The End of Always: A Novel (29 page)

S
ome nights my mother told us a story about the Princess Svanvitha, whose father had once been a powerful king on Rügen. I believe this was my mother’s favorite story, for my sisters and I could count on her to tell it once a week. For our part, we never tired of it and I imagine it gave my mother great pleasure to have us nestled around her, our heads on her knees or on the pillow behind her back, where she could smell our hair and look into our faces as she spoke.

Princess Svanvitha was a beautiful and pure girl. She lived with her father the king in her father’s castle in a town not far from Garz. Her mother had died long ago and her father had never remarried, so the girl lived with her father as if enchanted by the spell of his power. Years passed, but soon enough she came of age and many suitors came from across the land, hoping to claim her hand.

The prince of Poland wooed Princess Svanvitha for a long time and tormented her with his suit, but she always declined him because she did not like him. She chose the prince of Denmark instead, who seemed to her to be a kind boy and a boy who would care for her. Her father was happy with her selection, and the people were happy because they knew there would be a wedding. Perhaps they thought it would be a wedding as perfect as a wedding in a fairy tale, which is the most perfect kind of wedding you will ever find. My mother described Princess Svanvitha’s bridal gown at length, the exquisite stitching of the lace, the weight of the satin, the abundance of pearls, the jewels that adorned the bodice and the skirt. Her veil was to be so ethereal that it would appear as if wings had sprouted from her back and she had become a fairy princess before the eyes of the onlookers. My mother pointed out that only a beautiful princess could wear such a dress, and Princess Svanvitha was so slender and lovely and pure that the people called her the King’s Lily. My mother made us think that no title would be more apt for us, either, and we should not aspire to any other.

Despite Princess Svanvitha’s choice, the spurned prince of Poland never gave up his suit. He still insisted that he was the better man. He tried to tempt Princess Svanvitha with the promise of riches, if only she were to change her mind. But on the very eve of her wedding, when joy and celebration spread across the land, the prince of Poland was forced to accept that Princess Svanvitha really would marry another. And so his heart conceived a wicked plan. By his arts he managed to convince her father and everyone else that Princess Svanvitha was not the modest young lady they all believed her to be. He told of her improprieties and her flirtations and he intimated that more than that had passed between them, so much more that he dared not speak the truth aloud.

Immediately, the prince of Denmark mounted his horse and departed, taking with him all the dukes and duchesses and kings and queens who had come to Garz to attend the wedding. The harpists and bagpipers and other musicians who had been preparing for the festivals and tournaments also disappeared. The castle was left sad and deserted and the disgrace of the poor princess was bruited about everywhere, even though she was as innocent as a newborn babe.

The king her father was beside himself and nearly out of his mind and wanted to kill himself over the humiliation Svanvitha had brought on the royal house. Days passed while he ranted in his chambers. But when he was again in his right mind, he became merely furious and called out to have Svanvitha brought before him. For her part, she stood trembling before him and did her best to protest the lies. But the king would not listen. Instead, he tore her hair and ripped her dress and struck her. Then he commanded that she be removed from his presence and taken to a secret chamber so that he would never have to set eyes on her again. Around this room he caused a strong, dark tower to be built, into which neither sun nor moon could shine. The chamber itself was a small and barren place, with neither bed nor chair nor carpet and only a tiny hole through which her keeper could hand her food. Svanvitha had to sleep on the hard floor and go barefoot. She could not comb her hair nor play music nor wash herself. In time, her fine clothes became nothing but rags.

Thus passed three years. The poor princess was but a young girl—just seventeen—when her father banished her, and she would have died of her misery had she not had the certainty of her innocence to keep her spirits up. This she clung to like a rock. She knew her father had put her in the tower so she could reflect on the terrible shame she had brought to his family. It was true that during those dark days she had nothing but time for contemplation. But she did not spend one minute thinking of her own disobedience, for that was nothing but the lie of the suitor she had spurned. Instead, she waited for her father to come to her and tell her he was sorry for all that he had done against her. Sometimes she imagined that one day the king would call for her and her very innocence would be proof enough to set things right. But her father never requested a second audience and Svanvitha had no chance to tell her side of the story.

My mother told us that Svanvitha was at her most pitiful when she thought the king might call for her. Anyone could tell that he would never do that. He would never listen to her side of the story. He would never admit that he had made a mistake. He would never apologize for having done wrong.

One day Svanvitha lay on the floor in a corner of her chamber. She rested her head on cold stone. She tried to remember Garz as it had been when she last saw it. She could see herself picking flowers near the temple of the ancient goddess and walking in the shadow of the battlements. All of a sudden she sat bolt upright and jumped to her feet and began to pace up and down. After all of these lonely months, she had suddenly remembered the legend of the parapet. When a pure and chaste princess walked the rampart between twelve and one on Midsummer’s Eve, naked and as God made her, the earth itself would open and reveal a secret chamber filled with treasure. That treasure could be removed. That treasure could be brought to her father. That treasure would prove that the prince of Poland had lied. The only thing she would have to watch out for was the gray ghost that guarded the cavern and sometimes turned himself into a snarling black dog.

If she was not chaste, not modest, and not a virgin, the ground would remain sealed shut and no glittering cavern would appear.

Svanvitha pushed her fingers through the tiny hole in the wall of her chamber and got the attention of her keeper. When he drew close, she cried, “Dear keeper, go to the king, my lord and yours, and tell him that his poor daughter wants to see him and speak to him, and pray that he does not deny her this last favor.”

And the keeper agreed, for he had never been completely convinced that Svanvitha was as immodest as the Polish prince had said she was. The keeper thought she was good and pure and that it was possible a terrible mistake had been made. But he was a subject of the king and merely the keeper of the tower. He knew he had to keep these thoughts to himself.

