Cephalopods

By Audrey Roberts, aged 19

“Mother,” he pleaded, “just let me stay outside a bit more.”

“Finish your writing first,” she answered, “and then you may go out.”

“I don’t want to write anymore. It’s boring and I hate it.”

She sighed. “Very well. You may skip your writing today. But before you return to your play, come inside and let me tell you a story.”

Long ago, in a kingdom by the sea, there lived a prince. His hair was golden and his face could have been sculpted by the gods themselves. But his heart was cruel.

The prince loved stories. He invited storytellers from far off lands, showering those he favored with riches and titles. Those who were unlucky enough to displease him were never seen again.

One of these storytellers was a young boy. He was renowned in his own village for his quicksilver tongue and his beautifully woven stories. This boy knew of the prince’s cruelty, and he was afraid. He was determined to tell a story that would soften the prince’s heart – this way, he thought, there would be no future boys who were afraid to stand in front of their prince.

Night after night, the boy sat by the light of a candle, scribbling away at his parchment. He crafted a story about a beautiful prince with a heart of stone, and the subjects who feared him. He wrote of the fear that sat low and heavy and cold within their stomachs. All this, he wrote in the hopes that it would change the prince.

Finally, his story was complete, and the next day he approached the prince. He had brought with him the his parchment, but by this point the words were inscribed in his heart. The prince sat, stony faced upon his jeweled throne, and when the boy finished his story the prince was filled with rage.

The prince had never known rage like this before, and so he called upon the gods to enact punishment upon the young boy.

“Gods above!” he called, “I have been insulted by this boy, and can not abide by this injustice. I ask that you do away with him! Seal his words from the people so that I might not have to suffer them again.”

The gods could not ignore this request from the prince, who’s line had serviced the gods for generations. But they pitied the boy, and so they turned him into a sparrow, free to sing his stories to all those who could hear. As for his words, they took the ink from his parchment and put it into a glass bottle. From then on, the people of the kingdom lost some of their words, sealed away in the confines of the ink bottle.

“Mother, I don’t like this story. It’s sad.”

“Hush now, and listen. Perhaps there will be a happy ending.”

Years passed, and the prince became King. He married, and had a daughter. The princess grew, blessed with her father’s beauty, and blessedly spared his cruelty. Instead, she was kindhearted and gentle. She was beloved by the people for her kindness and beauty, but most of all, the people loved her stories. Though she, like everyone else, was robbed of some of her words, she somehow managed to create beautiful stories.

The King loved his daughter.

“But I thought he was evil and cruel.”

“Shh. Cruelty has many faces, my child.”

He did not love his daughter as a father ought. He loved the stories she could tell. It was a cold, detached, possessive love. Love like that a dragon feels for his gold.

The princess was easily recognized among the people. She was a common sight in the marketplace by day, in the tavern by night. She would sit, surrounded by her subjects, her long white hair falling down her back and shining words spilling from her lips. One day, after a night of storytelling, an old woman beckoned to the princess.

The princess bent her ear to the woman’s mouth, her bright hair falling around them both.

“Princess,” the old crone whispered, “your father hides a vial of forbidden words in the deepest reaches of the castle. Take them, give them back to the people. Please. Your stories give us hope, but we need our words.”

The princess’ heart was moved by the old woman, and together they shed many tears over their loss. The princess resolved to take back the words her father had stolen.

She spent months searching the castle. Every room, every cupboard, the princess searched. She crawled through hidden tunnels, picked the locks from doors, all the while murmuring stories to herself to chase the cold loneliness away. Finally, locked away in the heart of the castle dungeons, she found it.

The bottle was covered in a fine layer of dust, but beyond the film the princess could see the ink it held. It was black, blacker than anything she had seen before. A deep, rich, black that shone with the promise of forbidden words.

She hid the bottle in her sleeve, and ran quickly towards her room, intending to return the words to the people when the sun rose to guide her way.

But it was not to be. The King discovered the treachery. Enraged by his daughter’s betrayal, the King ordered her to be thrown into the sea along with the ink. When the princess learned of her fate, she wept, for she could not swim.

By the gray light of dawn, the princess was dragged towards the cliffs at the edge of the kingdom. Her lovely white hair hung around her shoulders, and her face was streaked with tears. Still, she remained beautiful as ever. Her beauty broke the hearts of her gathered subjects, and even the King felt a brief pang of grief.

But the King’s heart, tempered in the fires of his rage, remained steel-hard. With a lazy wave of his hand, he ordered his daughter to be pushed off the cliffs into the sea.

The princess fell towards the water, ink bottle in hand, and offered up one last prayer to the gods.

And the gods, moved by her words – beautiful still, even as she fell towards her death – answered her.

She hit the water. The force of the impact shattered the glass bottle, ink blooming in the water and words growing in the hearts of the people. Finally, they were free, but at the cost of their princess.

In the water, the princess’ flowing white hair hung about her in a macabre halo. But the gods were not yet finished with their blessing. The princess’ hair slowly morphed into six white limbs, strong and powerful, able to carry her through the water. As one final gift to the tragic princess, the gods blessed her with ink – ink to protect her from those who might do her harm.

“So you see? This is why the sparrow sings, the squid releases ink, and we have our words.”

“That’s not a happy ending, mother.”

“Isn’t it? I thought you would be happy to hear why our stories are so important to us.”

“I want to go and play.”

She sighed, but gave her son a kiss on the forehead and gestured towards the door.

“Very well. Be safe, and return before the sun touches the horizon.”

At this, the boy gleefully ran towards the seaside, flinging off his shoes as he went. The mother smiled, shook her head, and returned to writing her story.