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I’m tying the leaves so they won’t come down

Once upon a time, long, long ago, in a kingdom far, far away, there lived a king and queen. Actually, it wasn’t all that long ago. In fact, since this is my diary, these events only happened a few hours – or at most, a few days ago. And the kingdom is my kingdom, so it isn’t all that far away. And Mum and Dad don’t really come into the picture much, since they’re always busy with running things and my brothers and I are all pretty much raised by our tutors and (the younger ones, anyway) our nurses. I only start my diary this way because, well, it’s the way diaries in fairy-tale-age kingdoms are supposed to start. Or is that just the storyteller’s tales? Oh well. I’ve started it this way, and since the ink is already dry, it’s too late to take it back.

Where does one start a diary? I suppose a general introduction is proper. I am, as you might have already guessed, a prince. I am, in fact, the fifth son of seven. We are, in order: Rolf, Andrew, Philip, Arthur, Tamarin (that’s me), Peter, and Caleb. Now, in every fairy tale I’ve ever heard tell of, it’s the eldest prince, or the youngest, or the third that’s the special one; the rest of us kind of get left as numbers – fillers, to make the special prince’s place exist. Some might get a little miffed about that; I know Andrew does, a bit, being the second and just one place off from being the special one in either direction. But me, I like being the fifth. It means that I don’t have to worry about the same nonsense that Rolf and Philip and Caleb do. They’re expected to do great and wonderful things with their lives, like save princesses and slay dragons and giants and fight terrible battles and go on quests and (well, for Rolf at least) rule the kingdom when Mum and Dad decide to retire. And they’re always getting curses flung at them. We only just got Caleb back last week after his last stint in the pond. Honestly, can’t these witches find something other than frogs to turn people and princes into? Cay’s starting to look rather green even when he’s not under a curse, poor kid, and he’s only ten. Let’s see…Rolf spent most of his twenty-second year (and his birthday, poor sap) as a statue in some witch’s garden before some third son of a peasant rescued the princess he’d been after and de-statuified (is that even a word? My tutor would know, but I’m damned if I’m going to ask him for vocabulary help in my private diary. He’d turn it into an assignment, I’m sure of it.) As I say, this peasant boy rescued the princess and turned all of the statues back into flesh-and-blood princes again. Rolf was pretty embarrassed when he came home after that little stint, but Mum just welcomed him back with a hug and Dad mentioned, casually, over dinner, some rumor he’d heard about a giant laying waste to some kingdom that didn’t have any princes to defend it, and the possible hand of the king’s only daughter in marriage along with half the kingdom. Rolf was gone by the next morning. He missed out on the princess by a week (Prince Thomas, from two kingdoms over, got there first), but he had plenty of heroic adventures first and so he didn’t mind, much. That was years ago, though. Rolf is twenty-nine now, and he’s been married for two years. Some princess he rescued from a tower with no doors and no windows and again, can’t these sorceresses find something more original to hide their charges in? Like a pearl in the bottom of the sea, say, or, I don’t know, choose some pretty village girl to pick on for a change. What’s all the lure with princesses, anyway? The royal families are all so interbred it’s a miracle that second heads don’t pop up more often. Still, I suppose there are enough peasant lads getting roped into the gene pool that it offsets all the cousin and second-cousin marriages. And now Phil is getting hitched, next week, in fact. He’s glad that Caleb’s got back just in time to serve in his groomsman’s train; it’s always more impressive to see the seven of us together; we’re a pretty handsome-looking bunch, if I do say so myself. I don’t see where Philip gets off acting so proud and putting on airs, myself. I mean, since there are seven of us, the third position doesn’t really have any special significance any more, he’s just a space-saver, too, for Rolf and Caleb. Well, but he and Arthur are nearly seven years apart (there’s that darn seven again). For a long time, they thought that Phil was going to be the last child, the lucky third-and-youngest. They got used to spoiling him, and he got used to getting spoiled, so, well, what are you going to do? I think I might be more inclined to be nicer to him if I liked his bride-to-be a bit more, but she’s so empty-headed and, and boring. I mean, I’m only sixteen, but I know for a fact that if and when I ever get married it’ll be to somebody with a bit more to talk about than clothes and jewelry and what life was like before “princeykins” came to rescue her. The girl barely even knows what Philip’s name is. It’s always just, “Charming” this, and “Charming” that. It’s not even the family surname (Grandfather was a peasant, so the Charming last name ended with Grandma’s marriage. I never could understand why he didn’t take the royal last name, but I’m glad he didn’t. “Prince Ashwood” is much more distinguishing than “Prince Charming,” and more interesting, to boot).

