Steven George & the Terror
12
The Disenchanted Evening
ONCE UPON A TIME, there was a maiden who sat by her well sighing. Monette, which was her name, had followed all the advice of the village wise woman. She had bathed in the running waters of a stream. It was so cold that she thought she would never be able to get out of the water once she got in, but she did what she was told. She dressed in a linen gown that had never been worn before. She tied sprigs of pink lilacs in her hair with a blue ribbon. She had gathered daisies from the hillsides and dropped them one at a time into the well, and now, she sat sadly and waited.
She sighed again. All she wanted was a husband, and not that crude sheep farmer down the road. She wanted a handsome husband who was wealthy and lived in a beautiful house in the city. She wanted him to ride up to her on a white charger with the sun glinting from his armor. She wanted him to sweep her up into his arms and carry her away from the dull, dreary life she led in the tiny village where her destiny was naught but to cook, tend a home, and raise her children. She didn’t want much.
That was what she thought of domestic life. In her eyes, the women of the village were old fools who never dreamed. They married their neighbors, bore their children, and cooked, cleaned, wove, and sewed their precious lives away. There must, she thought, be a higher purpose in life.
Whenever she thought of the sheep farmer who lived near her home and who had come to court her just that morning, her flesh crawled. Oh, he was polite and had never given her cause to be offended. He bathed before he came to call, so there was no smell of sheep about him. But he was so… common. He was a gangling youth whom she had known since birth. His shocking red hair stuck up from his head in so many directions that it appeared his head was on fire. And freckles. One could hardly tell if the red splotches or the white splotches were his actual skin color, for it was divided equally between the two. His trousers were too big for him, and when tying twine around his waist failed to keep them up properly, he tied the cord over his shoulder, suspending them like a sack held open and his long legs unceremoniously dumped into them.
But worst of all was the sheepskin. It was one thing to wear the sheep’s rough wool woven into cloth and sewed together. It was quite another to wear the sheep’s skin, cut in pieces and sewed together. And the farmer did just that. He wore boots made from sheepskin. He wore a hat made from sheepskin. He wore mittens made from sheepskin. And he wore a sheepskin vest so big that from a distance, one might mistake the boy for an oversized member of his own flock.
He was courteous enough when he came to call, and was totally undeserving of the rough rebuke she gave him when he asked for her hand.
“Soren Markladen,” she said to him, “I cannot imagine a life in which I marry a freckle-faced sheep, eat mutton for every meal, wear woolskins for clothing, and raise a flock of little sheep for children. I cannot marry you. I will not marry you. Go back to your sheep and do not try to woo me further.”
Soren Markladen, you might think, would be highly offended by the vain girl’s rebuke, but in truth, he had grown to love her over the years they had known each other. They had often had adventures with each other and when she’d had difficulty with a fox snatching her hens, Soren had hunted the fox and presented the skin to her as a token of his devotion. She thought the fox skin was disgusting.
He willingly overlooked what others saw as her flaws. Most of these had to do with her temperament, but by the standards of his village, she was considered too short, too thin in some places and too thick in others, pale in complexion, and frail in physique. He, however, saw her as petite, pleasingly proportioned, fair, and delicate. Her temper he was willing to overlook.
So, instead of being upset by Monette’s rejection, Soren was amused, nodded, and said, “My, she is spirited.” He resolved to come and press his suit again the next day.
That was when Monette went to see the wise woman. She asked for the old woman’s advice. She said she wanted to attract a handsome, rich, and caring husband who would carry her away from her life of drudgery and show her the excitement of life in the city. The old woman laughed to herself, and prescribed the ritual that Monette had just completed.
She sighed again.
“What is it that makes you sigh as though the world were ending?” a voice near her ear asked quietly.
Monette was surprised by the man’s voice, but her heart leapt to her throat. The spell, she thought, must have worked! Here at her shoulder must be the man she would love. She turned to look, but saw no man. She looked further turning around next to the well, but still saw no person to have spoken to her.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Why, right in front of you,” said the voice. Monette looked in the direction of the voice and saw only a duck.
“You are a duck!” she exclaimed.
“You are a girl!” the duck spoke back. “I won’t hold it against you.”
“How is it that you can speak?” she asked.
“There is a powerful enchantment upon me,” said the duck. “How is it that you can hear me? I have spoken to every maiden that has come to this well in these ten years. You are the first to hear my voice.”
“An enchanted prince!” the silly girl exclaimed. “You must be the one to show me true love.”
“I can do that,” answered the duck.
“Shall I kiss you?” she asked.
“Ick!” said the duck. “Why would you want to do that?”
