[story] roseabelle and thorin
author: a. h. m. (tumblewhim)
email: tumumbling [at] hotmail.com
The old crone was unforgiving when he returned to the little clearing with nothing but fruit in his arms.
"Your head's emptier than my bowl, boy! Why don't you skewer some meat already?"
"I told you already, grandma," the boy replied, stifling his irritation and urge to ask her just what bowl she was talking about. "I promised not to kill any animals here." He put the fruit down on a spread cloth. They were round, plump, and juicy, gleaming in the twilight like autumn-colored gems.
She cackled. "You're afraid of rabbit and doe, are you?"
"Not afraid, grandma..."
The old lady snorted. She leaned towards the pile of fruit and snatched one up, making a face as she bit into its sweet flesh. The tangy juice seemed offensive to her. "Fruit! Fruit! Always fruit! Three days, and you useless lump of bone can't even shoot and kill a hare."
The boy heaved a sigh as he took a bite out of his own fruit. They had only recently begun running into trees heavy with fruit, and he'd been alerted to the fact that he might have been eating something no mortal had ever tasted before. He had first suspected them to be the poisonous sort, as there was an abundance of them but they were all untouched. Even the birds ignored them, or did not seem to see them. The boy had hesitated a long while before taking a bite. Now all he could relate to pleasure was its filling taste. The fruit was sweet, but not overly so, and always plump and juicy. All his life he had been accustomed to bread and cheese, and whatever else his family managed to scrape together for a meal. He could not, now, tire of the fruit.
The old lady seemed to hate it, though, and he suffered an earful every time he failed to find something else for their meals. She would have to live with it; he was not killing anything in the forest.
It was not as if he were asking her to give him an adventurous, magic-soaked life filled to the brim with the kind of thrills and delights he had heard so much about. It was she who was always one unprovoked blunder shy of hitting him with her heavy walking stick. Truthfully, he did even not know how she had ended up coming with him. He had met her when he was still on a man-made road, on his way west from where he'd been born. She had been walking along the road, jabbing her stick into the dirt firmly each time she took a step. She had a steady pace for an old woman with a stick.
At the time there seemed to be a distinct emphasis on the old part of the lady. Her hair was a cascade of white and grey, tied into a graceless knot under a thick headscarf. Her cloak was dark, as if it had been soaked in several colors of dye until it reached an undistinguishable color. The skin of her face was full of wizened wrinkles and seasoned scars. The most curious part was the odd way she was bent. She was not quite hunched the way most old persons seemed to be, but merely curved so that she was simply not straight. The boy had approached the old woman, fooled by her appearance into thinking she was poor, feeble, and kindly. As it turned out, she was all of the first, none of the second, and even less of the third.
He began to suspect now that it was her poverty that led her to follow him. He rather regretted offering her half his bread and cheese, now. Though she had complained bitterly of its blackness and mould, she had gobbled it up and demanded more. He had passed her his barely eaten piece and then that was gone, too. The next meal, then, was fruit.
She and the fruit seemed to be at odds. She said it gave her indigestion. The boy then wondered aloud if he should not find something else to eat? And she had replied scathingly, going off on what he soon learned was a well-practiced monologue on his inability to be a capable hunter for some very desired meat (never mind that they had never met before; the boy was certain the speech had been made for him. After all, it rather confidently listed his faults). The boy always fell into silence when the conversation turned in that direction. The old lady had not been there when he had met the black Turtledoves. This was before he'd even hit the road. He had stopped upon hearing an anguished wail. The first Turtledove let herself be seen by him, and told him with real fear that her husband was in danger.
Obligingly, the boy had followed her and they found the husband Turtledove caught in a trap. The boy freed him, advising them not to linger so near the town. The Turtledove wife had been offended. She was not only a Turtledove, she was a Turtledove princess! Accordingly, like princesses of every species, the kingdom belonged to her father and his subjects had no right to be performing barbarous, treasonous acts, even if she had married beneath her.
The Turtledove husband was merely grateful, and repaid the boy with knowledge. First, he told him that what he was looking for could be found if he traveled westward. Next, he told him that princesses could not resist the fruit of the heart of the forest. Finally, the Turtledove advised him thusly: do not harm any animal in the forest. If he did, he might never make it out of the forest and so never reach palace of the princess.
"Princess High Nose?" the old lady said scornfully. She had the voice of a screeching sparrow, shrill and domineering. "The one King Trimmed Beard and Queen Long Chin are holding a ridiculous competitive event for?"
He had not known anyone in his entire life who called the royal family names. The boy swallowed the bite of his fruit. "Their majesties want to see their daughter happily married," he said, after a moment's consideration.
"Are you squawking your mother's words at me?"
The boy turned red, and opted to take another bite of the fruit. "...s'not like t'wasn't the truth," he mumbled.
"Your dining manners are a dead giveaway of your birth, boy! Of course your mother speaks the truth. All mothers speak the truth."
"Mmph."
