Author's Note
Should it interest you, you can read the Brothers Grimm tale "The Goose Girl at the Well" online here. It is not necessary to have read the fairy tale to enjoy this short story. That depends mostly on my writing ability.
Should it interest you, you can read the Brothers Grimm tale "The Goose Girl at the Well" online here. It is not necessary to have read the fairy tale to enjoy this short story. That depends mostly on my writing ability.
Salt and Pearls: The Goose Girl at the Well
In the morning she would wake up with red welts on her face and arms and, lifting herself from her pallet, the crystalline forms would spill out of her matted hair, cascading down the sheets in a river of iridescent colors. She would pull them out of the tangles in her hair, each one a different shape and color and yes; many of them were white but this is not always the case with pearls. Beauty is imperfect. Wealth, even more so.
In silken purses, glass bottles, old milk jars, buckets, and wash bins she would collect the pearls from her bed. Often later in the day she would find the hard pieces hiding in the folds of her dress, or still stuck to her skin or hair, even entrapped in the conch of her ears. During the day she kept a burlap sack with her and despite her best efforts not to cry, by nightfall it would be heavy with her pearls. She carried the weight on her back, a familiar pain, but it wasn’t her love that she bore. As they say, you can’t salt a meal with pearls.
She was called the Goose Girl because of the flock who was her charge; she didn’t get a real name in the written account, so apparently she wasn’t all that important. Not in the way I tell it, though. For me, it’s always been about her. But not for the Old Crone. Not for the King and Queen. To them she was nothing more than a tool for their revenge and redemption.
The Goose Girl was ugly. That was the first thing I noticed about her, but you can’t blame me for it; it’d be the first thing anyone would see. But her ugliness had nothing to do with her appearance, not really—she would have been as beautiful as the most delicate flower, as the fairest princess, but misery tainted her appearance like a second skin. It aged her beyond her nineteen years so that she seemed as old as the Crone who kept her.
Wealth can’t bring you happiness. She plunged her hands into a bucket filled with pearls and began to clean her withered hands. The small pearls felt cool and smooth against her tough skin. She grabbed them by the handful and watched them slip through her fingers like sand in an hourglass. After three years of this deep depression she had, with the Old Crone’s help, harvested pearls enough to buy the Kingdom twice. But of course this obscene wealth didn’t take away her misery, just as the weight of salt tied to her back didn’t take away her love. In that way the written account is wrong. It says that in the end she was rewarded with the tears she had cried during her exile, and that the Old Crone turned the cottage into a grand castle and she got married and lived happily ever after. But we didn’t. And she didn’t.
Now that I’ve perfectly ruined the happily-ever-after I guess there’s only one place to go. Once upon a time there was a King and a Queen and they had three lovely daughters. I hardly need to say it, but the youngest was the most beautiful girl in the kingdom, and when the dainty child cried her tears transformed into glistening pearls. Yes, how precious. Anyway, the King was sort of paranoid and not very bright, so he called his daughters to his throne to draft up a will in case he were to die.
I am going to give something of my kingdom to each of you, the King proclaimed. But I want to give the most to the daughter who loves me the most. So prove your love to me.
This family really is something. The oldest daughter said I love my father as dearly as the sweetest sugar. The moron seemed pretty pleased with that. The second daughter said I love my father as dearly as my prettiest dress, and he just ate that up. See what I mean? This Kings got an idea in his head about how his princesses should be, a little collection of porcelain dolls.
Well, one of them was made of pearls.
Goose Girl steps up and says that she can’t possibly compare her love to anything; that she loves her father so much. Touching, but not enough for the King. He needs something material. He weighs his daughters’ love in gold and silver, and demands a price for her love.
The best food does not please me without salt, she said to the King, therefore I love my father like salt.
The King was furious. Obviously has no appreciation for metaphors. If you love me like salt, he yells at her, then your love shall be repaid to you by salt. He tied a bag of salt to her back and banished her to the woods to be devoured by wolves. And into the woods she hobbled, leaving the road slick with pearls and the occasional escaped piece of salt.
The burden she bore brought her pain, but it also made her stronger. The salt wasn’t her punishment, not really, although sometimes at night she sweated with the nightmares and damned herself for being so foolish as to compare her father to salt.
