DISCLAIMER: This is an adaptation of an adaptation of a story penned by the Brothers Grimm. Jim Henson, and the Brothers Grimm get all the royalties and credit for the story and RankinBass/WB get the credit for the ThunderCats. I own nothing.
The anniversary celebration marking the victory over the dark forces of Third Earth had, as usual, been an event of much splendor and joy. Throughout the land, grand parties were held and fantastic festivals were thrown. The grandest and most fantastic of all were, as usual, held in Thundera – kingdom of the Thundercats and home of King Lion-O who, with the aid of his cherished Queen, trusted General, brilliant Architect, two wily Wildcats, and a rogues gallery of allies had brilliantly led the forces of good to success.
For three days and three nights, the citizens feasted, fested, sung, danced, and told stories.
Ah the stories... The greatest storytellers across the land would journey to Thundera to tell their tales of noble heroes and vile villains, of valiant deeds and terrible betrayals.
And so it was, on the third night of the festival, WilyKat, the greatest of the greatest storytellers, took his seat by the fireplace in the Grand Hall, retrieved his storybook from his Bag of Forever, looked and smiled at all his dearest friends and family and, with a nod from his King, began his tale.
The Ravens Three
.
.
.
There was once a grand and great kingdom where all was happy and bright. Where trees and flowers grew, where songs were sung and dances were danced.
And in this kingdom a good and mighty Cat reigned and loved as King. What he gave he received tenfold times two. There were rich harvests, clean rivers, golden days, and happy children.
And his Queen… Oh she was a cheetah of grace and majesty, of incalculable wit and fancy. Her gemstone smile was passed from mouth to mouth in the country like a gift - which it was. Her smile blessed the land and what it touched grew and was healed.
Then, one bleak winter day, the Queen died. How, no one knew.
Outside the palace, the leaves, all reds and golds, fell in lament. Flowers refused to blossom. Fertile soil turned to barren dust.
Inside the palace, the King, his three sons, and his daughter wept. They wept and wept and wept so much their tears stained the stone floors. And the people filed slowly by, hour after hour, to shed their own tears for the dear Queen.
But, there was one Cat among the mourners whose eyes were dry, whose brain raced ahead to the day when the King would want to ease his loneliness. And the Strega, for a Witch she was, swept her cold gaze across the solemn faces, across the sorrow and the sadness, let it linger icily on the Princess and her brothers three, then fixed her dry, calculating eyes on the King as she schemed a simple, terrible scheme.
For you see, she lusted for power - hungered for it. She hungered for majesty over all things, for the cold ring of gold around her head. She wanted this until the want ate away her heart and soul leaving nothing but a foul, black ichor.
So she set her wicked charms to work upon the King. And as the days passed on their endless waltz, she slowly inched her way into his life as a predator would stalk its prey.
At first the distraught King didn't even see the Strega, didn't see anyone, not even his precious daughter, who was the mirror reflection of her mother. Nor did he feel the sun on his face, or the wind, or even the rain. No, the poor King just felt the cold and clammy grasp of the past. All day, all night, memories pulled at his broken heart.
But as you already know, the Strega was a charmer – an enchantress – and no petty dabbler at that. She could charm the teeth from a badger and the poison from ivy. She turned all her considerable powers on the distraught King. She would have him. It did not matter if the past tugged him one way for she patiently pulled him the other.
One rainy morning, she crept upon him as he stood hunched and broken over his wife's tomb, flowers in hand, flowers on grave. As he shivered, he felt a cloak surround him. Pulling it tight to his breast, he turned and saw the Strega standing before him, all kindness and worry. How strange he felt - strange and shaken. Because, for an instants instant, when he looked at the Strega, he thought he saw his wife's darling face.
And indeed he had for the treacherous spell-weaver had enchanted him as only an enchantress could. Her own hard, feral beauty blurred into the soothing features of the departed Queen. Brown hair turned gold, thin lips turned full and plump, dark eyes brightened. It was a spell of the oldest and darkest magics. And it worked.
"You're back," the King repeated over and over for it was all he could say.
The Strega floated to the King and pressed a now delicate finger to his lips. "Our little secret," she whispered in a voice of curare and honey.
Thus it began; the King wanting to feast forever on the Strega who slowly reeled in catch. One day they walked together, the next day he held her hand, the next day still he kissed her. Oh, wow happy he imagined he was!
He called together his four children, their eyes still red from weeping. The Not-Queen was with him and he introduced her. His eyes could not leave her as he spoke. "Dear children, I have a wondrous and wonderfully wonder to tell you. I'm going to be married again. We're going to be happy and whole once more."
The Strega smiled a smile of malice at the children. "I hope you'll think of me as your friend," she said, "and then, in time, as your mother."
"Our mother's dead," the children said in unison, huddling together.
