The Story That Cannot Be Told

by J. Kasper Kramer

  There was a long, loud whistle, and I turned to see the train approaching in the distance. My mother knelt down too.

  “When you can, sit next to a woman,” she said, “especially if she’s traveling with children.”

  She tightened the straps on my backpack as the train reached us, slowing. Warm wind and the smell of wet pavement gushed up into my face. Mama gave me a quick hug, kissed both my cheeks, and then stood, facing away. I could tell she was holding her breath.

  When the train stopped and the doors opened, people began boarding. My heart started to race. I held tight my directions, my tickets, my letter. Next to me, my father put his palm on my cheek, and I suddenly understood how much my life was about to change.

  “Don’t make me go,” I said, panicking. I clutched his arm, trying my best not to cry, but I was so scared I felt sick.

  “I’m so sorry, Ileana.” Tata’s eyes went glassy behind his wire frames. “When you come home, I’ll take you to the movies. I’ll read to you. I’ll finish your story, I promise. On my life, I won’t fall asleep till the end.”

  He tried to smile, and for a moment he looked very much like the father I loved—the father who’d taught me about character and setting and theme, who’d taken me on secret adventures, who’d walked with me to the boulevard to work together on writing by the light of the construction cranes. For a moment my father looked so much like the person I loved that I almost gave in—almost wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed his stubble and begged him to forgive me for letting in the electrician and telling stories that put our family in danger.

  And then I remembered the Great Tome.

  Every story I’d ever written—a lifetime of collecting, of reordering scenes, of making outlines, sketching plots, fine-tuning dialogue—everything was gone, gone, gone.

  There was nowhere to write down the end of our story.

  There would be nowhere to write the next story I found.

  “I don’t forgive you,” I said, ducking out of my father’s reach. “I hope I never come home!”

  And then I ran through the doors, not looking back as they closed.

  Cunning Ileana and the Three Princes

  Once upon a time, something happened. If it had not happened, it would not be told.

  There once was an emperor with three daughters who lived in the land to the east. The princesses were, of course, perfectly beautiful, because stories would have us believe that the daughters of powerful men are never plain or hawk-nosed or born with moles and frizzy hair. So even though the emperor’s oldest daughter was certainly more beautiful than you or than I, it is said that the middle daughter was more beautiful yet, and that the youngest daughter, Ileana, was more beautiful than both her sisters. In fact, Ileana was so beautiful that the sun itself sometimes stopped and sighed while admiring her perfection, and everyone knows that’s absurd.

  One day this emperor received news that the Great Monarch, who lived in a massive golden palace to the west, had been disgraced by an unforgivable slight—someone had made fun of his teeth. This was such a tremendous insult that the monarch had called forth all the rulers from neighboring kingdoms to ride with him around the world on a campaign of terror, slaughtering anyone who might have started the rumor.

  Now, the truth is, the rumor had been started by the emperor himself. In fact the princesses’ father had whispered a lot more than just the thing about the teeth. The emperor hated the monarch. The neighboring kingdoms hated the monarch too. For decades he’d wielded terrible power and been, overall, just a really mean guy. Even worse were his three vile princes. As you can probably guess, though the monarch’s oldest son was incredibly cruel, certainly crueler than you or than I, it is said that the middle son was crueler yet, and that the youngest son was crueler than both his brothers.

  But no matter how much the emperor hated the monarch and his sons, he was too afraid to defy them. So when the call came forth to go fight, the emperor rallied his soldiers and sent for his princesses.

  I hate to break it to you, girls, but I’ve got some bad news, he told them.

  Has the ship full of my new dresses been lost? cried the oldest princess.

  Have you decided to marry me to someone terribly ugly? cried the middle one.

  You’re leaving to fight for that awful monarch, aren’t you? Cunning Ileana accused him. And then her eyes widened, her heart already aching, because even with his many flaws, she loved her father best in all the world. You’re going to send us away.

