In Sleeping Beauty's Bed

by Mitzi Szereto

  Upon being led to the young woman who lay wasting away in her bedchamber with her once-vibrant eyes sunken to two shallow pits and her once-lush mouth a rictus of faded black, the Infanta promptly set to work, for there was no time to lose in this battle against approaching death. Smoothing back the sodden straw framing the chalk-white face against the pillow, she ordered a virtual feast to be prepared and brought up to the sickroom—a feast of food and drink sufficient to last for three days and three nights, which would be the amount of time this visitor required to effect her cure. Yet for it to be successful, she needed to be left in complete privacy, without so much as even a brief visit from the patient’s devoted father. “No one must be allowed to enter this room,” the members of the household were instructed by the Infanta, her tone of voice making it clear that there would be no exceptions. As per her directive, a series of iron bolts were fastened onto both the inside and outside of the bedchamber door, which the Infanta slid into place on her end, as did the anxious Emir on his.

  Later that day, as the Spanish Infanta sat silently by the sickbed in the failing light of the window, it came to her notice that the servants had neglected to provide any tinder for the lighting of candles or the stoking of wood in the hearth. With winter close upon them, it was rapidly growing dark, not to mention quite cold. Loathe to spending the evening in pitch-blackness, she began to rummage about in cupboards, hoping that a few pieces of tinder might have been left over from the previous night. The King of Spain’s daughter found bottles of ink for writing and sticks of charcoal for drawing, yet could not locate a single twig that could be used to induce light or warmth. Only one door still remained to be opened—and it led not to a wardrobe as expected, but to a small room. A window scarcely of a size to allow a child to pass through it beckoned the Infanta toward it. When she leaned out to look across the sand-covered landscape, she noticed an eerie light flickering in the hazy distance. Fortunately, the little window was not situated so very high up off the ground. With the ladder of rope that had been left forgotten in a corner, she should surely be able to climb down without too much risk to her person. For the increasing chill in the air made this daughter of Spain most eager to secure a source of tinder so that she and her patient would not be forced to pass the next three nights in shivery darkness.

  The source of this light revealed itself to be nothing more mysterious than an ordinary cooking fire. An iron cauldron had been placed directly above it, the crackling flames licking its blackened surface like dozens of red tongues. A muscular Turk stood over this great kettle, diligently stirring the contents with a stick. Whatever kind of stew he was in the midst of preparing must have been very thick, since he required both of his hands to agitate it.

  “Noble Turk, what is it you are cooking there?” inquired the Infanta, who suddenly found herself quite peckish. She had not eaten any of the fruit and cheese or broth and game delivered to the sickroom door, preferring to save it for the young woman under her care. Yes, she did, indeed, fancy a hot, tasty meal in her empty belly.

  “The Khan desired the hand of the Emir’s daughter in marriage,” explained the sad-eyed Turk, gesturing with his dark head toward the palace. “Only she did not desire his hand in return. Therefore I must stand here and stir this pot as a bewitchment.”

  The Infanta patted the emissary’s continually moving arm in an effort to comfort him, for it had become apparent that he was most distressed over his assignment. “You poor fellow! How tired you must be, stirring for so long.”

  The Turk nodded miserably, his brawny arms persisting with their steady and monotonous motions. He gripped the base of the cooking tool held out before him with such force that the brown skin covering his fingers had blanched to the white of a fish’s belly. “If only someone would render me assistance!” he bemoaned.

  “Then it is most providential that I have come along,” relied the daughter of Spain. To provide proof of the unfailing generosity of her heart, she placed her hands with some caution upon the stirring stick (for she did not wish to pick up any splinters), thereby replacing those of the exhausted Turk. The texture of the implement felt surprisingly smooth and sleek and not in the least likely to produce injury, its surface pleasantly warm against the tactile flesh of her fingers—although this might have been a result of the poor Turk’s having already held it for so prolonged a period. “Am I doing it correctly?”

  “Yes, lovely Infanta,” sighed the vengeful Khan’s emissary, the glittering topaz of his eyes rolling upward inside their almond-shaped sockets. “But perhaps it might be more efficient if you placed your hands end to end, since they are so very, very tiny.” And the Turk spoke the truth, for the hands belonging to the King of Spain’s daughter failed to cover even half the surface area that he had easily enfolded with one.

