Forsyth Bitter Greens

Gives a voice to the women behind the beloved fairytale Rapunzel
1. Auflage 2013
ISBN: 978-0-7490-1367-7
Verlag: Allison & Busby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 528 Seiten

THREE WOMEN BOUND TOGETHER BY THE STRANDS OF FATE Charlotte-Rose de la Force, exiled from the court of the Sun King Louis XIV, has always been a great teller of tales. Selena Leonelli, once the exquisite muse of the great Venetian artist Titian, is terrified by the passing of time. Margherita, sold by her parents for a handful of bitter greens, is trapped in a doorless tower and burdened by tangles of her red-gold hair. She must find a way to escape. Bitter Greens is a dark, beautifully written retelling of Rapunzel, interwoven with the story of one of the tale's first tellers.

Kate Forsyth is an award-winning author of over twenty books, ranging from picture books to poetry to novels for both children and adults. Forsyth has a doctorate of Creative Arts in fairy tale studies and is an accredited master storyteller with the Australian Guild of Storytellers.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Forsyth, Kate

Leseproben

CANTATA

All my childhood I heard about love

but I thought only witches could grow it

in gardens behind walls too high to climb.

‘The Prince’

Gwen Strauss

A SPRIG OF PARSLEY

The Rock of Manerba, Lake Garda, Italy – May 1599

These three things were true:

Her name was Margherita.

Her parents had loved her.

One day, she would escape.

At the worst times, when the walls of the tower seemed to press upon her ribcage, Margherita would repeat these three things over and over again, like sorrowful mysteries muttered over a rosary.

She had been locked away in this one small stone room at the age of twelve. Fifty-one full moons had passed since then, shown by the scars on her wrists. If she did not escape soon, surely she would die.

Venice, Italy – April 1590

Margherita first met the sorceress on the day she turned seven.

Ordinarily, on the way home from market, Margherita would have been skipping along, singing at the top of her voice, or walking precariously along the narrow edge of the canal, arms spread wide. Today, though, she walked slowly, her tongue curled sideways and set in the gap where her front teeth used to be – a sign of intense concentration. Margherita was carrying a small, warm, precious cake in her hands. It smelt fragrantly of cinnamon and sugar. She lifted it to her nose, then quickly licked the edge of the cake. The taste was an explosion of sweetness and richness in her mouth.

It was hard not to cram the whole cake into her mouth, but Margherita’s mother had trusted her with its purchase and safe return. Last year, Margherita’s birthday had been in the middle of Lent, and she had not been allowed to eat any meat, or milk, or eggs, or anything delicious at all. This year, her birthday fell on the day after Easter Sunday, so her mother, Pascalina, had decided to hold a special feast for her birthday. Margherita resisted temptation, revelling in the warmth between her hands and the fragrance in her nostrils.

The canal beside her was murky green, its undulating skin glinting like scales of silver, reflecting ripples of light all over the stone walls on either side. Far above the flapping lines of washing, the narrow slice of sky was misty blue.

As Margherita turned into the narrow that led to her father’s studio and shop, a woman stepped out of a shadowy doorway in front of her. She seemed to shine in the gloom like a candle. Her dress and cape were of cloth of gold, worn over a sheer chemise with a high ruffled collar that framed her face like a saint’s halo. She was tall, taller than Margherita’s father, taller than any woman Margherita had ever seen before.

‘Good morning, Margherita,’ the woman said, smiling down at her. ‘Happy birthday.’

Margherita stared up at her in surprise. She was sure she had never seen this woman before. It was not a face that would be easily forgotten. The woman had skin as smooth and pale as cream, and her hair was almost as red as Margherita’s. She wore it hanging loose like a maiden’s, though so artfully curled and coiled and plaited it must have taken an hour to create. On the back of her head was a small cap of golden satin, sewn with jewels and edged with gilt ribbon. Her eyes were exactly the same colour as her hair. Margherita thought. Lions were everywhere in Venice, standing proud on pillars, carved in bas-relief around doors, or painted on the walls of churches. Lions with hungry golden eyes, just like this woman who knew Margherita’s name.

‘I have a present for you,’ the woman said. As she bent towards Margherita, her heavy perfume overwhelmed the fragrance of the little cake. It seemed to smell of hot exotic lands. Margherita took a step away, suddenly afraid, but the woman only smiled and slipped something about Margherita’s neck. She saw a flash of gold, then felt an unfamiliar weight on her chest. She squinted downwards and saw that a golden pendant was now lying upon the rough brown fabric of her dress.

