Tangleweed and Brine by Deirdre Sullivan

Author:Deirdre Sullivan [Deirdre Sullivan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Doing Well

Frogs grow from spawn. Transform into tadpoles. They have spiral guts, and they are soft. Frogspawn must be protected. Do not remove it from the lake or pool. Observe the miracle of nature’s changes. They are your prince’s kin. Respect that link.

In every castle there are hidden rooms.

For hidden women.

This frog of noble birth was once a tadpole. Confined inside dark waters by a foe.

In the chapel, candles have been lit to Fertility, Obedience. Their faces sweet, they stare out from the plaster on the walls. Fertility is wide, her mouth a wound. Obedience is pale with want, with thirst. Too good to ask for what she really wants. Fertility holds a well-shaped sheaf of corn in her fist. There is a baby sucking at her breast. Obedience looks down, her mouth a slit. Thin lips, big ears. There is no need to speak. The candles blaze. The murmured lull of prayer.

Stout body. Protruding eyes. You have heard stories. About what is coming. Cleft tongue. Limbs folded neatly underneath. Skin a pebbled, puckered dirty green upon the back. And on the stomach, pink and smooth as babies. But translucent. You can feel the thrum. Its little heart. When he’s on top of you, you’re told you’ll feel it.

Take my burden.

Give me strength to bear it.

Keep me good.

Please keep me sweet and good.

I would be good.

(Repeat as necessary)

An amphibian can move on land, in water. Can survive inside a mix of both. Certain species exhibit a preference.

You sleep in the chapel the night before the ritual. Anoint your face with seven pungent oils. You put your hands into the holy water. A little gurgle as you pull them out. You are not ready. There are skills you need and do not have. There is no time.

You are to address him by his proper title. Not to meet his eyes till he moves first. He may reach out his sticky tongue to taste your skin. Do not flinch from this. You are his bride.

Your hair is washed and dried.

Water for purity.

Air for clarity.

Your face is smeared with brightly coloured clay.

Earth for fertility.

Your eyebrows singed to darken on your brow.

Fire for protection.

A witch can put her hands upon a man. And change him. It takes a witch to change a princeling back. Cold to warm. To bring about a change. To save a kingdom.

You have been marked from birth for just this purpose. Cloistered with the others. Secret spaces deep within this place where girls are trained. But there are passageways to keep you safe. You’ve only seen a few men in your lifetime. You are hidden. Not their rose to pluck.

They know you’re his. But men can still be tempted. You need to hide to keep your body safe. The body that is his, or will be one day. And you have always known the road ahead. Every year, another babe is chosen. Nobility and peasantry alike. It varies, according to the seers.

His skin is glandular. It may secrete royal mucus upon yours.

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