Annie’s Eyes by Amy Lane 

            Sleeping princess stories—she couldn’t get enough o’ them.  It was partly t’ be understood, because in our part o’ the woods there were more than our share—Briar Rose to the East Kingdom, that Snowdrop lass to the South, and others.  There were the lass in the far North, who didn’t waken immediately.  In fact, if ye ken t’ the stories, she didn’t awaken until she felt her twins nursing at her breasts, if ye can believe that.  Annie could.    She begged me t’ tell them all, as I worked, and I obliged.

            She were a fey child, white hair and black eyes, I were wont t’ say, and she laughed.  Her laugh, indeed, sounded otherworldly.  But she were a foundling, raised by the kind old herb woman in our village, but solitary and strange, except for me.  I were a few years older, the son o’ the local King’s gardener, and she took a shine t’ me when she were an infant, wailing in her little found basket.  Poor old herb woman—she’s a kind soul, but she about lost her mind dealing wi’ that fractious little girl.  I were eight or thereabouts, and had a sense o’ drama t’ beat my mates, and a romantic idea.  I had me Ma make a little packet o’ rose petals and muslin scraps o’ the same red color, and string it on a little ribbon.  Sure enough, it made that little red-faced thing in the basket stop squalling, and even made her smile. 

            “Bless ye, lad.”  Said the herb woman, “What was in that little charm?”

            “Rose petals.”  I told her.  Me Ma recalls I were a laughing child, and even a laughing youth, but I were always sober wi’ the herb woman.  She had a station, ye ken, above the rest o’ us in the village.  “Rose petals, they soothe me, and I thought the little lass might like’em.”  

            The old woman blinked at me, wrinkled her wizened little face, and closed her eyes for a bit.  When she opened them they were sharp and knowing.  “Yer a wise little lad, aren’t ye?  Oh, aye—yer the bonniest, sharpest little thorn in the bush.  What’d ye name this wee bairn?”

            “Prickly.”  I told her gravely.  Even quiet, the infant had a black-eyed gaze that would ha’ set a soldier on guard.

 The herb woman seemed t’ consider this, and then replied, “Oh, aye, she is that.  But you give a child a name like ‘Prickly’, Aerk, an’ ye give her ideas.  She needs something simple and sweet—more like a lass and less like a flower, eh?” 

I considered this.  My older sister had given birth t’ a girl child that summer.  Her husband had wanted t’ name her Maeve, but Gretel had been set on Anne.  Karl had won, and Maeve it was, but Gretel had been kind t’ me, giving me sweets when Ma wasn’t lookin’, bringin’ me and Da clippings o’ new flowers when she visited Karl’s family from their far away village.  Anne, it seemed t’ me, were about as simple as a girl’s name got, and if Gretel couldn’a ha’ t’name, it seemed fair that this squallin’, stink-eyed child would fare well wi’ it.  An if Gretel had another lass, there weren’t no harm in another Anne, I thought.  Little did I know then o’ the singularity o’ Annie, but, as I said, I were young.

“Anne.”  I told the herb woman seriously, and she smiled her wizened, apple-doll smile and nodded.

“Annie it is.”  She agreed, spitting on her palm and shaking on the deal, as was only right.  The child in the foundling basket only looked at us, her intent, stink-eyed gaze only slightly less disapproving. 

Having named the weanling, it seemed only right that I adopt a proprietary air around her, and she seemed t’ have taken a shine t’ me, as I said.  As I grew, assuming more and more o’ me Da’s responsibilities, she were right at my heels.  She could pester for a story, dance a jig, and sing sweeter than any bird, all in the space o’ about ten heartbeats.  Yeah, sure, I sighed and complained a bit, when I saw that bright head bobbin’ towards me on any given day, but never too loud.  If I’d griped too much, she would ha’ went away. 

“Aerk, tell me again!”  She would say, and any scrap o’ a story about a princess, sleeping or otherwise I would call out o’ my head, and feed it back t’ her.  But I’m a no nonsense lad, ye ken—a gardener at heart, not just an heir t’ one.  I deal wi’ thorns and wood and earth and weeds, and I’ve not the skill at embroidering a tale wi’ colorful bits o’ ribbons, the way the local minstrel does o’er ale.  I regret that, now.  Annie could ha’ used some ribbons, in stories or otherwise.  But I did me best, and it must ha’ worked, because Annie clung t’ me shirttails like a briar t’ a wooly headed lamb, and I did naught t’ skitter her.  She were like the voice in me head—that close, that real, that much sense, ye ken?

Time passed—lad t’ youth t’ man, as they say in my village, and then from man t’ granda’.  Me own da had been a hale man whilst I were a wee lad, but as I grew, his hair took the color o’ white leaf mold, and his hands, once strong like the branch, became gnarled like the root, and more and more he passed his learning t’ me.  He were the chief gardener in the king’s palace, he were, and wi’out even a thank ye or a by your leave, the king just assumed, watching me da’ out there gently twining his centuries o’ learning around my young thick brain, that I’d be coming up in the ranks, and another generation o’ fruit trees and flowers would bloom as though enchanted.  It didn’t rankle me then, as it does now, but it makes a wondering body grow twisted wi’ resentment, it does, this assumption o’ the nobles. 

From the first I took Annie wi’ me—more t’ see the light in her eyes, when she saw that brawly great castle, wi’ it’s golden thread banners and the orchards in bloom, than any sense o’ relieving the herb woman o’ a fractious burden.  She were excited, in the first days, and helpful, as a lass can be, wi’ carrying o’ tools and holding o’ branches and such, but the bonnie brightness in her dimmed after a few days. 

“Wha’s  wrong, lassie.”  Da asked her one day, when he thought I weren’t in hearing.

“The castle.”  She said, her voice choked, uncertain.  “There’s summat wrong there, aye Uncle Oxam?”  Da was silent for a moment, and o’ a sudden I flashed t’ our own stories, wondering why it was that your own town’s mysteries are the last thing t’ catch your attention.

“There indeed might be, lassie.”  Da acknowledged at last, “But it’s not for us folk t’ know.” 

Annie moved then, restless quick, and I was too slow.  She caught me eye then, giving me that black stink-eyed gaze, and I knew I’d be tellin’ stories between my cottage an the herb woman’s that night.

“Wha’s wrong in the castle, Aerk?”  She asked me baldly, as we walked the narrow track.  The herb woman lived only a hectare from the village proper, but the way were twisty and  bordered by thick, prickly shrubs wi’ blood-purple flowers and spikes that would spear a man as soon as let them pass.  I’d sprouted those bushes for the herb woman myself t’ keep away the unwary, the deceitful, the insincere—Annie and me, we passed tha’ way wi’ nary a scratch. 

“I wouldna say that summat’s wrong there, stripling.”  I told her ruminatively.

“I would.”  She replied, and that was that.  There weren’t no subterfuge, wi’ Annie. 

I tried t’ tease.  “Naught much, nobbut a foundling.”  I egged her, but instead o’ spit in me eye, I got that stink eyed gaze, again, and a subtle like, quirking o’ the chin t’ the side.  She were thinkin’ hard, she were. 

“A foundling like me?”  She asked.

“Nay.”  I replied shortly, all the tease gone.  “They say she’s really the Queen’s get, but I didna believe it.  A vicious one, that changeling brat.  As soon kick ye as look at ye.  And she has.”  She’d kicked me Da a good one, not long before—I’d spanked the harridan, and then lied in her ear, told her I’d twist those rose bushes around her window, until they pricked and tore her in her sleep.  She’d stopped screamin’ then, her eyes blue an’ soulless an’ wide as summer skies.  I almost took pity on her then—almost.  Me Da’s knees pained him awful, and it were a mean, bitter thing for a child t’ do. 

