The Thorn Boy

by Storm Constantine

  But Variel barely heard Jadrin’s words. She rushed to Jadalan’s side and knelt beside his chair. ‘Hear me,’ she said, ‘I have come to you as I promised I would. Awake and look upon me.’

  Jadalan did not stir, but uttered a soft sound as if his dreams were pleasant.

  Variel knew then that some creature must have touched Jadalan in love before she’d come to him, and that all memory of her had faded from his mind. Part of him was lost, perhaps, in the land of angels.

  Variel took hold of his hands and no one stopped her. Jadalan’s parents and his prospective bride looked on in curiosity and perhaps some hope that this stranger could awaken the prince. Variel began to sing, ‘For you I raised the city dead, for you I drained the lake, for you I took the pearl of life with both our lives at stake. For love of thee, beloved one, I fell for love of thee. And to this world I came a girl, your one true love to be.’

  When Jadrin heard this song, he asked Variel what she meant, for their son had not spoken of any of these things to his parents.

  Variel looked at him and said, ‘Three times I completed the tasks that Jadalan had been given by my father, Lailahel. He is my one true love, but now he will not awaken or speak to me. I have travelled here in vain.’

  ‘Jadalan!’ Ashalan exclaimed. ‘How is this possible? Our son was hardly more than a baby when he was taken from us. We dared not hope this person might be him.’

  ‘This is your son, Jadalan, have no doubt,’ Variel said. ‘Time passes differently in the land of angels. And I was an angel’s son, banished from my father’s realm for daring to love a human.’

  At once, Jadrin jumped out of his chair and went to his son’s side. He put his arms around Jadalan and kissed his face and told him to awaken.

  The sound of his name drifted through the fog in Jadalan’s mind and he opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Variel’s face and she leaned forward quickly and kissed him upon the mouth. At her touch, Jadalan’s memory returned completely, and he stood up, drawing Variel to her feet also. It quickly became clear that the exotic foreign princess would not become his bride.

  Jadalan and Variel were married very soon after, and lived long and interesting lives. Jadrin never again resorted to conjuring magical beings to grant his desires, and used his own magic to stay young for many years after Ashalan had gone to his grave an old man.Of the angel Lailahel, nothing was heard again.

  The True Destiny of the Heir to Emiraldra

  This story is a reinterpretation of the old Scottish fairy tale, ‘Tattercoats’. In this retelling, I have been somewhat kinder to the stubborn old grandfather than in the original story, where he is ultimately condemned to a life of isolated misery.

  The unadulterated versions of the old tales are often quite grim, and the majority of them have been cleaned up and sanitised to make them suitable for children. But the original versions provide a rich vein of inspiration for writers of fantasy, and there are now dozens of collections of retold fairy tales aimed at adults.

  The goosegirl or gooseherd is a character that appears regularly in the old tales, and quite often they have magical abilities. The goosegirl in this story is a witch who plays a magical flute.There are echoes of ‘Cinderella’ in the riches to rags to riches aspect of the tale and the harsh treatment meted out to the main character before they end up with the prince. Oops, is that a plot spoiler? Well, this is a fairy story, so it’s hardly a secret how it’s going to turn out.

  There was once a grand lord who had built his castle on a high cliff overlooking the sea. The castle was named Emiraldra and was a happy prosperous place. The vines grown in the vineyards produced the finest wine in the land of Cos. The sheep in the fields of Emiraldra produced the finest, softest wool, and all the corn was the plumpest, most golden ever beheld. Lord Thaldocred was a fair and generous employer. He had a wife and daughter whom he loved more than anything. However, one dark, windy day the wife of Lord Thaldocred succumbed to a fierce fever and within days she had wasted away and was dead. The Lord was beside himself with grief and only the comforting attentions of his beautiful daughter Shilalee, sustained his will to live. ‘Think now, father,’ she said sweetly. ‘Though my mother is gone from us, her life was one of fullness and happiness. Now she has gone to a higher place, where one day, we shall all be together again. Let us remember her with pleasure and not sadness.’

  Thaldocred held his daughter close. ‘You are all that I have now,’ he said.