  Desiring only to be helpful, the Infanta did as was suggested, no longer concerned about catching splinters in her fingers. “Is this acceptable?” she asked, her hands dwarfed by what she held in them.

  A garbled groan escaped from the Turk’s saliva-moistened lips. Nevertheless, he managed an affirmative nod. “Squeeze while you stir,” he directed, his voice a raspy whisper. “That way you shall maintain a better grip.”

  The Infanta tightened her slender fingers on the cumbersome instrument, which had begun to lengthen and thicken in her diminutive hands. As it turned out, the instructions given her would be of great benefit. Her grasp immediately improved, and she soon found herself wielding the stirring stick with all the culinary skill of the most favored cook in her father’s kitchen.

  “Now slide your hands up and down,” wheezed the Turk, whose nut-brown face had turned a bright shade of henna, as did the implement clutched in the Infanta’s hard-working fingers. It had absorbed so much heat from the fire-fueled kettle that her hands needed to move with ever-increasing speed just to prevent her flesh from becoming scorched. This had a profound effect upon its swarthy recipient, whose constricting throat issued a succession of alarming gurgling noises. “Faster, Infanta, faster!” came the Turk’s strangled plea.

  As she performed her task in accordance with the Turk’s wishes, the Spanish Infanta decided to investigate the steaming contents of the black cauldron, only to learn that it contained a rich, creamy stew. Suddenly it occurred to her that she might be able to use the maliciously intended brew to benefit her ailing patient. If the Emir’s daughter actually consumed the sorcerous stew, it could well produce the opposite effect intended, thus breaking the spell and curing her of her malady rather than being the cause for it. It certainly seemed worth a try, as the young woman’s health was fast failing.

  By now the Khan’s emissary appeared to be breathing with considerable effort, his broad chest heaving beneath his vest with every laborious exhalation. Sweat had broken out upon his brow, the droplets gleaming against the darkly flushed flesh like beads of glass. Placing his large brown hands over the Infanta’s tiny pink ones, he guided them on their journey along the ever-increasing length of the stirring instrument, moving faster and faster and inducing this surrogate cook to exert a pressure far beyond her natural strength. The Infanta’s hands went skimming across the heated surface with such swiftness and absence of caution that she feared that this time she truly would receive a splinter—and that it would be driven deeply and irretrievably into the tender flesh of her palm, perchance to lie within and fester until she, too, required the healing touch of one like herself.

  The Turk’s spittle-flecked lips had taken to flapping open and closed like that of a sea bird desperate for a meal. He seemed to be trying to say something, although the words that came out sounded hopelessly foreign to their listener. Despite having been schooled in the tongues of various lands, the Spanish Infanta found this particular form of parlance as alien and complex as if the aggrieved speaker had simply invented it on the spot. She strained her ears to decipher the gurgling syntax, only to have them abruptly assaulted by a primitive cry. The Turk’s body froze, his stilled hands cr
ushing hers against the flint-like hardness she had been battling to contain in her fingers. For it had apparently taken on a will of its own, thrusting deeper and deeper into the fire-blackened cauldron until the simmering broth had reached the level of the iron brim, whereupon it went splashing out onto the flames below, nearly dousing them.

  Fully expecting the battered flesh of her palms to be chafed and flayed and, indeed, blistered beyond repair, the King of Spain’s daughter gingerly unlocked her cramped hands, finding instead a healthy flush of red upon their sticky cushions. She pressed at various points with a tentative fingertip, meeting not the slightest soreness. The exhausted Turk had fallen shuddering to the sandy earth, his hands continuing to clutch what he had used to agitate the stew. For some inexplicable reason, it had greatly diminished in size. To see it now, the Infanta could not imagine how so insignificant a tool had ever been successful in preparing the hearty brew that was cooking inside the iron pot. A drinking vessel of tarnished pewter lay on the sand alongside the panting form of the Khan’s emissary, and she borrowed it to collect what she could of the overflowing broth. Although she would not have minded sampling some herself, there could be no time for delay. The Emir had placed his only child’s life in her hands—and she dared not fail in her task.