"New mother," said the King quickly. "I think we mean as your new mother."
"That's right," said the Strega, "In time." Then she was gone, sweeping out like an ominous breeze.
Behind her, in the room, the four children stood threatened and bewildered, while their father hugged them to him, hugged and hugged, begging them to try, begging them to understand. And as they hugged, they nodded somberly, promising to try. All hugs, all family.
But, the Strega watched from outside and cursed them. The children were her rivals and her enemies. She would not share with them. She wanted it all. And she would get it all.
In short order, the Strega was married to the King after a joyless wedding. A dark cloud fell across the kingdom wherever the New Queen walked. All those in the kingdom tread warily in her presence for her wrath was shift and fierce. Yes, all those in the kingdom tread warily but none more-so than the kings heirs.
The Strega sought to sow seeds of fear in the children's lives. Railings gave way, horses bucked wild, stairs crumbled, floors rotted away. The world was now a very dangerous place. One day, a toy box was full of snakes, hissing and writhing and biting. Another day, the Princess put on a necklace that had been a favorite of her mother's and felt it tighten and tighten around her neck like invisible hands. Terror whispered its threat through the palace.
Of course the Strega herself was all honey, always honey. But, sometimes, the King caught her cold, calculating looks and worried she was also the bee and could sting. Whenever he did though, the feral features would soften and once again beguile him. Each time though, it took longer and longer to achieve. Oh what a poor King was he; torn in half. Enchanted by his new Queen, frightened for his children, what could he do?
The King had a magic ball of twine. It knew its way through all the forests. Roll it in and it would pick a path, this way and that, to where a secret Tower lay hidden, pure and perfect. Here were streams and sanctuary, an omen of peace.
The King lay awake one dark night beside his wife, watched her deathlike sleep, and decided what he must do.
The next morning, he slipped from bed, roused his dear children, and took them quickly and quietly to the forest's edge. From his cloak he produced the magic twine and set it rolling. For an hour and then another, the family followed the twines marvelous journey, saying nothing, passing glade and glen, this way and that, until they came to a clearing and saw before them the Tower.
Sorrow slipped from their shoulders like water off a duck's back, for their mother's smile and love lived here still and it warmed their very beings.
"It's perfect!" they agreed as they embraced each other, hugging and clapping backs, delighted and ecstatic.
The boys larked and larruped as if a great weight had lifted off them for it had been. And the Princess, their dearly loved sister who was the mirror reflection of their dearly loved mother, sat by the steam and dipped her toes and missed her mother who she looked so much like, which she always did when she was happy.
"This is our secret place," whispered the King gently as he sat down beside her, taking her hand in his, "Secret from the entire world and its darkness. No one can find you here."
The Princess gazed at the stream, not looking at her father. "You've brought us here because of her, haven't you?" she said, "Because of our stepmother."
Though the King protested, though he would not admit it, she was right. He had.
As they spoke, the dark Queen who the Kings children rightfully feared so, sat in her dark chamber and studied her dark spells. The children were obstacles between her and power for they were growing, growing daily like dark clouds that hung over the kingdom.
Now she would catch these clouds, and puff them clean away.
All night she brewed, all night she recited, all night she chanted her dark chants and cursed her dark curses.
When, next day, the King returned to the palace and sought her out, he found her at her spinning wheel, sending black threads of silk and satin to and fro, her tight scowl stretched into a thin smile as sharp as a bee's stinger.
"Where've you been?" she inquired, all curare and honey.
The King explained he'd taken the children on a holiday and she nodded. As he said "special holiday," she nodded more and said she understood. Oh yes, she understood everything.
'Did he like her sewing?' She wondered aloud. She was sewing shirts, she said, sewing the little children all little shirts.
Oh how the King felt terrible for he'd misjudged his new Queen. There she was at home sewing presents for his children while he was hiding them away from her.
The Strega pinched him with her curare and honey words. "You're being very mysterious," she teased. "Where are the children - our children? You claim you want me to be the mother, but what mother can tolerate not knowing where her children have gone?"
Suddenly the King felt a familiar unease creep back up his spine. "I wanted them to have a secret holiday. It makes it special."
The Strega laughed and cackled. "Secret," she said, laughing and cackling again. "Of course. But what if something should happen to you? Then what would we do? Or happen to them?" She bit into the thread with sharp teeth, snapping it. "Still, let that be an end to it. You don't want to tell me. It's your right for they're your children. I am only their stepmother." And, saying this, she spun the wheel and left him there to watch it turn and turn and turn like the enchanted guilt in his stomach.
Whatever her words, the Strega had no intention of letting that be an end to it. The next day when the King rode off to visit the children, she followed, stealthy as a bat – for she had in fact transmogrified herself into that very mammal - and watched as he rolled out his magical twin, watched its magic twists and turns, and she smiled her bee-sting smile.
