by Andre Norton
It was so quiet. Instinctively, Feliciana went at a slower pace, even though the way was open. To the left, extending from the edge of a crumbling wall of stone, stretched the wood. At one time its growth of trees had been more close set, but now a tall upright stone could be seen, the first sentinel of an ancient shrine. To follow those stones would lead a seeker to where the Green Hag sheltered.
Feliciana passed the first of the towering markers. The silence continued; no cry came from owl or other night-hunter, no rustle of wind brushed leaves. She began to hurry a little, wariness rising in her. Would it be wiser to retreat?
Abruptly the girl stepped into a second open space, a smaller one. Here the moonlight fairly blazed, a fire not of red-gold but of silver. The shrine was open, and One stood in the doorway.
A woman, her white body striped with living vines. Beneath that scanty covering lay nothing but skin, shaped in lush curves that any woman would envy. About her shoulders hung thicker twists of the growing stuff—but none hid her face. That showed a pig’s snout, a gaping mouth from which green slime dribbled, eyes that lacked either lashes or brows save for a dried lichenlike crusting. The body of a goddess; the face of a demon.
Feliciana did not hesitate but continued forward; she had the feeling that she was being tested in some fashion. At last she paused at a little distance from the One who stood as still as a statue.
Fear had stolen the girl’s speech but not her wits. The being before her might be of no mortal kind, but one could never go wrong in offering courtesy. This she did, gathering cloak and skirts into both hands and dipping graciously as she would have to any of her parents’ friends.
Those eyes, which had been dull and unfocused a moment earlier, now centered on the young woman. A purplish tongue flicked out over protruding lips.
“You come as a seeker?” In yet another mad contradiction, the voice that spoke from that monstrous face had the musical lilt of a bard’s.
Feliciana summoned her courage, which was already threatening to desert her.
“I—I do, Lady.”
The Hag made no immediate reply. After a moment, the girl pushed back the head-folds of her cloak.
“So,” came the response then. “You human females are all too easy to read. A fair face, a well-shaped body—those gifts, you believe, will make all your dreams real. You have no doubts of that, ever—”
The Wild Witch paused. Though the nightmare visage showed no change of expression, the singing tone now held a sting of disdain.
“No!” the girl said hurriedly. “I do not want beauty, I wish to be ugly—”
“Now that I have never heard!” The Hag laughed, and the sound was no cackle but a noise of honest amusement. “You must be hard-pressed indeed to crave such an ill boon. Why do you wish to change yourself?”
“I—” The seeker hesitated, then hastened on before she could think further of the bargain she sought to strike. “My father has signed my betrothal contract, I do not care to wed. I would be free.”
“Is your swain, then, so foul of person or habits?”
The girl shook her head. “His world is not mine. If I am forced to enter it, I shall fail, over and over again, at all I should be expected to do.”
Now Feliciana brought her hand into the moonlight. The pearls of her christening necklet shimmered, not with the hard glitter of diamonds, but with a muted beauty that rivaled the moon’s own.
“I have only these,” she said, feeling compelled to explain the modesty of her offering. “My father is but Mercer Guildsman.”
“Be this your dowry?”
“Nay.” Now Feliciana could speak without shame. “That is to be the Manor of Panfrey.”
“Your mercer father is most generous. One might guess that the groom is of fairly high estate?”
Why did the Green Woman keep her talking? Feliciana wondered. She seemed to be probing for a certain piece of information.
“He is the nephew of the Boroughmaster,” the young woman answered, “and his grandfather is a baron.”
“Ah—the Rogue is to be wed willy-nilly, is he?” Again that silvery laughter rippled forth, but it changed swiftly to the sober tolling of a warning bell. “You are indeed stupid, girl. There is often far more to life than what humans call ‘love.’ Consider: you will be mistress at Panfrey! And think also on this: my gifts, once given, can never be undone. Would you truly be an ugling all your days?”
