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“And so the poor, sweet princess was caught in her enemy’s trap and lost her life. The princess’s elder brother claimed ultimate victory and became the nation’s emperor, and they say he still rules and prospers to this day.”
“Wh-what a very thrilling story! And what happened after that?”
“There is no after that. I told you, did I not? The princess, the main character of the story, dies at the end. The story can’t continue.”
“What?! But…but nothing says that!” The young boy’s eyebrows were raised adorably in his distress. It was a most unusual state for him.
The beautiful princess who had been reading him the story—er, rather, we should say Priscilla—cocked her head. Her orange hair cascaded down her shoulders, flashing as it went. She crossed her arms in front of her ample chest. And then she chided the frantic boy: “Come, now, Schult. Have you grown so high-and-mighty that you can critique the story I choose to tell you? What about the tale has so upset you? Tell me, if you can.”
“Yes, milady! The princess in that story was just too, too tragic! She worked so hard and tried her very best, but her brother tricked her, and her pet dog tricked her, too… Oh, I simply don’t know what to do!” Schult puffed out his bright-red cheeks.
Priscilla felt herself smile a little. She’d massaged a few of the details, but her story largely followed the facts. As such, Schult’s reaction was touching, given that he himself knew the “tragic princess.” However…
“However you may discover you feel about it, the princess is already dead, and the story is over. It can’t be changed. That’s the nature of the tales that we tell.”
“Aww… But that’s so sad. It hurts so much.”
“What are you going to do about it, then? Waste time complaining and being upset?”
If that was how he planned to conduct himself, Priscilla’s evaluation of Schult would change dramatically. Schult’s future, in fact, hung in the balance of how he responded to a story she’d told him on a whim.
Schult was totally unaware of this as he crossed his stubby arms and nodded distractedly. Priscilla didn’t rush him but waited to find out what his answer would be. At length, Schult unfolded his arms, looked at Priscilla, and said, “In that case… In that case, I’ll write the rest of the story myself!”
“What?” She raised an eyebrow. This answer, she had never imagined.
Schult met her response by clenching his small fist with determination. “Lady Priscilla, you said that the story was over. But I’m going to think of what happens next, so that the princess doesn’t have to meet a tragic end!”
“ ” Priscilla didn’t say anything right away. So Schult, with his modest command of language, was going to weave the continuation of a story that was supposed to be done. Priscilla took in a small breath—and then she closed an eye pensively. “Continuing what’s finished, eh? Well, how will it go on? What future will you give to a dead princess, Schult?”
“Well, uh… Well, first, the princess drank the poison, but she didn’t die from it! She went into a deep, deep sleep, and then later, she wakes up again!”
“Hoh. She wakes up, does she? And why is that? The poison was very deadly. Strong enough to kill a person easily.”
“But the princess and her dog both took half of it! That’s why!” Yes, there had been enough to kill a person between them, but by taking just half and half, neither the young princess nor her pet dog died. The simple logic of it, the blind application of basic arithmetic, was deeply childish—but that was how Schult sought to tie it together, and Priscilla didn’t argue with him. Instead, she simply mussed his pink hair and smiled. “Lady Priscilla?” he said.
“You think of the strangest things, Schult. Rewriting a finished story to suit your own druthers—haughty behavior, don’t you think? Spitting in the face of the one who gave birth to the story in the first place?”
“Er… Um, was I wrong to do that?”
“Why would you be wrong? There’s nothing wrong about taking a story you can’t accept and bending it into a shape that suits you. Nothing wrong at all. In fact, I’m impressed.”
If Schult had simply cried himself to sleep from sheer frustration, Priscilla would almost certainly have cast him aside as nothing more than a spoiled child, without remorse and without a second thought. But Schult had risen to her expectations.
“I hope you’ll tell me the rest of the story of the poor princess. Tell me the tale that suits you.”
“—! Y-yes, milady! Well, first, the princess didn’t die from the poison! And then someone very kind helped her…”
Schult, his eyes shining now that he had Priscilla’s permission, began weaving the rest of the story. Priscilla rested her chin on one hand and watched the ecstatic boy go on at length, her free hand gently brushing the cover of the book. The book had inspired her to tell this tale. She couldn’t say how valuable it was to be given that inspiration. To some, it might not seem of any value at all. To those who didn’t know better, the book might simply look like a meaningless profusion of letters. But to her…
“Lady Priscilla? Are you listening?”
“But of course I am. Who do you take me for?” Priscilla patted Schult’s head again and smiled. She was remembering another head she used to pat, smiling then, too…
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