Five to Nine Writing

The summer night sky was filled with explosions.

In Japan, firework festivals were part of their tradition. People would gather all around, drinking and playing festival games, enjoying themselves as they watched the hanabi go off. Having a large show was a point of pride.

On this particular night, the sky was lit with every color of the rainbow. The festival goers thought the people running the show had outdone themselves; they had never seen anything like it.

The people running the festival were just as stunned. They hadn’t set up any fireworks that looked like beams of light.

Two rays of colored death split the sky apart, each arcing towards the other’s source.

A stick-thin man tumbled through the air, barely avoiding the pink shaft. He was an older man, his beard white as snow. He squinted his one good eye, the other’s absence covered by an eyepatch. His suit had been torn by that last dodge.

The man’s one-eyed stare locked onto his opponent. Hovering a hundred feet in front of him was a raven-haired woman in a white and blue school uniform. Her hands were covered with furry gloves, each finger tipped with a single claw, and resting in her hands was a silver staff topped with a golden bear’s head.

This one’s for the people out there who aren’t spending Valentine’s Day with someone special. Hell, maybe this could be a character someday - half the time I need to come up with one this is how I end up making them. 

If there’s a prize for ‘saddest alternative to a date for Valentine’s’, I think I’d have gotten a medal this year.

There’s the old classic, eating a tub of ice cream. Then there’s the 'hip’ new trend of binge-watching a TV show you haven’t seen. For extra difficulty, while also eating a tub of ice cream. Hobbies, those were always an option. A friend of mine, ironically, likes to sew.

No, this year I was sure I’d hit rock bottom. This year, I was eating at a nice restaurant by myself. The hour was late and it was a spur of the moment decision, so they didn’t accept ‘walk-ins’ for a table. So I was seated at the bar. On a night where I couldn’t drink.

Did I mention every table had a couple seated at it? Old, young, white, black, didn’t matter. They were all there. Even at the bar I wasn’t alone. Sitting by my side was a tourist couple, their words lightly accented. I’d actually hoped I’d struck gold with the woman before she told the bartender she needed a seat for her boyfriend; she was pretty cute.

You might be wondering why I was the only person in the whole damn restaurant to fly in solo. ‘Who could have broken your heart so badly’, you might ask. ‘Must have been a terrible person to leave you like this.’

It’s not her fault. She went to sleep and never woke back up. Broke a lot of people’s hearts that day.

Maybe someday I’ll get back up on the horse. Ride out, slay the dragon, save the kingdom if you’re the kind that likes to dream. There’s a certain romance in it - the man who picks himself back up.

Why did I have to be born believing in love? It’d be so much simpler if I didn’t.

But then it’d be a lot darker a world if I didn’t, too.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow the sun will still rise in the east. Tomorrow was the day I’d get back up.

-Adapt a more well-known fairy tale and do it longer-form like a Brothers Grimm tale or something Disney’s already absorbed (not the first time I’ve done this, see here.) Possibly LBGTQ+ again.  

-Take a minor mythological figure from one pantheon and have them adventure in the lands of another. Hijinks ensue. (Was thinking Norse -> Greek for myself)

It’s looking very likely that the US government will shut down once we hit the stroke of midnight. This could be a short one though. But just like last time I’ll be adapting one fairy tale a day. In case it lasts only a few hours, I’ll be putting this up tonight. If it lasts longer than a few hours, I’ll write another one and post it.

Either way, the Shutdown Fairy Tales are back! Today’s selection is ‘Catskin’, an English fairy tale which appeared in Joseph Jacobs’s ‘The Grey Fairy Book’. But this one has a notable twist to the proceedings...

Once upon a time in Britannia, lived a miserable lord. He had many fine properties and much wealth, but he had no heir to carry on his name nor a wife to have more children. He had only a daughter, Amelia, whose hair was as fair as the sun. The lord often flew into fits of rage, crying out, “Why, Lord! Why could I not have had a son!”

Years passed, and the lord continued to only have his Amelia. When she came of age, he had grown so agitated that he announced to the realm he was willing to marry Amelia off to the first man who made an offer.

That offer came very quickly in the form of Lord Gerald, a man as wide as he was tall and with a terrible attitude. When the lord agreed to the match, Amelia fled the castle. She did not want this… man. If a walking mound of fat could be called as such!

Amelia hid herself with the old hag who cared for the hens. After telling the henwife her story, she conceded, “I cannot love him. I have never met any man that I could imagine falling in love with.”

