke.
“Well, give me the coin then, and we shall see what the threads have to say,” said the Dream Weaver. “They never lie. But sometimes the dream is not easy to read.”
The young man handed her the coin, and she slipped it into the pouch. She heard not even a rustle of impatience. They simply waited for her to begin, confident in their own living dreams.
The Dream Weaver picked out the threads with more flourish than was necessary. She would give them their penny’s worth.
“Watch as I thread the warp,” commanded the Dream Weaver, knowing they might need prompting to look at her rather than at one another.
At her command, they turned to watch. And this was the dream that she wove.
Princess Heart O’Stone
In the days when woods still circled the world and heroes could talk with beasts, there lived a princess whom everyone pitied.
She was the most beautiful girl imaginable. Her hair was the color of red leaves in the fall, burnished with orange and gold. Her eyes were the green of moss on stone, and her skin the color of fresh cream. She was slim and fair, and her voice was low. But she had a heart of stone.
When she was born, the midwife had grasped her firmly and slapped her lightly to bring out the first cry. But the first cry was the midwife’s instead.
“Look!” the woman gasped, pointing to the child’s breast. And there, cold and unmoving under the fragile shield of skin, was the outline of a heart. “She has a heart of stone.”
Then the child made a sound that was neither laugh nor cry and opened her eyes, but the stone in her breast did not move at all.
The king put his right palm on the child’s body, nearly covering it. He shook his head.
The queen turned her face against the pillow, but she could not weep until she heard the king weep. Then they wept as one.
The midwife was paid twice over in gold to stop her tongue, but it was too late. Her cry had already been heard. It went round the castle before the child had been wrapped.
“The princess has a heart of stone.”
“The princess has a heart of stone.”
The child grew up, hearing the whispers. And knowing her heart was made of stone and could feel neither sorrow nor joy, she felt nothing. She accepted the friendship of birds and beasts who asked neither smiles nor tears of her but only the comfort of her hand. But she stayed aloof from the companionship of people. And that is why she was called Princess Heart O’Stone—and was pitied.
Her parents would have done anything for her, but what could they do? They called in physicians who examined her. They thumped her bones and pulled at her skin and looked at her ears and eyes. They gave advice and said what was already known. “She is perfectly fit, except—except that her heart is made of stone.”
The king and queen called in poets and painters and singers of songs. They told of love never plighted, of wars never won, of mothers whose children all died.
The princess did not cry.
“If we can not move her, nothing can,” they said and left.
The royal couple called in clowns. And the courtyards of the kingdom filled with jongleurs and jesters, jugglers and jokers, who fell over one another in their efforts to fill the princess with delight. But as she had never cried, so she never laughed.
“What a heartless creature,” said the clowns. And they went away.
At last the king and queen gave up hope for a cure. Indeed they had lived through so many false promises and so much useless advice that they declared no one was ever again to speak of changing the princess’ condition. To do so was to invite a beheading.
Now in that same kingdom lived a simple woodcutter whose name was Donnal.
As fair as the princess was, Donnal was fairer. He had an angel’s face set round with golden curls. He was tall and straight, and his heart was tender. If he had a fault, it was this: he was proud of his strong back and perfect limbs and liked to admire his image in the forest pools.
Now one day, deep in the woods where he worked, Donnal heard a faint cry. As he knew the songs of birds, he ran to the sound and there he found a sparrow hawk caught in a net. Donnal took out his knife and cut the bird free. It flew straight to a low branch and called its thanks to the lad:
Heart O’Stone
Is all alone.
“Well, that is strange thanks, indeed,” thought Donnal. But the call stayed with him all that day. And as he thought about it, his tender heart cried out with pity. Though he lived in the woods by himself, he was not alone. He had all the birds and beasts and his own fair reflection for company. He could enjoy them and laugh or cry at will. But the princess, fair and stone-hearted, was truly all alone.
Still it did not occur to Donnal to go to her. He was a woodcutter, after all. How could he presume to help her when physicians and poets and clowns could not?
The very next day, when Donnal was again hard at work, he heard a second cry. It was deeper than the voice of the bird. Donnal ran to it and found a small vixen caught in a trap. He bent down and opened the trap and the little fox ran free. She cowered for a moment under a bush and, in thanks, barked:
Carry her heart,
Never part.
“Well,” said Donnal, “that is certainly true enough. If you carry someone’s heart, and she yours, then you will never part. But if you mean Princess Heart O’Stone, why that would be a very heavy burden indeed.”
He saluted the fox, and they both sped away. Donnal went home thinking about the fox’s words. But finally he laughed at himself, for when does a poor woodcutter get to carry a princess’ heart?
The next day Donnal was outside, stacking wood into piles, when he heard a third cry for help, low and angry. It was not a plea but a demand. This time he found a bear in a pit.