"She wanted you to go win Princess High Nose, did she?" the old lady suddenly asked, as if he had not told her so once before. She flung a mostly uneaten fruit across the clearing. It hit a tree and rolled away, dented and bleeding juice.
The boy tried chewing slowly, but found he had to reply eventually. "She wants me to find a good heart. Princess Roseabelle is famous for her beautiful heart, so..."
His companion snorted, softly. He braced himself. Nothing happened. After a moment he looked at her curiously, wondering why she had no prickly response.
"She just wants me happy, she does," he told her carefully. "Didn't even really push me for Princess Roseabelle. She just wants a good heart in a girl. And the princess is a good heart."
"Beautiful," the old lady snapped, as if correcting him. "Princess High Nose has a beautiful heart."
The tone was always jolting, but he was not entirely surprised. "That's what I said, grandma."
"I ought to knock out what little brains you possess, boy."
It was dark when the boy finished the little pile of fruit. The old woman refused to eat any more, simply sitting in moody silence as he built a makeshift shelter. To her credit, she ceased demanding that he go and kill something for food, but the boy began to feel uneasy. Quickly but properly he managed to build around a bent, irregular tree some a shelter for the night. He had some fair skill at bending what he could get into what shape he pleased, and they would be safe.
It was before he had fallen asleep in his own mattress of leaves when the old lady spoke again.
"What are you bringing her, boy?"
"What?"
"Princess High Nose, ear-wax. The call is for whoever brings a present that pleases her most; that's the man who will be her husband."
"Well..." The boy was embarrassed. He knew what item he was bringing, but he also knew the old woman would give him a verbal thrashing for this one. "...I am bringing a fruit."
"A fruit?" The incredulous shriek did not sound as forced as he expected. There was real shock in her voice. "That's not a very nice joke to play on an old lady!"
He shifted on his leaves. "It's... not a joke, grandma."
"Not a joke," the old lady repeated. "What I'd give to endow you with some brains! You're not thinking at all. There will be throngs of people, I promise you, with gowns and jewels and magic mirrors. Why would you bring a miserable fruit to compete, you miserable ninny?"
"It's a special fruit, grandma."
"I am not a grandma." the old lady harrumphed vehemently. She grumbled a little more before rolling over.
He didn't know what she meant, but he would have thought she would understand. He did tell her a bit about the Turtledoves, and there was no doubt about which part of the forest they were in now. If the still air and the lack of birdsong weren't enough indication, then there was the presence of the fruit trees. There was a scent he had picked up on the moment he neared them, somehow gentle and heady at the same time. His nose was cleared the moment he caught a whiff, and then all he could think was that he had at last reached what was the center of the forest. The very heart of which bore fruit, which he had now, and with which he would win Princess Roseabelle.
His dreams that night were painted with scenes of treeless ballrooms with high, skyless ceilings. In his dreams he had it all: a heavy, solid crown; a feast he could not devour on his own for every meal; clothes stitched by various expert hands, none of whom he knew, nor loved. All this and more, he dreamed, revolving around Princess Roseabelle and her beautiful heart.
When he woke it was before dawn. His heart beat a little faster than was usual, but he attributed it to the anticipation that came with the knowledge and fact that they would be reaching the palace soon.
As they walked, the old lady's mood seemed to worsen. She seemed to have realized or accepted some important truth. She muttered, constantly, and when she was not muttering she was shrieking at him about anything she could claw at. Whatever it was, she dealt with it by being increasingly abusive to the boy; at one point he had stopped in his tracks because she very nearly finished a sentence with a grave insult towards his mother, but she had merely refrained from finishing and they had moved on. The boy tried to take it all in stride, understanding that to answer back to a tempestuous storm would do little to prolong his life.
Though years later the boy was always able to quote the old lady verbatim when he was feeling nostalgic (otherwise, suicidal), he remembered little else that was unpleasant happening before they finally reached the gates of the great palace.
It was a good thing the old lady was a slow hobbler, because the boy took a long time to stare at the exquisite structure of the palace. He had known that there were buildings more complicated than thatched cottages, buildings meant to be homes, but his imagination had been a faded picture in comparison to the real thing. Distractedly he wondered, as he gazed at the turrets and towers and lush gardens, what his mother would say. No doubt something about securing such a place.
In the next moment he realized he had been standing stunned for a little too long, for though the old lady moved slowly and jerkily she had ambled quite far into the grounds already. The palace sentries regarded her with some interest, until they caught sight of the boy scrambling to catch up to her. They rolled their eyes at his scruffy appearance. He forgave them, understanding that nearly a week in the forest made him look like a very unlikely winner. Still, he would show them - he was going to win the hand of Princess Roseabelle, and his mother would be glad he had found his good heart.
"Have you got your fruit, boy?" the old lady asked him suddenly, with a strange sort of withdrawal. She was hobbling along at a steady pace, and he was walking beside her, but she seemed unable to look at him.
