Once upon a time...

As far away as nowhere and as long ago as nevermore, there lived a woodcutter and his wife. They lived in a comfortable cottage on the edge of a deep dark forest, and together they felt they had everything they could ever want. Well, almost everything - the woodcutter and his wife had five daughters, who were at the same time the treasure and bane of their lives. For the witch who lived on the other side of the woodcutter's kitchen garden had wrought a terrible curse: she decreed that, unless one of these daughters were to be married within the next twelvemonth, the woodcutter's wife should be turned into a toad. The thought of becoming a toad was terribly distressing, so the woodcutter's wife made it her sole purpose in life to find husbands for her daughters. So focused was she on this single task that she forgot several other things.

Most annoying to her husband was that she forgot to perform all of her daily chores; however, the woodcutter remembered how he had managed while he was still a bachelor, and he did a fairly good job of cleaning the cottage and keeping up with the laundry. (It was his own fault if he didn't remember to separate colors and whites in the wash, but we shall not laugh at him for this - having to wear a pink tunic which used to be white while he was cutting wood in the deep dark forest is punishment enough.)

The next thing the woodcutter's wife forgot was that the witch who lived next door wasn't a witch at all; in fact, it was her sister. The woodcutter only referred to her as "the witch" because she had a cackling laugh which got on his nerves, and she tended to dress all in black. Besides, every self-respecting woodcutter who lives in a comfortable cottage on the edge of a deep dark forest ought to have a witch next door if he can possibly manage it, and his wife's sister was the only available neighbor who came close to fitting the description.

The last thing the woodcutter's wife forgot was that the curse wasn't really a curse. It wasn't even an omen, a bit of soothsaying, or a friendly warning - instead it was just a shred of local gossip that had been exaggerated out of all proportion, but which had been repeated so many times that it had acquired an air of truth. Besides, every quaint little village which can boast a woodcutter's cottage on the edge of a deep dark forest - and a witch (sort of) next door to said woodcutter - really ought to have a terrible curse cast on one of its inhabitants, if it can possibly be arranged.

However, even if her sister of the woodcutter's wife had been a witch (instead of just sounding like one when she laughed and having a pale complexion that actually made her look good in black), the woodcutter's wife would have had nothing to fear: considering how much trouble the poor woman had while she was making bread and beer, it wasn't likely that she would be successful at mixing up a cauldron of spells.

Nevertheless, the woodcutter's wife was convinced that the curse was real, and at times it made her so distraught that she felt she might as well go down to the mill pond to pick out a nice lily pad under which she might like to live. And what did she do if she were particularly upset that potential sons-in-law weren't appearing out of the ether to knock on her front door? Well, then she would complain of how terribly this curse was affecting her nerves, and beg her daughters to keep her well supplied with flies and perhaps the occasional grasshopper when she was turned into a toad, for she was certain that with webbed toes she would never be able to look after herself properly.

But was the plight of the woodcutter's wife so desperate? Were her daughters so ugly that no man would ever look at them? If they were very unlucky, they might have had, perhaps, only one eye in the middle of their foreheads. However, even a girl with one eye in the middle of her forehead could make some farmer a good wife, if she had an excellent hand with a needle or if she had a family secret for cheesemaking - and if the farmer wasn't too particular about his wife's looks.

However, the woodcutter's five daughters all had the proper number of eyes, so obviously it was something else which was distressing the woodcutter's wife. In short, the good woman was determined not only that at least one of her daughters should marry (you see, she is improving upon the curse already), but also that they should marry well. No ordinary miller or blacksmith would do for her girls, no sir! Their husbands must be kings - or perhaps a prince if the king was already married - oh, very well, maybe a sorcerer if princes were scarce. And kings, princes, and sorcerers certainly were scarce in the woodcutter's neighborhood, so now you may begin to understand the dilemma under which the woodcutter's wife was suffering.

And in the meantime, while the woodcutter's wife was working herself into such a state over this nonexistent curse, were the five daughters who were so central to its completion at all affected? Not a bit. They simply went on about their usual tasks, helping their father with his woodcutting, keeping the cottage in order, and making their mother soothing cups of chamomile tea if she let her fears run away with her.

Now, it may not be terribly important to the course of this tale for you to know how the woodcutter's five daughters came by their names, but you will have to be introduced to them at some point, and it will give your storyteller something to do. Daughters in most tales are named by fairy godmothers who appear out of nowhere in a puff of smoke or a shower of stars, but in this particular village, fairy godmothers were about as common as witches, kings, princes, and sorcerers. In other words, there weren't any to be had. So, the woodcutter took it upon himself to name his daughters when they were born (the woodcutter's wife being far too tired after her labor to assist).

When the first daughter was placed in her father's arms, she snuggled in without any crying whatsoever and promptly fell asleep, so the woodcutter named her Serenity. The second daughter cried heartily at first, but as soon as her father picked her up, she stopped and gave him an amazingly radiant smile instead; she was named Beauty. (The fond father was bewitched by a tiny dimple on the infant's cheek - we shall let that be his excuse for such an appropriate, but unoriginal, name.) The third daughter, rather than cry properly, could only manage a series of hiccuping whimpers, and she had a puzzled frown on her face when her father leaned over the cradle; she was therefore called Solemnity.

The fourth daughter absolutely refused to do anything which might give her father a clue to her personality, so the poor thing suffered under the title of "Baby" until the next child arrived. The woodcutter's wife was by now quite used to childbirth, and she insisted on holding the little girl herself; and whether from being willful or from being colicky, the baby squirmed and fussed until her mother was quite at her wits' end. The woodcutter promptly named her Caprice. The fourth daughter soon discovered that the best way to get attention from her parents was to copy whatever her younger sister did, so she was finally called Echo.