  The Spanish Infanta hastened back to the little window and up the ladder of rope, taking care not to spill a single drop of the precious panacea she had stolen from the Turk. Upon reaching the sickbed, she propped up its frail occupant with one arm, holding the pewter cup to the cracked lips she located with the other. The pungent steam that arose from it seemed to activate the young woman’s nostrils, for they twitched and flared with hunger. A skeletal hand crept shakily out from beneath the woolen blanket to grasp the life-giving vessel, pressing it more forcefully against the shriveled hole located in the center of the pillow. And in an instant the entirety of the cup’s contents had vanished down the patient’s wasted gullet.

  Encouraged by her success, the Infanta searched her ward’s bedchamber for a more sizable container. A chamber pot had been placed discreetly beneath the bed; fortunately it had recently been emptied and scrubbed clean by a servant. With this in hand, she once again sought out the Khan’s emissary, whom she found just as before—lying lifelessly upon the sand, his trusty cooking accomplice having by this time dwindled to the size of a twig. As the Infanta strode purposefully toward him, his topaz eyes flickered in recognition…and perhaps something more, for the shrunken stirrer of sorcerous stews managed to produce a few forlorn twitches. Ignoring the Turk and his feeble attempts to once again solicit the aid of her hands, the daughter of the Spanish King used the pewter cup to fill the chamber pot with still more of the creamy brew, emptying out the entire contents of the cauldron in the process. Although it required extra time and effort for her to mount the ladder of rope, this dedicated healer of the sick managed to reach her patient with hardly any spillage.

  In the morning, when the Emir’s daughter awakened, she was given a second cup of the curative stew, followed by another at lunchtime and yet another at supper. By the third day the young woman’s condition was markedly improved. Her face and figure had filled agreeably out, their cavernous hollows only a horrible memory in the concerned eyes of her father. The rosy bloom had returned to her cheeks and lips in full force, and after one final cup the adored daughter of the Emir was up and about as if she had never taken to her bed. Upon witnessing this remarkable transformation, the Emir offered the miracle-producing Infanta all that his desert emirate could provide, and more. Nothing else mattered to him but to have his only child back, happy and healthy. As before, the Infanta declined his generous offer and bid her leave, wishing them both well.

  Rather than keeping her promise to return home to her own father, the daughter of the King of Spain returned to the source of the flickering light—and to the Khan’s dutiful and topaz-eyed emissary, who had once again taken up the indomitable task of stirring the now-empty cauldron. And it was fortunate for him that she did, for the great pot most assuredly needed filling.

  LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD

  Possibly the most analyzed fairy tale in existence, “Little Red Riding Hood” has long been fraught with controversy over its purported sexual meaning. Many experts suggest that the story of the pretty red-hooded girl is but a thinly disguised parable of rape. Yet if one looks back at the tale’s more cannibalistic ancestors, it will easily be discovered that this interpretation results more from the cultural notions of sex roles in post-Renaissance Europe than the historical reality.

  Having experienced a long oral tradition in Asia, “Little Red Riding Hood” takes its roots from the folktale “Grandaunt Tiger,” in which an old woman who consumes human flesh disguises herself as an elderly relative to lure a pair of sisters into her bed the better to eat them. On being offered her sibling’s finger, the surviving sister outwits the old woman by claiming a need to relieve herself, thereby making her escape. Widely found in China, Japan, and Korea, “Grandaunt Tiger” likely gave birth to the European oral tale believed to have evolved into the “Little Red Riding Hood” we know today. In “The Story of Grandmother,” a werewolf disguised as a girl’s grandmother fools his young victim into cannibalizing her elderly relative, only to coerce her into a ritualistic disrobing—whereupon the girl joins the werewolf in bed. The story ends much the same way as its Chinese counterpart, with the expressed need for urination /defecation, followed by the escape.

