Eating the Underworld (35 page)

‘A story about princesses,' said the head librarian, ‘everyone loves princesses.'

Rachel wasn't so sure about that. She knew that most people thought of princesses as the beautiful girls, pampered and cocooned in the lap of the palace. Sometimes they were born to royalty, sometimes they married into it. But whichever it was, from that moment on, their lives took on the luminescent glow of moonlight, softer and dreamier than anything that the sun, with its intricate daylight detail, could offer. People talked wistfully about the life of a fairytale princess. Little girls longed for it and even adult women harboured the odd yearning, tucked away in an inner pocket of their board-room business suits.

Rachel had never entertained these fantasies. Even as a child, she had understood that the richest castle comes with its own shadows and that being a princess might not be all that it was supposed to be.

Rachel often thought that she and her sister had been brought up as princesses. Whatever their parents could afford was theirs—services, goods, attention, love. Nothing was too much; nothing was denied. Rachel took
all of this for granted within the home (the castle?), but once outside, she changed, bewitched, in an odd reversal of the fairytale. She became shy and clung to corners, hidden in invisible soot—a Cinderella who did not want to go to the Ball.

Her sister, in contrast, thrived on display, revelled in the admiring, even envious glances. She was dazzling, seductive, wearing charm like a silken sheen. In her sister's world, there was room for only one—the star. She attracted attention in the way that Rachel froze from it. She was enthroned, queen of all that she could see. Rachel was frightened of shop-girls. Her sister expected to be served.

Princesses. There were so many of them, Rachel thought, as she leafed through her books. Happy, sad, bewitched and gifted. Princesses that she had loved, laughed at, hated or admired. They clustered together—a gleaming tsunami of faces, crowding for her attention. But behind them all, slight and pale, almost hidden in the shining crowd, was the Princess that she tried not to think of at all. The goose girl.

Rachel found the tale in her old copy of
Grimms
. The pages of this particular story seemed stiffly new, as if her fingers had avoided it in their regular perambulations through the book. She remembered it only dimly—and unpleasantly—from her childhood. It began, as they all did, in a Kingdom long ago.

An elderly Queen, whose husband had long since died, ruled this Kingdom. Her beloved daughter was good and beautiful and the Queen had arranged a match for her with a young Prince in a distant kingdom.

On the day the Princess was due to depart, her mother brought out armfuls of treasure for her daughter to take as her dowry—precious stones, goblets of gold and glistening trinkets. The Queen assigned her own maid-in-waiting to look after the Princess and she gave each of them a horse for the journey. The maid's horse was of the ordinary variety, but the Princess's was called Falada and could speak.

The time of departure was nearly at hand, but there was one more thing. The old Queen retired to her chamber with a small knife. There, she cut her finger until it bled. She captured three drops of blood in a white handkerchief, tied the handkerchief in a knot, and handed it to her daughter. ‘Dear child,' she said, ‘preserve this carefully, it will be of service to you on the way.'

The two of them said their sorrowful goodbyes, the Princess tucked the handkerchief containing the three drops of blood into her bosom, mounted her horse and set out for the far-off kingdom.

So far, so good, thought Rachel; although she shivered slightly at the thought of the long, lonely journey to a kingdom far from the country one had known. Why so far away? she wondered. Couldn't the Queen have found a closer Prince? But then she remembered her own journey, to a hospital a mere twenty minutes from where she lived—a place further than the furthest countries of ice and snow.

At least the Princess had protection, Rachel thought—the maid-in-waiting; Falada, the talking horse; and the three drops of blood. Surely enough to keep her safe on a journey away from home?

For her journey, Rachel had packed a small case of necessities, some books and magazines and a photo of her husband and child. What she had really wanted to pack, though, was her mother.

Rachel had missed her mother many times over the years since her death, but never had she missed her like this. She thought of her as she settled into the cold white of the hospital bed. She imagined her sitting in the plastic visitor's chair, her hand stroking Rachel's hair off her forehead, her voice saying that she would stay forever. Never had she seemed so far away.

