Tatterhood (8 page)

But the girl was as silent as ever.

Then the troll clean forgot about keeping her sweet. He laid into the straw girl with his boots till the stubble flew; and when he saw the clouds of straw and put one and one together, he lost his temper so badly he almost burst. He went raging through his halls and caverns – crashing and roaring, heaving and smashing – hunting high and low for the girl. Eventually he reached the cellar. There they were, both of the sisters – gone as if they'd never been.

‘So, that's how it is, is it?' he shrieked. ‘She'll pay for this, she will, ungrateful wretch!'

And, without a thought for the short summer night, the hill-troll was out and on his way to the widder-woman's hut.

But the youngest daughter – home with her mother and sisters – had timed it well. No sooner was the troll within sight of the hovel, teeth bared and tail lashing, than the night was good as over. The sky brightened, gold rimmed the tops of the mountains and the troll had to get home again, as fast as he could, if he wanted to stay alive.

But even as he reached his mountain, the sun came up and shone on his face, sharp and strong, just as the girl had intended.

And so the hill-troll burst into smithereens.

As for his silver and gold – hidden away in his mountain halls – there's enough of it left for us all … if only we knew how to find it!

Well, there was a time – and there wasn't a time – and in that time there was a king. He had two daughters who were meaner than trolls, but his third daughter was as sweet as a sunny day, and for that reason everyone loved her.

She dreamt once, this girl, of a golden wreath, twined and twisted with buds and leaves and nuts and flowers so cleverly made it was hardly true – a golden wreath so rich and round that when she woke up and knew it was only a dream, the princess couldn't speak for disappointment.

And when she realised it would never be hers – dream thing that it was – she grew pale and trembling with wishing for what she couldn't have.

When the king heard she was grieving over a dream-wreath, he asked her how it looked and what its shape was. Then he had a paper wreath made which he sent out far and wide to see if anyone could come up with something like it.

Wonder-wreaths and marvels of every kind were delivered to the king, but the princess tossed them aside. No wreath could ever match the one she'd seen in her dream.

But one day, as she was wandering in the woods near her home, she saw a whitebear through the trees, frisking and frolicking with the very wreath of her desires – tossing and tumbling it between his heavy paws.

‘Your wreath,' she said to the bear, ‘I'd like to buy it from you.'

‘You can have it,' said the bear, ‘for the right price.'

‘Name it,' said the princess.

‘You can have it in exchange for the one who wants it most,' the bear said.

I'd pay with my life
, thought the princess to herself,
though my life's worth nothing without it
, while to the whitebear she said, ‘It makes no difference to me.'

So they agreed that the whitebear would come to the king's house in three days time and – as his fee for the wreath – fetch the one who wanted it most.

When the king heard of his girl's bargain he was not alarmed – in fact, he was secretly pleased. With two mean daughters on his hands, he thought he might have found a chance to be rid of at least one of them.

So, when the whitebear arrived as promised on the Thursday night, the king sent out his eldest daughter – sour as a troll-hag and crankier than a cornered shrew – because she was the one he could easiest do without. The whitebear handed over the wreath, took the princess on his back and loped off with her.

When they had travelled far, and further than far, the whitebear said, ‘Tell me, have you ever ridden so smooth, or seen so fine a view, as you now do from my back?'

‘No,' said the eldest princess.

‘Then you're not the right one,' said the bear, and he shook her from his shoulders and sent her home.

The following Thursday the bear returned. This time the king sent out his next eldest daughter – spitfire that she was – and the whitebear took her on his back and lumbered off into the evening. When they had travelled far and further than far, he asked her, ‘Have you ever ridden so smooth, or seen so fine a view, as you now do?'

‘No,' said the second princess.

‘Then you're not the right one, either,' said the whitebear, and setting her on her own two feet, he left her to get home as best she could.

The third Thursday evening he came again, and this time the king had no choice. Out went his youngest daughter, after all, to fulfil the bargain she had made.

The bear took her on his back and together they went – far and further than far, deep into a wilderness of forest and cliffs – and when they gone so far and so deep that the princess didn't think they could get any further, he asked her, as he had asked the others, whether she had ever sat smoother or seen finer.

‘When I sat in my mother's womb I sat smoother,' said the youngest princess, ‘and when I looked out through my mother's eyes, I saw clearer.'

‘Then you're the right one,' he said and, passing through a gorge, carried her up to a castle so fine that her father's home seemed shabby by comparison.

And there the princess lived, both idle and grand. She had nothing in the world to do but sit with her hands folded and, from time to time, see that the fire stayed lit.

By day she sat alone. She saw no one and said nothing. But at night – when all was dark in the lampless castle and she couldn't see past her own nose – the bear came home and stayed with her. And though by day he was a lumbering shaggy beast, by night he seemed and felt and behaved so human-like that she could almost have believed he was a man.

And so it went for three years. If all had gone well, the princess might have been content. But when, every year, she gave birth to a baby girl, the whitebear came in, took it from its cradle and – with neither apology nor explanation – carried it away.

The princess grew thin and trembling. In the end, she couldn't stand it any longer – not the daytime silence, not the night-time dark, and not the empty cradles.

‘If I don't have some human company soon,' she said one evening, I'll go mad. Let me pay a visit to my parents.'