“Don’ her Ma & Da care for ‘er?”  Annie asked, and I looked at her careful, not finding what I looked for.  No pity, no pain for her self and the old herb woman—just curiosity.

I thought carefully.  I’d seen the ma & da—watching worriedly, tugging on the fretful hand, applying an embarrassed smack t’ the wee bottom at times.  I sincerely believed that had they seen their precious little beldam boot Da they’da done summat—half- despairin’, half-angry, but it’d be summat.  There were love in that house—or trying t’ be, for all the hellcat’d let it in. 

“Aye.”  I said shortly.  “They planned and prayed and hoped for that’n for quite a bit.  She lived short o’royal dreams, I’m sure.”

Annie looked at me obscurely.  “Any dream’s a royal one, Aerck.”  She said pointedly.  “And a royal dream’s as simple as your’n.”  I paused for a moment, lookin’ at Annie.  All o’ eight, she were.  Right then, in the twilit thorns an’ the purple razored blooms, right then I knew I’d marry her, and it were as royal a dream as any I’d care t’ have.

More years passed—youth t’ man, as it were.  Me Da took t’ tendin’ his own roses at home, which grew near wi’out thorns, they did, so much care were took in their tending.  Annie grew, but not by much.  At full grown, her body were near t’ tiny as it were at nine or ten, but it were curving in delicate places, and I were satisfied wi’ my dream.  She were fey, fey as they come, but it didna fetter me much.  She could breathe on a colicky babe, an sure enow, he’d quiet.  She’d sing down the path t’ the herb woman’s home, an I watched the purple blooms blossom pink an blue an white after her—colors Da & me knew for certain that flower did not grow.  One day when she were ten the herb woman fell, brittle bones breaking, an’ Annie’s heart wi’ them.  She stayed up two nights an’ three days, singin’ the same wordless tune tha’ made the flowers grow, an on the third evenin’, the old woman hobbled out o’ her hut, right as rain.  Th’ children o’ our village tried t’ make a fuss o’ this, but Annie’s fists are as real as any other’n, and soon enow she were the same as the rest.  She learned herb lore from t’ old woman, and our village came t’ love her as it came t’ embrace any other child.  Her fascination wi’ the palace harridan stayed the same as well, but as that’n grew, Annie’s questions became harder and harder t’ answer.   What t’ say, for instance, the day I came upon her royal person and the young stable lad, in a quiet corner behind the sunflowers and between the palace wall?

The stable lad left, o’ course.  Turned pale and bolted, moon-face a grin as ‘e repaired his britches, leavin’ the little hellion and meself staring slack-jawed at each other.  Annie weren’t the only one a’growin’ in that time, an’ I’m not blind.  Me cheeks grew warm, and a smile played at her pink mouth—a grown smile, like a cat’s when she sees a bird.  The blood pounded through my body and stopped.  Her royal bareness stretched one leg, then another, as she turned t’ stand, givin’ me an eyeful o’ that which I’d not wanted t’ see.  She rose, straight as a cat-tail, chestnut hair falling past her hips, and hiding nothing.  Her breasts were full, and she knew it, and she threw her shoulders back, and smiled, reaching a fine long hand across her chest t’ tweak a dusky colored nipple. 

Desperately I swallowed, because me body were thinking thoughts me heart found queasy, and me pride wouldna’ allow me outstrip the feckless stable boy in me own bid for freedom.

“Nice.”  I said, caustic.  “Prime piece o’ flesh y’ are—the lad’s got a good eye in the stables.  Did ‘e tell what price you’d fetch t’market?”

Her flush spread all over, and I could almost smell her desire t’ hide, but she were proud—proud as Annie, proud as me.  Peasant proud.  The cost o’ moving slowly t’ find the crumpled linen day-gown couldna be measured in gold.  I watched, fightn’ breath, as she slid it over her head, knowin’ I shouldna look, but unable t’ look away.  Her head surfaced from the frothy violet cloth, and she caught my eye.  Now I were the one payin’ peasant pride t’ not turn me head & stammer like a lad. 

“You want me.”  She declared, and I weren’t in a state t’ deny it flat.

“Aye.”  I replied then.  “But I wouldna have ye for any gold.”  T’ my surprise, it seemed t’ hit home.  She bit her lip and looked away. 

“No one wants me.”  She whined, and my pity vanished.

“The stable lad were full o’want.”  I told her.  “But ‘e’s young, ‘n’ hasn’t much t’ lose.”

Vicious irony crossed her face, and in a moment she weren’t pretty at all.  “And you have so much more to lose, farmer.”  She spat, drawing her dignity around her.  Too late, in my opinion, and too thin a cover.

“Nobbut much.”  I conceded.  “Just me soul.  Run along now, Princess—yer too rich for the likes o’ me.” 

She stalked right past me, close enough for me t’ smell the must o’ her, the crushed baby’s breath in her hair, and her cat-like, biding fury.  Her hand reached out and caught me prick, and she squeezed just hard enough, then withdrew.  “Ah, farmer,”  she murmured, her breath in my ear, “You have the currency I want.”  She thought t’ bugger me, I knew it, but that touch, that sure touch where I hadna asked, had set me sure as a King in the seat o’ my soul.  I looked her full on in the eyes, mine narrow as her vision. 

“Aye,” I told her, “But I’d expect t’ be repaid in kind, an’ you haven’t that sort o’ gold.”  She hissed, and stalked away.

So I never told Annie that, but she guessed.  The Cat Princess continued t’ twine ‘round me ankles, tryin’ t’ trip me in that playful way a bored feline has.  Country cats don’ ha’ time for such games—they’re too busy catchin’ dinner, they are.  But the touches, the glances, the games, they continued.   I’d ignore her, and her hands, knowin’ and sure would grow bold.  I’d walk away, and she’d laugh.  But there’s an adage in me village,  about a tempted dog and a ruttin’ dog, an one’s only hungry but the othern’s fixed, and I learned t’ take pleasure in that sure walk away from what tempted me.  Me sister Gwen, plump at 12 and thin at 15 could walk away from sweets wi’ just such a look. 

One fine spring day, when I’d not seen the princess in a week, I stood knee deep in cow shit and clean earth, a carin’ for t’roses in the orchard.  It were warm, an’ no one near, so me shirt lay in a clean bundle, wi’ me lunch near t’ orchard walls.  I heard a sound above, too like a finch t’ be a finch, an’ I looked up t’see Annie, crouched on the wall above me head.

“Hey, foundling.  What be news?”  I asked her, smiling.  She didna like t’castle, wi’ it’s air o’ despair and anguished love, but she’d visit at times, bringin’ me lunch an’ gossip.  It were always good t’ have her near.  Her smile back tha’ day were different, though, than other times, an’ her eyes were trying too hard t’ look away an’ right at me at the same time.

“The princess is rutting.”  She said baldly, and I blinked an’ flushed, stifling a laugh.  “An hectare yonder.”  She waved, holding onto her crouch from an o’er reaching tree.  “Ye didna tell me she did tha’ Aerk.”  She said sharply, still avoiding my eye.