"Yes," the boy answered, feeling strange himself. He had thought he would be nervous when he walked through the palace's main entrance, perhaps even entertaining thoughts of turning back. Instead, he was walking rather calmly with the old lady, reaching the great hall with little trouble internally or externally.
There was an immense crowd at the hall, spread out in organized chaos. A waterfall of colored banners fell from the ceiling to the floor, giving the masses of people a vivid background. The people were divided into two large groups, standing a little away from each other. With little difficulty he could distinguish between those who had come to witness the event and those who had come to participate. Turning to the old lady, he meant to tell her that he would see her later. A word had not escaped his mouth when he found she was already moving towards the bystanders.
An odd feeling took over him at that moment, right between his turning to her and her turning away. For, in that small space of time, he had caught sight of her eyes. It occurred to him that in all the time they had spent together, he had never once seen her eyes express anything except irritation or blankness. In that fraction of time he was struck by the different things he saw: weariness, recognition, and regret.
It puzzled him. It puzzled him, as he stood amongst the candidates, so much so that he did not hear the other young men's voices as they asked him questions or told him things. Then the music changed, and he finally shifted his attention to the head of the hall. Looking up at the thrones, he was startled when his eyes met the Princess Roseabelle's.
He had not realized he was standing so near, but it was plain that this was indeed the princess. No other girl would have that radiant flaxen hair, or those deep star-like eyes. The boy found himself numb at her beauty, and he gave her a tentative smile. The perfect red mouth curved gracefully upward for him. He was left in a daze.
It was time now, he thought with a haze in his mind, for the suitors to present their gifts. The one whose gift wins her heart's favor shall be named her husband. Something of that sort, was it not?
Then, he let himself think on as he reached into his vest to bring out the fruit that would win the princess' hand, the king only has his opening remarks to say before we get on with it.
The King's trumpeters blasted sound into the halls as if on cue, earning ringing cheers from the good folk who had come that day. They quieted when the King's crier stepped forward.
"Hear, all!" he shouted into the hall. He waited until fresh cheers subsided. "Hear! The Princess Roseabelle has made her decision!"
The boy paused, stunned. He let the fruit stay forgotten in his vest as he turned to soundlessly gape in disbelief at the young men standing around him. One of them shook his head and said sadly, "What did I say?"
More excited and joyous shouts had erupted throughout the hall. Encouraged, the crier went on, "When the proclamation of our most beloved princess' search was first sent throughout the kingdom, their Royal Majesties had little hope for a man who could earn Her Highness' heart. Today all hope has been restored and promise fulfilled, for amongst the hundreds who came to present what they assumed our princess most desired, one young man has found what she yearned for!"
The applause took longer to stop this time, but amidst it the boy heard the regal and polished King himself laugh jovially and say, "Well, we knew her heart wanted something - we didn't know it was to return to her person!" The Queen, a stately and elegant long-chinned creature, merely nodded with expected agreement.
Slowly, the boy's brain picked itself up from the floor and worked its way backwards in memory. It occurred to him now that he must have miscalculated. The date set for the gathering of the suitors had been the day before, not this day. This day was the day of the announcement concerning the decision. Numbers had never been a particularly strong suit with him, so it was actually not surprising that he had miscounted the days. He had, however, been careful to count and recount, so that he could at least be called punctual; it was just that his fortune had not been great, and it must have been his constant recalculation that led him to confuse himself. Therefore: the boy was too late, he could not present his gift, and he was not to marry the princess after all.
"...Princess Roseabelle's future husband and our champion, Prince Thorin!"
The boy was flabbergasted as someone in his crowd stepped forward. He could not see his face, nor hear him speak, for the people that filled the hall had let out roaring shouts of approval. Broad-shouldered, richly dressed Thorin made his way up the marble steps and put his hand to Princess Roseabelle's. It was with a quiet, final sort of acceptance that the boy watched as their hands clasped. Thorin had made his claim, and the boy did not win the beautiful heart.
It was sometime later when, though he did not notice much about time and its moody leaps, he realized the old woman was standing beside him. By then the hall had become less congested. The King's men had only just begun to request that people leave. Many had already gone, but some lingered in hopes of even a shadow of a feast appearring in celebration. Princess Roseabelle and her new fiance were gone, presumably to pursue their romance and make more out of it.
Somehow, after the old lady stood with him for more than a minute without saying anything, the boy felt a sharp splash of bitterness. "You can say it, grandma," he said, uncharacteristically grim.
The old creature coughed as he had never heard her before. "Boy... you are many things, but hardly ever the things you think yourself to be." Her tone was also curiously uncharacteristic of her, low and even gentle, but the words stung nonetheless.
"That's not fair, grandma," he cried out, raising his voice for the first time. He was struck by his own echo, and was irrationally sorry, but a strange surge of emotion had taken a hold of him for that moment. "Grandma... my head must really be as empty as you say. What do I tell my mother?"
"The truth," the old crone said wearily. "Mothers always speak the truth; children should repay them by doing the same."
"She will be ashamed."
