Thursday, January 3, 2013

The Story That Wrote Itself


            The young man paused his typing and cracked his knuckles. Taking off his eyeglasses, he rubbed his tired eyes and took a drink of his long-cold coffee. He replaced the glasses and glanced at the newspaper that lay on the desk beside the typewriter. AL CAPONE BEHIND BARS, it announced, and JAPAN AND CHINA STRIKE PEACE. He sighed and turned his attention back to his story.
            The princess was the most beautiful creature anyone in Tyrenia had ever beheld. With flowing, curling locks the color of honey and eyes the color of sapphires, she sent the heart of many a young man fluttering.
            The writer sighed again and leaned back in his chair. Opening a desk drawer, he rummaged through it until he found an old photograph buried near the back. The girl in it bore a striking resemblance to the princess he had just described. He turned it over to read the inscription for the umpteenth time. “Michael—have a great summer! You’re a pal, hope to keep in touch. Much love, Eva.” He rolled his eyes. He ventured to guess that she hadn’t written “you’re a pal” on the senior picture she had given Jerry. Shaking his head to clear the memories, he reminded himself that he was certainly NOT writing this story to alleviate the pain of those college years. He stuffed the photo back in the drawer and turned his attention back to the story.
            However, it was only the prince of the neighboring kingdom to whom she returned any affection. To no other man would she bestow even a second glance, so besotted with the prince was she.
            The typewriter ceased its clacking as Michael paused and furrowed his brow. He thought perhaps he had worded that too strongly. After all, the quiet, steadfast stable boy had to get through the cracks of her protected heart somehow. So far he hadn’t written any cracks. He decided to view it in person, although these visits had to be brief. He transitioned his writing accordingly.
            I met the princess in her garden on a warm summer’s day.
            As soon as the period had clicked into place, the young man was there in the garden, watching the princess as she wrote in what he assumed was a journal of some sort. She sat on a stone bench in the shade of an overhanging willow. He approached her cautiously. This was his first time visiting this particular story of his.
            “Good morning, Princess Evelyn,” he began.
            The princess stood, startled, dropping the book and quill. She stared at him, her bluer-than-blue eyes large with confusion. “And who are you, good sir? How did you come to be in my garden?” She remembered her things and bent to pick them up while trying to keep her eyes on the stranger.
            The writer bowed and stepped toward her, stooping to pick up her quill. “My name is Michael, Your Highness.” He was grateful to have a name acceptable in both his world and in the worlds he created. He handed her the pen with a smile. “I…work in the palace and have observed your comings and goings as of late. Forgive me, Highness, but I wonder if you might indulge me the answer to an impertinent question.”
            She smiled her dazzling smile. “That depends on how impertinent the question. But what queer garments you wear, Michael. What, pray, are those pieces of glass that sit upon your nose?”
            Michael mentally chided himself for forgetting to remove his glasses before entering the story. They always caused unnecessary confusion, and he tried to make a habit of leaving them on the desk. “They, uh, aid my vision, Your Highness,” he said, taking them off and tucking them away in his breast pocket. His vision was unaffected; this was a quirk of his writing he couldn’t really explain but didn’t mind in the least. “Highness, forgive me, but my question concerns your imminent engagement.”
            “To Prince Gerald?” she asked, a lilt in her voice. Her eyes sparkled.
            “Yes, my lady. You see, as one who has observed both yourself and the prince, I cannot help but feel that you two are not entirely suited for one another.”
            The sparkle left her eyes. “Not suited for one another? We knew at one glance that our love was true. How can you say such things?”
            “As I said, Your Majesty, though you have not seen me before, I am quite familiar with both you and your lover. Have you never considered casting your affection elsewhere? There may exist, within your own palace even, someone whose love for you transcends even the prince’s. Someone of low stature but noble character.”
            “Low stature?” She considered this for a moment. “My family would never approve of that. I must marry someone of royal blood. Besides, you are surely mistaken. No love on earth could surpass that which Gerald and I hold for each other.” Her eyes began to sparkle again, and she started humming a love song under her breath.
            Michael shook his head. He hadn’t meant for her to be this infatuated, but he had been here long enough already. He would have to resort to other means. “Very well, my lady. However, if you are able, please think on what I’ve said.”
            She was too busy singing to hear him. He pulled out a small old notebook from his back pocket, along with a pencil stub. Carefully, he wrote,
                        He left the garden for the solitude of his attic.
            He was in the attic again, but everything was blurry. He put the notebook away and pulled out his glasses. Tucking the wire ends behind his ears, he sat down at his desk and looked out the window in front of him. It was raining now, and the sky was a darker gray than it had been when he left. He turned his attention to the page on the typewriter. New material had appeared.
            One day the princess met in her garden a strange man with circles of glass before his eyes.
