Awakening

(every once in a while you have to die, so that you can take note of the obvious)

I’m an average princess, with a rebel soul. In other words, I’d rather spend the afternoon galloping on the back of my favourite stallion, flying freely in the fresh, pine-scented wind, than sit around in a tulle dress and with a fake smile sip tea in drawing rooms, or damage my eyesight with something as dull as embroidering trashy flowers on handkerchiefs.

My aunt, the queen, doesn’t approve of my un-princess-like behaviour. Our agreement, reached at the onset of what she calls ‘my licentious lifestyle’, stipulates: learn and experience, there are no boundaries; however, when you reach the age of twenty you’ll start living like a proper grown-up woman, and your behaviour will pledge that when the time comes you’ll be my worthy heir as the ruler of your country. Unfortunately, the time has now come.

A prince has singled me out as his companion. I have received too good an education to object. He’s about to publicly ask for my hand today, in the throne room.

– The key is not to think! Get it over with as soon as possible, and then it won’t hurt – I keep saying to myself, while a servant is styling my tresses into a fetching hairdo.

The dress lined up for this glorious occasion is laid out on my blue-silk-draped bed. It’s a heavy, raven-black velvet dress with long sleeves and a low cut bodice. It has a tiered skirt, the top layer covering three quarters of the blood-red underskirt. Both the neckline and waistline are embellished with purple piping. This is my favourite.

As soon as the queen enters my room and catches a glimpse of the dress, she indignantly exclaims:

– But my dear, one doesn’t wear black for such occasions. Don’t forget your diamond necklace! Your appearance should give away who you are.

– I don’t know who I am – I say to myself.

I obey her, although this whole ceremony is torture to me. The black dress gives way to a white one, and my hair is arranged in sweet curls. I transform into a still-life bride, as if emerging from a romantic painting. I look at myself in the mirror, but all I can see is a strange woman whose face happens to resemble mine. What has become of my courage?

The throne room is chock-a-block with local nobility, and they all pretend that this celebration is about me. The prince is standing right by the throne, waiting. I march in to the sound of solemn trombone tones, shadowing my aunt as if I were guest of honour at my own wedding ceremony. This is pure protocol, nothing else.

My prince is a proper fairy-tale hero: blond locks, blue eyes, determined yet smooth-shaven chin, endowed with a body and posture fit for a knight. Like me, he is wearing white; only his waistcoat, decorated with golden buttons, has a hint of light blue.

– You are amazingly beautiful! – the prince says, with adoring eyes. What more could a woman wish for?

Everyone is really pleased, except for me. My own pretence is getting on my nerves: the fact that I allow the prince, despite my aversion, to touch me while he’s asking me for a dance. As we waltz in the sparkling prison of the glamorous chandeliers, it seems as if the dress I’m wearing might suddenly and alarmingly tighten and shrink around me. It constricts my chest, so I can barely breathe. I feel dizzy; the alarmed prince reacts by grabbing my waist with both hands so I can’t fall over.

– I’m not feeling well – I heave a sigh, and stumble over to the nearest seat.

I’m steadily panting for breath as I rest on a red velvet pouffe. My prince gallantly offers to fetch me a glass of wine. I take advantage of his kindness and accept, so I can be on my own for a few minutes.

I glance at the merry guests: chaotic razzmatazz, exuberant laughter and feigned happiness all round. I am in a daze at this disgusting sight and a voice in my head alerts me:

– Run while you can!

I scan the crowded room in search of the prince. He’s standing by a wide-open balcony door, chatting to a number of country gents, all portly and wearing buckled shoes.

– You must run away from here at once!

The oak door sluggishly shuts behind me. I lean my back against it, holding the handle with both hands. Melting candles flicker in the baroque sconce mounted on the green wall, and the hot wax trickles down to the floor. I must hurry up before someone notices my absence. I heatedly tear the white dress off and step over it. Shackles don’t deserve respect. I don my black attire and undo my curls so my hair can dangle over my shoulders in careless waves.

I quietly slip out onto the secret spiral staircase behind the wardrobe. The faint light seeping through the hand-sized window carved into the stone wall tells me that in the meantime evening has come. I run through the deserted servants’ quarter in full gaze of the kitchen staff looking on in awe, and then, avoiding the guards, sneak out of the castle, unnoticed, through the mouldy cellar tunnel. Inside, the lavish celebration continues without me.

—

Once I make it to the magic forest, I finally feel safe. I don’t think, just run, as far away from people, from my life, from myself, as possible. It’s a dark night; only the moon is shining. In my black dress I blend into the shadow of bushes. Like a voiceless deer I scamper among the thickets of sky-high trees, and my accomplices the owls know not to follow, whistling in my footsteps. I slow down; I would like to sense the stillness of the night as the shadowy mist surrounds me and echoes my thoughts. Fireflies flash in the violet air, grass is softly stirring at the roots of slim fir trees. The invisible momentum of the night’s conducting baton brings forth the mysterious tune of nature. The seemingly sleeping world is watching, wide awake and waiting. I close my eyes and immerse myself in the gentle waves of this sublime melody.

