In Sleeping Beauty's Bed

by Mitzi Szereto

  The troll nodded sagely, his stench growing stronger within the airless confines of the cavern until the traveler found himself choking on it. “This new suitor…does he come to thee generously equipped?”

  “Oh, Poppa, what does it matter, since I only wish to kill him anyway?”

  “In that case, thou must choose something so simple it would never occur to him,” advised the troll in a voice as thick and rattling as rancid curd. “Then the Princess shall gain for herself another handsome head for her fine collection. And prithee, Daughter dearest, do not forget to bring me his manhood so that I may fry it up in butter with some fava beans and wash it down with a nice Chianti.”

  The traveler’s head ached from all he had seen and heard, the noxious interchange leaving him greatly confused as to why the daughter of the monarch should have addressed the troll as if he were her father. Returning unobserved with her to the castle, he again stationed himself outside Hannibella’s open window until enough time had passed for her to get into bed for what little remained of the night. Hearing the silence for which he had been waiting, Johannes’s traveling companion entered the Princess’s bedchamber to find her exactly as expected—sound asleep in her bed. She appeared to possess not a care in the world as she lay upon the embroidered coverlet, her breathing steady and without the inflections indicative of a troubled sleep. The first thing he noticed were her feet, the elegantly arched soles of which glowed pinkly and innocently in the moonlight. The finely woven lawn of her nightdress had ridden up to her waist, exposing a pair of graceful thighs and the corresponding hills above. Trembling with indignation and perhaps something more, he drew back his arm in heartfelt readiness as he intended to seek redress for the obliquity intended Poor Johannes.

  Indeed, the peacefully slumbering form positioned with such indecorous abandon upon the bed ignited a raging conflagration within its beholder’s soul, hence the worldly-wise traveler wielded his hand with enthusiasm, spurred onward by the milky mounds before him and the fiery red splotches his actions imprinted upon them. The prone recipient cried out with every resounding smack of his palm, her legs kicking every which way, her arms flailing uselessly at her sides. It might even be believed that she welcomed them, for she raised herself up to meet each strike, falling back down again with a sated sigh.

  Poor Johannes’s traveling companion slept soundly that night, as did Princess Hannibella, who dreamed she had melted into a warm puddle. That morning as Johannes shook off his drink-enhanced slumber, his friend greeted him with unusual tenderness, for, thanks to him, the lovesick orphan would live to see the dawning of another day. After enjoying a tasty meal of sausage, eggs, and black bread served courtesy of the innkeeper’s wife, it came time for the Princess’s latest suitor to depart for the castle. The itinerant stranger saw his trusting ward off at the door, confident that his less-than-tender ministrations of the wee hours should have persuaded the Princess to exercise far more liberality when weighing the answer to her first riddle.

  Johannes found himself being ushered into the grand salon, where a team of judges awaited him, along with the teary-eyed monarch himself, who, in anticipation of the unsuspecting orphan’s fate, sniveled through many a kerchief. The moment Hannibella entered the room, this petitioner for her hand felt his heart soaring with love. The Princess’s cheeks had taken on a fine rosy glow—a glow similar to that which heated the cheeks she now struggled to sit upon. She extended her foot for its reverential kiss, her manner all sweetness and benevolence. Yet for Poor Johannes this was to be no mere social call.

  As the monarch wept into his kerchief and the judges mopped their sopping brows, Johannes took a fortifying breath. Ascertaining that he had gained the Princess’s full attention, he placed a fingertip against his right earlobe and wiggled it about in suggestion of his earlier ministrations with the salve upon the little fin he had located beneath her skirts. Hannibella’s eyes widened in acknowledgment, and she bit the pink plump of her lower lip in remembered ecstasy, the slip of paper containing the riddle’s solution tucked inside her perspiring palm dropping to the carpet in a wet ball. Only then did Poor Johannes put forth his answer.