  Despite its Asian origins, elements in “Little Red Riding Hood” can be traced to tales of antiquity. In the Greek myth of Kronos, the Titan swallows his children, one of whom has been replaced with a stone (a motif featured in the versions by the Brothers Grimm). The use of trickery to deceive the innocent can be seen in a fable by Aesop, where a wolf disguises its voice like that of a mother goat to fool her young. Other elements adding to the tale’s development appeared in medieval days, such as in the Latin story “Fecunda Ratis,” in which a girl wearing a red cap is found in the company of wolves. Even the distinctive repartee occurring between the wolf disguised as grandmother and the girl has its historical counterpart in the Nordic fable “Elder Edda,” where it is explained why Thrym’s would-be bride Freyja (the thunder god Thor in disguise) possesses such unladylike physical characteristics.

  In Europe, “Little Red Riding Hood” began in the oral tradition during the late Middle Ages in France, northern Italy, and the Tyrol, giving rise to a series of warning tales for children. Indeed, hunger had driven people to commit terrible acts, and the prevalence of superstitious tales circulating in France during early Christianity and the Middle Ages resulted in an epidemic of trials against men accused of being werewolves (and women accused of being witches)—with the accused werewolves routinely charged with devouring children. Yet these so-called werewolves may have existed in primitive cultures as well, which could make “Little Red Riding Hood” far older than initially believed. Puberty and religious initiations practiced by ancient tribal peoples often consisted of sending an initiate into the forest to learn the secrets of nature by reverting to animal ways, only to return reborn to the community. Those who failed might out of hunger resort to cannibalism—and were thus considered werewolves. With the decline of the witch-hunts in post-seventeenth-century Europe, werewolves lost their significance, which might explain why Charles Perrault changed the figure of a werewolf to that of a common wolf. In “Le Petit Chaperon Rouge,” Perrault omits many elements from the oral tale, regarding them as too shocking and improper for his courtly audience. No mention is made of tasting the flesh and blood of grandmother, let alone a desire to urinate or defecate. Nevertheless, Perrault had no qualms about the girl undressing and joining the wolf in bed. A man of his time, he changed the nature of his protagonist to suit prevailing gender roles. Whereas in the folktale the girl is brave and shrewd, by the time of “Le Petit Chaperon Rouge” she has become gullible, vain, and helpless—and, as such, brings her fate on herself for dallying wit
h the wolf.

  Perrault’s popular version inspired a massive circulation in print, resulting in the tale’s reabsorption back into the oral tradition—which later led to “Rotkäppchen” (Little Red Cap) by the Grimms. The brothers likely got their story from a lady-in-waiting raised in the French tradition and already familiar with “Le Petit Chaperon Rouge,” only to be doubly influenced by Perrault by means of Ludwig Tieck, who based his verse play Leben und Tod des kleinen Rotkäppchens on the French literary tale. Yet while Perrault mostly intended his tale as a form of amusement for adults, the Grimms aspired to a more didactic tone, hence they revised the tale for children, eliminating any erotic undertones—and, in the process, stressing the evils of unsanctioned conduct. For the girl’s freedom from restraint as she frolics through the forest enjoying nature (and perhaps her own budding sexuality) was not a thing to be encouraged in the nineteenth century. The only allusion to any prior sexual content seems to be in a later version of “Rotkäppchen,” in which the rescuing huntsman calls the wolf an “old sinner”—an expression used to represent one who seduces, particularly young girls.

  Having already followed in the footsteps of the Grimms by taking inspiration from their standard version of “Little Red Riding Hood,” I find that I have apparently done so again. Only rather than stopping with the wolf, I have extended the lecherous qualities of the Grimms’ “old sinner” to those of a less furry nature.

  THERE WAS ONCE A YOUNG LASS WHO owned a hood of the reddest and plushest velvet. She wore it upon her pretty head at every opportunity, for it had become her most treasured possession. Mind you, this was no ordinary shop-bought hood, but a special one presented to her as a gift by her grandmother, who had toiled many long hours stitching it with failing eyes and quivering fingers. Indeed, its delighted recipient could rarely be seen going anywhere without it. The hood suited to perfection her fair coloring and bright eyes, the intense shade of red kindling their innocent blue into two twinkling sapphire stars. With such a distinctive fashion trademark, this much-favored granddaughter came to be known as Little Red Riding Hood.