Asleep

She staggers and reels; a drunken ballet. “The curse,” her voice trembles, “the curse.” Her voice is the sun in the desert, a sound that sends spiders running from their webs; the flies forced to stick around. She spins and twirls, exhaustion pulling at her from all sides. Collapsing on the bed, she blinks, wrapping up in her threadbare blanket, trying to remember the cure. Giving in to slumber as her mind ponders the similarities in spelling between the two words: “cure” and “curse”.

Thirty years have passed since she pricked her finger on the knife while cutting her cow loose as she went into labor. There was panic, the cow nearly strangling herself, wrenching her neck as she pulled at the rope, the difficulties of childbirth assuaged by the gentle princess.

She didn’t fall into the cursed sleep at once, it grew on her, as any curse does. At first it was a few days of slumber a month and grogginess through the rest. It took almost a year for the sleep to become near-constant. Now she wakes sporadically, the fitful cursed sleep pulling at her. Don’t picture her resting peacefully, head on a pillow, body perfectly still; that’s a fairy tale.

The whole thing began, as everyone in the kingdom knows, at her birth. Something about a party and a misplaced invitation. The wrong person became upset and created consequences. She wore black to the party, no attempt to play coy. “On her sixteenth birthday,” the anger dripped coldly, “she will strike her finger, and death shall prevail. Enjoy while you can, this beautiful daughter, just remember, dear king, what forgetting me bought her.”

“On what,” he asks smiling, the Court Cleric, ready as always, to read the fine print, “a spindle?” He begs her to answer, to give away secrets. Leading the witness, a judge would object.

A nod in return, or perhaps just a tick, and she disappeared, leaving her siblings to continue their rivalry, which, of course, is another story.

An eleventh-hour appeal, the twelfth magical guest, and the curse is diluted, it won’t lead to death. “A hundred years of slumber,” she waves her wand, chants her mantra, sprinkles her dust – whatever it is, her choice of approach, is not that important, the results are always what matters. “Not death, shall befall her, but mere hibernation.”

“And all of the court, the country, perhaps,” the eager King Father, brilliant and sly, wants to join his precious daughter, as can be expected.

“It is how you wish?” her voice a quiver, uncertainty isn’t her strong point, and leaving the country defenseless is bad future planning.

His head moves quickly and repeatedly, “Of course!” He declares, “I cannot have my daughter rise from a hundred-years slumber to find that the world that she loved and that loved her is gone.”

“As you wish, my dear Monarch, I shall have done. For a hundred years, your palace will wait. Halls filled with statues. Thorns shall cover your walls, protection is a must. Your land will cease production, and all those in the palace, shall have a hundred years’ rest” She bows her head, imagining what may befall them.

The next day, with the guests sent home, the king hears a knock while on the Royal Throne . “Hello, My liege, I have brought you wonderful news.”

Wiping quickly, he lets down his robe, fortunate, in these times of urgency there aren’t zippers or trousers to get in the way. “What is it, my man, do tell right away!”

“Your daughter, the princess, I thought of a way to save her, and us, from the endless sleep.”

The king throws open the door to see his favorite Cleric, holding sheet upon sheet of paper. “What have you found?” He demands, “Tell me how we can save us all.”

“The loophole is simple,” he smiles at his slyness, “remove all the spindles, this will save us, your highness.”

“A brilliant plan, set to it at once.” He grabs at the papers, “and what of these?”

“A list, my lord, of all the seamstresses and tailors in the land.”

“We shall start there, remove the spindles at once.”

The two men, so proud of their cunning, send word through the kingdom to abandon and destroy all spindles. Throughout the land run all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, tearing down and burning the spindles the monarch has come to fear.

“How will you have your clothes made or repaired?” One brave seamstress asks, “with all the spindles gone, whatever shall we use?”

` “Not our concern,” was the curt reply, “we’re just following orders.”

With their spindles all gone, the seamstresses and tailors soon closed up shop and fled from the kingdom, looking for work. Neighboring kingdoms, of course, were happy to welcome these artisans to their numbers, as word has spread of the abandonment of spindles and needles in the kingdom nearby.

“Our exports will grow,” the economists thought, “we’ll be back in black in no time!”

And grow they did. In fact, they soared. For the next 15 years, all clothes were bought from neighboring kingdoms. Reliance upon each other became the prerequisite to preventing war. After this, of course, comes the disaster. The entire palace is sealed up in preparation for the 100 years sleep, or “the great wait,” as it has been called.