Donnal puzzled for a moment, wondering if he should try to bring the bear up, when he noticed that it wore a collar with gold markings.
“That is no ordinary bear,” said Donnal aloud. At the sound of his voice, the bear stood up and began twirling ever so slowly around and around in the pit.
Donnal lay down on his stomach, to look at the bear more closely. It was the king’s dancing bear, no doubt of it, though what it was doing so far from the castle, Donnal did not know.
“Just a minute, friend,” he called. Then he leaped up and ran back home for his ax. He felled a nearby tree and with a chain dragged it to the pit, shoved it in partway, and the bear climbed out.
“And do you have thanks for me, too?” asked Donnal. He gave a small laugh then, for the bear stood on its hind legs and bowed. Then it ambled off without a word.
However, when the bear reached the edge of the clearing, it turned and looked back over its shoulder and growled:
Heart of stone crack,
Ride on your back.
Donnal thought about this. All three—the hawk, the fox, and the bear—had called out their thanks. Yet none of it had to do with Donnal and his rescuing. It all had to do with the princess. He remembered the stories abo
ut Princess Heart O’Stone, how she spent her time with birds and beasts and none at all with humans. He wondered if all the animals were her special friends. And then he called out to the bear. “Wait, wait for me,” and ran after it, waving his hand.
The bear waited at the forest edge, and when Donnal caught up, it allowed the woodcutter to ride on its shoulders. They rode swifter than the winter wind and passed by the guards at the castle gate between one blink and the next. And when they came to the throne room, the bear pushed open the enormous door with its snout.
“What is this?” shouted the king to his flatterers and friends, and when none of them could answer, he asked the question of the bear.
At its master’s voice, the bear bowed low, and Donnal slid over its head to the floor.
“I think I know how to help your daughter, Princess Heart O’Stone,” said Donnal when he had picked himself up. “I may be only a poor woodcutter, but I can tell you what has been told me. It is here in my head.”
“Then you shall part with it now,” said the king in an angry yet controlled voice.
“The knowledge?” asked Donnal.
“No, woodcutter, your head,” said the king. “For I have sworn to kill anyone who refers to the princess’ problem.”
“Wait,” cried Donnal. “First listen and then take my head if you must. What I say will change your mind.”
“I can change my mind no more than my poor daughter can change her heart,” said the king.
The guards advanced on the woodcutter, their swords held high.
“It was the animals who told me,” said Donnal.
“Wait,” came a voice. And at that command, all motion in the throne room ceased for the voice belonged to Princess Heart O’Stone herself and never before had she taken any interest in court proceedings.
She walked over to her father and stood by the throne. Her voice was low, but it could be heard throughout the room. “A handsome, brave lad riding in on a bear. If I could laugh, I would find that funny. Yet you want to behead him. If I could cry, I would find that sad. But as I can do neither, at least I can listen. For I have found that people talk a lot and say nothing while animals talk infrequently and say much. A boy who has conversed with beasts is sure to say something interesting.”
At her voice, Donnal looked up. And seeing her beauty, he looked down. He came over and knelt before her and spoke to the floor. It was all he could dare.
“Heart O’Stone is all alone,” he whispered, for he knew at once it was true.
The princess reached down and held his chin in her hand, forcing him to look up at her. As Donnal looked into her eyes, he saw in those twin green pools his own fair reflection. And as he stared further, it seemed to him that in those pools was the faintest of ripples.
“I am,” she said, “all alone. I thought no one had remarked it.”
Then Donnal stood up and held both her hands in his.
At this, the king jumped up himself and would have cleaved Donnal’s head from his shoulders with his own sword had not the queen put out a hand to stop him.
But Donnal did not notice. He saw only the princess. “I have remarked it,” he said. “And it fairly breaks my heart to see you all alone. But you need not ever be alone again, for I am here.”
“You?” said the princess.
And then Donnal added, “Carry her heart, never part.”
The princess shook her head. “Would you dare carry such a burden?”
“If it were your heart, though truly made of stone, I would carry it gladly,” said Donnal. “And that would be a light task indeed for a back as straight and strong as mine.”
Then the princess moved right up next to Donnal, and he spoke only to her. No one in the throne room but the princess heard his final words.
“Heart of stone crack, ride on my back,” he said.
And as Donnal spoke, a great cracking sound was heard, as if the world itself were breaking in two. At that, the princess sighed. Tears ran down her cheeks and over her smiling mouth, but she never heeded them. She turned to her parents and cried out, “Mother, Father. I can laugh. I can cry. I can love.”
She turned to Donnal, “And I will marry whom I will.” She put her little hands on each side of his broad ones and brought them together as if in prayer.
“Marry him?” said the queen. “But he is a woodcutter. And besides, he is ill formed.”
