In a small patch of garden he tended himself, the nobleman had cultivated a very rare plant that came from the distant fields of the tropics. Unlike the more commonly held varieties, its leaves and clusters of greenish flowers when dried and touched by flame emitted a fragrance so sweet that anyone who inhaled it would instantly forget both sorrow and trouble, regardless of their gravity. The nobleman also had a special pipe whose wood he had carved and painted so beautifully that it put the finest works of art to shame. Since these were the most valuable of his worldly possessions, he decided to fashion by his own hand two silver boxes into which he would place these treasures and have them presented as gifts to the unmarried daughter of the warlord. Having a flair for the theatrical, he made the boxes oversized so that their contents would be even more of a surprise to their recipient. For the nobleman had quite set his foolhardy heart on wedding the young lady, with whom he had fallen desperately in love the moment he had seen her snapping her scourge at the vanquished townspeople as she passed through the pillaged ruins of the city on the uniformed arm of her father.
The warlord’s daughter was busy improving her technique on the already scourge-toughened backsides of her handmaidens when a pair of servants brought the nobleman’s offerings up to her. Seeing the large silver boxes, she clapped her hands together in delight. “Oh, I do hope one of them contains a new pillory!” she cried, for she very much wished to install one in her room. Yet no sooner did she hoist up the gleaming lid of the first box and discover its contents than her mouth shifted into a petulant pout—a pout that bore the beginnings of a dangerous grumble of discontent.
“The box itself is quite prettily constructed,” offered one of the handmaidens, hoping to stave off another of the young woman’s infamous temper tantrums. “In fact, that filigree work is the finest I have ever seen.” Although little more than a servant, she knew a great deal more of such matters than her mistress, the handmaiden’s late father having been the deposed monarch in whose household the warlord’s family now lived.
“Aye, it is uncommonly lovely,” remarked the warlord with effusive jocularity as he entered the room, sharing a similar hope to that of the handmaiden who had just spoken.
The warlord’s disappointed daughter dipped a hand inside the intricately tooled box to touch the leafy plant. As her fingertips brushed against the clusters of greenish flowers, she yelped as if stung by a bee. “What is this ugly thing? Surely I cannot be expected to allow this to take the place of my trusty nettle scourge?”
“We should say not!” chimed the handmaidens, knowing it was best to agree with their capricious mistress. Nevertheless, they gazed at the gift with bittersweet forlornness, for its leaves would have been preferable to the stinging nettles they were made to endure.
“Now, Daughter, perhaps we should investigate what awaits us in the other box before we allow our tempers to get the better of us,” admonished the warlord with a long-suffering smile. He wanted only for these proceedings to be over and done with so that he could return to the important business of seizing territory.
With the raising of the lid of the second box, the pipe that had been placed inside with such tender care by its owner came into view. Its exquisitely carved presence stilled the tongues of all those in the room. For a moment it appeared that no one could find fault with this gift, until the warlord’s daughter ascertained that the pipe was not made of painted porcelain, but rather of ordinary briarwood. She immediately ordered its return, dispatching along with it a message to the gift-bearer indicating that she would not under any circumstances permit a miserable worm like himself anywhere near her. Why should she bother with the likes of so inconsequential a suitor when she had turned away far better from her door? As for the plant, she gave it to the cook, who chopped up its leaves and mixed them into the bread that would be baked for that evening’s supper.
Having nothing to lose but his manly pride, the enamored nobleman refused to let this curt rebuff discourage him. If anything, it made him even more determined to ingratiate himself with the warlord’s daughter. The young woman’s mean disposition had long been a popular topic of conversation at many supper tables, and this most recent indication of it simply confirmed that he had made the right decision in settling upon her to be his bride. Hence this undaunted suitor decided to modify his courtship tactics, since it had become apparent that his status as a nobleman was of little consequence.
