At last she came to the glade. This time, the beast did not lurk in the shadows, but was pacing as if he had been waiting.
“Well, then,” he said in his rumbling voice when he saw her. “They must not value you much if they expect you to escape a second time.”
Since the wood demanded truth, Ayama supposed he was right, but now she found it far easier to speak in return. “You must stop destroying our crops.”
“Why?”
“We will have no cotton or flax to spin when the winter comes.”
“What do I care for winter? No season touches this wood. Did anyone think of winter when I shivered in my father’s labyrinth? Let the king feed and clothe you from his stores.”
This time she could acknowledge it was not such a bad idea, and so she said, “Do not behave as a tyrant and then tell me to scold a tyrant to behave. Show mercy and mercy you may be shown.”
“My father never taught me mercy.”
“And can you not learn?”
It was hard to tell, but it seemed the beast might have smiled.
“You know the only bargain I will make, little messenger.” The beast settled beside the stream in a heap of black fur and golden claws. “Tell me a tale that can make me feel more than anger, and perhaps if it pleases me, I may let you live.”
This was the invitation Ayama had been waiting for, and she realized that in all the silent days and nights since she’d left the wood, she’d been storing up words to offer the king’s son. Ayama sat down by the banks of the stream and began to speak.
THE SECOND TALE
“Once there was a woman with a mournful bearing who came to a village, and there she met a man who longed for a wife, and so they were married. They had two fine children, a boy and a girl, but as these children grew older, they became difficult and disobedient. They were often sickly and this made them sulky and tired, and they were a great trial to their mother, Mama Tani. All the women in the village felt sorry for Mama Tani, whose bearing had become even sadder, but who bore her children’s complaining and sickness with great dignity.
“All that changed when an evil spirit came into Mama Tani’s house and began to make trouble for the whole family. The spirit smashed Mama Tani’s treasured pots of cream and the bottled tinctures she used to keep her skin smooth. It broke her husband’s plow so that he had to stay home and was always underfoot. But it was the children the spirit most liked to prey upon, as if lured by their bad behavior. When they tried to sleep, the spirit would rattle the windows and shake the bed so that they could find no rest. When they tried to eat, the spirit broke their bowls and spilled their supper on the floor.”
The beast growled, and Ayama saw that he’d drawn very close indeed. Though her heart hopped in a frightened rhythm, she sat as still as she could.
“Let me guess,” said the beast. “The children cried and prayed and said they would be good forevermore, and so the spirit departed and Mama Tani was the envy of all the women in the village, and this is a lesson to ungrateful children everywhere.”
That was certainly the way that Ayama had been taught the story, but she had thought a lot about how she would tell the tale when it belonged to her.
She straightened her apron and said with all the authority her loud voice could muster, “What nonsense! Of course that’s not how the story ends.” Speak truth, she reminded herself. Then she wound the story tight and let it unspool anew.
“No, one day when their parents weren’t home, instead of crying when the spirit rattled and roared like an angry wind around the house, the children sat quietly and held each other’s hands. Then they sang a lullaby like the ones their mother had sung when they were younger, and sure enough, after a long while, the spirit quieted—and after a longer while, the spirit spoke. Except it was not one spirit, but two.”
“Two spirits?” the beast repeated, leaning forward on his haunches.
“Can you imagine? They were the spirits of Mama Tani’s firstborn children, a boy and a girl whom she had caused to sicken and die—all so she could hoard the sympathy of the women in her old village. She’d traveled far from that place and it had taken many years for the ghost children to find her, but once they had, they’d done all they could to keep Mama Tani’s new family safe. They’d shattered the jars where Mama Tani hid her poisons. They’d spilled the tainted porridge and kept her new children from sleep when they knew Mama Tani would sneak in to burn herbs to inflame their lungs. They’d even broken the plow, so that their father would have to remain home more often and not leave them alone with their mother. Well, Mama Tani’s living children told their father all this, and though he was skeptical, he agreed to send a messenger to the village the ghost children had named. By the time the messenger returned to tell them that everything the ghosts had said was true, Mama Tani was long gone. This goes to show you that sometimes the unseen is not to be feared and that those meant to love us most are not always the ones who do.”
Again, without meaning to, Ayama had spoken of her own sadness, and again, the beast was quiet for a long time.
“What happened to Mama Tani?” he asked at last.
Ayama had no idea. She hadn’t quite thought that far. “Who can say? Bad fates do not always follow those who deserve them.” Even in the dim light, she could see the beast frown. She cleared her throat and smoothed the brim of her hat. “But I believe she was eaten by coyotes.”
The beast nodded in satisfaction, and Ayama huffed a little sigh of relief.
“I will trouble your fields no longer,” said the beast. “Take a sprig of quince from the thorn wood and bear it with you through the wild lands. Go now and do not return.” There might have been something mournful in his voice, or perhaps it was just his growl.
Ayama plucked a slender branch of blossoms from the thicket and left the glade behind. When she looked back, she saw the beast still sitting on his haunches, his red eyes watching her, and for a moment, Ayama thought, Why not stay a bit longer? Why not rest awhile here? Why not tell another story?
