“Write a short romantic story whether that be, historical, fantasy, erotica, rom-com, YA, Christmas romance etc…”

Author’s note: Three years ago, when I was taking part in The Literal Challenge’s ‘Like The Prose 2020’ competition, I wrote a short story involving a radio programme in which scholars discussed the Middle English poem ‘The Song of Pardal and Enara’ (https://writingatjaneandrews.com/2020/06/09/like-the-prose-day9/). (The poem doesn’t exist: I made it up for the purposes of the story.) When I was asked to choose one of the stories I’d written so far and rewrite it from a different perspective for another challenge, I wrote the story of the two ‘Lovebirds’ in prose (Like The Prose Day 29 | The Addicted Writer (writingatjaneandrews.com)). The following story is another variation of Pardal and Enara’s story, but this time, I’ve written it as a fairytale so I can give them both the happy ending they deserve.

The Ice Mountain

They had both grown up in the same village, sweethearts from the time they could toddle. He can still see her now, only five or six summers old, sitting in the meadow surrounded by daisies. She’d shown him how to thread the yellow and white flowers into a delicate chain and he’d placed it on her head, declaring her his queen. Back then, they hadn’t envisaged anything would ever separate them. They were Pardal and Enara: everyone in the village linked their names together.

She was thirteen summers when he’d kissed her for the first time and her lips had been as sweet as cherries. Harvest time came and went, but still he did not have the courage to ask her father if he might court her properly. Instead, they stole away as often as they could, spending innocent hours together, his head in her lap whilst she threaded daisies into a crown for him. He was still a boy; but if he could become apprenticed to the village bard, he would have a trade to offer her father, a way of showing he could provide for a family.

At first she laughed at him as he sat strumming his lute, trying to learn the fingerings. But when she realised he was serious about his apprenticeship – and that he was striving so hard for love of her – she took pity on him and sat by his side, accompanying his voice with her own sweet soprano. As he grew more confident, he whittled wood to make himself a set of pipes, and then he would play the songs she loved while her clear, pure notes chased his. And when he kissed her now, they both heard the stars singing.

Four more summers passed before their betrothal. He danced with her at Summersfest as he did every year, and when the village maidens shyly laid their wreaths at the feet of their intended, Enara laid hers at his. The following day, his parents met with hers and it was agreed that the handfasting would take place in six days’ time. Six days did not seem long to wait, but the promised celebration did not happen, for on the eve of their union, Enara disappeared.

*

Pardal sets his empty flagon down upon the table and regards the assembled company. This is the fiftieth if not the hundredth time he’s told his tale, travelling from one end of the land to the other in an attempt to find his bride and rescue her; but although he has stopped at every tavern, singing each night for his supper, no one can help him. As hours drag into days and days blur into one another, he finds his mind returning again and again to the happiness he and Enara had known in their village.

And he wonders if he will ever kiss her again.

Night after night, as he brings forth his pipes and his lute, his heart is heavy as he thinks of the girl with golden hair that he has loved and lost. He still sings the songs he first learned in an attempt to woo her, but the words now catch in his throat: they’re a reminder of everything he no longer has.

                        “He lost the girl with the golden hair

                        O, he lost his lover so bonny and fair

He lost the girl with the golden hair

To the king of the icy mountain.”

*

He’s putting away his lute one night when he notices the crone standing in front of him. The local wise woman. His heart quickens at the sight of her.

            “Your notes are true, Pardal of the Three Bridges,” she says, “but not your words. Your love has been stolen away by a sorcerer, not a king.”

            “Do you know where she is?” He hardly dares to hope.

            She nods slowly, something akin to pity in her eyes.

            “Far away,” she says, her cracked voice weaving a spell around him as he listens, “in a land where the sun rises in the west and sets in the east, there is a mountain made of solid ice. Atop the mountain stands a castle: that too is built from ice, and within that castle your bride is imprisoned. She has been frozen by Gelus, the ice sorcerer, because she refuses to marry him.”

            “How do I find the way?”

            “You must travel for a year and a day,” she tells him, “across the Sea of Glass and through the Forest of Forgetting. If you survive such a journey, you will find the land you are seeking. But be warned: the way is long and arduous, and the mountain is impossible to climb. It is a fool’s errand, Pardal Goldentongue, and one that bodes ill for anyone who undertakes it.”

            “Nevertheless, I must try,” he replies. “Mayhap I will perish in the attempt, but I could not sleep at night knowing that I had a chance to rescue my love and did not take it.”

            “Then may the gods watch over you.” She pauses. “Never forget the power of song. It will bring you hope when you feel only despair and warmth when you feel cold; it will sustain you when your belly roars with hunger and bring healing when you need it most.”

            Her shawl flurries around her and she is gone.

*

He continues to work his way across the land, never stopping more than one night in the same place; always earning his bed and board with the songs that make children dance and lovers gaze at each other dreamy-eyed. Sometimes he plays so softly that the mice cease their scurrying and sit spellbound, twitching their whiskers; spiders pause spinning their webs and sway in time to the lilting notes that tumble from his lute. At other times, the lively tunes from his pipe set the whole tavern jigging so that laughter fills the air and the tavern master’s takings are doubled. But every night, he ends with the song the wise woman mentioned: the ballad of the girl stolen by the king of the icy mountain; and each day brings him a little closer to his goal.

            It is many months before he reaches the Sea of Glass. He gazes at the crystalline waves and wonders if he can walk across them. But as soon as he sets foot upon the frozen water, it turna to liquid and he knows that to attempt such a crossing would be perilous. His heart stills. Has he come so far only to be defeated?

            Unable to think of anything else he can try, he takes up his lute and begins to play a song that speaks of wind and waves and a kingdom under the sea. On and on he plays, until his voice is hoarse and his fingers sore; and when he stops, he is surprised to hear a voice coming from the sea before him.