“Ye didna ask.”  I responded with dignity, tryin’ t’catch her eye and make her smile about it.  Every child in our village knew about rutting—surrounded by every creature from kittens t’ bulls, it were hard t’ not know.  She were a matter o’fact child, an’ by the gods should ha’ laughed skitterly at her royal harridan, naked in the hay.   I pulled my head back, for a moment, surprised that me Annie couldna look me in the eye at all, an’ then caught where she were lookin’, an’ felt a slow burn travel from me loins an’ out.  Somewheres, everywheres, me body was blushing.  I swallowed, slowly, an’ caught her eyes again, lettin’ her know I knew.  This time she blushed, but didna look away. 

She swallowed, same as me, an’ I saw a breeze catch her peasant’s skirt, pull it away from a bare leg, knew I were in a place t’ know what her small, curved body looked like now but wouldna.  “Yer not wearin’ much.”  She said, meeting the demon head on for all her skittishness.

I shook my head, tryin’ for all the world t’ break the mood.  Failing.  “Ye’ve seen me in me britches before, little’un.”  I told her, matter o’fact.

A small smile twitched at her pink lips, and I could see that her whole face were flushed.  “T’weren’t the same.”  She breathed.  “T’won’t ever be.” 

I closed my eyes, grimaced.  “Not now, Annie.”  I near t’ wailed. “Not when I’m knee deep in cow shit, an’ reek o’the garden.  Not when I’m in ‘er garden, where she’d take this an’ make it dirty.  Eight years, I waited, and ye’ve two weeks ‘til yer coming out.  Dammit, Annie, I had plans.”

“Change them.”  She said shortly.  “I’ve planned t’marry you sin’ I were three year ol’—an all my plannin’ planned on yer bein’ surprised.  Yer surprised now, aren’t ye?”

I blinked.  “Hell yes.”  A moment, I heard my heart beat in it.  “Sin’ ye were three?”

She lowered her head, cupping her knee, as though feeling t’ make sure it were as smooth as I imagined.  “Tha’s when I found words.”  She told me, quiet.  “You?”

“Sin’ ye were eight.”  I told her back.  “Men are thick.”

“Thick indeed?”  Purred the princess behind me, an’ I felt a charge o’somethin’ like bitter laugh-lightning travel me back.  Damn her t’ hell anyway, for bein’ here now.  “Now that’s,” the bitch were sayin’ “a conversation worth hearing.” 

I faced the wall, stone faced meself, angry an’ half tempted t’ walk away from the generations o’work me family had wrought like a miracle behind the king’s white stone walls.   Anything, t’ not have t’ live the ugliness she’d put me Annie through if she’d heard the lovely courtin’ nonsense we’d waited near a score o’years for.  But Annie shut ‘er down.

“Shut up.”  Annie said, ‘er voice sharp and commanding for all it were coming from a tiny girl in a tree.  The princess looked up, that scornful laughter twitching at her lips, but something bout Annie’s fierce, fey, half- wild looks brought her short.  “I’ve seen ye, ruttin’ like a pig in the mud yonder.  Did ye promise ‘im or threaten ‘im?”

The princess turned red at Annie’s boldness.  “I don’t know what you mean.”  She replied shortly.

“Promise ‘im a good fuck or threaten’ ‘im wi’ death?  Just curious, I am, ‘ow a princess comes t’be ruttin’ wi’ a peasant, tha’s all.”  One o’ Annie’s hands held on t’ the tree limb, but she were examining the nails o’ the other.  With a start, I realized she’d trimmed and polished them with lemon rinds, like the other girls in our village.  T’were not just her proposal o’marriage that meant Annie’d grown. 

For some reason, the princess were destroyed by Annie.  “Why would you think I’d have to do either?”  She asked, not able t’ look Annie in the eye.

“Yer not a peasant whore, t’be ruttin’ in the bushes.”  Annie told her, sharply.  “Yer not a village lass t’be dallyin’ wi’er man.  Ye’ve the power o’life and death—there’s not a stable boy who don’ ken that.  Oh, aye—‘e may covet yer body—it’s a fine one, no denyin’ it.  But any fool knows danger when it grabs ‘im by the balls.  Yer Da catches ye, & ye go t’ bed wi’ no supper.  Yer basic stable lad—‘e goes t’ bed wi’ no head.  So it were either a mighty fine promise o’ an amazin’ fuck, t’make poor Jake risk ‘is mother & sisters who ‘e feeds, or a sly little threat wi’ a hand down ‘is pants did the trick instead.”

“That’s not fair.”  The princess spoke lowly, tears brimming in her eyes.

“Tis more’n  fair.”  Annie went on, inexorably.  Me, I were in shock—the princess listened t’ no body but ‘er own—but Annie had her attention like God Himself, speakin’ from the sky.  “Tis certainly more fair than ye ‘n yer filthy hands all over me man.” 

T’ princess managed a sly look at me.  “I’m not so sure he minded.”  She murmured in a tone that turned me stomach.  But Annie were havin’ none.

“Did ‘e fuck ye?”  She asked, an’ t’ other lass looked away, startled still by the bald peasant word. “I thought not.”  Annie concluded w’ satisfyin’ smugness.  “If ‘e didna fuck  ye, after all yer temptin’, then he by the goddess minded.  I’ll say it one more time, an’ then I scratch yer eyes out, ken?  Keep yer hands off me man.”

“Your man?”  It were a weak rally, but it were the one time I could ha’ blessed the girl’s presence on earth.  I’d ha’ died twice for Annie’s answer.

“We be trothed in two weeks—who’s man did ye ken him t’ be?” 

There weren’t no answer t’ that—the princess just walked away.  I watched ‘er for a moment, torn as it were between sympathy at her sad world, stripped bare as a maple tree in deep winter, and admiration for Annie, whom I had loved all me life.  Admiration won, and I looked up in the tree wi’ me heart shinin’ through me smile.  Annie smiled back, an’ we stood there, baskin’ in our own warmth for more’n a heartbeat.  Finally she spoke.

“It be growin’ cold soon.”  She said at last, “Not too many days t’swim.”  She were right—the pool where we swam by the old woman’s house were fed from a spring that bubbled from a mountain we could see on clear days.  The water were cold all year round, but in the summer, when yer skin sticks t’ yer skin, the chill weren’t no hardship. 

“Aye.”  I agreed.  “It be a good day for a swim when I’m finished here.”

“An ye really want t’ kiss me, don’ ye?”  She asked, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed.

“Tha’ too.”  I agreed, “An surprises aside, Annie, I don’ plan t’stink o’ cow shit when I do.”

The sun were lowering as I made me way past the purple blossomed briars that night, and thick rays  o’light  dripped from the branches  o’the surrounding  trees.  The sun were directly west as I rounded t’ corner o’ the swimming hole, and Annie stood right in its path.  It were a full two minutes afore I ken she weren’t wearing nought but what God clothed her in the day she were birthed.  That knowing alone made me hard.  Without thinking much about what’d happen next that night, I stripped t’ me skivvies and plunged in the green pool, the chill making my breath come out all in a whoosh when I surfaced.  I lowered again, scrubbing me skin wi’ sand and a wee bit o’ soap I’d palmed when I’d stopped home.  Ma & Da looked sideways at me, as I strode away, but said nought.  When I surfaced again, Annie were still there, perched gingerly on the rock cluster we used t’ dive from since we could swim at all. 

“Yer not wearin’ much.”  I choked out, squinting up at her as she perched.  Wi’ the sun at her back, she were so pale and fine, I could almost see the forest through her pink skin.  It wandered in me thinking then, her feyness, the otherworldly way she   looked, and smiled, and moved.  Were it just me, then, in love wi’ a human woman, love making her too fine for this world, or were she really that much spirit, just enow flesh for two dark, dancing eyes?  She smiled then, and the question faded like the edges o’ her person… it didna matter, which o’ ‘er were flesh and which were spirit.  She were mine.