            Michael chuckled and shook his head at his own foolishness. It was too late now; the scene couldn’t be unwritten. He promised himself he would be more careful in the future. The scene continued, recording the dialogue verbatim and writing the narrative in Michael’s authorial voice. It ended with,
            The princess hoped she had not offended Michael, as he seemed to have departed in a great hurry. After convincing herself not to worry about what the curious man had suggested, she filled her thoughts with her beloved Gerald and her arms with flowers until she was called in to tea.
            Michael sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He would have to use other means to convince Evelyn to choose the stable boy. It was supposed to be a beautiful ‘love-against-all-odds’ type of story wherein the princess discovered that the stable boy’s love for her had nothing (or very little) to do with her looks and everything to do with her sweet character, which the prince had not even noticed.            
            Michael decided that Evelyn would have to discover, rather than be told, that the prince’s love for her was based solely on her beauty. But how? He stood up and walked the length of the attic. Pacing sometimes helped when he found himself in need of inspiration. Six strides to the opposite wall. Back again. There again. Then he had it. Take her looks away. He grinned and sat down again. For this he would need a new character. He flexed his hands and began typing away.
            No one quite knew where she had come from, but the old woman was most certainly a stranger to Tyrenia. She claimed to be a distant relation to King William, but few believed this assertion. With her weathered, frightening face and wild gray hair, to compare her to the royal family was to liken a toad to a stallion. She set up residence in a dense grove near the palace, which soon afterward was said to be haunted by strange noises once night fell. Curiosity did not overcome the fear the villagers had of her, and for many weeks she occupied her grove undisturbed. Then one day, the princess herself felt compelled to pay this strange guest a visit.
            Michael decided to witness rather than write this scene. It was important that this go according to plan, but he had a feeling that his characters would know what to do. However, he felt his presence ought to go unnoticed this time, unless of course he simply had to intervene. He didn’t want to consider that possibility, though. Choosing his words with care, he typed,
            I found myself in the dark copse southwest of the castle, a mere stone’s throw from the old woman’s house. 
            He was pleased to see that she had situated her house just as he’d pictured. It was a squat little shack, which looked as if it had been picked up and dropped a few times. The surrounding trees reached hungrily for the heavily patched roof, but smoke poured merrily from its chimney nonetheless. He smiled. His stories often had a way of reading his mind. It made perfect sense, though—his mind was their birthplace.
            He heard a familiar humming, and thought he’d better get out of sight. After just barely remembering to remove his glasses, he hid himself behind a particularly thick trunk as the princess approached the hut on the barely discernible path that led out of the forest. She wore a satin cloak of a light purple and carried a basket. She was accompanied by a palace guard, whom she bade wait outside as she knocked on the crooked door. After a moment it opened with a squeal. Michael wished to anything he could see the old woman, but decided it wasn’t worth the risk of his interference.
            “Why, Princess Evelyn!” came a rusty but kind voice.
            “Hello.” The princess gave a small curtsey. “I’ve come to bid you welcome to the kingdom, and to bring you a pie from our kitchens.” She indicated the basket on her arm.
            “Oh, goodness. Pleasure, I’m sure. Come in, Your Highness, come in. We’ll share that pie over a cup of tea, if you might stay a spell. Can’t say as the place is very nice—” here she scowled, and Michael imagined he would get a talking-to if the woman knew who was responsible for creating her house, “—but it’ll hold two. Or three.” She eyed the guard looming over the princess’s shoulder.
            “Oh that won’t be necessary. Thomas will wait outside.”
            “Well then, come right in, dear.”
            The princess entered the house and the door creaked shut. The guard stayed rooted to the spot with absolutely no expression and his arms folded across his chest. Michael hadn’t anticipated the princess bringing anyone, although he supposed he should have. The king and queen certainly wouldn’t let Evelyn leave the palace alone. However, her chaperone’s presence didn’t help Michael in any way.
            He was a mere four yards from where Michael stood behind the tree, and Michael knew that if he so much as breathed loudly the guard would know. After fretting about missing the conversation taking place inside the hut, an idea struck him. He pulled out his notebook and pencil, thought a moment, and scribbled,
            As Thomas waited outside the strange dwelling, he felt himself growing drowsy.
            The guard blinked slowly and gave a loud yawn. It was working! Michael continued,
            Finally, the stalwart soldier could fight it no longer. He sat against a tree and relaxed as sleep overtook his body.
            Michael looked up just in time to see Thomas’s arms drop from their fold. He silently congratulated himself as he tucked his notebook away and crept from behind the tree. He found a window on one side of the house that, luckily, the two women had their backs to. Pressing his nose against the cold glass, he tried to make out what they were saying.
            “Why…in love…your prince…understand?”
            “We…true love…”
            “Ah, but true love…beauty…you really are.”