  In the Spring, when the first buds were appearing upon the trees, a travelling carnival came to the lawns of fair Emiraldra. People with bright clothes, white flashing teeth and dark mysterious eyes came to knock on the castle doors. Thaldocred would have preferred to send them on their way (with perhaps a small gift, for he was not a mean man), but Shilalee begged him to let the wanderers set up their carousels and gaily-coloured stalls upon the green. People could come from all the nearby villages, she argued gently, and it would be a happy time for all; an assurance that the gaunt winter of death and unhappiness had passed. Thaldocred, as putty in his daughter’s hands, relented. Shilalee herself, dressed in green with her long dark hair plaited with spring flowers, went to supervise the arrangement of the carnival. It was then she caught sight of the gypsy boy, Brackeny. Like her, he had long dark hair and a ready smile. Like her, he was lithe and slim, but where her eyes were dark brown, his were moss green and half hidden between thick black lashes.

  Shilalee first saw him sitting upon the steps of a caravan, playing upon a reed pipe. It was as if he played to her alone. At first intrigued and attracted, by the time evening came again to the land, her interest had thickened to love. She desired Brackeny more than anything she had ever wanted before. Here was the prince she had so often dreamed of in her cold virgin bed. Such beauty could never been seen in the land around Emiraldra. They spoke together, drawn by their similarities. He told her: ‘I will bring you unhappiness. I cannot stay here.’

  But she replied firmly that only a few days spent in his company would be worth the heartbreak of separation. Because she was indeed lovely and bright, and a pleasure to be with, Brackeny became her lover; the first she had known. Shilalee was careful not to let her father discover what was going on, for she knew that had he known, his anger would be dangerous for Brackeny. She was Thaldocred’s little girl; only he would be given the privilege to decide when, and by which man, she would be taken as a wife.

  When the time came for the travellers to move on, and she had bidden a sorrowful farewell to the beautiful gypsy boy, Shilalee was obliged to keep her grief to herself. And that was not all.

  In the cold, dark months of deepest Winter, just as the time when Thaldocred was reminded most of death, Shilalee fell to the ground, crying out in pain. For a long time, she had been trying to conceal the fact that she was with child; now her time was upon her. Delirious with fear and anger, incredulity and impotent lust for revenge, Thaldocred watched helplessly as the single remaining object of his affection writhed and screamed in agony. It was in a dark, heavily curtained room, that was too hot from the effects of a blazing fire, and too stuffy from the smell of human blood, the heaviness of human pain. Here, as minutes passed into hours, Shilalee fought to deliver her child. Women bustled, candles guttered and spat, outside the wind howled. By morning, a pale watery sunlit morning, Shilalee lay pale, lifeless and staring upon the bed. Close by, mewing in a rough cot, her infant son gave voice to life.

  From the moment of his birth, the child became the focus of Thaldocred’s hatred. If it was not for this pink mindless scrap, the father reasoned, then his beloved Shilalee would still live. How could she have kept such a thing from him? In rage and pain, he paced the chamber, occasionally throwing bleak glances towards the child. Then, in cold, colourless fury, he ordered that the boy be sent down to the servants’ quarters. ‘Doubtless there is some barren wench who may want it,’ he said.

  Shilalee’s old nurse, aghast at such callous sentiments, gathered the child in he
r arms. She looked round the dark grand bedroom and shook her head. The child was quiet against her breast. Sighing, she took him to her own quarters in the east wing of the castle. Because she had loved Shilalee’s mother and Shilalee herself, she devoted herself to caring for the child. Of all those who lived in Emiraldra, she alone had had some intimation of what had transpired the previous spring. Because of this, she named the baby Brackeny, for his father, and as he grew older, the child called her Mussy, which was not quite mother, and not quite nurse, but something in between.

