}Once upon a time, there was a beautiful young Princess named Miriam. She lived with her father, the King, in an elegant palace at the heart of a bustling city. The city sprawled across the land, its inhabitants ranging from the extravagantly rich to the horribly poor. Though the King knew well the wonders and dangers, the good and evil that co-mingled on the city streets, he felt that such things should be revisited—and so, one day, when Princess Miriam was seven years old, the King decided to take her into the city and begin her education.
“My dear Miriam,” he said to his daughter, “I would you know the true nature of your subjects. I would you know the blacksmiths and the barons, the cobblers and the counts. You are to see this city for what it is, my dear.”
He told her that they would ride fine horses and take with them a small entourage, but little else. And he bade her wear only one jewel, so that the people would see that she was not a spoiled girl.
“Father, I think I will pick my opal ring,” Miriam said, and slid the simple ornament onto her little finger. It glinted in the sunlight, and the King beamed down at his daughter, proud as a parent could be.
The city was alive with colour and sound and smells unlike any the sheltered little Princess had ever known. She marvelled at the beauty of the rich quarter. She indulged in the rich vibrancy of the mercantile quarter. She pitied the poor folk in their ragged and dirty districts below. As their tour of the city came to an end, the King and Miriam came across a street corner, whereupon a child beggar sat, his alms-bowl empty.
“Oh, he is ragged and starved,” Miriam gaped. “You can see his ribs, and no-one will help the poor boy!” She dismounted her horse and went to the beggar. She gave him a radiant smile and dropped her opal ring into his bowl.
“May it serve you better than it would ever have served me,” she said to him.
“Oh, thank you, Princess!” he cried, but she only smiled as she mounted her horse.
The royal party continued on their way, and the King contemplated what he had seen.
“My daughter is loving and kind,” he thought, “giving up her only jewel—her favourite at that—and all to help a poor, hungry beggar. I swear, when the time comes, my Miriam shall only have a man as selfless as she.”
Three years passed, and Miriam grew into a delightful young girl of ten years. She remained kind, but as time went by, she only grew in idleness. To revive the true nature he knew dwelled within her, the King took her once more for a tour of the city. This time, Miriam chose to wear a single golden bracelet.
Once more, they reached the place where the beggar had sat—he had made himself a small but sturdy hovel, though he still appeared to be begging. But as the royal party arrived, a group of thugs were beating the poor boy, trying to rob him of the little money he had.
Miriam stopped the party without a word. She dismounted her horse and flew into the fray, throwing herself in front of the beggar.
“Stop!” she demanded.
The men laughed and would have tossed her aside if they hadn’t noticed her entourage and her father. They blanched at the sight and flew beyond reach of the King’s select guard. Miriam helped the beggar to his feet and, seeing that the thugs had already taken the boy’s scant coin, slipped her bracelet into his hand.
“May it serve you better than it would ever have served me,” she said.
“I cannot thank you enough, Princess,” he said, but she only smiled as she mounted her horse.
They said their goodbyes, and the King once more contemplated what he had seen.
“My daughter is brave and just,” he thought. “Jumping into a fight—with dangerous thieves!—and all to save a poor, hungry beggar. I swear, when the time comes, she shall only have a man as courageous as she.”
Three more years passed, and Miriam grew into a beautiful girl of thirteen years. She was evermore kind and brave, but her newfound beauty had made her vain. To remind her of that selfless child she had once been, the King took her on a final tour of the city. Once more, they found the beggar’s corner—now, he had erected a small stand for shining shoes, and seemed to be doing well enough. He had scant meat on his bones, at last. But as the royal party passed, they saw a man trying to sell the gullible boy a so-called magical trinket.
Miriam sneered and dismounted her horse. She strode right over to the swindler and poked him in the chest.
“You say it is magic? What spells can it perform?”
“It can give you all your heart desires,” the man said.
“So why do you sell it? Surely it can give you money, too.”
Miriam smirked as the swindler flushed and backed away, muttering as he saw the guards and King behind her. The beggar flushed too, for he had already paid the man. Miriam smiled pityingly and removed her jewel, a simple necklace.
“May it serve you better than it ever would have served me,” she told him. “But remember, I may not return to help you again.”
The beggar smiled and thanked her. “I am not worthy of your charity, Princess,” he said, but she only smiled as she mounted her horse.
