choosing, I told her coldly. I was a child.
And now?
Now I am almost a woman, I went on, my voice spiralling, and if I had my way –
She let the sounds trail away before saying, Yes? If you had your way?
I didn’t know what to say. I sat down abruptly on her grimy stool. After a while I put my hand to the wheel; she showed me where. I set it in motion. There was a long moment of glorious
whirling, and then I felt the needle drive itself into my finger. I screamed like a baby.
The old woman leaned over me, cradling me, hushing me. Her hair was soft like wool. I sucked the drop of blood from my finger. I never knew it would taste so like silver.
Her voice was shaking. I thought she might cry, and stared up at her, but then I realized that she was rocking with laughter. I shoved her away. How dare you?
That always happens the first time, she said through her merriment. Every time.
You knew, I bawled.
Not at all. No one knows the future.
I reached out and kicked her spinning wheel into the corner. Badness was running through my veins like wine. I hate you, I shouted. You sit here, in your dust, your foul mess . . . I’ll
have you punished. I could have your head chopped from your shoulders.
But what a mess that would make, she murmured.
I stared at her. My eyes were swollen with water. My head felt as if it were about to break open like an egg.
The old woman gave me a most peculiar smile.
I heard feet pounding the stairs, and a call that sounded like my name. I turned to the door and pulled the bolt across. All of a sudden I felt quite awake.
I bent over for the spinning wheel and set it back in its place. I sat down on the stool and said, Please. Show me how.
When I had got the knack of it, I asked,
Who were you
before you came to live in this tower?
And she said, Will I tell you my own story?
It is a tale of a voice.
XII
The Tale of the Voice
I N THE DAYS when wishing was having, I got what I wished and then I wished I hadn’t.
I’ll make no excuses; I was a grown woman when it happened to me. I’d already ripped out my first grey hair, and refused two neighbours’ sons who thought they could have me for
the asking. I’d learned every song my mother could teach me.
I was standing in the market the day I saw him. I stopped trying to sell my father’s bagful of fish. I stared at the stranger for hours, across baskets of salmon and the shifting backs of
cattle, but he never glanced my way. He stood at the side of his merchant father like an angel come down to earth. All the neighbours saw me watching, but what did that matter now?
His eyes were black like ink; mine blue as the sea. His hands were pale, gripping purse and quill; mine were scored red with fish-scales. His boots looked like they’d never touched the
ground; my toes were caulked with mud. He was as strange to me as satin to sackcloth, feathers to lead, a heron to a herring.
Up to that day I must have been happy. Happy enough, at least, never to wonder whether I was or not. My sisters didn’t use such language as we gossiped over our gutting knives and wiped
wisps of brown hair out of our eyes with the backs of our hands. My mother, when she took a heavy basket from my arms, never searched my face. My father’s eyes were cloudy as he flexed his
fingers by the fire. Smiling was for Sundays.
The morning after I saw this man in the marketplace I woke up sick to my stomach and decided I was in love. If I didn’t choose him, who was ten times better than any I’d ever set
eyes on, I’d never choose. If this wasn’t love, then it would never happen.
All the signs said it was. I was mulish and quarrelsome. I turned up my nose at cold porridge, and let my sisters finish the pickled cod. And the strangest thing: when I lay that evening at the
green edge of the crumbling cliff below our cottage, facing into the mist, I couldn’t sing a note. My throat seemed stopped up with the thought of him.
The man was everything I
And now?
Now I am almost a woman, I went on, my voice spiralling, and if I had my way –
She let the sounds trail away before saying, Yes? If you had your way?
I didn’t know what to say. I sat down abruptly on her grimy stool. After a while I put my hand to the wheel; she showed me where. I set it in motion. There was a long moment of glorious
whirling, and then I felt the needle drive itself into my finger. I screamed like a baby.
The old woman leaned over me, cradling me, hushing me. Her hair was soft like wool. I sucked the drop of blood from my finger. I never knew it would taste so like silver.
Her voice was shaking. I thought she might cry, and stared up at her, but then I realized that she was rocking with laughter. I shoved her away. How dare you?
That always happens the first time, she said through her merriment. Every time.
You knew, I bawled.
Not at all. No one knows the future.
I reached out and kicked her spinning wheel into the corner. Badness was running through my veins like wine. I hate you, I shouted. You sit here, in your dust, your foul mess . . . I’ll
have you punished. I could have your head chopped from your shoulders.
But what a mess that would make, she murmured.
I stared at her. My eyes were swollen with water. My head felt as if it were about to break open like an egg.
The old woman gave me a most peculiar smile.
I heard feet pounding the stairs, and a call that sounded like my name. I turned to the door and pulled the bolt across. All of a sudden I felt quite awake.
I bent over for the spinning wheel and set it back in its place. I sat down on the stool and said, Please. Show me how.
When I had got the knack of it, I asked,
Who were you
before you came to live in this tower?
And she said, Will I tell you my own story?
It is a tale of a voice.
XII
The Tale of the Voice
I N THE DAYS when wishing was having, I got what I wished and then I wished I hadn’t.
I’ll make no excuses; I was a grown woman when it happened to me. I’d already ripped out my first grey hair, and refused two neighbours’ sons who thought they could have me for
the asking. I’d learned every song my mother could teach me.
I was standing in the market the day I saw him. I stopped trying to sell my father’s bagful of fish. I stared at the stranger for hours, across baskets of salmon and the shifting backs of
cattle, but he never glanced my way. He stood at the side of his merchant father like an angel come down to earth. All the neighbours saw me watching, but what did that matter now?
His eyes were black like ink; mine blue as the sea. His hands were pale, gripping purse and quill; mine were scored red with fish-scales. His boots looked like they’d never touched the
ground; my toes were caulked with mud. He was as strange to me as satin to sackcloth, feathers to lead, a heron to a herring.
Up to that day I must have been happy. Happy enough, at least, never to wonder whether I was or not. My sisters didn’t use such language as we gossiped over our gutting knives and wiped
wisps of brown hair out of our eyes with the backs of our hands. My mother, when she took a heavy basket from my arms, never searched my face. My father’s eyes were cloudy as he flexed his
fingers by the fire. Smiling was for Sundays.
The morning after I saw this man in the marketplace I woke up sick to my stomach and decided I was in love. If I didn’t choose him, who was ten times better than any I’d ever set
eyes on, I’d never choose. If this wasn’t love, then it would never happen.
All the signs said it was. I was mulish and quarrelsome. I turned up my nose at cold porridge, and let my sisters finish the pickled cod. And the strangest thing: when I lay that evening at the
green edge of the crumbling cliff below our cottage, facing into the mist, I couldn’t sing a note. My throat seemed stopped up with the thought of him.
The man was everything I
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