Prologue The Tale of the Twelve Hunters, as It Has Been Inaccurately Recorded
Prologue
The Tale of the Twelve Hunters,
as It Has Been Inaccurately Recorded
You might have heard the story of the twelve hunters during your childhood. It’s in the same book as the fables about the princess imprisoned in the tower, the children who found a gingerbread house, and the woman who lost her shoe at a party.
Although the story was based on true events, they were recounted by those who half remembered them to those who had never witnessed them at all. Unlike the other tales, it is frequently skipped or ignored. Which is a great pity, in my opinion, because I am in it.
As it has come down through the ages, it goes something like this:
Once upon a time, when the world was younger and the stars burned a little more brightly, a prince was engaged to a woman he loved beyond measure. She loved him just as much in turn. Many were the occasions they would sit together, speaking of nothing but how deeply they loved each other.
“I love you,” he would proclaim—and proclaim it he did, for this was in the days when it was considered poor form to merely “say” something, and everyone was required to proclaim, declaim, avow, or otherwise speak more ostentatiously. So: “I love you,” he would proclaim.
“I love you more,” she would avow.
“That is impossible, for I love you most of all,” he would declare. “There can be no love that is greater than mine.”
“But my love for you is impossible,” she would counter, “because I love you even more than the greatest amount of love one person could ever feel for another. I win.”
“You cheated,” he would sulk.
“You still lost!” she would gloat. “Suck on your loss, loser.”
And then they would make out.
One day, right in the middle of this nonsense, when they were eagerly anticipating the argument’s aftermath, a messenger arrived with an urgent message.
“What is it?” the prince snapped.
“I am sorry to interrupt your daily, um…conference with your lady love,” the messenger apologized, “but your father is gravely ill, on the very point of death, and wishes you to come to his side immediately.”
“Oh, my goodness! I will go to him at once. My darling,” the prince exclaimed as he turned to his lady, “I must depart for my own kingdom. Take this ring to keep me in your memories. I shall return to you as soon as I can.”
“Take as much time as you need,” she responded, accepting the ring. “Your ailing father needs you. I will wait, if I must, until the seas run dry.”
“You will not have to wait, for I will make my way back to you, though my path be barred by a thousand armies.”
“If those armies should impede you, I will wait for you until the sun shrivels to an ember.”
“But I shall not be impeded, though the world itself crack in twain!”
And so on.
Once their vows had scaled to satisfyingly ridiculous heights, the prince threw himself astride his loyal destrier and galloped to his father’s side.
So quickly did he ride that despite the long distance, poor roads, bad weather, and occasional attacks by horrible monsters, it took him only two months, which really was pretty good time, considering.
But in spite of his haste, when he arrived, his father, the king, was gasping his last. He had held out until his son’s arrival only through sheer force of will.
“My son,” his father rasped, his words faint, “I am glad I could see you one final time. I beg of you, swear to me you will fulfill my dying wish.”
“Of course!” the prince sobbed. “Anything!”
“Then I ask you to marry the princess of the mountain kingdom far to the east.”
“I shall!” the prince vowed, then added, “Wait, what?”
But the king had passed into the realms beyond mortal knowledge and spoke no more.
The prince was crowned king soon thereafter.
He delayed fulfilling the vow for as long as he was able, but once the mourning period for his father had ended, he felt compelled to abide by his promise.
He sent a message to the east to propose for the hand of the princess of the mountain kingdom.
His suit was accepted and the engagement proclaimed throughout their lands.
Only then, when he could put it off no longer, did he send a letter to his former fiancée. For so ashamed was he that, rather than face her in person, he broke up with her by post.
The lady was not pleased.
She did not, however, pine, or weep, or lock herself in a darkened room while minstrels played sad music for her in the courtyard.
Such was not her nature. She stormed through her father’s house in a rage, shouting at all and sundry.
She ranted, and raved, and hurled crockery against the wall so she could hear the gratifying smash.
Her father was at first understanding of her shock and grief, but when her fury did not abate as the weeks grew into months, he became alarmed.
In an effort to placate her, he asked, “My dearest daughter, is there anything which would please you? For you may have whatever you wish.”
His daughter ceased shouting. Lost in thought, she lowered the earthenware soup bowl she’d been about to throw, turning it over and over in her hands.