Fluid, like air and silk, she slid into the pool, tilting ‘er head back until her hair fanned out behind ‘er, and pulling up t’ look me in the eyes.  “Ye took yer time, Aerk.”  She said tartly, and I found meself looking from her eyes t’ peer deeper in the clear water o’ the pool.  Her body were small, and curved—small and pert and perfect. 

“Wanted t’do the job right, Annie.”  I said, looking up and meeting ‘er head on.  “It takes time t’ get a thing right.”  She smiled, and our bodies bumped then, underwater.  She twined her arms around me, an’ we turned our heads, touched lips, retreated, touched again, opened.  She breathed sharply through ‘er mouth, and I felt ‘er—all o’er, pressed against me, warmer’n water, warmer’n blood, and I were lost.

Making love t’ Annie were like wearing summer on yer skin—and spring and fall and winter all in one breath.  She sang  ‘er tuneless song when I were inside ‘er, and I felt it then, heating me bones, making me grow, making me heart pound stronger than a mere man’s.  It were like being coated in the thick, honey colored light that dripped through the branches that warm day, or dancing bare and unafraid in a glade o’ glittering snow.  All o’ that, and it were as simple as man and woman, flesh on flesh, sigh and quiver and scream and moan. 

I took ‘er on a bed o’ moss, soft and sweeter n’ ye might ken wi’  yer feather ticked mattresses.  It were odd that—we moved together and ‘er maiden blood, where it touched and we sang there grew, all in one coupling, a right fine bramble, all about us it were when our last sigh skittered through that glade.  Like the purple razor blooms Da had grown, but the thorns were shorter, and the flowers, two to a bud they were, virgin white and blood red. 

Our breathing stilled, and we lay there, still as wild creatures on tha’ bed o’ moss, looking round at the twining o’ branch and bramble and bloom.  Her hands moved on me, slow wi’ ‘er breathing, then, and I looked about us and whistled.

“We did that, then?”  I asked.

She looked sideways at me, and I noticed without thinking, that the flush that blossomed with her and made her rosy with our love making had faded right quick.  She were pale again, as moon on water.       “Aye.”  She answered.  “Yer touch, me blood, our song.  Three most powerful things in the world, Aerk, touch, blood, & song.  Air, fire, water, earth—touch, blood & song in all o’em.”

I flushed, looked elsewhere.  “I’m sorry for the blood, Annie.  It won’ be tha’ way next time, ye ken?”

She tugged sharply on me hair, full & blond out o’ it’s band, and I looked at  her.  Her eyes were grave, as they’d been at eight, but sad, and old—older’n the herb woman’s eyes, and for the first moment since we touched, I felt a skitter o’ fear up me spine.  There were, I sensed, a terrible price t’be paid, for shedding blood such as Annie’s.  “Don’ be sorry, Aerk.”  She whispered.  “Don’ ever be sorry.  Me blood is mine t’give—makes me human, it does.  Remember tha’—I think ye’ll ‘ave to.  Touch, blood, & song.   But blood—my blood—it be somethin’ special.”   The last words were whispered, and she fell asleep as she spoke them, quiet in me arms.  We awoke some time later, as the moon peered through our cave o’brambles, and we loved again.  When we were done, we smiled, quiet and foolish in the moonlight, and Annie slid out o’ our cave swift as any coney.  Meself, I thought I’d do the same, and well nigh howled when a bramble, longer than the rest, and quicker, as well, caught under me collarbone, an’ ripped me cross the shoulder.  It were a long wound, long and deep, and were it gotten in any other place and time, I’d have asked the herb woman t’ tend it.  As it were, Annie came t’ me, dressed by this moment, and lay ‘er hands on me, singing ‘er tuneless tune.  But I’d been inside ‘er, now, hearing that song in me bones, and I sung  it with ‘er, man t’ woman, bass t’ treble.  She stopped for a moment, blinked, and stumbled into me arms all over again, but this time it were from weariness.  When I went t’ pick ‘er up, I realized tha’ the wound were half closed. 

I frowned at ‘er something dark.  “It weren’t yer place t’ fix it, Annie.”  I told ‘er.  “Ye make yerself dizzy, doin’ tha’ for somethin’ tha’ will heal.” 

She nodded, in spite o’ herself, I guessed, and rested ‘er head on me good shoulder.  “Touch an’ blood an’ song, Aerk.”  She murmured, falling asleep even as she said it.  “Touch an’ blood an’ song.” 

I’d been workin’, that year, on a small cottage, behind Ma & Da’s, out o’ sight in the woods, but close enow for kin.  I woke early the next morning, moved about quietly, an took all me belongings to my home.  I returned for breakfast, not sure what t’ say t’ me Ma & Da, but Ma were there, a quilt big enow for a family o’er ‘er arm.  She kissed me on the cheek an told me not t’ forget it when I left after dinner tha’ night.  I left for the palace that morning happier than any man what ever lived.  Two weeks, and I were a married man.

E’en the Cat Princess couldna skitter me.  She were quiet, when she passed in the company o’ er ladies, excusing ‘erself for a moment t’ talk t’ me ‘bout roses, she said.  But she got within hearing distance and nearly spat poison. 

“Where is she?”  She asked, an’ I dinna need t’ ask who.

“Where ye canna touch ‘er.”  I told ‘er, carefully pruning back the climbing roses that covered the walls overlooking the palace grounds.  We trimmed them back every fall, so that they could grow glorious every spring, but I doubted the princess knew that.  “But it wouldna matter if she were ‘ere, ye ken.  She’d best ye just by being ‘erself.” 

T’ my surprise, the princess smiled.  “Aye, she might.”  She agreed, almost thoughtfully.  “But for how long—ask yourself that, Gardner.  I know enough of flesh to know spirit when I see it.  How long does spirit last, when it’s asked to bleed?”   The odd thing were, she weren’t angry.  She weren’t poisonous.  She were quiet, thinking.  But it were a fettling question—I’d asked meself the same thing, for certain, as I carried a sleeping Annie t’ ‘er home.  Annie had waked, for a moment, slid out’o’me arms, silk and water and air.  She raised her face in the moonlight for a brief, sweet kiss, that grew longer, then stopped abruptly as she moved silently to her door. 

“Annie,”  I whispered, not anxious t’ wake the herb woman, for all that she’d probably seen this a coming for years.  “Annie,”  And she turned, all spirit an’ light, save for her human, warm brown eyes.  “Annie—I love ye, ye ken.”  It needed saying, I thought, suddenly skittery in the quiet o’ midnight. 

She smiled, and even her eyes looked fey.  “I love ye, Aerk.  Ye ken tha’, aye?”

“Aye.”  I replied, feeling less skittery.  “But I told ye, Annie.  Men are thick.”  And I’d ducked me head and rushed home. But that feeling had stayed with me, until I’d slept.  That feeling that the night hadna been quite real.  The feeling that I’d been where mortal men shouldna go. The Princess, wi’ ‘er sudden truth about spirit and blood—that just made the fear real.

The rest o’ the day passed slow as growing things.  The sun crawled through the sky, covered in clouds and the first o’ the burning haze o’ autumn.  To a gardener lad, it looked t’ be a fat gold slug in the sky—and all o’ that for my first high o’ the morning.  Because I were worried now.  Annie—all spirit and silk—and blood she had shed.  What would that do, to a lass all spirit?  When it were time t’ leave for home, I took nary a moment t’ shelve me shears and such before I were running the road t’ Annie.