Feliciana swallowed but stood firm. What did one’s outer person matter? Veils could shield the unlovely. As for the great manor, she had no rights in her dowry; and the Rogue, who knew well the beauties of the court, might wed her, but he would surely cast her aside as soon as he could.
Bitter though it was, the girl forced herself to pursue the thought to its end. Better that rejection should come now than after they were bonded for life, for there would be none to whom she could even appeal. However, should she be cursed—and the families might well name her fate such—then they would wish to be rid of her, and waiting was that retreat of which Dame Kateryn had spoken. No, she would not be bound to a round of duties she would shrink from more each day. Between the two fates, she would choose this.
“Such is my desire, Lady.” Feliciana was proud that she could speak so steadily.
That monstrous head shook, setting the green vines a-rustle. Again came a liquid trill of laughter. “A little threat will be good for the Rogue,” the Wild One murmured, as though speaking to herself. “He is entirely too certain that life owes him his every good thing. I am minded to send a message—”
The girl was surprised at this speech. Did the Hag know the Boroughmaster’s nephew—and, if so, how?
The Green Woman was speaking once more to the supplicant before her, and her tone was grave again. “Remember, human youngling, you cannot come crying for my aid a second time. But if you are heart-set on this course, give me that trinket of yours, and hold up your head—then we shall see what we shall see.”
Feliciana stepped closer and dropped the pearls into the waiting hand. The Rogue’s betrothed was sure that Witch would not take kindly to any wavering of resolve now. She hoped that the transformation was not to be a painful one—a possibility she had not considered—but no. No hurt of body could equal the searing of soul she had undergone so often. With that thought, her resolution was set.
The Hag twined the necklet about her wrist, then beckoned her seeker even closer. Now she lifted both hands to frame the girl’s face. Feliciana felt a soft touch that started at her forehead and slipped slowly down to her throat. Three times then did the Wild One serve her.
To her great relief, the young woman felt no wrenching of bone or skin, as she had half expected. When the Green Woman withdrew a little, eyeing her critically, she dared to raise her own hands to touch cheek and chin, but she could feel no change.
“I am no different!” she burst out.
“Nay!” retorted the Hag sharply. “Sight and touch are not the same. Never in your own eyes will there be any change you may behold—only by others may your transforming be seen. Mind you—” She paused, holding Feliciana’s face in her gaze for a long moment—and doing more, the girl knew, than viewing her own handiwork. “You must live with what has been given. It is for you from henceforth to make the most of the boon you asked.”
The moonlight seemed to flow about the Green Witch like a mist, veiling her completely. A moment Feliciana stood transfixed; then she came to herself, sighed, and sought the path of the pillars that would bring her out into the world again.
The bargainer with the Wild Magic found it as easy to return to her bed as it had been to leave the chamber. However, she did not seek sleep under the thick quilt; rather she sat upright, still patting and stroking her face. All she could think of was how she would appear to her parents and the rest of the household at the coming of day.
Before dawn, though, the girl slipped into restless slumber, threaded by dreams that brought great distress. In them, she wande
red endlessly through rooms thronged by women of great beauty and well-favored men. On sighting her, they drew back in revulsion, pointing fingers and mouthing cries. She could not make out the words, but it was plain that she was held in horror, a figure to be shunned.
“Feliciana!” That voice she could hear, and it brought her out of the last of those contemptuous crowds: her mother was standing outside the curtains of the bed. As in the hour she struck her bargain with the Hag, the girl steeled her resolve. She had done what she had done, and there could be no more delay; the “gift” must now be shown.
The young woman lifted the bed-drape and waited for the storm to break. Ingrada Soren wore an expression of astonishment, yes, but the look was overlaid not with disgust but with—delight?
“What—what—” The woman put out a hand as if to touch her daughter’s cheek.
Feliciana called upon all her courage. “I went to the Green Hag that I might be a pride to you. But I angered her, and she cursed me with this—” The girl gestured hopelessly at her face.
