The Birthday Story
With a punch of sharpsulfur, the little match snapped to life, flame biting at its wooden stump, hungry for a wick to feed on.
My godfather’s voice rose out of the dark like a ghoul crawling from its crypt, all rustling leaves and the smoky taste of autumn.
“There once was a very foolish huntsman who lived at the heart of the Gravia Forest.”
The match’s flame was nearly at his fingertips, eager to singe his skin, the wooden stick all but spent, but he paid no mind.
“We don’t have to do this, you know,” I said, and offered him a long taper to light. It was amber in color, rich and golden and warm and lovely.
The candle cast dancing shadows across my cottage as the flame grew stronger, more resolute. I met Merrick’s eyes—a strange combination of silver and red irises surrounded by a void of pure black—and smiled. I could recite this story by heart, but I let him tell it. It was his favorite part of my birthday.
“Throughout his life, this very foolish huntsman made seriesafter series of very foolish decisions, until at long last, on one particular night, he finally made one very clever choice.” With a swift snap of his elongated, knobby fingers, the match went out, and a curl of silvery smoke wafted into the rafters. “The huntsman, you see, though very poor and very foolish, had somehow found himself a very pretty, very young wife.”
“And we all know what happens when very poor men have very pretty wives,” I cut in, unable to help myself.
“They’re blessed with lots of pretty children,” Merrick intoned testily. “Are you telling this story or am I?”
Turning from him, I peeked into the oven, checking on the bread. Birthday tradition or not, we both needed to eat—well,Ineeded to eat—and supper wouldn’t prepare itself.
“Sorry, sorry,” I said, grabbing for the loaf pan with towel-covered hands. “Go on.”
“Now, where was I?” he asked with practiced theatricality. “Oh yes, the children. The many,manypretty children. First one or two, then, before you know it, four, five, six, and so on and on, until you come to a complete dozen. Twelve lovely, perfect, and pretty children. Most men would have stopped long before, but I do believe I’ve already quite established that this huntsman was particularly foolish.”
“You have,” I agreed, as I always did.
He looked pleased. “I have. And so the years went by—as years so often do—and the very foolish huntsman got older—as mortals also so often do. More villages and towns sprouted up along the edge of the Gravia, and the forest was no longer as plentiful as it had been in the days of the huntsman’s youth. Without game to sell and with so many mouths to feed, the very foolish huntsman despaired,wondering how much longer he could support his ever-growing family.”
“And then one day—”
“And then onenight,” my godfather corrected me, peevish. “Really, Hazel, if you insist upon interrupting my narrative flow, you might at least make sure your details are right.” He tapped my nose with a disappointedtsk.“And then one night, while in bed, the very foolish huntsman’s very pretty wife told him she was carrying yet another child.
“ ‘Thirteen children!’ he cried. ‘How will I ever provide for thirteen children?’ ”
This was the part of the story I most hated, but Merrick never seemed to notice my discomfort. He always threw himself with gusto into the role of the very pretty wife, his usually graveled voice rising to an acute falsetto, hands clasped with girlish affectation.
“ ‘We could get rid of it as soon as it’s born,’ the very pretty wife offered. ‘Drop it into the river and let it fend for itself. Someone is sure to find it. Someone is sure to hear the cries. And if they don’t…’ She shrugged and the huntsman gaped at her, suddenly frightened. How had he failed to notice his wife’s black heart?
“ ‘We could leave it at one of the temples in town,’ he suggested instead.”
I pictured myself as a baby, swaddled among the reeds and clay mud of a riverbank as frigid water seeped into my basket, rising higher and higher. Or at a temple’s orphanage, one of dozens of children jostling for every scrap of food or ounce of attention, crying louder and louder but never truly heard.
Merrick held up his pointer finger. It was so much longer than his others, crooked at the knuckles like the limb of a contorted beechtree. “ ‘Or you could consider giving her to me,’ called a soft and silvery voice from deep within the cabin.
“ ‘Who…who is there?’ the huntsman dared to ask. His voice trembled as his wife tried to push him from their bed to ward off the intruder.”
“And who should stroll out from those dark and shadowy depths but the Holy First,” I said, now in the dining room, smoothing the creases in my floral tablecloth.
Merrick rolled his eyes. “Of course it was the First, and of course she promised to take and raise the hapless babe, nurturing her into a good and beautiful child, a postulant of perfect devotion and grace.
“ ‘Who are you to offer such a thing?’ demanded the very pretty wife, feeling not quite as pretty as usual as she faced the beatific goddess.
“ ‘Do you really not know me, mortal?’ the goddess asked, tilting her head with curiosity, her eyes burning like opals behind her gauzy veil.”
Merrick cleared his throat, relishing the narration.
“The very foolish huntsman pushed his wife aside. ‘Of course we know you,’ he clamored. ‘But we would not welcome you as godmother to this child. You are the Holy First, all love and light and things of beauty. But your love has brought nothing but poverty to my wife and me. Twelve children in as many years, with another on the way! Our thirteenth will manage just fine without you.’ ”
