The wild mountain landscape brings on a fairy story..
Bhutan Fairytale by J.R.Moore
From their source high in the Himalayas, waterways gather power as they descend, their force intensified by the pathways of mountains. Amongst the forests where conifers mix with oak and rhododendron, black bears and snow leopards are safely camouflaged, and cascades of waterfalls create tumultuous rivers as they find the valley floors. Islands of pebbles make them run every which way, waves fighting fruitlessly to turn backwards as if striving to return to their source, a wild fury of resistance fearing what’s ahead, until inevitably they must submit to the greater power.
She was beautiful and tall in the green of her youth, a lighter brighter shade that would darken with the years. As the eldest daughter of the King of the Cypresses she was spoilt and could be prickly at times. Her lover was a young knight shining in his watery armour always rushing headstrong to rescue the thirst of the land. They had grown up together side by side, rooted in landscape. Their parents, rulers of their respective domains of forest and rivers, had always worked together to bring harmony and sanctuary to all living beings in the mountains.
Belle and Beau were coming to the age when parents start to talk about marriage. The two young people found this hilarious, particularly the choices their families presented to them. They wanted life to continue as it had all the delightful days of their childhood. On a barmy day in spring with rustlings of nest making and egg laying within Belles branches, her pet raven, Morgana, was pecking jealously at her mistress for attention as Belle kept a fond eye on her tenants. Beau was watching on in amusement. A shape-shifter, he was able to make waters fall in any variety of ways and loved nothing better than to entertain Belle with his repertoire: a perfect sheet of clear water dropping onto a gurgle of stones edging the water with lace, or hurling himself around large glistening boulders with a force that sent spray up into her dancing branches. Her pine needles prickled with delight and she squealed, do it again Beau, do it again! Only if you send me a cone as token of your love, responded Beau almost without thinking. It brought them both up short as they stared into each other savouring the meaning of those words. Things would never be the same. The lovers were shy at first as their childhood friendship was gradually replaced with one of courtship. Instinctively they knew their families would not approve and secrecy added to the drama of love. Morgana revelled in her new role as go-between carrying missives of adoration and teasing. As lovers they came together whenever they could at midnight when Beau would caress Belle’s feet with his sensuous flow and there would be murmurings of eternal devotion.
But of course within the thickly wooded mountain environment secrets were impossible to keep. In one of her flights as love postmistress Morgana made the mistake of landing unwarily on one of the sparse branches of the Queen Mother whose sense of smell for rumour was legendary. The network of fungal connections intertwined amongst her aged roots reached out across the mountains. She had noticed a new regularity in Morgana’s flights hither and thither, a cone in her beak and a flash of pine-scented notepaper peeping from one of its crevices. The Queen Mother secreted herself within the bird’s flight-path in the hope that Morgana would one day land. Once the ploy worked she whisked the cone from the bird’s beak with a deft lasso of one of the many lengths of mistletoe that hung dolefully from the stumps of her remaining branches. The Queen Mother regularly camouflaged herself in these widow’s weeds occasionally accompanying it with a show of dimwittedness. It was a useful pretense that enabled her to eavesdrop on the processes of power plays and to keep her son informed. She was widely understood to be the power behind the throne. Her daughter-in-law, while suitably beautiful and child bearing, was considered short of a few branches in the top canopy — a cypress neither of ideas nor ambition. It was the Queen Mother who fulfilled this role with gusto. Indeed, it was whispered amongst the rebellious courtiers on the west side of the mountain range, that this was why she had encouraged the marriage. Now, having discovered the disturbing contents of her granddaughter’s letter the Queen Mother made it clear to her son the King that a meeting in the family glade was urgent.
Blissfully unaware of what was afoot Belle was feeling neglected that Beau had not responded to her letter that day and irritated that Morgana was nowhere to be found. She responded to her father’s summons with ill grace. King Cypress was an imposing presence, all the more so because as a young child a bird had dropped the seeds of a bush onto his head and the resulting topknot of bright berries had earned him the title Cypress the Red. Belle my dear, he began, anticipating a scene from his feisty daughter. There is something we need to discuss with you. Yes Papa, replied Belle obediently but with a touch of boredom. Everyone except Beau bored her these days. It has come to our attention, her father continued indicating the letter, and here he paused. Belle of course instantly recognized it and froze for just a second. Then she went on the attack. Where did you get that, she snapped, that’s my private property. Your grandmother found it, her father replied.
She turned slowly on her grandmother, eyes narrowed. And where did you ‘find’ it, she demanded. That it is not the point Belle. What is important is that you have been conducting a most unsuitable relationship. That’s none of your business fired back Belle heatedly. It is. It definitely is our business my dear as you well know, and if you thought it was acceptable why did you feel you had to keep it a secret? Belle felt her pine needles turning to rapiers. She considered her grandmother’s bald canopy, stumpy lichen covered branches draped with parasitical ferns, and wondered if she could organize with Morgana to have a contract with a tree-cutter taken out on the Queen Mother. They had never really got on perhaps because they were so alike but they did share a respect for each other’s powers. Pointing needle fingers at her grandmother Belle retorted slowly enunciating each word, only a very old person who has forgotten what it is to love could ask that question. But her attempt to humiliate her grandmother was wasted. The Queen Mother remained unmoved and silent, turning to her son to discipline his wayward child. King Cypress towered over his daughter and ordered, you will cease seeing each other immediately Belle. I will speak to Beau’s father on the matter and I know he will agree with my decision. Belle, powerless, now flew into a fury, you’re all against us, we’re not hurting anyone and anyway you can’t stop us, she shouted at her family as she flounced from their presence.
