The Nightingale Read online

  THE

  NIGHTINGALE

  Kara Dalkey

  Copyright © Kara Dalkey 1988

  Kara Dalkey has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved.

  First published in 1988 by Ace Books.

  This edition published in 2020 by Lume Books.

  The author would like to thank

  John M. Ford for the transliterations

  of the haiku on pages 1, 51, 85,

  113, 141 and 183.

  Table of Contents

  INTRODUCTION

  Prologue

  AUTUMN

  WINTER

  SPRING

  SUMMER

  AUTUMN

  WINTER

  SPRING

  AFTERWORD

  INTRODUCTION

  ♦ FAIRY TALES ♦

  There is no satisfactory equivalent to the German word märchen, tales of magic and wonder such as those collected by the Brothers Grimm: Rapunzel, Hansel & Gretel, Rumpelstiltskin, The Six Swans and other such familiar stories. We call them fairy tales, although none of the above stories actually contains a creature called a “fairy”. They do contain those ingredients most familiar to us in fairy tales: magic and enchantment, spells and curses, witches and trolls, and protagonists who defeat overwhelming odds to triumph over evil. J.R.R. Tolkien, in his classic essay on Fairy Stories, offers the definition that these are not in particular tales about fairies or elves, but rather of the land of Faerie: “the Perilous Realm itself, and the air that blows in the country. I will not attempt to define that directly,” he goes on, “for it cannot be done. Faerie cannot be caught in a net of words; for it is one of its qualities to be indescribable, though not imperceptible.”

  Fairy tales were originally created for an adult audience. The tales collected in the German countryside and set to paper by the Brothers Grimm (wherein a Queen orders her stepdaughter, Snow White, killed and her heart served “boiled and salted for my dinner” and a peasant girl must cut off her own feet lest the Red Shoes, of which she has been so vain, keep her dancing night and day until she dances herself to death) were published for an adult readership, popular in the age of Göethe and Schiller, among the German Romantic poets. Charles Perrault’s spare and moralistic tales (such as Little Red Riding Hood who, in the original Perrault telling, gets eaten by the wolf in the end for having the ill sense to talk to strangers in the wood) was written for the court of Louis XIV; Madame d’Aulnoy (author of The White Cat) and Madame Leprince de Beaumont (author of Beauty and the Beast) also wrote for the French aristocracy. In England, fairy stories and heroic legends were popularized through Mallory’s Arthur, Shakespeare’s Puck and Ariel, Spenser’s Faerie Queene.

  *

  With the Age of Enlightenment and the growing emphasis on rational and scientific modes of thought, along with the rise in fashion of novels of social realism in the Nineteenth Century, literary fantasy went out of vogue and those stories of magic, enchantment, heroic quests and courtly romance that form a cultural heritage thousands of years old, dating back to the oldest written epics and further still to tales spoken around the hearthfire, came to be seen as fit only for children, relegated to the nursery like, Professor Tolkien points out, “shabby or old fashioned furniture … primarily because the adults do not want it, and do not mind if it is misused.”

  And misused the stories have been, in some cases altered so greatly to make them suitable for Victorian children that the original tales were all but forgotten. Andrew Lang’s Tam Lin, printed in the colored Fairy Books series, tells the story of little Janet whose playmate is stolen away by the fairy folk—ignoring the original, darker tale of seduction and human sacrifice to the Lord of Hell, as the heroine, pregnant with Tam Lin’s child, battles the Fairy Queen for her lover’s life. Walt Disney’s “Sleeping Beauty” bears only a little resemblance to Straparola’s Sleeping Beauty of the Wood, published in Venice in the Sixteenth Century, in which the enchanted princess is impregnated as she sleeps. The Little Golden Book version of the Arabian Nights resembles not at all the violent and sensual tales recounted by Scheherazade in One Thousand and One Nights so that the King of Kings won’t take her virginity and her life.

