Celia and the Prince Fiero




In a land never far, there lived a farmer, Antony, and his daughter, Celia. Now, Antony was a very smart man, but Celia was even smarter, wiser, he claimed loudly in the village, than Fiero, the Faerie Prince of the woods. You might be thinking that this was a very stupid thing for Antony to do, and I’ve told you already that Antony was smart. But if you met Celia, ah, you would understand why he was so boastful!


Celia, as I have said, was very wise, but she was also very beautiful, and such a quiet and lovely young lady that you too would be compelled to speak of her to all who would listen. One day in the village, Antony was talking about Celia as he did almost every day, when a tall young man came up to him, interrupting his conversation with Matteo, the baker.


“Matteo, you have to hear what Celia told me the other day! I had lost a coin in the river, and Celia said to me—Mother Mary who in God’s name are you?”


“A friend of Fiero, good farmer,” the strange man said. At this, as you can imagine, Antony was very, very startled, and began to fear for his daughter’s safety.


Maybe, Antony thought, it was not good that I said what I said about Celia being smarter than the Prince. Out loud, he said, “Ah, good to meet you, friend of the Prince! I take it you are here on some important business, I’ll be on my way back home—”


“Good farmer, my business is with you. The faerie folk of the woods have heard you talk about your daughter, the wise Celia, and they have heard you say she is more clever than the Prince Fiero. He would like to meet this wise daughter of yours in three days’ time, under the Old Elm tree.”


“As the Prince commands,” Antony said, his voice shaking like an overladen ass. A sudden breeze blew through the piazza, and when Antony could see again the young man had vanished. “Oh Matteo, Matteo what am I going to do? My daughter is going to be taken away to the woods and I shall never see her again! I should never have said all of those things about Celia!”


And Matteo, a man of good sense who once had studied to be a clergyman, said to Antony, “Do not be worried, good Antony. If anyone can outsmart the Faerie Prince it is your daughter. You tell me so much about the things she’s done for you, I know that she can do whatever Prince Fiero asks of her.”


“Oh, Matteo, thank you, thank you! You are right. Celia is so brilliant and wise that I am sure she will be able to outsmart him.” So saying, Antony left the village with nearly as much jauntiness as usual. On his walk home, however, he began to doubt, and it was in a sorry state that he opened the door of his farmhouse.


“Papa, what is wrong? Sit down here, the rigatoni will be done soon. I’ll take your hat and you will tell me everything that happened in the village.”


“Celia, my daughter, I am sorry, but three days from now you must meet with the Faerie Prince Fiero! Today in the village a strange young man came up to me, and he said he was from the woods where the Faerie Prince rules. He heard what I was saying, about you being wiser and more clever than the Prince himself, and the Prince said he wanted to meet you in three days, under the Old Elm tree west of the village! And the Prince will take you away to the woods and I will never see you again!”


“Papa, Papa, do not worry. I had told you many times that you should stop your tongue from speaking too much of me in the village, for I knew that if the Faerie Prince heard of me he would take me to the forest, presto! Just like that.” Celia snapped her fingers, and her frightened father’s eyes grew wide. “But I knew that you would not do as I asked, for you are very proud of me. So, I prepared for when this day would come. It is good of the Prince to give us three days to prepare. It could be done in one, but more is better, so the work will not be rushed.


“Papa, for the next three days you must do as I say precisely, and if we are successful, I will see you again once I have met the Prince.”




🜨




In three days’ time, Antony walked his daughter into town, and to the foot of the Old Elm tree. Celia wore a plain gown of green linen, a pair of calf-leather boots, and a broad-brimmed straw hat, and carried with her an empty wicker cage, a halter, and a set of spurs. As they walked, Antony once again grew nervous, despite Celia’s reassurances. And so, when they reached the spot where the Prince was waiting Antony fell down on his knees, saying: “Good Prince, have mercy, spare my daughter!”


The Prince, a tall young fae with pointed ears, looked on Antony with a queer expression of confusion. “To your feet, man.”


“Forgive, good Prince, my father,” Celia began. “He is afraid to lose his only child to the forest.”