  The Princess (who had gone quite red in the face) nodded helplessly at the judges, whereupon the monarch burst into cheers of joy. For the sparing of a life, however momentary, was a thing to celebrate. Johannes next received a command to join Hannibella in the drawing room so that he might be presented with her second riddle. Once again he had taken the precaution of bringing along his traveling companion’s jar of magic ointment, and once again the words had barely left Princess Hannibella’s lips before he had his fingers high up in her skirts rubbing the now-familiar fin they met there. It grew bigger than ever beneath his fingertips, and the fatherless orphan soon found himself working the whole of his arm up to the shoulder joint.

  That evening the worldly stranger did not need to ply his young friend with spirits, for the day’s exertions had sent Poor Johannes to bed very early, and his exhausted snores could be heard all the way to the inn’s front door. The traveler sallied forth to the city with greater haste than ever, determined to reach the Princess before she sought out the venomous troll for a more foolproof conundrum to have ready as insurance in the event her latest attempt to stump her suitor also met with failure. Since it was to be her second riddle for which the fatherless orphan would be risking his silly head, Johannes’s traveling companion thought it might be of benefit to put into practice two hands instead of just the one.

  Hannibella had taken to her bed for a much-needed respite after her encounter with her suitor, only to discover that there would be no respite as her midnight caller brought his palms savagely down upon the symmetrical swells of her nether cheeks in a steady one-two motion, refusing to let up until the strength had ebbed from his arms. Fortunately, the clock in the city center quickly rejuvenated him, and the traveler matched each strike of the midnight hour with a strike of his own, the twin mounds of milky flesh launching themselves high into the air, flushing redder and redder with every persuasive blow. It would not be until the predawn hours that the resonant smack of palm against flesh had finally been silenced. Indeed, Princess Hannibella’s feet would do much kicking about on this night.

  The following morning, with a carefree bounce in his step that left heads shaking in disbelief, Poor Johannes set off on the road to the castle, where he was once more ushered into the grand salon to hear his fate. Having been briefed by his worldly friend beforehand, he offered up an answer of ridiculous obviousness—albeit not without first securing the Princess’s attention by twiddling the lobe of his ear with a readily available fingertip. Hannibella’s sharp intake of breath sliced through the stillness of the room like a scream. A crumpled slip of paper rolled from her hand onto the floor. Had those present bothered to unfold it, they would have discovered it to be blank. Twice thwarted in her acquisition of a new head for her garden, she nodded in flushed affirmation toward the anxious team of judges, thereby gaining for Johannes another reprieve.

  The sight of the orphan’s brazen finger manipulating the dangling lobe of flesh had caused the Princess to grow quite faint, and she bade Poor Johannes to lead her to a settee so that she might rest. It was from here that she posed her third and final riddle, her palm-tenderized nether regions too illhumored to allow her to even sit up properly. How could it be that she was suddenly helpless to thwart the young man who sought her hand? Finding herself without the foul counsel of her blood-father the troll, Hannibella did the best she could, calling upon the resources of her own mind. “What is it I am thinking of at this moment?” she inquired languidly, not entirely certain of the answer herself, but comforted by its conveniently transitory nature.

  However, Johannes’s salve-anointed fingers were already journeying high beneath her skirts, rubbing and kneading the voluminous fin they had come to know so well—a fin so fiery hot that it singed his enterprising fingertips. Princess Hannibella’s legs were flung every which way up
on the settee, offering no resistance and, in fact, making her suitor’s ministrations all the easier to perform. It was not long before her arms flapped like broken wings at her sides and her feet kicked the air. Despite his success, Johannes refused to desist from his labors for a moment. If his response to her third and final riddle was deemed correct, not only would he live to see another day, he would also receive the Princess’s hand in marriage. With so much at stake, he massaged more and more of the magical ointment beneath her skirts, not stopping until he had emptied out the jar.