The sign above Rachel's bed read ‘Nil Orally'. ‘We want you clean as a whistle,' the nurse had said, pointing at the sign. Nothing by mouth. What a strange way to phrase it, Rachel thought idly. Not, ‘no food or water', but ‘nothing by mouth', as if it included all the intangibles that also came by mouth. The most powerful intangibles of all—words. Rachel lay there, trying to ignore the raw dryness of her throat. She was to be cleaned out. No water, no food, no words.

The Princess was thirsty. They had travelled many miles from the castle, without stopping for food or drink and her throat was parched.

‘Dismount,' she said to her waiting-maid, ‘and take my cup which you have brought with you and get me some water from the stream, for I should like to drink.'

‘No,' replied the maid, impudent, now that she had left the castle walls, ‘if you are thirsty, get off your horse yourself, lie down and drink the water. I don't choose to be your servant.'

The Princess, who despite her status was of a mild and
gentle disposition, knelt down by the edge of the stream and, deprived of the golden goblet her mother had packed for her, drank from her bare, cupped hands. The water stirred up her reflection and the three drops of blood, tucked into her bodice, said:

‘If this your mother knew, her heart would break in two.'

The Princess, although heavy-hearted, said nothing, but mounted her horse again and rode on.

The miles of riding were slow and the sun scorching. Before too long, her throat was burning again. She had already forgotten her maid's sneering words and she turned to her, saying, as she had before, ‘Dismount and give me some water in my golden cup.'

The maid drew herself up even more haughtily and said, ‘I don't choose to be your maid. If you wish to drink, get it yourself.'

The Princess dismounted quietly and went to the stream. But she wept as she bent over the flowing water and once again, the drops of blood said:

‘If this your mother knew, her heart would break in two.'

And the Princess wept more bitterly, leaning as far as she could over the water in her attempt to drink. So low was she bowing, that the drops of blood fell out from her bodice and floated away with the stream. Immersed in her distress, the Princess did not notice, but the maid saw and rejoiced. She knew that with the drops of blood gone, the Princess would be rendered helpless, with no protection.

The maid swelled with triumph. When the Princess went to mount her horse, the maid abused her, saying, ‘Falada
is more suitable for me and my nag will do for you.'

The Princess meekly obeyed and the maid berated her once again, ordering her to exchange her fine royal garments for the maid's lowly apparel. When this had been accomplished, the maid threatened the Princess with death, unless she swore by the sky above her that she would not say one word of this to anyone at the royal court. The terrified Princess swore to keep her silence, but Falada the wise horse saw all and observed it well.

The small party rode on, with the maid in royal finery mounted on Falada, while the true bride rode behind in the shabby costume of the maid. There was great rejoicing as they came to their destination and entered the palace. The young Prince rushed to greet the maid, whom he took for the Princess. And with her fine clothes and imposing airs, who would have believed otherwise? He whisked her upstairs to prepare for the grand banquet, the celebrations. The true Princess was left alone outside the doors of the great palace and the only one who noticed was the old King. He noted the delicate beauty of the young girl standing lost in the courtyard and wondered who she was.

‘Who is the girl who travelled with you and who now stands below in the courtyard?' he enquired of the false bride.

‘A common wench, whom I picked up in my travels to act as companion,' the maid answered. ‘Give her some work to do, that she may not stand idle.'

‘I have a young boy, Conrad, who tends the geese,' the King replied. ‘She may help him in his tasks.'

And so the true Princess was sent into the fields to tend
geese with Conrad. Her heart was heavy as she left the castle, alight with festivities for the new bride; but she said nothing.

Rachel was incensed. Why didn't the Princess protest? Why didn't she denounce the imposter? How could she allow this to happen without a word in her own defence? Her rage surprised her. She wanted to take the Princess by the shoulders and shake her. ‘Why didn't you say something!' she wanted to shriek in her face. ‘Why didn't you say something!'

With the true Princess banished to the fields, the maid was secure in her new role. Before too long, however, she felt the prickle, not of conscience, but of fear. She had realised that there was one other witness to her crime. She approached her husband, the young Prince.