“You are not yet lost to cause him this much grief!” The Faerie Prince laughed and extended a hand to Antony. “Good man, if your daughter is as clever as you say she is, you need not fear! And if you are unjustly boastful, then… well, we shall see what punishments are meet.”


“Papa, Papa, do not worry,” Celia told her father once again. “I will go now, but I’ll see you again. Have faith, Papa.” And to the Prince, she said, “Where will we go?”


The Prince’s wings unfurled from his back, and he gently grasped Celia’s hands, saying, “We will go to the woods.” He flapped his wings once, twice, three times, and a great wind seemed to rise up around them. Celia’s feet left the ground, and when she felt herself set down again, the girl opened her eyes, and saw that they were in a pleasant forest bower.


“For to-night,” the Prince Fiero said, “Feast well, sleep well, and worry not. In the morning, I will test you, and you had best be as clever as your dear father has boasted.” Saying such, the Prince left Celia alone within the bower, and some short time later a knock heralded a faerie maid, who brought a lovely golden gown. But Celia sent the faerie maid away, for she only would wear her good green linen.


Now, if it were you, or I, or—heaven help him—Antony, in this position, we would not survive. The Faerie Prince was known more for cruel mischief than benevolence. But Celia, brave Celia, was clever and prepared, and so feared not at all. The feast that night, my word, would you be tempted! Succulent pheasant, smooth risotto and a wide array of herbs and vegetation that would feed a small family of rabbits—for a little while, until small was no longer a meet descriptor. Celia ate heartily but did not drink any of the sweet wine and mead the Prince offered to her. She could not know, but I know, and will tell you: the sweet wine and mead were cursed so that any who drank of them would be a fool until the spell was canceled. All the better for Celia that she preferred fresh spring water to spirits.


After the feast, when Celia was alone once again inside her bower-room, she gathered up the things that she and her father had made and set out the wicker cage for the next morning. She allowed herself some little nervousness in the dark and quiet, once she’d pinched the candleflame to death between her fingers and squirreled her way under the soft covers of the bed. I think I know what the Prince Fiero will ask of me, Celia thought. But I must not be too cocksure of myself, for that will surely be my ruin. She knew that she could spend her night awake in worried contemplation, but she was practical and so did not, turning her mind to the matter of sleep.




🜨




The faerie maid knocked on her door as the sun was rising, and again tried to give Celia a gown, this one of sunset satin, and again Celia refused, preferring the good green linen she had made at home. The Prince made no pretense of courtly courtesy that morning and said to Celia when she appeared before him, “To-day, you must capture Ignis, the spirit of fire. He lives in the Boiling Waste, and you must bring him here. If you fail to do so, or if you set my forest ablaze…well, we will see what punishments are meet. Good luck,” the Prince added with a haughty sneer, which rather than detracting from the bizarre handsomeness of his faerie face seemed only to add to it, an effect to which Celia found herself decidedly opposed.


She went up to her bower to collect the wicker cage, and thanked somebody, maybe God but maybe not, that it was still where she had left it, that no faerie had made off with one-third of her survival. Celia set off for the Boiling Waste with the wicker cage in one hand, and the other firmly clutching at her hat. The covetous wind rolled its eyes at her glare and moved on to harass easier targets. The loops of vine hung like loose threads at the back of a vast swathe of embroidery, and as Celia wandered, she wondered what the finished side could look like. She was pleased to find, when she emerged from the sinuous canopy, that it was nearing noon, and not, as she had feared, long since. Ahead stretched the frothing grounds that marked the Boiling Waste.


All too soon, Celia found herself missing the shadowed forest. The mud pits ogled at her, the geysers whistled, and the sun leered as she made her way across, searching for the spirit. In the middle of the Waste was an enormous bonfire, and all around were strewn charred bodies. Every now and again, a tongue of flame would brush against a leg or torso, scattering ash onto the ground. There were, Celia noted, no approaching footprints but her own. She went right up to the bonfire, opened up the wicker cage, and set it on the ground. She then turned her attention to one of the more complete corpses and began to talk in a conversational tone.


