“Near to death, say ye?” echoed the keeper of the alligator pear tree.
The man nodded sadly, praying that the old witch’s heart could not possibly be as ugly and malevolent as her face.
“If such a claim is true, I may be of a mind to offer my charity.”
Weeping with relief, the grateful husband thanked his gap-toothed capturer and proceeded to shift himself back in the direction of home.
“On one condition,” added Old Gothel in an ominous tone.
The alligator pear thief froze, dreading what would be coming next. Indeed, it was not considered prudent to strike a bargain with a witch, especially this witch.
“Ye must bestow unto me the child that shall be born of your wife.”
Out of fear and desperation and the fact that he had just been caught in the act of stealing, the husband readily agreed. Despite an icy quiver of foreboding in the vicinity of his testicles, he felt confident that his promise would come to nothing. In their many years of marriage, his wife had never once been able to conceive, no matter how frequent or carefully timed their nocturnal encounters. Therefore he returned safely home with the precious alligator pear, pleased at the oh, so clever bargain he had struck with the foolish hag next door.
Within three-quarters of a year an infant was born to the couple—a delightful baby girl who emerged from the womb complete with a full head of golden locks. No two people could have been more astonished by her arrival. By this time, the husband had forgotten all about the silly pact he had made with their green-thumbed neighbor. However, Old Gothel had not forgotten and within a matter of days appeared at their door to lay claim to her half of the bargain. The wife had been consuming alligator pears from her orchard at an alarming rate—a fact that could not be denied by the new parents. Conferring the name of Rapunzel upon the gurgling infant, the witch took her back with her over the high fence, the little one never again to be seen by the couple who had given life to her.
Rapunzel was a beautiful child—her beauty so striking that it actually seemed to emphasize the ugliness of the individual who had taken over her care. When the girl reached the age of twelve, Gothel shut her up inside an abandoned tower set deep in the wilderness, no longer able to tolerate being daily cuckolded by such physical perfection. On those occasions when she visited her banished ward, she called up to her from below: “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” This would be the agreed-upon signal for the girl to assist the witch, for Rapunzel possessed a head of hair that had grown so long throughout her many years of solitude that it could easily suffice as a rope. Since the tower had neither steps nor door, she cast these golden plaits out the window some twenty ells below to enable Old Gothel to climb up. The witch had been the only mother the girl had ever known, therefore she was most eager to have her company.
Rapunzel’s beauty continued to flourish as she blossomed into young womanhood, resulting in a conspicuous lessening of visits from the evil one who had wrenched her from the adoring arms of her parents. Out of boredom and loneliness, the girl sought to pass the endless hours of the day by entertaining herself with the rhythmic lyrics that played inside her mind. She often spent entire afternoons in this way, hopping from foot to foot and stabbing the air with her fingers. On one of these afternoons a local survivalist had been out riding in search of his dinner when he heard a voice of such sweetness and purity that he could go no farther. Tethering his horse to a tree, he settled himself on a patch of scrubby grass, his heart soaring with love for the voice’s unseen female owner as he listened to her stirring song.
Yo!
Whassup?
Don’t gimme no shit,
Motherfucker!
And indeed, the voice belonged to none other than the beautiful Rapunzel. So moved was the horseman that he arose from his listening place and encircled the tower several times in search of a way inside its crumbling walls, baffled to find none. He returned home to his cabin in anguished frustration, only to ride back to the forsaken tower the very next day, and the next as well, his heart tormented by the curious cadences coming from within—and stirred by the young woman he imagined to be their composer.