"No. Foolishly disappointed. Not ashamed."
"I broke my promise, I did," the boy went on mournfully. He was bending down now, and running his hands through his hair without looking at his companion. "I promised to find someone with a good heart..."
"Miserable straw-brains!" The old lady suddenly exclaimed furiously. "I told you. Your Princess High Nose has a beautiful heart. That's far more complicated than having a good one." The boy looked up, blinking his eyes rapidly as if the old woman had gone (even more) mad. She barreled on impatiently, as if her previous quiet had built up a store and now the dam was burst. "I knew the pair of sparkly wings that thought giving her a tragically beautiful heart was a good idea. Foolish ideas are born around the same time as fairy godchildren princesses are; that time was no exception. What did her High Nose's heart do? It ran away to go gallivanting around the kingdom, rousing even the animals along the way, giving the deities of order more work to do, and so on." He was staring at her now, baffled. "The beauty of being well-traveled, I would say. Your Turtledove friends, boy! I can attest to the female one having met her High Nose's heart. That is probably a mild example of the consequence of poorly planned christening gifts. Fortunately in the case of this one we could solve it like we solved nearly all of our goddaughters' problems." The old crone paused for breath. "Also, princesses are not the only ones gifted with good hearts."
"Er, grandma..." The boy regretted allowing himself to whine about his misfortune now. Clearly it had driven the old woman to insanity. "I can then find someone else, really. I-I am happy for Princess Roseabelle - and Prince Thorin, too, sincerely-"
"And Thorin!" the old lady scoffed, so jaggedly that the boy was perplexed. "Oh, that Thorin. You will detest me, boy, for what I am about to tell you. You will."
The boy wisely said nothing now.
"You have to understand, boy, that each story unfolds differently, no matter how repetitive they can get when many parts remain the same. Still, I assumed that at my age I would do my job with greater ease and skill. Even when I was young and had no experience my errors were simple and petty. I was perceptive and resourceful, and I like to think I am even now. So when I saw Thorin, boy, this great big princeling, little more than a big baby with a big heart, I chose him. He was the type. He had some kindness. He hid his fears well. He was well adapted. That is what I saw. That was all, I now realize, that I have been looking for in all those I have been looking for." She shook her head with a disgust the boy could not understand. "I presented him with just the knowledge he needed, and parted ways with him feeling as though I had finished my commission." She faced him stonily. "I found you too late, boy. You are Princess Roseabelle's greatest loss. In every aspect you outshine Thorin. But I had to choose, and I was hasty. Do you understand, boy?"
The boy sighed.
He was quiet for a minute or two. His earlier feelings of upset had briefly mutated into anger, but that dissolved quickly. It was not in his nature to rage like a storm, even when there was something to rage about. He could not be happy, to be sure, but if anything he had always been honest.
In the end, he could honestly say that he couldn't begrudge the old crone. With a half smile that must have weighed guilt on her like a blow he said, "Well, grandma, I should start looking for that good heart elsewhere." He turned to go. The old crone did not stop him.
Unfeelingly, he trudged out of the palace. There were many things he could have felt. It was difficult to chose just one, and he did not want to feel them all. His feet seemed to ache for the first time ever, and his legs were tired. The rest of his body, too, was worn; he needed a place to rest. Still he walked. Out of the palace, out of the gates, out of the town.
And at a fork in the path was the old crone. She spoke before he could even wonder how she had gotten there.
"Boy, do you know where you're going?"
He exhaled. "Grandma..."
"The right path, or the left?"
The boy looked at her as he had many times since meeting her, but for the first time since entering the palace. He shrugged his shoulders and waited patiently.
"The left," said she, "will take you back to the enchanted forest. You will meet your Turtledove friends, you will save kingdoms and you will overcome evils. By the virtue of nothing more than your heart, you are more than likely to find what you are looking for."
"It seems pretty farfetched, grandma," the boy said. Her face threatened to glare, so he added quickly, "for someone like me."
"You certainly lack no space between the ears, boy, if you think that. You can cross an enchanted forest, talk to animals, and eat fruit soaked in magic without repercussion. I assure you, the potential is there."
"Potential?"
"The right path," the old lady went on to say, and there was a curious lilt in her speech as though she was consciously trying not to speak with a barb, "will take you a little off the side of the forest, just out of this town, and to a small cottage."
"A cottage?"
The old lady inched towards the right side of the fork. "'Tis where I happen to be going."
The boy thought about it. "Why?"
The old woman shrugged her old shoulders, and for the first time since he had known her, looked heavenward. "Even a grandmother who has not retired will see her granddaughter every now and then."
There was a pause. Then slowly, the faint beginnings of a smile trickled into the boy's face. "My mother always told me not to intrude, grandma."
"Mothers," the old lady said grandly, "speak bendable truths." Then, without waiting any longer, she ambled down the right path. The boy watched her as she went, and then glanced at the possibilities of the left. And then he heard the old lady say, in an oddly fond tone, "She makes a delicious fruit salad."