And so it was that the keeper went into the presence of the king, who grew wrathful when he heard the request his daughter had made. He cast the keeper out and said that he must not speak the girl’s name again or he would find himself in prison, too, and no one would ever know what had become of him.

So the keeper returned to the tower and told Svanvitha that the king had denied her request. And Svanvitha fell crying to the cold floor. But after a time she picked herself up and told herself that sooner or later she would have an opportunity to try again.

That night, the king had a very beautiful dream, which he could not remember when he woke in the morning. But the dream must have changed something in him, for he sent for the keeper and ordered him to bring Svanvitha before him. The keeper brought her just as she was, a thin girl with tattered clothes that hung on her like airless sails. When he saw what had become of his daughter as a result of her imprisonment, her rags and her wasted body, her pallor and her haggard face, the king went as pale as the whitewashed wall behind him.

Svanvitha bowed low before him and said that she was suffering innocently of the charges concocted by the evil Polish prince and she knew of a way to prove this and to improve her father’s fortune all at once. She begged him to listen. When he did not interrupt, she reminded him of the old legend about the ramparts at Garz, which said that a pure and chaste princess who walks the rampart between twelve and one on Midsummer’s Eve, naked and as God made her, will cause the earth to open and reveal a chamber filled with treasure. She wanted to say more, but the words stuck in her throat and she sobbed bitterly. But she saw that the king had been moved by her speech, or perhaps he’d seen a way to increase his wealth. Either way, he nodded once and said that she would have her chance.

Forty days had yet to pass before Midsummer’s Eve and during that time, the king sheltered Svanvitha in his castle. She bathed and had fresh clothes and ate the food he had prepared for his own table. She walked in the garden and took in the air. She watched the birds she loved and felt taken up by the wind that stirred her. She looked far out at the forests where she had played as a child and imagined herself as she had been, before she learned her true value to the king.

On the morning of the day of Midsummer’s Eve, the king had a servant deliver a beautiful gown to Svanvitha so that she could appear on the rampart in a style that befitted a true princess of Rügen. But Svanvitha told the keeper to put the gown away. She would ride to the tower dressed as a boy so there would be no danger of anyone recognizing her.

Just before she left, the princess went into the chamber of her father the king and bade him farewell. He bowed his head and wept, and she held to his knees and let her tears fall into his lap. Then she disguised herself for the journey to Garz, which she made alone and on horseback.

The road between the king’s castle and the ramparts at Garz was not long, and Svanvitha made good time. No one recognized her, so they could not call her the terrible names they had used when the prince of Poland spread lies about her. The night was dark, but she was not afraid and in the shadows saw the promise of her liberation. Never had the air smelled so sweet, and never had she looked on the cottages she passed with such tenderness of feeling.

When she got to Garz, she took the saddle and the bridle from her horse and laid these on the ground. She turned to the horse, which she had ridden since childhood, and rubbed his muzzle and whispered in his ear. Then she slapped him on the haunch and watched him gallop away into the night. She climbed the stone steps to the parapet, unbuttoning her shirt as she went, and loosening her hair from her cap. Then, as the clock struck midnight, she stripped and stepped out onto the rampart. She walked backward, beating the battlement behind her with a St. John’s wand, just as the legend said she must. She had not gone too many steps when the stone gave way and the earth opened below. As predicted, she fell as gently as if in a dream into a huge hall lit by a thousand lamps and wax lights, with walls of marble and diamond mirrors. She landed on a heap of gold but she was not hurt. She looked around in wonderment, for the room was filled with more riches than she had imagined the world could ever hold and so much that there was hardly room to walk among the treasure.

In the corner, the gray ghost waited but he made no move to harm her. Instead, he merely nodded as if he was happy to meet his descendant. And then he rose and faded and in his place stood a retinue of servants, who turned toward Svanvitha, ready to do her bidding. She was dumbstruck for a moment, but then she collected herself and showed them that they were to fill their garments—their pockets and their cloaks, their breeches and their gloves—with all the gold and jewels from the chamber. This they did while Svanvitha looked on. And all the while she thought how she would please her father and he would have to let her go free because she had proven her innocence and brought him great wealth. But she knew that the night was short on Midsummer’s Eve and she felt a great urgency to finish her task and lead the retinue of servants out of the underhall. And yet she wanted to make sure she brought her father enough wealth so that he would be sure to pardon her for the crime she had not committed.

At this part of the story, my mother always said that it is easy for a girl to start to feel guilty for something she has not done when everyone else believes that she is guilty, and Svanvitha just wanted to be sure she was never sent back to that terrible tower room. Anyone could understand her plight. Anyone could see that she had only one way out. She had to take her time and make sure she got this one thing right.

So it was that daylight had begun to break when Svanvitha started up the steps to the top of the rampart. She could hear the cock crow and she could see that the sky had grown brighter in the east and she grew afraid that the servants with the riches in their pockets would be left behind. So she turned to urge them on. But as soon as she turned, the staircase that had risen to take her to the door fell away beneath her and the servants and the treasure disappeared and the door above slammed shut with such a thunderous sound that she cried out. She fell to the floor, where she lay breathless in the dark. Eventually, her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom and she saw that a huge, snarling black dog stood on the stone steps and blocked her way.

When she did not return, her father the king decided that she had deceived him and had used the legend as an excuse to slip away. He ordered that she be brought to him the minute she was found so that he could once again lock her in the tower. But of course he was wrong.

It is said that poor Svanvitha stays in the dark, empty chamber to this day and she is not alone. The great black dog is there lest she should take it upon herself to try to find a way out. And, too, every so often a strapping young lad will go missing from the village and never be seen again. The villagers all know what has become of him. He is with Svanvitha, in the dark belowground. She might have been innocent once but she is surely innocent no more.