In no time, I become aware of hoofbeats and shouting in the distance. Startled, I hasten to look around, not knowing where the sound is travelling from. They have noticed that I have fled and now are coming to get me! Fear spreads in my veins, and I start running headlong, fleeing from the danger approaching at breakneck speed. The hemline of my skirt sparkles as it brushes the undergrowth. I keep changing direction at random, to prevent unwanted destiny gaining on me. Though the shouting is fading, I carry on running faster and faster. My dishevelled hair floats in the air like a dark cloak.

All of a sudden there are fewer trees, and I arrive at a tiny, round clearing. The fir trees form a ring of tall columns, with a sea of waist-high grass in the middle and tiny topknot-shaped buds at the tip of each and every thin blade of grass. The sounds are nearing again.

My feet put down roots in the middle of the forest glade, and I anxiously check out the shadows to assess which direction my brave prince might emerge from. Every inch of my body refutes the idea that I should return to the castle, but I’m afraid that my open-air sanctuary is no adequate shelter.

– Merciful death, free me, I beg you! – I lift my palms in prayer and beseech the cloudless evening sky.

A star feels sorry for me and falls. As it touches the leaves of grass, the spot of light keeps growing until the star gives birth to a crystal bubble. I watch curiously as it spreads out and goes on to soar higher and higher, marking a wound of light on the dark body of the night. Next, the bubble changes into a grid shape made up of various spots of light, and the spots start moving, conjuring up a figure of sorts in the air in front of me. This slowly morphs into a fairy’s body. A head-to-toe purple creature with pointy ears and butterfly wings stares back at me, and in her dark eyes I glance at my very own image. Purple fairy dust pours out of her entire body, making her aura even more dream-like. Her creepily long and pointy fingers are joined to a palm with a silver sheen. She raises a hand to reveal an apple.

– This is your freedom. If you eat it, you’ll die – her voice is sweet as honey, while her thorny glance flickers between the apple and me.

The solution is within reach, but is it worth giving up a lifetime of captivity for the sake of the infinite? At this point, the prince calls my name. I turn around to see if he has indeed caught up with me, but it’s only the rough tree trunks that reverberate with sound.

– You must decide! – the fairy tells me.

There’s no room for hesitation. I know what I don’t want. I reach for the apple with my left hand. It’s round, shiny, dark red, flawless and beautiful. I look at it for a while, coyly smoothing it to feel its slippery surface. Meanwhile, the fairy raises her purple eyebrows and stares at me with wide, glittering eyes. I start gobbling up the apple, hoping that it will have the desired effect. It’s juicy and sweet, its taste a genuine salvation for me, starving for death.

The sounds are getting louder. The prince is approaching.

The just-eaten apple turns into liquid poison, and fills every living nook and cranny of my body to the brim. It’s an opium with the promise of such a deep sleep that it permits no further awakening. I’m suddenly choking, and my lungs sink. I let the fully chewed apple core drop to the floor and I reach to my chest, and then my heart, which is noticeably slowing down with every consecutive breath. I hear my heartbeat, the agonizing whimper of my soul, as it’s stuck inside, unable to break free. The haughty fairy smiles, flashing her needle-sharp, snow-white teeth. As I look at her I stagger and panic: this is false freedom. My heart takes a deep beat and stops, and I languidly collapse. As I fall to the ground headfirst, all the lights go out among the leaves of grass in the forest glade, and the fairy turns into a swirling illusion and vanishes.

—

The horse starts and comes to a halt, neighing at the sight of the obstacle lying in the grass. The prince hauls on the reins, then looks over the horse’s bristly mane to check what has frightened the animal. Something black is protruding from the gently swaying, soft grass. As the faint moonlight shines on the face, the prince cries out:

– Good God, it’s the princess!

He rapidly jumps off the horse, the sole of his boots making a slippery splash as they hit the ground. He runs to the girl and kneels down. Fearing the worst, he feels the face and chest of the princess. Her body is stiff, the porcelain face fixed in a glassy gaze that can only stare at a single spot.

– Wake up, my darling! What happened to you? – he lifts the girl’s neck, then shakes it gently a few times, in vain.

– Please don’t! – he clasps her in his arms, smells her hair, but her body can only move together with his, as if it were a puppet on a string.

The prince unexpectedly raises his head:

– The kiss!

He lowers the girl’s chest a little, and the lifeless head falls backwards. The prince clutches her thick hair from the back, and, lifting her head, kisses her gently. The princess doesn’t budge.

– Look at me! The kiss of love! This has to awaken you!

The prince has another go; their lips lock, yet the girl keeps looking into the sightless nothingness. The prince gives up, and with eyes full of tears visualizes his greatest role. As he closes the princess’s eyes, he imagines the sublime funeral, the way he will stand with a broken heart and tearful eyes by the love of his life’s open glass coffin, and as a suffering hero, pledge to remain forever single in memory of his beloved. He gets totally lost in this timely image, and fails to notice that he isn’t alone.