One afternoon as the horse-riding survivalist sat listening to his favorite rapstress, he witnessed the arrival of a horrible creature. Never before had he laid eyes on such a misshapen form or a countenance of such utter hideousness. Frightened that she might see him and place upon him an evil hex, he secreted himself behind a large sycamore, his camouflage fatigues blending him into his surroundings as he kept a watchful eye on the witch who hobbled toward the ruinous tower, and hence toward its musical mysteries. The voice caressing his appreciative ears continued to haunt him, and he took comfort from pressing himself against the rough bark of the tree, moving in rhythmic concert with each exquisite word. However, the restless young man quickly discovered that what had originally brought comfort would instead bring agitation, and he all but drove to tatters the front of his fatigue pants in his quest for relief.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” bade a voice that flayed the tender insides of this concealed music lover’s ears and proved as offensive in nature as the voice coming from the tower had been pleasing. The rap abruptly ceased as two golden ropes dropped down from out of an indistinct little opening set high up in the tower wall. The horseman nearly kicked himself for his folly, for in his single-minded search for a door, he had neglected to notice the presence of the window. He watched as the hands of the crone grabbed hold of the braided cords and employed them as a means to climb up the tower’s ruinous exterior, at which point she leapt through the window.
After several days of stealthy observation, the young survivalist arranged to return on his horse before twilight, certain he would go mad if he did not meet the rapstress whose rousing words had forced him to rub himself to a frenzy against the coarse bark of a tree. Satisfied that the grotesque creature who had visited in the daylight would not be returning in the eve, he placed himself directly below the little window and called: “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” And like clockwork the golden ropes were flung out, this time to be seized by a masculine pair of hands.
The figure climbing boldly in through the small opening heretofore reserved exclusively for Old Gothel’s entry led Rapunzel to cower against the wall in fear and confusion. Thanks to her many years of confinement by the witch, she had never set eyes upon a man. Nevertheless, her handsome visitor spoke so softly and lovingly to her that her unease vanished, especially when he implored her to sing for him. Indeed, Rapunzel took tremendous joy in her little raps and launched into one at every opportunity. Unfortunately, Mother Gothel did not like for her to sing and would always issue a stinging slap across the mouth whenever she caught the girl doing so. Yet this stranger was kind of heart and pleasing to the eye—of course she would sing for him!
A rhythmic cadence began to issue from Rapunzel’s graceful throat, rising and falling in pitch while gaining in strength. Its devotee instantly recognized it as the rap he had heard on that first day he had hidden himself behind the trunk of the sycamore. All at once a familiar sensation seized hold of him. Seeing nothing resembling a tree in the tiny room of the tower, he installed himself directly behind Rapunzel, pressing the front of his camouflage fatigues against the pleasing roundness he encountered there. It felt far nicer than the coarse, unyielding bark of the sycamore to which he had grown accustomed. Why, there was even a convenient and warm groove into which he could fit himself most comfortably and agreeably.
Happily situated, this visitor to the tower loosened Rapunzel’s hair from their restrictive plaits, freeing up the long tresses of gold. With her voice filling his ears and her silken locks filling his hands, he forged ahead, thrusting forth his pelvis and raising himself up onto the very tips of his combat-booted toes, each note inspiring its appreciative listener to rub harder and harder and faster and faster. Indeed, the more force he exerted, the more passion the lyric seemed to possess, and before
long Rapunzel would be rapping with all the force of a gale wind.
Yo!
Whassup?
Don’t gimme no shit,
Motherfucker!
Like his earlier encounter with the sycamore, the young survivalist’s comfort swiftly turned to agitation. Yet still he did not cease from his strange gyrations, for he sensed that relief would very soon be his—a relief that promised to be a good deal more satisfying than any that could be gotten from a mere sycamore. Within moments a powerful explosion took place, sending Rapunzel’s musical admirer soaring high into the cloudless sky. He whirled about like a falcon in flight, swooping upward on a current of air, then dropping back down again. The aqueous roiling of seed taking place in his congested testes erupted in a tempestuous storm, flooding his fatigue pants and leaving behind a masculine signature that even their camouflage pattern would fail to conceal. Never had the survivalist experienced such a wild journey! It was then that he made the fateful decision to visit this enchanting rapstress each and every twilight, regardless of the perils involved.