  Just before midnight, Poor Johannes’s traveling companion paid a final call to the Princess’s bedchamber, knowing that the morning would determine whether his young friend should live or die. Although a storm appeared to be brewing in the east, he was not the sort to allow a few raindrops to deter him. He discovered Hannibella cloaked only in nature’s garb as she lay face down upon her bed, so depleted of strength she could not even summon a maid to assist her into a nightdress. These circumstances would suit the traveler well. Rubbing his hands together to warm them for the task ahead, he raised them high into the air, hesitating briefly and with unexpected relish before bringing them down against the twin hills before him, the sharp crack of thunder creating an alliance with the sharp crack his palms made upon contact. A flash of blue-white lightning illuminated his target, revealing a veritable chaos of reddening splotches and inspiring their wrathful administrator to add several more in a stormy crescendo of blows.

  Hannibella gasped for breath, pushing herself up from the embroidered coverlet so that she might meet these cruel kisses, their stinging burn reactivating the burn induced by her suitor’s earlier application of ointment. The pink bottoms of her feet flew about in maddened circles, and her fists pummeled the pillows until she eventually lost consciousness, only to be revived by still more priming from her intruder’s able palms. For Johannes’s peripatetic companion had no intention of allowing the Princess’s writhing body a reprieve until he was certain he had earned one for his friend.

  That sunrise before Poor Johannes departed for the castle for the very last time, the owner of the jar of magic ointment presented the orphan with explicit instructions that he should clap his hands sharply together when the moment came to provide an answer to Princess Hannibella’s third riddle. Indeed, the palms of his own were cracked and peeling, indicating they had been given good usage. Not understanding the significance of this piece of advice, yet not wishing to appear ungrateful, Johannes nodded his humble thanks, suddenly experiencing a terrible sense of guilt over having borrowed without permission the special salve—the empty jar of which was still contained in the pocket of his coat. Perhaps, if all went well with the Princess, he might make amends to his itinerant friend by having his future father-in-law offer him a knighthood, particularly since the traveler had already managed to procure his own fine sword.

  As Poor Johannes approached the castle, he noticed a delivery coach double-parked outside with two men unloading a coffin. Before he could inquire as to who in the monarch’s household had passed away, he was escorted into the grand salon, where the tearful monarch sat hunched forward in misery upon his throne, his unregal trembles visible to all. The covey of judges chewed their quills in dreaded expectation, their stern faces creased with more worry than usual. The deliverymen Johannes had seen earlier arrived and just as swiftly departed, having placed the empty coffin discreetly in a corner. After several strained minutes, Princess Hannibella made her entrance, her face the white of chalk, her eyes ringed by dark circles. With considerable effort, she lowered herself onto the settee, wincing when contact had been made. “Pray, persistent Sir, what have I been thinking of since you last came before me?” she inquired of Poor Johannes, her voice so enfeebled that all had to strain to hear it.

  As the judges and the monarch looked in hopeful eagerness toward him, rather than answering with words, Johannes brought his palms sharply together as instructed by his worldly friend. For additional insurance, he also tweaked both earlobes between thumb and forefinger until they had turned bright red with blood. At the sight, Hannibella fainted dead away—although not without first flapping and flailing her arms and legs in the frenzied manner so familiar to the one whose actions had incited it. This time, the Princess’s hand was conspicuously empty of any slips of paper.

  The chorus of hurrahs! from the grand salon could be heard as far away as the inn, where, in an upstairs room, Johannes’s traveling companion smiled with heartfelt pleasure, taking pride in the role he had played—a role that would allow the fatherless orphan to keep his head. With the wedding celebration at the castle already underway, he sallied forth toward new adventures, the burlap of his knapsack slightly lighter upon his shoulder with the absence of his jar of ointment.

  It never occurred to the Princess’s victorious suitor that without the oleaginous contents of the jar and the traveler’s secret midnight spankings, the marital bliss he had hoped to enjoy with his new wife would be severely limited. Indeed, Hannibella found herself greatly disappointed with the quality of her husband’s insipid fumblings beneath her skirts, to say nothing of his lack of imagination regarding the appropriate application of the palm. What Johannes did not seem to realize was that he had won the Princess under false pretenses.

