VII
The deeper pools, in which a frog might find refuge from the herons and kingfishers that ruled these watery reaches, lie under the bridge, shadowed by willows. The bank is steepest here. Nora tied up her skirts with her belt and began to make her way down the bank’s makeshift steps of roots and stones, steadying herself against the trunks of saplings, and holding her kerchief in her teeth by the knot that secured the frog.
At the bottom, Nora found herself on a wide ledge of rock anchored on one side by the stone embankment of the bridge arching overhead and on the other by the gnarled roots of a willow of prodigious age and size. Weeping beside the willow was a maiden. Her hair was tangled about her, her dress was a faded glory, and what would have been a surpassingly lovely face was marred by boo-hooing and the tracks of tears. Nora took her kerchief from her mouth and was about to offer it to the maiden to dry her eyes when she thought better of it, and instead stood silently on the bank and chewed her lip. A creature of this sort was seldom seen on this path. Nora waited until the weeping subsided and the maid glanced up, startled to see a goat girl with apple cheeks gazing patiently at her.
“Are you lost?”
“No, I am … alone.” The maiden looked away and stifled a fresh bout of weeping.
“Why are you alone?”
The maiden sighed and gazed fixedly at her hands in her lap. “My father is a nobleman, horse master to the king. For his valiant service both on the battlefield and off, the prince and I were betrothed when we were mere infants. But the fortunes of kings are fickle, and he determined that the prince should marry another in order to affirm an alliance with a neighboring kingdom. I do not begrudge the new princess her spouse; the prince and I have grown up together and have always felt more brother and sister to one another than betrothed. But she is jealous and willful and thought me a rival for her husband’s affections, and so had me banished. And now I have neither husband, nor friend, nor home.” She sighed again, distractedly plucking at a loose bit of brocade, as tear after silent tear coursed down her cheek and joined their brothers on the water-marred silk of the skirt below.
Nora knelt down beside her and patted the maiden’s hand. “Well, I am here, and we are not alone. Look!”
Nora gently untied the knot as the frog struggled inside his kerchief prison. Remembering a certain cow’s rash response to unexpected freedom, Nora cupped her hands about the frog lest he leap away, and shyly offered the maiden a look at her latest companion. She peeped into the tiny cave of Nora’s hands, and two golden eyes peeped back.
As the maiden showed no fear or distress, but rather a mild curiosity at Nora’s jewel bright charge, Nora gently placed the tiny frog in the upturned palm of the delicate hand that lay in the maiden’s lap saying,
“There are tales … of princes …”.
The maiden’s eyes grew wide in wonder.
Rising quickly, Nora bobbed her head to the maiden and scrambled back up the bank as the maiden raised the frog to her lips.
At the top of the bank, Nora checked her pocket – no moon white stone. She looked about her feet for the missing stone and found nothing but weathered granite and black river rock as far as she could see. She checked for swans in the willow-shrouded pool, for if roan cows came from red stones and frogs from green, then swans might spring up from white. But no swan, no winterwolf, no snowy owl from the North, and Nora laughed aloud at herself, for thinking that some shining white creature should have found its way to her. She crossed the clattering bridge, hearing silver laughter from the rock ledge below, and made her way toward the village gate.
more to follow …
© Magdalen Jago 2008
Magdalen J,
This is really very delicate and lovely.
The installments just can’t come fast enough for me.
That cow was bossy.
AKB
Thank you, Amy.
Your compliments are quite encouraging.
I have known cows exactly like the roan; there is a reason many of them are named “Bossy”.
Best regards,
Magdalen