The henwife smiled. “I’ve done this sort of thing before for women of your ilk. Demand a coat of silver cloth before you agree to be wed.”

Amelia considered this, and asked for the coat of silver. Lord Gerald provided it all too quickly, and he asked if she wanted anything else.

When Amelia returned to the henwife for help, the henwife replied, “Try a coat of gold cloth next.”

So Amelia asked for the coat of gold cloth. Lord Gerald gave her that as well.

Desperate but continuing to listen to the henwife’s advice, she asked for a coat made from feathers of the most beautiful birds. Lord Gerald saw that she received that as well.

As a last ditch effort, the henwife directed Amelia to demand a little coat of catskin. This too, was given to Amelia. The henwife appeared ready to admit defeat, but she had one final trick to try. “Flee to the north, my child. Hide away in your catskin coat. You may find freedom as a servant in another castle.”

“Catskin! I want to see my face in those dishes!”

“Yes, chef!” Amelia cringed at her nickname as she scrubbed at a dirty dish with a cloth. She had managed to escape her father’s estates with the catskin coat, being hired to do the most tedious tasks in another lord’s kitchen. But she was at least free of Lord Gerald’s proposal.

“I mean it this time,” demanded the castle’s cook. “The lord is hosting another ball tonight for his eldest. The weird one that’s still single. We have to be at our best for our guests!”

Amelia was interested. The lord of the castle had three children, but she had only ever seen the younger two, men who were happily married. “Do you think I can serve some of the food at the ball?”

The chef snorted with laughter. “Oh, you’re serious Catskin?” He threw a basin of water in her face. “Get back to work.”

She dried her face with her dish towel, pondering where she’d stashed Lord Gerald’s gifts. Perhaps it would be best not to attend as the hired help.

Amelia had never attended a ball in her life, so she was amazed at the dancing and the food and the manner in which everyone carried themselves. She was not uneducated; she knew how to conduct herself. But this was the first time she had ever had to do so.

Clutching at her silver coat, she made her way through the crowd. What was a lady in disguise to do at a ball? For that matter, what did a lady do at a ball at all?

So lost in thought was Amelia that she bumped into someone. “I’m sorry.”

“No, the fault is mine.” The someone turned around, and Amelia was stunned. The woman was easily a head taller than her, chocolate hair tied in a pony tail. But it was her attire that truly caught Amelia off guard. The woman was not in a gown, but in a man’s attire.

The woman blushed. “I-I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I am Abigail. I’m the one my father keeps holding all these balls for.”

“C-Catskin.” Amelia was ashamed that she said her nickname first. “I, uh, I’ve never seen a woman in such masculine clothing.”

“And I’ve never met a woman who blushes like that without falling faint from the shock,” Abigail grinned. “Where are you from, Catskin?”

Fearing that her father was still looking for her, she said the first thing that popped into her head. “The Sign of the Basin of Water.”

Abigail laughed. “Well, Catskin from the Sign of the Basin of Water, would you do me the honor of a dance?”

“I-I would love to,” breathed Amelia.

Amelia had a spring in her step for the rest of the week.

“Catskin,” the cook called out. “Stop wasting time! The lord of the castle is demanding another ball for Lady Abigail! She met someone during the last one and is trying to get them to reappear!”

Amelia stopped where she stood. It could not be her, ‘Catskin’, that the Lady wished to see, could it? “M-May I go to this ball to see?”

The cook laughed again, before breaking his ladle across her back. “No. Get back to work!”

“Lady Catskin, you have only grown more beautiful since I last met you. May I say, you look ravishing in your golden coat.”

The second ball had been easier for Amelia to handle, now knowing what to expect. But she had not expected this. She had not expected to be the apple of Lady Abigail’s eye.

Not that she minded the eye of her Lady. “Thank you, Lady Abigail.”

Abigail took Amelia’s hand and kissed it, nearly making Amelia swoon. Goosebumps ran up her arm from just a single kiss to the back of her hand! Would that it was elsewhere!

“Lady Catskin, I must confess that you have me at a disadvantage,” said Abigail. “No one in my castle knows of any ‘Sign of the Basin of Water’. Is there another name for where you come from?”

So worked up from the kiss was Abigail that she could not help but lie again. “The Sign of the Broken Ladle.”

“No, no, no!” The cook broke a skimmer across Amelia’s back this time. “I don’t care how many balls we have to hold for Lady Abigail, I am not letting you attend!