  *

  The wealth of material from myth and folklore at the disposal of the story-teller (or modern fantasy novelist) has been described as a giant cauldron of soup into which each generation throws new bits of fancy and history, new imaginings, new ideas, to simmer along with the old. The story-teller is the cook who serves up the common ingredients in his or her own individual way, to suit the tastes of a new audience. Each generation has its cooks, its Hans Christian Andersen or Charles Perrault, spinning magical tales for those who will listen—even amid the Industrial Revolution of the Nineteenth Century or the technological revolution of our own. In the last century, George MacDonald, William Morris, Christina Rossetti, and Oscar Wilde, among others, turned their hands to fairy stories; at the turn of the century lavish fairy tale collections were produced, a showcase for the art of Arthur Rackham, Edmund Dulac, Kay Nielson, the Robinson Brothers—published as children’s books, yet often found gracing adult salons.

  In the early part of the Twentieth Century Lord Dunsany, G.K. Chesterton, C.S. Lewis, T.H. White, J.R.R. Tolkien—to name but a few—created classic tales of fantasy; while more recently we’ve seen the growing popularity of books published under the category title “Adult Fantasy”—as well as works published in the literary mainstream that could easily go under that heading: John Barth’s Chimera, John Gardner’s Grendel, Joyce Carol Oates’ Bellefleur, Sylvia Townsend Warner’s Kingdoms of Elfin, Mark Helprin’s Winter’s Tale, and the works of South American writers such as Gabriel García Márquez and Miquel Angè Asturias.

  It is not surprising that modern readers or writers should occasionally turn to fairy tales. The fantasy story or novel differs from novels of social realism in that it is free to portray the world in bright, primary colors, a dream-world half remembered from the stories of childhood when all the world was bright and strange, a fiction unembarrassed to tackle the large themes of Good and Evil, Honor and Betrayal, Love and Hate. Susan Cooper, who won the Newbery Medal for her fantasy novel The Grey King, makes this comment about the desire to write fantasy: “In the ‘Poetics’ Aristotle said, ‘A likely impossibility is always preferable to an unconvincing possibility.’ I think those of us who write fantasy are dedicated to making impossible things seem likely, making dreams seem real. We are somewhere between the Impressionist and abstract painters. Our writing is haunted by those parts of our experience which we do not understand, or even consciously remember. And if you, child or adult, are drawn to our work, your response comes from that same shadowy land.”

  All Adult Fantasy stories draw in a greater or lesser degree from traditional tales and legends. Some writers consciously acknowledge that material, such as J.R.R. Tolkien’s use of themes and imagery from the Icelandic Eddas and the German Niebelungenlied in The Lord of the Rings or Evangeline Walton’s reworking of the stories from the Welsh Mabinogion in The Island of the Mighty. Some authors use the language and symbols of old tales to create new ones, such as the stories collected in Jane Yolen’s Tales of Wonder, or Patricia McKillip’s The Forgotten Beasts of Eld. And others, like Robin McKinley in Beauty or Angela Carter in The Bloody Chamber (and the movie “The Company of Wolves” derived from a story in that collection) base their stories directly on old tales, breathing new life into them, and presenting them to the modern reader.

  *

  The Fairy Tales series, originally created by Armadillo Press and published by Ace Books, presents new novels of the latter sort—novels directly based on traditio
nal fairy tales. Each novel in the series is firmly based on a specific, often familiar, tale—yet each author is free to use that tale as he or she pleases, showing the diverse ways a modern story-teller can approach traditional material.

  *

  The novel you hold in your hands is a fantasy retelling of Hans Christian Andersen’s The Nightingale. Others in the series include The Sun, the Moon, and the Stars, which makes use of a Hungarian fairy tale in a contemporary setting, and Jack, the Giant-killer, in which the Faery Court lurks in the shadows of modern-day Ottawa. Fantasy and horror by some of the most talented writers in these two fields, retelling the world’s most beloved tales, in editions lovingly designed—as all good Fairy Tale books should be. We hope you’ll enjoy them.

