Tatterhood (5 page)

When the king came home again, no one was more relieved than his daughter. But the queen, far from being pleased, pretended she was ill: so ill, in fact, that unless she had flesh from the blue bull to eat, she would never be well again.

The king's daughter begged her father to seek another cure, or find another bull to slaughter – but no,
there was no other way: the blue one was the one, it had to be butchered, and butchered it would be.

The girl ran down to the byre.

‘What?' said the bull. Are you weeping?'

Yes, she was, and when she was done she described the queen's cure.

‘Once they've taken my life,' said the bull, ‘they'll be after yours, too, soon enough.'

The girl supposed he was right, and when the bull suggested they run off, she said she would. So up she climbed, astride his sleek, blue back, and off they went as far and as fast as they could.

The bull galloped through forest and dale, over mountain and around lake, from one domain to the next, with the king's daughter clinging to his back. At long last, after days and nights, they came to a gleaming wood. Here everything was of copper – the trees and the branches, the leaves and fruit – all of it burnished and red.

‘When we enter this wood,' the bull said, ‘try to disturb nothing. The troll who guards it has three heads and is malicious to boot.'

‘I won't touch a thing,' said the girl.

But the forest was so lushly wooded, so dense and thick, that it was impossible for the girl not to touch something. And though she bent and twisted this way and that, no matter what she did, she couldn't help but tangle with the twigs, and ended up with a leaf caught between her fingers.

‘Now there'll be trouble,' said the bull. ‘But hide the leaf well, all the same.'

Soon after, the troll came roaring.

‘Who's been ripping at my wood?' it yelled, all three heads at once.

‘As much ours as yours,' replied the bull.

‘Not without a battle, it's not!' shrieked the troll.

And so they battled, the bull goring and ramming and the troll thumping and pounding, until the day was well over. By the end of it the troll was dead, but the bull was so weak and wounded he could barely walk.

The girl took the greasehorn from the troll's belt and salved the bull's wounds from it, but even so they had to rest for a day before resuming their journey.

The next forest was just like the first, except it was of silver. Again the bull warned the king's daughter not to disturb it, but the silver wood was even more crowded than the copper. She rode as carefully as she knew how, but branches lashed and twigs whipped, and before she knew it there was a rip and a rend and a silver leaf was caught between her fingers.

‘Now there'll be trouble,' said the bull. ‘The troll of this forest has six heads, and that's more than I can hope to deal with. All the same, mind the leaf and hide it well.'

Then the troll came thundering.

‘Who's been tearing at my wood?' it roared.

‘As much ours as yours,' replied the bull.

‘Not without a battle, it's not!' shrieked the troll.

‘As you wish,' said the bull, and charged with such force that its horns drove clean through the troll and out the other side. The troll's innards fell out and its eyes popped – all twelve of them – but it took three full days for the bull to beat it, and by then the bull was so mauled he could hardly move. The girl salved his wounds from the greasehorn that hung from the troll's belt, but it was a week before they could press on.

In time, they came to yet another forest. This one was gold, and once again the girl was warned. But though she tried, this wood was the thickest yet. The deeper they went, the denser it got – and no matter how the girl ducked and twisted, there was a creaking and a catching, a plucking and a snapping, and she ended up with a golden apple caught in the palm of her hand.

The bull doubted things would go well this time, and when the troll with its nine heads came shrieking, the girl doubted it too. But she hid the golden apple along with the leaves. There followed such a tussle that it was a full week before the troll was dead and another three before the bull was better, trollsalve or no trollsalve.

Then they forged ahead again, and at last arrived at a mountain.

‘What do you see?' asked the bull.

‘Mountains and sky,' said the girl.

‘What now?' asked the bull, climbing some more.

‘I see a castle in the dell,' said the girl.

‘And now?' said the bull, going further still.

‘The castle hard by,' said the girl ‘with a pigsty below.'

‘The pigsty is where you'll live,' said the bull, ‘and inside that pigsty is a wooden smock, which is what you'll wear. Go to the castle, say your name is Splintersmock, and ask for work. But first,' the bull continued, ‘you must thank me.'

The king's daughter thanked him and added, ‘If there's anything I can do for you …'

‘I was coming to that,' said the bull. ‘First, cut off my head with your sharp little knife. Then hide the copper leaf, the silver leaf and the golden apple inside it. Next, use your knife to flay me, bundle my head in my skin and hide the entire swag beneath this rocky crag.'

‘That's a hard thing you're asking,' said the girl. ‘To make me slaughter you, after all we've been through.'

And she wouldn't do it.

But the bull insisted.

‘I'll take no other thanks,' he said. ‘But if ever you're needy, you can take this staff and bang on the rock-face with it and you'll be taken care of.'

Then the king's daughter had no choice but to do as the blue bull asked. Hacking with her little knife, she cut off his head, flayed him of his sleek blue hide, put the copper and the silver and the gold inside, rolled it all up and hid it. Then down she went to the castle and the pigsty below.

There it was, the wooden dress, just as the bull had said. She put it on, went up to the castle and, saying her name was Splintersmock, begged for work in the kitchen. The cook gave her the blacking-brush and Splintersmock spent the following week up to her armpits in soot and grease.

But, as she worked, she watched and waited.

On Sunday, when the prince called for his weekly wash, Splintersmock begged to be the one who carried up the water.

The other servants laughed.

‘What do you want with upstairs and the prince?' they asked. ‘Are you hoping he'll take a fancy to you, so fine as you are?'