That night, while the King slept an enchanted sleep, she searched for the twine, sly and silent as a fox in a hen house, rummaging and rooting, willing and wanting it to appear. And she found the twine and stole it, leaving in its place a ball of common thread.
Then, off at dawn to find the poor children, her enemies, carrying with her the magic thread as well as her magic shirts and her magic curses.
Morning found the three Princes knee deep in the stream, tickling and tackling for trout. Every now and then a cry would break the silence then a shout and a laugh as a wiggling, waggling fish would leap from the gasping hands and splash back into the water on its way.
Nearby, in the forest, the Princess wandered and walked, gathering lilies and primroses, full of joy hearing her brothers' yelps and hoots of pleasure. The children had not known such peace for a long time. Fish and flowers came in abundance and they were delighted.
They did not know at the edge of the forest, the Strega - their stepmother, had rolled out the magic ball of twine and was harrying after it.
Moments after she disappeared into the thickness of the forest, the King arrived to visit his children. He pulled out his ball of thread and threw it on the ground. There it stayed, stubborn, stock-still. He picked it up and cast it down again, but nothing. It would not move. The King was first dumbfounded, next aggravated; then slowly, the truth began to dawn on him and he felt that unease - that disquiet that spread and grew and filled him with terror. He abandoned the useless thread and began a panicked run into the heart of the forest.
The three Princes ran into the Tower, full of victory and vigor, their net bulging with fish to cook for supper. How their father would be proud of them! They carried the heaving catch into the pantry only to forget it in an instant for sitting at the table, shrouded in black, skin like the sand of Deaths desert, cold eyes gleaming, was their stepmother.
"Have you caught all these fish yourselves?" she asked, all innocence, all curare and honey, as if her presence in the Tower were the most natural thing in the entire world. "How clever!" she cackled and laughed.
The boys moved together back a step, then another and another. "How did you find us stepmother?" they asked. "And where is our father the King?"
The Strega put up her most soothing facade. She moved toward them with purpose, explaining that their father was on his way before offering to cook the fish for them. Would they like to see the presents she'd made? Special presents just for them?
And with this she produced the shirts, held them up for the children to see, their black silk sleeves fluttering like wings. "I sewed each one by hand. Aren't they nice? Try them on. Then your father can see them. Your fish, my shirts - we'll surprise him and oh how happy he shall be to see." Her voice sang singsong treachery.
The boys warily took the shirts, each with a shiver The Strega barely watched as the changed from their tunics. Instead, her eyes wandered to and fro before fixing on the window toward the forest. "And where is your dearly loved sister?" she sang. "I miss her. I miss her so."
The Princess was strolling in the forest, calm and carefree. She heard the birds singing and sung back. The trees whispered and so did she. A brook babbled and with a laugh, she babbled right back. She could not hear her father's anxious and frantic cries as he wandered lost and bewildered in the heart of the forest.
In the cottage, the three brothers tied fast their shirts, buttoned up the necks. The Strega turned to them smiling her bee-sting smile. Then she began to mutter an incantation – a curse darker than the darkest night - a low rhythmic verse, over and over, faster and faster, and louder and louder.
"The shirts will hurt, the wings will sting,
the beaks will shriek, the eyes will cry.
The shirts will hurt, the wings will sting,
the beak will shriek, the eyes will cry.
The shirts will hurt, the wings will sting,
the beaks will shriek, the eyes will cry."
And as her curse grew louder, thundering through the Tower, the terrible shirts tightened upon the young boys, pulled and tightened and stretched like skin around them, shredding and squeezing, ripping and wrenching. They looked at themselves in terror, then to the Strega in fear, her cruel voice winding round them, pulling like Deaths sure grip.
What was happening to them? Their shirts hurt, their arms felt like wings, stinging them, their eyes blinked back tears; and from their own mouths came shrieking caws.
Awful it was for the brothers, swirling in the room, blind and panicked. Out they flew, out, out, away from the Strega and her cackles of triumph.
The Princess saw her three brothers as she returned toward the Tower, her basket full of flowers and berries. The Three Ravens circled over her, cawing and cawing, terrified. She dropped her basket and ran toward the Tower's open door, then stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the Strega at the window, staring and smiling her bee-sting smile, willing the young girl to enter.
The Princess turned and fled for her life, losing shoe and shawl as the Strega pursued her - a black bat with arms outstretched, possessed. And above them flew the Ravens Three cawing and cawing, crying out warnings to their beloved sister, crying out that she must run faster and not look back.
And what of the King during all this? Where was he you wonder?
