Porcelain Princess (16 page)

She brought down
the walls of the coliseum, the towers, the windmills. She welcomed
the harbour waters back into her embrace once more.

And as the
Empress Atlantopatris sank with her great ship, she wailed at the
Sea, ‘What great and mighty god helped you manage this?’

‘
Oh
great and mighty Empress,’ the Sea replied, rippling with laughter,
‘let me be the first and last to tell you; you were defeated by the
weakest and puniest creatures of all!’

*

‘
Isn’t there
any
way that I can get to see him?’ Carey
asked wistfully, forlornly staring at the immense doors.

‘
Sorry Carey, not today it seems.’

The Princess
stepped over towards one of the easels, one that supported a large
sketchbook rather than a canvas.

‘
Of
course, he’s always valued his privacy, putting his work before any
socialising; which, I’m afraid, was obviously the cause of so many
problems in the past.’

Taking the
sketchbook off the easel, she turned and handed it to
Carey.

‘
Until you
do
get to see him, perhaps this might
compensate you for your patience? It’s the story he’s basing all
these ideas on.’ With a wave of a hand, she indicated the
surrounding pictures. ‘You’d be the first to see how you could turn
it into a play for your theatre.’

Eagerly flicking
through the book, Carey was amazed by the beauty of the
Illuminator’s flowing script, as well as the energy and skill of
the countless coloured sketches and ideas he’d included alongside.
Seeing the sketchbook like this, as well as having just had her
attention drawn to the panelling on the doors, she suddenly
understood what had been familiar about the drawing and paintings
displayed around the gallery.

‘
The Sea Empress
,’ she said, finding it hard to hide
her disappointment, her sense that she’d been tricked somehow,
coming all this way only to be given a story that just about
everyone knew. Just as the Princess had done only moments before,
she indicated the surrounding paintings with a casually dismissive
wave of a hand. ‘I mean all these pictures of industry, mining,
construction. All the flames, the molten metals and the felling and
sawing of the trees; it’s just another, more detailed retelling of
The Sea Empress
.’

‘
Hah,
it’s
based
on
The Sea Empress
, yes,’ the Princess
agreed surprisingly enthusiastically as she made her way back to
and began descending the spiral stairway once more. ‘But in this
case the Illuminator is trying to imagine what
The Sea
Empress
would be like if, instead of being a
ship
, it
was a
book
!’

‘
But…but if it’s a
book
, it’s just the
story
of
The Sea Empress
; isn’t it?’

Carey sounded
doubtful as she followed on behind the Princess.

‘
Quite often, when the Illuminator is trying to think of an
original way of telling a story, he first thinks of an amazing or
wondrous object, or a powerful sensation, event or song – such as
an elaborately carved church, the flowering of a certain bloom, or
the anguished love of a repetitive melody – and then he thinks;
Now, what would
that
be like if it were a
book
?’

‘
I…still don’t understand the difference; sorry.’

Despite
admitting this, Carey clung on tightly to the sketchbook, realising
this might be something incredibly precious and different after
all.

‘
Well
The Sea Empress
, the
ship
, of course, was powerful,
magnificent, opulent; and yet it contained the minute yet fatal
flaw that would doom it!’

‘
Flaw? I can’t remember hearing of any flaw in the
ship.’

‘
The
buckled plates, the way a gap appeared at their joints? That could
only have happened, the Illuminator has reasoned, if some of the
nails holding them together were flawed; perhaps even just
one
of the nails!’

They had almost
approached the bottom of the stairwell, and Cary was just a little
dizzy after walking around in circle after circle.

‘
So
the
book
has a flaw? In its binding? Its cover?’

‘
No;
the flaw must be contained
within
the story. It mustn’t even
be clearly described, either, but hidden until it reveals itself
through the resulting chaos!’

Carey didn’t
feel that this conversation was getting her any closer to
understanding what the story was all about.

‘
Well, I must say there are certainly plenty of flaws like
that in life,’ Carey said, thinking of her own life. ‘Although I’m
not sure that I’ve come across any hidden in stories!’

‘
Actually, I think some of what seem to be our happiest
stories have flaws in them, if you think about them hard
enough.’

As they had at
last reached the bottom of the tower and were standing in the long
corridor once more, the Princess had turned to face Carey. She
smiled, yet there was a loneliness and sadness in her eyes that
Carey hadn’t noticed before.

Carey glanced
about her at the opulent room, with its rich curtains, its thick,
luxurious carpet, its sparkling mirrors framed with ornate gold.
Yes, it’s a palace, an envious place to live; but just how
wonderful a place is it to live in if there’s no one to share it
with? She realised that she would rather live in her cramped
caravan with her friends than here, in all this comfort and
indulgence, if it meant living on her own.

The Princess was
lonely. It wasn’t a fairy tale existence after all.

‘
What
do you do here, Princess? I mean, when you’re not running your
kingdom; what do you do in your own time?’

Carey suddenly
feared she might have gone too far, asking such a rudely
inquisitive question. Fortunately, the Princess didn’t seem to
mind.

‘
Why,
I read of course!’ she answered, and gaily enough too to make Carey
wonder if she hadn’t imagined after all that the Princess seemed
lonely.

‘
That’s it? Just read?’