I didna stop at me Ma an’ Da’s, but ran straight down the path o’ razored blooms t’ Annie’s cottage.  The herb woman were outside, sitting in the lowering light, smoking a small clay pipe as was her wont.  Her eyes, when they met mine, were unspeakably sad.

“Annie…”  I gasped.  It were a long run, and me chest had grown tighter wi’ every breath o’ panic. 

“Go see t’ ‘er lad—an then we’ll have a long talk.” 

I’d been in the herb woman’s cottage before.  Me & Da had put up shelves an unblocked chimneys an such.  We’d helped build her herb boxes under her windows, and been asked inside for a drink  o’ water.  But I’d never been inside the rough  hewn, chamomile scented cottage without Annie’s fey laugh skittering around the walls and making the very air lighter—until now. 

She were lying on ‘er cot, eyes closed, pale and translucent against the brightly colored quilt me Ma had made ‘er when she were but a sprout.  Me throat caught at that.  I hadna thought o’ such things, but that gift from me Ma--  it had meant summat.  And then I saw that thing I feared t’ see the night before.  She were pale—she were so pale ‘er edges, the profile o’ er face, the sharpness o’ er nose,  the whitegold o’ ‘er hair, it seemed to  shimmer, like water, so that I could see t’ the other side.  Fey indeed, I knew now.  It mattered not.

“Annie?  Annie, lass, can ye hear me?”

“In me grave, Aerk.”  She murmured, the corners o’ ‘er mouth quirking up, as she opened ‘er eyes.  She were trying t’ be funny, I knew, but I weren’t laughing.  For sure as the sun and the moon and the stars, there would be no grave for Annie.  She’d just fade away, into light and shimmer, leaving me by the side o’ where she used t’ be with a hole big as life in me soul. 

“Yer blood Annie…” 

“Were mine t’ give, love.”  She said,  her voice growing stronger with conviction. 

“I’d rather live a monk than…”  A foolish sentiment.  I were a foolish lad, t’ not see the whole o’ what I’d been given the night before.

She laughed, and her edges grew more clear for a moment.  “Yer far too fine a man, Aerk, t’ go an be a monk.  A loss to womankind, that.  Me brawlie great lover, I’d sooner a night wi’ ye, than a lifetime wi’ out.”  She chuckled again, a dry, sad imitation of what Annie’s laughter should be.  “A monk.  Yer right, Aerk.  Men are thick.”  She closed her eyes then, still breathing, but I saw t’ my  horror, a little less o’ her were real, now, for all she’d said but a few words.  Wordlessly I dropped t’ my knees, and clasping her hand in mine, I wept. 

When I left  ‘er side, still breathing, but lightly, it were near dusk, and still the herb woman sat out, smoking an’ rocking in her chair.  Heavily, an old man at twenty-four, I sank down on the ground next t’ her.

“She weren’t sposed t’ live, boy.”  The old woman said.  “Ye knew that,  aye?”

“Nay.”  I said flatly.  “I still don’t.  Men are thick.” 

She nodded sagely.  “They are, summat.  It’s said their hearts are harder, too, but tha’s not so.  On the outside, maybe, but tha’s t’ hide the sweetness wi’ in.”  She paused, looked at me for the first time.  “Yer hurtin’, lad, an I canna change tha’.  But I ‘ave a story for ye, an it’s important tha’ ye listen.  For all yer claimin’ t’ be thick, yer still the sharpest thorn in the bushel, an’ yer going t’ need tha’ if ye want ‘er t’ live.” 

My breath caught.  There weren’t much I wouldna do, for Annie t’ live.

“There were once a queen who loved and was loved by ‘er king, but they had no children.  Desperate, sad, she went so far as t’ ask a lowly herb woman t’ ‘er door, an t’ pour ‘er heart out.  T’ herb woman were simple, from a simple village, an’ she knew  one spell, but it were a right powerful one.”

“Touch an’ blood  an’ song.”  I murmured, and the old woman looked at me sharply, then she smiled, ‘er face crinkling. 

“Aye--  yer a sharp one, I ken—this tale will go faster, if ye ken tha’.”  Then she looked into the lowering dusk, and continued.  “Touch an’ blood an’ song.  Aye.  The King’s touch, both their blood, an’ a song.  Any song really, but nobles, their lives are difficult, fettling things, they canna hear a simple song.  I made summat up, wi’ words an’ tune, an taught it to ‘er like I would a child.”  The old woman’s face softened.  “She were a good child, for all o’ that.  I missed ‘er, when me task were done.  So she ‘ad the King’s touch, and she ‘ad ‘er song--  an’ she’d shed ‘er own blood… but the King.  She couldna convince the King tha’ it were important.  That it were real.  But she tried anyhow, an’ sure enow, under the bed where they had coupled  there grew not one, but two flowers.  An the Queen had a problem then, because she’d been told only t’ eat one.  She weren’t a stupid child, an’ she weren’t arrogant, as some, but she knew in ‘er heart tha’ if one o’ those flowers were a child then two were as well, and she couldna let one die.  She called in ‘er serving girl, newly married, an’ gave ‘er the sweeter, white flower, while she ‘erself ate the bitter red one.  Nine months later, two lasses were born, an one mother died, shedding too much blood o’er a lass that could shed none.”

“Annie…”  I breathed.  Annie, and the Cat Princess.  Flesh and Spirit—and not enow blood t’ make them one. 

“Aye.”  T’ herb woman said, nodding, blinking watery eyes.  “Annie.  She weren’t supposed t’ live—she weren’t.  I expected ‘er t’ fade away every day, kickin’ an’ hollerin’ for all the life she could ken.  Right up until…”

I closed my eyes, felt me throat close, an’ tears threaten again in a way that should ha’ me doubtin’ me manhood but didna.  It were too, too harsh, this world o’ flesh.  “Right up until a gardener lad brought ‘er a rose trinket, an’ named ‘er, an’ she fell in love.”  I said.

“Aye.”  The herb woman agreed, an’ she wept soundlessly then, until the night turned black, and cold stars peered through the September haze.  I stared up at them, weary beyond words, and unbeknownst t’ meself, closed me eyes, and dreamt they were weeping blood. 

I came to wi’ a start, the moon higher than it were when I dozed off, and knew, wi’ out a question, what it were I needed t’ do.  Wi’ out waking the dozing herb woman, I crept into Annie’s room.  I had a knife, a right large one, and I pulled it from the strap on me leg, and wi’ out thinking o’ pain, sliced into the flesh on me palm, deep, an held me dripping hand t’ Annie’s mouth.  She woke, startled, and then drank, pain in ‘er eyes, as I told ‘er, patient as a Da to his son, what needed t’ be done.  When I were done explaining, and she had suckled all the blood me hand would give, she looked better.  There were more o’ her on the bed, that were certain, an her color, even, were pinker, and more human. 

“Ye picked a fine time t’ bed me, Annie.”  I finished up, trying t’ fettle her for a wee bit more strength.  “Had ye picked this spring, I could ha’ done this in a week, maybe less, but autumn… lass, ye’ll ‘ave t’ live, then, ‘til March, an’ it willna be easy.” 