At the very instant his daughter disappeared into the forest's embrace, the King finally found his way out of its labyrinth. There was the Strega, his wife, his Queen, hurtling from the Tower, wild in her triumph, the path strewn with flowers and berries and discarded garments, feathers everywhere, anguished cries of "Father! Father!" ringing in his ears.
"What have you done?" he roared at the Strega.
"Me?" she replied, pulling up and oozing curare and honey. "I've done nothing."
But the King would have none of it. His voice was stern with rage for he knew dishonesty and treachery were afoot. "I ask you again, what have you done with my children?"
His wife was all innocence, amazed. "Are the children here?" As she spoke, her face melted into the features of the dead Queen.
The King covered his eyes with his hands, trying not to look at her.
She willed him to, willed him and willed him to, but he would not.
"My boys!" he cried with desperation. The three Ravens circled above cawing to their father. Telling him of their tragic fate in words he could not understand. "My boys! My daughter! Where are they? I heard my Princess cry out to me!"
The Strega's face relaxed, softened, returned, her smile a curved sneer of ice. She whispered, she cooed. "I think you must be unwell. Are you sickening or something? Let me see. Let me soothe you."
But the enchantment on the King was broken and he pulled her roughly to the ground. A hiss came from her throat.
She looked up at him, her cruelty plain and unmasked. "Yes, you're upset," she hissed ominously. "I'll have to think about this; about what we can do with you." Then she picked up one of the Day Astrid flowers the Princess had gathered and fixed on it.
The King stared, astounded, as the flower drooped and wilted in her grip and wound itself round her fist as a spitting, writhing Cobra. It was the last thing he ever saw before the snake leapt onto his neck and began its bitter caress.
For a day and a night the Princess ran, stumbled, and fled as swiftly as her legs would carry her until she dropped into exhaustions dead sleep, and when she woke, she saw the Three Ravens before her. Or, perhaps she dreamed it, because they spoke to her and she could understand them.
"Sister," they cawed. "Listen to us for we are your Brothers Three. The Witch-Queen, our stepmother, she did this to us. We are trapped in her curse. Help us. Please help us. To help us you must keep silent. You must not speak to a single soul for three years, three months, three weeks, and three days. Only then can the spell be broken."
Their sister listened and she believed. "Then I shall not speak," she promised solemnly. For three years, three months, three weeks, and three days I shan't speak a word.
"Please," urged the Ravens. "Please keep your promise. The shirts hurt, the wings sting, the beaks shriek, the eyes cry."
And with that the Princess nodded and placed her finger to her lips as a sign that she would not utter a word to a single soul for three years, three months, three weeks, and three days, until the wicked Witch-Queen's spell was broken.
And so the Princess made her home high in the hollow of an old dead tree and was silent while the weeks and weeks went by.
Then, one day, as fate would have it, a young Lion Prince, far from home and wandering in the forest, stumbled across a stream. He bent down into the flowing brook to quench his thirst, and as he cupped his hands in the diamond water, a delicate handkerchief of the finest lace swept past.
The Prince reached and caught it, then turned his head upstream to seek its owner.
He could see no one from where he was and, curious as only a Cat can be, he set off following the sinuous course.
Eventually, he came to a place where the stream widened into a small pond, and there, washing her clothes, was the Princess.
The Prince called out to her, waving her handkerchief. At this the Princess, startled and confused, scampered away into the thickness and vastness of the forest. The young Lion pursued her until he came to a tree into which she had disappeared. He thought she must be a nymph or a fairy or maybe even a dryad for he was certain she was a creature of enchantment. Her bright eyes had flashed at him like two suns of the most precious ore, but she would not reply as he questioned her.
At length, settling on the ground besides her tree, he unpacked some of his food and offered it to her. Famished as she was, the Princess decided at length to come down from the home in the hollow of the tree and partake. As she did, the Lion Prince set off talking again; of his past, his present, and his plans and all the while he was thinking 'What eyes! If only I could stare into those eyes forever!' And while he was thinking that, he was thinking 'What lips! If only I could kiss those lips forever!' And while he was thinking that, he was thinking a thousand other thoughts of this fey beauty.
So taken was he that the prince quite forgot what he was saying and blushed and laughed and blushed again. And the Princess smiled her first smile in months - a smile that wrapped all the way around her heart and his heart and squeezed them tight together. And the handsome young Prince came back every day for a week and she practiced her smile until it was ready for him before he arrived. But still, she would not speak and soon the Prince gave up speaking too, content to simply sit and hug on that smile.
Until one day he could not contain his thoughts and said them all aloud.
"Love," he spoke softly, and "marriage" and "always" and "ever," and the Princess came away from the tree and they kissed and as far as Heaven and earth were concerned, that was that.
But the Princess, though captivated, though thrilled, though tingling, though in Love's love, would not speak - not even a whisper.