They rode away for the last time, and the King once more contemplated what he had seen.
“My daughter is clever and steadfast,” he thought. “Out-talking a swindler—a man made to ramble—and all to save a poor, hungry beggar. I swear, when the time is right, she shall have only a man as shrewd as she.”
Three more years passed, and Miriam had since grown into a lovely young woman of sixteen years. The King, her father, knew well that she was the most eligible princess-bride the kingdom had ever known, with her combined beauty, wealth, and virtues to tempt suitors of all nations and creeds. And yet, he was troubled—the King wanted only the best for his daughter; only a man who could equal her in kindness, in courage, and in cleverness could be allowed to marry her. But how could he determine who was truly worthy?
And so the King called together his Council of Wise Men, and he asked them;
“My Miriam is sure to have many suitors—but, for son-in-law, I want only a man whose worth matches hers. Tell me—how shall I sort the pretenders from the truly virtuous?”
The Wise Men debated for three days and three nights. On the fourth morning, they came to the King and said;
“Call all the Princess’ suitors to the palace, and have her confined to her rooms. On the first day, tell the men that Princess Miriam has been stricken with pox and has been robbed of her beauty. Only those who desire her for her wealth and virtues will remain. The next day, tell them that you have angered a wicked Witch, and that she has cursed the kingdom to suffer one-hundred years of poverty. Only those who desire the Princess for her virtues will remain then. You may bring the Princess from her rooms, then, and from those men she shall choose her Prince.”
The King did as advised. He sent out a proclamation that all men who desired to court the Princess Miriam must come to the Palace to be examined for eligibility. Miriam, who knew well of the plan and agreed to it, had hidden herself in her chambers. Soon after, men from both their kingdom and others began to arrive—Dukes, Counts, Barons, and even Princes flocked to the palace, all eager to meet Princess Miriam, whose beauty, wealth, and virtues were spoken of in all corners of the world.
But when they arrived, the King looked grim. “My good sirs,” he said, “I am afraid that my daughter has been gravely ill. She has survived the pox, but, I fear, she shall never again be beautiful.”
The suitors were shocked, but it seemed that none desired Miriam solely for her beauty. The next morning, however, half of them were gone. The King was furious; “They have slunk away in the night! Those fools are worth no more than rats!”
That afternoon, the King appeared once more to the suitors, looking flustered and embarrassed.
“I am sad to say,” he said glumly, “that a wicked and powerful Witch has been offended by my brother, the Duke, and has cursed my kingdom to a century of despair and poverty!” The suitors were again unpleasantly surprised, but it seemed that none desired Miriam solely for her wealth.
But once more, as morning dawned, it was only to reveal that all but one of the suitors had gone. The King fumed at the selfishness of the men, who had dared to presume they were worthy of his beautiful Miriam. But he turned a welcoming eye on the remaining suitor, a nameless Lord who hailed from a faraway land.
“I see that you, at least, desire my daughter for her virtues alone,” the King said approvingly to the young man. “I shall send for the Princess, and she shall decide for herself whether you are a suitable husband.”
The King left the room as Miriam entered, still in perfect health and beauty, to the nameless Lord’s pleasant surprise. The Princess curtseyed to him and the polite young man bowed deeply, clearly smitten as he kissed the back of her hand.
“Never have I seen one so beautiful,” he said with a blush.
Miriam only smiled. “You may stop pretending,” she said shrewdly. “Did you think that I would so soon forget my beggar?”
And before her very eyes, the fine clothes and jewels were gone, and the nameless Lord’s attire once more became rags and filth. There stood the child beggar, now a handsome young man.
“However did you come by this disguise?” she wondered.
“With the necklace you gave to me,” he said, “I paid a good Witch to magic me into a seeming Lord, so that I might see you again, this time as your equal. I am determined to prove worthy of your hand, my Princess—you, who spared no expense or danger to save me from my poverty, my cowardice, my foolishness.”
Miriam laughed. “Oh, my beggar,” she kissed his cheek. “You have already proved worthy. When we met, my father saw only my virtues—I saw only yours.”
As they spoke and laughed together, the King re-entered the room. But where he expected to see a modest, aristocratic couple, there stood his Miriam, hands clasped with none other than the ragged beggar!