After selectively blackening the contours of his face with boot polish and placing on his head a tattered old cap he bought off the head of a passing vagabond, the nobleman journeyed to the former palace of the ousted monarch to inquire of work. Because so many had already been rendered into poverty since the arrival of the warlord, every post was filled save for that of the warlord’s swineherd. Although the prospect of spending his days and nights in the company of pigs did not exactly inspire joy in the young gentleman’s heart, he accepted the position, only to find himself being led to a mucky little stall directly adjacent to the pigpen—the room that was to become his new home.
When not tending pigs or shoveling dung, the new swineherd spent his time fashioning a cane from the local hickory, which he imbedded with beads made out of clay baked to a hard finish inside the cast-iron stove that provided his sole source of heating and cooking. All around its gracefully turned handle he attached a string of tiny silver bells that, when turned at a certain angle, played the most jolly of melodies. But perhaps the most distinctive quality of the musical cane was its amazing ability, just by grasping its handle, to allow one to hear the whistling whack of wood on flesh produced by every cane in every household in the city. Surely such a clever creation would be hard to resist.
One rain-freshened afternoon while the daughter of the warlord had been taking a turn in the palace grounds with her handmaidens, she heard the playing of music. Although not unusual in and of itself, the fact that it seemed to be coming from the pigsty was. Indeed, what transpired next would rouse her interest to impassioned proportions as the music became abruptly supplanted by the unmistakable sound of hickory hitting flesh. Panting with excitement, the warlord’s daughter ordered the most attractive of her handmaidens to seek out the new swineherd, for she very much desired to own the instrument that created such sublime sounds and was prepared to pay a goodly sum for it. However, the musical cane could not be purchased for any amount of gold. After several minutes of failed negotiations, the thwarted handmaiden returned to her mistress, a furious flush staining her plump cheeks.
“Well?” snapped the warlord’s daughter, who was impatient to get on with the proceedings. “What is the swineherd’s price?”
“I dare not say,” stammered the handmaiden, her neck turning as red as her face. “For it is very naughty.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, I do not have time for such foolishness! You may whisper into my ear if it is so difficult to speak of it aloud.” And so the embarrassed messenger revealed the swineherd’s price: ten kisses from her mistress’s lips.
Clearly such a price could not be paid, for no daughter of a successful warlord would ever condescend to kissing a common swineherd. Upon being informed of this impudent proposition, the affronted young woman went storming off in the direction of the palace. At that moment the bells on the cane chose to play their special music, followed by yet another rhapsodic session of wood against flesh. Envisioning all those upraised backsides quivering with each biting kiss of the hickory, the warlord’s daughter spun about on her heel and grasped the startled wrist of the handmaiden who had spoken with the instrument’s maker. “Ask that cheeky swineherd if he would be satisfied with ten kisses from my handmaidens,” she demanded. If he had any sense, the mud-caked brute would consider a kiss from the lips of ten women a superior bargain to the kiss of one.
The daughter of the warlord did not seem to realize that it was her lips alone that the lovesick swineherd desired most, therefore her latest proposal would also be met with rejection. Indeed, she was growing ex
tremely annoyed with the pig-man, whose stubbornness only strengthened her resolve to own the instrument capable of such dulcet tones and—if the fantastical story told her red-faced handmaiden could be believed—capable of making her privy to the activities of every cane in every household in the land. With no other choice remaining, the warlord’s daughter accepted his terms. For them to be administered with the least amount of indignity to herself, she required that her handmaidens form a circle around the two of them and open out the folds of their skirts so that no one could view this scandalous kissing of the swineherd.
Finally face-to-face with the presumptuous underling whose talented hands had fashioned the musical cane, the daughter of the warlord was astonished to find that the fellow was by no means as grubby or repulsive as she had anticipated. “Very well,” she snapped, the corners of her mouth twisting downward with a disgust not entirely genuine. “Let us get this disagreeable business over and done with.”