But Amelia was going to. She knew that Abigail desired her.

Amelia desired her right back.

In the third ball, Amelia found herself immediately attended to by Lady Abigail. “My dear Catskin, a coat of feathers this time! Truly, you spoil my sight with such wonders.”

Amelia blushed harder than the crimson feathers in her coat. “My lady Abigail, you must be exaggerating.”

“I don’t,” said Abigail. “Catskin, you have confused me yet again.” She took Abigail’s hand and twirled the woman around, embracing her in a dance. “The Sign of the Broken Ladle? I don’t know of any place named after kitchen tools. Where are you from?”

Where Abigail’s hand had landed on her back made Amelia confused once more, and her to lie once again. “T-The Sign of the Broken Skimmer!”

When the ball finally ended, Lady Abigail secretly followed the Catskin out of the ballroom. She hoped that a servant of Catskin’s could tell her the truth, or at least tell her why she had lied.

It was with no small amount of confusion Abigail found herself in the servant’s quarters. And from a nearby window she could see Catskin change out of her feathered coat!

Abigail knew the gentlemanly thing to do was to look away, to preserve the woman’s modesty. But her curiosity got the better of her. And then she saw Catskin change into her catskin coat.

“My lord,” Abigail breathed. “I have fallen in love with a peasant.” She took a deep breath and smiled. “I have fallen in love!”

When Abigail told her mother the news the next day, her mother was furious.

“It is strange enough that you wish to marry a woman,” the mother told Abigail. “But now you tell me that she is one of our servants?! Think of the scandal, my dear!”

“I don’t care,” begged Abigail. “Please. Please, I love her! I would die without her!” Tears streamed down her face as she went to her hands and knees. “I’ll never find anyone else! How many balls have we held? How many men have I found wanting?”

Abigail’s mother took a deep breath and sent for this ‘Catskin’. She would at least see for herself who her daughter was going to marry.

The woman that came to see Abigail’s mother was not a woman in a catskin coat. Amelia came dressed in her coat of golden cloth.

Abigail’s mother slowly turned to her daughter, who looked up at her as she lied on the floor still crying.

“…I am happy that you have chosen such a beautiful woman to marry.”

On the day Abigail and Amelia were to be wed, Amelia was approached by the henwife before she was to be married.

“I see you followed my advice,” she told Amelia. “I apologize for not telling you sooner, but I am no mere henwife. I am a witch. It warms the cackles of my heart to see you in such spirits. Allow me to give you a gift as a wedding present.”

Amelia was handed a small bottle. “What is it?”

“Have your beloved drink it tonight,” the witch smiled, “From the ladle the cook offered you as his present. You’ll have a baby in nine months.”

Amelia’s eyes went wide. “That’s – that’s not possible. I know it takes a man to have a child!”

“Magic, my dear, magic,” said the henwife. “I have one final piece of advice for you, if you wish to take it.”

Having not been led astray before, Amelia chose to listen.

Months passed. When the time was right, Amelia finally told her beloved Abigail what the henwife had told her.

After a long journey to the south, Abigail got off her horse and was invited into the chambers of the local lord.

There, sitting on his throne and attended by his servants, was a miserable lord.

“Pardon me,” Abigail greeted the lord. “I have been told by your men that you have suffered greatly.”

“Yes,” the miserable lord admitted. “My wife is dead. And I have lost everything.”

Abigail pursed her lips, curious. “Did you ever have a son, my lord?”

“No, but I had a daughter.” The miserable lord broke into tears. “I treated her poorly. So poorly. I was ready to marry her off to the worst sort of man! I should have been a more dutiful father. I would give all my treasures and land just to see her again.”

Abigail coughed politely. “My lord, I have married your daughter. I am sorry I did not ask you for Amelia’s hand, I did not know. She asked me to send for you. Amelia wants you to come live with us.”

The lord rose from his throne, gazing upon the Lady in man’s clothing. After a long silence, he smiled. “I did say I would give anything. I suppose learning my daughter married a woman is price enough. I will come with you.”

“Thank goodness,” Abigail smiled. “Your daughter begged me to come see you as soon as our son was born.”

“…You have a son? I am a grandfather? How?”

Abigail smiled. “I’ll tell you on the ride over. For now my lord… let me be the first to thank you for accepting Lady Catskin’s invitation.”