Rapunzel, too, desired her intrepid suitor’s return, wishing only to sing for him and him alone. From this day forward her throat refused to release a single note until the handsome horseman came to claim his place behind her. So happy had she been made by his secret visits that one day when Old Gothel was paying a call, the euphoric girl suffered a devastating slip of the tongue. The witch had taken a particularly long time in reaching the window, placing a nearly unendurable burden on Rapunzel’s golden plaits. “How is it, Mother Gothel, that you climb so slowly while the good horseman moves with the swiftness of a deer?”
“Wicked child!” shrieked the witch. “What is this I hear? Ye have betrayed me most grievously, and for this I offer punishment.” Seizing Rapunzel by her golden tresses, Old Gothel removed a pair of gardening shears she always kept handy in the pocket of her smock and severed the plaits clear down to the pale white of their transgressor’s scalp.
Rapunzel collapsed to the floor, her fingers clutching hopelessly at the fine filaments of hair that lay all around her like sunlit sheaves of wheat. With a satisfied cackle, the witch leapt from the high window, landing unharmed on the scrubby grass below. “Ye shall die an old maid!” she cried victoriously, taking pleasure from her cruelty. In fact, it was highly probable that these vicious words would come to pass, since many years would be required for Rapunzel’s lustrous tresses to grow back to the glorious length they had once been—and by then it would be too late for any man to come courting.
Be that as it may, there was one thing that Old Gothel the notorious bargainer had not bargained on. That same day the young survivalist returned before twilight to the crumbling tower in the wilderness. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” he called from below, his heart pounding in anticipation of the rhythms that would soon be filling his ears and the rhythms that would likewise be filling his loins. Hearing his voice summoning her, Rapunzel touched the stubbly wasteland of her freshly shorn head, devastated by the loss of her beautiful locks. Yet her love for the handsome horseman could not so easily be thwarted. For in her rage, Gothel had overlooked some locks as fine and golden as those that had once adorned Rapunzel’s head.
Placing herself before the little window, the girl raised up her skirts, thus allowing the cascade of golden curls previously hidden from view to tumble down to her waiting lover. Grabbing hold of this fragrant, silken ladder with his hands, the young man climbed up the exterior of the tower…where he and Rapunzel remained till the end of their days. Indeed, the most pounding of raps could be heard both day and night, their singer never tiring of singing them, or their listener of listening. Their aficionado would even add his own contrapuntal cadences, accompanying each word by scratching with his penknife against the broken-off bark of his favorite sycamore.
Yo!
scratch—
Whassup?
scratch—
Don’t gimme no shit,
scratch—
Motherfucker!
As for the loss of Rapunzel’s head of golden tresses, this did not make her in any way wanting to the handsome survivalist. In fact, he barely noticed their absence. For with Rapunzel’s every rap, his fingers joyously entwined themselves within the spirally tresses of gold growing beneath her skirts as he rubbed himself silly against the delightfully grooved roundness he found at her back.
And not even Old Gothel the witch could climb up to stop them.
THE SWINEHERD
Scandinavian literature has long been fraught with extremes—extremes that likely take their cue from climate and geography. As one who found his inspiration from such extremes, Hans Christian Andersen would become the individual most commonly associated with the folktales of Scandinavia. A favorite story of the king of Denmark, “The Swineherd” was often given a royal recitation by the author himself, for Andersen’s tales charmed one and all.
Unlike his nineteenth century German contemporaries and friends Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm or his European predecessors, Andersen would be the first writer of fairy tales to come from the humble class for whom the oral telling of tales was a tradition. Although a number of his works had been claimed by him as a product of his own imagination, he was known to have crafted stories heavily influenced by the folktales and legends told to him in childhood. Of those most thought to be original creations (and some that were not), many end on an unhappy note, apparently influenced by the Dane’s personal life. Indeed, themes of suffering and misery appear in abundance all throughout his tales, including “The Swineherd.” Unlucky in love, perhaps Andersen incorporated his own unsuccessful romantic experiences into his work.