“Begone, wretch!” he cried, in a terrible rage. “No street-corner beggar shall marry my daughter! You hid behind her when bullied by scoundrels, you saw magic where she saw only metal and cheap tricks, you have no land, no title, and you would dare lie to a King! You are worth less than those fools who fled from blight and ugliness! Begone! Begone!”
But Miriam would have none of it—“Father, I shall marry none but my beggar!” she cried.
Fury blinded the angry King—he called for his guards to drag the beggar to the dungeons, and had Miriam confined to her chambers before either could lift a finger to stop him. In his anger, he summoned Good Witch Gerla, whose loyalties lay with him, and commanded that she send his unruly daughter far away from the beggar’s reach.
“Send her where no mortal man may go!” he ordered.
And so Witch Gerla summoned all her strength, and transformed Princess Miriam into a glittering star—and Miriam flew up to the heavens, from where she winked sadly down at the mortal world.
By night, when the veil between the stars and mortal ground was lifted, the Princess gazed longingly at her beggar, who remained chained in the royal dungeon. By day, she spoke to Aki, a celestial messenger who knew the stories behind every star in the sky. When he had heard Miriam’s sad tale, Aki became determined to help her.
“I cannot bring you down myself,” he told her, “but I know of a way that a mortal might reach the stars. I shall free your beggar, and tell him how to rescue you.”
Miriam agreed, and Aki flew to the mortal world under cover of darkness, where he broke the beggar’s chains and snapped the bars of his prison window to set him free.
“Oh, thank you,” the beggar began, but Aki silenced him.
“Listen to me,” the messenger said. “I have come from your Princess—and I know of a way that you might bring her back to the mortal world.”
“Please, I will do anything!” the beggar cried.
“Then you must pass through the Darkwood,” Aki told him. “You must solve the Wolves’ Labyrinth, and you must appease the Guardian of the Ladder-to-the-Stars. Whosoever climbs the Ladder will reach the heavens—when you have found your Princess, you must take her down the Ladder with you—and when her feet touch mortal soil once more, she shall return to her human form.”
And with that, Aki left the beggar to begin his quest.
But the beggar did not leave immediately, as Aki and Miriam had hoped he would. He was plagued by worry as he thought of all the messenger had told him.
“The Darkwood—the Wolves’ Labyrinth—the Guardian… and how am I to do all these things, when I am nothing but a foolish coward?” he wondered miserably. The beggar went to see the good Witch from whom he had purchased his spell with the Princess’ necklace.
“Do you think I am able?” he asked her. “Do you think I could brave all the dangers of this world?”
The Witch cackled. “I see you have no more money to purchase another spell. As you are, you cannot hope to survive this quest. But were you to use the three jewels that your Princess gave you all those years ago, you might have a chance.”
The beggar hadn’t any idea of how jewels he had long-since sold for food and shelter might help him now, and the Witch’s other words had done little to reassure him. But he thought of the Princess, and he grew determined, if not confident—“Whether or not I am able, I will rescue my Miriam, or die trying.”
With naught but a sword he had borrowed from the Witch, the beggar set out on his journey. He travelled for a fortnight in the direction of the Darkwood, but as he neared his destination, a black shadow flew overhead. The beggar ignored it at first, but then a terrible screech rang out, and the beggar found himself in the claws of a great beast—the dragon Chua, who flew the poor beggar back to his cave.
“Failed already!” the beggar thought wretchedly. “I should have known I was not worthy.”
Soon, they came to the cave lair of the dragon Chua. Chua set the beggar down on the treasure-strewn ground and prepared to eat him. Now, dragons are rather like cats, and enjoy toying with their prey before eating them. So Chua watched the beggar before using his fire to cook him, hoping that he would run around, screaming, or beg for his life, or something equally amusing. But the beggar, who wanted to live at least long enough to save Miriam, brandished his sword and looked Chua in the eye.
“Why are you not afraid to die?” Chua asked, confused. “Do you not know that I am about to eat you?”
The beggar gulped. “I am afraid to die, dragon. I am so afraid that I am willing to fight you for my life.”
The dragon blinked, then laughed. “You amuse me!” he declared, “so I will not eat you tonight. You may live, human—until tomorrow, when I am hungry again.”
When the beggar woke the next day, he expected to be roasted and eaten right away. But Chua still slept, so the beggar wandered about the cave, until he found a giant, worm-eaten book of riddles among the treasure.
