by Doris Brett
Falada, the magic horse, was the Queen’s other present. Falada was important, Rachel thought. In sending Falada, the Queen had really tried to take care of her daughter. But she had not been up to it. She had given her daughter two talking gifts. What she had not been able to give was someone who could hear.
And without someone who could hear, thought Rachel, you were helpless—like the abused child who is attacked because her truth is too horrifying for listeners to bear; like Falada, whose words were so dangerous that he had to be destroyed. People were delicate packages; their first instincts were to protect themselves. It was the messengers who were likely to be killed.
Conrad was furious with the Princess. He had tried again and again to snatch a lock of her hair. But each time, she called on the wind and the great force blew down from the sky to whirl Conrad’s cap away until the Princess had finished her grooming. Finally, Conrad could bear it no longer. He announced to his master, the old King, that he would no longer work with the girl. Curious, the King asked his reasons.
‘She vexes me the whole day long,’ Conrad burst out. And told the whole story—the talking head of the dead horse, the Princess’s strange behaviour and the wind that whisked out of nowhere at her command.
The old King was intrigued. The next morning he hid behind the gateway and heard Falada’s head speak to the Princess. He followed her into the fields, saw the shining radiance of her hair and the way the wind attended to her and he understood that there was a mystery to be solved.
That evening, he summoned her from the fields and asked why she did these things.
‘I may not tell that,’ said the true Princess, ‘and I dare not lament my sorrows to any human being, for I have sworn not to do so by the heaven above me; if I had not done that I should have lost my life.’
And then the King, who was wise and astute with his years, nodded, realising he would draw nothing from her. ‘But if you will not tell me anything,’ he said, ‘tell your sorrows to the iron stove over there.’ And he went away.
Left alone, the Princess crept into the iron stove, which closed like a great womb around her and, weeping, she told her story to its comforting walls.
Without her knowledge, however, the King had stationed himself by the stove’s pipe, so that her voice carried straight to his ear. He heard everything and understood more.
He helped the sad young girl from the stove and gave her royal garments and finery. He summoned his son, the Prince, to meet his true bride—who was revealed now in her shining beauty—and a great feast was arranged.
At the head of the feast table sat the Prince, with his false bride, the maid, on one hand and the Princess on the other. The Princess was so dazzling in her new clothes that the maid was blinded and did not recognise her.
‘I have a riddle for you, my dear,’ said the King to the maid. ‘What punishment would you see fit for someone who has committed the following deeds?’ And he relayed the story of the maid’s treachery. ‘What sentence would you pass upon that person?’ he asked.
‘Ah,’ said the maid, ‘for this, that woman deserves no better fate than to be stripped entirely naked and put in a barrel which is studded inside with pointed nails and two white horses should be harnessed to it, which will drag her along through one street after another, till she is dead.’
‘It is you,’ said the King, ‘and you have pronounced your own sentence. And thus shall it be done.’
Rachel always winced and turned away at this part—at the brutality of it, the cruelty of that terrible punishment. And yet, it was as the King had said. The punishment was the sheer reflection of the perpetrator; her hatred made visible and turned on her. It was what she had wished for others, that had now been given to her.
It was terrifying to read and horrifying to think about, and yet that was one of the things that she appreciated about fairytales. They were like Falada. They were not frightened of saying what was there, even when you didn’t want to hear. They had been speaking for hundreds of years. They would speak for hundreds more.
Rachel had read of a campaign to sanitise fairytales, to take out the violence, the sadness, the pain. Rachel knew this would never work. Children would never believe. They could not open bank accounts, drive cars or hold down jobs, but they understood. They knew something truer about what the world was really like, than all the philosophers, scientists and thinkers put together. They were there, in a way that adults had learned not to be.
The body was like a child, Rachel thought—direct and undisguised in its dealings. She remembered its nudgings and whispers, as her symptoms had developed. And how she had ignored it, dismissed them as a creation of her mind, trivialities not worth listening to. It happened all the time; the world was filled with people ignoring lumps, changes, bleeding. Terrified to hear what their bodies were telling them. Turning to illusion instead. How strange it had been for her to finally listen, to recognise that she could trust what was being said.