Basing his “Svinedrengen” on the folktale “The Proud Maid,” Andersen discovered that his source material contained parts he considered unsuitable for his readers—such as the female protagonist’s allowing her suitor to spend a night in her bedchamber and, later, in her bed. Many versions of the story show the princess trading her chastity for objects of gold, which Andersen (likely influenced by the religious climate of his country and the moral tastes of his editors) changed to the more innocuous kisses. A woman’s desire for material possessions—a desire that eventually leads her into trouble—has become a well-established theme in the folktales of Scandinavia. The message in “Svinedrengen” appears to be that a woman will dispense her favors for the mere possession of a trinket. Of course, proud princesses with a love of the superficial are not exclusive to Hans Christian Andersen. In “King Thrushbeard” by the Grimms, a disguised suitor attracts a spoiled princess with the aid of a golden wheel that makes music, much like the waltz-playing rattle of Andersen’s swineherd. Indeed, it happened that the Dane’s tales held such appeal to their nineteenth century audience that some would be passed on in oral form, only to turn up in the subsequently published work of the Grimms.
Two centuries before Andersen wrote “The Swineherd,” there existed a counterpart not only to his work, but also to the folktale that inspired it. In Basile’s “Pride Punished,” a king rejected by the proud princess Cinziella alters his appearance and takes employment in the palace gardens, whereupon he entices Cinziella with a robe adorned with gold and diamonds in return for sleeping one night in her apartments. The disguised king next tempts the princess with a beautiful dress, if only he may sleep for one night in her antechamber. Lastly the disguised king offers Cinziella a special undervest in exchange for one more night in her room. Having thrice agreed to his terms, the princess draws a line on the floor to separate them. However, no line can deter her determined suitor. “The king-gardener awaited till she was asleep, and thinking it was high time to work in the territory of love, he arose from his seat, and laid himself down by her side, and before the mistress of the place was well awake, he gathered the fruits of his love….” And such lusty activity apparently continues as Cinziella witnesses her belly growing rounder by the day. Humiliated by her pregnancy, she runs off with the man she believes to be a gardene
r—a man who forces her to suffer numerous indignities for her initial rejection of him.
Rather than meting out various forms of punishment in the manner of Basile or the Grimms, Andersen’s swineherd prefers to do so by revealing his true royal identity, even as the princess laments her loss of the prince who once courted her, thereby prompting his declaration of contempt. For the princess has rejected an honorable prince, yet kissed a common swineherd just to gain possession of a toy. Perhaps the socially dejected Andersen has slipped a message into his tale. In the swineherd’s attempts to be accepted into high society, the shallowness of this very same society has been exposed.
Nevertheless, a good deal more will be exposed when the swineherd in my version demands his hundred kisses from the young woman with whom he has fallen in love.
IN A TIME OF SPORADIC WARFARE AND political upheaval, there lived a young gentleman of title who possessed a great wealth of appearance. Alas, such wealth fell short of extending to his noble pockets. The coffers belonging to his family echoed emptily in comparison to the bountiful coffers of his aristocratic neighbors, who, unlike him, did not find themselves obliged to throw open the doors of their stately homes to visitors for an entry fee. To compensate for his financial shortcomings, he always needed to be cleverer than others in his endeavors, especially when those endeavors involved wooing a potential bride.
Being of an optimistic character, the bachelor nobleman saw no reason why his lack of riches should thwart him in his quest. He knew of others who had married successfully with less wealth, therefore he felt certain that many a fine lady would be pleased to accept his proposal. Unhappily for this marriage-minded gentleman, the bewitching daughter of a notorious warlord for whom he had set his cap could not be counted among them. Indeed, there were those who might have said that by offering his heart to one so far out of reach the gentleman invited the lady in question to trample upon it.
In Sleeping Beauty's Bed Page 7