Zel

by Donna Jo Napoli

  They became Zel and Mother.

  I am Mother.

  * * *

  Zel brought all that I ever hoped for from love. I never intended to name her Rapunzel. I thought of Heidrun, Lore, Annelie. I thought of Brynhild, Gretel, Aurelia—even, in all their irony, Christa and Constance. Yet something within forced the name; something forced me to remember the source of the child. That same thing that forces me to come to town at intervals of no more than six months to touch an iron stone near the well in the marketplace and know its solid coldness. That same thing that turned my blood to water. But even that something couldn’t stop me from shortening the name to Zel, a name that fit the child, for as she grew, she danced and leapt like the gazelles of Biblical stories, the gazelles I had heard much of in the church of my past.

  When the babe was little, she nursed from my own breasts. I drank a brew my hands prepared from herbs my hands had picked, a brew no one had taught me. The milk flowed bluish and sweet, and Zel grew rosy and plump. I was in every way Mother.

  Later I fed her lovely things from the garden, ever fresh and abundant. The girl smiled all the time. I rolled in the grasses with her, nibbling at her baby hands and feet; I splashed in the stream with her, tickling her girl tummy and underarms; I scrambled over rocks with her, pointing out the wild flowers—golden crepides, pink silenes, pale yellow saxifrages. And the girl laughed. We talked of the marvel of this world, and I taught Zel of her soul, the only soul I believed was available to us, the spirit of the here and now. Zel never asked for more.

  Life was good. I ache with how good it was.

  When I brought Zel to the tower that I had never heard of before but that my feet took me to all on their own, I did it to gain time. I needed to figure out how to lead Zel to the choice that would keep us together. I gave up salvation for all time—surely I deserved more than thirteen years in return.

  I tried with the seduction of the goose. I remember word for word: “Zel, the gosling’s eggshell has turned to dust.” I leaned against the stone wall of the tower room.

  “Poor little thing. I doomed it.” Zel’s eyes filled with anguish, for this was only five months after she’d entered the tower, and her face was still full of expression. Her face didn’t lose expression until this past winter.

  “If you had a gift for animals, you could have made the mother goose accept the egg.”

  “I’m good with animals, Mother. I tried my best.”

  “You’re good with them, yes. But you could do much more.”

  Zel shook her head. “You mean like you said before? Talking to them? But even if I could have explained to the goose that the egg was for her to hatch and love, she might have rolled it away anyway. She might not have wanted another goose’s egg.”

  I smiled. “But there’s where the beauty of the gift is, Zel. If you had a gift for animals like my gift for plants, you could have made her take the egg.”

  “You can’t mean a power that would let me force animals to do as I wished? Who would want such a power? I couldn’t bear to be near an animal whose will I commanded.” Zel’s eyes showed a hint of the revulsion I had seen in the beery man’s eyes thirteen years before.

  I didn’t speak. I reeled from the look in Zel’s eyes. What had I done, after all? I hadn’t really ever hurt anyone.

  And now the wail of the woman rang out, the woman whose arms flew over her head as her husband handed Zel to me, the woman who fell to her knees and begged me not to take the child, the woman who rent her clothes in her grief. Would I never be rid of that memory?

  Zel looked lost and confused for a moment, as though my silence baffled her. “The gift of understanding and being understood, now that would be a real gift.” She walked to a window and looked out. “Then I could make friends here, animal friends.”

  Could I offer Zel that gift? My gift for plants was not about understanding; it was about control. Would the devils enter into that kind of bargain? Zel would have to find out for herself. “Zel, remember when you and I talked of God?”

  Zel shook her head. She turned from the window and looked at me with eyes of pure ignorance.

  “The handyman’s son said something to you about ‘God willing’ and you asked me who God was. Remember? And remember when we talked of praying?” I remembered it. I remembered my long explanation, how I said some people, just some people, held these beliefs. “You were almost six then; you must remember.”

  “I remember a little. But you’ll have to tell me again. I don’t think about that boy much.”

  There was something about the way she said “that boy,” as though she thought instead about another boy. Could she still be thinking about the youth at the smithy? She had to be tied to no one but me when I presented the choice. Me, no one but me.