‘But … who are you? How d’you know my name?’

The woman smiled. ‘Why, I’m your godmother, Margherita. Has your mother not told you about me?’

Margherita shook her head. The woman touched her nose affectionately. ‘Well, we shall soon be getting to know each other much better. Give your mother my regards, and tell her to remember her promise.’

‘,’ Margherita answered, though it came out sounding like ‘’ because of the gap where she had lost her two front teeth.

‘Run along home now. I will see you again very soon,’ the woman said.

Margherita obeyed, breaking into a run in her eagerness to get home and show her mother her present. She looked back over her shoulder as she went and saw a huge man in a dark robe step out of the shadowy doorway. He held out his arm to the mysterious woman in cloth of gold, and she laid her own hand on it, accepting his help to negotiate her way over the uneven cobblestones, her other hand lifting her wide skirts so that Margherita had a quick glimpse of the extremely high she wore.

For a moment, the man and woman were silhouetted against the light at the end of the alley. The man was dark and massive, head and shoulders taller than the woman. she thought with a painful jerk of her heart, and her steps quickened. The next moment, she tripped and fell. The cake flew from her hands and smashed on the cobblestones. Margherita began to cry. She bent to pick up the pieces of cake, trying to squash them back together again. She cast a look of appeal back towards the end of the , but the woman and the giant were gone. There was only the dazzle of the sun on the canal, and the high walls of stone, punctuated by doorways and window frames and shutters. Margherita was alone.

She stumbled home, all her happiness in her birthday cake gone.

Her father was a mask-maker, and the downstairs room of their home was his shop and studio. The shutters stood open, giving a glimpse into a cave of glittering treasures. Masks hung from hooks all about the window and covered every wall – plain white masks with inscrutable eye slits and veils, harlequin masks in gold and red, weeping masks and laughing masks, masks fringed with peacock feathers, masks edged with precious jewels, masks framed with golden rays like a rising sun, and white masks with sinister beaks like a sacred ibis, worn during times of plague.

Margherita’s father sat on his wooden stool, a papier-mâché mask held in one hand, the other holding a fine-pointed brush. He was painting delicate golden swirls and curlicues all over the mask, his touch deft and sure. He turned as Margherita came limping in, laying down the mask and brush so he could open his arms to her. ‘What is it, ? What on earth is the matter?’

‘I broke my cake,’ she sobbed, as he lifted her onto his lap. ‘I was being careful, I truly was, but then I tripped …’

‘Ah, well, never mind. Accidents happen. Look, it’s broken into three pieces. One for your papa, one for your mama and one for you. We would have cut the cake so anyway. All you’ve done is leave a few crumbs for the poor hungry mice and birds.’

Margherita’s father was a handsome man, with heavy dark eyebrows, a large noble nose and a neat dark beard. When he laughed, his teeth flashed white against his brown skin. Margherita loved it when he lifted her high and threw her over his shoulder. While she squirmed and shrieked with delight, he’d rotate about, pretending to be puzzled, saying, ‘Where has Margherita gone? Has anyone seen my ? She was here just a moment ago.’

‘I’m here, Papa,’ Margherita would shriek, kicking her legs against his chest and banging his back with her fists.

‘I can hear a mosquito buzzing in my ear, but not my .’ Her papa called her because he said she chattered away all day, just like a magpie. He had all sorts of funny names for her: , my little flower; , which meant honeysuckle; and , my sweet little mouse. Margherita’s mother only called her , my little one, or , my darling daisy.

Papa picked up his painting rag from the bench and found a clean corner so he could wipe away Margherita’s tears. It was then he saw the golden pendant about her neck. He stiffened. ‘Where did you get that?’

Margherita touched it. ‘Oh, I’d forgotten. A lady gave it to me. For my birthday.’

Margherita’s father dropped her on the floor and twisted her about so he could stare at the pendant. ‘Pascalina,’ he shouted.

Margherita was frightened. Her father hardly ever called her mother by her real name but by nicknames such as and

Pascalina came running, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

Her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world, Margherita had always thought. Her hair was the colour of new bronze, her eyes were periwinkle blue, her skin was fair and softly freckled, and her figure was soft and plump and comfortable. Pascalina sang all the time: as she rolled out dough, as she swept the floor, as she washed the dirty clothes in the tub, and as she tucked Margherita up in bed at night.

, she would sing.