  The emperor put his palm to the youngest princess’s cheek. If you were any more clever, Ileana, you’d ruin us all, he said fondly. Yes, my daughters, it’s true. You must go live in the mountain castle while I’m at war. It’s the only way you’ll be safe.

  The mountain castle? cried the oldest princess. But it’s so plain! The chandeliers aren’t even made of real diamonds!

  The mountain castle? cried the middle princess. But it’s so remote! There won’t be any cute stable boys for me to tease!

  I want to stay with you, Father, said Ileana. I want to protect you. Please, please don’t make me go.

  No complaints! said the emperor. Now, remember, girls. Even while I’m away, you must always keep faith with your family. If I return and you’ve broken my trust, I will know.

  Cunning Ileana kept her eyes on her father. If you choose the monarch over me, I’ll never forgive you. I’ll hate you for the rest of my life.

  But either the emperor didn’t hear or he didn’t care, because with a few surely touching, forgettable fatherly words, he turned and was gone, off to watch his soldiers valiantly die for no good reason.

  Now, as chance had it, right after the monarch went to war, the three vile princes discovered that it was the emperor who’d started the rumor. Eager to please their evil father, the boys decided that instead of revealing the truth right away, they’d first make the emperor’s daughters fall in love with them. Then, once the sisters had been wooed, the princes would steal the rest of the emperor’s secrets. When he discovered his princesses’ betrayal, he’d be so heartbroken, he’d die.

  The oldest prince leaped onto his horse and rode straight to the mountain castle. For three days and three nights he stood in the gardens under the princesses’ wall, but none of them appeared at their windows. On the fourth day, in the damp gray before dawn, shivering, starving, and irritated, he marched up to the window of the oldest princess and banged on the glass till she arrived.

  It is I, little sister, the prince began, but she cut him off.

  I know who you are, and I know you’ve been out there doing heaven knows what for three days and three nights. I don’t care what you want. Go away. May thorns spring up before you and thorns remain behind.

  But for love— the prince started, and she slammed the window shut in his face.

  Taken by the oldest daughter’s beauty, and never having been rejected even once in his life, the oldest son of the monarch forced himself to wait three more days, three more nights, and then again at gray dawn he approached the window, tapping softly this time.

  After a moment the oldest princess appeared, and she opened the window quite gently.

  It is I, little sister, the prince began. For love of you I wait still.

  Go away, she said, but her voice wavered a bit. May thorns spring up before you and flowers remain behind.

  The princess closed the window again, but not before taking a rather long look at the prince’s perfectly chiseled chest and dashing blue eyes. The oldest son smiled, quite sure of himself, and was content to wait three more days, three more nights, till the gray dawn of the tenth day arrived. He smoothed down his hair, flexed his biceps twice for good measure, and approached the window once more. He didn’t even have to tap before the princess opened it.

  It is I, little sister, said the prince. For three times three days and three times three nights, I have stood under your window and longed to gaze into your eyes. I have imagined myself by your bed as you s
leep, by your vanity as you dress in the morning.

  That’s not creepy at all, said the princess, and she meant it, because she had foolishly fallen in love.

  Relieve me of my torment and invite me into your room.

  Goodness no! My dear younger sister would never forgive me for falling in love with our father’s enemy’s son, said the princess, taken aback. But after a moment she added, Unless, of course, she fell in love too.

  The prince smiled. I’ll send my younger brother right away. But first, a kiss to make more pleasant my travels.

  And before she could protest, he reached up and stole one.

  Go away! the princess shouted, wiping her mouth with her silken sleeve. But as the prince mounted his steed and rode off into the rising sun, she called after, May flowers spring up before you and flowers remain behind!

  When the oldest prince returned home, he sent the middle prince off to the mountain castle at once. Staggered by the beauty of the middle princess, he did not find it difficult to wait after her first, and even second, rejection. And, just like his brother, by the gray dawn of the tenth morning the middle prince had won the princess’s foolish heart. She came running to her window before he even approached.