  Brackeny’s childhood could have been sublime and happy, but there was a change in the air of Emiraldra. All the love had gone from the place. Thaldocred, unable to give proper vent to his grief, had become cruel and petty, seeking solitude, shunning his old friends. The servants, hapless victims of this changed, nit-picking personality, inevitably took it out on Brackeny. Like Thaldocred, they felt that he was to blame for everything, and consequently tried to make his life a misery. They also welcomed the opportunity to treat a member of the aristocracy as cruelly as they’d always dreamed of. They gave him nothing. His grandfather gave him nothing. All his clothes were cast-offs and hastily assembled rags, patiently gathered by his beloved Mussy. Because of this, the servants called him Tatters, and the name stuck. Mussy tried to shield him as best she could from their abuse, but one particularly spiteful, grudging individual, the steward of the castle, went carping to Thaldocred about how Mussy was keeping the child in seclusion in the east wing and how they desperately needed extra help in the kitchen. Hadn’t Thaldocred himself promised the child to the servants on the day of his birth? As if they mere mention of the boy’s existence gave him pain, Thaldocred waved his hand quickly and told the man to do as he wished with the child; he did not wish to hear of it. Mussy could not argue with that. Every filthy, most tiring job in the castle was given to Tatters. It was forgotten by nearly everyone that he was the gentle Shilalee’s son; her memory itself seemed forgotten. As Thaldocred had become bitter and cruel, it seemed all his household followed suit, but far from becoming a down-trodden weakling, the boy Tatters seemed to rise above it, or let unpleasantness waft over him like a swift-moving stream. Mussy knew that this was the heritage of his gypsy father, like his dark skin, his dark green eyes, his thick black hair. Nothing could mar the blossoming beauty of Tatters; not grime, not privation, nor even hostility and cruelty. He had a ready smile and every evening, when he returned to the draughty rooms he shared with Mussy in the east wing, he would essay to make her smile. ‘Times are hard, my lambkin,’ she would say, and the boy would reply,

  ‘It is just like Winter, Mussy.All Winters are hard. We must wait for the Spring.’ He possessed an eerie optimism about his estate.

  Mussy had told him at quiet an early age about his parents. She had also tried to explain about his grandfather, but it seemed beyond the child’s comprehension; he wasn’t interested in hearing about it. Shilalee had been entombed within a grand mausoleum in the castle grounds. Tatters liked to go there, whenever he could sneak away undetected, hoping that his mother could see him. Sometimes he was sure he could feel her there. Her likeness in cold marble was often warm to the touch and her stone face was sad. Tatters told her not to mind too much about things. He was too full of life to care deeply about what the people of Emiraldra thought of him. They called him bastard, changeling. Most of the time, he felt like a different creature altogether; not even human. The shrilling of the servant women, the kicking and pinching and cuffing of the men, could not touch him. Sometimes he could barely understand their language.

  And so the grandson of Thaldocred grew up. Only Mussy kept a reckoning of his birthdays, but by the time he was eighteen, many of the younger female servants began to change their attitude towards him. Their sharp teasing became laced with a different kind of tension. For, from being a beautiful child, Tatters had grown into a beautiful young adult, tall and clean-limbed, lithe as a forest cat, and swift as an eagle. Tatters was not interested in the eyes of the women. He sensed them as pungent, hot and heavy-breathing things, whose spirits were mouths and hunger and nothing else. He felt contaminated near them. But it was not just the women who were aroused by him. Once, one of the stable lads, who had been harbouring the desire for some time, jumped him in the dusk as he walked back to the east wing. Tatters was afraid for the first time. The only other living being who had touched him was Mussy and this was clearly different. He could not understand what was happening, only that he must get away. The man breathed filth and hunger into his ear, fighting to open his clothes. Tatters was disgusted. He held his breath. He fought back, blindly, wildly, and the man fell away, coughing. Tatters saw an erect phallus protruding from the man’s clothes. He did not understand and later, Mussy was loath to explain.She told him to be wary of people, which he took readily to heart.

  In the Spring, following Tatters’ eighteenth birthday, a young woman came to the back door of the castle, seeking employment. She was an odd, skinny creature, boyish and wild-looking, with wise eyes. Something about her infuriated the steward at once, but then he was man who bitterly resented any intimation of intelligence or beauty in others, whatever their age or gender. It had happened that the lad who had looked after the geese had died in the hard winter from a fever of the lungs. Somebody new was needed to take over his duties. The wages were insultingly low, the hours long and many other household chores were included in the employment. The steward grudgingly told the girl about this, pointing out that she hardly looked strong enough to take the job on. Smiling, the girl thanked him and said that appearances were deceptive, and she really was very strong indeed; she was happy to accept the job. Her name was Charlaise and she was a traveller.

