The Marble Lady
Feb. 19th, 2009 02:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shadows_galleryThere was once a land bordered by a deep and ancient forest, which was bordered by mountains so tall and treacherous, and so full of stories of terror and doom that none dared cross them, even though there had long been fables and whispers of a paradise beyond them.
There was a young man who had grown up in a village situated in the narrow strip of grassland, between the misty depths of the forest, and the feared mountains. He was soft of heart and fair of face, and was the town's minstrel, for he had an otherworldly voice that could soothe a storm. Yet, always he desired to see other things. "Should a minstrel live his life in hiding from the world?" he asked often, to many head-waggings and remarks about the fancies of youth.
He spent many hours with his harp, gazing into the shrouded wood, or singing of the untold mysteries and perils of the mountains and beyond.
At last, he could bear no it more. He kissed his mother and his sister, embraced his father, took up his harp and left the village between the mysteries, face toward the mountains that seemed to call to him as though with a voice.
He traveled for many days, alone but for his harp and his many songs of adventures past. The mountains were indeed treacherous, and were haunted by many malevolent spirits, but his harp and sweet voice, one like no other, placated them, allowing him safe passage.
And he saw that, indeed, there was a paradise beyond, a garden gated and barred with much ornate metalwork. He approached the gate and was surprised when it swung open for him.
The garden was expansive and lush, and well-tended, yet he saw not a soul, neither man nor woman, who could reveal the mystery to him of the garden's caretaker.
At last, he reached the center of the garden, and he nearly fell to his knees at the beauty of it. Flowers of every shape and hue blossomed in thick carpets about him, tall ferns swayed gently in a soft wind, enormous trees whispered of ancient secrets, and a fountain of the clearest water bubbled from the ground at his feet. In the very center, almost hidden in the flora, stood a marble statue.
He approached the statue in awe, gazing at its gleaming whiteness. It was in the likeness of a woman, more beautiful than any he had ever imagined or seen. As he looked, he realized that a soft golden glow emanated from her breast, and he wondered at it.
He stood there in the center of the garden for hours, enthralled by its beauty, and by the enchanting glow of the cold statue. He played his harp and sang songs of great battles and great loves. He still wondered who tended this garden, but he could not bring himself to leave this magical place.
The sun traveled across the sky, and twilight descended. The minstrel was resting against a tree, harp in his lap, lost in waking dreams and unaware of the deepening shadows. Moonlight glinted soft against the marble statue.
It was then that he heard a soft creaking, a crumbling sound coming from the statue, and he stared at it in disbelief.
It was moving.
The statue began to walk, slowly, so slowly, through the garden. Every movement it made created a new crack in the marble, more crumbling, and a mist of fine white dust swirled in its wake.
The minstrel leapt up and followed it. His heart wept for every step the statue took, for he knew it caused her great pain. Still, she was silent, and did not yet seem aware of him, or perhaps she simply did not acknowledge him.
He saw now that it was she who tended the garden. Her very touch caused life to bloom. Flowers budded in her footprints, and trees that met a brush of cold marble sprouted fresh green leaves.
He followed her like this for hours, for the garden was very large. He said nothing, and she neither looked at him nor spoke, though he became aware that she was cognizant of his presence.
At last, he could stand it no more, and cried out, "Beautiful lady, what evil has been done to you, to leave you encased in cold stone?"
She stopped then, and turned slowly, bits of stone crumbling into dust at every move, and looked at him. Still, she said nothing.
Clutching his harp, he stepped closer. "Is it a spell? Did a jealous sorceress entrap you thus? What may break the curse?"
He was met only with a silent, cold white gaze, and the soft golden glow at her breast.
"You are alive, Lady of Marble," he murmured. "I see the glow of your heart. Why will you not speak to me?" He fidgeted with his fingers upon the strings of his harp, and a discordant note reverberated in the garden.
"Only name what I may do to save you, and I shall do it, though my life be the price!" he cried.
She merely stood.
"Is it a song you want?" he whispered, and played the most haunting melody he knew, his voice rippling and soaring within the silvery strains of his harp. Still she stood, gazing at him with white eyes, yet never uttering a word. He finished the song and looked at her pleadingly.
"Speak to me, lovely lady. Tell me how to free you." He reached out and touched her cold face, and knew he loved her.
For days he stayed at her side, sleeping at her feet in the daytime amidst the flowers, and following her throughout the garden at night as she tended it. Never did a single word or sound leave her cold lips, no matter how the young minstrel pleaded, though new cracks appeared in her marble body every time she moved. He began to fear she would crumble to dust. He played his harp and sang to her, and helped her tend the garden, and wove wreathes of flowers and leaves to place upon her head, and ministered to her in what limited fashion he was able to. He became convinced that she had been placed under a curse.