I mean, sure, Mum and Dad hope that I’ll do more with my life than just be a palace fop, but the prerequisite for that job is necessarily a love for clothes, fashion and society. Nope, nuh-uh, and nada, not interested. Same goes for swordplay, archery, wrestling, and anything else involved with proving my mettle as a “man”. I’d rather be painting or sketching or writing, frankly. And since I’m the fifth son, not the first or last, I’m off the hook. No pressure to go questing, fighting, or otherwise risking my life in stupid conflicts that could usually be solved with a cool head and diplomacy, if the combatants would just pull their heads out of their armor long enough to realize that war is a stupid way to solve anything. Maybe I’ll go into politics.

Okay, so this isn’t a traditional diary because I’m not putting any dates on it or anything. As far as I’m concerned, it’s summer, and in summer, I refuse to worry about whether it’s the fortieth of Roptumber or whatever. Master Cornwall would probably have a very different opinion of it, but he’s never going to see this little book, so I, frankly, don’t give a rat’s a** about what he thinks. Right now, in fact, I’m sitting up in my little hiding place in the apple tree – the one with the branches that hang out over the garden wall. It’s pretty easy to climb, and it’s got these nice little branches that are shaped almost perfectly for a boy to sit on and lean back against the trunk, if he doesn’t mind sharing hip space with a couple of knots and twigs. Plus, and this is the best part, I can’t be seen from below, so I’m safe from prying eyes. On days like today, when it’s just too hot to be indoors studying, it’s the perfect place to play hooky. The breeze is certainly nice and refreshing, and later on this fall, there’ll be apples to snack on. Ideal.

Lately I’ve been feeling pretty stifled around the palace here. It’s like, everywhere I go, all I see is familiar twists and turns, the same old stone, the same old trees, the same tapestries, the same faces. I just keep feeling as if I have to get out of here, see something new, before I explode. I think this might be what Rolf always called his questing itch, only I have no desire to go around slashing at poor hapless dragons and I most certainly don’t intend to come back with some dim-witted, pretty-faced princess draped over my arm. Heck, even a short excursion down to the village would be enough of a change of pace for me.

……Okay, someone has hit me with a stupid stick, but hard. My apple tree has several sturdy branches just sticking out over the wall. Easy to drop down from, easy to climb up again, and no danger about being caught by the guards since our kingdom is peaceful and prosperous and has been ever since Grandfather kissed Grandmother and woke her from her enchanted sleep. We haven’t needed a single watchman since, at least not around the palace. So, as soon as I shimmy over the wall, I’m home free for the afternoon! Huzzah!

For the best little girl in the whole wide world...

They met often after that, and Nellie and Tam became fast friends. At first she was a little unnerved because he was a prince, but after he tugged her braids and taunted her until she ran after him in a towering fury, she got over it and treated him just like she did the other village boys. This is to say, they teased each other unmercifully, talked incessantly, and in unguarded moments one might catch the other studying her face. When Nellie finally got exasperated with this, Tam brought his sketchbook down from the palace and nervously showed her his work.

Profiles were his favorites, she could see that from the start. Everyone was featured, from his parents and brothers to the castle servants to the village people. She remarked on the surprising lack of courtiers' pictures. Given that he was surrounded by nobles all the time, why didn't he draw more of them?

"But they're boring to draw," he told her. "Every one of them tries so hard to be perfect that they all look exactly the same. It's the common people who are the interesting ones. They don't look like they've come out of a cookie cutter."

"They can't afford to," Nellie told him in a rather bitter voice. "Those nobles of yours tax us so that they can look the way they do; a lot of the time, there's not much left over for things that we need, much less friv-frivolous things like face paint and lace."

Tam smiled a little at the big word. He'd used the word a few days before and she'd asked what it meant. She did that a lot, and she had a keen mind that remembered both the word and the usage. He felt as proud as a teacher with a star pupil.

There was nothing he could say about what she'd said, though. Tam had started to borrow Andrew's old shirts to wear to the village, because all of his had some sign of wealth about them. It made everyone else uncomfortable to be reminded of the prince in their midst, and Tam's artist's spirit wanted nothing more than to blend into the crowd and watch the beauty of everyday living, a thing that was impossible in his royal garb. Their everyday hardships hadn't escaped him, and he started to notice things; how the nobles of his father's court disdained the very people whose sweat and blood had bought the clothing they wore, how the peasants toiled long and hard and how few of them hated the noble overlords - most just accepted it as the way things had always been and would always be. His sketches took on new life; when he drew the farmer laboring in the field, his very sweat seemed to create a halo around him. When he drew the market women, even their wrinkles and tanned faces took on a new beauty. The children at play all seemed to be trailing angel wings.

