by Kim Wilkins
When Oswald arrived at the castle, he was greeted by a beautiful young woman whom he took to be the king’s daughter.
“Good day, my lady,” he said, bowing deeply, “I wish to see the king to show him something wondrous.” He thought the magic jewel was his opportunity to impress the king and win some favor.
The king’s daughter, whose name was Konstanz, wrung her hands together and said, “Alas, the king is terribly ill and cannot leave his chamber.”
“Then take me to his chamber and I will demonstrate there.”
Princess Konstanz agreed, and led him to the king’s chamber. The king was indeed very ill and pale, propped up in his bed with many servants around him attending to his every need.
“Father,” Princess Konstanz said, “this young man says he has something wondrous to show you.”
“What is it?” said the king irritably.
“A magic jewel, sire. Watch.” He held out the jewel and said, “I wish for a table of food.” A moment later, a table appeared in front of him, laid out with hot bread and jam and pickled fish.
The king sat up with a start. “Then you have finally come! It is said that when a young man with a wishing jewel arrives at the castle, he is to marry my daughter and conceive this very night a son and heir, who shall be born before I die.”
Oswald thought himself very lucky to have won the hand of the princess and to have been proclaimed father to the throne’s heir. He imagined he would have a very nice life indeed under these circumstances and agreed immediately to a hasty wedding, very eager to partake of the wedding night pleasures. He didn’t think of his brother Diebolt once.
In the meantime, the dwarf, walking through the forest to find firewood, stumbled across Diebolt lying unconscious on the ground. He helped him to his feet and asked, “What happened to you?”
“My brother hit me and stole the jewel you gave me, and I believe he has gone to the castle.”
The dwarf twisted his little face into a grimace and said, “Then I know what has happened, because of the ancient prophecy associated with the wishing jewel. He must be punished.” Because, of course, the dwarf was of the faery race, and they are unforgiving and irrational people, among their many other faults. He didn’t suggest that Diebolt go to the castle and explain the situation, but plotted instead his own revenge.
Knowing that Oswald would, that very night, lie with the king’s daughter and produce an heir, the dwarf summoned up a friend of his, a faery hag, to help him. As evening approached, the faery hag bound and hid the princess and then took her place in the bed.
When Oswald neared the bedroom with a lit taper in his hands, the faery hag called out, “No, my husband, put out the light. Let us share our pleasures in the dark.”
Oswald did what he was told and climbed into bed next to the hag. He touched her bosom and belly, and thought that her skin was very saggy and thin for a beautiful young princess.
“Princess Konstanz,” he said, “your skin is not as silky and plump as I imagined it.”
“That is because I waste away with desire in every second you do not kiss me,” she said.
He was surprised by her being so forward, but complied and kissed her. Her lips felt very hard and whiskery for a beautiful young princess.
“Princess Konstanz,” he said, “your lips are not as smooth and full as I imagined them.”
“That is because I waste away with desire in every second you do not poke me.”
Again he was surprised by her forwardness, but complied and eased himself on top of her and slid inside her. She felt very dry and loose for a beautiful young princess.
“Princess Konstanz,” he said, not quite sure how to phrase his next statement, and trailed off into an awkward silence.
“What’s the matter, my lord? Is my hole not as wet and tight as you’d imagined it?”
He instantly realized this was not his sweet young princess and he tried to pull away, but the hag locked her bony legs and arms around him, and using some disgusting magic she milked him of his seed over and over again, for many, many hours, until he finally had none left in him. She cast him aside, and then jumped out of bed and ran to the king’s chamber. By this time, her stomach was already swelling with the child of her union with Oswald.
“My King, my King,” she said, “see the offspring that young Oswald has brought into the royal line.”
With no further warning, she lay upon the ground naked and spread her legs and pushed and pushed until a hideously mutated child emerged and lay shrieking upon the floor.
And that, my friends, was my long-ago tenth great-grandfather.