"My Lady," he said to her one night as she was planting a seedling, "I must go. I must travel and search until I find the cause of your misfortune, so that I may break this spell and make you whole again." She said nothing, and the tears fell from his eyes. "My beautiful Marble Lady, I am not a warrior, or an adventurer, or anyone great or powerful. I am but a minstrel, and I carry a harp where some would carry a sword. Yet I swear by my life and my death that I shall find a way to break this curse."
And he left the garden.
For three years he traveled. He learned much, experienced much, and did many great things. He flew upon the wings of dragons, and slew ancient demons which had long walked the earth terrorizing innocents, and traversed lands only spoken of in legend. But never did he find the cause of the lady's predicament, though he spoke to, befriended, and battled many sorcerers and enchantresses.
At last, he took a single red rose in his hand, and kissed its petals, and pierced his hand upon its thorns. He then began the long journey back to the garden.
He found her as always, when twilight fell, at the center of her garden. She turned slowly as he approached. He had changed much, he knew. He looked now like a warrior, his body powerful and scarred, his face etched and worn in hard lines from the many perils he had faced. Yet still he held his harp in his now calloused left hand, and in the right, he held the rose, which still lived though he had traveled for months with it.
"My Lady," he said softly, "I have come through many dangers, and have seen much. Yet, I did not find that which I sought. I bring you back only this flower. It is filled not with magic, not with enchantment, but only my love, for that is all I have left to offer."
She stood in cold stillness for a long while, and he found himself holding his breath. But, again, she turned slowly in a veil of white dust and silence, and began once again to tend her garden.
The minstrel who had become a warrior sank to his knees with a wail of agony, clutching the rose to his breast. Tears fell from his eyes and collected within the blood-red petals. He remained there, kneeling in stillness and cradling the rose to his heart, unmoving, only breathing. A moon cycle passed, and, slowly, a cold white hardness began to creep over the form of the kneeling minstrel-warrior. Soon, he, too, became a marble statue, on his knees in the center of the garden. But always the rose lived, pressed to his breast, and was red as the blood he had spilt upon its thorns, and his tears remained amongst its petals, glimmering like diamonds, as the marble lady tended her garden in eternal silence.
There was a young man who had grown up in a village situated in the narrow strip of grassland, between the misty depths of the forest, and the feared mountains. He was soft of heart and fair of face, and was the town's minstrel, for he had an otherworldly voice that could soothe a storm. Yet, always he desired to see other things. "Should a minstrel live his life in hiding from the world?" he asked often, to many head-waggings and remarks about the fancies of youth.
He spent many hours with his harp, gazing into the shrouded wood, or singing of the untold mysteries and perils of the mountains and beyond.
At last, he could bear no it more. He kissed his mother and his sister, embraced his father, took up his harp and left the village between the mysteries, face toward the mountains that seemed to call to him as though with a voice.
He traveled for many days, alone but for his harp and his many songs of adventures past. The mountains were indeed treacherous, and were haunted by many malevolent spirits, but his harp and sweet voice, one like no other, placated them, allowing him safe passage.
And he saw that, indeed, there was a paradise beyond, a garden gated and barred with much ornate metalwork. He approached the gate and was surprised when it swung open for him.
The garden was expansive and lush, and well-tended, yet he saw not a soul, neither man nor woman, who could reveal the mystery to him of the garden's caretaker.
At last, he reached the center of the garden, and he nearly fell to his knees at the beauty of it. Flowers of every shape and hue blossomed in thick carpets about him, tall ferns swayed gently in a soft wind, enormous trees whispered of ancient secrets, and a fountain of the clearest water bubbled from the ground at his feet. In the very center, almost hidden in the flora, stood a marble statue.
He approached the statue in awe, gazing at its gleaming whiteness. It was in the likeness of a woman, more beautiful than any he had ever imagined or seen. As he looked, he realized that a soft golden glow emanated from her breast, and he wondered at it.
He stood there in the center of the garden for hours, enthralled by its beauty, and by the enchanting glow of the cold statue. He played his harp and sang songs of great battles and great loves. He still wondered who tended this garden, but he could not bring himself to leave this magical place.
The sun traveled across the sky, and twilight descended. The minstrel was resting against a tree, harp in his lap, lost in waking dreams and unaware of the deepening shadows. Moonlight glinted soft against the marble statue.