  It is I, little sister, he said. For three times three days and three times three nights, I have stood under your window and longed to gaze into your eyes. I have imagined myself by your bed as you sleep, by your vanity as you dress in the morning.

  How romantic, the middle princess sighed, for she, too, was an idiot.

  Relieve me of my torment and invite me into your room.

  I wish that I could, the princess swooned. But my dear younger sister, she’d never understand how passionately we feel for each other. Those rock-hard abs… that slicked-back hair… oh, but for my sister!

  The prince’s face reddened handsomely and he tugged at his tunic collar. Perhaps, my love, I could send my younger brother to meet your younger sister. First, though, a kiss to hasten my journey?

  To the prince’s great surprise, the middle princess nearly toppled outside, pulling him into her arms. When she’d freed him, and he rode off, she called after, May flowers spring up before you and flowers remain behind!

  After hearing of his elder brothers’ trials, the youngest son of the monarch was not looking forward to his ten days of solitude in the damp, chilly gardens. In fact he wondered why—if the girls were so easily found in their bedrooms alone—he and his brothers didn’t just break the emperor’s heart by murdering his three daughters while they slept. But when the youngest prince reached the mountain castle, he found himself pleasantly surprised.

  Cunning Ileana was already at her window. She smiled as he approached.

  You’re a prince, aren’t you? she asked. I can tell by that perfect royal face. To where are you hurrying that you urge your steed so hotly?

  The youngest son of the monarch was unable to look away from Ileana’s beauty. He spoke boldly, puffing out his chest. I hurry to you, little sister.

  Oh, not me, surely!

  The prince was full to bursting with passion. It is true! I have imagined myself by your bed blah, blah, blah…

  By now, certainly, you know the rest.

  Cunning Ileana’s mouth turned up into a smirk. If your soul is like your face, I will gladly invite you into my room. Here I’ll pour you drinks and offer you kisses.

  The prince’s eyes widened, quite shocked. He’d never kissed a girl, after all.

  Little sister, do you know who I am? the young prince asked.

  I do, Ileana replied.

  But what of your two elder sisters? Do you not fear their disapproval?

  Ileana only smiled wider. My sisters have fallen in love with your brothers, so what need have I to consult them?

  The youngest prince couldn’t believe his good fortune. I swear to you, my soul is like my face. Invite me into your room and you shall never regret it from dawn till nightfall.

  I’m certain I won’t, she called sweetly, then whispered to herself, But you will.

  Ileana gestured, allowing the prince to climb up through her window. Once inside, he went straight to a table laden with fruit, meat, and wine. When he reached it, the floor dropped right out from beneath him, and he fell into a deep vault where the emperor’s important scrolls and books were kept.

  Help! Help! Ileana shouted to the guards outside her door. A burglar is trying to steal my father’s secrets!

  The guards discovered the prince entangled in paper and dripping with wine and sliced beef. They shackled him and brought him before the throne to be sentenced at once. Cunning Ileana was already waiting, arms crossed.

  My father betrayed me, but don’t think I’ll betray him so quickly, she said. Twelve women are to carry you down the mountains. And when they leave you at the border of our lands, each one is to give you a kiss. She leaned forward daintily. May flowers spring up before you and flowers remain behind!

  The order was obeyed, and when the youngest prince arrived home, furious and disgraced, the three sons of the monarch concocted a terrible plan. The oldest and middle sons sent messages to the oldest and middle daughters, insisting that they could love them no longer unless Ileana’s insult was paid for. The two elder princesses must steal all the emperor’s secrets and help the brothers take their revenge.

  Being foolishly in love, and rather lousy daughters and sisters, the two princesses agreed.

  The Village from My Mother’s Stories

  The train lurched forward before I was settled, and I almost fell over—almost dropped my letter. The compartment listed on my ticket had eight seats in two rows facing each other. Since I was the last to arrive, I had to squeeze into an empty one in the middle, and when I finally sat down, the weight of everything that had happened flooded in, unexpected.