The Prince cared not. He set her up on his steed and together they rode the long ride to his kingdom, and on the way he told her of his father, the King. And of his beloved mother who had died although none knew how.
And the Princess wanted to say "I know," she wanted to say "Mine too," but she could not, so she did not.
At length, they were there at the gates of the palace, and - proud as you please - the Prince took the arm of his beloved and led her to meet his father and his new stepmother.
King and Queen were on the balcony when the young couple arrived. The Prince embraced them then fetched his timorous sweetheart from where she lingered close by, nervous and unsure. She could barely raise her eyes as he brought her to where they stood, smiling their greetings.
The Princess curtsied shyly, then looked up and saw a kindly old King, white-bearded and eyes twinkling. Then her own eyes traveled to the Queen and her heart stopped at the exact same moment her breath caught. There before her was her stepmother the Strega.
The Princess swayed, stumbled, swooned, then fell to the ground in a dead faint.
When she came to, the Princess was in a room of blue and beauty. Her Prince sat upon the edge of an ornate bed, holding her hand. She told herself it'd all been a nightmare and that now she was merely dreaming. The King entered and smiled at her recovery. She'd been tired, he told her, overwhelmed and excited. How touching, he said, how charming, and yes, she was every bit as delightful as his son had told him.
The Princess fell back into the mound of feather-stuffed pillows, relieved and relaxing. Yes, of course it had been a nightmare. But, at that very instant the Strega appeared, carrying a tray of broth and bread and remedies. Her entrance summoned forth a sharp chill in the Princess and while she could not speak, although her heart howled, but she could stare. No, she could not say, but she could accuse her with looks.
"YOU! Killer of my father, bewitcher of my brothers," she accused, for to see the Strega, she knew her father must be dead.
But for all her smiles of welcome, the Strega was as shocked as the Princess at their reunion. Here was a thorn come back to prick at her ambitions - a thorn that could not only hinder but hurt. The Strega knew then and there what had to be done.
Strega looked at Princess, Princess looked at Strega, and their purpose hardened. Eyes spoke what lips could not: the battle had begun.
Life settled in the castle as it tends to do and all the while the Princess kept to her promise and she did not speak. And every day was a day nearer to the time when she could say all that she knew. Every day was a day nearer to the time when the Witch-Queen's heinous deeds would be repaid.
Yes, the days went by and the Princess soon married the Prince. Save for the wicked Strega, all who lived in the land… as well as the land itself approved of the union. Even the moon became milk and sugar for them! Never was a couple more suited, more in love. Their hearts blossomed and were full and not a minute passed by, it seemed, before the blessing of a cub was announced.
Every night the Prince lay with his head on his wife's round belly, a hand in her hand, listening to the child growing, kicking, and wriggling.
Finally, spring came and there he was: a son! A boy! A boy with his fathers eyes of blue and mane of red. And the young mother would have given anything, everything, to say his name, to sing to him, to whisper all the words of love a mother could say. But she couldn't, so she didn't.
Oddly enough, even the Strega seemed happy. She visited the young parents and their treasure, sweeping up the baby in her arms and billing and cooing. "He has his father's eyes," cooed the Strega. "Lovely."
Then she turned and smiled at her stepdaughter. "Let's hope he has your voice, my dear." With that, the Witch-Queen returned the infant to its mother and bid departure, leaving the Princess with an ominous farewell. "Look after him, won't you?" she said, all curare and honey. "Hug him all up, this precious little man."
And the Princess did just that. She hugged him all up. All night he lay in her arms, a warm perfect parcel.
Come next morning, the Princess woke with her son still tight in her embrace, shawl wrapped round him, covering his head. She gently pulled it back to kiss his tiny cheek, but what she found instead was the cold white ceramic of a doll's face, it smiling lips grotesquely blackish-red, its painted purple eyes staring at her.
The Princess opened her mouth to scream, then bit back the noise and let out gasps, long silent howls that racked her poor body. Desperately she pulled on the bell rope by her bed, its violent clangs crying her anguish.
The Prince came running to her, bursting into the room with Sword drawn: "What? What is it?" he demanded.
Then he saw the doll unraveling from the shawl, saw the hollow fixed smile and empty eyes.
"Where is our baby?" he asked, his heart thumping. "Darling, where is he? Where is our son?"
But the Princess didn't know, and couldn't speak, and their baby was nowhere to be found.
So it was that the Palace was scoured from top to bottom, day and night, the grounds searched, the forests combed. Nothing. No sign of the tiny child.
Intolerable. The pain of it all was intolerable. The Princess could not be comforted, was inconsolable, simply sobbed silently, covering her head with the sheets until, one night, she slipped from her bed, went to the garden, dug with her hands a small hole in the ground and, bending to the earth, screamed with all her heart into the hole. She screamed and screamed all her pain into the hole until morning. And it was better... but not much.