“If ye’d been less thick about waitin’ ‘til me comin’ out in September, I’d ha’ picked any time ye’d been stiff enow t’ come.”  She told me weakly, and I grinned at ‘er, feral, for all that it were my blood on her lips.  “But Aerk,”  she added, her voice serious now.  “Two things.  One—dinna give up until June—e’en if ye… if I…  if  I’m not ‘ere more.”  She finished.  I choked, clasped her hand in me wounded one, felt me own song rumbling up from within, but held it for a moment, just t’ hear her sweet, sweet voice.  “The other thing—dinna feed me more—ye canna aford it, ye great dumb lout.  Feed me roses, aye?”

“Aye.”  I agreed.  And then, me song rumbled up, an hers too, for this were a magic o’ two, touch and blood and song.  I held her hand then, and we sang, until her voice trailed off in sleep, an me own boomed out the end o’ the song.  I wept over her then, once more, beyond fearing overmuch for me manhood.  What would happen, whatever were t’ come, I feared that would be the last time I sang that particular song with me Annie. 

The next morn, I asked the King’s permission t’ start a new project—a wall o’ roses, red and white the likes o’ which no one in three kingdoms had ever seen.  He balked, a bit, when I told him where it were t’ be growing.  The Cat Princess didna like growing things near her window, he told me—summat had skittered her when she were small.  I knew what, but I didna say—rather, I looked at the ground under me Sovereign’s feet, grave and serious and true, and I lied in a way t’ shame the devil.  I’d never lied in me life, but I didna care—it were for Annie.  The light, I told him, wouldna allow for such a project on any wall but hers, and if he wanted it plain and peasant like, we could try another wall, but none would do, I said, but the West wall.  He’s a blue blood as any other man who’s ancestors were brave or lucky or both.  He had his pride.  The West wall it were.

I used the razor blooms, the ones that grew special in the place Annie and I had made love, on count of they sprang from her blood an my touch and our song.  Every day I left early, carried a cutting of the plant that grew nowhere else, spliced it wi’ a rose and planted it by the Cat Princess’s wall.  I had good gloves for such a job, stiffened cow hide, three layers o’ it, but I didna use them.  Me hands bled o’er those plants, feeding them, but that’s not what made them grow.  What made them grow were me song.  I sang t’ this greenness, sang o’ me childhood, o’ the love o’ me Ma and Da, and me sisters and their men, knowing it were the best song t’ explain what human love could mean.  I sang o’ Annie, from her first stink-eyed gaze, to the first cry I quieted, and on through ‘er growing.  An only when I were tired, and me hands hurting so I could hardly sing, and weak, from the blood that dripped from me fingers t’ me work, did I sing o’ our one night together, and the yearning for real, human love that made such a night for Annie an me happen only once.

 I worked an hour afore starting time an’ one after quitting time each day on me wall o’ prickly flowers.  I worked through Autumn Harvests, autumn rains, and winter snow.  I’d visit Annie in the even’ an’ tell her aimlessly, exhaustedly o’ me day.  She’d lie, mostly quiet, watching and listening wi’ grave eyes, looking thinner an more pale wi’ each heartbeat.  In November, I noticed wordlessly that me Ma an Da, an’ then me sisters Gwen an’ Gretel became awful ham handed, all o’ the sudden, wi’ kitchen knives and the like.  They bound each other’s wounds silently, and I could only watch them wi’ gratitude and heartache in me eyes.  In December, the herb woman took t’ feeding me as I sat wi’ Annie, for me hands were raw, an’ cut an swollen from wrestling wi’ razored blooms and tough, angry wood that had no mind t’ be spliced.  When I’d otherwise be snug in me bed, allowing the King’s garden t’ lie fallow after a hard growing season, I trudged through snow t’ bleed on Annie’s flowers, and it still weren’t enow.  They covered less than half the wall, then, and I were thin and sickly, and near t’ bled dry.

In January, Annie faded away, one night, as I looked on.  I went t’ brush a lock ‘o pale hair from her face, and she turned her head an took a sliced finger in her mouth, sucked on it some, hummed a dry, sad tune in her throat, an looked at me wi’ sorrowing eyes.  “Don’ give up,  love…”  she murmured, and then, she weren’t there no more.  Me heart were too empty t’ cry.   I sat there, the whole night, staring at the place on the bed where me Annie shouldha been, growing more furious wi’ every breath.

The next morning, as I bled what felt t’ be me last drop on a futile red splice o’ flowers and thorns, the Cat Princess asked me just what in the hell I thought I were doing, building a wall o’ flowers that would look t’ er window and scare hell out o’ er in the day.  She’d watched me, silently, appraising me every cut, me every curse as I grew this beautiful, terrible wall o’ thorns and flowers, but she’d left me alone.  I hadna wondered why, had been grateful o’ the silence, and months wi’ out ‘er groping, invading hands on me body.  Perhaps I should have wondered, but it weren’t no matter.  What happened next were needful. 

“A monument.”  I said shortly, not facetious by half. 

“To your peasant?”  She asked, eyes glittering.  “How sad—she didn’t last out the winter?  Why, I never expected that—and you two were so perfect together.” 

Rage, simmering in me breast for months erupted, flooding me, making me see red, making me feel… desire?  I didna care for this lass, it were true, but she were Annie’s twin, whether she knew it or no—and I needed her, for what I were trying.  Suddenly, in a way that turned me stomach and filled me wi’ strength, I simply needed her. 

“She’s yer twin, bitch.”  I said brutally.  “Light t’ yer dark, spirit t’ yer useless flesh.  How’s that feel—that yer father let me build summat beautiful next t’ yer window, ye who’ve felt naught but ugliness since ye were whelped?   Even ‘e must know tha’ yer nothing but wantin’, wi’ nothin’ t’ fill yer innards but guts.” 

She turned white at that, but I couldna feel sorry.  I were so mad, so damned furious, not just at her very existence, when me Annie were gone, but at the fact that I wanted her so much I couldna hardly breathe.    We stood there, glaring at each other, and then I saw, through me’ blood-let hands, a cutting o’ Annie’s flower, red and white, and I knew what must be done.  Wi’ nary another word, I grabbed the Cat Princess t’ me, and crushed her, kissing her so hard I tasted blood.  She were still for a moment, triumphant, and then she returned the favor. 

Ah, ye gods, I dinna think I could be so angry, and want ‘er body wi every thing in me.  Wi’ nought but grunting between us, I lifted her heavy skirts and found naught t’ fettle me.  There were strength rushing through me body that I didna know I had, ken?  I unfastened me britches then and there in the snow, shoved her back on the thorns on me Annie’s wall, and fucked her as savage as I could.  She growled, and bit me, and shed more o’ my blood as I shed hers against the thorns, and told me t’ fuck her harder. 

I heard her song, wi’ our blood and our touch, and it were nothing like Annie’s, for all that they were one in the same.  Annie were silk and sunshine, shadow and water, spirit and sweetness—she made me feel like me flesh were more than flesh, ken?  Like I were the mightiest lad t’ ever put me toes in earth and grow.  But the Princess—she were so full o’ sex she left me weak wi’ it.  She were cock and cunt and thrust, and that were all.  She were the wanting and the striving—hollow, for all o’ that wanting—she were the howl o’ blood, the bay o’ the wolf wi’ no mate.  She were the empty womb that would never be filled, and I were just another body, trying t’ fill ‘er.