Instead she made her way out of the wood and back across the hot plains. She tucked the sprig of quince flowers into her braids, and it was as if she carried the cool leaves and the shade of the wood with her.
This time when she reached the town, the people saw the white blossoms in her hair and did not pinch Ayama or shout at her. Instead they gave her sweet water and led her quietly to the palace, showing her new deference, for she was no longer just a kitchen girl, but the girl who had twice faced a monster and twice survived.
When she was taken before the king, Ayama told him of the beast’s vow and the prince said, “Extraordinary! We shall raise a statue in this girl’s honor and celebrate her birth there every year.”
Ayama thought that was a fine proclamation, but what she really wanted was to sit down and take off her shoes. She supposed if the prince had bothered asking, he would know that. But he was not as fond of questions as his brother.
The queen took the reddening blossoms of quince in her hands, and once more said to her husband, “You must honor your promise.”
So the king ordered that the best lands of his finest estate be granted to Ayama’s family and that all their belongings be moved there by his servants.
But when Ayama thought to make her curtsy and go, the king said, “Does the monster trust you, girl?”
By this time, Ayama had grown used to speaking her thoughts and rather loudly, so she said, “There is a great difference between not eating a person and trusting a person.” Besides, she thought it would be better for everyone if the beast were left to himself in the thorn wood.
But as had been the case for most of Ayama’s life, despite the strength of her voice, the king either did not listen or did not hear.
“You will take a knife into the thorn wood,” he commanded. “You will slay this beast so that we may all live in peace and safety. If you do this, then you will marry my son, the prince, and I will grant your family title so none but
those who bear my own name shall be higher in the land.”
The prince looked somewhat startled but did not object.
“No blade can pierce your second son’s skin,” Ayama protested. “I have seen it for myself.”
As the queen wrung the silk of her skirt in her lap, the king called for a servant and an iron-colored box was brought forward.
The king lifted the lid and drew a strange knife from it. Its handle was bone but its blade was the same murky gray as the box—and the thorn wood. “This blade was crafted by a powerful zowa maker and wrought from the very thorns of the quince tree. Only it can kill him.”
The queen turned her face away.
Ayama hoped her family would speak and say she need not return to the thorn wood, for they had a fine home and Kima already had a rich dowry. But no one spoke, not even Ma Zil, who had promised that adventures only happened to pretty girls.
Ayama did not want to take the knife, but she did. It was light as a dry seedpod. It seemed wrong that death should feel like nothing in her hands.
“Return with the beast’s heart and all will pay you homage and you will want for nothing in this life,” said the king.
Ayama had no wish to be a princess. She had no wish to slay the beast. But for a girl who had spent her life ignored and unwanted, this was no small offer.
“I will agree to this,” she said finally. “But if I do not return, Kima must wed the prince, and my family must still receive their reward.”
She could see the king did not like the terms of this trade. Though he wanted the beast dead, he’d thought to make her risk her life cheaply. But in the end, what choice did he have? He agreed to Ayama’s demands and she tucked the knife into her apron.
All her family’s belongings were carried to their splendid new home. Her father cried out with happiness and her mother turned in circles in the garden, looking out at the fields that went on and on, as if she could scarcely believe that all of it was now hers. Only Kima clutched Ayama’s hand and said, “Sister, you do not have to go. We are rich now thanks to your bravery. We have land and servants. No prince is worth your life.”
Ayama supposed it depended on the prince.
Ma Zil said nothing.
That night, Ayama slept poorly. Her new bed felt too soft after the hard stones of the old hearth. She rose before dawn, when the rest of the house was still asleep, put on her sky-colored apron, and settled her hat upon her head. Into her pocket, she tucked her axe and her copper cup. Then Ayama touched her fingers once to the jagged blade of the knife, slipped it into her apron, and for the last time, she set out across the wild lands.
Perhaps because her dread was so great, the trek through the barren plains seemed to last no time at all. Too soon she was plunging through the iron-colored thicket and into the shade of the wood. Starlight fell upon her skin, so sweet and cool and welcoming she might have wept for it. She told herself that once the beast was dead, she could return to the wood, that she might bring Kima, or simply come here on her own whenever she grew weary. But she wasn’t sure that was true. Would the thorn wood still stand without the beast? Had it always been here or had it come into being just to shelter him? And what would she do in all the silence without someone to tell stories to?
The beast was waiting in the glade.
“Are you so eager to be eaten?” he asked.
Ayama was careful to choose only words that were true. “I thought you might like to hear another story more than you might like to eat another meal.”
So she and the beast settled by the stream, and in the silver light of the glade, Ayama began her final tale.
THE THIRD TALE
“Once there was a good and dutiful girl who stayed home and toiled while her two older sisters went out every night to drink and dance in the town.