At length, she answered, “If that is so, Father, then I would like you to find eleven girls who appear exactly identical to me in every respect.”
He stared at her in surprise. “I was envisioning something more along the lines of a puppy.”
“Eleven girls,” she repeated, her fingers whitening as her clutch on the bowl tightened, “who appear exactly identical to me in every respect.”
“Very well, I’ll find them!” he promised. “Just…just put the bowl down, all right?” For his supplies of crockery were running very low.
He searched throughout the land until eleven women were found who met his daughter’s requirements.
When they arrived, she had a dozen identical huntsmen’s outfits made to their size.
The eleven girls changed into these clothes, and she donned the twelfth outfit herself.
Thus attired, she bid farewell to her father, and the women rode off together.
“Goodbye!” he shouted after them. “Have fun doing whatever it is you intend to do with eleven eerily similar women disguised in men’s clothing!”
As you may have guessed, the twelve of them arrived many weeks later (bad roads, miserable weather, etc.) at the court of the former prince, now king.
“Hello, strange king whom I have never met!” the lady greeted him. “Have you any need of huntsmen? For we twelve are mightily skilled at hunting and eager to put ourselves at your service.”
“Is that so?” The king did not recognize her, thanks to her cunning disguise, but he found he was much taken by the appearance of these strangers. “I must say, you are exceedingly handsome fellows.”
“Are we really?” the lady inquired smugly.
“Remarkably so. Just to my taste, so to speak.”
“Imagine that,” replied the lady.
“Obviously, I could not refuse a request from such a group of attractive, I might even say enticing—”
“You’re beginning to make this a little weird,” she informed him.
“Sorry. What I meant to say is, of course I shall accept your service. I hereby declare you to be the King’s Huntsmen!”
And thus they were welcomed into the court with great celebration.
Now, as you are no doubt already aware, the king had a talking lion who knew all manner of secret things.
Oh, did the talking lion never come up before?
You’d think such a phenomenal creature would have been brought to your attention right away, not suddenly dropped into the middle of the story like this.
And you might, in addition, reasonably expect a quick explanation of why the king had this talking lion, and how it knew secret things, and so forth.
But you will not receive such information, not in this version of the tale.
So—for unknown reasons, there was a talking lion. One day, apropos of nothing in particular, the lion pronounced to the king, “You believe you have twelve huntsmen serving at your court.”
The king was understandably perplexed. “I know I have twelve huntsmen.”
“You do not,” the lion averred.
“I assure you that I do. I have seen them. I was there when they were taken into my service. In fact, I hired them myself.”
“You do not have twelve huntsmen. They are women.”
“They cannot possibly be women,” the king scoffed. “They wear trousers. Women do not wear trousers. Honestly, I’d have thought you knew that. What kind of magical talking lion are you?”
“They are women,” the lion explained, “who have put on trousers in order to disguise the fact that they are women.”
The king was dumbfounded by this remarkable statement and stood in silent shock for several minutes.
“If that is true, then prove it,” he commanded, once he had regained his wits.
“Hm. We could spy upon them whilst they are naked, perhaps.”
“That idea makes me curiously excited, but no. It seems rude. What else have you got?”
The lion considered. “We shall scatter some dried peas around the room and summon the hunters to your presence. Men step firmly when they walk and would smash the peas beneath their boots. Women hop and skip and spring about and would roll the peas across the floor.”
“Really?” The king was dubious.
“Oh, yes. It’s a well-known fact. I have theorized it’s an evolutionary adaptation designed to keep floors free of vermin. The men stamp any insects flat into the floor, and then the women sweep them aside to the corners. It’s explained in more detail in my book, A Natural History of Humans.”
“Hmph,” muttered the king. “We’ll see.”
Despite his skepticism, the king took the lion’s advice and arranged for the plan to be enacted. But a servant who was fond of the huntsmen overheard the discussion and went to tell them of it.
“The lion wants the king to think you’re girls!” he warned them.
“How ridiculous,” the lady laughed.
“I know! You wear trousers!”
The lady conferred with her fellows once the servant had gone. “When the time comes, you must step firmly on the peas. Resist any womanly impulses to gambol or caper.”