Adapted for a Big Quiz, Literary Appreciation 11 Nov 2016.

The Silver Link, The Silken Tie

A Fractured Fairytale
Kate Stone Matheson
Once upon a time, in a far-off (naturally) kingdom, there lived a young princess.
Her name was, a little unfortunately, Porcupine. This was not, luckily for her, because she was
prickly in nature, small, brown, and covered in spikes, with a tendency to eat leaves and curl up
for the winter. No. It was, rather, due to her mother possessing truly abysmal hand-writing, and
as per the traditions of their country, her name was only announced by a herald twenty-four
hours after the birth, and he was handed the name in a note, or perhaps it should be said a
scribble, from the queen. Her ideal profession would have been physician, if handwriting experts
had been doling out the jobs the day she popped onto the throne.
Crown Princess Porcupine should have been Crown Princess Penelope, but thankfully, by order
of the royal parents, everyone was rather intoxicated on good whisky at the time of the
announcement and far too hungover in the days following to think about it in any great detail.
Besides which, the royal family were much loved, and so it never came up.
It should also be mentioned that said kingdom was not actually a kingdom. It was for all intents
and purposes a queendom, as the crown was handed down first born daughter to first born
daughter. If there was no daughter, it rather grudgingly went to the first born son, until a girl
arrived, in which circumstance the whisky flowed like well, like whisky, and villeins and
nobles alike were willing to accept someone named Beelzebub without demur, as long as the
Princess of Darkness brought them some aspirin, and was extremely quiet whilst she did so.
Two weeks after Crown Princess Hedgey (thankfully for the poor girl, they had realised any
shortening of Porcupine would immediately lead to body image issues, and thus reached for an
alternative nickname) took up residence in the royal nursery, it was time for her meet and greet
with dignitaries around the neighbourhood, otherwise known as her christening.
It should be said the prospect of this occasion didnt fill her parents with a great deal of joy.
Why, demanded Queen Sophie (obviously her mother had beautiful handwriting) of Duke
Stefan, her devoted husband, do we have to have a ruddy christening at all? I mean, its not as
though she needs any gifts, shes crown princess, for the love of lambchops! And every time this
place has a christening, something and here she paused, and looked around furtively, before
lowering her voice something always goes wrong, thanks to one of the airyfay
odmothersgay.
The last word was hissed out between her teeth.
The gay oddmothers? Thats very progressive for your people, darling, to have an LGBTQI
contingent involved. You arent known for your tolerant stance on serving white wine with red

meat, let alone lifestyle choices. Have I got the initials right? I tend to get them wrong, quite
often in fact, said Duke Stefan with a frown, making a mental note to check his acronyms.
Not gay oddmothers! I was speaking Pig Latin! Being secretive! Chuh! the queen said, in
exasperation, but quite fondly, because she loved her husband dearly. Not that I am opposed to
gay oddmothers or oddfathers, for that matter am I Crispin? she tacked on hastily, as she
saw her chief butler and all round factotum raise a perfectly groomed eyebrow at the mention of
oddmothers.
Certainly not, your Majesty, he said smoothly. You are known for your tolerance for all of our
Goddesss creatures. Especially those who are in desperate need of a salary increase, and who
now feel they may achieve it quite quickly. If I may, your Royal Highnesses, interject here for a
moment although there have been, shall we say, small issues in the past with certain er, fairy
godmothers, I feel certain on this joyous day, we shall have no such problems.
The queen looked at him. He buffed his nails on his coat, and stared straight ahead.
Why do you say that, Crispin?
He looked at her and smiled. Broadly.
Because I havent invited any of them, your Majesty. Now, how many cases of champagne do
you think we shall require? Two or three hundred? Your father is attending, remember.
Dear Goddess. Better make it four.
Of course, your Majesty.
Maybe five.
I am already ahead of you, your Majesty.
Thank you, Crispin. You smartarse.
Excuse me, your Majesty?
I said you are without surpass, Crispin.