Where was Morgana? That damn bird was behind all this Belle was sure of it. Feigning obedience she waited until midnight before she went in search of her lover at their favourite trysting place to warn him of her father’s intentions. There to her surprise she found Morgana sadly fluting the news to Beau. Belle grabbed angrily at the bird. Why did you betray us, you traitor, she screamed at Morgana who jumped slightly at the violence in her mistress’s voice and moved squawking to safer ground beyond her reach. You don’t understand, the bird cawed forlornly, I didn’t mean for it to happen, I didn’t look where I was landing and before I realized, she had snatched the cone from my beak and made off with it. She can move like streaked lightning for an ancient. Ugly crone, hissed Belle, isn’t there some way we can get rid of her? Belle what are you saying remonstrated Beau shocked. Their times together had always emphasized their better natures and he had never seen Belle in an ugly mood. Realizing she was disappointing him, Belle burst into tears. Oh Beau they’re going to separate us, we must do something, I can’t bear to think of life without you. My father is going to talk to your father. Can’t you convince him to defend us? I can try, said Beau without conviction, but they are such strong allies I think he will agree. And indeed he did.
Gossip whipped through the courts like winter rains through the forests drenching all sympathy. The thought of what the union between the lovers would produce in terms of offspring caused several of the courtiers to faint dead away into the valley below as if struck by lightning. Everyone agreed the King had made the right decision and many of the court were maliciously satisfied to see Belle’s haughty nature brought to heel. But for all her forthright confidence once approval was removed she crumpled. Her passion for Beau was deep and abiding and she was heartbroken in the way only possible when first love is knifed by parental censure.
At first in retaliation she plotted and planned devising revenge against her grandmother. In recent years the forests had looked on in dismay as the pygmies, who had once been happy to forge tracks among the trees for themselves and their livestock, had now invented thunder dragons that tore at the rocks and left large swathes of forest scarred and barren. The trees and waters could not understand why the pygmies would think this was a good idea but they also knew where the power lay. They knew they could do nothing about it. Watching the pygmies at work Belle noticed how they marked rocks with patterns of woollen thread before they let the thunder dragon free. The thought of manoeuvring her grandmother into the path of the thunder dragon, to see her deracinated and screaming for mercy as she slid splintering down the mountainside was extremely satisfying. But that was in the beginning. In her heart she knew her grandmother was far too cunning to ever allow herself to be placed in such danger. Belle believed the Queen Mother would outlive them all.
Gradually the feeling of isolation and disapproval destroyed all hope. Alone and shunned Belle drooped visibly as if her trunk had thinned and weakened. Her vibrant foliage turned dull and hung helplessly about her frame. The court no longer benefitted from her bright entertainments. The only sympathy she received in her grief was from her mother of whom she had until now been arrogantly dismissive. But her mother was a loving soul who realized her own treasure in being able to marry the love of her life. She always knew others didn’t regard her as good enough but it had never mattered because King Cypress did, and that was all she needed. She was bereft for her daughter whose strengths and weaknesses she understood so well. At first she thought time would do its healing work but as the months wore on and a year later Belle continued to wither, her mother was despairing. King Cypress too was wounded by his daughter’s decline but disappointed in her lack of mettle, given her lineage. But he would not relent, he could not relent.
There had been strict enforcement of the ban on the lovers having anything to do with each other and they had never managed to find ways of evading the ever present spies lying everywhere in wait. Beau too was heart sore and felt no other cypress could ever replace his resplendent Belle. His saving grace was his work. His father kept him busy watering forest and valley, always on the move, never still, never with the time that Belle had to sit and bemoan their fate.
As hope faded Belle sought an end to her suffering. The plan she had hatched for her grandmother now seemed the perfect solution. Patiently she waited as she watched a group of pygmies with the thunder dragon moving their work closer to Beau’s waterfall. She worked on a plan to have one last moment with him without caring who saw and before anyone could stop her. She chose a day busy with activity. It was the monsoon season and the late afternoon downpour turned the roads to bogs. As she approached him Beau was shocked at her physical transformation and any moment expected to see her restrained by a minder. Hello Beau, she said shyly, I wanted to see you just one last time. Beau’s cascades fell soft and silent in the rain. I needed, Belle sighed, I needed to tell you how much I love you before I join the thunder dragon. Beau didn’t understand what she meant. He was overcome with her presence trying to think what he should do, what he should say. And then he vowed the only thing he could, I love you too Belle, forever.
An enormous explosion rumbled through the forest. Groans reverberated through the forest as rocks began to dislodge and build momentum into a thundering landslide. Its force uprooted Belle sweeping her into Beau’s slipstream. Oh my lovely Belle, he choked, light of my life, he murmured as he carried her body gently all the many metres to the valley below. How often, he remembered, had they plotted escape. Why hadn’t they done it, he mourned? It was a deeply long and sad journey until they reached the valley where waterfall merged with its tempestuous tributary. As Belle’s once glorious frame merged with Beau and the roiling river, the water turned a gentle moss green. In the far distance where the rivers begin, the forest peaks reflect a deep blue juxtaposing the green of the valley rivers. The reversal of hues serve as an eternal reminder of the union of forest and river, and star-crossed lovers.
© Bhutan Fairytale J.R.Moore 2016
J.R. Moore grew up in country NSW on an asparagus farm. She writes fiction and memoir. She was a participant in Writer’s Journey - Creative In Bhutan, 2016.
The next trip heading out for artists and writers is Moroccan Caravan Jan 26 — Feb 8. Taste of Tibet is scheduled for June 7–17, 2017.