“Well, Vinnie, I simply think you are wrong,” Celia said to the corpse, who said nothing. She waited several seconds and then shook her head as if she had heard something that displeased her. “It can do it, believe me, it is the most powerful blaze in all of the world. Now, I bet you have not heard the stories that I have heard about Ignis, and ah, if you had. Well. You would understand.” She paused again, and behind her, the bonfire seemed to hold its breath, listening to the exchange.


“Oh, forgive me, I had no idea that you were such an expert! Maybe it is true then, that Ignis cannot grow so small and gentle as to be held in this wicker cage without burning it up,” Celia pretended to concede. At this, the bonfire flared up, and a voice issued forth:


“WHO THINKS THIS OF IGNIS, THE FIRE?”


“Oh,” Celia said simply, turning to the bonfire and speaking as if to an old friend, “my good friend Vinnie is the doubter. He doesn’t think that you have absolute control over your fire.”


“HE IS A FOOL. WHAT WOULD SHOW HIM MY POWER?”


“Well, we were just arguing over this wicker cage. I think that you can grow so small that you could fit inside, and that you can hold close your fire-tongues so that the cage would not be singed. And Vinnie thinks that you are not skilled enough to do this.”


“I WILL GO IN THE WICKER CAGE AND WILL NOT BURN THE WOOD.” And saying so, the bonfire grew smaller, smaller, smaller still until it was just the right size for the wicker cage that Celia had brought. Ignis the fire spirit crawled inside, and true to its word, kept close its fire-tongues and did not burn the bars. Swiftly, Celia closed the cage. Without a word, she picked it up by the handle and began to walk back toward the Prince’s forest. If Ignis had complaints, well, it was too small for Celia to hear a word of any of them.


As the sun was setting Celia came to the place where Prince Fiero’s castle lay, and she presented him the wicker cage where Ignis sat. The Faerie Prince laughed and laughed, and with a snap of his fingers sent the displeased Ignis back to the Boiling Waste.


“I see no trail of burn-marks, so I must commend you! You are quite a clever one. Come, feast for this evening, and to-morrow I will test you once again, and we will see if there are limits to your cleverness.”


Once again, the Prince’s servants brought a sumptuous meal, and once again Celia ate her fill but did not touch the mead and sweet wine the Prince Fiero offered her. The Prince entertained her with a pleasant conversation, and Celia felt emboldened by her first victory to contribute, and the meal concluded with a tentative sense of respect, if not camaraderie. The Faerie Prince himself escorted Celia to her room and smiled a wicked smile as he wished her goodnight.




🜨




“To-day, you are to change the course of the Fellwether River so it flows right in front of my palace. To do so, you must best Makara, the water spirit.” That morning, after refusing a tunic of twilight fabric, Celia had made sure to fasten the halter around her waist, forming a belt for her green linen gown. When Prince Fiero outlined this next task, Celia smiled despite herself, and Fiero smiled back slyly as he said: “If you fail in this, or if you flood my forest, we will see what punishments are meet.”


Celia trooped out toward the Fellwether River for the better part of the morning, roaming far from the forest over rock-studded grass-hills and flower-strewn fields. When she reached the bank of what must be the river she was seeking, Celia sat down and began, somewhat distractedly, to set out her lunch. Pointedly, she kept coming up to the riverbank to admire her belt in the reflection, sighing contentedly, returning to lunch, and then a few moments later returning to fiddle with the halter, tying and retying it into more and more intricate knots and patterns. After about the twentieth time she did this, the water of the river began to froth and rise, and a head and set of shoulders formed in front of Celia. They were enormous, and she had to step back to even hope to look them in the eye.


“Whatever are you doing?” The enormous mouth opened and revealed shining, opalescent teeth, each as long as an arm.


“Oh, I am just fixing my belt,” Celia said, her voice innocent.


“You have done this too many times, is it not good enough?”


“Ah, but this is a very special belt. There is a way to tie it so that anything you wish for will come true! And I have been trying to wish for a way across this river, but I have not been tying it right, so I keep trying. It is very hard to tie on yourself, I think.”


Makara, the water spirit, for this to whom Celia spoke, thought to themself, I would very much like a belt that grants my wishes. I will trick this little person into giving it to me and tying it on in the special way. Out loud, the spirit said, “I can get you across the river, if you give me your magic belt in exchange.”