It was then she heard anguished cawing and, looking up to the sky, she saw her brothers, the Ravens Three, circling above her, cawing and crying and weeping for their dear sister.
While the Princess was in the garden, the Strega found the Prince sitting at the window, lost in his sadness and sorrow. She comforted him, massaging his shoulders. "Your father and I are so sad for you both," she sighed, kissing his head.
The Prince nodded sadly.
The Strega continued to rub his shoulders, her bee-sting smile ugly but unseen to the Prince. "Darling," she began, but then hesitated.
"Yes?" asked the Prince, but the Strega seemed reluctant to continue. "What?" he insisted, "Please? Say what it is."
The Strega shrugged, and then went on. "You don't think - no, this is absurd; it couldn't be - you don't think the Princess didn't...want...the little baby, perhaps, and perhaps...No, impossible."
The Price was overcome with indignation. "She loved him!" he cried, wounded.
"Of course she did," the Strega answered. "Stupid. Forget I said anything, please."
At that moment, the Princess returned, her cloak pulled about her, hood covering her wretchedness.
The Prince went to her, drawing her to him, clutching her hands. "Dearest," he whispered as the Strega looked on. "Where have you been? I've looked everywhere." Then he noticed her hands, smudged with soil and he frowned. "What have you got on your hands?" he asked. "What's this? Is this earth?"
The Princess said nothing, torn apart by her vow, bristling at the Strega's smirk.
"Perhaps she's been digging a little hole," suggested the Strega. "No? Then what have you been digging?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at the confused Prince.
But the Princess wouldn't not, could not, reply even though she had so much to say.
The Strega shared a quizzical look with the Prince, making of the silence a terrible confession. "It must pain you so much she is dumb," said the Queen carefully, "For at least she is neither blind nor deaf as well."
The universe is a peculiar thing my friends, yes a peculiar thing indeed. So peculiar in fact that exactly two years and two months and two days after the Princess took her vow of silence, another boy was born to her, this time looking more like mother than father complete with red banding around copper eyes and small dark spots dotting his golden fur. And she would not let this precious son from her sight. Not for an instant.
Night after night, while all others slept, she watched over her child, would not sleep. Would not sleep until one mourning, exhaustion finally overcame her and her eyes stopped fighting for just an instant to close and the Princess sank into fitful dreams. When she woke, she feared the child stolen and clutched the tiny bundle to her, felt its warm wriggling. Relieved, she bent to kiss his peach of a cheek, her own eyes barely open.
Suddenly a shrill, hissing squeal sounded, and staring, unbelieving, terrified, the Princess saw that in place of her son, a baby frogdog, orange eyes glazed with fear, struggled from the shawl that bound it.
Again the silent screams, the gasps, the frenzy, the search, and in the end, the despair, for neither could this second son be found.
And now, with two babies vanished, whispers were being whispered in the corridors of the palace.
"What kind of mother," the whispers asked, "who loses babies, who will not speak?"
"Cursed," they said, these whispered gossips, "Bewitched."
It was several weeks later that the Prince, confused, pitiable, went to see his stepmother, in her dark room in the darkest part of the castle. As he entered her room, he startled the Witch-Queen causing her to quickly slam shut a huge book covered with strange signs and inscriptions. Dust, cobwebs, and living darkness flew from the wicked Grimoire but the Prince, who eyes of blue were untrained to observe magic, noticed only dust and web.
The Strega smiled in greeting at him, unclipping her hair which now fell all gray and white to her shoulders. She shooed away creatures the Prince could not have named had he seen them - which he hadn't – causing them to crawl, slink, scurry, and scuttle to and fro. A pot steamed on the fire and gave off a sweet smell like incense, which made the Prince's eyes, still stinging from his tears, weep all over again.
He said nothing, but went to her, and they embraced as family would, his tears, her soothing and syrupy words of nothingness.
"I have lost two sons and I know not how. Now my beloved Princess is with child again." the Prince paused, "I could not bear..." His voice trailed away, tears consuming him.
The Strega silently simmered for the news of a new heir did not please her in the slightest. "Sh-h-h," she whispered. "When the time comes, we must watch closely. We must love your beloved very much but we must watch her closely - to ensure the safety of the child of course."
"Ware your words," the Prince growled, pulling himself from the web of the Witch-Queen. "My Princess would no sooner harm a child then she would harm me."
Ah but the Strega was a crafty one. She would not let her web be broken so easily. "Dear boy," she cooed, "I did not mean insult, simply that we must take all care that no ill befalls those…precious to us. Go now and be with your Princess and worry not. I have a feeling all will turn out as it should in time."