  I closed my eyes and I saw the youth and his horse, still searching for Zel. My Zel. My daughter.

  I opened my eyes and considered Zel’s face. In that moment I knew her thoughts encompassed more than me. I left.

  Months went by. Seasons. At irregular intervals I would attempt again. But every time, I first tested Zel to see if the youth was still on her mind. And every time I kept my silence.

  I had raised Zel wrong. I had raised a creative, curious child. I had let the child develop her own inclinations. I had clapped with pleasure at every new discovery, new talent. I had raised a child who could love easily and whom anyone could love back. Oh, what a terrible twist. I had raised a child in the best way I knew how, and it was that mistake that kept her from me now.

  I hold that child in a tower. The only one I love, the one I love more than life itself; for two years I have held that one in a stone room.

  And I live alone. I live the life I would have lived if I had never had Zel in the first place. Only it is far worse—for I know what I have lost.

  Chapter 20Konrad

  onrad wakes tense. The carved wood that lines the walls and ceilings of the castle looks dense today, as though the humidity has made it swell. He lies on the feather bed with no cover, preferring to be open to the air in this hot summer weather.

  Konrad tries to picture Zel. He doesn’t trust his memory. Two years he searched for her. Two long years.

  He was starting to think that he had perhaps imagined the girl. Perhaps the smith humored him, to pretend that there ever had been such a girl. Perhaps the toothless farmer was in on the conspiracy. Perhaps Konrad himself had participated in the hoax. For didn’t his own mind conjure up a lone woman fiddler with a mindless goose that sat on a nest of rocks? There was no other explanation for the impossibility of finding the cottage on the alm.

  And then this spring Konrad realized the much more likely possibility: His Rapunzel had married and left the canton. His Rapunzel could be anywhere. And she wasn’t his Rapunzel.

  The fiddle tune that infiltrated his dreams finally stopped.

  That’s when Konrad ceased to search and spent his days on nothing but work.

  “The young duchess married more than a year ago,” said Father one morning.

  Konrad smelled his coffee, both hands circling the mug. He didn’t look up. “This New World import gives us a great pleasure.” He drank.

  “I’ve heard of a young countess from the south with just the right character for you, Konrad.”

  Konrad’s heart raced. He put down his mug. “Have you already made inquiries?”

  “All the necessary ones. What do you want to know?”

  If she was from the south, there was no doubt she would not have yellow hair. She would not braid it. If she was a countess, she would never be seen in smithies. If she was a countess, she would not give gifts to demented geese. This girl would be unlike Rapunzel. Looking at her would not hurt. He must ignore his racing heart. “Nothing,” said Konrad.

  “Good.”

  “A face-to-face meeting,” said the countess. “We decided long ago that was the best idea.”

  Father scowled. “He’s just agreed.”

  The coun
tess shook her head. “I am as eager as you—more, even—for a suitable match. But we don’t want another fiasco. He should meet the girl.”

  They both looked at Konrad.

  If Konrad met the girl and his obsession for Zel made him decide against the match, the girl would be disgraced, and through no fault of her own. No, if they were to marry, they must simply marry. And Konrad must adjust and learn to love his wife. “Set the date for the wedding.”

  And so one month from now, Konrad will wed. His stomach knots at the thought. There is another life involved here, the life of an innocent girl from a distant land who puts her trust in Konrad. She wants to wake in the morning to a day that is full of pleasure and wonder. She wants to have children who make her laugh. She wants to love and be loved.

  Konrad dresses quickly. He goes to the eating hall, where he finds his mother still seated at the table. Cut roses float in water-filled bowls. Their scent gives the air substance.

  His mother smiles and nods, taking him in with one glance.

  Konrad knows she doesn’t approve of his simple clothing. As the wedding approaches, she seems to want him to look different—more suited to his position in life, perhaps. And his position has changed, for now he often attends meetings of the local legislature with Father. It has been agreed that he will stand in the next election. But Konrad cannot apologize for his preferences. “I have no patience with fancy clothes.” He sits at the table.