The day of Hedgeys christening dawned sunny, clear, and azure blue, as radiantly lovely as the
Queen herself, who was fidgeting wildly on her throne, waiting for someone to bring the baby to
her so that they could start the ceremony. As confident as Crispin was, she still had a feeling of
foreboding about something going wrong. She wasnt a stupid woman, after all, despite her
appalling writing. Her beautiful little Porcupine didnt need any cursing to start her life; she
already had the curse of a horrible name.
The bugles suddenly sounded, making Queen Sophie nearly fall off her stately seat. For the love
of oh, but there was her beloved little girl, being brought forth through the crowds of

distinguished guests, carried by her nurse, who for some reason had decided to wear a great ugly
hood over her head. Sophie sighed. Obviously shed been at the fizz a bit early.
She reached out her arms, ready to take Hedgey, and dedicate her to the Goddess. But young
Quinella didnt hand her over. The queen gestured a bit crossly. Come on, Quinella. Give her to
me, haha. Time we all got a move on.
Oh, Im afraid not, your Majesty came a voice from under the hood. A voice far smoother, and
far more silky and star-strewn than that of the country-bred Quinella.
No, I think and the hood was thrown back, revealing jet black hair, pale, pale skin, and the
glittering cold green eyes of a serpent, of a cat, of a heartless jade that we have all the time in
the world.
And the fairy godmother, who had decided to invite herself to the christening, snapped her
fingers, leaving all except herself, Sophie, and little Porcupine frozen in alarm and horror.
What are you doing here, Hellebore? Sophie hissed.
What, not happy to see your own dear sister?, asked Hellebore mockingly. (By the way; also a
good name. Porky er, Hedgey really missed out, didnt she.)
You know I am extremely unhappy to see you. I could only be happy to see you if you were
covered in crocodiles, and were being reborn as the lining of a handbag! Now give me my
daughter!
Or what? Youll write my name down and make it sound like Hambone? sneered Hellebore. I
am petrified. I am shaking in my extremely expensive stilettos. No, I think I will hold onto her
for a moment. After all, I have yet to give her my blessing, as her fairy godmother or for that
matter, her gift.
Sophie stopped, and looked genuinely terrified.
Please, Helly dont. Dont do this.
Her sister looked at her.
Then give me the crown.
Sophie bowed her head.
You know I cant do that. I cannot give my people to you. Mother would never forgive me.
Hellebore sneered again. Mother is dead. Very well. Porcupine, you vile little creature, as the
baby looked up at her trustingly, and laughed, winding her aunts long black hair around her tiny
fingers ugh, stop that! I give you the means of your own emancipation from situations that
displease you. What every woman wants, isnt that right, Sophie?
Sophie looked at her uncertainly. I yes, I suppose so.
Hellebore was enjoying herself.

Yes, little Porcupine. Take these and she laid a pair of beautifully engraved silver scissors on
the babys firmly swaddled small body. When you reach your twenty-first birthday, when you
say these words and she leaned down and whispered to the child.
What did you say to my daughter? said Sophie, suddenly fearful.
Hellebore smiled at her, maliciously.
Why, I merely gave her an incantation of choice. The cut direct, if you will. The first person
she calls out to, whom she loses her temper with, who is cruel, or forbids her from doing what
she wants, will have their life snipped in two. Their journey will be severed; they , and here
she almost threw the baby at her sister, and turned to leave
Will die.
She snapped her fingers, and in a cloud of black, rather oily smoke, was gone, leaving suddenly
animated people in an uproar, and the queen on her knees, clutching her baby, and sobbing
wildly.
Time passed, as time does, and young Porcupine, despite never, ever being told off, or refused a
thing by anyone, grew to be a rational, even-tempered, kind and yes, quite good-looking young
lady, with a nice word for all, a quick sense of humour and a rather nice turn in irony. How she
turned out not to be a squalling, horrible little shit is a mystery, to be honest. You think about it.
What would you be like if every time you asked for something, it was yours, no questions asked?
If you went to the home of a subject, and saw, say, a pretty dress despite having cupboards full
of them and said oh, Id like that, and were immediately (miserably perhaps, and through
gritted teeth) presented with it? I bet youd say well, cheers, me old china, take it back to the
palace and promptly forget about it.
Not young Hedgey. She was horrified at the thought of someone giving up a treasured frock, and
refused whenever her mouth acted before her brain caught up. Graciously, and sweetly, quite
often with a joke, but refusing; and was all the more beloved for it.
What she couldnt understand was why people always gave in to her. Her little brother, Arsenic
(Arthur, scribble scribble scribble) was always getting belted over the ear if he so much as
demanded a second helping of pudding! Admittedly, he was a little fatty, but that didnt explain
it. She thought about it as she dutifully embroidered a sampler one afternoon. She hated
embroidery, but she was scared to say so, because of course shed never have to do it again, and
she loved using her special scissors. They were so marvellously snippy. They almost seemed
to talk to her, which she was careful not to mention. She knew what happened to princesses who
heard things talking to them. Just look at her cousin Snow White, who had that bluebird on her
shoulder. She got sent off to the Seven Brothers Asylum for the Royally Disturbed, and nobody
was allowed to visit.
Crispin appeared before her, in that noiseless way he had.
Do excuse me, Crown Princess, but I was just wondering your plans for your upcoming
twenty-first birthday he said, with care.