Some of the population fled, others, enthralled by the idea of waking after 100 years of change, stayed, trying for palatial access on the historic night.

The evening of Rose’s 16th brings a sorrowful party, which she leaves early to attend to her prized cow, who is expecting a calf. All the concern taken on her behalf is very touching, but means nothing once she takes the knife to loose her cow. The prick of her finger is slight; it doesn’t draw blood. It goes unnoticed by her attendants, who will take over once she’s assured of the prized animal’s safety. Rose retires to her room and, within hours, brambles begin to cover the castle walls and everyone in the kingdom has become statuesque.

Years pass, as only time can, and rumors abound. A kingdom filled with treasures, free for the taking. Tales of the princess, asleep and waiting for some brave Prince to free her – or some daring scoundrel with more nefarious intentions. A palace of statues, a kingdom free for the taking.

Many have approached, seeking these treasures, hoping to find truth in all of the tales, for no lie is as good as that which is rooted in truth. All these men and women, honorable or not, are presumed dead, having failed to return.

All the years of unkempt clothing have caught up with the kingdom, leading to a nearly-naked populace. Without royal writ, seamstresses and tailors refused to return, fear of a second eviction. Without them, clothing fell into disrepair. The poor, it is said, wandered the kingdom nude, without garnering extra attention, for most were poor, the most fertile land, owned by the king and his court, became brambles and shrubs, overgrown for 100 years.

The slumber of the court is restful, nearly comatose. The slumber of Rose, of course, has a curse to play out. Her dreams are troubled, her sleep interrupted, brief and sporadic, yet still almost constant. Night terrors and day chills further prevent her from obtaining comfort in dormancy.

The 100 years continue as normal, humanity and nature: technological developments are made, wars are waged, land is gained and lost, thought advances, monarchies are overthrown or replaced, seasons pass, catastrophes occur, everything continues outside the palace.

Near the end of the 100 years, a brave young Prince from a neighboring land, having heard the tales from his childhood, ventures toward the thicket, hiring local citizens to guide him through the lands, to his treasure, whatever it may be.

His guides, poverty stricken, behind in technology, and lacking the wherewithal to have acquired clothing over the past century, guide him, nude, as is now customary, to the castle grounds. One guide enters, ensuring security for His Highness...His High-Paying-Ness. He rushes back shortly, screaming. Brambles have torn at his genitals and he desires to go no further. He sends in another, this one with armor, ventures deeper than the first, until his foot gets stuck and bitten – he forgot about the moat, now a swamp, and the alligators, once few, for protection, have overrun the swamp and refuse him admission. His screams fill the air, drowning the call of the crows, the townspeople flee, no amount of money is worth death, they imagine, leaving the prince to his now-solo quest.

He enters cautiously, for a prince, he imagines, is worth more than the hirelings, and his father, of course, would kill him, if he learns of his doings. His daring deflated, he steps lightly and slowly, not quite a coward, just thinking twice.

As he approaches, carefully choosing his path and his footing, the noises of the world disappear, quieted by the depth of the surrounding growth. He reaches the moat, the Swamp of Protection and hears the growling, pausing to keep track of the eyes. “If everything is frozen,” his mind flashes logically, “why are they about?” “A loophole in the plan,” he starts, “something must be amiss.” Going this far, of course, turning back is beyond thought. Carefully, slowly, hand over hand, he climbs through the growth, taking a vine, he swings into the palace.

As he enters the window, such a sight is beholden, hundreds of men, sooner, if not braver, are frozen. All trapped by the curse, freezing all who would enter. Too late to turn back, letting go feeds the alligators, inward he goes, swinging and screaming, a statue as well.

Now, the final year passes, not much to report, but as the 100 years expires, the court awakens. First Rose, for with her did it start, then her family, their servants and friends in the court. The brambles disappear within the next hours, replaced by fields of crops and beds of flowers.

The court, reawakened, are filled with confusion, over the hundred years, there seems to have been an intrusion. The culprits, all frozen, still serving their penance – for what did she say, that final guest: “...and all those in the palace, shall have a hundred years’ rest.”

The king, faced with a decision, locks them in the dungeon, for breaking and entering. Their sentences passed, all found guilty by unanimous verdict, smash in their heads, let them serve no further purpose.

Then slowly returns the kingdom to normal, growing accustomed to the latest advancements, the newest technology and thoughts. The kingdom itself is dissolved, replaced by a republic. The idea sounds pleasant, at first and, besides, what better time to start over, than when the world is a hundred years’ new?