  My father had betrayed me. My mother’s life was in danger. My uncle was probably dead.

  I was traveling alone to the other side of the country—to a place that I knew only from pictures. With nothing more than a letter, I’d have to convince people who’d never met me to take me in and use their rations to feed me. I’d have to convince them to keep me a secret.

  My heart sank. It felt as if a chunk had been gouged out of its middle. I thought it was fitting: a hollow heart to match hollow bones.

  Outside, the tower blocks stretched on forever. Somber morning light reflected off thousands of dark glass balcony doors. The first drops of rain speckled our window, and it looked like the buildings were melting. The factories came next, smokestacks puffing behind chain-linked fences with rusted NO TRESPASSING signs. The grays and browns and blacks of the city blurred. Then the buildings grew older and shorter. Red brick peeked from between concrete structures. Blue shutters, green ones, yellow ones, too, patterned the fronts of homes built long before we were all told to look the same. Somewhere beneath the weary plaster and wood, there was still color. This was the part of town where my father’s parents had lived—the last familiar place I would see.

  The train sped up outside the city limits, droplets of water streaking the glass. Buildings distorted, then vanished, replaced by rolling hills and empty fields. I checked the directions my mother had given me. I clutched the letter in my hands.

  When I changed trains at the first station, the storm really started to pick up. There were only two platforms, each covered by an aluminum roof, so it was easy to find where to go, but the wind was blustering like mad and spraying rain every which way. Standing in front of a bench with water pooled in the plastic seats, I turned my back to the tracks, getting soaked, and again checked my mother’s directions. I counted my tickets to make sure none had been lost. Then I looked over my father’s note with the times and train lines. My stomach knotted at the sight of his handwriting, so I stuffed all the little papers down into my pockets.

  On the second train, my compartment had only an old lady inside. She was sitting by the window, so I sat by the door. She smiled politely and gave me a handker
chief so I could dry off. She asked me where I was going, and I told her, but not everything. She asked me where my parents were, and I told her, but not why. She stopped asking things after that, and I watched through the glass as the platform whizzed by and the train pulled out of the station. Thunder growled over distant treetops. The forest and mountains edged closer.

  Around lunchtime I opened my bag and took out the food my mother had packed. Two pieces of bread, one with apple jam, one with butter. And, wrapped in a tissue, a small chunk of dark chocolate. I gaped. I had no idea where my mother had found it or how long she’d had the sweet stashed away. I closed my bag and looked at the old lady suspiciously, in case maybe she’d seen. I ate only the bread with apple jam, just to be safe.

  Early afternoon came and went. At the next station I had to wait almost an hour, but the rain finally slowed. I clutched the letter to my chest and avoided the eyes of anyone who passed by. It was strange for a child to travel unattended. Someone was bound to get curious soon. Someone was bound to ask questions I wouldn’t be clever enough to deflect.

  The third train was almost empty, so I rode in my compartment alone. Sometimes I peeked in my bag at the chocolate, making sure it was still real. It was nearly seven o’clock when we arrived at my stop—the very end of the line.

  I gathered my things and got off, surprised to find little more than a raised slab of concrete outside. No roof, no benches, nowhere to buy tickets or ask for help. The platform looked like it was clinging to the edge of the world, floating in a sea of waving green wheat flooded with bright, golden light. I’d never seen such a wide-open space. Nor had I ever really seen mountains, not like the ones to my left, so giant they blocked out the entire horizon. I felt anxious all over again, just as I had felt when I was about to board the first train, but I pulled out my mother’s directions and puffed myself up.

  A few other passengers had gotten off with me. They looked like factory workers or businesspeople on holiday. One man had a camera around his neck, taking pictures of the countryside. Everyone was walking toward a small patch of pavement to meet cars. My mother had drawn a little map to show where she thought the bus stop would be, but she didn’t actually know, and she’d never been a very good artist. The last time she’d seen this place, there hadn’t been any buses at all. Before I could get too worried, I spotted a woman with three children standing next to a sign past the pavement.