She snapped her scissors together at him, which he winced at. She wondered why; it wasnt as if
she would hurt him!
No Crispin! No celebrations! I know my mother is not keen, and therefore neither am I.
But the people he said feebly.
Oh, of course they must celebrate! I expect the whole country to run with champagne, and
whisky, and no doubt with other things the next day that are less attractive! But for me no.
No. The last said very firmly.
His brow cleared. Oh, well, thats alright then, your Royal Highness. As long as the people are
able to er, drink to your health, then I think we shall manage to keep a low profile for yourself.
Excellent. Well, I shall leave you and your er, companion to your embroidery, shall I? By the
way, you have spelled welcome with two ells. He bowed and stepped backwards.
Oh bugger, so I have, and she clashed her scissors together. Crispin visibly paled, and fled.
Now what was that about? she muttered, and sighed. She put the scissors on a side table, where
they gleamed in the light. Watchful, and humming in alertness, they waited.
The day of Porcupines twenty-first dawned just as clear and sunshine-filled as her christening.
Queen Sophie, still beautiful, although a little greyer, took Stefans hand, trembling, as they
approached breakfast together. The doors were opened to the second dining parlour by the third
and fourth footmen, and the royal couple passed through.
Hedgey was already at the table, stuffing her face with bacon and eggs, with her little brother
Arsenic across the table.
Oh hello Mummy, Father. Lovely day.
Happy Birthday, my darling girl, said her mother, bending to kiss her, and snapping her fingers
to the first footman, who came forward with a tray of presents. He was followed by her father,
who hugged her fiercely. They took their seats, watching her glowing face, as she smiled in
pleasure and surprise.
But I dont need anything! Oh how lovely! Arsenic, do you want to come and help me?
Her brother, who despite being somewhat of a chubster, was not a bad egg for a younger sibling,
rushed around the table.
Hedgey produced her scissors, and started cutting strings, not seeing the look of fear that rushed
between her parents. Arsenic was tearing paper, not worrying about strings, nor ribbons, or
anything. He was in full auto-boy, with his eyes on the possibly model-plane based prize (hey,
you never know, right).
Porcupine found herself growing unaccountably annoyed. Some of that paper was quite
beautiful!
Arsenic, take a little more care, you rathead, she said, still fairly evenly.

No response. Tear, tear, tear.

Arsenic, please. This more sharply.
Rip, tear.
Stop it, I say!
If anything his movements grew more frenzied.
Porcupine stood up, clashing the scissors together horribly.
The queen and her duke stood too, their faces contorted in horror. This was it. Hellebore had
succeeded. She had cursed their daughter, and it seemed she had cursed their son as well.
But she had not considered the variable in making a curse on an unknown quantity. It is exactly
that.
An unknown.
And Porcupine loved her brother. Like her parents, and her country, her people, he was part of
her silver link to the world, her silken tie.
Porcupine cried out whoever you are, you are not behaving as my brother would! He is not so
selfish and horrible as you but I wish you, you horrible creature, were dead!
The boy Arsenic looked at her, and with a horrible wail, crumpled to the floor, and faded away,
leaving behind the figure of a tall woman with pale, pale skin, long jet black hair, and green,
green eyes, the colour of jade, the colour of a poison snake, now sightless and staring to the sky.
Arsenic broke the fascinated and awed silence by wandering in, stepping blithely over the body,
and saying Happy Birthday, Hedgey! Ohhh presents!
He looked up at his sister, who was still standing open-mouthed, the scissors opening and closing
aimlessly in her hand.
Dyou think, he asked hopefully, theres a model plane in one of them?
There is no real moral to this story. Why should there be? Its just a story. But for those
who need dry biscuits with their delicious runny Brie and brioche, here you go:
Dont forget to invite fairy godmothers to christenings. They get really shitty when left out of
celebratory occasions. And take pride in your handwriting, otherwise you may well end up
naming your child Jelly one day.
Oh, and dont run with scissors. Its just stupid.