 After I’d grunted like an animal, and she’d screamed like one, we stared at each other, panting, our breaths misting in the cock shriveling cold, and I took stock.  Her mouth were bruised, but that weren’t new, and I knew her backside were scratched, the blood dripping on Annie’s thorns behind her.  I turned me head then, and spat a mouthful o’ blood, mostly hers, on the pile o’ spliced cuttings on the ground.  As I moved me head, I could see them unfurling, growing, attaching themselves on the other cuttings.  Even as self-loathing unfurled in the pit of me gut, I felt a surge o’ blood, and triumph, and shame and love, for Annie’s flowers, me whole purpose here, weren’t going t’ die on the snow.  Summat o’ me unhappiness—and me love for Annie—must o’ shone on me face, because the Cat Princess did summat most unexpected, even for her. 

In a quick movement, that showed no shame and summat akin compassion, she sank t’ her knees, there in the snow, and took my still dripping member in  her mouth.  It must have been summat she did often, for in no time at all, she were back against that wall, bleeding on me thorns, impaled by me prick.  The odd thing were, this time, there were no hatred in her eyes—or in mine, for that matter.  There weren’t love, either, but there were lust.  Sex.  Flesh.  That were all.  It were all I needed.  I felt her, shiver around me, coming like any country girl wi’ her man, and when she were weak, when she died that little death, that were when I started t’ sing.  It were a strange song, that one.  Mine, hers, and even (for it were needed) Annie’s.  I could have been evil, then, wi’ that song.  I could have given her dreams t’ send her screaming, but it weren’t in me.  She were me Annie, wi’ nary me Annie’s soul—I couldna do summat that hard, even after all the grieving she’d given us.  By the time I thrust once more, and heaved, and grunted like a pig in rut, her eyes were closed.  When I went t’ fasten me britches, she fell softly t’ the snow. 

Wi’ great patience, and even tenderness, ye ken, I cleaned the lass up.  I smoothed back her hair, and tucked in the pins, as I’d seen me sisters do.  I washed her face, and iced her lip, t’ ease the swelling.  And then, almost embarrassed, I took a clean cloth from me lunch kit, dipped it in some snow melting in a pot o’er me little fire t’ warm me as I worked, and bathed the wounds on ‘er backside, singing as I did so, t’ make the wounds close faster.  Finally, I bathed the juncture o’ her thighs—there were no blood there, o’ a certain, then pulled her skirts down t’ hide what we ha’ done. 

While I were doing all o’ this, I couldna tell ye why—I may have mumbled summat about saving me own sorry hide, but it weren’t that.  The King and Queen were doting, but they couldna be that blind—they knew a little o’ their daughter t’ know o’ her doings.  They too, knew o’ my disdain for their daughter, and maybe, even, a little o’ me love for Annie.  It were the King who had given me extra silver t’ build me little cottage, so that I could have the fixings, and even some china, awaiting me bride.   Nay—they wouldna suspect me, I think, if I had come t’ them wi’ the lass in me arms, saying I had found ‘er that way in the snow.  But I couldna do that—not when it had been me she’d been rutting wi’.  I had two sisters, and it just weren’t in me, t’ take her t’ her folks with her knickers down and some bastard’s seed running on her thighs.

They wept, when I brought ‘er, wrung their hands, thanked me, abstractedly, for bringing her in.  She were breathing, regular and even, but she wouldna wake up, for any prompting.  And then, as I watched on, they took her upstairs, t’ her room in the West corner o’ the castle, where Annie’s flowers, even as they spoke, had begun t’ grow wi’ a life beyond what I had given them.  Me knees trembled, and me hands shook from the exertions—from letting me blood, t’ rutting with the girl, and most especially, from singing her wounds closed—but I couldna go home yet.  Triumph glittering in me eyes, I went back t’ the wall, and grafted the rest o’ the blooms t’ the ones already on the wall.  I gloried in’ every scratch, that day, loved the rough feeling o’ their twisty wood beneath me shredded fingers, sang with a passion I’d not known sin’ that night with Annie.  When I left, those vines were growing, within sight o’ man, curling madly around the wall, and the castle, twining tight around the girl’s window, reaching wi’ greedy, insatiable fingers across the gate. 

When I came t’ the castle the next day, it were sealed tight with twisty, razored brambles, each growing larger than the last.  And the people inside?  They were sleeping the sleep o’ the blessed, their eyes furled tighter than the buds o’ the flowers that hid in the deep green leaves.

*************

Me hands were near healed by spring.  I dont remember much about the rest o’ winter, though.  It passed in a haze o’ chores, and cold, o’ aching pain in me hands, and of sitting, staring wordlessly into the fire in me folks’ hearth.  I remember me Ma, forcing plates o’ food on me, and me Da  disappearing one day, coming back wi’ summat I’d left in the cottage I’d built for me an’ Annie.  It were only then that I realized I hadna shut it up tight, for all the winter, and   I choked out a thanks t’ me Da.  I remember me sisters’ children, reading me stories some nights, t’ cheer me a bit, I figure, for before that deadly, lonely winter, I’d  often times done  the same for them.  But mostly, what I remember about that time were the sharp, painful thrusts o’ hope, deep in me heart where I least wanted them. 

I wanted t’ grieve. I wanted t’ weep. I wanted t’ howl.  But instead, I hoped.  It fed me, it forced me chest in and out, so that I could breathe.  I reckon that hope even laced me boots in the morning, and held me hands tight to the rope between the barn and the house during the winter blizzards, because there weren’t much will left in me breast t’ do either.  So I existed that winter.  And I hoped. 

When spring arrived two things happened.  I went to our cottage, Annie’s and mine, and opened it, making repairs and readying it for me hope.  The other were, a whole damn coterie o’ royals arrived, delaying the day when me hope would bloom.  Sleeping Princesses, it seemed, attracted third sons o’ kings, and bastard nobles, all wanting a chance at the princess an’ her kingdom.  Damn fools.  Around March, that wall o’ magicked flowers began to bloom, as all flowers do, and by April, they were so deep around the castle walls, that ye couldna see the turrets, for all the blooms an leaves, and by no means forget the wicked, hand long thorns that are the wages o’ true love.  Young princes and dukes an such’d hurl themselves at this wall o’ thorns, and bleed, and go home, saying they’d suffered for their love.  Like they knew what suffering were. 

Every morning, I’d venture from our village to the castle, and sit and wait for them t’ leave.  By June, when the flowers were rioting all over the castle, big as a man’s head, and the razors were as long as his arms, the line were twice as long for the foolish boys t’ go and shed their blood for a woman they knew naught.  I swore every morning, not knowing when they’d go away and let me have me turn.  I were a peasant lad, a gardener—I couldna just walk up t’ that wall o’ hell, magic it, and walk away with a princess t’ live in me village  and keep me home. In spite o’ the fact that I nearly wept with the needing o’ her, I wanted t’ keep her with me ‘til we grew old, and withered together.  I couldna do that, if the whole world saw her awake. But by heaven, as June turned t’ July, and then t’ August, and me bones felt the ache o’ nearly a year without me Annie by me side, I could have killed the next handsome young prince that pranced up on a charger t’ have his armor gouged by Annie’s  flowers.

Summat must have shown on me face, for one day in late August, I caught the eye o’ a young nobleman, who laughed at me, sitting by the edge o’ the forest, yearning enow to kill. 

“You,”  He called, pointing at me wi’ his gauntlet.  “You’re here every day—what—is this a show for you, peasant?” 

“Aye.”  I said shortly, wanting him t’ go bleed on me briared flowers and then go away.  But I seemed t’ fettle him with that, and he wouldna let me be.

“It amuses you, to watch the pain and suffering here?”  He asked, getting high and mighty.  I laughed.