“I think that is fair,” Celia said, careful not to smile. Instead, she looked concernedly at the giant figure. “I do not think the belt will fit you, though. Perhaps as a necklace?”


“Yes, yes, as long as the wish-magic works, a necklace is fine. Climb up on my back and tie it on, and I will take you across the river.”


Celia did as Makara bid her, and once she was on the water-spirit’s back, she undid the halter from her waist and securely fastened it about Makara’s neck. Once the halter was securely fastened Celia wrapped the lead-end around her hand and braced herself. “It is all done,” she told Makara. Gleefully, the water spirit made a wish, and when nothing happened, they realized all too late that they had been tricked. They roared and tried to throw Celia from their back without success. They threw up great walls of water, but Celia held her breath and did not drown. At last, Makara settled down, defeated.


“What will make you release me?”


“Two things. One, you must redirect the river so that it passes through the palace of the Faerie Prince Fiero, and two, you must let me ride you all the way there. Once this is done, I will let you go free, and give you the halter, to destroy as you will.” Celia was shaking a little as she spoke, because fighting to say atop a raging water spirit was more difficult than she had imagined, and Celia, I must say, had a very clever imagination.


“I must do as you ask,” Makara said.


Using the halter, Celia guided the water spirit across the fields and hills and rocks, back into the forest. Makara was careful with their waters, making sure the river did not overflow as it carved its new path. Together they tore toward the Prince Fiero’s palace, and with a whooping laugh, crashed through the side wall and into the throne room, where Celia leaped off the water spirit’s back to land before the bewildered Prince. Once the river had passed through the palace, Makara realized that they were free, and continued the path of the river as they pleased.


The Prince Fiero was far too busy with his half-wrecked palace to pay much attention to this, however. His eyes widened as he surveyed the damage, and after a few moments he began to laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and swept Celia up into his arms, spinning her around and planting a gentle kiss against her forehead. “Oh, clever woman!” he said, out of breath from laughing.


Celia was laughing, too, and she said to him, “You sent Ignis away so quickly yesterday, I wanted my task to stick around this time!” Fiero beamed at her and held out his arm. The pair still laughing, Celia let the Prince lead her off to dinner.


That night, the meal was easy. The food was lighter, as was the conversation, and after dinner, Fiero and Celia sat in the ruined throne room with their feet in the newly redirected river, talking idly until the moon was too bright to ignore, and Celia yawned. Without a word, Fiero helped Celia to her feet and up to her bower room.


“Before you sleep, let me ask, how did you best Makara?”


Celia tapped the side of her nose twice, and told him, “You will find out soon enough.”




🜨




Now, because I have missed telling you things, I will tell you this: Fiero had already challenged Celia more than three times—recall the sunset satin, golden gown, and twilight tunic? The faerie rules are not so strict with food outside of Faerieland, but gifts are never free, and always owed. Had Celia taken one of these garments, ah, she could not leave the forest even if she won this last challenge. This Celia knew, and it was with the good counsel of her wit that she had refused all of Prince Fiero’s gifts. I will tell you another thing. The last task is so often the hardest.


“To-day, sweet, wise Celia, you must find Oreif, the mare of the wind, and bring her to my stables. If you fail to do this, or if she gets free…we shall see what punishments are meet,” the Prince Fiero said to Celia. The faerie maid who usually awoke her had been absent, and the Prince himself knocked on Celia’s door to get her up. Fiero looked her up and down as he said this, lingering on Celia’s eyes before blinking away with a soft puff of air.


Good, wise Celia went to get her belongings, pulling on her boots and hat and gathering the spurs and wicker-cage. Because even good and wise people can forget sometimes, Celia did not realize that the halter was no longer with her, and was instead some thousand miles south, and buried so deep that no person could ever hope to get it back. Makara’s one humiliation had been more than enough. Unaware, Celia set out with the spurs and wicker-cage in hand, wondering wherever she would find her quarry.


