Girl, Serpent, Thorn
Melissa Bashardoust
TO ANYONE WHO HAS EVER FELT POISONOUS OR MONSTROUS OR BRISTLING WITH THORNS
I am both the Sleeping Beauty and the enchanted castle; the princess drowses in the castle of her flesh.
—ANGELA CARTER, VAMPIRELLA
PROLOGUE
Stories always begin the same way: There was and there was not. There is possibility in those words, the chance for hope or despair. When the daughter sits at her mother’s feet and asks her for the story—always the same story—her favorite part is hearing those words, because it means anything is possible. There was and there was not. She is and she is not.
Her mother always tells the story the exact same way, with the exact same words, as if they were carefully rehearsed.
* * *
There was and there was not a girl of thirteen who lived in a city to the south of Mount Arzur. Everyone there knew never to go wandering too close to the mountain, because it was the home of divs—the demonic servants of the Destroyer whose only purpose was to bring destruction and chaos to the Creator’s world. Most people even avoided the sparse forestland that spread out from the southern face of the mountain. But sometimes children who thought they were adults would go wandering there during the day—only during the day—and come back to boast of it.
One day, the girl wanted to prove her bravery, and so she went into the forestland. She planned to go just far enough to break off a sprig of one of the cedar trees that grew there, to bring back as proof. What she found instead was a young woman, trapped and tangled in a net on the ground, begging for help. It was a div trap, she told the girl, and if the div returned, he would take her prisoner.
The girl took pity on the young woman and quickly found a sharp rock to saw through the ropes of the net. When the woman was free, she thanked the girl, then ran off. The girl should have done the same, but she hesitated too long, and soon a heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder.
The girl looked up at the div that was looming over her, too terrified by his monstrous form to run or even scream for help. She thought her heart would stop from fear and save the div the trouble of killing her himself.
The div took one look at the empty net, the pieces of rope, and the rock in the girl’s hand, and knew what had happened. “You stole something of mine,” he said to the girl in a low growl. “And so now I will steal something of yours.”
The girl thought he would take her life, but instead, the div cursed her firstborn daughter, making her poisonous, so that anyone who touched her would die.
* * *
At this point, the daughter always interrupts her mother, asking—why the firstborn daughter? She doesn’t need to mention that she is thinking of her twin brother with envy and perhaps a little resentment. It already shows on her face.
To which the mother always replies that the ways of divs are mysterious and unjust, unknown to anyone but themselves.
* * *
The div let the girl go after that, and she ran straight home, unwilling or unable to tell anyone of her encounter. She wanted to forget about the div’s curse, to pretend it never happened. And it would be several years yet before she would have any children to worry about. In time, she did manage to forget the div’s curse—mostly.
Years passed, and when the girl was older, she was chosen by the shah of Atashar to be his bride and queen. She did not tell him about the div’s curse. She barely thought of it herself.
It was only when her children—twins; a boy and a girl—were born that she remembered that day in the forest. But by then, of course, it was too late, and three days after the birth, she discovered that the div had spoken true. On the morning of that third day, the wet nurse bent to pick up the daughter to feed her—but as soon as their skin touched, the nurse fell to the ground, dead.
* * *
And that is why her mother always agrees to tell her daughter this story, over and over again. She doesn’t want her daughter to forget how important it is to be careful always to wear her gloves, to make sure never to touch anyone. She doesn’t want her daughter to be reckless, as she once was, when she was only thirteen and wandered too far into the forestland.
At this point, the daughter always looks down at her gloved hands and tries to remember her nurse, who died because of her. There was and there was not, she reminds herself. It’s just a story.
The daughter wants to crawl onto her mother’s lap and lay her head against her mother’s chest, but she doesn’t. She never does.
It’s not just a story.
1
From the roof of Golvahar, Soraya could almost believe that she existed.
The roof was a dangerous place, a painful luxury. Standing at the edge, she could see the garden spread out in front of the palace, lush and beautiful as always. But beyond that, beyond the gates of Golvahar, was the rest of the world, far larger than she could ever imagine. A city full of people encircled the palace. A road led south, down to the central desert, to other provinces and other cities, on and on, to the very edge of Atashar. Beyond that were more kingdoms, more land, more people.
From the other end of the roof, she could see the dry forestland and the dreaded Mount Arzur to the northeast. From every corner, there was always more and more, mountains and deserts and seas, hills and valleys and settlements, stretching on without end. It should have made Soraya feel small or inconsequential— and sometimes it did, and she would have to retreat with teeth gritted or fists clenched. More often, though, standing alone under the open sky made her feel unbound and unburdened. From this height, everyone seemed small, not just her.