Splintersmock asked again – not just once, but many times – and in the end they let her go.

Bucket in hand, she climbed the stairs to the prince's rooms, and as she went she rumbled and clattered so loud in her wooden smock that the prince came running.

‘What on earth are you?' he asked.

‘I'm the water-carrier,' said Splintersmock.

‘Do you suppose,' asked the prince, ‘that I would wash myself in water that you have carried?' And grabbing the bucket, he dashed the contents in her face.

Splintersmock had no choice but to climb back down the stairs – but she wasn't done with pleading yet and begged, instead to go to church. The cook felt so sorry for her that she let her go.

First, Splintersmock went to the mountain. She took the staff, banged on the cliff and waited till a man came out.

‘I want to hear the priest,' she said, ‘but I've no Sunday clothes.'

So the man fetched her out a gown, as bright as leaves from the copper wood, and led out a chestnut horse as well, with copper trappings to match.

When at last she rode to church, Splintersmock looked so fine and grand that everyone, prince and peasant alike, was thrown into wonderment. They heard nothing of the sermon, so busy were they with staring, and at the end when Splintersmock rose to leave, the prince fell over himself in his hurry to help her. But Splintersmock opened the door herself, heavy as it was, and closed it, too, losing only a copper glove that got snared on a nail. When the prince ran to hold her horse, she was already up and mounted.

‘Where are you from?' the prince asked.

‘From Waterville,' she said.

‘And where is that?' said the prince, to which Splintersmock replied, ‘Dark behind, light before, the prince won't see me any more.'

And she disappeared.

The prince was left holding Splintersmock's glove, coppery and soft, and spent the rest of the week searching far and wide for the land of Waterville. But no matter where he looked, it was not to be found.

The following Sunday, the prince called for a towel.

‘I'll take it,' said Splintersmock.

‘What good would that do?' the others said. ‘You know what happened last time.'

But Splintersmock kept nagging until they said yes, and ran upstairs with her wooden frock rattling. The prince rushed out. When he saw who it was, he snatched the towel and smacked it in her face.

‘Pack yourself off, you ugly troll!' he said. ‘Do you think I'll use a cloth that's been blackened by your foul fingers?'

So Splintersmock went down and begged instead to go to church.

‘What do you want with church?' said the kitchen crew, ‘you who are so foul?'

But in the end the cook let her go.

Splintersmock went to the cliff-face and rapped until the man came out.

‘I want to hear the priest,' she told him, ‘but I've no Sunday clothes.'

This time he fetched a gown far finer than the first – bright as leaves from the silver wood – and he brought a grey horse with silver trappings to match.

When she arrived at church, the folk were crowding outside in the churchyard waiting, and the prince was as gallant as ever and eager to hold her horse.

‘No need for that,' Splintersmock told him.

Once again, there wasn't a soul who heard what the priest had to say – all were so taken with gaping at the silvery maid, and none more so than the prince. Again, when the sermon was ended, he sprang forward – and again Splintersmock ignored him. She managed both door and horse, and all she lost was her riding crop, which snagged on a post.

‘Where are you from?' the prince asked.

‘From Towel-land.'

‘And where is that?' said the prince, to which Splintersmock replied, ‘Light behind, dark before, the prince won't see me any more.'

And she was gone.

The prince could make neither head nor tail of it, and though he travelled far and wide asking the way to Towel-land, there were none who could help him.

The following Sunday he called for a comb. Once again, Splintersmock begged to take it. The cook scolded her for making so bold, foul and clattering as she was, but when Splintersmock didn't let up, the cook gave in and said she could. Up the steps she clattered and the prince heard her coming. He barged from his room, grabbed the comb, threw it after her and went to church with his hair in knots.

Splintersmock begged to go too.

‘You, who aren't fit to be seen in company, you clattering troll!' the cook cried. ‘The prince might catch sight of you.'

‘There's plenty else for him to be catching sight of these days,' said Splintersmock, and so the cook at last agreed to let her go.

It went as it had before – the mountain, the stick, the man and the dress – only this time the dress was the finest yet, bright as apples from the golden wood, with the matching horse as grand and high-stepping as a royal steed.

When she rode to church, prince, peasantry and priest were all there waiting in the churchyard. They crowded into the church behind her, everyone together, scrambling and goggling, staring at Splintersmock throughout, with the prince more smitten than ever.

However, this time the prince had ordered sticky pitch to be smeared in the church entrance so that when the sermon was over and Splintersmock rose to leave, she would need the prince's help to get over it. But Splintersmock ignored both prince and pitch, placed her foot square in the middle, lifted her kirtle, sprang across and stepped outside. All she lost was one of her golden shoes, stuck fast in the pitch like a star in the night sky.

The prince asked, yet again, where she was from.

‘From Comb-land,' said Splintersmock.

‘And where is that?' asked the prince, to which Splintersmock replied, ‘Light behind, dark before, the prince won't see me any more.'

The prince didn't know what became of her this time either, but he kept the golden shoe and spent many a long day searching for Comb-land. In the end, desperate and weary, he made an announcement. Whoever could snugly fit her foot into the shoe must surely be the one he was seeking.

Once word was out, women came crowding from all corners – young and old, lively and dull, pretty and plain. But whichever way they squeezed their feet, there wasn't one who could wear the shoe comfortably. At long last, Splintersmock's own stepmother brought her daughter along to try. As fate would have it, the stepsister's foot slid into the shoe – as slick as if it were cut to size.