P r o l o g u e ~ The Twelve
Mysterious Daughters
Playful
speaks
In
the past week or so since we’ve arrived, life has taken on a predictable
rhythm. I spend the mornings entertaining the ladies of the castle, with the
lyre, my singing, playing knucklebones, and listening to their gossip. Truth to
tell, nothing they say is particularly interesting as high-born ladies spend
their time inside. When they are not diverting themselves with such pastimes as
I provide, they are spinning, weaving, running the household, and caring for
their children. They talk incessantly about their children. They know little of
the outside world.
I
escape after the midday meal, taking advantage of the ladies’ habit of resting
as the sun’s chariot crests at the highest point of the day. While they sleep,
I head out into the scorching countryside looking for Father.
We
sit together in the shade, while Father does some task, usually repairing
something, while I tell him everything I’ve learned the evening before. It is
not that hard. Because I am small, and people are now familiar with my face, no
one pays me any mind as I take my seat at the bench that runs along the side of
the huge table where all the working folk of the castle eat their meals.
Father
has told me never to be inquisitive, but I am dying to know more about the
twelve mysterious ladies locked up in the castle tower, the ones people whisper
about behind their hands when they think no-one is noticing.
As
the light of the sun drains from the sky, as the king’s men sink lower onto
wooden benches eating dish after dish, quail, pheasant, peacock, duck, eggs,
bread, olive oil, wine, and olives, the noise of seven hundred men sharing
jokes, laughing, and swilling wine reverberates around the hall.
Finally,
I can take it no more."Is it true what they say about the King’s
daughters?"
The
grizzled stranger on the bench next to me wipes the grease off his mouth with
the back of a hand and spits out an olive pit.
"Where’ve
you popped up from? You shouldn’t be here. You’re only a young lad."
I
am used to these remarks. After I left home I took a ship that was blown off
course, taking me west to the land of the Italoi. I had to beg for money in the
streets and in the taverns and it was not long before I heard news of Father,
who was sailing to the west of this land.
And
so I made my way across steep mountains before coming down to a lush plain.
Playing my lyre to entertain strangers I followed their directions to the sea,
to a wide bay within sight of a simmering, high, conical-shaped mountain.
And
there, in a tavern, I met Father.
Now
we are traveling home together. But Father is not here on the bench beside me,
as he should be, but outside at a nearby farm pretending to be a stable hand.
This
is one of Father’s clever strategies. He is a master at extracting information.
He calls his strategy "divide and conquer" and it means that I have
to use my lyre to find a berth for the night in some local chieftain’s house.
This is not usually difficult, especially if there are ladies around because
for some reason they always want to pet me.
Meanwhile,
Father finds work on the outside as a shepherd, farmhand, or stable boy. By
concealing his origins and pretending to be dumb, drunk, or both, Father is
able to overhear a great many things. We have a plan to meet every day at noon,
I escaping the blandishments of the ladies to visit the local farm for milk,
cheese, eggs where I could happen upon the new stable boy, farmhand, or
shepherd.
The
only fly in the ointment is my age. I am only twelve years old and to my great
annoyance, I look it. So Father made me memorize some phrases to offer when
this issue arises.
"Father
is here with me, but is suffering with an ache to his belly."
One
sentence is usually enough for most people. Father has instructed me never to
offer explanations that are not asked for as it only makes people more curious.
But
the fellow is staring at me, waiting for more.
I
turn my eyes down. "Father told me to eat supper and then berth with him
in the stable yard."
"He’s
the new stable hand, is he?"
I
nod.
"Much
good he’ll be with a bellyache."
I
look up. "Do you have a remedy for that good sir?"
Father
always stresses the importance of asking for advice when a conversation turns
sour, as it flatters the vanity.
The
fellow hawks and spits, rising from his seat. "You’ll have to go to the
kitchens for that, son." He ambles off.
I
return to my meal, hoping the others will forget about me and the conversation
I’ve just had. Fortunately, it is that time of the meal when men turn tipsy.
Pretty soon they are laughing, singing, and telling dirty jokes. One song goes
like this:
"There once was a king with twelve
daughters—"
—"Twelve
bee-yoo-tiful daughters," sing the others in an out-of-tune chorus.
"But
he refused to marry them off—"
—"Twelve
bee-yoo-tiful daughters!"
"And
why did he refuse to marry them off?"
—"Twelve
bee-yoo-tiful daughters!
"Because
they would make unsuitable wives—"
—"Twelve
bee-yoo-tiful daughters!"
"The
eldest is mad.
The
second is bad.
The
third is sad.
The
fourth too bold.
The
fifth too shrill.
The
sixth too shy.
The
seventh too just.
While
the eighth loves her father too much—Ha! Ha!
The
eighth loves her father too much!
The
ninth is a boy.
The
tenth a mermaid.
The
eleventh a goddess.
While
the twelfth has only five years, five years,
The
twelfth daughter has only five years."
"Do
not touch!" yells someone to guffawing laughter.
The
men pick up their song again:
"But
the one you need to watch for is number four, number four,
The
one you need to watch for is number four.
For
the fourth daughter is a very naughty girl,
With
large bold eyes and a nearly naked form—"
This
goes on for some time. The fourth daughter seems to fascinate the men. I chew
thoughtfully. Somehow, I must find a way of meeting her.
I
turn to another man. "Is it true he locked all twelve of his daughters up
in a high tower?"
The
man nods.
"Why
are they going on about the fourth daughter? I thought it was the eldest who
dishonored the family name—"
"Keep
your voice down," hisses the fellow. He looks around and then stares back
at me from under bushy brows. "Your information is quite good, boy. Most
of what you say is true."
"Which
part is false?"
The
fellow rises to his feet. "If you’ll take my advice, you’ll keep your
mouth shut. Folk pay with their lives by asking too many questions." He
glances around and draws his forefinger across his throat.
"But—"
I gesture to the men singing lustily.
"They’re
drunk."
"But—"
I say again. But the man vanishes into the press of sweaty male bodies.
Outside,
it is a lovely evening with a couple more hours to run before the sun dips
below the trees. The castle tower stands up like a finger, a beckoning, a
warning, that people can see for miles around. If their eyesight is good, they
will see a window set high in the tower, just underneath the tiled roof. On a
fine day, the window unlatched, the wind carries the sound of voices, the high
sound of girls’ voices gossiping, chattering, giggling. Now, on this late
summer evening, someone closes that high window shut. I catch a glimpse of a
heart-shaped face with deep-set dark-grey eyes, and light-brown hair drawn back
into a braid. Which daughter could she be? Not number four, for she is dressed
modestly in a light woolen robe dyed a soft grey to match her eyes.
I
lift my head to the moon, a thin fingernail of a crescent. A shiver runs up my
spine. Something is going to happen within the month, I can feel it. This place
hums with suppressed tensions.
Father
will be so interested when I see him tomorrow.