  Sadly, all that effort put forth by his well-meaning traveling companion would come to naught, since in the end Hannibella beheaded Poor Johannes anyway.

  THE TURNIP

  Tales that contain as their main protagonists a pair of brothers have always featured prominently in folk literature and narrative. Although tales of brothers can be found in nearly every European country, their earliest written form has been discovered in the papyruses and steles of ancient Egypt. Since folktales are generally considered to have arisen from the wishful thinking of the poor and the unsuccessful, perhaps it should not be surprising that one of the most commonly occurring themes is that of the poor and virtuous brother happening on sudden riches, thus allowing him to gain parity with his wealthy, but less virtuous, brother.

  A widely known example of the rich brother/poor brother tale is “The Turnip” by the Brothers Grimm. Unlike many of the stories they collected over their lifetimes, the Grimms’ “Die Rübe” may genuinely stem from the true German folktale tradition—one characteristic of which is the concept of a man of little or no means achieving equal footing with his financial betters by rising in social class as a result of his industriousness. Given the prevailing social order of the day, one often sees this emphasis being placed on an individual’s industriousness, an industriousness that in turn was tied to the agrarian pursuits of the peasantry. For the basic structure of most folktales appears to stem from the social situation of the agrarian lower classes.

  Although “The Turnip” clearly corresponds to the German tradition, the Grimms rarely provided the names or dates of their sources, therefore the origins of many of their tales have been difficult to trace. No doubt the reason for this lack of disclosure relates to the fact that the majority (if not all) of their sources were family members and friends of literate middle-class backgrounds rather than the peasant narrators from whom the brothers claimed to have collected their tales. Furthermore, since the Grimms apparently saw fit to destroy the manuscripts that had been used for the first edition of their Kinder- und Hausmärchen, it has proven impossible to confirm that the original source material for the text of their stories received accurate treatment. It is believed, however, that substantial discrepancies do exist, and that these discrepancies flourished with each subsequent edition of the Kinder- und Hausmärchen as the Grimms continued to stylistically revise and edit their tales up until the seventh and final edition. Hence we may never know the true origins of tales like “The Turnip,” let alone know whether such tales are, in fact, German.

  As one of the few fairy tales containing no female characters, “The Turnip” demonstrates that the feminine presence is not always necessary to make a successful story. The femi
nine presence is surely not needed in my version…or at least, not needed by the bachelor king.

  IN DAYS OF YORE WHEN GREAT WARS WERE fought in exotic lands over exotic bounties, there was never a shortage of men willing to take up the lance and shield. Those of a clever nature prospered from their situations, leaving others of simpler character to perish. During one of these conflicts, there were two brothers who happened to serve honorably as soldiers in the same bloody battle. Upon the final laying down of armaments, one emerged a rich man, the other poor. To free himself from the weighty shackles of poverty, the less fortunate of this fraternal pair decided to take up the plow, for the agrarian life seemed a logical way to feed himself, not to mention profit from the feeding of others. The fellow managed to purchase a small piece of land, which he sowed throughout with turnip seed. It so happened that turnips had become very popular in the kingdom and were served at the King’s supper table every night. Therefore, the decision in favor of the turnip would be an easy one.

  Farming was hard and, indeed, hungry work, and the aspiring farmer liked to chew a few of the seeds as he hoed and sowed, since many an hour remained before he could sit down to partake of his own supper. Despite the many hardships he endured, the impoverished brother believed that all his long hours of sweat and toil would one day prove worthwhile. And his dedication to the soil served him well. As the seed took hold, turnip leaves began to display themselves in abundance along his modest parcel, their thick roots burrowing happily downward into the dark rich earth. Only the farmer would have far more success than he had originally bargained for. There was one turnip in particular that grew and grew until it looked as if it would never stop growing. Although this should have provoked great joy in the poorer of the two brothers, it instead provoked great dismay. For this most vigorous of vegetables did not sprout from the ground as had its leafy companions, but from the farmer himself.