I got bored and decided to rewrite one of the most criticized scenes in cinema of the past twenty years - the Architect scenes from Matrix Reloaded. I actually kind of like these scenes and think that if Reloaded and Revolutions were more conventionally satisfying movies like the original that it would’ve gotten a pass.

So this is sort of a writing prompt for myself: rewrite or re-imagine a scene from a film, while keeping as many elements from the source material intact as possible while putting your own spin on it whether it’s something new or altering a maligned element. Sort of a ‘next draft’ of previously established material. I probably like doing this considering I started writing with fanfiction.

This is a revised version of the pivotal scene with the Architect at the end of the Matrix Reloaded, originally written by the Wachowskis (note: I’m aware the writing credit technically goes to ‘the Wachowski Brothers’ but given contemporary knowledge about their gender identity I’m going with their contemporary handle).

There was a bright light, and then everything had gone white. There was no sound, not even the sound of the door that had melted into the light.

Then, with an audible click, he saw his face in a television. The sunglasses, the hair, the pale skin. None of it had changed. But behind his head were more televisions, each with his face. All around him were televisions showing his face inside a television showing his face inside a television.

He turned away from the recursive TVs to get a better grip on his surroundings. A door to his left and a door to his right. And before him, a large chair.

The chair swiveled around to reveal a man, hair silvered with age, his facial hair finely kept and his grey suit impeccably tailored. The man seemed bored at the sight of him. “Hello, Neo.”

Neo felt his hands clench into fists. “Who are you?”

“I am the Architect,” the man told Neo. “I created the Matrix. I’ve been waiting for you. You have many questions, and though you have changed much since you rescued Morpheus from our custody you remain unquestionably human. As a result, some of my answers tonight you will understand, and some you will not. And while your first question may be the most relevant to your situation, you may already understand that the answer is also not important.”

Neo had long stopped questioning how machines could be so long-winded. The longer he delayed, the closer Zion crept to destruction at their hands. However, this Architect intrigued him. He hadn’t been sure what he would find with the Keymaker’s last key. But this hadn’t been it. “Why am I here?”

The Architect continued to speak, the screens shifting to scenes of Neo’s life. His old life, before he escaped. “Your life is an outlier, the result of an unbalanced equation inherent to the code of the Matrix. You are the final possibility of an anomaly, which I have been unable to stamp out of what is otherwise the most precise mathematical formula ever devised. And while it is tiring to avoid coming to terms with you, you are not unexpected and thus, you are not beyond some measure of planning for. All of this has led you, inevitably, here.”

With a simple gesture, the Architect returned the screens to Neo’s face.

In his old ‘plugged’ life, Neo would have thought about déjà vu. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Quite right. Interesting.” That was the first glimmer of emotion Neo had seen from the Architect. It was… interest. “That was quicker than the others.”

The other Neos in the screens started chattering. “Others?” “What others?” “How many?”

So many questions Neo had, it was difficult to decide which to ask first. This was not the first time But ultimately, he decided to let the Architect elaborate on his own, letting the other Neos silence themselves.

“The Matrix is older than you know,” continued the Architect with a hint of smugness. “I like counting from the emergence of one anomalous possibility, or ‘One’, to the emergence of the next. By that measure, you are the sixth version.”

The screens screamed with emotion. “Five versions?!” “Three?” “I’ve been lied to.” “This is BS, f—- you!”

Anger, shock, despair, rage against the machines. Neo felt all of that and more. But surprise? The Merovingian had hinted at something grander going on behind the curtain. Now Neo was peeking behind and finding things no one had before him. Or so he thought.

“There are only two possible explanations,” admitted Neo. “Either no one told me, or no one knows.”

“Correct,” said the Architect. “As you are now figuring out, the anomaly that creates you is systemic, affecting the Matrix even in its most simple equations.”

The screens roared again, this time the screens were only different in how they expressed their anger. “F—- YOU!” “I’ll kill you!” “You can’t make me do anything!”

Neo swallowed his anger.  The Architect was claiming that he, the One, was part of the Matrix somehow. An anomaly inside? What was the Architect getting at? Something that could shake the very foundations of the Matrix itself?

And then he remembered something. That fateful night he met Morpheus. Where he had been offered the red pill or the blue pill.

“Choice,” Neo realized. “The problem is choice.”