“This!” The joy in Mistress Soren’s own face was now beyond denying. She snatched up the small mirror that hung from the chatelaine at her belt. With a rough pull, she freed the polished disk and held it out.
“What do you mean you are ‘cursed,’ girl?” she demanded.
Completely mystified, Feliciana took the mirror and gazed at herself. What she saw was the image that had always greeted her; but her familiar appearance was what the Wild Witch had told her she would see, while all others would perceive her as loathsome.
The Hag had played with her, then; as had the folk of human society, the Green Woman had made her a laughingstock. But in what way? Taking a steadying breath, she said, ‘To me, Mother, I seem to be as I ever have. What do you see?”
By now she was shivering. Had the previous night been a dream? Yet it was apparent that some change had been wrought.
“Has the transforming turned your wits, you foolish child? Cursed? You should ever praise the Green Lady for such a bane! What do I see!” Ingrada paused, breathless from both speech and excitement.
“I see such fairness as is seldom granted a maid: a face of ivory with the faintest touch of color on the cheeks, brows soft and winged, eyes blue as summer pools. I see a lush fall of black curls, lips that are luminous—”
Feliciana could stand no more of this catalog of her charms. Her “luminous lips” shaped an anguished cry. Indeed she was accursed, undone—and she alone would ever know! Too well she remembered the warning of the Hag before this sorry trick had been played.
Her mother’s smile opened into laughter. “La, Feliciana, but they will gasp and roll their eyes when you appear! Master Roger should be grateful all his days that his uncle was so thoughtful for his future. Now get you dressed in haste—your father is fortunately late in leaving for the Guildhall. He will be as thankful for this miracle as am I!”
When Mistress Soren had whisked away to share the wondrous news, Feliciana gave her feelings free rein. Weeping, she stumbled to her dressing table, and in its mirror she beheld again the plain, lank-locked self she had always known—and would always know. Taking up her silver-backed hairbrush, she slammed its heavy head against the surface until the old glass splintered. The world was mad, and she could not put it right again.
She sank down onto the bench before the cracked mirror and began the painful business of preparing her hair. At first she could not understand what was wrong. Finally she pulled a long side section around to the front where she could see why it felt so odd. It was a curl, right enough, but it did yield now to her painful tweaking. Again she remembered the Green Woman’s foretelling that she would never behold any of the changes in herself.
Huddling miserably, she wiped the tears from her “color-tinged cheeks.” One of the sayings she used to be set to copy when she practiced writing as a child seemed to imprint itself on the air before her: “Beware what you wish for, lest it be given you.”
And so it had, in its way. She had wanted a change—and the Wild Witch had found amusing the act of altering her life thus. Feliciana sat up straight.
“No one,” she vowed in a grim whisper, “will find me a thing to scorn or pity again. I shall learn to play their silly games, but I shall always know who and what I am.”
It was said in later years that the Baroness Gargene, for all her great and long-lasting beauty, was strong of character and keen of wit beyond most noblewomen. She drew her lord away from court follies and made a man of him; and never did any plain maids sit unhappily in her hall while their more comely sisters enjoyed themselves but she would welcome them into any merrymaking. In spite of much urging, she never permitted her portrait to be limned; and that this was no show of false modesty was proved by a most curious act. Beneath an empty picture frame, holding a blank canvas, she caused this motto to be set:
“Maledicta sum”— “I am accursed.”
The Cobwebbed Princess
Magic Tails (2005) DAW
It was going to be a good day—a couple or sniffs of such breeze as managed to find its way through the narrow windows of the princess’ chamber told me that. I jumped to the floor, rattling through the drift of parchment-dry leaves that had blown in last fall, and paid my respects properly to the Lady Bast with forelegs extended to the limit and head bowed.
