A Donkeyskin Retelling
By Kendyl GreenShe’d stolen the ring when she left. Tucked it away into her gown, nestled inside the fabric of the bodice. It was her mother’s, the last gift the princess had been given before the queen died. Her father tried to take it from her after, roaring at her in a drunken rage, but her nurse hid it away. The same old woman took her hands now, guiding them to slice the tan string and catch the dainty band when it fell.
“The prince of this land will have a wife,” the nurse murmured, “and you will have a dress to meet him.”
Before the king tried to marry his daughter, the nurse had been the queen’s advisor. With her passing, she cared for the princess. That care meant reaching into her past, her skills as a seamstress reappearing as she instructed the dressmakers on the creation of the three gowns, all while she created a plan to help the princess escape. Revolted upon learning of her father’s intentions towards her after her mother’s death, the princess schemed as well. While her dresses were being made, she memorized exits and entries, when the guards changed and where her father would be. No one expected her to pay attention to the inner mechanisms of the castle. Thus, when the day came and she left dressed in rags, ashes smeared across her face and arms, appearing a haggard, raggedy bundle being thrown out by the nurse, none suspected her true identity. A tumultuous ship ride and the kindness of a widowed farmer’s wife granted them their humble abode and their hard earned freedom in a nation half a world away. Though this new land granted them protection, it demanded a price in equal measure. Now, the morning before the first celebration, the pair prepared for nightfall’s approach and all it would bring.
“He burned them,” the princess said, barely tapped rage leaking into her quivering voice, “all of them. Every dress I owned. All I could do in return was skin his wretched donkey! I had no time for more before we fled and —”
She stopped herself there, tremors rolling through her shoulders. The nurse placed a hand on the young woman’s arm.
“Then we will remake them anew, you and I.”
She showed the princess how, the fabrics and dyes to gather, how each thread was stitched.
The color of the sky was calm. Safety, a hand trailing through placid water, the clarity of the truest gaze. Every blue and its endless potential.
“And he will not recognize me or the dress? They say the king of this land will host my father for the duration of the festivities.”
It had been her primary concern, whether her father would be able to discern her identity, to see her through the fabric he had done away with in another of his rages. The solution came in the form of her mother’s ring, able to disguise her from her father when it sat upon her finger.
Still, the nurse assured her, “So long as you wear the ring, he will be none the wiser.”
“Good. I want to seek vengeance myself.”
Night arrived with the first ball. The old woman escorted the princess to the castle gates, warning her, “The ring loses power at your mother’s final hour.” The princess nodded. She would leave by midnight.
Whispers erupted the moment she entered, the nobility and both kings rapidly conversing. Only the prince and his mother were silent, the latter o ering a gracious smile, and the former appearing to be unable to form words himself. Eventually he moved forward, parting the sea of noblewomen and courtiers all vying for his attention. He stood before her, bowing immediately. When he straightened his back, he looked directly into her eyes.
“It would be an honor if you would allow me the first dance tonight.”
Her eyes flickered towards the kings.
The princess smiled and gave the prince her hand.
For the next ball, they made the second dress together. The nurse told her, “Use what you feel. Every dress tells another part of your story.”
“What was the first one?” the princess asked. Stone-faced, the old woman responded, “Your mother’s protection.”
The color of the moon shone. Its darkness and its light, the roundness of the ring on her finger. Silver edges and a glow that illuminated her brown skin. She remembered the tales she’d heard of the scorn in his eyes the first time he’d seen her, refusing to so much as hold her as to not mar himself. For this, the princess was even prouder of her work, and grateful for the nurse’s assistance. She’d danced all night with the prince, and in truth, nearly forgotten her mission. He was kinder than she expected him to be, more handsome and far more intelligent. Tonight, he whisked her away to the gardens.
“Will you give me your name?” The prince asked, earnest and soft. He sat on a small stone bench and she joined him.
“No,” the princess laughed, a joy she had not felt since the death of her mother lifting its head from where she’d buried it, “but I will give you a story.” His attention was rapt, and his silence respectful while he waited. She inhaled, gathering herself.
“There once was a girl, in a land far from here, who lived with her mother and her father. The beauty of the mother was known throughout the kingdom, and she loved her family beyond all reason. But when the girl came of age, her beauty surpassed that of her mother. The father, hungry for a male heir and overcome by his own impurity, set his sights away from his wife.” Her fingers shook violently, but her voice was solid steel. “He killed his wife so he could marry his daughter.” To her relief, the prince was as disgusted as she had been. “She escaped, only to find he had followed her.”
“How does the story end?” he asked her quietly. The princess exhaled, her shoulders rising and falling gently
“When it reaches my ears, it will reach yours.”
The prince laid his hand atop the princess’ shaking fingers. Her ring glinted between them.
“I must go,” she murmured, rising.
“When will I see you again?” The prince called. She was faster than he was, hurrying past the trees and flowers.
“Tomorrow night,” she promised, sparing him a look. She met the nurse outside of the castle gates and they disappeared back to the house of the farmer’s wife.
