I’m afraid of heights, and nobody knew. They took me in, when I came to the door, scared and cold and hungry as the pack of wolves which had been following me since noon. A little figure carved of ice, I must have looked, but they took me in and let me sit by the fire.
A bed was more than I expected, a feather bed at that. I would have been pleased with a shelf in the kitchen, as close to the oven as I could get. Instead they led me up, all the way up, the spiraling stairs of the tower. The stone was as cold as I and did not welcome me. They shut me in a room, with a single candle and a bed. Oh, but what a bed!
One and twenty mattresses. I counted them twice, Peter had taught me how, practicing with stones or my fingers and toes. A tower of a bed in a tower of stone. There was a ladder, like the one to get to the loft in the barn, only this one was thin and spindly, not sturdy and well worn by countless boots.
The bed sagged, it reminded me of the old woman who sells us eggs, corners rounded and soft in the middle. I reached out carefully to touch the first, the lowest of them, nearly flat beneath the weight of twenty others. For just a moment I considered sleeping on the floor, but that would be rude, so I reached for the ladder and shut my eyes tight. I began to climb, one, two, three, four rungs. Hand over hand, heel before toe, five, six, and then I slipped. The floor was hard as stone tends to be and by the light of the candle I counted the bruises.
I did not sleep that night. Perched high on one and twenty mattresses. I was too afraid, too afraid that if I rolled a little to this side or that I’d find myself back on the floor, with broken bones to join my bruises. In the morning I couldn’t even bring myself to look over the edge.
There was a knock, they were calling me, I barely know how I got back down that ladder except maybe the idea of solid ground beneath my feet was more appealing than breakfast.
They led me down, down the tower. Up in the evening, down in the morning, wasn’t that the opposite of what was meant to be? I found myself standing before a fine woman, in velvet and fur and a young man with straw coloured hair. I wiped my hands on my apron. What a sight I must look, dark wells beneath red eyes and bruised black and blue. The woman asked how I slept, I considered lying, to be polite of course, but I gave myself away, I hadn’t slept a wink. The lady beamed at me and pulled three dried peas from her pocket. The straw-haired man had a smile like a wolf.
I’m afraid of heights, and nobody knew.
June 9, 2009
33 responses to I’m afraid of heights
That’s really very creative. I slept in a loft once away from home and I was very afraid of slipping and falling down 9 feet in the night! There was a ladder, too… so maybe I identify with this story well.
Thank you, I am personally not afraid of heights but ladders.
Oh!how lovely
i read this to my little sister Bella and she loved it
and 4 year olds are hard to please >.>
This makes me so happy, children are the best critics, thank you <3
I love this!
I can never sleep on the top bunk because I have a history of almost falling off. I’ve never actually fallen before, but I won’t take chances now.
Thank you. I always liked the top bunk because I could touch the ceiling.
This is very lovely! You’ve got quite a talent for telling Fairy tales.
I was always the on who slept on the top bunk!
Thank you!
Why thank you for the lovely story. Do you believe it to be a fear of heights or a fear of falling? Both which incapacitate the mind, yet each so different from another.
I believe most people to fear the pain of falling, or possibly the ensuing chaos and lack of control.
Either way, falling is terribly dreadful. Be it physically, emotionally or spiritually. Yet, falling can bring such grace with practice.
I think they both exist and are different. I don’t think the real Princess who wasn’t a real Princess would have known that though.
Clever, I enjoyed it :)
Thank you <3
I love this twist on the story. It’s actually fairly funny, but the dark overtones still make it beautiful.
Thank you, I wanted it to be rather dark, a Prince who liked his wife bruised and tired seemed a bit sinister to me.
awh, he doesn’t like his wife tired and bruised!
He liked her delicate, and you must know that they tested her that way! a dried pea under the bed, to se if she was a true princess. It finally makes sense to me, thanks to you.
I think thats one of the best things about fairy tales, you interpret them in many different ways.
Ooooooh I see what you did there ;P
In more ways than one…
Thank you Claire-bear.
Nice, that’s really a different point of view.
Your storytelling is lovely and quite catchy…
And, by the way, the picture is stunning (do you know who painted it?). That’s another talent I think you’ve got: always choosing the right pictures for your posts. ^^
The illustration is by Edmund Dulac, he’s amazing.
That’s wonderful!
I love it when familiar fairy tales are given a different spin, and the writing style is so engrossing.
Thank you so much.
I love this! It’s always interesting to crack the happily-ever-after veneer of many fairytales and peek into a more realistic approach. If you can find it, I recommend Angela Carter’s short story “The Werewolf” which is a similar retelling of Little Red Riding Hood. (If you can’t find it, it’s short enough that I can type it up and email it to you. ^_^)
Most fairy tales had a lot of dark elements to begin with and have been gradually stripped of them in the last two centuries.
I have read some of Angela Carter’s stories, they’re very good.
I love this. Skye, you write very well, this is fascinating.
Thank you Natane.
Great!!!! This is my favorite fairy tale. And your version is very creative. You really do write very well, Princess Skye
I’m glad I chose one you like.
Oh, and the illustration is adorable!
I think so too, it’s by Edmund Dulac.
This is lovely. Are you interested at all in publishing your own fairytales? :)
I would love to some day <3
This should definitely be published.