It was then that he heard a soft creaking, a crumbling sound coming from the statue, and he stared at it in disbelief.
It was moving.
The statue began to walk, slowly, so slowly, through the garden. Every movement it made created a new crack in the marble, more crumbling, and a mist of fine white dust swirled in its wake.
The minstrel leapt up and followed it. His heart wept for every step the statue took, for he knew it caused her great pain. Still, she was silent, and did not yet seem aware of him, or perhaps she simply did not acknowledge him.
He saw now that it was she who tended the garden. Her very touch caused life to bloom. Flowers budded in her footprints, and trees that met a brush of cold marble sprouted fresh green leaves.
He followed her like this for hours, for the garden was very large. He said nothing, and she neither looked at him nor spoke, though he became aware that she was cognizant of his presence.
At last, he could stand it no more, and cried out, "Beautiful lady, what evil has been done to you, to leave you encased in cold stone?"
She stopped then, and turned slowly, bits of stone crumbling into dust at every move, and looked at him. Still, she said nothing.
Clutching his harp, he stepped closer. "Is it a spell? Did a jealous sorceress entrap you thus? What may break the curse?"
He was met only with a silent, cold white gaze, and the soft golden glow at her breast.
"You are alive, Lady of Marble," he murmured. "I see the glow of your heart. Why will you not speak to me?" He fidgeted with his fingers upon the strings of his harp, and a discordant note reverberated in the garden.
"Only name what I may do to save you, and I shall do it, though my life be the price!" he cried.
She merely stood.
"Is it a song you want?" he whispered, and played the most haunting melody he knew, his voice rippling and soaring within the silvery strains of his harp. Still she stood, gazing at him with white eyes, yet never uttering a word. He finished the song and looked at her pleadingly.
"Speak to me, lovely lady. Tell me how to free you." He reached out and touched her cold face, and knew he loved her.
For days he stayed at her side, sleeping at her feet in the daytime amidst the flowers, and following her throughout the garden at night as she tended it. Never did a single word or sound leave her cold lips, no matter how the young minstrel pleaded, though new cracks appeared in her marble body every time she moved. He began to fear she would crumble to dust. He played his harp and sang to her, and helped her tend the garden, and wove wreathes of flowers and leaves to place upon her head, and ministered to her in what limited fashion he was able to. He became convinced that she had been placed under a curse.
"My Lady," he said to her one night as she was planting a seedling, "I must go. I must travel and search until I find the cause of your misfortune, so that I may break this spell and make you whole again." She said nothing, and the tears fell from his eyes. "My beautiful Marble Lady, I am not a warrior, or an adventurer, or anyone great or powerful. I am but a minstrel, and I carry a harp where some would carry a sword. Yet I swear by my life and my death that I shall find a way to break this curse."
And he left the garden.
For three years he traveled. He learned much, experienced much, and did many great things. He flew upon the wings of dragons, and slew ancient demons which had long walked the earth terrorizing innocents, and traversed lands only spoken of in legend. But never did he find the cause of the lady's predicament, though he spoke to, befriended, and battled many sorcerers and enchantresses.
At last, he took a single red rose in his hand, and kissed its petals, and pierced his hand upon its thorns. He then began the long journey back to the garden.
He found her as always, when twilight fell, at the center of her garden. She turned slowly as he approached. He had changed much, he knew. He looked now like a warrior, his body powerful and scarred, his face etched and worn in hard lines from the many perils he had faced. Yet still he held his harp in his now calloused left hand, and in the right, he held the rose, which still lived though he had traveled for months with it.
"My Lady," he said softly, "I have come through many dangers, and have seen much. Yet, I did not find that which I sought. I bring you back only this flower. It is filled not with magic, not with enchantment, but only my love, for that is all I have left to offer."
She stood in cold stillness for a long while, and he found himself holding his breath. But, again, she turned slowly in a veil of white dust and silence, and began once again to tend her garden.
The minstrel who had become a warrior sank to his knees with a wail of agony, clutching the rose to his breast. Tears fell from his eyes and collected within the blood-red petals. He remained there, kneeling in stillness and cradling the rose to his heart, unmoving, only breathing. A moon cycle passed, and, slowly, a cold white hardness began to creep over the form of the kneeling minstrel-warrior. Soon, he, too, became a marble statue, on his knees in the center of the garden. But always the rose lived, pressed to his breast, and was red as the blood he had spilt upon its thorns, and his tears remained amongst its petals, glimmering like diamonds, as the marble lady tended her garden in eternal silence.