  The countess pushes a plate of tarts toward him. “I didn’t say anything about your dress.”

  Konrad scratches his neck. He’s irritated at this talk, though he doesn’t know why. “There are no formal events today.”

  His mother spreads her hands in explanation. “So you dressed for other work.”

  “Actually, I thought I’d take a day off work.”

  “Of course. You deserve it.” She takes a sip from her cup and looks at him over the top of it. “You seem restless.”

  “I’m not.”

  The countess laughs. “You’re argumentative today.”

  Konrad looks down. It’s true. This is stupid bickering. He realizes he’d like to vent his worries about his upcoming marriage. Konrad speaks as if to himself. “You will have a daughter soon.”

  “And you, a wife.”

  Konrad wolfs down a third strawberry tart. It is early July, and since the spring he has eaten eggs with rapunzel for breakfast without fail. The passion for rapunzel is unrelenting. But today he will not ask Annette to cook him anything. He will not yield to the passion.

  He stands. “I’m off.” He leans and kisses his mother.

  She takes his hand. “Are you going riding on Meta today? You haven’t been riding for months. Are you going today?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I thought you might. I woke knowing it.” She nods. “And will you be scanning the mountainsides for homes you haven’t seen yet?” Her grip tightens. “Konrad, my son, if you are to marry, you must give up past dreams.”

  His eyes meet hers. Agreeing to this marriage means he has not just taken a break from searching; he has given up forever. He stands tall and pulls his hand away. “I’m not looking through our mountainsides anymore,” he says, wondering if his words are truth or lie, hoping they are truth. “I just need to ride.”

  The countess stands. “Yes. You could use a break from work.”

  That’s what this will be—a break. “I’m riding out beyond the northern tip of the lake and over to the west side.” No one lives on the west side. There are no doors to knock on. “The day promises to be sunny and clear.”

  His mother smiles. “Come home refreshed, for tomorrow we have your birthday festivities.”

  Konrad leaves the castle feeling more lighthearted than he can remember. He greets Franz with cheerful words. He brushes Meta himself, though she needs no extra currying. He mounts and rides out down the hill toward town.

  A boy sits on a terrace, swinging his legs and playing a fiddle. He plays a saint’s song, so there is no danger. The music has nothing in common with the fiddle on the phantom alm.

  The sun is bright on the lake. Swans have come in clusters. Konrad urges Meta up the mountainside to the west. This land is completely wild. There are no roads from here to town. It is good for the mind and the soul to be so free of human concerns. Meta trots in a southerly direction. Konrad expects nothing.

  Chapter 21Zel

  he stone floor is warm. Zel lies with her eyes closed beside the hay mattress. A horse stands in the room and eats the hay. It stomps heavy hooves. Some mornings the room is filled with the goats she used to chase and milk, all of them eating hay. Zel laughs.

  The horse chews and snorts, a wet, lumpy sound.

  Zel shakes her head, harder and harder. She rolls from side to side. Each time her ears hit the floor they ring. Her chest rises in pain, her shoulder blades hold her up. Pain is lovely. It stands out from a vast sea of monotony. And now Zel sinks back, her head still. This horse is named Meta.

  Meta swallows the last mouthful of hay. Now she will leave. She always leaves after she eats. Eats and leaves, eats and leaves, like the youth at the smithy.

  But no. The chewing begins again. A tiny tug at her head. Another. Meta eats Zel’s braids. The tugs get rough. Between tugs Zel has no respite, for her scalp aches. Her skin will rip. She wants it to.

  The horse leaves. Zel knows she is gone by the lack of her smell.

  Zel turns her hands palm down, runs her fingers across the floor. She finds the sharp stone. It took her twelve days to work that stone from the wall. Her fingernails broke. Her fingertips went raw. She opens her eyes and pushes the mattress aside. She scratches a line on the floor beside the other lines, each one marking a day. Zel pulls the mattress back in place. No one who enters the room sees the scratches. Zel laughs. No one enters the room.

  Except Mother. Dear Mother.

  Zel would take that sharp stone and dig trenches up the lengths of both arms. She would fill her room with blood. She would do many things.