My dearest, I beg of you a favour,' she said. ‘The horse I rode on here vexed me all the way. Send for the knackers. I would have its head cut off.' For she knew that Falada had seen all and could speak.

The Prince, who was an obliging young man and wished to please his new wife, agreed. Falada would die.

The news found its way into the fields and the ears of the true Princess. She wept more bitterly than ever. Her faithful Falada, who had done nothing except witness the truth, was to be extinguished because of it.

Stilling her tears, she went in search of the knacker, promising him gold in return for a small service. She could not buy Falada's life, but persuaded the knacker to nail up Falada's head at the gateway to the town. That way, she could at least see Falada as she passed through the gateway each day.

The knacker followed her request and the next morning, as the Princess and Conrad approached the gateway, she looked sadly at the head of her old companion, saying, ‘Alas Falada, hanging there.'

And the head answered:

‘Alas young queen, how ill you fare.

If this your mother knew, her heart would break in two.'

And she and Conrad passed beyond the gateway and out into the fields.

Rachel hated this part. When she had first read the story as a child, she had cried for hours over Falada's murder. ‘It's just a story,' her mother had said, uncertainly, trying to console her. ‘It's just a story.'

What did that mean? Rachel thought. People said it all the time: ‘It's just a story.' As if that meant that it had no reality, that it couldn't speak a truth, that its voice was to be ignored. Rachel often thought that there was more truth in stories than in the whole universe of hard facts. How people revered them. ‘These are the facts,' they would say, as if that explained everything. Facts were like skeletons; they could tell you how tall a man was and his age. They couldn't tell you whether he loved his children, was cruel to animals or wrote poetry. Facts by themselves were mere objects, like a window frame. What you saw through the window was the story.

And Rachel hated this story. It was all wrong—the wimpy Princess, the faithful horse who was murdered, the refusal of the Princess to speak out and denounce the wicked one. Each time she read it, she burned for the slain horse, and seethed at the silent Princess.

The days went by for the Princess, each as sad and lowly as the next. In the mornings, she and Conrad would herd the geese into the fields, past the gateway to which Falada's head was nailed. Each time she passed, the Princess would greet her true friend and each time, Falada would respond with the same mournful words: ‘… if this your mother knew, her heart would break in two.'

Rachel could feel herself shifting in her seat as she read, the words beginning to buzz and blur on the page. She itched to get away from the story. What was wrong with her? You were not supposed to react like this to fairy stories. You were supposed to feel
with
the heroine, to feel sorry for her troubles, to support her through her trials and cheer for her when she finally won through. You were not supposed to feel angry at her. You were not supposed to want to throw the book away.

Rachel sighed and turned back to the beginning. This was her third reading of the story as an adult. She had read it carefully each time. She had read it as Rachel, as an anthropologist, as a storyteller, as a folklorist. What more could she find in there? Wearily, she went back to the now familiar words, slowly, one paragraph at a time. And then suddenly, she saw it.

The Princess had been
forced
into silence. The maid had threatened her with death, had made her swear that she would never speak of what had happened. It was there, stated clearly, unmistakably, in the hard-edged typeface of the page. How many times had Rachel read this story? And each time, she had failed to register this scene. Each time, she had fumed and raged at the silent Princess. Each time, she had wanted to leap into the page
and speak for her. What was going on?

Rachel returned warily to the story.

The Princess was in the fields now, with the geese scattered and honking around her. This was where she drove them each day, with the boy, Conrad. She was seated on the stubbly earth, combing her hair, and dreaming, perhaps, of her mother's palace—the puff of silk pillows and the scent of steaming baths. Conrad, idling near her, was caught by the gold gleam of her hair. Fascinated, he was reaching out to snatch some strands, when the Princess suddenly reacted. She stood up and defended herself—called to the wind to blow Conrad's hat away. And with that, a great torrent of air bowled his hat all around the meadow, so that he was forced to chase it—and chase it, until the Princess had finished her grooming and her hair was bound up and out of his reach. An angry Conrad sulked through the day until it was time for them to herd the geese back home.