            “I don’t…Gerald loves me…”
            “You might…lesson…love…show you…”
            “What do you…kind of lesson?”
            “…show you.”
            Then the talking ceased as the woman stood and placed a hand lovingly on the princess’s head. The princess flinched but didn’t move away. They stayed that way for a moment, and then the woman removed her hand and smiled at the girl.
            “Why don’t…home…again soon.”
            Evelyn nodded although she was obviously confused. She glanced at the window, and Michael’s heart skipped a beat as he dropped out of sight. He hoped he had been quick enough. He maneuvered around to the back of the building as he heard the door open. He pulled out his notebook as he heard the princess say,
            “Thomas? I’m ready to go home. Thomas?”
            “Mmgh…oh, Your Highness!”
                        He was back in the attic, and the rain outside had lessoned slightly.
            He looked out the attic window and smiled. No such luck; his was the only world he controlled. After replacing his glasses, he sat back down at the typewriter and looked at the page. Thankfully, he didn’t appear in the story this time. The princess must not have seen him. He wished he had gotten a glimpse of the princess before he left, but he supposed he could write that in himself. He began,
            Thomas gave her a strange look. “Oh, I’m sorry miss. Where’s the princess?”
            “Whatever do you mean, Thomas? I am the princess.” 
            “Begging your pardon, miss, but Princess Evelyn bears no resemblance to you.”
            The princess declared, exasperated, “Thomas! It is me! See?” She thrust her hand forward, on the little finger of which she wore a ring bearing her father’s seal. Upon seeing her hand, however, her expression stilled. She brought the other hand up for inspection. The hands that had once been delicate and white were no longer so. They might even pass for a servant’s hands. With growing panic, she felt her face. Her nose was larger than it should have been. Her jaw was squarer. She felt for her hair and pulled it around to her face. Dark brown and stick straight. She shuddered and pushed it away. She looked back up at Thomas, frightened. “What’s happened to me?”
            “I don’t know, my lady,” he said, still gazing at her curiously. “What happened in there?” He indicated the hut.
            The princess’s eyes widened. She turned around and banged furiously on the door. There was no answer. In frustration she grasped the handle and pushed on the door. It opened easily, and the room appeared just as it had mere moments ago, but there was no trace of the old woman. After staring blankly at the empty room for a moment, the princess shut the door and turned back around resolutely.
            “Let’s go, Thomas. We’ll figure this out at the castle.”
            Thomas, too dumbfounded to reply, followed her as she made her way out of the forest and back home.
            Michael ceased his typing and stretched out his hands. Time for more coffee. He took his mug and descended the ladder from the attic to his actual flat. He hadn’t really been meant to have the attic when he rented the flat, but it was sitting there unused right above him, and Mrs. Brady, the landlady, had agreed to let him use it as a workspace. It was a small, bare room, but he liked it that way. It seemed more conducive to creativity, like a blank canvas.
            He put the kettle on to boil and placed a filter and coffee grounds in the floral-patterned porcelain dripolater that had been his mother’s housewarming gift to him. He smiled. He was sure that his mother had assumed he’d be sharing the flat with a wife before long. No such luck. Soon the kettle began to whistle, and moments later he had a hot pot of coffee. He decided to take both the pot and the mug back up to his desk, provided he could find a way to carry them. Just when he thought he had his hands situated for the climb, the pot tilted and spilled a bit of coffee onto his knee.
            He almost jumped with pain, nearly spilling more, and barely managed to set the pot and mug down on his bedside table. He didn’t think he’d been burned, but the trousers were no longer presentable, at least until they’d had a wash. He changed them for clean ones and then made two trips back up to the attic, just to be safe.
            Finally Michael was again situated before his typewriter with fresh coffee at his disposal. It was time for the princess to meet her true love. He paused. This was another scene he’d much rather witness first-hand, but he was getting a little too fond of these visits. He had to be careful not to change the story from the inside unless absolutely necessary. As he reflected on that morning’s visit with the princess, his writer’s conscience started hinting uncomfortably that that trip hadn’t been necessary. He argued with himself for a moment about the scene’s validity, and ended up deciding that this morning was past, and that as long as he kept out of sight, he ought to be able to travel to his story whenever he chose. He knew in the back of his mind that this wasn’t the most rational vein of thought, but he was too invested in the story to care.
            It was late on the evening of the princess’s transformation, and I found myself in the stables as she came to seek solace in the company of her horse.
            The musty smell of horses and hay greeted him as he stood in the straw. Aside from an occasional whinny, the place was quiet. However, Michael knew it wouldn’t be long before he was joined. He found an empty stall and, tucking his glasses away in his pocket, hunched down to hear the scene.
            A moment later the princess (he assumed) entered. She sniffed loudly a couple of times, indicating that she had been crying not long ago. He heard her softly call her mare, Lily, and heard the horse come clopping to the front of its stall.
