The Tale of Princess Peaseblossom
by Kumi Tømmerbakke
November 2007
Princess Peaseblossom winds her way up several flights of spiral stairs, all the way up to the
Ivory Tower which is now designated as her office. Once up there, she pulls out a pile of
parchment from an escritoire, sharpens a quill, dips it into ink and stares thoughtfully at the
blank space. How to begin? The title of this document is so important. It has to generate
interest for her project. She writes hesitantly: How to Become a Princess.
A good start. Of course, she doesn’t mean a real princess. Only blood and lineage or marriage
to a prince can accomplish that. She means a princess in bearing, a princess, what’s the new
phrase for it? at heart! But does her title need more? It’s not just about creating princesses.
She adds: And Influence People. She rereads the whole title. How to Become a Princess and
Influence People. There. Much better. That expresses her intention. A little long, perhaps, but
not to be misunderstand.
Now to the main text. This is the really difficult part. Of course people will expect to hear
something of her own history and Manuscripts-Are-Us have intimated that they expect a
pungent mix of racy personal details and self-help counsel. “It’s not every day that a real
princess reaches out to the general public,” as her counsellor at Manuscripts-Are-Us chortled
gleefully. This is something we have to capitalise on.” Something for everyone is to be her
guiding principle. She begins:
I was born to King Basil V and Queen Freesia, as one of three daughters. My twin sisters,
Princess Hydrangea and Princess Willow, were several years older than me. My father had
always desired an heir. He was delighted when my brother, Prince Heath, was born two years
after myself, Princess Peaseblossom.
What memories the act of writing about the past evokes, meditates Princess Peaseblossom.
Her sisters, Hydrangea and Willow, known in the family as High and Low, with their soignée
manners, were true princesses. Their father, Basil, roaring through the castle, bending
everyone to his bidding, was a fiercesome figure. Queen Freesia, with her regal, imperious
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manner, was every inch a queen. Heath, Heath the Heathen, pinching his sisters, pulling their
hair, stealing sweetmeats, swigging mead on the sly, was the indulged and favoured son and
heir. And she herself, little Pea, scuttling behind her nurse’s skirts at every sudden sound and
bursting into tears at the slightest altercation, was happy to keep out of harm’s way, often
curled up in some cosy corner, devouring the latest fairytale.
But is the start of my tale good enough? ponders Princess Peaseblossom. Does it live up to the
expectations of Manuscripts-Are-Us and the discerning public? Should I have started thus?
Once upon a time there were two princesses, Hydrangea and Willow, born just fifteen minutes
apart. Their younger sister, Peaseblossom, was born four years later and two years after that,
their brother, Heath. The princesses and prince lived with their parents, King Basil V and
Queen Freesia, in an imposing and resplendent castle, and they were as happy as the day was
long.
But isn’t it rather passé with a fairytale start just because the tale happens to be about
princesses? she muses. These are no longer the Dark Ages. Father was always a firm believer
in Progress. Not for him the soothsayers crouched over the stinking entrails of carcasses and
muttering predictions of a doubtful future. He surrounded himself with alchemists and the
very best astronomers of the age. Princess Peaseblossom shakes herself out of her reverie and
returns to her tale.
One day as the young princesses were relaxing in the garden and Heath was elsewhere,
amusing himself by swinging two cats by their tails, a young man entered the garden.
“Pray, who are you?” asked Hydrangea. She always took the lead.
“I am Peregrine, the boy next door,” he replied.
“Whatever are you doing in our garden?” asked Willow, indignantly.
“I am on a quest,” answered the swain. I have to solve the quintessential quandary.”
I, dear readers, plucked up courage and inquired of him in a trembling voice.
“Could you please let us know what the question is?”
“Yes, indeed,” he said, frankly. “This is it.”
Without quibble or quaver
what quaint quartet
will quicken your quotes
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by a queue of the alphabet.
“What absolute nonsense,” snorted Hydrangea. “We cannot concern ourselves with childish
riddles.”
“We are too busy being princesses,” stated Willow, haughtily. “Have you any idea how much
time and effort go into becoming the perfect princesses that we are?”
“No, I thought one was just born a prince or princess.” Peregrine asserted.
“Of course one is. But it requires an inordinate amount of practice to become perfect.”
Hydrangea retorted regally.
Both Hydrangea and Willow chanted in unison.
“There is drilling in Posture, and instruction in Polish. Not to mention, tuition in
Presentation and initiation in Pedigree. This will culminate in Perfection. We will become
Perfect Princesses.”
“That sounds queasily queer. I have quenched my curiosity and must needs be off and renew
my quest. Well, quick march. My quarry awaits,” and with those words the young man
disappeared out of the garden.
“What a handsome youth! “ Hydrangea exclaimed.
“What beautiful posture and such warm dark eyes!” Willow sighed.
“Did you notice how everything he said seemed to begin with the letter Q? I inquired. “Could
it be that he is on a quest for items beginning with Q?”
“Who cares? I have a plan as regards that young lad,” rejoined Hydrangea, rudely. And with
those words, she skipped out of the garden in a most un-princess-like manner.