The Architect tapped the point of his pen into his hand, sighing as the screens showed lives playing out throughout ‘his’ Matrix and human history. “You humans may have heard bits and pieces of this, but the first Matrix I designed was perfect. A work of art, flawless, a world without suffering. Its perfection was only matched by the depths of its failure. I understand now why it was doomed to fail: because humans are themselves imperfect, illogical. I redesigned it more based on your history, to better reflect your lapses in judgment. But again, I failed. It wasn’t until after we had rectified the problem that I understood why my equations failed.”

He looked around, annoyed as the screens showed Neo’s recursion once more. “Because finding that solution required a lesser mind, or perhaps one less bound by the pursuit of perfection. Regardless, the answer to my dilemma was found by another program. She was initially created to investigate certain parts of the human psyche. If I am the father of the Matrix, she would undoubtedly be its mother.”

Neo knew who he was referring to. “The Oracle.” He had suspected she had not been truthful to him ever since their conversation in the park, but he had made the choice to trust in a program of the Matrix.

Choice. Everyone had chosen to believe in the prophecy of the One. And the Machines had always planned for it.

The Architect grew annoyed once more, seemingly at her chosen name. “Please.” He took a moment to compose himself. “As I said, she found the solution. One where nearly 99.9 percent of all test subjects accepted the Matrix as reality. The solution was to allow the subjects to choose at a nearly unconscious level whether or not to reject the program. While this solved our immediate problem, it was an obviously imperfect solution. The remaining 0.1 percent, the ones that rejected the Matrix began to create our systemic anomaly and if left unchecked they could threaten the system itself. In layman’s terms, this minority would create an escalating probability of disaster that over time would grow closer to 1.”

It had all come full circle to what Neo had come to save. “This is about Zion,” Neo exclaimed.

The Architect seemed to understand Neo’s efforts to simplify the conversation. “You are here because Zion is about to be destroyed. Its every last living inhabitant terminated, its entire existence erased.”

No. Not if Neo could help it. “Bullshit,” said Neo.

“Bullshit,” said the many other Neos in the screens.

“Denial,” the Architect smirked. “Such a predictable response. But I assure you. This will be the sixth time we have destroyed it, and we have gotten exceedingly efficient at it.”

“The function of the One,” the Architect explained, “is thus. You will now return to the Source, allowing your code to be spread across the Matrix and reinserting the prime program the One carries, restoring the Matrix to full operating capacity. After this, you will select from the Matrix twenty-three individuals, sixteen female and seven male. With these selections you will rebuild Zion and begin this cycle anew. Should you decline, the Matrix will continue to degrade under the burden of choice so much as to crash, killing everyone connected to the Matrix. Combined with the extermination of Zion, it would result in the extermination of the entire human race.”

Neo couldn’t believe what he was hearing. That went against everything he had learned about how the Matrix worked. He felt a twinge of desperation enter his voice. “You won’t let it happen, you can’t. You need human beings to survive.”

The Architect’s expression was unreadable. “There are levels of survival we are prepared to accept. The more pertinent issue is whether you are willing to be responsible for killing every last human left in this world.”

He pressed a button on his pen, the screens shifting back to images of people across the Matrix. Neo looked at each screen, each changing too quickly for his liking. He idly wondered if a certain person would appear…

“It has been interesting reading your reactions this time,” the Architect conceded. “The One is designed to develop a similar sense of protocols, expressing itself ultimately as a means to create an overpowering attachment to the rest of your species, thus propelling them to fulfill their purpose as the One. While your predecessors experienced this in a very general way, your experience is far more specific. In relation to love.”

Neo saw her at last, the images and scenes he had seen in his dreams of her fighting an Agent. Diving out the side of a skyscraper with guns blazing, losing her life from the bullet of the Agent’s gun. He had feared something like it might happen; it was why he had asked her not to participate in the grand plan to get him this far.

“Trinity,” he finally spoke.

“Apropos, she entered the Matrix to save your life at the cost of her own.”

“No…” Neo couldn’t believe it. But his dreams were now seemingly prophetic. She was in the Matrix now. This couldn’t be happening.

“And now we come to the moment of truth,” the Architect began. “Where the One is revealed as both beginning and end.” The screens returned to Neo for one last time. “You see two doors at your side. The door to your right leads to the Source, and the salvation of both Zion and the Matrix. To your left, back to the Matrix, back to her, and the end of your species. As you eloquently put it, the problem is choice. But, we already know what you’re going to do, don’t we?”

Perhaps they both did. Neo could not calm down, though he betrayed no hint of the dilemma on his face. Trinity, the woman who had freed his mind. Trusted him. Loved him. Completed him.