The courtiers all looked, and it was true. How could they have not seen it before, Donnal’s face was beautiful still, but his proud straight back was now crooked. A hump, like a great stone, grew between his shoulders.
“She shall marry this man and no other,” said the king, for while the others had been watching the princess all the time, he alone had kept his eyes on Donnal. He knew what it was that rested on the boy’s shoulders. “He is a man of courage and compassion,” said the king, “who knows the difference between advice and action. He shall carry the burdens of the kingdom on that crooked back with ease, of this I am sure.”
So the two were married at once and ruled after the king died. The princess was known for her laughter and her tears, which she was quick to give to any who asked. King Donnal Crookback never minded his hump, for the only mirrors he sought were the princess’ eyes. And when they told him that he was straight and true, he knew they did not lie. And it was said, by all the people in the kingdom, that as loved as Queen Heart O’Stone was, King Donnal was more beloved still, for he had not one heart, but two: the one he carried hidden away in his breast, but the other he carried high between his shoulders, where it could be seen and touched by even the least of his people.
“That’s how I feel,” said the girl when the dream was done. “That I am carrying your heart, and it is no heavy burden.”
But the boy directed his words to the Dream Weaver. “The story was fine. Just meant for us.”
“Story?” the old woman said as she finished off the piece and held it out to him. “That was not just a story—but a woven dream. Here, take it. For your new life. Keep it safe.”
The boy pushed her hand away gently. “We do not need to take that with us, Dream Weaver. We have it safe—here.” He touched his hand to his chest.
The girl, realizing the Dream Weaver could not see his gesture, added, “Here in our hearts.”
As if to make up for his tactlessness, and because he had a gentle nature, the boy said, “Help us celebrate our good fortune, Dream Weaver.” He dug into his pocket. “Here, I have one more coin. It is part of the marriage portion. We would have you weave yourself a tale.”
The girl nodded, delighted with his words. “Yes, yes, please.”
“Myself?” The old woman looked amazed. “All these years I have been on street corners, weaving dreams for a penny. Yet no one has ever suggested such a thing before. Weave for myself?”
“Were you never tempted to do one anyway?” It was the girl.
“Tempted?” The Dream Weaver put her head to one side, considering the question. “If I had been sighted, I might have been tempted. But the eye and the ear are different listeners. So there was no need to weave a dream for myself. Besides …” and she gave a short laugh. “Besides, it would have brought no coin.”
They laughed with her. The boy took the Dream Weaver’s hand and placed the coin gently in it, closing her fingers around the penny. “Here is the coin, then, for your own dream.”
The Dream Weaver smiled a great smile that split her brown face in unequal halves. “You two watch closely for me, then. Be my eyes for the weaving. I shall hear the tale on my own.”
And this was the tale that she wove.
The Pot Child
There was once an ill-humored potter who lived all alone and made his way by shaping clay into cups and bowls and urns. His pots were colored with the tones of the earth, and on their sides he painted all creatures excepting man.
“For there was never a human I liked well enough to share my house and my life with,” said the bitter old man.<
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But one day, when the potter was known throughout the land for his sharp tongue as well as his pots, and so old that even death might have come as a friend, he sat down and on the side of a large bisque urn he drew a child.
The child was without flaw in the outline, and so the potter colored in its form with earth glazes: rutile for the body and cobalt blue for the eyes. And to the potter’s practiced eye, the figure on the pot was perfect.
So he put the pot into the kiln, closed up the door with bricks, and set the flame.
Slowly the fires burned. And within the kiln the glazes matured and turned their proper tones.
It was a full day and a night before the firing was done. And a full day and a night before the kiln had cooled. And it was a full day and a night before the old potter dared unbrick the kiln door. For the pot child was his masterpiece, of this he was sure.
At last, though, he could put it off no longer. He took down the kiln door, reached in, and removed the urn.
Slowly he felt along the pot’s side. It was smooth and still warm. He set the pot on the ground and walked around it, nodding his head as he went.
The child on the pot was so lifelike, it seemed to follow him with its lapis eyes. Its skin was a pearly yellow-white, and each hair on its head like beaten gold.
So the old potter squatted down before the urn, examining the figure closely, checking it for cracks and flaws, but there were none. He drew in his breath at the child’s beauty and thought to himself, “There is one I might like well enough.” And when he expelled his breath again, he blew directly on the image’s lips.
At that, the pot child sighed and stepped off the urn.
Well, this so startled the old man that he fell back into the dust.
After a while, though, the potter saw that the pot child was waiting for him to speak. So he stood up and in a brusque tone said, “Well, then, come here. Let me look at you.”
The child ran over to him and, ignoring his tone, put its arms around his waist, and whispered “Father” in a high sweet voice.