Fiction | Fairy Tales

Dust and Cobwebs

A tale of a sleeping beauty

Image by günter from Pixabay

I don’t know why I touched it. I see it again: my hand reaching out toward the glistening point, my brain screaming at me to stop! Stop! But I couldn’t stop. It was as if it were someone else’s hand, yet I felt the prick when my fingers met the spindle. A sharp pain, then the world closed in around me, and I lost all control and feeling.

And again I am in that tiny tower room, reaching out toward the spinning wheel, helpless to halt my forward motion. Again, I tell myself to stop! But, I can do nothing but watch as my fingers press against that fine point and I fall into darkness. Again.

Again and again. How many times have I relived that moment? How many more to come? I think of counting, but where to begin? I think of escape, but how?

I face the wheel, spinning before my spent gaze. I try to close my eyes, but I cannot even do that. Have I tried that before? I can’t remember. My hand reaches out again. The world trembles, as if a giant walked by just outside the door. I pause, and stare at my hand frozen in place, stretched out before me. Has this ever happened before? I’m pretty sure it hasn’t.

A ghostly sensation brushes over my face, and the world trembles again, this time as if it is an image in a pool and the wind has just swept by. I still cannot move, but at least I’m not touching that infernal spindle. My lips tingle and I close my eyes —my eyes haven’t closed in so long! Immediately, I reopen them, and everything has changed.

Filling my field of vision is a strong, square-jawed face. Blue eyes watch me with intense scrutiny. I blink, and he smiles, withdrawing to give me space. It takes me a moment to realize that I am no longer standing in the tower room; instead, I am flat upon my back on a large canopied bed in a room that has seen better days. It could almost be my room in my parents’ castle, left alone for years on end without the touch of a human hand. Cobwebs hang like curtains from the ceiling, and dust lies in thick blankets upon every surface, only disturbed by the footprints leading from the arched doors to my bedside.

I raise my eyes to the young man who stands patiently next to me. His clothes, though travel-strained, are too rich to belong to anyone but a nobleman or a prince.

“Hello, there.” His voice is melodious. “My name is Philip.”

I try to speak, but choke on the dryness in my throat. He hands me a canteen that sloshes wonderfully, and I bring it to my lips. The water is like sweetest wine, washing away the drought within me. I have to force myself to slow down, lest I drown.

“Better?” he asks, taking the canteen back and recorking it.

I nod, and he steps forward and takes my hand. “My lady, may I escort you from this place?”

With only a second’s hesitation, I place my hand in his, and push back the heavy covers. Why am I fully dressed? This is the gown I wore when I touched the spindle! I slowly swing my legs over the edge of the mattress, my thoughts in a jumble. Was it real? Is this the dream?

I follow Philip across the room, my eyes darting about. Is this my room? Those shelves stand where my bookshelves were, but the layers of dust make it impossible to see the titles on the spines. That vanity could be mine, but the cobwebs draped over the mirror give it an eerie air; the reflective surface so obscured it shows only vague motion as we pass.

We reach the hall before I can ponder further, and now I am sure that this is my home… or a twisted nightmare version of it. How long have I been trapped in my own bed, reliving one moment over and over? I touch my face, wishing for a clean mirror; my skin feels smooth and unlined. I haven’t aged, but everything around me has.

“Philip,” I whisper, and my long-unused voice cracks.

He turns to smile at me. “Yes, my lady?”

I swallow, trying to force my racing heart to slow, and I clench my free hand in my skirts to hide its shaking. “How long have I been… asleep?”

His smile fades, and a deep sadness fills his clear blue eyes. Quite suddenly, I don’t want to know. I would rather go back to my room, lie down in my bed, and return to that state of dreaming. That mind-numbing repetition that gradually made me forget everything else. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “You were cursed by an evil sorceress, and the spell lasted for one hundred years.”

I cannot breathe. One hundred years? “My parents?”

He looks at the floor as if he cannot quite bring himself to meet my eyes. “I’ve only heard stories, you understand. They say your parents sat by your side, refusing to leave you. They took their meals and ran the kingdom from your bedroom. They never left your side as long as they lived.”

Lived. As long as they lived. I pull my hand from his to clutch my middle, trying in vain to hold myself together. I hear him speaking through the roaring in my ears, but I can no longer make out the words. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.

My parents and I were never close. My father was busy running the kingdom, and my mother had balls and gatherings to attend. They were kind to me, and I’m certain they loved me in their way, and I was happy most of the time. All I needed was books to entertain me. And they did try to protect me — they outlawed spinning wheels. It didn’t do any good, but that wasn’t their fault. And then they sat beside me while I slept. Until they died.

They died.

I focus on a vase on a small table. The darkness at the edges of my vision echoes that day in the tiny tower room when I found out why spinning wheels were banned. I know this shadow. I reach out and embrace the emptiness as a well-known friend.

It fails me. This time, I see my parents holding vigil over me until their skin falls into wrinkles, then slips from their bones; and their bones fall into dust, joining the thick blanket that covers everything. The only remnant from my earlier dreams is the inability to act. I watch my parents die because of me, and I cannot do a thing to stop it.

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