The Sleeping Castle

The queen sat by the bath, watching steam curl up from the water. She had everything a person could want, except the one thing she wanted most. A small brown frog hopped onto the rim and blinked at her.

“Your wish will come true,” said the frog. “Before a year is out, you will hold a daughter.”

The queen did not laugh. She did not call for a servant to sweep the frog away. She just nodded, very slowly, and the frog slipped back into the water.

And it was true. In the spring, a princess was born. The kingdom lit lamps in every window. Bells rang until the sky went dark. The king danced with the cook, and the cook danced with the stable boy, and nobody minded at all.

“She has her mother’s hands,” said the king, holding one tiny finger.

“And her father’s appetite,” said the queen, laughing.

The baby yawned. The kingdom celebrated for three days. On the fourth day, they started planning the christening, because a princess deserves a proper welcome into the world.

***

On the morning of the christening, twelve wise women arrived at the castle. Each wore a grey cloak and carried a small wooden box. Each box held a gift for the baby: courage, kindness, a good laugh, quick feet, a love of stories, and seven more wonderful things.

The king had set twelve golden plates at the long table. He counted them twice. He counted them three times.

“There are only twelve,” whispered the queen.

“There are only twelve,” said the king.

A knock came at the door. The thirteenth wise woman stood there, her cloak the colour of old ash. She had not been invited. She had not been given a plate. She looked at the table, and her mouth went thin.

“You forgot me,” she said. “So I will not forget your daughter.”

The room went quiet. The baby slept on in her cradle, small and warm and unaware.

“When she turns fifteen,” said the thirteenth wise woman, “she will prick her finger on a spindle, and she will die.”

Then she turned and walked out, and the door closed behind her with a sound like a lid.

The twelfth wise woman stepped forward from the circle of grey cloaks. Her voice was quiet, but the whole hall leaned in to hear it. “The princess will not die,” she said, “but she will sleep, and the whole castle with her, for a hundred years. Then a king’s son will come, and she will wake.” The king thanked her with tears in his eyes. He ordered every spindle in the land to be burned that same day. Servants carried them out in armfuls and threw them on a great fire. The smoke smelled of scorched wood and oil. “No spindle will ever touch her,” the king told the queen. “No tower door will be left unlocked.” The queen nodded, but she kept her hand on the cradle. The baby slept on, small and warm and unaware.

Years passed. The princess grew tall and quick. She learned to ride, and to read, and to laugh at the cook’s jokes. The castle was her whole world, and she knew every room. But she did not know about the tower. It stood at the end of a long hall, and its door was always locked. “What is in there?” she asked her mother. “Nothing you need,” said the queen. “Why is the door locked?” “Because we love you,” said the queen, and changed the subject. The princess did not ask again. She only watched the door, and wondered.

***

On the morning of her fifteenth birthday, the princess woke early. The castle was still quiet. She walked the halls with her shoes in her hand, so no one would hear her. At the end of the long hall, the tower door stood open. She had never seen it open before. She stood there a moment, her heart going fast. “Hello?” she called up the stairs. No one answered. She climbed anyway.

The stairs turned and turned, and at the top was a small room. An old woman sat at a wooden table, turning a wheel with her foot. A thin white thread grew under her fingers. “What is that?” asked the princess. The old woman smiled. “A spindle, dear. It spins wool into thread. Would you like to try?” The princess reached out. She had never seen anything so clever. Her finger touched the point, and it pricked her. A drop of blood stood on her skin. The old woman was gone. The princess felt heavy, like a coat full of stones. She lay down on the bed in the corner, and her eyes closed. In the kitchen, the cook stopped mid-stir. In the stable, the horses stood still in their stalls. A fly stopped in the air. The whole castle slept. Outside, a hedge of thorns grew up, and it grew and grew, until the castle was gone from the map.

The castle slept. In the kitchen, the cook’s spoon hung in the air, dripping a single drop of soup that never fell. In the stable, the horses stood like carved wood, their tails mid-swish. The king and queen slept on their thrones. The guards slept at their posts. Even the fire in the hearth stopped dancing and went still as a red flower.

Outside, the hedge of thorns grew. It pushed up from the ground, thick and green, with sharp points like little swords. It climbed the walls and wove over the roof. It grew so tall and so tight that no one could see the castle anymore. The hedge was quiet, but it was alive. It waited.

Years passed. The story of the sleeping princess spread through the villages. Young men came with swords and axes. They tried to cut through the thorns. The hedge scratched them and tangled them and turned them back. Some said the castle was gone. Some said it was a dream. But the hedge stayed, and it waited.

One day, a young prince rode by. He had heard the story from an old woman at a well. “A princess sleeps behind that hedge,” she said. “She has slept for a hundred years. The right one will come, and the hedge will open.”

The prince looked at the wall of thorns. He did not have a sword. He had only his two hands and a quiet heart. He walked up to the hedge. He put out his hand. The thorns moved. They bent away from him, like a curtain pulled back. A path opened, and he walked through. The hedge closed behind him, but he was not afraid.

***

Inside the castle, everything was still. Dust lay on the tables. Cobwebs hung like grey curtains. The prince walked through the great hall. He saw the king and queen asleep on their thrones. He saw the cook asleep with her spoon. He saw the horses asleep in their stalls. He did not wake them. He walked on.

He climbed the tower stairs. They turned and turned. At the top, he found a small room. A girl lay on the bed. Her hair was yellow as wheat. Her hands were folded. She looked like she was dreaming something good.

The prince stood by the bed. He did not know what to do. He had never woken anyone before. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. It was a small kiss, like a moth landing.

The princess opened her eyes. She sat up. “Oh,” she said. “I was having the strangest dream. There was a frog, and a wheel, and a hundred years.”

The prince smiled. “You are awake now,” he said. “The whole castle is awake.”

Down below, the cook’s spoon fell into the pot with a splash. The horses stamped and whinnied. The king and queen sat up and looked at each other. The fire crackled back to life.

The princess stood and took the prince’s hand. They walked down the stairs together. The castle was full of noise and light. The hedge outside had turned to flowers. The princess looked at the open door and the bright world beyond. She had wanted to know what was behind the door. Now she knew. And she was not afraid to step through.