Carey had only
just noticed that they weren’t heading back the way they had
arrived but, instead, had passed through a door leading off from
the corridor directly opposite the tower. They were on the moving
carpet once more too, hurtling along at ridiculous speed through a
series of narrow hallways that finally deposited them in a sunlit
reading room. There were only a few shelves, and these held only a
few, leather bound books. Other books were laid open on angled
tables situated in bay windows, a high chair pulled up at each
table, in readiness for anyone who wished to read that particular
book. Thin curtains had been pulled across these windows, dimming
the light, yet Carey still glimpsed small illustrations in the
books that glittered with what seemed to be real gold. The colours
were as bright as enamels too; gloriously rich reds, blues and
greens.

‘
This
isn’t the library, of course; just certain books I’ve had brought
in here for reading.’

The Princess
said it remarkably casually, but Carey knew enough about books to
know that these were ancient and therefore incredibly rare and
expensive. They weren’t printed, as most books now were, but hand
lettered and illustrated, each one an individual work of art
painstakingly created by perhaps one man over years of solitary
work. Carey could also tell by way the pages gleamed that they
weren’t of paper but of vellum, which pointed to these books being
centuries old.

‘
It’s
poetry,’ the Princess continued to explain, drawing closer towards
the books on display. ‘Love poetry; so beautiful, so heart felt, it
breaks your heart just reading it.’

The lettering of
the books was elaborate, a decoration in its own right Carey
thought. But the illustrations were so wonderfully intricate you
could get lost just trying to follow the patterns of elongated and
intertwining animals and plants. Where the patterns became
pictures, they may have been scenes of life from hundreds of years
ago, but they were still recognisable to Carey as everyday life of
today; farmers ploughing fields, women herding geese, boys and
girls playing on greens. Great white castles dominated green fields
and forests, red-tiled towns sat beneath snow topped mountains,
ships with vast sails sought shelter from storms in busy ports.
Then there were the areas of life Carey knew existed, but had never
experienced herself; well-dressed ladies attending court, knights
being unhorsed in tournaments, pageants of pageboys and
musicians.

‘
There’s a romance in these poems that’s missing from so many
of today’s stories,’ the Princess sighed.

She reached out
and touched one of the pictures. Instantly, her eyes glazed over, a
dreamy, dazed look crossing her face as if she had abruptly being
transported into the scene. It reminded Carey of the way she felt
whenever she touched a character in one of the Illuminator’s
illustrations.

‘
The
troubadours would tour the land, singing their songs of love.’ The
Princess spoke as if she really were in a dream.

‘
Well
there’s still at least
one
troubadour left; I meet him when
travelling here.’

‘
You’ve met a troubadour?’

The Princess
said it as if it were the most amazing thing she’d ever heard. Her
eyes opened wide as she looked at Carey as if she were the luckiest
girl in the world.

‘
I
really didn’t realise that there were still any around, although
I’d wished and wished and wished that there was at least one who
could sing his songs to me! Handsome, witty, playful, charming.
Spending all his time writing his songs and stories about the girl
he loves!’

As the Princess
took her hand away from the picture, Carey saw that it portrayed a
golden haired man, mounted on a chestnut horse and playing a
lute.

‘
This
troubadour was handsome enough,’ Carey said. ‘But unfortunately he
wasn’t very good at his endings!’

The Princess
giggled happily.

‘
Not
very good at his endings? That’s not unusual for a troubadour,
Carey! In fact, that means he’s a
true
troubadour!’

She wistfully
turned the pages of the book before her, revealing more and more of
the beautiful illustrations, this time of gloriously dressed ladies
walking alone in gardens or staring sadly out of
windows.

‘
Many
people of today read of these songs and think they end strangely,
or even that an essential part of it has been lost over the
centuries. Yet they simply don’t end the way we have come to expect
them to end, with everything neatly resolved and explained for us;
as if we ourselves have no imagination!’

‘
But
what kind of story is that?’ Carey complained. ‘Why tell a story if
you yourself can’t be bothered to work out how it ends? You’re
saying they expect the reader to come up with their own
ending?’

‘
And
why not? He’s singing his love song to his beloved; and so only she
can decide how it will end – happily or miserably! Only she has the
key to unlock the ending he desires! Don’t you think that’s so
wonderfully romantic, Carey?’

She moved
towards the window, staring out of it as wistfully as any of the
ladies portrayed in the book’s illustrations.

‘
Why
can’t that happen to
me
, Carey? Why can’t it happen for
real? Why can’t
I
have a troubadour who seeks
my
love?’

Carey realised
she should tell the Princess a little more about the
troubadour.

‘
But
you’re–’

‘
Yes,
yes, I know what you’re about to say; but I’m being selfish!’ the
Princess suddenly declared, excitedly whirling away from the
window. ‘So locked up in my own selfishness that I’m not thinking
of the sadness of this real troubadour, who’s hopelessly waiting
for his beloved to respond to his verses! I wonder who she is. I
wonder how she’ll respond. Poor man; to love her so and not know if
she returns his love!’

Carey had to
stop herself from smiling. The Princess sounded just like the
troubadour, with her romantic ideals, the way she talked of love as
if it were all some elaborate game.

‘
Well, I’m not sure if it’s really for me to say, Princess;
only you could answer your question, I suppose.’

‘
Me?
Why me? Do I know her?’

She rushed
towards one of the windows overlooking the town.

‘
Is
it one of the girls in town? How wonderful! Perhaps I could
persuade her to make this dear troubadour happy, do you think? I
could offer to support their marriage; with flowers and a carriage
for their wedding, a pretty little cottage for them to live
in!’

Looking away
from the window, the Princess noticed Carey’s
embarrassment.

‘
Carey? Is there something you’re not telling me?’

‘
The
girl
does
live in town…’