I expect you’re wondering what happened to them all. The mutant son was large of head and shriveled of feet and completely blind. The faery hag disappeared as soon as she had birthed him, and the king called for his retainers to collect the mutant son and abandon him in the woods. He demanded that Oswald explain what the faery hag had meant, but Oswald denied any knowledge of the faery hag and had, indeed, found the bound princess by this time and threatened her with violence unless she denied it too. So the king believed that it was nothing but a mischievous faery tale, and allowed Oswald to stay in the castle.
Within a few months, it became clear that the prophecy had not come true, and that Konstanz was not pregnant with a son and heir. The king cursed and swore, demanding to know if the young people had lain together on their wedding night. They had, they said, and every night since, but still no child was forthcoming. The king, who was very sick and in pain and just wanted to die, knew he would have no relief until an heir was born.
Meanwhile, in the forest, the mutant son lay puking and mewling for a day before Diebolt found him and took pity on him, and decided to raise him as his own dear son. He carried the child back to the dwarf’s cottage, but the dwarf was nowhere to be found. Presuming the dwarf wouldn’t mind, he set up a little bed for the child and called him Rudolf.
The dwarf never returned, and Diebolt wondered if perhaps he had died. It seemed very sad to him, as the dwarf had treated him more kindly than his brother had. Rudolf grew very fast and was remarkably developed, and although he could not see, he could speak before he was a week old, and walk within a month, and was the size of a full-grown child within a year.
On his first birthday, Rudolf asked Diebolt if he could have a special present.
“What is it, my child?” Diebolt replied.
“I would like to visit the castle and meet the king.”
And because it was the only thing Rudolf had ever asked for, Diebolt agreed that he would take him to the castle and ask to meet the king.
They walked all day to the castle and when they finally arrived a guard at the gate stopped them and tried to turn them back.
“No, you can’t come in and see the king,” he said. “Nobody sees the king except his daughter.”
“Then let his daughter come down and we shall ask her,” Diebolt said, determined to grant Rudolf’s wish.
Princess Konstanz came down to greet them. Diebolt had never seen anyone so beautiful, but he didn’t know that her beauty had been marred by the previous terrible twelve months, stuck in a marriage with a man who was cruel and whom she didn’t love, worried about the awful pain her father was in, and trying over and over to conceive a child who would not come. But when she saw Diebolt’s face, she felt kindly toward him.
“My lady,” he said, “my son’s dearest wish on his birthday is to meet the king.”
Princess Konstanz took one look at the poor blind, deformed creature and agreed. “Of course. Come in, I will take you to his chamber myself.”
“I have a story to tell the king,” Rudolf said, excitedly dancing about next to Diebolt as Konstanz led the way to the king’s chamber.
“I’m sure he will delight to hear it,” Konstanz replied. A few minutes later, they were standing within the king’s chamber.
“Father, a blind boy wants to meet you.”
The king sat up. He was very w
eak and gray, and in great pain. He didn’t recognize the child, of course, as it had been a newborn babe just a year ago when he last saw it.
“What is your name, child?” the king asked.
“Rudolf,” the child answered, “and I have a story to tell you.”
“Go ahead, Rudolf,” the king said.
Rudolf opened his mouth and told him the whole story about Oswald and Diebolt and the ugly little dwarf. The king listened in stunned silence, but Konstanz sobbed all the way through. Then the king turned to Diebolt and said, “Is this true?”
Diebolt replied, “Yes, it is, but you must believe me when I tell you that I did not put the child up to this. I have been happy with my lot in life.”
The king ordered that Oswald be brought in for questioning, and he denied everything.
“Show me the wishing jewel,” the king demanded.
Oswald handed it over, giving Diebolt a black look. The king examined the jewel closely. “How am I to tell,” he asked, “who is your rightful owner?”
At that instant, the dwarf appeared out of nowhere. “I am the rightful owner of the jewel, your Majesty,” he said, “but as to the story you have heard here today, every word of what the blind child said is true.”