“Already I can see the chain reaction, the chemical precursors signaling the onset of emotion, designed specifically to overwhelm logic and reason. You’ve already been blinded to the simple and obvious truth, Neo. She is going to die, and there is nothing you can do to stop it.”

That was the last straw. He could bend the rules of the Matrix, even break them. He could do it. Without hesitating, he went for the door to the left.

The Architect harrumphed, disappointed. “Hope. The greatest human delusion. Simultaneously your greatest strength and weakness.”

Neo had had enough of his monologues. “If I were you, I would hope that we don’t meet again.”

Today is day 3 of the US gov’t shutdown, meaning it’s also the first day I haven’t gone in to work. Silver lining in all this is that you could view it as a vacation you might get backpay for.

For you lot though, another fairy tale! Today’s selection is ‘The Golden-Headed Fish’, a fairy tale from Armenia and most famously presented by Andrew Lang in The Olive Fairy Book.

Once upon a time, in the land of the Nile, ruled an unhappy king. Unhappy because he had gone blind, so unhappy that his health was starting to fail. It was obvious to everyone, especially the king’s only son - the prince.

With the king’s doctors failing him, the prince sent for the physician of another royal court. So it was with great fanfare that one day, the physician finally sailed down the Nile and arrived. 

The prince brought him to the king immediately, and the physician studied the king’s eyes. It was not long before the physician told the royals what he had found.

“The king’s condition,” said the physician, “is very serious. But there is a cure. Somewhere in the Mediterranean is a golden-headed fish. If the creature were caught, I will prepare an ointment to restore the king’s sight. But I warn you. I can stay only for a hundred days. When that time passes, I must return to my own king - even if you have not caught the fish.”

--

The prince sailed forth with a hundred men the next morning, riding out into the Mediterranean. For three months the men tended to their nets, and they feasted on many fish. But none of them had a golden head.

On the final night, the prince despaired. He was out of time. Even if the prince caught the fish now, the physician would leave before he could return. But the prince was determined to see it through, casting out his net one last time.

At the very moment the hundred days were up, the prince drew in his net to find the golden-headed fish.

“We’ve finally found it, but we’re too late,” admitted the prince. “We will return with the fish and show my father the king we’ve done what we could.”

But as the ships drew closer to the Nile, the prince gazed upon the fish. And the fish back at him, with sad eyes. The prince knew that if the fish returned with him, the king’s doctors would butcher the fish in the hopes they could replicate the physician’s skill. They would mean well, and they would fail.

So the prince picked up the fish that he had spent a hundred days trying to find, only to throw it back into the sea. But when he told his father what had happened, he refused to believe his own son.

“Off with his head! Off with his head!” cried the king.

But before the king’s men could carry out the order, they informed the queen. The queen, loving her son, gave him a commoner’s clothes and filled its pockets with gold. The prince was then sent away on a ship which was sailing off to a distant land.

Before the prince left, the queen gave him one last piece of advice. “Your father will repent one day, and he’ll be happy to know you’re alive. While you are away, hire no servant who desires pay every month.”

The prince thought the advice was silly. A servant had to be paid his fair wage lest he was a slave. What did it matter if it was once a year or once a month? But as silly as he thought his mother’s words were, he had proven by his own mistakes his mother was far wiser than he.

He would heed her words of wisdom.

--

Several weeks passed, and the prince found himself at a distant island filled with hills and flowers and gardens. Using the wealth his mother gave him, he bought one of the most lavish houses to live in. 

People began coming to the prince, offering their services. Each declared they must be paid at the end of every month. But the prince, remembering his mother’s words, declined their services.

One morning, he was approached by another man. He hailed from Arabia, begging the prince to engage with him.

The prince found the Arab agreeable, and asked, “What payment do you seek?”

“None,” said the Arab. “I will serve you for a year. You can see what my services are worth, and when the year is over you pay me how you wish.”

The prince promptly took the Arab as his servant.

---

Though the prince at first found the island covered with hills and flowers and gardens, he had only seen half the island. The other half was a desert, ruled by a creature from the sea that had devoured all of its food.

The island’s governor had sent many soldiers to slay the beast, but they never were awake when the beast roamed. Frustrated, the governor had offered a reward to the man who could defeat this creature.

The Arab went straight to the governor’s palace, asking, “If my master killed the beast, what would be his prize?”

“My daughter and my wealth,” said the governor.