The boy decided that he was hungry.
the end
email: tumumbling [at] hotmail.com
The old crone was unforgiving when he returned to the little clearing with nothing but fruit in his arms.
"Your head's emptier than my bowl, boy! Why don't you skewer some meat already?"
"I told you already, grandma," the boy replied, stifling his irritation and urge to ask her just what bowl she was talking about. "I promised not to kill any animals here." He put the fruit down on a spread cloth. They were round, plump, and juicy, gleaming in the twilight like autumn-colored gems.
She cackled. "You're afraid of rabbit and doe, are you?"
"Not afraid, grandma..."
The old lady snorted. She leaned towards the pile of fruit and snatched one up, making a face as she bit into its sweet flesh. The tangy juice seemed offensive to her. "Fruit! Fruit! Always fruit! Three days, and you useless lump of bone can't even shoot and kill a hare."
The boy heaved a sigh as he took a bite out of his own fruit. They had only recently begun running into trees heavy with fruit, and he'd been alerted to the fact that he might have been eating something no mortal had ever tasted before. He had first suspected them to be the poisonous sort, as there was an abundance of them but they were all untouched. Even the birds ignored them, or did not seem to see them. The boy had hesitated a long while before taking a bite. Now all he could relate to pleasure was its filling taste. The fruit was sweet, but not overly so, and always plump and juicy. All his life he had been accustomed to bread and cheese, and whatever else his family managed to scrape together for a meal. He could not, now, tire of the fruit.
The old lady seemed to hate it, though, and he suffered an earful every time he failed to find something else for their meals. She would have to live with it; he was not killing anything in the forest.
It was not as if he were asking her to give him an adventurous, magic-soaked life filled to the brim with the kind of thrills and delights he had heard so much about. It was she who was always one unprovoked blunder shy of hitting him with her heavy walking stick. Truthfully, he did even not know how she had ended up coming with him. He had met her when he was still on a man-made road, on his way west from where he'd been born. She had been walking along the road, jabbing her stick into the dirt firmly each time she took a step. She had a steady pace for an old woman with a stick.
At the time there seemed to be a distinct emphasis on the old part of the lady. Her hair was a cascade of white and grey, tied into a graceless knot under a thick headscarf. Her cloak was dark, as if it had been soaked in several colors of dye until it reached an undistinguishable color. The skin of her face was full of wizened wrinkles and seasoned scars. The most curious part was the odd way she was bent. She was not quite hunched the way most old persons seemed to be, but merely curved so that she was simply not straight. The boy had approached the old woman, fooled by her appearance into thinking she was poor, feeble, and kindly. As it turned out, she was all of the first, none of the second, and even less of the third.
He began to suspect now that it was her poverty that led her to follow him. He rather regretted offering her half his bread and cheese, now. Though she had complained bitterly of its blackness and mould, she had gobbled it up and demanded more. He had passed her his barely eaten piece and then that was gone, too. The next meal, then, was fruit.
She and the fruit seemed to be at odds. She said it gave her indigestion. The boy then wondered aloud if he should not find something else to eat? And she had replied scathingly, going off on what he soon learned was a well-practiced monologue on his inability to be a capable hunter for some very desired meat (never mind that they had never met before; the boy was certain the speech had been made for him. After all, it rather confidently listed his faults). The boy always fell into silence when the conversation turned in that direction. The old lady had not been there when he had met the black Turtledoves. This was before he'd even hit the road. He had stopped upon hearing an anguished wail. The first Turtledove let herself be seen by him, and told him with real fear that her husband was in danger.
Obligingly, the boy had followed her and they found the husband Turtledove caught in a trap. The boy freed him, advising them not to linger so near the town. The Turtledove wife had been offended. She was not only a Turtledove, she was a Turtledove princess! Accordingly, like princesses of every species, the kingdom belonged to her father and his subjects had no right to be performing barbarous, treasonous acts, even if she had married beneath her.
The Turtledove husband was merely grateful, and repaid the boy with knowledge. First, he told him that what he was looking for could be found if he traveled westward. Next, he told him that princesses could not resist the fruit of the heart of the forest. Finally, the Turtledove advised him thusly: do not harm any animal in the forest. If he did, he might never make it out of the forest and so never reach palace of the princess.
"Princess High Nose?" the old lady said scornfully. She had the voice of a screeching sparrow, shrill and domineering. "The one King Trimmed Beard and Queen Long Chin are holding a ridiculous competitive event for?"
He had not known anyone in his entire life who called the royal family names. The boy swallowed the bite of his fruit. "Their majesties want to see their daughter happily married," he said, after a moment's consideration.
"Are you squawking your mother's words at me?"
The boy turned red, and opted to take another bite of the fruit. "...s'not like t'wasn't the truth," he mumbled.
"Your dining manners are a dead giveaway of your birth, boy! Of course your mother speaks the truth. All mothers speak the truth."
"Mmph."