Just as the warlord’s daughter took a step forward, the swineherd’s mud-stained breeches dropped to his ankles. An object resembling the imperial scepter her father had ripped from the monarch’s dead hand pointed up at the cloudless sky, swaying unsteadily from its weight. For some mysterious reason, the swineherd had stuck a very large purple plum on the end of it, which probably accounted for so much unwieldiness. Curious though she was to learn why a common keeper of pigs should go about with a piece of fruit attached to the lower half of his person, the warlord’s daughter refused to flatter him with such inquiries. Yet she did put forth the issue to one of her handmaidens, only to be informed with an embarrassed giggle that what the mistress had before her was no plum.
“And now for those kisses you promised?” prompted the swineherd, unable to drag his eyes away from his intended bride’s stern mouth. He thrust his pelvis forward, prompting the weighty protrusion at the end to bob up and down. Its throbbing contours had grown so fat and purple that it looked in danger of bursting, in which case the young woman’s fine frock would be ruined—an occurrence that would have been difficult to explain to her father, who had acquired the pale-yellow silk for his daughter during his recent annexation of Manchuria.
Such concerns for her garment began to appear ever more likely to come to fruition once the warlord’s daughter realized that the ten kisses the presumptuous swineherd demanded as payment for the musical cane were not to be bestowed upon his lips as she had assumed, but rather upon the bloated specimen thrusting out from his pale loins. Perhaps this need not be so terribly unfortunate, however, since she found it preferable to lavish her kisses upon this robust offering than upon the mouth of a strange man—especially one who earned his keep tending pigs all day. Thus cloaked in the shelter of her handmaidens’ skirts, the warlord’s daughter went to her knees before the expectant swineherd. Had her father discovered her in such a pose, he would have sent her off to tend soldiers savaged in battle, not to mention stringing up the poor swineherd from the nearest tree and letting him dangle by the neck until dead. Yet, whatever the risk to herself or another, she simply had to own the musical cane.
The rigid set of her lips relaxed and softened as the young woman pressed them warily against the wildly bouncing object with which she had been presented. The exhilarating warmth from her breath inspired it to dance about with such recklessness that she would be forced to grab hold of the stout stave with both hands just to keep it still. As it turned out, the swineherd tasted so pleasant that the daughter of the warlord had no difficulty in fulfilling the remainder of their bargain. With kiss number ten still shimmering upon the purple flesh of the pig-tender, she snatched up the musical cane and ran off, her concerns about stains to her frock forgotten.
For the remainder of the day, the warlord’s daughter and her handmaidens entertained themselves by dancing to the tunes of the musical cane and taking turns grasping the handle until scarcely a cane remained in the city whose lusty activities were unknown to them. As one might have expected, it did not take long for the capricious young woman to grow bored with the game, not to mention irritated with her handmaidens’ silly titterings over the private lives of the townspeople. Not even the repeated application of the cane to their reddening backsides could return her to the spirit of things. No matter how hard she tried, the warlord’s daughter could not banish the image of the swineherd from her mind…or the taste of him from her lips.
In the meantime, still more miraculous creations would be forthcoming from the pigsty. The nobleman-turned-swineherd refused to sit idle for a single moment. Over the next several weeks, a great deal of sawing and hammering could be heard, keeping the warlord’s daughter tossing in her bed at night. Needless to say, her curiosity had been piqued to such a level that she dispatched her most trusted handmaiden to spy on the nocturnal activities of the swineherd. Fatigued from spending all day meeting the demands of her mistress’s new cane, this chosen emissary promptly fell asleep outside the pigsty window and would have no information to impart in the morning.
Since being in the employ of the warlord, the swineherd had heard of the daughter’s desire to own a pillory into which those whom she deemed in need of punishment could be locked. Having already enjoyed a fair amount of success with the musical cane, he decided to set about constructing one, confident that the finished product would win her over completely. For this would be no ordinary pillory, but one that replicated the cries of those locked into pillories all throughout the land. To make it as attractive as possible, the swineherd melted down every last piece of silver in his pockets, applying this glittering liquescence as trimming for the framework. He also took special care to buff away any roughness inside the holes carved out for the hands and head, hoping in his heart that his own might one day be fitted into them.