  *

  From ancient times,

  The plum tree is her resting place

  The nightingale

  —Onitsura

  Prologue

  This story, esteemed reader, took place in ancient times. Do not ask precisely when, for it was oh so long ago. Before the Minamoto clan drove the Taira into the sea. Before shogun and samurai ruled the land. Before a pious woman created Kabuki dances. Before and before.

  It was a time of gentleness, esteemed reader, and nobility. A time when the favorite pastimes of the Imperial Court were the writing of poetry and the viewing of the moon over Heian Kyo. This, then, is when and where this story took place.

  It is not a story of war, esteemed reader, though there is conflict in it. It is not a romance, though there is love in it. It is not about court intrigue, though, Amida preserve us, it has enough of that. It is a story of life and learning, and wondrous things. It is a journey from foolishness to wisdom, from sorrow to joy.

  If my humble efforts are successful, esteemed reader, it will entertain you. If my karma is great and Buddha smiles on me, it may enlighten you. If I am destined for a place in Heaven, you will wish to read it again.

  AUTUMN

  Once words are said,

  They leave a frost on the lips,

  A breath of autumn wind.

  —Bashō

  THE FLUTE IN THE FIRE

  The cool autumn wind whispered warnings to Uguisu as she threw more wood on the bonfire. The flames flickered higher and a sharp tang filled her nose as a too-green bough steamed in the blaze. Uguisu coughed softly and set out the torches of peeled hemp that she had lit from the bonfire. She held tightly onto the wide sleeves of her faded orange silk kimono as she worked. Even so, the wind threatened to fling an edge into the flames at any moment. Her very long, loose hair she had tucked underneath her kimono, to spare it from the ravages of wind and fire.

  Once the hemp torches were set, Uguisu sat back on her heels and sighed. It was the first night of U-Bon, Festival of the Dead, and an auspicious time for what Uguisu intended. It was said that this night spirits were permitted to return to earth for a period of three days. This night, the hemp torches were all that was necessary to summon the one Uguisu sought.

  In the distance, Uguisu could hear the pounding of drums and rough voices of singers praising their ancestors. Though she sat by herself in the wild courtyard of an abandoned house in a most disreputable part of town, Uguisu felt no fear. Others would be too busy with their own celebrations to mind one more festival fire in their neighborhood.

  And if a scoundrel should happen along and think me fair game, thought Uguisu, well, it would scarcely matter.

  She carefully laid out before her the items she had brought for her expected visitor’s approval: a cherry bough with a red silk cord dangling from it, a celadon bowl filled with water from the Kamo River, a knife whose sharp blade was wrapped in the purest white rice paper, and, in a small porcelain cup, the liver of a globefish. Once these were in place, Uguisu sat and watched the fire, waiting.

  The smoke drifted upwards, shades of flame-tinted grey against a black night sky. As the wind gusted across the fire, the smoke twisted and spun like dancers on a fiery stage. Presently, a paleness appeared in the midst of the smoke, and Uguisu felt the hair on her neck stand on end. The paleness brightened into a blurry patch of light grey, then white. Lines spread across it, forming the wrinkled face of an old woman, whose white hair flowed behind her and upwards to mingle with the smoke. Two pale, gnarled hands appeared beneath the face. The left hand pointed at the objects Uguisu had set before the fire.

  “Ah, Uguisu,” the spirit said, with a voice like water spilled on hot coals, “This is an odd Festival offering you bring me.”

  Uguisu bowed deeply. “Oh Wise One, these are only symbols for what I truly offer you.”

  “Yes? And what might this true offering be?”

  “I wish … I wish to offer you my miserable life!” Uguisu covered her face with her sleeves, hoping to stop the tears that threatened to flow.

  “What! What is this you are saying?” said the spirit with a look of grave dismay.

  “These things represent the ways in which I may end my joyless existence: the cord and the branch for hanging, the water for drowning, the knife for bloodletting, the fugu liver for poisoning. Tell me the method that is most proper in your sight, so that on the final day of the Festival I need no longer stay on this miserable earth. My spirit will, instead, follow you to Heaven.”