I saw her again, for the second and last time, at night in the woods by the well. I was alone, lost once again, and was perching on the branch of a tree. A certain emerald box containing a single pearl had brought me less luck than was promised, but did lead me to journey with the King and Queen to the Old Crone’s cottage. But that part of the story’s not important. Like I said, it’s always been about her.
The full moon lights the clearing almost as bright as day, and she’s washing herself by the well. They say she took off her second, ugly skin to reveal the beautiful princess underneath, but that’s not quite right. Something got lost in translation. Still, as she cleans herself and rests from her hard day of work, some of the misery washes away, revealing hints of true beauty in the turn of a wrist, the wringing of hair, the gentle sobbing and plops of pearls in the water. Maybe there wasn’t a huge transformation. Maybe it was just for a moment, but the hide of depression falls away and I saw her true beauty underneath.
I reach out. I want to touch the moment, make it last just a bit longer.
There’s a crack like a hunters rifle as the branch gives way under me.
I can imagine her bolting like a deer, fear calling back up the memories of the nights alone in the woods before she found the sanctuary of the cottage. I can imagine her skin of misery plastered to her once again as she runs.
I said that the ending of the story was wrong. After the tearful reuniting of the Goose Girl and her repentant father and distraught mother, the King asks what he could give his daughter to make up for his mistake, but he’s already split his kingdom between her two sisters. The Old Crone doesn’t give Goose Girl the wealth of all the pearls. The Old Crone doesn’t turn her cottage into a castle for us to get married and live happily ever whatever. That’s because I’m not there. I’m lying at the base of the tree with a broken neck, and the Goose Girl doesn’t want the damn pearls. She’s tired of them.
So the Old Crone gave the King and Queen three years worth of their daughter’s tears. This was not treasure. This was not wealth. The magnitude of the pain they had caused Goose Girl hit them, literally, and they were buried alive by the pearls.
I’d like to think that when the Goose Girl first saw me it was love at first sight, but in all probability she doesn’t even remember me. Maybe I was the first person besides the Old Crone she had seen in years, but honestly the cottage isn’t that isolated and I probably wasn’t the first Count wrangled into carrying groceries up the hill. It doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t matter. I think I am just in the story because I can sympathize with the weight Goose Girl had to bear on her back. I was. I could. I taste salt in my mouth. In my hand, the pearl from the Old Crone’s gift. In my heart, an impossible lightness.
In silken purses, glass bottles, old milk jars, buckets, and wash bins she would collect the pearls from her bed. Often later in the day she would find the hard pieces hiding in the folds of her dress, or still stuck to her skin or hair, even entrapped in the conch of her ears. During the day she kept a burlap sack with her and despite her best efforts not to cry, by nightfall it would be heavy with her pearls. She carried the weight on her back, a familiar pain, but it wasn’t her love that she bore. As they say, you can’t salt a meal with pearls.
She was called the Goose Girl because of the flock who was her charge; she didn’t get a real name in the written account, so apparently she wasn’t all that important. Not in the way I tell it, though. For me, it’s always been about her. But not for the Old Crone. Not for the King and Queen. To them she was nothing more than a tool for their revenge and redemption.
The Goose Girl was ugly. That was the first thing I noticed about her, but you can’t blame me for it; it’d be the first thing anyone would see. But her ugliness had nothing to do with her appearance, not really—she would have been as beautiful as the most delicate flower, as the fairest princess, but misery tainted her appearance like a second skin. It aged her beyond her nineteen years so that she seemed as old as the Crone who kept her.
Wealth can’t bring you happiness. She plunged her hands into a bucket filled with pearls and began to clean her withered hands. The small pearls felt cool and smooth against her tough skin. She grabbed them by the handful and watched them slip through her fingers like sand in an hourglass. After three years of this deep depression she had, with the Old Crone’s help, harvested pearls enough to buy the Kingdom twice. But of course this obscene wealth didn’t take away her misery, just as the weight of salt tied to her back didn’t take away her love. In that way the written account is wrong. It says that in the end she was rewarded with the tears she had cried during her exile, and that the Old Crone turned the cottage into a grand castle and she got married and lived happily ever after. But we didn’t. And she didn’t.
