Cinderella - A Retelling with Strength and Courage

by Sundeep Keramalu

  Chapter Two

  Ella curled up on her thin mat in the kitchen’s darkest corner, tension roiling her. Her two stepsisters had not dared to say a word about the raspberry-stain color of the tablecloth, but Ella had seen the sharp fury in their eyes. She knew that she would be made to pay for dodging their prank.

  Whatever they had planned, she would endure it. For she had promised her mother. She would care for the house – and for her father.

  At last it was time. The house settled into its deep sleep. Even snores came from the large, opulent bedrooms above her. The third stair down, the one she carefully tended so it would squeak at the slightest touch, lay silent.

  It was safe for her to go.

  She silently climbed to her feet and pulled on her boots. She wrapped her threadbare blanket around her shoulders. She now had, on her person, every item she owned from within these four walls.

  She took one last glance around and slipped out the kitchen door.

  Her feet knew the way by heart, even on a frigid, cloud-roiled night such as this. The narrow footpath into the dense woods. The fallen log crossing the tumbling stream. The thin trail along the cliff’s edge. And, at long last, the small clearing beneath the spreading oak tree.

  The small rock beneath which marked her mother’s grave.

  When she was younger she had been saddened that her mother had not been buried in the elegant church graveyard. The one nestled within the shadows of the large, white steeple on the town common, a full mile beneath their home. But time had made her aware of many things. Her father’s instant need to cleanse the home – her mother’s family home – of anything which reminded him of her. The delight he had taken in so many women courting him, demonstrating to him in so many ways why they should be the new mistress of the manor.

  Ella had never been quite sure what had won Monica’s case for her. After all, she had brought with her two young daughters of her own. And her father had so enjoyed entertaining offer after offer. But it had only been weeks after Monica’s arrival in town that her father had become besotted with her. Then the engagement, the marriage, and Monica had moved in. The two daughters had taken the finest bedrooms.

  It had seemed the blink of an eye before Ella’s bed had become the dusty corner in the kitchen.

  And through it all her father had said nothing … nothing …

  Ella moved through the snow to her mother’s grave and quietly dropped to one knee at its side. She gently laid a hand on the stone. Warmth entered her heart as she thought of her mother’s gentle voice. Of the enduring love her mother held for her. Her mother had done her very best to cherish each day. It had been her frail body which had not been able to hold out.

  Ella’s voice came out of her, soft and rough. “I miss you, Momma.”

  Ella could remember clearly the prayer the two would share every night. Ella’s mother would come into her room to tuck her in. Together they would bow their heads. Ella would promise her mother – and God – to do her best to be a good girl. To be honest and true. To honor her father and always protect him.

  Ella looked down. It was the last which had kept her at home, when every other instinct pleaded with her to run. The thought that her last words to her mother had been a vow to be there for Bruno. For while he had ignored her these past fifteen years – while he had allowed her to be cast aside and ignored – he was still her father. He was still her last and only blood relative on this Earth.

  She closed her eyes, striving for strength.

  She stood. A twig shimmered in the moonlight, lying fresh on the snow. On a whim she took up the stick and began sketching on the white, frosty surface. She drew the curve of the swans’ necks, just as they had been in her mother’s painting. The soft lift of the feathers. The elegant shape of the bills. Slowly her tensions eased. For a long moment she was lost in the creation. In the memories of all she and her mother had shared.

  There was a snuffling noise from the woods’ shadows.

  Ella smiled and turned. “Come on out, Pansy. It’s all right.”

  An elderly gray mare emerged from the shadows to draw up to her. Ella ran her hand down the horse’s mane, fondly combing out the tangles with her fingers. Pansy had once belonged to Old Mrs. Crabapple, a midwife. When Mrs. Crabapple had passed away, none in the village had been interested in tending to a horse long past her prime. So when Pansy had wandered off, none had cared to look for her.

  Luckily, Pansy had done quite fine for herself in the quiet meadow clearings of the forest. Even in this dense winter, she had her ways. Ella brought Pansy a dented or damaged apple from the cellar whenever she was able. In return Pansy kept her company on the long, quiet nights of these visits.

  Ella looked over to beneath the oak tree. Underneath the layers of snow lay her cache of treasures. Her bow and arrows; her deerskin coat. Her thick leather boots. Her family might treasure venison, but they did not understand the intricacies of hunting. They could not tell when the skins brought back were not quite whole.

  Ella was building a hope chest.

  For in a few days – on midwinter’s night – she would turn twenty-one. And then she would count her vow to her mother complete. Her father, after all, had a wife and daughters to watch after him. And Ella, as soon as the weather eased, would vanish into the forest. She would build a cabin, light a fire at her very own hearth, and be free.

  Wholly, finally, free.

  At last the sky tinged with a gentle glow and Ella sighed. She waved to Pansy. She swept her hand across the glistening snow, erasing her images. She pressed her lips to the stone in a fond farewell.