  “Foolish child! How can you say such things? How can you presume to know from what realm I come and where I would go? None of these methods pleases me. The offering of your life does not please me! Do you think I promised your mother that I would look after you and guide you, only to let you waste my efforts? Surely you must be mad, Uguisu. Could you truly wish to risk becoming a wandering ghost, or to suffer the Hell of Headlong Falling, because you are afraid of a few more tears brought on by this ‘miserable’ world?” The spirit sighed, and a gust of wind made the flames jump and sent dead leaves and ashes flying.

  “So, Uguisu. What great calamity has forced you to consider shaming yourself and your family this way?”

  From behind her sleeves, Uguisu replied, “My father has told me that there is no chance that I can marry the one I love—Niwa no Takenoko—and I must break with him. I am never to be with him again!”

  “One could fill the sea with the tears of separated lovers, Uguisu. It is merely heartache that causes you to seek death in this miserable place?”

  “If the gaudy pheasant may pine for its mate, may not the drab Uguisu feel loss too? If death finds me in this place, I do not care. Perhaps it might have worth, causing my father to ponder his ‘frugality’ in choosing a home near here.”

  “Bringing guilt upon your father with your death? And making your death an act of vengeance as well as liberation? How uncharitable of you, Uguisu! Your father is looking out for your best interests. What sort of life would you have with a gardener’s son? What honor would he bring to your family?”

  “But my father is looking only after his own interests. Being a noble of the Fifth Rank is not enough for him. He wants me to marry a Fujiwara!”

  “It is understandable that your father would want to ally his family with the most powerful clan in the empire.”

  “But the Fujiwara I would most likely wed is Hidoi, and he’s skinny and ugly and has the manners of an ox!”

  “Now who is being selfish?”

  “I know it would enhance my family’s rank, but I just couldn’t bear it. I love Takenoko.”

  The spirit sighed. “If it will ease your tormented heart, Uguisu, I have no intention of wasting you on such a boor as Hidoi.”

  Uguisu peeped over her hands at the face floating in the smoke. “Truly?”

  “Truly. I have far greater plans for you. I intend that you will catch the interest of the highest ones at Court.”

  “The highest!” Uguisu gasped. “That’s impossible. What would they have to do with such a lowly one as I?”

  “See how little you know? Have some faith in me, child.” The spirit waved a hand and the cherry branch sprung into the air. Another wave and the knife leaped int
o the flames, the paper sheath crisping instantly to ash. The red silk cord came off the branch, and then the spirit was juggling the bough, the knife and the cord in the air. Faster and faster the objects spun until they were only a blur in the fire.

  Uguisu blinked, unable to keep her eyes on the spinning shapes. But, in the space of a few breaths, the movement slowed and stopped. Between the spirit’s hands there floated a beautiful flute carved from the cherrywood bough. The red silk cord was wrapped around each end to strengthen and adorn it.

  “Take this,” said the spirit, “and give it ritual ablutions with the water from the Kamo River. The fugu liver you may throw into the fire, as it is more dangerous than useful.”

  Uguisu did as she was told, saying, “It is a beautiful flute, Wise One. But why should it catch the eyes of the First Rank, who have so many splendid things?”

  The spirit sighed once more. “It is not the flute that will catch their interest, but your playing of it. Practice with it every evening on the banks of the Kamo River, letting no one see you, and I promise you will soon be hearing from the Imperial Court.”

  “But what of my love for Takenoko? A flute will not help me forget him.”

  The spirit raised her eyes to Heaven a moment, then closed them. “I have foreseen that Takenoko will have a place in your household in the palace.”

  “He will? What do you mean, ‘have a place’?”

  “Ladies of the court are known to choose lovers when they will. When you are a lady of the court, who knows what you may do?”

  Uguisu stared at the spirit, wide-eyed. “There is hope for us then? And I may also bring my family better position?”