The time came once more and the Princess gave birth to a third son, more exquisite, delicate and perfect than the last two for he possessed the best features of both parents. And the Prince was with her from beginning to end, and together they were torn between joy and terror as they gazed into the copper and blue eyes of their little miracle.
In the palace, in the kingdom, celebrations were muted. No one dared risk a raised glass, a toast, a clap on the back. The whole world seemed to hold its breath. The Prince, sitting at her bedside, suggested to his wife that he should take his son away, somewhere secret, at least for a while. He spoke of a Tower he's heard tell of – a Tower deep within a forest that could only be found by those who knew where it was or had in their possession a ball of magical twine. He knew not of the location but he would send forth every Cat he could to search all of Third Earth for a ball of magical twine.
This echo of her husband's solution and its fatal results served only to disturb the Princess more, and she could not keep her hands from trembling. She shook her head violently, rejecting the Prince's suggestion.
At her refusal, the Prince stood up and walked up to the door, and the Princess could just see the shadowy presence of the Strega standing in the doorway, could just pick out a few of the words that passed between her husband and his malevolent stepmother.
"I told you she wouldn't agree to it," she heard the Prince say. "And I still do not. My place is by the side of my wife and son, and her place is by me."
"Of course," said the Strega, smiling her bee-sting smile. "Well, stay beside her until the morning and watch close." Then the Strega walked confidently into the bedchamber and leaned over the bed. "Little lamb," she addressed the baby, "don't you worry. Your father will attempt to watch over you."
As the Witch-Queen tried to pick up the cub, the Princess snatched him away, clutching him to her breast for dear life.
"Ah," sighed the Strega, frowning at the Prince, "Never mind. You now see my concern." She left them there in the failing light, the flame from her torch dancing and swaying down the passages to her dark room.
And so the young couple sat silent, their hearts full to bursting with worry and fright, watching their tiny cub, his fingers like moonbeams. Both parents prayed to Jaga, crouched like sentries over cradle after candle. 'I will not sleep,' they said to themselves. 'I will never close my eyes until the child is safe.'
And for hours they sat in the grimmest of resolve, lighting candle after candle, reciting their prayers, heads and hearts reeling.
But the strain - the tiredness of the birth – and a darkness of the darkest dark sent from the dark room of the Strega, washed over them. Huge waves they were; lulling and rocking the two worried parents to sleep. And for a minute, two minutes, three, they slept.
And then the Prince woke.
At his side his wife laid, eyes closed. Her blonde hair was gray, her face was gray, even her bed-robes were gray. In her arms the shawl had unraveled. The Prince began to wail, an inhumane sound, which shocked the Princess awake.
As she started, sitting bolt upright, the shawl fell away from her and smoldering ashes floated up from it, ashes everywhere, filling the room.
"What foulness has cursed us and for what reason?" cried the husband in a voice that snapped from confusion to hatred, his anger welling up in huge sobs. "Dear and precious wife please speak. Please, speak and tell what has happened to our children?"
She could not answer him if she wanted, could not had she wished to break her promise, for her own voice was lost in her private and terrible nightmare. Tears ran through the gray dust on her face as the Prince, wild, tormented, railed at the Heavens for the murder of his sons.
The King charged in, the Strega at his heels, and there they all were, surrounding the paralyzed Princess, horrified at the scene. The Strega swept up the shawl and let the ashes slide from it.
"Oh dear," she whispered in a voice heavy with shock and hidden with sin. She could barely suppress the smile that threatened her tight lips. Dear husband King, I fear I was right all along. The Princess, she is a Strega - a witch. Your poor son has been enspelled and your grandcubs murdered most foul for that is the way of this creature."
The Prince flew into a rage at her words, shouting denials at his stepmother and words of support to his wife. He begged his father to understand the accusations couldn't be true.
The King covered his face with his hands. "My poor grandcubs!" He wailed despairingly, "My poor son!"
The Witch-Queen - the real Strega - nodded, sighed, and spoke into her husband's ear. The King listened, choking own his own hot rage. "Yes," he agreed. "Yes, you are right she must be burned as a Strega."
And the Strega, hardly able to suppress her triumph, glowing with it, added but a single word: "Tomorrow."
Oh if any thought the Prince enraged before, the next moments would set them straight. It took no less than six of the Kings personal guard plus his two Generals – Panthro and Grune – to restrain the young Lion. With a heavy heart already overweighing, the King was forced to order his own son to be placed in a cell for fear of what would happen to his Queen should the Prince remain free.
And so it was ordered that three years, three months, three weeks and three days after she had taken her vow of silence, the poor innocent Princess who was the mirror reflection of her mother would be burned at the stake as a Strega.
As the bonfire was prepared, she stared from her window at the sundial in the courtyard, still far from the midday when the fire was to be lit. And she hardly cared, with all that was lost: a father, a mother, her brothers three, her babies three, and the love of a husband. She hardly cared for her own poor body. She was glad to be silent. She had nothing more to say to the cruel world.
