Three Drops of Blood - a retelling of The Goose Girl

Three Drops of Blood

The light of the tallow nub burns pale and orange, but it is enough. I don't expect anyone shall see my story but it will be written. It must. I am not a ninny. I know how this story shall be told.

          How the bitter, plain face of the princess will grow ever fairer as this tale is passed down from generation to generation. How my dusky beauty will be buried beneath the hardened mask of a calculating shrew. And yes, I am beautiful, for the prince told me so. Not with words, but with the light in his eyes, the way he looped his fingers through mine on that first afternoon. What a disappointment our romance was destined to be.

         Oh hush Falada, you stuffy old nag! At least I saw your pure blood spilled before I go to my fate.

          Fie, that I wish when they lopped off that proud horse's head, they'd cut out her tongue as well. I have torn my skirt and draped the cloth over the bars of my prison, so that I don't have to look at that equine fiend, staring down her long nose at me. I can hear her all the same. I can't write and cover my ears at the same time.

          "A hangman's fate is too good for thee.

 A barrel of nails, soon you shall see."

          And so I shall. But not before morning. There is time. This charcoal stick is awkward and blackens my fingers, but it will do. So I begin my tale.

          My mother is complicit in this as much as me, although I do not blame her for it. I have no regrets and she would have none of me. Oh Mama, how I wish my side of the story would reach your ears before the foul, twisted filth of the winners — the highborn are always the winners — burn your ears with their scourge and lies. You know me though. I keep faith that you will read between the lines and know the truth.

          But yes. My mother. It was just the two of us for so long. My father — a woodsman — died when I had barely left the breast. A tree fell the wrong way, snuffing out his life with a snap. Mama says he was a good man. Not a man of deep thoughts — that was Mama's domain — but a good man.

          Mama was of the river folk. Dark, proud and beautiful people with straight backs and fierce dark eyes. It was common for them to pack up their small pouches of belongings and go wandering. That was what my mother did. Wandered into the woods and almost into the jaws of a pack of wild dogs. It was my father who saved her.

          After my father died, Mama taught me all the skills of the river folk. How to fish, wash clothes and channel the river magic. The river runs powerful and free and its magic is the same. A mortal cannot keep the river magic — it won't be kept — but if you approach it the correct way, the river magic will work with you, for a time.

          Our magic made us special. That was what Mama always said.

       "The highborns think because their skin is white, they are better than you. They are not. In your blood runs centuries of magic and untold knowledge. Never forget that."

          I never did.

          So it happened that one day not long into my eleventh year, Mama and I were walking back from town when a coach rolled up beside us.

          A girl of about my age, leaned out of her seat and shouted, "Look Papa. There she is. The pretty dark one. I want her to be my lady-in-waiting."

          Apparently, the princess had been at the market as well. Accompanied by her papa, she was looking amongst the gentry for her first lady-in-waiting.