So the king immediately ordered Oswald’s marriage to Konstanz invalid and offered her instead to Diebolt. They conceived that night an heir to the throne and the king now knew he could die a happy man. The king ordered that Rudolf be made a knight of the realm, and he was also given a huge area of land on which was bestowed many gifts from the faeries who pitied his deformities: diamond mines and hot springs and magnificent manors, all of which were the basis of my family fortune. Rudolf then lived happily to an old age and had a son with his beautiful wife. We are an unbroken line of only sons.
As for Oswald, well, the king was angry and vengeful over his deception and planned a fine punishment for him. An iron mask in the shape of a donkey’s head was cast and bolted over his head. Then his head was forced inside the royal oven that was used to roast pigs and sheep. The oven was lit, and his head was cooked while he was still alive. Only, I assure you, he did not remain alive for long.
And so ends the tale. Not a particularly happy ending, for despite the great fortune that I still enjoy, it seems to me that I have been deprived of something the value of which I can only imagine. Color. I admire form and shape so much, color would have been among my favorite things in the world. Instead, I have only shades of gray.
It is surely not too much to ask for a little pleasure in its place, even if that pleasure might seem cruel.
Somehow, they’d all ended up in a punk club in Prenzlauer Berg, very, very drunk for this early in the evening. It hadn’t looked like a punk club when they’d followed the HALF-PRICE SPIRITS sign that afternoon, but now a very loud band was playing songs to a crowd of mohawks, chains, and dirty tartan.
“Look at these kids,” Gerda shouted over the music. “I feel old.”
“I feel older,” Fabiyan replied.
“Pete seems to be enjoying himself,” Christine said, indicating in front of the stage where Pete jiggled furiously to the music.
“Is someone keeping an eye on the time?” Gerda asked.
Christine checked her watch. “We’ve got an hour.” They had organized to meet Mandy for a late dinner nearby. Christine was apprehensive. Every time she had seen Mandy lately he seemed jangled and desperate, and always wanted to bring the conversation back to Mayfridh.
Jude returned from the bar and distributed drinks. “Apparently there’s going to be twelve bands on tonight,” he said. “I don’t like our chances of getting Pete out of here.”
“He’ll wear himself out shortly,” Gerda said. She turned to Fabiyan and asked for a cigarette, and for a few moments the two of them were lost in a conversation that Christine couldn’t hear.
Christine leaned her head on Jude’s shoulder and sipped her drink. It was vodka number six and, as always with spirits, the drunkenness was creeping up on her slowly but comprehensively.
Jude touched her hair. “You okay, babe?” he said, close to her ear.
“I’m drunk.”
“Me too.”
“It’s weird without Mayfridh here. I miss her.”
Jude didn’t answer. She sat up straight and looked at him. He was lighting a cigarette. “Do you miss her?”
He shrugged. “Not really.”
“Did you like her?”
He shrugged again. “Why do you ask?”
“Sometimes I’m worried about her. You know, she disappeared so suddenly.”
“She probably had her reasons.”
“But what if something bad has happened to her?”
“She strikes me as the sort of woman who can look after herself. It’s not as though she was the smartest or most rational person we ever met, Christine. She probably broke a fingernail and was so distraught that she had to go home to that wolf guy.”
“Eisengrimm. He’s not a guy, he’s just a wolf.”
“Whatever,” he said, dragging deeply on his cigarette.
“You make it sound like he’s a werewolf or something.”
“Again, Christine, whatever,” he said, his voice rising almost imperceptibly, his hands moving emphatically. “None of it matters anymore because she’s gone and it’s all over.”
But it wasn’t all over, because Christine still had the ball of twine and winter wasn’t here yet.
As though reading her mind, Jude held up a cautionary finger. “I really don’t want you going there.”
“I know, I know.” Maybe if she just disappeared to Ewigkreis for an hour or so, just to check if Mayfridh was there and well and happy. Otherwise, how would Christine ever know if her friend had got back safely, and hadn’t just fallen prey to some accident here in the Real World?