The whitebear didn't seem to mind, but before she went she had to promise him two things. ‘By all means listen to the words of your father,' said the whitebear in the dark, ‘but, whatever you do, ignore your mother's advice.'

The king's daughter promised. She went home and got human company by the cartload, but when she was alone with her parents at last, her worries came bursting out. She told them what went on by day, and what went on at night, and what happened every year to her baby girls. And she told them she was so confused she could no longer tell up from down – let alone man from beast.

Well, her mother straight away fetched her a candle to take back to the castle, so that she could light up that lampless place, and maybe even see what the bear looked like by night. And though her father warned it would do more harm than good, the princess took the candle with her when she left.

The first thing she did on arriving home was to light the candle and peep in on the whitebear where he slept. Drawing her hand back from the flame, she let the candlelight fall on him. What she saw made her heart stand still.

There, where there should have been a bristled beast, lay a prince so handsome, so strong, so golden bright and gleaming, that she could only gape. But as she leant closer in admiration, a drop of wax dripped from the candle, fell on his forehead and woke him up.

‘What have you done?' he cried. ‘If you had only held out! There wasn't more than a month to go, and I would have been released from my enchantment. But it's all over now. I have no choice but to marry the troll-hag who transformed me.'

The princess argued and bargained. She begged him not to go. She insisted he think of another way. She demanded he betray the troll-hag. But there was no question about it. He had to go, and go he would.

‘Then I'll go with you,' she said.

‘That's impossible,' the prince replied. He turned to leave, and as he did he regained his bear form.

But the princess refused to be left behind. She grabbed at his shaggy pelt, vaulted herself onto his back and clung to him, digging her fingers deep into his fur. Then off they went at high speed – over hill and dale, through grove and coppice, down cliff and scree – with the whitebear not once breaking pace, nor ever skirting the thorns and bushes that stood in their way.

It wasn't long before the princess's clothes were ragged, and her legs torn and bleeding. By midnight she was so deadly tired that she could barely hang on. Gradually, as the bear loped onwards, she loosed her grip, then nodded, sagged and drooped. Finally, in a faint, she slid from the whiteheads back – and he went on without her, leaving her in a tangle on the mossy ground.

When the princess woke she was alone, with no way of knowing which way to go in the dim dark forest. So she took her chance and followed her nose, and before long came to a hut where she discovered a little girl living with an aunt.

‘Have you seen anything of a whitebear?' the princess asked them.

‘He came here early this morning,' the aunt said, ‘with a gift for the girl. But he was in a great hurry, and you'll never catch him.'

Meanwhile, the little girl was skipping about, amusing herself with a pair of golden shears. They weren't ordinary shears, but the sort that produced lengths of silk and velvet whenever she clipped at the air.

‘Poor, poor princess,' sang the child as she played, ‘travelling such wide and weary ways. Surely she could do more with these scissors than I?' And, with her aunt's permission, she gave them to the princess.

The princess headed off into the forest again, following her nose, and she travelled all night until she came upon another little girl, smaller than the first, living in a hut with her aunt.

‘Good day,' said the princess. ‘Have you seen anything of a whitebear?'

‘Is he yours to be chasing, perhaps?' asked the woman, and when the princess said he certainly was, the woman added, ‘Ah well. He dropped by yesterday with a gift for the child, but carried on too fast for you to be catching him.'

Meanwhile, the child was on the floor, toying with a flask which, when it was tipped up, poured out all the drink in the world, and more.

‘Poor, poor princess,' sang the child, ‘travelling such wide and weary ways. Surely she can find more use for this flask than I.'

And, after begging permission, she gave the flask to the king's daughter, who took it and went on her way, following her nose through the same dark forest. On the third morning she came to yet another hut, and was greeted by a baby girl and her aunt.

‘Good day,' said the king's daughter.

‘Good day again,' said the woman.

‘Have you seen anything of the whitebear?'

‘Maybe it was you who should have had him?'

‘That is certainly so.'

‘He came by here yesterday evening,' said the woman, ‘with a gift for the baby. But he went on too fast for you to be catching him.'

Meanwhile, the little girl was crawling about and tangling with a cloth which, when told, would spread itself flat and produce all manner of good food.

‘Poor, poor princess,' sang the child, ‘travelling such wide and weary ways. Surely she could make better use of this cloth than I.'

So the king's daughter was given the cloth as well and she travelled on, far and further than far – following her nose through the darkness of the same dank forest.

At last she came to a mountain, as steep as a wall, and so high and wide that the princess could see no end to it. There was a hut nearby and when she went in, the first thing she said was, ‘Have you seen the whitebear travelling this way?'

‘Perhaps it is you who should have had him?' said the woman.

‘It certainly is.'

‘He went up the mountain here, three days ago. But, short of flying, you'll never get up there yourself.'

Well, this cottage was full of children, with toddlers hanging from their mother's skirt, and the mother herself stood there stirring a pot full of pebbles bubbling on the stove.

‘What might those be good for?' the king's daughter asked.

‘It's so painful to hear the children shrieking for food,' the woman said, ‘when I've nothing to give them. So I set this to bubbling and tell them it's apples and that they'll soon be cooked. It keeps them content for a while.'

Well, the princess brought out her cloth and her flask, and when the children were fed and content, she set to making clothes for them – snipping and snapping them out of the air with her golden shears.