“What pain?”  I asked.  “Ye don’t know the lass, ye certainly don’t love her, for all yer posing—yer cut, ye bleed, ye go home t’ yer Ma and Da with a fine story and marry the next lass with a plain face and a large purse that comes along.  I see no pain here.  I see boys at play.”  Unconsciously as I spoke I rubbed me scarred hands.  They had fattened some, this winter, but twisting over them, like me vines on the castle walls, were purple and white scars that thickened me fingers, and pained me in the cold.  It were going t’ be tough, as a gardener, working with those hands, but I minded not.  There weren’t no pain worse than the pain o’ losing Annie. 

But that whey faced nettle grabber wouldna let me be.  His eyes narrowed, he gestured t’ his fellows, as though I were a strange animal they could look close at.  “So, fellow, you think you know something about suffering and pain-- you think that makes you qualified to get past this hellish wall of briars?”

I couldna help it. I laughed.  It were bitter, but it were me first laugh in nearly a year.  “O’ course it does.”  It told him.  “I grew it, why could I not get past it?”  That stopped him, o’ course.  It were a foolish thing t’ do, that, after all me careful waiting.  But I were beyond caring, by now, for what it would look like.  Me Annie were in that wall o’ briars, her blood in the blooms, her spirit in the branches.  Hopefully, even more than that, but t’ know, I had to get t’ the princess’ room and see.  And I could tell, looking at the line o’ fools that measured off the legend o’ this place, that I  wouldna be able t’ go in private, unless I waited  until I were old and gray, and that would do Annie no good. 

The young man’s eyes narrowed, and he looked t’ all his friends.  “Hey, fellows, here’s a bit of sport.  This peasantsays he can get past the wall all by himself—hell, he says he grew the damn thing, if you can believe that.  Shall we give him a go?”  There were some laughter then, a lot of laughter, actually, but then the men in front stopped hacking at the brambles like woodsman with a bad axe, and gestured for me t’ go forward.  All their hacking—three months worth o’ it, had served no purpose, really.  The plant had bled, and then they had bled, and then the wall o’ briars had grown stronger and longer.  I could have laughed at it, if each young fool, ripping at Annie’s briar hadna been a slice o’ me soul. 

Quickly, for I’d waited for this moment for a goodly long time now, I strode up t’  the bramble bush, but instead o’ walking straight t’ the castle walls, I walked t’ the side,  the servants entrance, which were, as it happens, right under the lass’ window.  Growing there, unnoticed by the gentry, were a tight bud, huge, bigger’n me own head, bigger’n any helmet worn by the knights on the chargers around me.  I’d seen it, in me sitting, and since it were my magic, and my song, o’ course I knew what it were for. 

It were closed tightly, that bud, but that didna stop me.  I were in no hurry, now, as I ran me scarred, tender hands o’er it, feeling it’s satin under me palms, loving the silk and the light o’ it, in spite o’ the thorns around it.  Deliberately, I placed me finger on one o’ those thorns and pushed, impaling meself, and then ran the bloody finger around the outside petals o’ the bud, humming softly a tune only Annie and me would know.  The bud moved a bit, unfurled, and I teased the outer lips  o’ it, and added a new note in me song, one the princess had sang when I were deep inside ‘er body.  The flower spread a little more, relaxing, opening, ripening for me tender, stroking hands.  At last, after a few minutes, it were open fully, and I thrust me hands in it, gentle, not wanting to bruise, but only t’ stretch so that I could reach all the way inside.  I probed, and stroked, and sang, and finally it gave a shudder, and lay there still in all its glory.  I reached to the depths o’ it, and pulled out its heart.  Given freely, the color o’ blood, a gem lay in me palm that throbbed with life and love. 

The men behind me shuffled a bit, and hemmed and hawed, and some even looked embarrassed, and most were flushed.  But I paid them no mind, for I had in me hands the thing I needed most, and the rest o’ the briar bowed before it.  I brushed the flower gently with me lips, and the hedge parted for me.  Gamely, without fear, I thrust inside, not t’ be touched by briar on me way.  Behind me I heard the curses o’ the men who tried t’ follow, and I chuckled a bit, knowing they’d never venture past the guardian flower, which were now shut tighter than tight. 

It were no trick now, t’ venture past the sleeping courtiers, the King and Queen, sitting on the bed o’ their chambers, their arms locked about each other in comfort.  I felt bad about that—still do, in fact, for there would be no comfort for their loss, when they awoke.  Up the marble stair case, around a tower and past a turret, me feet led the way joyfully, hopefully, and the hope hurt no longer, for I were soon t’ see if it were false or true.  Finally, I came t’ the Princess’ chamber, and I looked inside. 

She’d been posed in sleep, her hands o’er her heart, her hair brushed better than I had left it that cold day in January.  Her feet were pointed daintily beneath her dress, and I couldna but remember the way those legs had spread for me, as I took her against a stone wall covered in thorns.  But her hair were lighter than it had been, and the smell o’ her weren’t perfume any longer,  but the smell o’ sunshine in its stead, and hope were near t’ bursting in me chest.  Gently, quietly, an’ still singing the song o’ man and flesh and spirit, I placed that throbbing stone in her hands, and touching both her, and the stone, I bent, and brushed her lips with mine, then stood back, singing still, and praying wi’ all me soul.

The red, glowing stone sank slowly into her chest, and her breast, which had been moving slow and shallow gave a heave, like a swimmer coming up for air.  She sat up for a moment, thrashing a bit, and her hair came forward as she shook  her head and tried t’ fathom where she were.  But she tossed it out o’ her eyes with a gesture that seemed achingly familiar, and  turned her head t’ look at me.   I gazed back into black eyes, that were really a soulful brown.  Annie’s eyes. 

We sneaked out o’ the palace, as people around us were awakening, and the briar shrunk t’ the prettiest hedge o’ flowers, twining  o’er a climbing wall ye were like t’ ever see.  The crimson ones, and the white ones stayed as they were, but even as we ran down through the kitchen and out the side door, then across the grounds t’ the other servants door in the wall, a summat odd appeared.    Of a sudden, there were flowers the blushing shade o’ a maiden’s cheeks, or the deeper shade o’ a woman’s throat after she’d been made love to by her ardent peasant lover, popping out along the vine—it were a thing I’d not seen before or since—but not a sight we lingered at, for certain.

Laughing, giggling, and singing, Annie and me tripped lightly through the fringes o’ the forest, past me folks house t’ our wedding cottage, our hands clasped tightly all the while.  We stopped, tearful, breathless, still laughing, at me threshold, and I had t’ make sure.  “Yer a Princess, Annie,” I told her, serious.  “Ye know that, ken?  Ye could wait in that tower for a handsome prince, and ye could have any man in the kingdom, ye ken?”

She laughed then, and touched me ravaged hands, a slow look of sorrow crossing features that were becoming more and more hers.  “Don’ be a halfwit.”  She murmured against them, touching me scars with her tears. .   Her voice were Annie’s, I marveled, although the throat that thrummed it were the Princess’.  “Yer me touch and our blood and me song, Aerk—I died for ye, an’ ye did the same.”  She said, and I wondered if I could ever see me Annie wholly in that body made for taking.   Then she looked at me serious, and all I could see were her Annie-black eyes.  “If I took another man, Aerk, the world’d wither like a cut flower.  Now come ‘ere.”  And she pulled me close t’ kiss.  Closing me eyes at  her peasant sharp words, I knew it didna matter—she smelled like me Annie, and when she lifted her lips t’ be kissed, she were fierce and fey like me Annie.  She were the spirit that filled me, and the flesh that I filled, and our song were the three o’ us: Aerk an’ Annie—man and flesh and soul.