While out for her usual constitutional with her handmaidens, the warlord’s daughter thought she could hear the tortured groans of men and women originating from the muddied recesses of the pigsty. She came to an abrupt halt, causing one of the more distracted of the handmaidens to collide with her. “What is that exquisite sound I hear? I simply must own the instrument that is the source of such delight!” She gave a push forward to the handmaiden who had trod on her heels. “Clumsy oaf, go and ask the swineherd what he wants for it. Only this time I shan’t kiss him.”
The handmaiden disappeared inside the pigsty, only to reemerge with a furious flush on her cheeks. “Oh, Mistress, now the beastly swineherd desires from you a hundred kisses!” she wailed, her umbrage so great one might have thought the demand had been made of herself.
“The fellow must be mad,” declared the warlord’s daughter. “Who does he think he is to request such a thing?” And indeed, she genuinely believed that this time the talented swineherd had gone too far. With a disdainful toss of her head, she went striding back toward the palace, the handmaidens hastening after her in a flurry of ruffled white. However, she did not even reach the ivy-covered colonnade before the mournful strains of an agonized wail teased her ears. “Hmm…perhaps a kiss is not such a costly price to pay for so magical a contrivance,” she murmured. “Very well. You may inform the swineherd that I shall grant him ten kisses. As for the other ninety, they must come from my handmaidens.”
“But we do not desire to kiss the swineherd!” protested the handmaidens in horrified unison.
“I assure you, it is not so disagreeable as you may imagine,” replied their mistress with a secret smile.
As before, the pillory’s marriage-minded creator could be neither tempted nor negotiated with. “If your mistress wishes to own the pillory, then she must grant me one hundred kisses,” he stated resolutely. “I shall not accept a deputy in her stead.” The swineherd knew he was pressing his luck, yet he would have done anything for such a bounty of kisses from the warlord’s daughter.
And so the bargain was struck. A pillow would immediately be secured, the dispensation of a hundred kisses certain to place a considerable strain upon the knees. Without needing to be told, the
handmaidens gathered in a circle around their mistress and the swineherd, fanning out their skirts to ensure that the activities occurring therein could not be monitored by passersby. Secure in her privacy, the daughter of the warlord found herself oddly flustered at once again being confronted with the swineherd’s prodigious offering, for it had been revealed to her before she had even gone to her knees.
The handmaidens counted off each kiss aloud so that this impertinent tender of pigs would not be given any more than his agreed-upon due. Nevertheless, it soon became too difficult to keep a running tally, as each kiss lingered longer and longer than the last, their bestower’s lips shining with the sweet juices they had inspired. The warlord’s daughter executed her side of the bargain with unladylike relish, repeatedly squeezing her thighs together and riding the heel of her slipper as she alternately sipped and slurped the swollen purple object presented to her, unconcerned with the rude sounds her mouth made or the disconcerting effect it had upon those who listened. Indeed, the daughter of the warlord drew on the swineherd with such ferocity that he let out a tremendous roar, his legs folding in upon themselves—and still she refused to cease from her kisses. Even after the aggrieved pig-man had crumpled to the ground in anguish, she could be seen clutching his depleted flesh, her tongue fluttering to and fro within its drooling little cleft long after her handmaidens had called “one hundred.”
Unbeknownst to the participants or their conspirators, the warlord had been seated at an upstairs window planning the tactics for his next invasion when he became distracted by the commotion occurring in the vicinity of the pigsty. Annoyed at having his concentration interrupted—for it so happened that the land he planned to invade was, by coincidence, that of the nobleman-turned-swineherd—he set aside his work to investigate the reason for this disturbance. Certain that some devilment was in the works, he crept up on the ring of women until he had gotten close enough to peer over their heads. Observing his daughter crouching over the groaning swineherd whose breeches lay suspiciously rumpled about his ankles, the warlord slipped off a shoe and set about striking the handmaidens on the tops of their bonneted heads. “What is this mischief?” he bellowed as he made his angry way toward the center of the circle. However, no sooner did he reach the source of his daughter’s disgrace than he slumped forward, his heart giving out, and he fell lifeless to the ground.
In Sleeping Beauty's Bed Page 8