“This ends. Tomorrow.” The princess’ words were soft, barely audible. The candlelights flickered as the nurse blew them out, nodding.
“Are you prepared? What is done cannot be undone.” The young woman was resolved, her voice unwavering as she said, “I will do what I must.”
When she slept, she dreamt of her mother.
Anger reverberated from the dress. It seeped from every glimmering jewel, dripped past rubies and diamonds. It burned from the harsh glare of the gown, even coiling itself around her mother’s ring. The color of the sun melted red and gold into one, a burnished glow that matched the fire she held within. She made this dress by herself, worked until her fingers bled. There was blood on the dress too, tiny, near invisible dots nestled between the rubies. More would join their crimson brethren before the sun rose the next morning.
“When you leave the prince tonight, leave through the servants quarters. You will find all you need there.” The words of the nurse encouraged the princess, helping to stave o the nerves beginning to eat at her.
When she arrived at the ball, she and the prince returned to the gardens.
“My father has demanded I choose a bride tonight,” he said. His fingers twitched, the princess noted. He was nervous.
“And have you chosen?” she returned, placing a steadying hand on his arm. He seemed to steel himself, taking her hand, his fingers ghosting over her ring.
“Will you have me?”
She may have, if not for her own resolve.
“I cannot.” She paused, a quick, fluttering thing that brushed past her senses. “It is not for lack of wishing, but for a matter I have left unresolved. There is something I must do first. And if that does not mar me in your eyes, then yes.” She exhaled, slipping the ring from her fingers and pressing it into his palm.
“To protect you.”
She fled then, evading the revelers and sneaking into the servants quarters. Her dress remained angry, but she noticed a subtle glow she had thought nothing of, an aimless pattern woven in near her heart. The gold winked up at her, its sparkle rebellious. The color of the sun was daylight.
The donkey skin was as dark as the stone tunnels. It shrouded the princess’ brilliant gown entirely, and the dagger she gripped as tightly as she could. Midnight had passed, and her ring was
safe. She did not wish to taint her mother’s legacy with her father’s horrors any further. She knocked upon the door to the room her father occupied, entering when he bid her. He recoiled at the sight of the skin, and she reveled in his disgust and discomfort. He deserved a fate worse than death for all he had done, and soon, he would have it.
“Is it true?” the donkey skin croaked, hobbling towards where he sat in his bed, “that you had a daughter?”
The king, none the wiser, said, “It is. But she will soon be returned to me.”
“Is it true,” the donkey skin coughed, “that you had a wife?”
Again, the king answered, “She was beautiful, for a time.”
“Is it true,” the donkey skin rasped, “that you killed them both?”
This time, the king sneered. “My wife did not fulfill her duties. My kingdom will have an heir and my daughter will provide it.”
“No,” the princess said, her voice level, “she will not.” Confusion lit in her father’s eyes and she cast o the skin. He threw his hands up to shield his eyes from the blinding light. By the time he tried to bring them down, the princess’ dagger was against his throat. It was then that the king looked, truly looked, at the woman before him. The recognition sparked in his eyes immediately. The princess’ whisper carried all the rage of her dress.
“Your legacy is dead.”
Her dagger flashed downwards, sinking into the flesh between his ribs. The king tried to shout but the princess screamed, drowning out his cries with her own shrieking. Blood covered her gown, spurting out with each swipe of her dagger into her father’s chest.
“He’s dead,” a voice called, cautious, shaking. She heard it as though underwater, hazed and distorted by her focus. She didn’t turn, locked into her movements. “He’s dead!”
“Leave me!” The princess shouted, breathing heavily. A familiar glint shone, reflecting o of the back of her gown. Her head slowly turned, hands stilling. She found the prince with both of his hands raised, her mother’s ring around his littlest finger.
“He’s dead,” the prince repeated, as if he’d known of this ending before she had. “Your mother is avenged. As are you.” He knew something, then, had gathered that the story she’d told him was her own. Slowly, the prince approached, reaching out to take the dagger from her. It clattered to the ground as she sunk into his arms, sobbing. The pair crashed to the floor, tightly entwined.
“How did you find me? How did you know?”
She could barely speak for all of her shaking, but she needed an answer.
“Your nurse. She recognized your ring and told me where to find you.”
Of course. The princess wiped her cheek, blood smearing her skin. The color of the end was scarlet, it seemed.
“Am I marred?”
He placed a hand against her cheek gently, wiping the blood with a trembling thumb. Yet when he spoke, his voice did not waver.
“This is not where the story ends.”
They rose, the donkeyskin discarded in a pool of blood. Hand in hand, the prince and the princess left the room.
Her mother’s ring gleamed.
The dead king’s skin had joined the skin of his beloved donkey, trapped behind glass within the castle, a reminder of the past that would never return. The nurse placed the queen’s ring on the princess’ right finger her left would soon be claimed.
The color of the beginning rang out jovially, soaring above all else.