Now that I’ve perfectly ruined the happily-ever-after I guess there’s only one place to go. Once upon a time there was a King and a Queen and they had three lovely daughters. I hardly need to say it, but the youngest was the most beautiful girl in the kingdom, and when the dainty child cried her tears transformed into glistening pearls. Yes, how precious. Anyway, the King was sort of paranoid and not very bright, so he called his daughters to his throne to draft up a will in case he were to die.
I am going to give something of my kingdom to each of you, the King proclaimed. But I want to give the most to the daughter who loves me the most. So prove your love to me.
This family really is something. The oldest daughter said I love my father as dearly as the sweetest sugar. The moron seemed pretty pleased with that. The second daughter said I love my father as dearly as my prettiest dress, and he just ate that up. See what I mean? This Kings got an idea in his head about how his princesses should be, a little collection of porcelain dolls.
Well, one of them was made of pearls.
Goose Girl steps up and says that she can’t possibly compare her love to anything; that she loves her father so much. Touching, but not enough for the King. He needs something material. He weighs his daughters’ love in gold and silver, and demands a price for her love.
The best food does not please me without salt, she said to the King, therefore I love my father like salt.
The King was furious. Obviously has no appreciation for metaphors. If you love me like salt, he yells at her, then your love shall be repaid to you by salt. He tied a bag of salt to her back and banished her to the woods to be devoured by wolves. And into the woods she hobbled, leaving the road slick with pearls and the occasional escaped piece of salt.
The burden she bore brought her pain, but it also made her stronger. The salt wasn’t her punishment, not really, although sometimes at night she sweated with the nightmares and damned herself for being so foolish as to compare her father to salt.
I saw her again, for the second and last time, at night in the woods by the well. I was alone, lost once again, and was perching on the branch of a tree. A certain emerald box containing a single pearl had brought me less luck than was promised, but did lead me to journey with the King and Queen to the Old Crone’s cottage. But that part of the story’s not important. Like I said, it’s always been about her.
The full moon lights the clearing almost as bright as day, and she’s washing herself by the well. They say she took off her second, ugly skin to reveal the beautiful princess underneath, but that’s not quite right. Something got lost in translation. Still, as she cleans herself and rests from her hard day of work, some of the misery washes away, revealing hints of true beauty in the turn of a wrist, the wringing of hair, the gentle sobbing and plops of pearls in the water. Maybe there wasn’t a huge transformation. Maybe it was just for a moment, but the hide of depression falls away and I saw her true beauty underneath.
I reach out. I want to touch the moment, make it last just a bit longer.
There’s a crack like a hunters rifle as the branch gives way under me.
I can imagine her bolting like a deer, fear calling back up the memories of the nights alone in the woods before she found the sanctuary of the cottage. I can imagine her skin of misery plastered to her once again as she runs.
I said that the ending of the story was wrong. After the tearful reuniting of the Goose Girl and her repentant father and distraught mother, the King asks what he could give his daughter to make up for his mistake, but he’s already split his kingdom between her two sisters. The Old Crone doesn’t give Goose Girl the wealth of all the pearls. The Old Crone doesn’t turn her cottage into a castle for us to get married and live happily ever whatever. That’s because I’m not there. I’m lying at the base of the tree with a broken neck, and the Goose Girl doesn’t want the damn pearls. She’s tired of them.
So the Old Crone gave the King and Queen three years worth of their daughter’s tears. This was not treasure. This was not wealth. The magnitude of the pain they had caused Goose Girl hit them, literally, and they were buried alive by the pearls.
I’d like to think that when the Goose Girl first saw me it was love at first sight, but in all probability she doesn’t even remember me. Maybe I was the first person besides the Old Crone she had seen in years, but honestly the cottage isn’t that isolated and I probably wasn’t the first Count wrangled into carrying groceries up the hill. It doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t matter. I think I am just in the story because I can sympathize with the weight Goose Girl had to bear on her back. I was. I could. I taste salt in my mouth. In my hand, the pearl from the Old Crone’s gift. In my heart, an impossible lightness.