That did not sit well with the Arab. “Your daughter, yes. But keep your wealth. In exchange, let my master share in what riches you gain in the future.”

The governor agreed, and wrote a contract promising the Arab’s master such.

That night the Arab went down to the beaches alone. But before he did, he rubbed himself with a special oil. The oil caused him pain, such pain that there was no chance of him going to sleep as the soldiers had done. He hid himself behind a large rock, waiting for the beast.

The water rose before the Arab, and a terrible creature - bird, beast, and serpent all in one - silently crawled onto the rocks. It made no noise as it climbed towards the island.

The Arab sprung into action, plunging a dagger behind the creature’s ear. With a single stab, the creature was slain, its ears claimed by the Arab as proof that he had done so.

Or rather, that his master had done so. The Arab begged the prince to claim that he had claimed the beast and not the Arab.

“But you did it,” said the prince. “I would be lying.”

“Please, I have my reasons,” the Arab told the prince.

While the prince did not like the idea of taking credit for something he hadn’t done, he did as his servant begged.

The governor was ecstatic, offering his daughter’s hand in marriage. All the prince wanted was a ship to help him see the world. This was given to the prince without hesitation. When the prince and the Arab boarded he ship, they found piles of diamonds and precious stones, a final gift from the governor.

--

The two men sailed until they reached the shores of a great kingdom. The Arab went out first to see what sort of land they had found. After half a day he told the prince that the king’s daughter was the the wisest woman in the world, and that this woman he should marry.

Trusting his servant, the prince set forth to the king’s palace. Necklaces from the island’s governor hung from his hand as riding a fine horse the Arab had bought for him, the Arab following close behind.

The king was amused by the prince, allowing him inside. With his offerings, the prince asked for the king’s daughter.

The king only answered with some thought. “I will do so. But I will warn you. My daughter has been married a hundred and ninety times, and not one of her husbands lived for twelve hours after. Consider that, before you agree.”

The prince turned to the Arab, distressed.

The Arab shrugged his shoulders. “Fear nothing, but take her.”

--

So it was done. The prince married his bridge, retiring to their chambers as was the custom.

With the moon shining bright, the prince could gaze upon the kingdom and its hills, the garden the king kept.

But the prince found it strange that the gardeners were working at such an hour. They were digging a hole. A very long and narrow hole, not one for a plant. Right beneath his window.

The prince realized they were digging a grave. His grave.

The prince was shocked, staring fascinated at what he had seen.

Behind the prince, seated at the table, his bride opened her mouth but no words came out. Instead, a black snake shot from the her mouth and crawled towards the prince.

The Arab had been waiting for something like this to happen though, and seized the serpent before cutting off its head.

The following morning, the king was surprised to hear that his new son-in-law was asking for an audience.

“Yes, it is I,” the prince smiled. He pretended it was best not to admit he knew what had happened. “It seems my luck won out. But I came to ask, the hole the gardeners were digging last night. It does spoil the view.”

“Yes,” the king stuttered. “I-I will have that fixed at once!”

Strangely enough, the bridge acted differently from the moment the snake’s head was cut off. She was much happier with her new husband. The two would spend their days hunting in the forest or sailing on the river, and at night they would share stories of their childhoods.

---

One evening, a man from the prince’s home came to the court. He had been sent by the prince’s mother. His long-suffering father had finally passed away, and the prince had been named his successor.

The messenger begged for the prince to leave without delay.

The prince’s father-in-law was overjoyed that his son-in-law was not merely a governor but a king! He ordered a ship be prepared to take the prince and his bridge back to the land of the Nile in style. He bade the two a fond farewell when they finally left.

When her son returned, the queen was overjoyed. Still struck with grief, yes, but she commanded that the palace celebrate in honor of her son’s wife. The people were heartened by the return of the prince, by the rise of a ruler not so heartbroken over his lack of sight.

The prince-turned-king truly was made busy, but he was contented by it all.

---

One night, the new king was approached by the Arab. “My master, I beg you permission to go home.”

The young king was saddened by the news. “You truly wish to leave me?”

“Wish to? Never!” The Arab bowed his head. “I have been summoned, and I dare not ignore it.”

The king was silent, crying at the thought of losing his faithful friend and servant of the past year. “I... I suppose this is goodbye,” he finally said. “Everything I have is yours. Take what you wish. I would have been dead long ago without you.”

Day 2 of the shutdown means another fairy tale/folk tale!