“Is it not love’s first kiss that will free you from your enchantment?” she asked.
All the stories she had heard worked that way. You find an enchanted prince, kiss him, he returns to his handsome self, and he takes you away to his castle. But the duck had other ideas.
“No. Alas, it is not a kiss that will free me from my enchantment,” spoke the duck. “Though I appreciate the offer,” he added.
Monette was just a tiny bit relieved.
“What must we do then?” she asked.
“Long ago, a witch put this spell on me,” said the duck. “She said that I would remain under the spell until a maiden could look at me and see me for who I really am. It is a dreadful curse, for when maidens see me, they scream and run away. If I am lucky, they miss me with the stone they throw in my direction. Oh, I yearn to return to life as I knew it before the witch cast this evil spell.”
Monette had visions of the handsome man she knew must be hidden in the duck, of his castle and wealth, and of the envy of her friends when she married him. But when she looked at the duck, she saw only a talking duck. She could not imagine him changing shape.
“Oh, oh,” she moaned. “I can’t do it. Tell me what I must do to free you from this dreadful enchantment?”
“In these ten years sitting by the well,” said the duck, “I have learned that there is a garment that one might wear, which will show the true nature of what she sees. If you were to wear that garment, I am sure you could see me as I really am and the enchantment would be broken.”
“I will find this garment and put it on,” said Monette. “What is it?”
“Well, it is a very special vest made from the skin of a lamb,” said the duck. “It is not just any sheepskin. This particular lamb was doomed at birth. It grew so fast that its poor body could not stand the stress and it died soon after its first wool came in. So soft was this wool, however, that when the poor creature died, the shepherd lovingly removed its skin, prepared it, and made it into a vest that he wears to this very day.”
“Soren’s vest?” Monette exclaimed in disbelief and a little disgust. “I need to wear Soren’s vest?”
“Ah, so you know the man,” said the duck. “He is a fine man who takes loving care of animals, and when this overgrown lamb died, he was so sad that he decided to keep the lamb’s skin close to his own for as long as he lived. It seems the same old witch that cast her spell on me was moved by the sentimental boy and enchanted the animal skin so that the wearer could see truly. I don’t think the boy knows what he has, but he has always been a great judge of people. That is the vest you must wear in order to see me as I truly am.”
These words came as a shock to Monette. She had sent Soren away from her, asking him to never come again, just that morning. But she supposed the pest would never listen to her. He would certainly be back soon.
“I will find some way to get his vest from him,” she vowed. “Then I will look at you and break your enchantment.” The duck thanked her and waddled away while Monette went to ponder how she would get the vest from Soren.
True to form, the sheep farmer showed up after his chores were done in the morning to woo the self-centered girl. But this morning Monette seemed more interested in their conversation. She laughed at his gentle humor and then invited him to come back for dinner in the evening.
Soren felt he was being manipulated a bit, but he was happy to return for her company. After dinner, Monette suggested they go for a walk. It was a chilly evening, but Monette conveniently forgot her shawl. By the time she and Soren had walked through the village and had returned to the well, Monette was suffering with the cold. She paused by the well and looked for the duck. There he was.
“I see you have brought the vest,” said the duck. “But how are you to get it off?” Monette was shocked by the voice, placing her finger to her lips to hush him. Just then a chill wind blew up and she shivered. Soren lovingly placed his arm around her shoulders to warm her.
“We should go in to the fire,” Soren said. “You are cold, Monette.”
“Oh, Soren,” she answered. “It is so cold out I don’t think I can make it back to the house. Please lend me your vest to keep me warm while we walk back.”
Soren, being such a kind person as he was, did not hesitate to remove the vest and place it over her shoulders. Monette shivered in glee.
The first thing she noticed was how warm the vest was. The second was how it smelled pleasantly of Soren. The third was that the duck was still a duck.
“It’s just a duck,” Monette said aloud.
“Yes, it’s a duck,” Soren said, noticing the animal for the first time.
“Quack,” said the duck.
Monette was instantly heartbroken. She had seen the duck as a handsome prince, ready to carry her away. But when she wore the vest of truth, she saw it was really only a duck. The duck seemed quite happy to splash in a pond and come up with a small fish in her mouth.
She turned to Soren and looked at him. He was really very handsome, strong, and certainly kind. His splotchy skin she suddenly saw as colorful. His care for the animals was evidence of his good nature. Most of all, she could see how he truly loved her and cared for her. How was it she had never seen him in this way before? She glanced back at the duck, waddling away. So, this was what it was like to see things as they really were.
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed Soren.
That vest of truth that lets one see things as they really are is the vest I wear today.
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