And his favorite subject became the blonde haired girl who had ushered this little lost princling into her world. He would sit and watch her, pencil in hand, as she climbed trees, waded in the creek, weeded her family's garden plot, and played tag with her younger brothers and sisters. His fingers itched to capture a certain look, a particular glance, the way her hair swirled behind her as she spun to shoo a careless child away from the bean plants. His absences from the palace became more and more marked; his once fair skin was becoming as tanned as the peasants he spent his days with. He even convinced them to let him join them in their labor; grudgingly at first, for he was a prince, but then, when he proved to be stubborn, and then faithful to the task, they allowed it; he was only the fifth prince, after all, and had six other brothers to fulfill the tasks of the royals of the realm.

His parents were worried about this turn of events, but they had little time to think on it. Arthur, their fourth son, was about to set off on his first big quest and his parents wanted to make certain he was fully prepared for the task. Tam slipped to the backs of their minds, even when, while riding, they passed right by the field where he was merrily swinging a scythe beside the rest of the early-season harvesters.

There was one time when a summer storm hit and Tam was forced to stay home. He spent the day moping around the palace, until he finally caught up in the throne room. His mother found him there, one leg curled up against the armrest of his father's throne as a desk, intent on drawing the next line in his sketchbook. He didn't even hear her come up, his concentration was so focused.

The face that emerged from beneath his fingers was beautiful. The curls framed her oval face delicately, accenting fine cheekbones and a strong, yet feminine jaw line. Her chin was a shade too pointed and gave her a look of tremendous stubbornness. But it was her eyes that captured the queen. Tam had labored over them, but the effort, though clear, was not apparent. Her eyes looked as if they'd sprung into being straight off the page. They were beautiful, full of wit and wisdom and charm and somehow, far off in the distance, Tam's own reflection winked back from their depths.

The queen tiptoed off without her son ever knowing she'd been there. That night, in their bed, she told her husband about the picture. "I think our little boy is in love," she told him.

"But with whom? Who is this girl?”

The queen tipped her head to one side, the lady-like equivalent of a shrug. "She was so beautiful, she couldn't be anything but a princess."

"Around here? Tam is always back in time for supper, so he's not going far during the day."

But the queen had an answer for that too. "You know there's that viewing pool in the woods. He's probably seen her face in it and longs to rescue her."

"He's too young for a quest!" the king protested. "I didn't go on my first quest until I was seventeen, and even then it was a scandal!" It was tradition for a prince to set off on his first quest when he turned eighteen, and usually it was something tame, like killing a giant and saving a kingdom, or restoring a lost prince to his parents. Princess quests weren't usually attempted until the prince was at least twenty (twenty-three was better) and had had at least half a dozen successful quests under his belt.

The queen nodded. "That's probably why he's been so mopey lately. He knows it won't be proper for him to rescue her for several years yet, and he's afraid that some other prince will rescue her first.”

"Bah," said the king. "There's more princesses out there than you can shake a stick at. I'm sure she'll still be around when he comes of age.

"Still, it's kind of encouraging. Knowing that our boy is in love."

Her young life must go when the first leaves fall

Tam went home that night in a sober mood. He spoke to no one, looked at no one, but went straight to his room and closed the door.

The next morning, the servants found his room empty. His bed hangings had been knotted together and hung out the window. A search of the grounds revealed only a line of footprints in the soft dirt between the nearest garden shed and the prince’s favorite apple tree. The gardener in charge of the orchard noticed nothing amiss, only that several spools of twine were missing from the shelf, but he chalked that up to his own forgetfulness and tendency to misplace things.