Behind him, the wailing shadows of the trees move and a figure steps out from this dark world. His weather-beaten outfit has faded into grey, and the toecaps of his boots are covered in the mud of pilgrimages. His dew-drenched black hair hangs in front of his eyes, and the endless lines on his strict face conjure up the silent sadness of times past. His deep, dark countenance gains a sinister gleam in the silver light of the moon. He watches the prince bending over the corpse. When the prince realizes he is there he looks up:

– Who are you? – he asks, putting the princess’s body down so that it is yet again hidden in the grass.

The man doesn’t respond, but approaches at a slow and gentle pace. The kneeling prince looks at him and says:

– She was my bride-to-be. She’s dead.

The man stares long and hard at the princess, scrutinizing the girl’s sleeping thoughts. He then lowers himself on one knee, places his hand on the princess’s chest, closes his eyes and sighs. Before long he looks at the prince, and then back at the girl again.

The prince continues to weigh up the stranger with a sceptical look. The man removes his hand from the girl’s chest, and at lightning speed produces a wicked dagger from the leg of one of his worn-out boots. Without uttering a single word, he thrusts it straight into the heart of the princess. The blade flashes briefly and sinks up to the hilt into the bloodless flesh. The prince recoils in horror:

– What are you doing? Have you completely lost your mind?

The man keeps holding on tightly to the knife, as if concerned that, without enough brute force, the weapon might start moving at random. He continues to study the girl’s face closely, then says in a soft voice:

– I’m just making her free.

The prince frowns, showing that he doesn’t understand, but then a tiny spark of recognition lightens his sweaty face, and his fear is instantly frozen in his mind. The princess is lying still, with a dagger planted into her chest through her ripped dress.

Without looking at the prince, the man asks:

– What do you fear most: that you will lose her, or that she hasn’t really died?

No response.

– Are you scared? You do know the answer to this question. You’re all alike. You are afraid, which is why you are in denial – his voice is loaded with contempt rooted in a sense of superiority, and his words, born out of pity, compose a melody. The triangle of a vain and cowardly prince, a mysterious person conducting the ordeal of the bier, and a deceased princess. Age-old, genuine wisdom triumphs over stereotypical human habits.

Suddenly, a sweet-smelling purple smoke appears from the wound, and the cut makes a sizzling sound. The girl’s chest rises and then sinks, and the dagger-encased heart starts beating anew.

– Impossible! – the prince cries out, eyes wide open.

The smoke is getting denser and already covers the man’s face, yet he keeps on holding the protruding knife handle. A tar-like substance spurts out from the opening, leaks onto the princess’s dress and arm, and soils the man’s boots. The dagger is heating up.

– Come on! – the man cries out, totally focused on the evenly breathing girl.

All of a sudden the princess opens her eyes, tears blended with tar trickling down her face. She looks at the man. She slowly raises a hand, unsteady, like someone waking up from a long sleep. She reaches out to the man, aiming to touch his face, but he grabs her wrist and holds her back. He comes close up to her and stares into her eyes, and the second he glimpses the spark of new life in them, he pulls the dagger out of her heart. The princess sighs with relief, unexpectedly pushes her head back, lifts her chest, and stiffens her back, and through the incision an incubus moulded from tar and smoke appears. The incubus carves its claws into the girl, yet as soon as it notices the dark man, it lets out a shrill cry and shoots up to the starry sky and disperses among the gaps between the foliage. The man glances at the wound as it heals by itself.

—

I find it cumbersome to sit up. I spot a tear on my dress, right above my heart, and notice that there is a sticky substance on my arm. Slightly further off, on my right, a horrified prince is crouching down. I remember it all.

Warm fingers touch my cheek. I turn my head, and he’s kneeling by my side. He caresses me with a grave face, and we take our time looking at each other.

– Thank you – I whisper, eyes closed, as I prepare to kiss him out of gratitude. I lean in, moving towards his lips, but he grabs my face with both hands and stops me in my tracks.

– I didn’t come so you could find salvation through me. I gave you what you wanted. You need to manage on your own from now on.

He lets go of my face, helps me to my feet, and hands over the dagger that he has only recently thrust into my heart. Its blade is still tinted by lukewarm, dark bloodstains.

– You’re free – he says gently, and then disappears quietly into the grey of the dawn that has just crept in among the trees.

– You died, I’ve seen it! Witchcraft! – the prince shrieks, pointing at me with trembling fingers.

– This is what turns brides into charlatans – I cry out and head towards him, dagger in hand. He looks at me as scared as if he’s just seen a ghost. He falls back and propels himself across the grass, using his hands, and backing off until he reaches a nearby tree trunk. I go up to him.

– Your princess is dead.

I stroll to the peacefully grazing horse. I remove the prince’s embroidered satchel from the saddle and throw it at his feet. The leather string comes untied, and a few golden coins roll out into the damp grass. I stick the dagger where the satchel has just been hanging. I mount the horse. The gust of daybreak creases my skirt and messes up my hair; like me, it is looking forward to the imminent ride. I set off, leaving the prince to his own devilish devices.

The sound of a galloping horse fades into the distance, and the rising sun chases all shadows far away.

—

That night I died, and the world changed. I knew that I wouldn’t be in need of blond princes and fortresses with strong walls to protect me. Nothing can protect you from yourself. Your life begins when you become aware of this.