“I mean it, Christine. I don’t want to lose you.”
“I heard you the first time,” she mumbled, turning her shoulder to him.
His arms enclosed her waist. “Don’t be angry with me,” he said softly in her ear.
“Jude . . .”
He turned her to face him and kissed her deeply. His mouth tasted of rum and warm tobacco. God, she loved him so much.
“Come on,” he said, “cheer up. We’ve got to put on our happy faces for dinner with Mandy.”
She drained her drink. “I’ll need more vodka before then.”
Christine ended up so drunk that she became paranoid about crossing the road. She checked and checked and checked that there were no cars coming, afraid to trust her eyes, while the others gestured and ridiculed her from the other side of the street.
“Come on!” Gerda called. “We’ll be waiting all night.”
This was the fourth intersection she had held them up on. Jude dashed back across the road, put his hands over her eyes, and walked her across briskly.
“Don’t, Jude,” she said, trying to struggle free. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m drunk. You’re drunk. We’re all drunk.”
“But what if you misjudge the distance?”
“We’re here now.”
He uncovered her eyes and they were safely on the pavement. Spirits-drunk. It messed with her head every time. The world seemed to tilt beneath her. “How far?” she asked.
“Just there,” Gerda replied, pointing out a bustling Indian restaurant ahead of them. Some diners were braving the autumn chill at the outside tables. The inside was cavernous and smelled of rich spices. In the very farthest back corner, Mandy sat at a table set for six, alone, checking his watch.
“Are we late?” Jude whispered guiltily.
“Twenty minutes,” Gerda replied.
In those few moments before Mandy spotted them, Christine felt a stab of pity for him. Sitting lonely in the restaurant, waiting, watching the time, while they were all getting drunk and laughing at him. But then he saw them and stood, and smiled with his tiny teeth, and that ineffable loathsomeness of his pushed pity out of
the way.
“Good evening, all,” he said.
“Sorry we’re late,” Gerda replied, taking the seat at the farthest end of the table.
Christine didn’t get to a seat fast enough, and found herself sitting next to Mandy. In her drunken state, the ginger hair sprouting from his pallid knuckles became nightmarish. She couldn’t stop staring at it.
“Are you well, Christine?” he asked, leaning close.
She jerked her head up. His eyebrows were the same color as the hair on his hands, a terrible mismatch with his dyed and greasy black hair. “I, ah . . . yeah. Yeah, thanks, I’m well.”
“Heard anything from Miranda yet?”
“No.” She shook her head, then wished she hadn’t because the room kept moving after she stopped.
“If you do hear anything let me know,” he said, averting his eyes. Was he embarrassed? “I’d like to know how she is.”
“Yeah, sure,” Christine muttered. “Who do you have to bribe to get a beer around here?”
Mandy kept her close at the crook of his elbow all night, leaning toward her, including her in his asides from the main conversation. Jude sat diagonally opposite, conversing inaudibly with Gerda and Fabiyan, leaving Pete—drunken and full of useless statistics—to assist her with Mandy. A combination of inebriation and eating too much of the most astonishing butter chicken she had ever tasted had left Christine heavy-stomached and queasy, and the beer she was throwing on top of it wasn’t helping.
“So you see,” Pete was saying as the plates were cleared, “Berlin is one of the safest cities in the world. You want murder, you go to New Orleans.”
“Fascinating, Peter,” Mandy said, leaning back to let the waiter clear his plate. “How do you remember all these things?”
“There’s nothing else in his head to get in the way!” Gerda shouted from the other end of the table. Everyone laughed.
Pete smiled, proud of himself. “I have a photographic memory for numbers. If I see it once, I remember it forever.”
“Are you good at math?” Jude asked.
“Yes, I was declared a mathematical genius at age nine,” Pete said. “My mum still has the photo of me from the newspaper. She keeps a scrapbook.”