That was something the Princess had done, Rachel realised. The Princess had not spoken out; she had been sworn to silence and she must have had her fear. To see what happened to Falada was to see what could happen to her. She had kept silent, but she had believed in herself. That was why she had defended herself from Conrad, in that pivotal action which had set the rest of the story going. She was not an object. She knew who she was and it was that knowledge in the end which saved her.
She had known who she was … And then at last, with a slow in-drawing of breath that felt both sweet and unbearably sad, Rachel finally understood the Queen’s real gift—the blood drops and Falada, the magic which spoke the truth. Her mother’s love had not been enough to protect her, but it had given her something even more precious. The words, the simple recognitions, the daily quiet reminders of her own truth.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank, as always, my stalwart husband Martin, who can arm-wrestle a computer into submission before it has time to realise what has happened, and my darling Amantha, budding psychologist, singer-songwriter, prize-winning playwright and daughter extraordinaire, for their constant love and support.
I would like to thank my dear friend Eve, who has the rare gift of being able to see into the heart of things and the even rarer gift of enabling others to see as well. Her wise and perceptive comments were always unerringly accurate and a sustaining force during an often difficult and painful labour.
And thanks too, to Evelyn, Mickey, Liat and Marie—those wonderful friends who took the time and trouble to read the manuscript in its early stages and come up with sage and thoughtful comments.
I would like to acknowledge as well, the other person whose story is at the heart of this book—my beloved mother, Rose. A woman of immense compassion, love and courage and one of the most inspiring human beings I have known. I am grateful to have been her daughter.
Jeanne Ryckmans and Nadine Davidoff, my publisher and editor respectively at Random House have been unflagging in their enthusiasm for, commitment to, and belief in this manuscript and have been a joy to work with.
I would also like to appreciatively acknowledge the research support of Victoria University and in particular Susan Hawthorne and Michele Grossman.
Doris Brett is a writer and clinical psychologist. She lives in Melbourne with her husband and daughter.
Her books have ranged from poetry to fiction, from psychological self-help to bread-baking and have been translated into several languages.
The poems included in this book have won several of Australia’s most prestigious literary awards, including the 1994 Queensland Premier’s Poetry Prize, the 1995 Northern Territory Government Poetry Prize, the 1998 Judith Wright Poetry Prize and the 1998 Gwen Harwood Memorial Poetry Prize. In the Constellation of the Crab, which features a number of the poems re-printed in Eating the Underworld, was short-listed for the National Book Council Literary Awards in 1996.
Praise for Doris Brett’s In the Constellation of the Crab
&n
bsp; ‘… a surprising and impressive book at every level’
Australian
‘… compelling … Brett’s territory [is] those spaces beyond the safe limits of identity into which one travels through a leap of the imagination through the projections of desire or fear, or into which one is taken, by dream, illness or death.’
Heat
Praise for Looking For Unicorns
‘… a sharp, bright novel … that proves books with substance do not have to be wordy or worthy’
Sunday Age
‘… An absorbing, funny story that actually exercises a healing effect on you while you read it … easily the best Australian novel I read this year’
Weekend Australian
‘… razor-sharp one-liners … an engaging and sensitive exploration of loss and lost opportunities’
Australian Bookseller and Publisher
‘Doris Brett, already established as a poet, has turned to fiction with outstanding assurance … Brett shows herself as a novelist of intelligence and grace.’
Melbourne Report
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Version 1.0
Eating the Underworld
9781742755892
Copyright © Doris Brett 2001
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
A Vintage book
Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd
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National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry
Brett, Doris, 1950–.
Eating the Underworld
ISBN 978 1 74051 070 7.
ISBN 1 74051 070 4.
1. Brett, Doris, 1950— - Health. 2. Brett, Doris, 1950 —
- Family. 3. Ovaries - Cancer - Patients - Australia -
Biography. 4. Woman authors, Australian—20th
century - Biography. 5. Authors, Australian -
20th century - Biography. 6. Brett family. I. Title
A828.309
Cover image by Dominique Appia
Cover and internal design by Greendot Design
I would like to gratefully acknowledge Hale and Iremonger Publishing for their permission to use a number of poems from In the Constellation of the Crab.‘First Minute After Midnight’ was originally published in the literary journal, Heat and many of the poems were originally published in Island magazine and The Argument of Desire.
There’s so much more at randomhouse.com.au