            “Hi Lily, good girl. Good girl,” came the princess’s hushed voice.
            The horse whinnied.
            “I know, I know. I don’t look like me.”
            Lily snorted.
            “I guess I still smell like me, though.”
            Michael could hear a slight smile in Evelyn’s voice.
            “What do you think, Lily? Am I really ugly? Or just plain?”
            That question struck something in Michael’s heart. You’re not ugly, he thought. As he waited for the stable boy to make his entrance, ready to muck stalls or groom horses, it struck him that the boy didn’t as of yet have a name. Or a physical description. Or…Michael’s face went still. He hadn’t created the stable boy. The intention had been there. From the story’s birth there had been a vague idea of the lad who saw the princess from afar and wished that their situations were not so far removed. A lad with a steadfast heart and a good head on his shoulders. He existed in theory, but not on paper—that is, not in reality. Michael’s stories might be able to fabricate scenes he had already determined, but they couldn’t scrape together a new character out of thin air, especially one this important to the plot.
            His shook his head. He supposed he would just go back, write the boy in, and come back to witness the meeting. He reached for his notebook, and his heart dropped out of his chest. His precious, tattered little notebook was still in the pocket of the coffee-stained trousers. His mind started racing. How was he to return home? He shifted his weight, and the rustle of straw caught the princess’s attention.
            “Is someone there?”
            He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. There was nothing to do but reveal himself. He stood shakily and exited the stall. He had to stop himself from smiling: she looked exactly as he had pictured. Straight, dark brown hair hung around a slightly fuller face. Her features were no longer petite, but still feminine. It was by no means an unpleasant face, but it belonged more to a servant than to a princess. He quickly formed an excuse in answer to her question. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness, I, uh, seem to have fallen asleep here. Do forgive me.”
            “Why Michael, I wondered where you’d gone. But,” she paused. “How did you ever recognize me? I’m so…ugly.” She said the word as though it tasted foul.
            Good question, he told himself. As far as she knew, he hadn’t seen her like this yet. He thought quickly. “I… heard rumors of what had happened to you, and I heard you speaking to your horse. And, forgive me, my lady, but you are far from ugly. Your looks have changed, certainly. But not for the worse, in my humble opinion.”
            She gave a small smile. “I’m not quite sure I agree, but thank you nonetheless.”
            He nodded. “Your Highness, grant me an odd request: you don’t happen to have a spare bit of parchment on your person, do you?”
            The princess carried a small satchel at her side, which she now reached into. “A queer request, but in fact I do. I often enjoy transcribing some of the thoughts that cross my mind throughout the day.” She pulled out the diary she had been using that morning, along with a rather squished quill and a small bottle of ink. “Have you need of writing instruments?”
            “Indeed, and I’m very grateful, Your Highness. I’m desperate to remember something which I’m certain to forget without making note of it.”
            She smiled and tore a page from her journal, handing it to him along with the quill and, after she had removed the top, the inkbottle.
            Michael took the parchment, dipped the quill in ink, and, his hand shaking, began to write. He hadn’t the faintest idea whether it would work, and if it did, his disappearance would be quite startling for the princess. However, that worry was not currently his primary concern.
                        He was back in his lonely attic again.
            He waited with bated breath. The princess was standing beside him, looking on curiously. After a moment, she broke the silence.
            “Is that all you needed to remember?” She looked up at him with her now-hazel eyes.
            “Uh, yes,” he replied. His mind spinning, he slowly gave her back her quill and ink.
            She chuckled as she tucked them away again. “You certainly are queer, Michael. You’re like no man I’ve ever met. But I enjoy your company.” She looked up at him again.
            He’d seen that particular look in her eyes before. It had been this morning, and they had been talking about…Gerald.
            Oh no.
            He still had to answer her. “I, uh, enjoy your company as well, Your Highness.” Why doesn’t her paper work? he asked himself, trying to contain his racing thoughts. Must be because it’s inside the story. It was created here. I need something from outside. Something real.
            “Might you accompany me for a short ride, Michael?” The princess jerked his attention back to the present.
            He looked at her blankly.
            “I’m not to go riding alone, but I’ll hardly be alone if you come with me.” She smiled.
            Even with dark hair and hazel eyes, it was a lovely smile. Maybe even nicer, Michael thought. It seemed a little more genuine. But…he tried to knock some sense into his head. He couldn’t go cavorting around the grounds with the princess. He had to figure out how to get home. He looked back at the piece of parchment in his hands. Why had he qualified his attic as “lonely”? He didn’t mind the quiet and solitude…did he?
            He looked back at Evelyn and decided that he really did prefer hazel eyes to blue. Suddenly he decided to throw caution to the wind. His lonely attic would wait. Crumpling the paper in his hand, he bowed and replied, “Your Highness, it would be my honor.”

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