“One day, when all the sisters were in the kitchen, a strange bird came and perched on the windowsill. It was large and dusty and ugly with a long, dangerously curved beak. The two older sisters shrieked, and one took up a broom to beat at the creature and chase it away. But when they had gone to attire themselves in beads and satin for the night’s revels, the bird returned. Instead of chasing it away, the youngest sister spoke kindly to it and offered it a dish of corn. Then she took a damp cloth to the bird’s feathers, crooning nonsense to it all the while. When the bird was finally clean, she could see it had plumage of iridescent gold and that its beak shone like topaz. It flapped its great wings and flew away, but returned every night that week once the older sisters were gone to their parties, and sang pretty songs while the youngest did her work.
“On the seventh day, the bird waited until the older sisters had left to prepare for their fun, then flew in through the kitchen window. All at once there was a great flapping of wings and a sound like trumpets. There in the kitchen, where the bird had been mere moments before, the girl now beheld a handsome prince dressed in robes of gold.
“‘Come away with me to my palace by the sea,’ said the prince, ‘and all will pay you homage and you will want for nothing in this life.’ And as you may know, when you have had very little and worked very hard, that is no small offer.
“So the girl put her hand in the prince’s and away they flew to his palace by the sea. But once they arrived, the girl found that the king and queen were not so happy with his choice of a peasant bride. So the queen set three challenges for the girl—”
The beast snarled and Ayama jumped, for she hadn’t realized that he’d lain down quite so close to her, his snout nearly touching her knee. His lips were pulled back in a sneer.
“What a foolish story you’ve brought me this time,” he complained. “She will accomplish the three tasks and wed the handsome prince. What joy for them both.”
“Nonsense!” said Ayama straightaway, for she’d thought on this story quite a long time as she’d walked through the wild lands, and how the ending she’d been told as a child had seemed far more enchanting before she’d actually met and spoken to royalty. “Of course that’s not how it ends. No. Do you remember the girl’s older sisters?”
The beast gave a grudging nod and settled his great head on his forepaws.
“It’s true they were selfish and silly in many ways,” said Ayama. “But they also loved their youngest sister dearly. As soon as they found her missing and a golden feather on the chair, they guessed what had happened, for they had seen plenty of the world. They saddled their horses and rode all day and all night to reach the palace by the sea, then pounded on the doors until the guards let them in.
“When the sisters entered the throne room, making a racket and demanding that their sister return home to them, the prince insisted that they were just jealous sorts who wanted to be princesses themselves, and that they were wicked girls who liked to drink and dance and be free with their favors. In fact, the sisters did like all those things, and it was precisely because they’d seen so much and done so much that they knew better than to trust handsome faces and fine titles. They pointed their fingers and raised their loud voices and demanded to know why, if the prince loved their sister so, he should let her be made to perform tasks to prove her worth. And when he did not answer, they stomped their slippered feet and demanded to know why, if the prince was worthy of their sister, he should bend so easily to his parents’ will. The prince had no answer but stood there stammering, still handsome, but perhaps a bit less so now that he had nothing to say.
“The sisters apologized for not doing their share of the chores and promised to take the girl to parties so she wouldn’t have to settle for the first boy who flew in through her window. The younger sister saw the wisdom in this bargain, and they all returned home together, where their days were full of work made easier in the sharing, and their nights were full of laughter and carousing.”
“And what lesson am I to learn from this story?” asked the beast when she was done.
“That there are better things than princes.”
Now Ayama stood and the bea
st knelt before her, his big shaggy head bowed, his horns glowing. “Do you have no more stories for me, little messenger?”
“Only one,” said Ayama, the jagged knife in her hand, “the story of a girl who was sent into the wood to slay a terrible monster.”
“And did she?”
“You have committed dreadful crimes, beast.”
“Have I?”
“Speak truth.”
“I killed the king’s soldiers for they wanted to kill me,” he admitted. “I tried to reason with them, but people do not always hear the words of a beast.”
Ayama knew what it was not to be heard, and she also knew the beast did not lie. He might sometimes be cruel, and he was most certainly dangerous, but he was truthful—just like the thorn wood. For when Ayama had awoken after her adventures, it was the wounds from the thicket that had proven all the sweet blossoms and starlight had been real.
“They have told me to return with your heart,” she said.
The beast gazed upon her with his blood-red eyes. “Then perhaps you should.”
Ayama thought of the king who had imprisoned a monster when he might have raised a son, a king who blamed that monster for his people’s suffering while doing nothing to ease it. She thought too of the first question the beast had asked her, when she’d knelt by the pool and he’d knocked the cup from her hand.
Do you wish to become a monster?
Ayama returned the knife to her pocket and withdrew her little copper cup.
“Beast,” she said, “I am thirsty.”
The beast let Ayama bind his forepaws with the iron brambles of the thorn wood, and across the wild lands they traveled, Ayama sheltered from the sun by the shadow of her towering companion.
When they entered the valley and came in good time to the town, many people ran from the streets, scattering to their houses and pulling the shutters closed. But others trailed after them, staring at Ayama in her wide hat and apron and at the beast bound in thorns.