  One day, Tatters was walking in the fields beyond Emiraldra. He was supposed to be gathering mushrooms for the evening meal, but had so far been unlucky in his search. As he walked, he became aware of a strange, lilting sound wavering distantly in the air around him. He followed it. Breasting a hill, he caught sight of a large flock of geese in the valley below. Sitting on a stone with lifted knees, a slim figure, dressed in green and brown, was playing on a wooden flute. Tatters walked down into the valley, drawn by the sound. He could not be sure whether the seated figure was male or female, for while the clothes seemed male, something about the body within them didn’t. He rarely listened to the servants’ chatter and hadn’t heard about the goose girl. As for Charlaise, she was usually long gone from he castle grounds by the time Tatters awoke in the morning, and she came indoors long after he had fallen, exhausted, into bed. She had been waiting to meet him, however.

  As he approached, she stopped playing and turned her face towards him.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ he said. ‘It was the sound of the earth, and such sounds are few in Emiraldra.’

  ‘I can play for you any time,’ she answered. ‘You must be Brackeny.’

  Tatters had almost forgotten his true name. He nodded, a little confused. ‘It’s been a long time since I was last called that.’

  Charlaise smiled, raised the flute to her lips, and played a few haunting notes. The geese were all looking at Tatters as if resenting his intrusion. They bustled around the stone where Charlaise sat.

  ‘Your wait will not be in vain,’ she said, gazing into the distance.

  Tatters thought she must mean the mushrooms. He spoke about not being able to find any.

  Charlaise laughed aloud. ‘Dance for me,’ she said, and played a merry air.

  Tatters’ limbs could not disobey the summons of the music. He danced and the geese danced with him. White feathers floated up around him into the air.

  Time passed like a dream, and hundred thousand images seemed to flash through Tatters’ mind. He saw places he had never seen.

  By the time Charlaise took the flute from her lips once more, the sun was high in the sky. Tatters sank to the ground, exhausted. ‘I shall be late now,’ he said.

  ‘Then you’d better be going,’ Charlaise answered nonchalan
tly.

  ‘But the mushrooms...’ Tatters looked around himself, helpless.

  ‘Look properly, then you shall see,’ said Charlaise.

  Tatters left her and scrambled up the hill. In the next field, he came upon a carpet of white mushrooms, which he was sure hadn’t been there before. As he picked them, he heard the sound of Charlaise’s flute, drifting idly as if from far away. It was in this manner that she educated him about life.

  Tatters came home from the fields to great excitement. Everyone was chattering, standing idle at their tasks. As usual, nobody would answer his questions when he asked what had happened, so he went in search of Mussy. He found her plucking herbs in the garden.

  How old she looks now, he thought, and was pierced by a cold dart that was presentiment of the time when she would no longer be on this earth. Who would care for him then? He ran to her side. ‘What’s happening, Mussy?’

  ‘Ah,’ she answered, straightening up, a hand to the small of her back. ‘Today a messenger came from the house of Duke Orvember. Oh, such finery he wore! It brought back memories of happier times.’ Mussy’s face took on a dreamy expression. ‘Why, I remember when your grandfather...’

  ‘What was the message?’ Tatters interrupted quickly, to bring her back to earth.

  She looked at him askance. ‘There is to be a great celebration. Duke Orvember thinks it is well past the time for his eldest son to marry, so he has organised a Great Event, to which all the nobility are obliged to take their daughters. Orvember will himself choose a bride for his son. Such was always the way at one time, of course. Everyone of importance will be there. It will be a splendid occasion.’ She sniffed. ‘Your grandfather has been invited.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tatters. ‘Do you think he’ll go?’

  ‘Who can tell?’ the woman sighed. ‘Come on, boy, give me your arm back home. My back is as stiff as a quill.’