"She wanted you to go win Princess High Nose, did she?" the old lady suddenly asked, as if he had not told her so once before. She flung a mostly uneaten fruit across the clearing. It hit a tree and rolled away, dented and bleeding juice.
The boy tried chewing slowly, but found he had to reply eventually. "She wants me to find a good heart. Princess Roseabelle is famous for her beautiful heart, so..."
His companion snorted, softly. He braced himself. Nothing happened. After a moment he looked at her curiously, wondering why she had no prickly response.
"She just wants me happy, she does," he told her carefully. "Didn't even really push me for Princess Roseabelle. She just wants a good heart in a girl. And the princess is a good heart."
"Beautiful," the old lady snapped, as if correcting him. "Princess High Nose has a beautiful heart."
The tone was always jolting, but he was not entirely surprised. "That's what I said, grandma."
"I ought to knock out what little brains you possess, boy."
It was dark when the boy finished the little pile of fruit. The old woman refused to eat any more, simply sitting in moody silence as he built a makeshift shelter. To her credit, she ceased demanding that he go and kill something for food, but the boy began to feel uneasy. Quickly but properly he managed to build around a bent, irregular tree some a shelter for the night. He had some fair skill at bending what he could get into what shape he pleased, and they would be safe.
It was before he had fallen asleep in his own mattress of leaves when the old lady spoke again.
"What are you bringing her, boy?"
"What?"
"Princess High Nose, ear-wax. The call is for whoever brings a present that pleases her most; that's the man who will be her husband."
"Well..." The boy was embarrassed. He knew what item he was bringing, but he also knew the old woman would give him a verbal thrashing for this one. "...I am bringing a fruit."
"A fruit?" The incredulous shriek did not sound as forced as he expected. There was real shock in her voice. "That's not a very nice joke to play on an old lady!"
He shifted on his leaves. "It's... not a joke, grandma."
"Not a joke," the old lady repeated. "What I'd give to endow you with some brains! You're not thinking at all. There will be throngs of people, I promise you, with gowns and jewels and magic mirrors. Why would you bring a miserable fruit to compete, you miserable ninny?"
"It's a special fruit, grandma."
"I am not a grandma." the old lady harrumphed vehemently. She grumbled a little more before rolling over.
He didn't know what she meant, but he would have thought she would understand. He did tell her a bit about the Turtledoves, and there was no doubt about which part of the forest they were in now. If the still air and the lack of birdsong weren't enough indication, then there was the presence of the fruit trees. There was a scent he had picked up on the moment he neared them, somehow gentle and heady at the same time. His nose was cleared the moment he caught a whiff, and then all he could think was that he had at last reached what was the center of the forest. The very heart of which bore fruit, which he had now, and with which he would win Princess Roseabelle.
His dreams that night were painted with scenes of treeless ballrooms with high, skyless ceilings. In his dreams he had it all: a heavy, solid crown; a feast he could not devour on his own for every meal; clothes stitched by various expert hands, none of whom he knew, nor loved. All this and more, he dreamed, revolving around Princess Roseabelle and her beautiful heart.
When he woke it was before dawn. His heart beat a little faster than was usual, but he attributed it to the anticipation that came with the knowledge and fact that they would be reaching the palace soon.
As they walked, the old lady's mood seemed to worsen. She seemed to have realized or accepted some important truth. She muttered, constantly, and when she was not muttering she was shrieking at him about anything she could claw at. Whatever it was, she dealt with it by being increasingly abusive to the boy; at one point he had stopped in his tracks because she very nearly finished a sentence with a grave insult towards his mother, but she had merely refrained from finishing and they had moved on. The boy tried to take it all in stride, understanding that to answer back to a tempestuous storm would do little to prolong his life.
Though years later the boy was always able to quote the old lady verbatim when he was feeling nostalgic (otherwise, suicidal), he remembered little else that was unpleasant happening before they finally reached the gates of the great palace.
It was a good thing the old lady was a slow hobbler, because the boy took a long time to stare at the exquisite structure of the palace. He had known that there were buildings more complicated than thatched cottages, buildings meant to be homes, but his imagination had been a faded picture in comparison to the real thing. Distractedly he wondered, as he gazed at the turrets and towers and lush gardens, what his mother would say. No doubt something about securing such a place.
In the next moment he realized he had been standing stunned for a little too long, for though the old lady moved slowly and jerkily she had ambled quite far into the grounds already. The palace sentries regarded her with some interest, until they caught sight of the boy scrambling to catch up to her. They rolled their eyes at his scruffy appearance. He forgave them, understanding that nearly a week in the forest made him look like a very unlikely winner. Still, he would show them - he was going to win the hand of Princess Roseabelle, and his mother would be glad he had found his good heart.
"Have you got your fruit, boy?" the old lady asked him suddenly, with a strange sort of withdrawal. She was hobbling along at a steady pace, and he was walking beside her, but she seemed unable to look at him.
