The Politically Aware Princess with Better Things to Do than Sleep
Once upon Wednesday the 16th of July, at 11.30am, a princess was exploring the tallest tower of her castle followed by an entourage of dust bunnies clinging to the train of her third best dress.
In half an hour, she would be forced into her second best dress for lunch, and she was not to so much as think about touching her best dress until six o'clock, on pain of death. The princess knew for certain that there were laws against beheading princesses, particularly on their birthdays, but the Royal Dresser had had that crazy look in her eyes and the princess had wisely decided to quietly disappear.
Edging up the crumbling stonework stairs, the princess shuddered as cobwebs threw themselves at her hair with the twice the enthusiasm of a long lost lover. At the top was a thin timber door; a thin strip of light marked the gap between its foot and the floor and from it a steady squeaking creak emerged. With her shoulder, she heaved against the wood and was sent tumbling into the room behind as it immediately gave way beneath her weight. Odd, since every other hinge in the tower had rusted solid.
In the centre of the bare, blank room, sat a little old woman on a wobbly stool before an ancient wheel, spinning out lumpy, erratic yarn that the princess for a few moments mistook to be a half-dozen worms that had swallowed a family of mice whole.
"Come here, my child. I have a pretty gift for you," the little old woman crooned without turning to see her visitor, stroking a wizened finger along the wheel's splintery wood.
"What is it?"the princess wondered, her eyes growing as wide as saucers, the rose and gilt ones not the willow patterns reserved for special occasions. Very odd. "Oh! and how sharp and wicked that long pointy thing appears. Please, may I try?"
The little old woman nodded eagerly and trembling with anticipation, stepped aside.
The princess sat, rolled back the sleeves of the third best dress, picked up one of the little old woman's feeble strings and bound back her hair. Settling herself, she began a steady foot action and competently fed the separate strands into one side of the machine. From the other side, an even stream of wool spooled. "Your problem," she explained, "is the way you hold your wrist. An even tension must kept between the leading fingers and the wheel or you'll get lumps. It's the hardest part to learn but once you've got it the rest is straightforward." She glanced up at the little old woman. "Don't think I haven't seen through you, witch. I know all about you and your silly little curse, and I took the precaution of beginning spinning lessons at the age of ten."
Spluttering, the little old woman pulled herself up to her full diminutive height. "How dare you!"
"One of my fairy gifts was intelligence. And believe me it took a lot of it to smuggle a wheel into the very palace and find someone brave enough to teach me. Outlawing spinning! Do you have any idea what your temper tantrum has cost my country? The price of cloth has quintupled in the past sixteen years. Our clothing and textiles industry has completely bottomed out. You better have a good explanation!" Despite her rising fury, the princess had yet to break her regular rhythm or produce a single imperfection.
"You seem pretty well dressed," the little old woman accused, though sheepishly.
"Through no fault of my own!" the princess raged. "A princess is held to different standards. I tried to follow that Emperor's new trend, but my wouldn't let me leave my bedroom! He is a man of forward thinking, he understands the need for innovation and his country isn't even in crisis! How can we be so unconscionable? Even the subjects can't see the big picture. I wore a burlap sack on the Grand Tour in protest and in every second town was pelted with vegetables. They complained that I was a disappointment and a disgrace to the country, when it was them I was endeavouring to help. It's not fair!"
Unnoticed by the thundering princess, the little old woman had picked up the spindle and at this break in her tirade, jabbed her upper arm. "Life's not fair," she said somewhat smugly.
The princess gaped at her in outrage. "You can't do that! Once I've gotten through this birthday, my parents will accept they have to let me learn statecraft and political science, and I'll make my country better, I'll make my country great. You can't do this!" She tried to stand up and dizzily collapsed against the little old woman.
"Careful dearie, slowly now." The little old woman struggled to hold the princess upright. "Your country's not ready for you yet; here's hoping in a century it will be. What those glittery idiots were thinking of giving you intelligence and independence, I don't know. Why couldn't they stick with beauty and a pretty singing voice? There's a reason for traditions. Whoa," she huffed, as the princess slipped. "Come on now. Just lie yourself down here and try to get comfortable, your winks are going to be considerable more than forty."
"Shleep? Bu-u-ut you want me deaaaad," the princess slurred. Her knees gave out, toppling both of them over.
"Do I indeed? They would say that. No! Don't frown; nobody wants to kiss a wrinkly prune. And let me get rid of these cobwebs. You have to be presentable for your true love."
"Chroo luv?! I refushe to shumbit to a man. I dah neeeed one, I be queeen!" the princess tried to shout as she was dragged into a convenient pool of flattering light. But in spite of her well-developed social conscience and revolutionary mindset, somewhere deep in her head a little voice cursed the fact she had not been allowed to wear her best dress.
The end.
Ah! the joys of not having names. Not only does it mean the writer refers to them by one description ad nauseum, but it leads to these delightful conundrums. Is the little old woman she whom we have come to know and love or another woman who is, as it were, also elderly and on the short side? You can decide for yourself; I don't mind, go crazy.