  Then she headed back the long, lonely path to her home.

  She had just finished frying the eggs when her father and stepmother stumbled wearily down the stairs. They plunked down in their chairs and Ella brought over their plates. Her parents began eating their meals as she carried over the mugs of warm ale.

  Her stepmother looked around. “Where are the two girls? Ella, go make sure they’re up.”

  Ella nodded. There was no help for it. She slowly ascended the stairs, ensuring to press down hard on that third creaking stair. She went first to Birgit’s room. She quietly knocked on the door. “Birgit? Time to wake up.”

  No response.

  She pressed the door in and peered around. “Birgit?”

  Birgit’s room was a celebration of order. Her bookshelf had each tome neatly aligned with its neighbors and all books were in alphabetical order by title. Her wardrobe doors were firmly shut, but Ella knew the dresses within were hung neatly and properly cleaned. She knew this because she was the one who had done each cleaning. Another dresser held undergarments and, on its polished top, locked boxes held elegant jewelry.

  The large, canopied bed held a motionless lump at its center.

  Ella walked over to the side of the bed. She leant over. “Birgit –”

  A hand snaked out, grabbing Ella by her hair. The hand yanked, and Ella held in the sharp cry of pain through long years of practice.

  Birgit’s voice was low and terse. “Don’t think you’ll get away with that little prank of yours, slave. When mother finds out you’ve been lying, you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

  Ella remained motionless. She could not react now, not when she was so close to her final escape.

  A shrill voice rose from below. “Ella! Get the girls and get down here! We need more bacon.”

  Birgit gave Ella’s hair one last pull before flinging off her blankets. Her elegant nightgown shimmered in the morning light. “Coming, mother!”

  Ella put her out of her mind; she moved on to the next door. She was just reaching up to knock when it flung open and Petra bowled her into the wall. Petra snapped, “Get out of my way!” She strode down the stairs and Ella could hear the warm greetings offered up by her mother and stepfather.

  Ella followed her down and headed back into the kitchen. She had just put the bacon onto a plate when there was a sharp rapping at the do
or. Her mother snapped, “Well, get the door, girl!”

  Ella wiped her hands on her apron and strode to open the door.

  An elegant messenger stood there in blue and gold, an embroidered bag hanging at his side. He drew out an envelope with a ruby-red seal and handed it to her. Then he turned and strode down the long lane which headed back to town.

  From behind her a chorus of voices sounded.

  “What is it?”

  “Bring it here!”

  “I wonder what it says!”

  Her stepmother’s hand was outstretched with the force of a command, and Ella placed the letter into that strong grip. Three pairs of eyes were firmly latched onto it.

  Her stepmother drew a fingernail along the edge and drew out the card within. It was on the finest linen paper with exquisite black calligraphy. Ella stepped back into the corner, her heart racing with interest.

  What could it be?

  Her stepmother looked up in triumph. “I knew it! There’s to be a ball in one week’s time, to celebrate Prince Alexander’s return! And the King makes plain that every eligible young woman in the kingdom is to attend.”

  She turned to her two girls. “This is it! All that we have worked for over the years! All that you have practiced and trained for!”

  Birgit’s face lit with smiles. “But we must have new dresses, of course! We can’t wear anything that has been seen in the village before.”

  Petra put a hand to her breast. “And new jewels as well! So that all eyes are drawn to us!”

  Her stepmother nodded in approval. “You are exactly right, girls. We will go to the seamstress this very afternoon. No expense will be spared.” Her grin grew wide. “For once we have the prince, the coffers of the kingdom will be ours. We will have wealth without limit.”

  Ella’s father raised his glass in toast to the other three women. “To being rich beyond our wildest imaginings!”

  The glasses met his, and their planning began in earnest.

  Ella drew even further back into her dark corner.

  The castle.

  The scene of her mother’s painting. The last, final months that Ella and her mother had spent joyfully together.

  There was, of course, never even the slightest suggestion that Ella would be invited to the ball. Ella had no doubt that, if she brought it up, her stepmother would tie her to a fence-post like a goat in order to force her to stay behind.

  The glimmer of an idea lit within her.

  She would go on her own.

  The invitation had clearly stated that all eligible young women would be allowed through the main castle gates. As long as she could make it there, she could slip off to the gardens and her family would be none the wiser. She could finally fulfill her one dearest wish.

  To see the palace gardens one more time.

  Hope warmed her from within. Most of her childhood memories had faded over the years, despite her best efforts to hold tight, until the one clear recollection which remained was that of her times with her mother in those palace gardens. She could remember the arch of the bridge. The cool breeze which came across the small lake. But mostly she basked in the warm love of her mother. The sense that everything would be all right.

  Resolution grew within Ella.

  For one evening, if even for just a brief hour, she longed to bask again in that glow. For she knew it could sustain her for a lifetime of winters to come.