"Yes," the boy answered, feeling strange himself. He had thought he would be nervous when he walked through the palace's main entrance, perhaps even entertaining thoughts of turning back. Instead, he was walking rather calmly with the old lady, reaching the great hall with little trouble internally or externally.
There was an immense crowd at the hall, spread out in organized chaos. A waterfall of colored banners fell from the ceiling to the floor, giving the masses of people a vivid background. The people were divided into two large groups, standing a little away from each other. With little difficulty he could distinguish between those who had come to witness the event and those who had come to participate. Turning to the old lady, he meant to tell her that he would see her later. A word had not escaped his mouth when he found she was already moving towards the bystanders.
An odd feeling took over him at that moment, right between his turning to her and her turning away. For, in that small space of time, he had caught sight of her eyes. It occurred to him that in all the time they had spent together, he had never once seen her eyes express anything except irritation or blankness. In that fraction of time he was struck by the different things he saw: weariness, recognition, and regret.
It puzzled him. It puzzled him, as he stood amongst the candidates, so much so that he did not hear the other young men's voices as they asked him questions or told him things. Then the music changed, and he finally shifted his attention to the head of the hall. Looking up at the thrones, he was startled when his eyes met the Princess Roseabelle's.
He had not realized he was standing so near, but it was plain that this was indeed the princess. No other girl would have that radiant flaxen hair, or those deep star-like eyes. The boy found himself numb at her beauty, and he gave her a tentative smile. The perfect red mouth curved gracefully upward for him. He was left in a daze.
It was time now, he thought with a haze in his mind, for the suitors to present their gifts. The one whose gift wins her heart's favor shall be named her husband. Something of that sort, was it not?
Then, he let himself think on as he reached into his vest to bring out the fruit that would win the princess' hand, the king only has his opening remarks to say before we get on with it.
The King's trumpeters blasted sound into the halls as if on cue, earning ringing cheers from the good folk who had come that day. They quieted when the King's crier stepped forward.
"Hear, all!" he shouted into the hall. He waited until fresh cheers subsided. "Hear! The Princess Roseabelle has made her decision!"
The boy paused, stunned. He let the fruit stay forgotten in his vest as he turned to soundlessly gape in disbelief at the young men standing around him. One of them shook his head and said sadly, "What did I say?"
More excited and joyous shouts had erupted throughout the hall. Encouraged, the crier went on, "When the proclamation of our most beloved princess' search was first sent throughout the kingdom, their Royal Majesties had little hope for a man who could earn Her Highness' heart. Today all hope has been restored and promise fulfilled, for amongst the hundreds who came to present what they assumed our princess most desired, one young man has found what she yearned for!"
The applause took longer to stop this time, but amidst it the boy heard the regal and polished King himself laugh jovially and say, "Well, we knew her heart wanted something - we didn't know it was to return to her person!" The Queen, a stately and elegant long-chinned creature, merely nodded with expected agreement.
Slowly, the boy's brain picked itself up from the floor and worked its way backwards in memory. It occurred to him now that he must have miscalculated. The date set for the gathering of the suitors had been the day before, not this day. This day was the day of the announcement concerning the decision. Numbers had never been a particularly strong suit with him, so it was actually not surprising that he had miscounted the days. He had, however, been careful to count and recount, so that he could at least be called punctual; it was just that his fortune had not been great, and it must have been his constant recalculation that led him to confuse himself. Therefore: the boy was too late, he could not present his gift, and he was not to marry the princess after all.
"...Princess Roseabelle's future husband and our champion, Prince Thorin!"
The boy was flabbergasted as someone in his crowd stepped forward. He could not see his face, nor hear him speak, for the people that filled the hall had let out roaring shouts of approval. Broad-shouldered, richly dressed Thorin made his way up the marble steps and put his hand to Princess Roseabelle's. It was with a quiet, final sort of acceptance that the boy watched as their hands clasped. Thorin had made his claim, and the boy did not win the beautiful heart.
It was sometime later when, though he did not notice much about time and its moody leaps, he realized the old woman was standing beside him. By then the hall had become less congested. The King's men had only just begun to request that people leave. Many had already gone, but some lingered in hopes of even a shadow of a feast appearring in celebration. Princess Roseabelle and her new fiance were gone, presumably to pursue their romance and make more out of it.
Somehow, after the old lady stood with him for more than a minute without saying anything, the boy felt a sharp splash of bitterness. "You can say it, grandma," he said, uncharacteristically grim.
The old creature coughed as he had never heard her before. "Boy... you are many things, but hardly ever the things you think yourself to be." Her tone was also curiously uncharacteristic of her, low and even gentle, but the words stung nonetheless.
"That's not fair, grandma," he cried out, raising his voice for the first time. He was struck by his own echo, and was irrationally sorry, but a strange surge of emotion had taken a hold of him for that moment. "Grandma... my head must really be as empty as you say. What do I tell my mother?"
"The truth," the old crone said wearily. "Mothers always speak the truth; children should repay them by doing the same."
"She will be ashamed."
"No. Foolishly disappointed. Not ashamed."
