The child cried. At the darkest hour of the night, when the whole world seemed hidden by a huge crow’s wing, someone stumbled upon her. Hands touched her gently, pausing and stroking whenever she winced. A flask of ice cold water was held to her cracked lips and she drank deeply. She was fed choice berries and nuts and a salad of strange herbs. Her poor body was bathed with soft sponges and soothed with salve. She could not see who her saviour was, and he did not speak to her, but she knew her first happiness in his arms.
She struggled to stay awake but her eyelids grew so heavy she could not stop them closing. And when she opened them the sky was blue, the sun was hot, and she was alone. She moved cautiously. The pain was gone. She could stand up quite easily. She leaned against the trunk of a tree, trying to gather her wits, and saw a carving of a heart etched deep in the bark. She traced the pattern with her finger, and tears ran down her face. She stumbled through the wood, singing the nightingale’s song of love and death, happiness and heartbreak. A crow flew overhead but she did not flinch. She was no longer a child. A little black bird could not scare her.
She walked on through the thick forest until she came to the village at the end where she had once lived. She looked at the ramshackle huts, the stocky men tilling their strips of land, the peasant women stirring their soup, the sturdy children making mudpies. They stared at her, suspicious of this spindly girl with her rags and red hair. A child imitated her song and the villagers sniggered. The girl knew she could never go back to them now. They were her kin folk but she had become a stranger. So she walked on past the village, and the children called names after her, and one boy threw a mud ball that stung her leg and streaked it brown. She washed at the next stream, and the ice cold water reminded her of her secret saviour and she wept again because she thought he was a dream of her delirium, a moon raving sweeter than sanity.
She walked on, singing the nightingale’s song with increased yearning. She walked through the country, through the town, until she came to a white palace. There was a Princess within, sighing on a sofa, anxious physicians in attendance. The Princess was plagued with strange pains, and so far they had found no cure. But when the Princess heard the sweet notes of the nightingale’s song, she sat up, smiling, and then sprang to the window.
“Who is that singing that magical song? Bring them to me immediately. It’s so beautiful! It’s so sweet it soothes my pain.”
So the girl was taken to the Princess and was commanded to keep on singing. She sang willingly enough at first, but after a while her throat ached and her voice faltered.
“Sing up! Sing on! You mustn’t stop now,” said the Princess.
The girl sang until her throat was raw. She had a brief respite while the Princess slept, but she was pinched awake at crack of dawn by the irritable royal lady.
“Come along, girl, commence singing. My pain is worse than ever. Quickly now!”
The girl cleared her throat and tried to sing but it was so sore she could only gasp. She whispered an explanation but the Princess seized her by the shoulders and shook her hard.
“Sing! You’re to do as I say, don’t you understand? What do I care for your pain? What about mine? You are only a poor peasant girl. I am a Princess. So sing up! Sing or you’ll be punished, do you hear?”
The Princess’s eyes were dark and glittering, her hair long and crow-black. The girl had had enough of punishment. She sang. She sang all day long, she sang until the blood from her sore throat slipped sourly down her stomach. But her song was not as sweet, the notes were not as pure, the tune not as powerful. So the Princess had her punished all the same. The girl was whipped until she shrieked, and then ordered to sing. She opened her mouth and tried but no sound at all came out.
“I’ll teach you to play silly games with me,” said the Princess, rubbing her aching head. “Throw her into the dungeons. Leave her there until she learns her lesson. Oh yes, after a night in my dungeon you’ll soon sing sweetly, my little bird.”
The girl was dragged down to the dungeon and left in the deepest, darkest cell. But she was used to such conditions, after a childhood spent in a crow’s nest. The night could not frighten her now. She stood on tiptoe, looking through the bars of the narrow window, so she could see the silver moon. She could hear the nightingale’s song in her head but she could not sing a note of it with her sore and swollen throat.
She had escaped from one cruel prison only to land in another. She would doubtless languish here singing until she screamed with pain, screaming with pain until she sang again. Unless…
Perhaps it was time she tried to rescue herself. She wasn’t a silly child anymore. She was a grown girl. But still a spindly slip of a girl—spindly enough to slip through the bars of the window. She clasped the bars and swung her legs and squeezed her shoulder through, then her body, her legs and last of all her head. For a few moments it seemed held fast but with one last wrench she was free. She ran through the palace grounds, through the town, through the country, past the peasant village, back to the forest. She knew where she was going.
She ran until she was caught fast in the brambles. She fell to the ground, torn and bleeding. She lay on her back, looking up at the silver moon. She waited—and at last hands touched her gently, pausing and stroking whenever she winced. A flask of ice cold water was held to her cracked lips and she drank deeply. She was fed choice berries and nuts and a salad of strange herbs. Her poor body was bathed with soft sponges and soothed with salve. She could not see who her saviour was, and he did not speak to her, but she knew her only happiness in his arms. She sang out loud, more sweetly than ever. She sang and sang and sang.
Her eyelids grew heavy but she pulled a long hair from her head, threaded it on a thorn and stitched her eyelids back against the bone. Her eyes burned and bled a little but she was used to pain by this time. She had to make sure her eyes stayed open forever.
You can’t miss out on happiness.
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