Ever After (3 page)

They travelled
west, and the further they moved away from the great snowcapped
mountains, the more the landscape changed. The trees grew sparser,
the flowers smelled sweeter, and the grass turned greener and
greener with every passing day.

Every now and
then, her husband fed her new and exciting fruits. She bit into
them, juices running down her chin. He wiped them away and kissed
her head. It was the little things he did that made her heart full,
his gestures replacing the shiniest diamonds in the world.

The further
inland they moved the more the temperature increased until it was
so hot that they took to pouring jugs of water over themselves to
keep cool, offering some respite from the heat until the blazing
sun dried them out once again.

Soon the hectic
pace of their journey took a toll on her delicate form, and unused
to the heat, her limbs turned into jelly. She wobbled when she
walked, she jiggled when she moved, and all the rippling that her
limbs were doing started making her head swim. It wasn't long
before she felt awfully ill.

Her husband
bathed her hot forehead every night and fanned her while she slept.
Every time they stopped in a town or village to rest, he would
carry her in his arms towards the nearest stream or well.

“This is my
beautiful wife,” he crowed to one and all he met. “She is a
princess,” he added, his chest puffed up proudly.”

She smiled at
his foolishness and gently reminded him that she was Anahita now,
his Anahita, and no longer a princess.

And so it
continued until one day after months of exhaustive travel crossing
innumerable roads, lakes and seas, they finally reached her
husband's home. They journeyed through the town. Her tired eyes
took in the florescent green earth and the bright yellow flowers
dotting the landscape, while her dry lips smiled at the strange
faces with dark, dark eyes so like her husband's.

He took her to
a house, his manner embarrassed. He showed her the sweet little
cottage that he kept by the lake. It had a quaint little garden at
the back. She peered out of the window and spotted a few
green-hatted gnomes near the bushes. They caught her watching and
swiftly scrambled out of sight.

The house did
not have marbled floors, brocade curtains or silk cushions, but to
her eyes it was beautiful. She spent the next few days recovering
her strength, while he filled the house with wild flowers plucked
from the garden.

When she was
well again, her husband went to look for work, while she thought
the time had come to acquaint herself with her new home. She began
to investigate.

He had placed
wild flowers in cups, vases and shoes, but, alas, they were now
dead with tiny white flies buzzing around black stems and brown
petals. She further discovered that the bed was full of fleas, the
curtains moth eaten, dust lay on the shelves, and the smell of
unwashed feet swirled around the entire cottage. The walls were
mouldy, the carpets brown with dirt, the kitchen empty save a dirty
jug of water.

Helpless, she
wrung her hands, her stomach growling in hunger. She knew not how
to cook or clean. She knew nothing of a commoner’s world. Nibbling
on a piece of dry stale bread that she found in a drawer she waited
for her husband to return.

That evening
her husband came home and kissed her cheek. He told her of his day
and how he may be able to make some coin.

She asked him
questions, eager to learn and be of help.

He smiled
indulgently and told her to not worry. He had brought with him a
few slices of buttered bread and a jug of milk. He consumed it all
and after a satisfactory burp fell asleep.

She woke early
the next day and caught him before he left for work. She asked what
she should eat and how did one clean.

He laughed at
her questions and teased her about her cosseted life. "You will
learn," he said and strode out of the door.

He came that
evening with a bit of meat and some fruit. '"That should keep you
from starving," he laughed and patted her head.

She watched
him, her eyes alight with love and longing as he moved towards the
wardrobe. Her smile turned into puzzlement when he took out his
scarlet coat and blue breeches instead of his snowy
nightclothes.

She asked him
where he was going when he moved towards the door all spruced
up.

He told her his
friends awaited him at an inn.

"Friends?" she
queried with a thrill.

He nodded and
then asked if she would like to come.

“Yes, please,”
she said, and her eyes lit up in excitement.

***

The inn was
crowded when they arrived, and a famous cat and a walrus were
performing a ballad on stage. They watched the cat sing and the
walrus play the piano for a few moments before making their way
towards the table where his friends were sitting.

His friends
smiled at her while her husband told them all about the royal blood
running in her veins. They eyed her sceptically. One of them
produced a needle. They wanted to prick her to ascertain if her
blood was truly blue.

She eyed them
in fear and apprehension.

They laughed
and giggled and chased her around the bar with giant needles
clutched in their hands.

She raced,
skidded and summersaulted, her heart pounding in terror. A few
minutes later, they collapsed on top of each other in a heap,
laughing at her frightened expression.

She smiled back
uncertainly. The smile transformed her. Her teeth gleamed and her
eyes lit up with a proud, regal light. The men's eyes widened in
admiration while the women sent narrowed angry looks her way. Only
a royal could have a smile so white.

Suddenly, the
light dimmed in the bar, turning an odd, eerie red while the
shadows on the wall narrowed and stretched. The chipped, broken
chandelier started swaying to and fro as if dancing to the sweet
music being played on the piano. The men began swarming towards
her, swatting the other women away.

She pressed her
back against a table in the corner, leaning further and further
back until the back of her head almost touched her waist. Why did
they stand so close, why did they leer and joke? The men in her
land had never done so. She frowned and lifted her palms up to keep
them away.

The men laughed
bitterly and began making fun of the way she spoke. The women
joined in, giggling at the funny way she had twisted her hair into
a bun.

“Leave me
alone,” she cried.

They laughed or
stared at her blankly saying they couldn’t understand a word she
said. It wasn’t long before the laughs and the jeers soaked into
her soul. She pressed her lips together afraid to make a single
sound.

She wanted to
go home.

Her eyes
searched the many faces surrounding her, looking for her beloved
husband. Her hand lifted hoping he would materialise and clutch her
to his warm, solid chest.