The search for Tam ended early; his parents assumed that he was at the scrying pool and decided, jointly, to let him be. There was no harm in indulging his fancies for a bit longer, after all. It was summer, and he was still young, after all. Also, it turned up that sometime during the night a witch or a sorcerer or an evil fairy of some sort had gotten it into their head to cast a spell on the royal family and the curse, naturally, headed straight for Caleb, the youngest. So Tam’s disappearance (not rare during that summer, and only unusual because of the early hour) went largely unremarked as the majority of the palace was suddenly preoccupied with chasing after the small white pony that had once been the youngest prince. (Finally, many of the courtiers thought, a curse with a little imagination. The pony-who-had-once-been-Caleb was obviously quite pleased with the change from the usual frog curse as well and kicked up his heels and neighed and chased the courtiers around the courtyard, offering rides to those children of the servants who didn’t yet know that princes, even enchanted princes, weren’t to be played with. The servants themselves, on the other hand, were a bit put out as they already had a very nice royal frog pond that was perfectly suitable for a transformed prince, but the stables were only suited for regular animals. It meant an extra day and a half of hard work for them to build the prince a stall proper enough for his rank yet functional enough for his form, and the poor cook, all ready with a nice fly pâté, had to figure out how to cook a bran mash that was suited to a Prince-pony’s palate).

So Nellie won’t go away

All during fall Tam came, and tied, and sat with Nellie, whose mattress had been moved into the main room beside the hearth. He celebrated his seventeenth birthday with the Atrivers, sharing birthday treats he’d begged from the palace cooks, coaxing Nellie to eat some of the softer, tastier morsels. She was pale and coughed horribly, but Tam wouldn’t let her go. “The leaves are still on the trees. There’s time yet.”

The seasons changed again and still Tam came, and tied, and sat with Nellie, whose cough wasn’t half so bad now as it had been, though she was still pale and weak.

And even though winter storms kept Tam home, sometimes for days at a time, Roman and Matthew and the younger ones all took turns tying the leaves and sitting with their sister and assuring her that the first leaves had yet to fall and that she still had time left with them.

Tam’s family had long ago learned that their son was in love with a flesh-and-blood girl, not a mere illusion of a princess in a pool. It took some doing, but by the time Caleb had shaken off the last remaining horse-hair, Tam’s parents were resigned to the fact that their fifth son loved a peasant girl. “And after all,” murmured the king to himself whenever he started to get a little upset about it, “she’s a frail young thing and might not last the winter.” But he didn’t really mean it. Tam had showed him his drawings and the king had very nearly fallen in love with the girl himself.

Again the seasons turned, and the new leaves supplanted the old. The bird’s nests for miles around were composed of twigs and fraying bits of sting still knotted around leaf stems. The green buds swelled and burst forth new life to soak up the warmth of the sunlight, and the animals ushered their newest broods around the forests, teaching them where to find good things to eat and how to avoid being eaten in turn.

And on a certain porch on a certain day that certain spring, a certain young man with regal bearing lent his arm to a certain pale young woman as she took her first hesitant steps outside since the summer before.

Her lungs were clear and she breathed deep the sun soaked air, drawing it into lungs so long wet that they had forgotten what it meant to have oxygen in them. She touched the tree and caressed some bits of weather-worn twine that still gripped a crumpled maple leaf to itself.

Thanks weren’t needed, and would, indeed, have seemed crass, so Nellie merely smiled at her devoted young man and kissed him on the cheek.

He captured her chin and slowly, deliberately, kissed her on the lips. She grinned broadly then, and kissed him back.

Ok, I have to read this, but I think I will do better to tackle it tomorrow. Not that tackle gives the right impression at all, no, I do look very much forward to reading it. I read the song lyrics and this sounds like a very good one to base a story on. Just letting you know that I saw it here and plan to read it.

This is a lovely story, just wonderful. Have you read The Fairy Godmother by Mercedes Lackey? I ask because her story is set in the "500 Kingdoms" and so it seems is your story. At any rate, in both stories there are certain roles that people play out, archetypes I guess you might call them, and I see that in this story. I don't mean to talk about her book but just to draw attention to the similarity of the concept.

The fairy tale you have written is delightful, I was really astonished to read it. I am thinking, if this is the rough draft, what must the polished version sound like!

You asked for comments, I don't have many. Obviously you need to break the first entry down into paragraphs, but you may have already done that. It's too much to have it all in a block like that. And there is one anachronism: "Still, I suppose there are enough peasant lads getting roped into the gene pool that it offsets all the cousin and second-cousin marriages." So "gene pool" does not fit too well in this story and pops out like a bit of a sore thumb.

Other than that, I don't have any criticism. I think this is a captivating story, one that many people would enjoy reading. Personally I love fairy tales and this is an awfully good one, up there with others I have read of the genre.

Oooh so that is what that big long paragraph is about. Hmmmm. I would have to reflect on that. Is it best to mimic the writing, or best to structure it for ease of reading. I have to confess, it did not hold my attention that way like the rest of the story did. Maybe that is my own failing though.