Finally, the time came and they came for her and they took her to the pile and they tied her to the stake.
High above, the Ravens Three circled their dearest sister, cawing and crying with rage and disgust and indignation.
And as the sundial neared the line of twelve, it was the Strega herself who lit the torch and carried it toward the bundles of hay and twigs and logs, the flame bright like her triumphant smile.
'NO!' cawed the Ravens Three as they flew above. "No, we will not allow this any longer! Though the shirts hurt, the wings sting, the beaks shriek, and the eyes cry, we will not allow this. Not this."
Then they were wheeling and diving and clawing and crashing into the Strega. One pecked at her eyes, another at her tongue and the last upon her fingers. And all the while they cawed in song: "The wings sting, the shirts hurt, the beaks shriek, the eyes cry!"
In her panic, the Witch-Queen dropped the torch on herself, screaming as its fire enveloped her in a mighty flash of green and blue and yellow and red. In a second she was nothing but ashes and dust and smoke and fragments.
A silence fell on the crowd as they looked on, aghast, as the Ravens circled what remained of the exposed and undone Strega. It was a silence so profound that nothing could be heard but the flapping of their wings in the sharp sunlight.
Yes, it was silence until a strange and sudden sound shocked the crowd from their trance.
A voice was crying out, in release. A voice locked in, volcanic and sudden, erupting into the air: "My brothers, my brothers!"
It was the Princess! Free at last to speak and tell all. "My brothers! My brothers!" she cried and cried. "The truth is known and the curse is at an end. No longer shall the wings sting, the shirts hurt, the beaks shriek, or the eyes cry! You are free my brothers!"
And with that the Ravens Three fell from the sky, their wings dropping and their feathers falling, and by the time they landed, they were birds no longer. There before the loyal sister Princess were her Brothers Three.
They ran to her and pulled her from the bonfire and hugged and kissed her, and now she could not speak for crying, and the Prince, her husband, freed from his cell, likewise ran to her and wept with her, understanding nothing and caring not at that moment.
Finally, after many hugs and many tears, the Brothers Three took the Prince and Princess to the Tower in a forest that could only be found by those who either knew where to look or who possessed a ball of magical twine. And in the fields of flowers and berries, three other brothers played: a boy with a mane of red and eyes of blue, a toddler with eyes of copper banded in red and dark spots upon his golden fur, and last but certainly not least, a tiny infant with a mane of blonde peppered with little dark spots and one eye of blue and another of copper.
For, of course, as you may have guessed, it was the Strega who had stolen the children away. Each she had caught up, carried away, and cast down a deep, dark well.
But the Ravens, who watched everything as both Ravens and doting brothers do, had snatched them up and away and cared for them safe for this very moment when they might reunited with their parents.
And for every tear they wept before, Prince and Princess now shed a thousand more, clutching their children whom they had supposed lost, hearts full to breaking. They fell to their knees and praised Jaga and the Brothers Three for all was restored and good held sway.
So it was that the girl who had kept faith and had but one face for everyone was rewarded with sons and brothers and a sweetheart and a crown. And she practiced her smile until it was perfect.
Now those of you should know more
might question what has gone before.
One minute was the sand unused
when Princess shouted what she knew.
Well, for this gain of unspent time,
to her youngest brother hair of feathers remained.
He didn't mind, and nor do I,
So you, my dears, should not complain!
THE END
WilyKat finished his tale to rousing cheers and applause. The accolades always made his smile wide but as he looked into the eyes of the two cubs sitting in the laps of the King and Queen and saw the sparkle of fascination and wonderment they held, his wide smile grew as bright as the crackling fire he sat beside.
Lion-O and Cheetara saw their Storyteller's smile and shared a knowing look. With a whisper and a gentle urging, the two cubs slid from the laps of their parents and rushed WilyKat as he placed his storybook back into his bag, wrapping their arms around his waist in a tight hug.
"Thanks you for the story Uncle WilyKat." Both giggled as they snuggled their heads into his sides.
"Yeah, it was pretty good," agreed WilyKit as she approached her brother's chair to give his head a playful ruffle. He didn't miss devious wink. "But you really could use some grooming, you're starting to molt."
WilyKit bent down at the knees, smiled at her favorite cubs and held out her hand to show them it held a small pile of Ravens down. As their eyes grew large, the High Cleric blew the feathers into their faces and laughter filled the Great Hall.
For you see dear readers and listeners and spinners of tales…
When people told themselves their past with stories, explained their present with stories, foretold the future with stories, the best place by the fire was kept for... The Storyteller…
A/N:
Big thanks to all who read and review.
Again, I own nothing and take no credit.