He was nowhere
to be found.

She wilted,
cowering in her chair while the rest of them laughed and drank.
Lonely and sleepy, she waited, wondering when her husband would
return. She knew not the land, nor the roads or the people. How,
she wondered, would she get home with no coin in her pocket? She
feared going out on to the streets and meeting anyone with dark
eyes. What could she say that they would understand? What if they
tried to prick her too, to see how blue she bled?

A long time
later, he came and found her. His words were slurred. He took her
home that night, his manner changed. "Why did you not laugh more?"
he chided. "Why are you crying?" he scolded.

She told him of
her fears and how she had felt.

"You think too
much," he said. "I saw nothing of the sort."

She wept.

He patted her
head and said it would be alright.

After that day,
she sat at home staring out at the lake, drawing flowers in the
dust or sleeping until he came home. She would then stay awake all
night watching his face while he slept.

And so it went
on until one day he left the house and did not return that night.
She found a note placed on the table telling her of urgent work
that had forced him to go north. He would return in a week.

She sat on the
chair, tears soaking the note. She had never slept alone in her
entire life. Why, at home she was always surrounded by people—a
wash of homesickness overtook her suddenly—how long had it been
since she had left the snowcapped kingdom? She counted the days. An
entire year had gone by. Shock rippled down her spine.

A whole year
had sped away since she had arrived in this strange alien land, and
in all this time she had left her house only once.

***

It was time for
a change, she told herself. It wasn’t his fault, she soothed
herself. He was from a different world—one that she needed to
understand. She needed to learn how to be a better wife, to please
him any way she could.

So she
toiled.

She burned her
hands a number of times while she experimented with cooking. She
stubbed her toes, sliced her finger and bled all over the tables as
she learned how to clean. She mopped and scrubbed and cooked and
sewed until her hands were raw with work and her shoulders
sore.

One day she
presented to him the most wonderful feast that she had cooked all
by herself. She had made hearty breads, roast meats swimming in
gravy; sweet, crisp vegetables, and beautiful salads decorated with
delicate flowers and tart berries. For desert she presented him
with a many layered cake twice the size of his head.

He opened his
eyes and looked at her anew. He praised her and asked how much coin
she had spent to create it.

She told him
she had no coin, for he never gave her any. It was all from the
garden and what he had brought for the house.

Pleased, he
grinned and told her she was a beauty and that he loved her.

She smiled back
in pleasure. This was the secret to his heart, she thought happily,
and from then on cooked a new dish for him every day.

Every day she
cooked, and every time he offered her a short praise and told her
he loved her. Yet, she remained at home while he danced with his
friends, drank till dawn and travelled the world.

Now that she
could cook, her husband began bringing home his friends. She fed
and watered them and plied them with wine, and when they began to
dance and sing, she returned to her room to think.

She would lie
in bed and stare up at the ceiling and recall the great snowcapped
mountains. She wished she could go home to meet a childhood friend,
to cuddle her mother and laugh with her father once again.

Seasons changed
and she became sadder still. She begged her husband to listen, to
help her heal. Her tears dried on her cheeks unnoticed, her needs
went unmet. She begged for a child, another human to love, and her
husband frowned. He said he loved her and for the moment that was
enough. She clutched her barren belly, her cold lonely heart
weeping.

Then one dark
night, terror crept into the house and made a home in her heart.
From then on, people on the streets, the noises in the night, and
the slightest chirp of a bird started frightening her. She became a
shadow of herself. The beautiful happy princess faded into a
distant forgotten dream. Soon her face no longer lit up when she
saw her husband. She no longer smiled if he told her he loved
her.

She would stare
down at her threadbare clothes, the empty purse and the chipped
plates and cups that they used. She felt cold and ill. Even if she
could scrape together some coin, she would not be welcomed by the
king and queen. Her parents had denounced her. The snowcapped
kingdom was no longer her home.

She had nowhere
to run. She was now all alone.

***

When she
started sitting on the old rocking chair, she did not know. She
would rock to and fro staring bleakly out at the garden.

As the days
went by, she started losing interest in her daily chores, and one
day stopped doing them altogether. Her husband continued to come
home every night and kiss her cheek and tell her he loved her.

One day she
woke from her frigid dream to ask how his work was going.

"Good, my
love," he said shrugging his shoulders.

"Did you have a
hard day?" she tried again.

"Not
particularly," he responded and blew out the candle.

"Goodnight,"
she whispered.

"I love you,
darling," he said and closed his eyes.

While he slept,
she rocked harder and harder, feeling colder by the minute. Soon
her hands turned blue and her body turned to ice. She sat on that
rocking chair a statue of ice, while her eyes still bleakly watched
the seasons change in the garden.

Her husband
never noticed. He never realised that the cottage was no longer
cleaned. He did not know that food was never cooked. When he came
home, it was to kiss her frozen cheeks and tell her he loved her
before blowing out the candle and falling asleep.

She sat frozen
on the rocking chair, watching the garden through dull eyes framed
by sharp, icy lashes for a long, long time.

She watched how
colourful birds came and went as the seasons changed. She watched
them build funny little nests and push their little chicks off
branches until they learned to fly away. She noticed how slowly the
grass grew taller and taller, and how lovingly buds unfurled into
flowers as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky. She spotted
little ants and water rats scuttling about and learned to
distinguish between every frog that dwelled by the pond.

She kept watch
for so long that she could tell the number of grooves in all the
branches within her sight. And when she knew every vein on every
leaf, every shade on every stone, and when she had learnt to
predict a storm simply by the way the trees swayed or the animals
quivered, she turned her attention away from the sights and focused
on the sounds.