  But for Mother. Dear Mother.

  Zel can’t remember when it happened, but one day she ceased to ask about Mother’s latest methods of fighting the unknown enemy. One day Zel realized she had no time for Mother’s pitiful excuses.

  But time is all Zel has, so much time. Like wild flowers, Zel has year after year. She used to paint the flowers’ colors. Now she doesn’t remember colors. She uses only charcoal. She draws herds and herds of stampeding horses on the walls.

  She stands and walks to the wall. She shoves the stone into the crevice. Mother does not know about the stone. Zel hides it in the wall—as she hid her raw fingertips in her skirts when first she dug the stone from the wall. But she wears no skirts now. Zel laughs and spit flies from her mouth. It falls on her bare shoulder. She spits on her other shoulder. On one arm. On the other. On her breasts, her ribs, her stomach. And now she is out of spit.

  She looks at her bucket of feces and urine against the rounded wall. Each month she leaks blood into that bucket. She takes the bucket and dumps it out the south window where the sun enters now. But she does not stand a second too long in the light. The sun’s seduction has to be planned against. The sun tries to make her believe in colors.

  Zel puts the bucket against the wall. Mother has told Zel not to dump her bucket out the window. She says she will empty the bucket into a hole she has dug. She speaks of cleanliness.

  Zel keeps her dress clean for Mother’s sake. She steps into it the moment she hears Mother calling. She steps out of it the moment Mother leaves. She is dressed, clean, and well behaved for Mother. All out of habit. She no longer thinks about why she obeys, why she walks or sits or talks or eats.

  She cannot put that dress on and take it off over her head because of her hair. When she is not in her dress, she is naked. At least in late spring and summer. For other times of the year she has a thick cloak. It suffices, for the ivy that covers the tower holds in the heat of Zel’s breath in winter. The coa
rse wool of the cloak rubs her skin raw. Sometimes she dances till her back bleeds from the rubbing.

  Zel wears the dress one hour each day—Mother’s Hour. Mother loves this highly embroidered dress that she gave Zel for her thirteenth birthday. The dress with the generous darts and hem that Mother let out as Zel grew. It is now full in the bodice. Mother says Zel looks beautiful in the dress. Beautiful to whom? Zel laughs. Her womanhood is wasted.

  Mother has never noticed that nothing on the dress frays. Mother has never guessed that Zel goes naked. Mother doesn’t know what Mother doesn’t want to know.

  Rascal chatters from the walnut tree. Zel races to the window. She crosses her arms on the high ledge. “Rascal, Rascal, tell me a story.”

  Rascal flicks his black-brown tail. In the winter he stands out shamelessly against the snow, but now he’s one more variation in the shades of summer shadows. Zel rests her chin on her arms.

  The squirrel jerks its head toward her.

  “Wait, you little glutton.” Zel laughs. She gets her breakfast roll and returns to the window. Zel no longer fashions tasty shapes. She tosses a dough ball.

  Rascal catches it and eats.

  This is their secret routine.

  Zel and her sharp stone. Zel and her squirrel. Mother knows nothing of these pairs.

  Zel unwraps today’s fruit. Her fingers make indentations in the peach flesh, but only if she presses. It is of exactly the right ripeness. Not a single blemish. Mother takes such care.

  Zel smashes the peach on the hot stone of the window ledge. She bites from the mutilated side. The juices run down her chin, her neck. They dry, pulling and tightening her skin in streaks. She bites again and waits again for the juices to dry. Again. And again. The smashed side of the peach is gone. Zel sets the remaining perfect half on the ledge.

  The ants march in file to her offering.

  It took weeks for Zel to lure ants to the top of her tower. She held her arm out as far as she could and squeezed a bunch of black grapes until the juices landed on what she hoped was the very bottom of the tower. The next day she squeezed a new fruit, but now she held her arm not quite so far out, so that the juices fell a little higher up the tower side. Each day she made the juices fall higher. She cursed the day when Mother brought a banana—strange tropical fruit, dry to the touch. But then she pureed the banana with spit between her fingers until it dripped easily. The plan worked because the tower’s sides slope lightly outward.