            “Your song has moved us, Child of Earth, and so we will grant you a boon. Choose wisely, for once spoken, words cannot be returned.”

            The speaker is a beautiful woman, rising out of the sea. A delicate crown sits upon her waist-length silver hair, and when he looks at her, she is both young and old at the same time.

            “Grant me passage across the sea,” he begs her, “for I must rescue my true love who has been stolen away from me by Gelus, the ice sorcerer.”

            At this she sighs and the sound is the whisper of the ocean. “Crossing my sea would avail you naught,” says she, “for on the other side lies the Forest of Forgetting, and once you set foot inside it, you will no longer remember your true love.”

            “Nevertheless, I must try,” Pardal replies. “Mayhap it will turn out as you say, but I could not sleep at night knowing that I had a chance to rescue my love and did not take it.”

            “Then may the gods watch over you,” says the Queen of the Sea. She pauses. “When you enter the forest, do not forget the power of song. If your voice charmed me, it will charm my sister also; and she and only she has the power to help you through her realm.”

            She raises her arms and the sea becomes glass once more.

“Walk in safety, Child of Earth,” she says.

Pardal stretches out his foot and steps upon the solid surface. Walking carefully, he soon reaches the far shore and sees the Forest of Forgetting stretching out before him. He turns to thank his benefactress, but the waves flurry around her and she is gone.

*

The Forest of Forgetting looks dark and mysterious. Tall trees tower above Pardal as he approaches the entrance. For a moment, he pauses, heeding the warning the Queen of the Sea gave him: “once you set foot inside it, you will no longer remember your true love.”

Unable to think of anything else he can try, he takes up his lute once more and begins to play a song that speaks of the wind blowing through twigs and branches, and sap flowing through the veins of the trees. He sings of birds building their nests and squirrels scampering along boughs. On and on he plays, until his voice is hoarse and his fingers sore; and when he stops, he is surprised to hear a voice coming from the forest before him.

            “Your tune has moved us, Child of Song, and so we will grant you a boon. Choose wisely, for once spoken, words cannot be returned.”

            The speaker is a beautiful woman, emerging from one of the trees. A delicate crown sits upon her waist-length green hair, and when he looks at her, she is both young and old at the same time.

            “Grant me passage through your forest,” he begs her, “for I must rescue my true love who has been stolen away from me by Gelus, the ice sorcerer.”

            At this she sighs and the sound is the soughing of the wind in the trees. “Safe passage through my forest would avail you naught,” says she, “for if Gelus has stolen your true love, she will be entombed in ice in the sorcerer’s castle and no no-one can rescue her.”

            “Nevertheless, I must try,” Pardal replies. “Mayhap it will turn out as you say, but I could not sleep at night knowing that I had a chance to rescue my love and did not take it.”

            “Then may the gods watch over you,” says the Queen of the Forest. She pauses. “When you reach the Ice Mountain, do not forget the power of song. It will bring you strength when you feel weary and joy when you feel sorrow; it will sustain you when all else seems hopeless and it will reunite the two broken halves of the whole.”

            She raises her arms and Pardal finds that he has traversed the forest in the blink of an eye. He turns to thank his benefactress, but leaves swirl around her and she is gone.

*

It takes many months before he finally reaches the land where the sun rises in the west and sets in the east and sees the mountain made of solid ice. His once youthful face now sports a beard, and his clothing hangs from him in tattered rags. Nevertheless, the sight of the mountain makes his heart leap for he knows that he has almost reached his beloved Enara.

            Try as he might, the mountain seems impossible to climb. His feet and fingers fumble for purchase only to slide off the smooth, slippery surface. For a night and a day he tries, and still he remains at the bottom. Has he come so far only to be defeated?

            “Do not forget the power of song…”

            His voice charmed the Queen of the Sea and the Queen of the Forest but it cannot charm a mountain.

            “Do not forget the power of song…”

            His voice is not his only instrument. He has his lute and his pipes.

            Plucking his pipes from his knapsack, he regards them thoughtfully. Perhaps they could help him in another way.

            Carefully, he pulls his pipes apart. Using the wooden tubes as chisels, he carves steps into the ice and begins to climb. On and on he goes, higher and higher, scaling the mountain with sheer determination. At first, his fingers hurt with the cold; then they become numb; and finally, frostbite sets in – but he will not give up. Cold seeps into his bones and his bloodstream almost freezes, but he carries on.

            Finally, he reaches the top, exhausted and broken, and trudges towards the castle. The door is frozen shut, but he has come too far to let something like this stop him. Ignoring the pain in his blackened fingers, he takes up his lute and begins to play. Despite the icy cold seeping inside his head, he manages to coax some semblance of a tune from the weary strings, and each note he plays shimmers in the air until the whole mountaintop rings with the sound and the door creaks slowly open.

            Inside the vast, empty castle, endless corridors stretch before him. He will walk every one of them if he has to – if this is the only way to find Enara.

            As if in a dream, he begins to drag himself down the first passageway, pushing open heavy oaken doors, desperately calling for his love.

            At last, he finds her – encased in a block of ice. She has been frozen as the crone foretold. His fingers are now too stiff and cold to play his lute, so he sings. His chest hurts with each note that rips from him, but he will not give up. He sings of the fields and streams in their village, of the flowers and birds and summer sunshine; and finally, he sings of his love for Enara.

            Inside her block of ice, Enara begins to sing too; and as their voices join, the ice around her melts.

*

Enara runs to her lover but he is half-dead from cold and exhaustion. Flinging her arms around him, she sings. He has no voice left, but hers is clear and true. As she sings, the blood begins to flow once more in his veins and his colour is restored. Hand in hand, they stand and sing, and the castle of ice melts around them.