She followed a strong breeze as it knitted through the boughs of Prince Fiero’s forest, careful of the mud-puddles and trip-roots that pulled seductively at her calf-leather boots. At some points, she tired and sat down on a protruding root or stump, and when she did the wind seemed to pause too, buffeting unkindly at her long hair, which she quickly braided. As Celia continued, she upbraided that rascal wind, who leaped up to its feet and bolted onward so that she would follow. Around, around the forest the wind led her, so that she saw, at different times throughout the day: the Boiling Waste, the new path of Fellwether River, and finally the Old Elm tree where she had first met Prince Fiero.


At last, the sun at a harrowing angle in the sky, the wind settled in a copse of flowering olive trees, and Celia slowed her approach. She saw, as the wind slowed, the shape of a mare emerge and begin to nibble gently at the foliage. Celia crept closer, her steps soft over the green carpet of the ground. Closer, closer to the mare, until Celia was close enough to touch her. Instead, she placed the open wicker-cage before a forelock, put the spurs on her boots, and tensed, ready to spring. The mare made to move to another tree, but as she did so her hoof caught inside the cage, and the mare froze in panic. Celia pounced, throwing her leg across the mare’s back. It was just then, to Celia’s dismay, that she remembered the fate of her halter.


Cocksure and foolish girl! Celia chided herself, but before she could grab a length of vine the mare rose up into the air and started to buck wildly to throw Celia from her back. Celia clung tightly to the mare’s translucent mane and did not fall. As she looked down at the ground—a mistake, you and I both know—she saw the mare’s hoof still caught in the cage, and as the blood rushed to her head, Celia reached for that wicker-cage, her spurs dug deep into the mare’s flank, holding tight as she reached out her arm. Inch, by inch, by inch, she stretched and stretched until the handle rested in her hand, and she tugged the hoof free, righting herself with a woozy motion. As the mare rose higher in the sky, Celia tossed the cage over the muzzle of the mare, and with the handle gripped tight in a single hand guided her head and led the mare downward.


Celia alternated between the spurs and the soft toes of her calfskin boots, and guided Oreif through the air, back toward the palace of the Prince Fiero. Slowly her other hand released the mare’s soft mane and patted her neck gently in apology. “I am sorry to do this, but you know why I must. We can go to the back-side of the palace.” The mare whinnied in reply, an indignant and offended sound, and Celia laughed despite herself. “No spurs, if you behave,” she told her, to which Oreif nickered discontentedly. Without issue, Celia led the mare of the wind over the forest, making a much faster circuit of the same spots the wind had shown her. As the palace approached, Oreif strained against Celia’s hold to try and fly around to the far side of the palace, where the stables were. Celia held firm and shook her head, and, try as she would, the mare could not break free.


When the mare landed right before the palace doors, at once her form changed into that of Prince Fiero, malcontent and still with clever Celia upon his back. “You may let go now,” the Prince told her tersely.


“I think I shan’t, the challenge was to get you to the stable. Now, walk on.” Mocking and tender, Celia brushed her hand through Prince Fiero’s hair. With much protest, the Prince, with Celia upon his back, walked through the palace and ‘round to the stables. Once there, with a final patronizing pat on the forehead, Celia dismounted. The Prince caught her hand gently as she turned.


Oreif was not so subtle.”


“It was not meant to be. You knew before that, though.”


“I did, from when you had me fetch the fire. But I knew that those tasks would not be all.” Celia smoothed her green linen gown and smiled.


“So you did,” the Faerie Prince replied. “You have proven your wisdom and your cleverness. To the Old Elm Tree, I assume?”


Celia shook her head. “One more dinner. Feast well, sleep well, and worry not. In the morning, I will leave you. Unless…”


The Prince Fiero smiled, content with an edge of faerie wickedness. “Unless what, clever Celia?”


“I have heard of a boastful Prince, who I think wants to seek my hand. Should you see him, say that Celia wants to meet under the Old Elm Tree in three days’ time, and if he can prove that he is as clever as she, then she will marry him. Would you do this for me, should you see this boastful Prince? I am told he lives in this very forest.” The sly grins on both their faces widened catlike as Celia spoke.


“Three days from now, or three days from the morrow?” Prince Fiero asked as he held out his arm to lead her off to dinner. Celia hooked her arm in his, and tapped the side of her nose, once, twice, three times.


“You’ll find out soon enough.”