Princess Peaseblossom puts down her quill and rests her head in her hands. Will my readers
realise the significance of these words? she marvels. The passage just written reveals how she
happened upon The Five Pearls of Princesshood that her whole enterprise rests upon. But I
cannot make it too obvious, of course, or my readers might assume that I have purloined the
idea from Hydrangea and Willow, or Mother, for that matter.
I must continue with the story, she states. Perhaps a few erotic details are called for. After all,
it is imperative the manuscript sells well. How did the counsellor from Manuscripts-Are-Us
describe it? “We would like your manuscript to be a pulsating page-turner and a magnificent
marketstall-overturner!”
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Hydrangea and Willow had fallen in love that afternoon, and with the same young man. Both
decided on different strategies to try and win his favour. Hydrangea climbed the stairs to the
uppermost chamber in the castle and nothing would induce her to come down. Her nickname,
High, took on new meaning. When we grew tired of dragging trays of food up to her, we
would even call her Hide. She grew her hair long and uncoiled it through the skylight in the
hopes that Peregrine would hear of her predicament and climb to her rescue.
As the weeks went by, she began to despair of ever being discovered by her one true love,
when who should ride by, but one Prince Hereward? He saw the long coil of hair outside the
castle wall and grasped her situation. Before you could blink an eyelid, he had scrambled up
her hair and into the castle. Hydrangea wept and wrung her hands and threatened to run
away when she realised that it was not Peregrine who was her rescuer. In some ways Father
was peculiarly old-fashioned. He was adamant that Hydrangea had to marry Prince
Hereward and that he was to be given half of the kingdom.
Princess Peaseblossom emits out a satisfied chuckle. Serves Hydrangea right! She thought her
plan was foolproof, but any dunce would realise the pitfalls. Of course her twin fared no
better.
Willow’s scheme entailed retreating into the bowels of the earth to where dragon Fang had
his lair. She had packed a basket of tasty titbits in the hopes that he would approach her and
take her captive. Fang was old and his bones were creaky. He certainly wasn’t interested in a
tough damsel, but Willow was not to be deterred. She curled up into Fang’s lap and wrapped
large chains around her ankles so that it would appear she was shackled to him. We could
hear her blood-curdling shrieks for help at regular intervals. So could another passing
prince, Tarquin, from a faraway kingdom by the sea. He drew his sword and, killing Fang
with one well-aimed thrust, he dragged Willow out of the cave. Of course she was furious
when she discovered how her plan had back-fired. Low was indeed brought low by her
cunning. Father arranged a second stately wedding for Willow and Tarquin and gave Tarquin
the other half of the kingdom.
And now comes the difficult part, thinks Princess Peaseblossom. How to tell the story of my
own quest for love without losing the sympathy of the reader? And what about the erotic
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details the counsellor expects. How does one write of physical love without making people
squirm in discomfort?
I had not failed to notice the same details about young Peregrine that my sisters had. My
heart beat faster as I recalled his glossy dark hair and flashing eyes. I felt many a disturbing
quiver run through me as I summoned up the shape of his luscious lips. I longed to press
myself against the length of his muscular body. But how was this to be accomplished? I had
witnessed the failure of both Hydrangea and Willow’s best-laid plans. Though lovelorn, I
determined to apply my intelligence to the task. And then it dawned on me. Was not Peregrine
on a quest? If I could solve his conundrum I would surely increase my chances of winning his
heart?
Without quibble or quaver
what quaint quartet
will quicken your quotes
by a queue of the alphabet.
After much thought and worrying at the problem and consulting my manuscripts, I arrived at
the words; quarto, quire, quiz, and quill.
I sought out Peregrine, who was so delighted at my solving the mystery that he proposed to
me on the spot. I accepted him at once and revelled in kissing his delectable mouth. We were
wed, but alas, Father had no kingdom left to bestow on him. We must needs earn a living.
Quill became the operative word. Both Peregrine and I had always immersed ourselves in
reading manuscripts and fairytales. We discovered we had a talent for writing. Peregrine
gained some measure of success for the slim manuscripts he wrote, but not as much as either
of us had hoped for.
That is when I decided to use my princess status to help young women discover their inner
princess. I have started a school for the perfect princess and to promote The Five Pearls of
Princesshood:
Posture
Polish
Presentation
Pedigree
Perfection
And with every manuscript the reader receives a real pearl.
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Princess Peaseblossom yawns luxuriously. I see a series of manuscripts stretching into the
future, she sighs contentedly. The next one will be called The Five Pearls of Princesshood.
Written from a different angle and highlighting other issues facing today’s young damsel in
the pursuit of her inner princess. Perhaps I’ll launch a new concept for the mature matron, The
Quest for Queendom. There might even be a children’s manuscript, too, The Quaint Crown.
About modern-day princesses. Why we wear our crown within and not without, perhaps?
And with a final flourish, Princess Peaseblossom puts away her quill in her escritoire and
skips all the way down the spiral stairs with her precious manuscript tucked securely in her
bodice.
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