Marzipan's Tale

Once upon a time there was a castle built on a mountain top. It governed the small village nestled at the foot of the great green mountain and surrounded by a snaking silver river. In the spring of each year, when the cold grey rains of winter stopped and the fragrant winds of spring blew, a caravan of gypsies made its way down the river and settled in the cool green forest of its banks, until the cold winds of autumn chased them away again. The gypsies set up bazaars and street fairs in the village square, selling strange trinkets from exotic places in the far reaches of the world, and performing for the villagers, thus making their humble living.

The king of the gypsies was a terrifying man named Aldebaran. He was big and wide as the great green mountain itself with a voice like thunder. The hair on his head and the beard on his face were thick and black as deepest night. But he was only fearsome in appearance, for his laughter was pure mirth and his broad smile reflected the heart of gold within. He was the kindest and most selfless of rulers, a friend to all who lived in the mountain village.

The ever obscure and oftentimes evil twistings of Fate had thrown three gypsy children under his care at an early time in their lives. Not all areas of the wide world accepted the gypsies as openly as the small mountain village did, and a stranger blinded by prejudice and overtaken by an evil rage made his point known using the two young parents of these three children. But a better foster parent no gypsy could have hoped for; they were given an abundance of love and care, and learned all they needed at the great foot of King Aldebaran.

Marzipan was the eldest, and quite a little mother did she become, looking out for her younger siblings Hero and Phoebe. She learned to cook and bake, and sold her unique treats in the village.

Hero was the second-eldest, and a brave and mighty hunter was he, as his father was before him. It was his singular skill that gave the caravan their winter stock of food.

And Phoebe was the youngest. She was the joy of the caravan, with a smile always abloom on her face, and a song on her tongue. It was easy to see that she was to become a talented dancer and performer among the gypsies.

Marzipan and Hero were both old enough to remember the death of their parents, and carried the black memory of it in their hearts always. While Marzipan was able to not allow it to overtake her heart and therefore taint her goodness, for indeed, her goodness shone more brightly because of her secret sorrow, Hero was not as inclined to let his anger go. Marzipan tried to talk to him and to turn his heart: “Our parents were killed by angry and prejudiced people. It would be an even darker evil to put more anger and hatred into the world because of it.” But despite her attempts, Hero would not hear her. He felt odd and lost in the caravan, and so, to the deeper sorrow of his sister, he went away to deal with his pain in his own way. He traveled far and wide, he fought in wars, he hunted rare creatures and killed all manner of monsters, all the while trying to dispel his loneliness and anger, searching for something that he felt he needed, for a place where he might belong, but did not know what or where it was.

* * *

Now, it was said by many folk that Marzipan was the most beautiful of gypsy girls to be seen in a thousand years. Her skin was the smoothest shade of cinnamon, her almond eyes of honey, and her mass of curls the purest ebony. But it was her easy and unassuming kindness toward others that was her true beauty, for no matter anyone’s outward appearance, the goodness within shines through. There were some girls who envied Marzipan her beauty, but such beauty can be a curse at times.

It happened one day that a tall, dark stranger approached Marzipan. She was dancing in the village square with Phoebe, as she did some afternoons. The sun was shining that day, and the gold thread that embroidered her deep red costume caught its light and made her positively dazzling. As though cast under a spell, the stranger stepped from the crowd when she finished and approached her to speak with her. He was new to the village and wanted to know the name of such a lovely young woman. She was flattered, naturally, but was not aware of the danger, for this man was a spy, working for a powerful and evil Rajah in a far off kingdom, looking for a new wife to add to his collection in his harem. Marzipan’s beauty had particularly caught the spy’s eye, and like a snake he coiled his way around the unknowing young gypsy until one night he stole her away from the caravan, tied her up, and fled with her on a magic carpet, his curved scimitar held tight to her throat, to the far off harem.

The alarm went out the next morning when Marzipan was discovered missing, and all in the mountain kingdom, the King of the Mountain himself, his court, the villagers and the gypsies sent out search parties to the far reaches of the world, looking for Marzipan. But long before anyone had discovered her missing, little Pipsessewa, the small canary bird Aldebaran had given to Phoebe as a birthday gift years ago, slipped from his cage and flew away with a different idea as to how to save Marzipan.

While all the other wives of the harem, upon capture, had bowed to despair and submission, Marzipan put up a fight. She would not allow the maids to dress her for her presentation to the Rajah, indeed she would not allow anyone near her. Marzipan had no trouble keeping them away from her, for they had no idea how to deal with such a violent young woman. They decided to have the Rajah himself come in to see her as she was, for he was greatly intrigued by what he heard of his feisty new bride. That night, into the room where Marzipan was held came the Rajah, a short and portly man with skin darker than hers, a nose hooked over his drooping red lips with a diamond pierced on one side like a sparkling mole, and precious stones encrusted all over him: on his fingers, in his ears, upon every inch of his clothing. He came very close to Marzipan, who was pressed against the marble wall, reaching his stubbly little hand to touch her smooth face – but before he could touch her, an arrow shot right through his head, and he toppled over. Dead.

Marzipan looked to the high window from where the arrow had been shot and found Hero crouching in it, Pipsessewa perched on his shoulder. He grabbed the drape cord nearby, climbed to the ground, and ran to his sister, holding her tightly to him as if he had found a treasure that had long been lost. He had been searching long years for something, for a place where he belonged, and just now discovered that he had always had it, in the bond of family that was created between him, his sisters, and Aldebaran.

The two rode the spy’s magic carpet back to the mountain village where celebrations erupted at the sight of Marzipan’s and Hero’s return home. And from that day, Hero devoted himself to his family and never left their sight again.