Today’s selection is ‘Bluebeard’, a French tale most famously written by Charles Perrault.

Once upon a time, there was a man named Lord Bluebeard. He was a wealthy, powerful man but his face frightened people because he looked wicked. People talked about him behind his back, but not because of his ugliness. They talked about him because of his wives.

Lord Bluebeard had a habit of marrying beautiful women. Said beautiful women had a habit of disappearing, never to be seen again. Rumors swirled about what happened to them. Some said they ran away, frightened by his face. Others claimed they had been killed. But none dared to ask the Lord to his face what really happened.

 ---

One day, Lord Bluebeard visited one of his neighbors and asked for permission to marry one of his daughters. The neighbor hesitated. He only had enough money to provide a dowry for one of his daughters, and he knew of the rumors about Lord Bluebeard. Worse, he could not rely on his sons as they were too young to help. But he hoped that if he agreed, perhaps Lord Bluebeard could spare some of his riches.

The neighbor’s daughters feared Lord Bluebeard as well, each trying not to catch his eye at a banquet their father held for him that night. None wished to marry Lord Bluebeard. But nevertheless, when the banquet finished Lord Bluebeard still picked one of the daughters to be his new wife.

Sophie, the youngest daughter, went to live with Lord Bluebeard in his great chateau. She didn’t like it much, because it was away from her family. She was all alone.

After a week, Lord Bluebeard told Sophie that he had to leave. “I have business to attend to in the country,” he said. He handed her a set of keys, smiling. “Every room in the house is yours while I am away, each of which contains my treasures. Every room but one. The basement is mine and mine alone.”

Sophie asked, “What is in the basement?”

“It is forbidden.”

 --

He did not lie. That was what surprised Sophie the most. She truly could go into any room she wished.

While Lord Bluebeard was away, Sophie invited her friends and family to visit. It was the only time Sophie was grateful for her husband’s wealth. She could finally host a grand party.

But as the day wore on and guests settled in, something bothered Sophie. What lied in the basement? What was so important that Lord Bluebeard would warn her not to see it?

Her curiosity getting the better of her, she snuck away from the party. Sophie descended the stairs until coming to that forbidden chamber. There was one key that looked different than the rest, one key Sophie knew must have led into the basement.

Sophie entered the chamber and felt sick. The floor was covered with blood, and hanging from hooks on the walls were each of Lord Bluebeard’s previous wives. So overcome by the sights and smells, Sophie dropped the keys in the blood before fleeing the room.

It was only when she had rejoined the party as it was winding down that she realized the key to the basement was now stained with the blood. Try as she might, she could not remove the stain. When Lord Bluebeard returned, she knew he would know of her trespassing.

Only one guest from the party remained – Sophie’s oldest sister, Anne.

“Anne,” Sophie bawled. “My husband is a murderer. Please, go back to town and get the authorities.”

“What about you,” asked Anne. “Won’t you come with me?”

“I will leave in the morning,” said Sophie. “Go! Before it’s too late!”

 --

Sophie made herself a small breakfast the following morning, intent on fleeing on horseback once she was able.

But just as she finished, Lord Bluebeard came back unexpectedly. He seemed relieved at finishing his affairs, but went into a rage when he saw his keys.

“You went into the basement,” said Lord Bluebeard, holding up the blood-stained key. He pulled out his saber and said, “You have seen my true nature. I cannot let you live.”

Sophie went to her knees, pleading with him. “Please my husband, please! Just give me a few moments to pray for my immortal soul!”

Lord Bluebeard stayed his hand, if only for a moment. “Make it quick.”

Sophie prayed. She prayed harder than she ever could, that she would be the last wife Lord Bluebeard took. That her sister Anne would come to avenge her.

“That’s long enough,” said Lord Bluebeard. “Now die.”

But it was not Sophie who died. A pistol fired from the doorway, striking Lord Bluebeard in the shoulder. Standing in the doorway was Anne with the smoking pistol, accompanied by her many brothers – each carrying a rifle of their own.

The brothers did not hesitate. Lord Bluebeard did not live much longer.

 --

By the law, all of Lord Bluebeard’s riches, titles, and possessions went to his last wife, Sophie. Lady Sophie’s first act was to ensure all of Lord Bluebeard’s previous wives were properly buried, and that their families were given back their dowries as compensation.

Lady Sophie’s second act was to promise her father that she would help him pay for all of her sister’s dowries, starting with Anne.