And the daughters grew up to match their names well, either to please their father, whom they loved, or to show what an excellent judge of character a humble woodcutter could be.

One day, it happened that Serenity and Beauty were in the garden, tending their rosebushes. Enough time had passed since their naming (as I have described it previously) that the two had grown up to become very beautiful young ladies indeed. And if, by some coincidence, they happened to resemble their rosebushes, well, that is the way of these tales, isn't it?

The bush which Serenity was watering so carefully was a climbing rose, with long elegant canes, glossy green leaves, and delicate white blossoms with the faintest blush at their center. When the flowers were woven into a wreath, there was nothing that could crown Serenity's golden hair half so well; and her slender white hands suffered nary a scratch when it came time for pruning, for not a single thorn could be found on the entire plant. The creamy petals just matched her complexion, which resembled ivory lit by candlelight (or so said the miller's son, in a fit of poetic inspiration).

Beauty's rosebush was a smaller, hardy plant, whose dark green leaves looked jagged about the edges but when touched were as soft as velvet. The bush had blooms the size of teacups, each one a vibrant scarlet. They would stay tightly furled at first, but then all at once - and always when you weren't looking - they would open wide to rejoice in the sun and raindrops that bathed them. The stems had the occasional thorn hidden behind the leaves, which often scratched the unwary; however, if you were careful, you could handle the cut flowers without fear. The rich petals looked very handsome indeed when Beauty would tuck a flower behind her ear to hold back her chestnut hair.

Your storyteller will not trouble to describe the other daughters in terms of their gardening efforts. Solemnity was in charge of the vegetables, and the best thing she ever grew was a squash that took first prize at the village fair one year. And as for Echo and Caprice, their sisters had hurriedly put them in charge of housekeeping, before they managed to kill or trample every green thing in the gardens - enduring dusty furniture and the occasional smear on a windowpane was infinitely preferable to having no food put by for the winter!

So, as I was saying, one day it happened that Serenity and Beauty were outside tending their rosebushes. It was a bright summer day, with birds singing and bees humming, and just warm enough to bring a becoming flush to the girls' faces. All of a sudden, they looked up from their work, because they heard the steady clip-clop-clip-clop of a horse coming along the road. None of their neighbors owned anything grander than a plow horse, so they were intrigued by the fine ringing sound the horseshoes made on the gravel, and they expected to see something unusual.

Unusual indeed: for there was a prince on a white charger riding up their lane. Who knew how he had come there, but come he had, and a long way, too, for he looked rather hot and thirsty. In fact, when he saw the two girls and came even with their gate, he stopped his horse and addressed them very prettily, asking if he could have a drink of water from their well. Beauty went to fetch it, leaving her sister to admire the gentleman, who had hair as golden and eyes as blue as her own. By the time Beauty returned with a brimming mug of cool water, Serenity had learned that his name was Prince Cheerful, and he was on his way to the neighboring kingdom, to pay a visit to the ruler there.

Beauty liked the young prince very much; he certainly had a happy disposition, his silks and satins displayed his figure to excellent advantage, and he seemed to approve of everything he had seen in their little village, not at all minding the wrong turning which had removed him from the high road and brought him here instead. (Actually, he had been a little cross about the mistake before now, but that was all forgotten when he saw the sun shining on Serenity's hair.) Serenity thought she had never seen a man so handsome, and she was almost too overcome to look at him directly, instead directing her conversation to the horse while she rubbed its nose and fed it an apple she happened to have in her pocket. When she did dare to look into the prince's face, it was with the most charming blush on her face, making her look (if such a thing were possible) even more beautiful than she already was.

Prince Cheerful was utterly captivated. Beauty was very agreeable, of course, but Serenity outshone the sun itself. (The flights of hyperbole to which he was transported may show you how much he was affected.) Greatly daring, he begged a rose of her before he left. Serenity, feeling she could refuse him nothing, cut a perfect half-open flower from her bush with the white roses and shyly handed it to him. Prince Cheerful inhaled the delightful fragrance, feeling like a man drunk on the finest Rhenish or Tokay, and carefully placed the rose in the buttonhole of his doublet. He gave Serenity a last lingering look before he had to leave and said that he hoped the flower would bloom until he could return to collect another, because he was certain he would find nothing else so lovely in all his travels.

At length, Prince Cheerful rode away, since he wanted to be sure of reaching the neighboring kingdom before nightfall. The two sisters stood at the gate and watched him go, their arms around each other's waist. Serenity sighed deeply and informed her sister that no man on earth could come so near perfection as the prince who had just departed. Beauty laughed and gave her sister a hug, saying with a flash of mischief in her green eyes that he seemed sensible enough, but she hoped he had a competent staff of servants to look after him, if he made a habit of swooning about in that manner. With that, the two went inside to continue their round of daily chores.

If they had looked at the cottage more closely before they entered, they would have noticed that the curtains in the sitting room window were twitching in a mysterious way. The woodcutter's wife had seen the entire encounter from her hiding place and was like to burst with excitement. A prince on a white horse! Oh, what a wonderful thing for her girls! She would have to scold Serenity, however, for not managing to get a lock of his hair, or some other personal item, which she could have taken to the witch next door (who wasn't a witch, but the woodcutter's wife had forgotten that). The witch could then have made it up into a love potion, which Serenity could have drunk, making sure the prince would return and marry her - which would prevent the woodcutter's wife from being turned into a toad! Still, the whole situation was looking more promising than it had in a long time.

(c) 1998
By Liz McKenna
All Rights Reserved
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