The large chamber was dim; three of the windows bore a double curtaining of rich brocade within and tapestry-tight overgrowth of vines without, while the fourth had been sealed with a branch that had been driven into it by a winter storm. However, I had no difficulty in making my morning inspection.
Maid Mafray still snuggled atop the pile of linens she had been carrying when the magic had struck so long ago. Under a veiling of dust and more leaves she had grown no older, of course; that was part of the spell. Diona, Lady of the Wardrobe, had not moved either. Her head still rested on the folds of the gown she had been about to present for the princess’ approval at the moment the curse had cast its word-web over the castle.
I padded back to the huge curtained bed and leaped up onto it. My charge lay there as comfortably as I had been able to dispose her, the covers made as smooth as I could arrange them, with patting paws and cloth-tugging teeth, under her chin. Her silver-fair hair fanned out to form a net, living but motionless, over the satin-covered pillow. Yet, even as I watched, her eyelids flickered.
Tensing, I crept closer with the same care I took to hunt one of the skittish wildfowl that landed in the courtyard below. A line appeared between my lady’s arched brows, and I began to purr; turning on the soothing rumble I hoped would banish what could only be an evil dream. Now her head turned and, with the movement, swung one of the strands of hair across the chain of the amulet she had ever worn about her neck and snagged the lock so that it was pulled painfully.
Crowding against the girl, I touched her lips with the very tip of my tongue. I knew of both the bitter spell that had reduced her to this state and the sweet kiss that would revive her from it, and I had long ago begun to wonder whether perhaps it were up to me and not some dream-born stranger to perform that act. I had tried it twice before when her night was troubled but had met with no success; never had the sleeping shape shown that it was more than an effigy of the Princess Charlita of Fallona—
—until now. Was the third time, indeed, the charm?
The princess’ lids fluttered, then opened, and her eyes stared into mine, recognition at once evident in their violet-blue depths. I retreated as she sat up. Dust puffed forth from both the pillows and the heavily embroidered coverlet as she pushed them away; she sneezed vigorously and shook her head, and with the gesture caught sight of Mafray. My lady frowned and, lifting a hand, brushed it across her eyes before glancing at her maid-in-waiting again. Charlita might have just returned from the ensorcelment of decades a-dream, but her wits were perfectly clear.
“The curse—” Her voice, loud in the silence, broke off suddenly. She was shivering. I crept forward a
nd stretched my neck so I could lick at her arm, but I did not gain her attention by that small gesture of comfort. Instead, she rolled halfway over, then sat on the edge of the bed, which was raised on a dais two steps above the floor. More dust rose, and she coughed and waved her hands before her to fan it away.
“Mafray?” The princess slid down from the bed. She nearly fell as her long-unused feet skidded on the platform, but at last she stood on the stone flags. A few more steps, each increasingly sure, brought her to the side of the sleeping girl; Charlita’s death-in-life might have ended, but her serving maid’s had not.
Jumping from the bed, I padded over to her. To be sure, I have certain talents, and they have been well proven; however, I could not communicate directly with my charge, and this restriction would, I feared, cause difficulties. The girl looked at me and frowned, and I strove to reach her, mind to mind. If she possessed any Gift, it was limited; yet it was not wholly absent, for she sensed the intensity of my focus and stooped swiftly to gather me up into her arms. She knew how to properly lift a cat, placing one hand under my front legs and supporting my hindquarters with the other.
“You were there when—” Charlita hesitated, then began again. “Urgal wielded the rod—the Silver Rod—”
I stiffened and must have put out my claws in my surprise, for my charge gave a little cry, and I hastened to sheathe them again. What had she just said—how could she know? The Sleep should have held her too deeply to dream of—that!
The princess shifted her hold on me so that our eyes met, and she said firmly, as though by forceful utterance she could make her telling a truth, “You are Cobweb, my birthday-fairing from Granddam Foreby—but you are more than any mere cat.” She gathered me closer so that my head was again near to her chin, and once more I gave her a quick touch- of-tongue.