"I broke my promise, I did," the boy went on mournfully. He was bending down now, and running his hands through his hair without looking at his companion. "I promised to find someone with a good heart..."
"Miserable straw-brains!" The old lady suddenly exclaimed furiously. "I told you. Your Princess High Nose has a beautiful heart. That's far more complicated than having a good one." The boy looked up, blinking his eyes rapidly as if the old woman had gone (even more) mad. She barreled on impatiently, as if her previous quiet had built up a store and now the dam was burst. "I knew the pair of sparkly wings that thought giving her a tragically beautiful heart was a good idea. Foolish ideas are born around the same time as fairy godchildren princesses are; that time was no exception. What did her High Nose's heart do? It ran away to go gallivanting around the kingdom, rousing even the animals along the way, giving the deities of order more work to do, and so on." He was staring at her now, baffled. "The beauty of being well-traveled, I would say. Your Turtledove friends, boy! I can attest to the female one having met her High Nose's heart. That is probably a mild example of the consequence of poorly planned christening gifts. Fortunately in the case of this one we could solve it like we solved nearly all of our goddaughters' problems." The old crone paused for breath. "Also, princesses are not the only ones gifted with good hearts."
"Er, grandma..." The boy regretted allowing himself to whine about his misfortune now. Clearly it had driven the old woman to insanity. "I can then find someone else, really. I-I am happy for Princess Roseabelle - and Prince Thorin, too, sincerely-"
"And Thorin!" the old lady scoffed, so jaggedly that the boy was perplexed. "Oh, that Thorin. You will detest me, boy, for what I am about to tell you. You will."
The boy wisely said nothing now.
"You have to understand, boy, that each story unfolds differently, no matter how repetitive they can get when many parts remain the same. Still, I assumed that at my age I would do my job with greater ease and skill. Even when I was young and had no experience my errors were simple and petty. I was perceptive and resourceful, and I like to think I am even now. So when I saw Thorin, boy, this great big princeling, little more than a big baby with a big heart, I chose him. He was the type. He had some kindness. He hid his fears well. He was well adapted. That is what I saw. That was all, I now realize, that I have been looking for in all those I have been looking for." She shook her head with a disgust the boy could not understand. "I presented him with just the knowledge he needed, and parted ways with him feeling as though I had finished my commission." She faced him stonily. "I found you too late, boy. You are Princess Roseabelle's greatest loss. In every aspect you outshine Thorin. But I had to choose, and I was hasty. Do you understand, boy?"
The boy sighed.
He was quiet for a minute or two. His earlier feelings of upset had briefly mutated into anger, but that dissolved quickly. It was not in his nature to rage like a storm, even when there was something to rage about. He could not be happy, to be sure, but if anything he had always been honest.
In the end, he could honestly say that he couldn't begrudge the old crone. With a half smile that must have weighed guilt on her like a blow he said, "Well, grandma, I should start looking for that good heart elsewhere." He turned to go. The old crone did not stop him.
Unfeelingly, he trudged out of the palace. There were many things he could have felt. It was difficult to chose just one, and he did not want to feel them all. His feet seemed to ache for the first time ever, and his legs were tired. The rest of his body, too, was worn; he needed a place to rest. Still he walked. Out of the palace, out of the gates, out of the town.
And at a fork in the path was the old crone. She spoke before he could even wonder how she had gotten there.
"Boy, do you know where you're going?"
He exhaled. "Grandma..."
"The right path, or the left?"
The boy looked at her as he had many times since meeting her, but for the first time since entering the palace. He shrugged his shoulders and waited patiently.
"The left," said she, "will take you back to the enchanted forest. You will meet your Turtledove friends, you will save kingdoms and you will overcome evils. By the virtue of nothing more than your heart, you are more than likely to find what you are looking for."
"It seems pretty farfetched, grandma," the boy said. Her face threatened to glare, so he added quickly, "for someone like me."
"You certainly lack no space between the ears, boy, if you think that. You can cross an enchanted forest, talk to animals, and eat fruit soaked in magic without repercussion. I assure you, the potential is there."
"Potential?"
"The right path," the old lady went on to say, and there was a curious lilt in her speech as though she was consciously trying not to speak with a barb, "will take you a little off the side of the forest, just out of this town, and to a small cottage."
"A cottage?"
The old lady inched towards the right side of the fork. "'Tis where I happen to be going."
The boy thought about it. "Why?"
The old woman shrugged her old shoulders, and for the first time since he had known her, looked heavenward. "Even a grandmother who has not retired will see her granddaughter every now and then."
There was a pause. Then slowly, the faint beginnings of a smile trickled into the boy's face. "My mother always told me not to intrude, grandma."
"Mothers," the old lady said grandly, "speak bendable truths." Then, without waiting any longer, she ambled down the right path. The boy watched her as she went, and then glanced at the possibilities of the left. And then he heard the old lady say, in an oddly fond tone, "She makes a delicious fruit salad."
The boy decided that he was hungry.
the end