Chua awoke then. “I’ll eat you now, human,” he said lazily.
“Wait!’ the beggar said. “Won’t you ask me a riddle first? I see that you like them. If I guess correctly, let me live another day.”
Chua liked that idea. “All right,” he said.
“What rises with the moon, and sets with the sun
What is visible but unattainable, so close and yet so far
What may all men follow, but no man may reach?”
The beggar smiled at the dragon, for, indeed, he knew exactly what Chua had spoken of.
“The stars,” the beggar said, and Chua laughed again.
“Two hundred years I’ve waited to tell that riddle,” the dragon giggled, “and my breakfast answers it! Very well, human, you may live another day.”
The next morning dawned, and the beggar once more woke before his host. Chua slumbered and snored, and the beggar ate his breakfast as he wondered how he might entice the dragon to set him free. A thought came to him, and he went to one of the larger piles of treasure. Every piece was dirty and greasy and scuffed—the beggar, his years of shoe-shining finally proving their worth, began to clean them.
When Chua awoke, it was to find a pile of gleaming, golden treasure neatly sorted at one end of the cave. The beggar was already hard at work on a second pile. Chua felt a rusty creaking in his chest.
“Thank you,” he rumbled softly to the beggar, who looked up at the dragon with a smile.
“I thought I might make the stage of my death a bit cleaner,” he said, and the dragon laughed for a third time.
“You have shown me a great kindness, human,” Chua said, “and I am very grateful. I have not been so amused and respected by my food in over six centuries! You are free to go, human, but I’ll entreat you to come again.”
The beggar took polite leave of the dragon, sometime later in the day, leaving behind him three piles of clean, polished treasure, and a promise to one day visit Chua again.
As he made his way once more towards the ominous Darkwood, he recalled what the good Witch had said to him before his departure—“Were you to use the three jewels that your Princess gave to you, you might have a chance.”
The beggar laughed. “I see, now!" he cried. “The jewels she spoke of weren’t those measured in coin. The kindness Miriam showed me, her bravery, her cleverness… those were jewels of far greater value. I have learned to be brave, and clever, and kind, as I was to the dragon Chua. So, I truly am worthy!”
With his sword aloft, he entered the Darkwood with a confident air.
With naught but his sword at his side, the beggar faced all the dangers of the world—he battled the vicious beasts of the Darkwood, he navigated the twists and traps of the Wolves’ Labyrinth, and, at last, he came to the Mountain, atop which stood the Ladder-to-the-Stars.
When the beggar reached the top of the Mountain, he was unable to see anything living. Nothing stood atop the Mountain but the Ladder and a few stones.
“Guardian!” he called. “I wish to climb your Ladder-to-the-Stars, so that I might bring back one who does not belong there. Would you grant me that wish?”
There was silence, then, from the clouds above descended a great, ugly creature of human-like form, with two black-feathered wings protruding from its back.
“What have you brought me?” the Guardian asked, showing pointed fangs for teeth.
The beggar hung his head. “I have nothing,” he said sadly.
“Then how dare you come to me?” the Guardian sneered, and said, “you must give me an offering, or you may not climb the Ladder.”
The beggar fell to his knees.
“I would give all I have, had I anything to give,” he cried, “all I possess is the sword at my side and the clothes on my back. And all I wish to do is save my Princess—I am very much in love with her, Guardian, and I must bring her back to this world, if only to repay her for all she has done for me. Name your price, and I swear, it shall be paid.”
The Guardian was, by nature, a cold-hearted and selective being. But he was not deaf to the pleas of poor mortals—so he smiled cruelly and said coldly;
“I am blind, human. I have long-since learned to live without my eyes, but there is nothing I desire so much as to once more see the beauty of the stars I guard. If you wish to rescue your Princess, you must first give me your eyes.”
The beggar knew that he had no choice. He wept for a moment, for the thought of never being able to see again was truly terrible—but then he summoned all his courage and nodded.
“Take my eyes, then, if you must,” he said bravely.
The Guardian, without a second thought, passed his hand over the beggar’s face and, when he brought it back, the beggar’s eyes could no longer see.
The Guardian led him to the Ladder’s base and bid him a cruel farewell. The beggar relied solely on his hands as he climbed the Ladder-to-the-Stars. When he reached the top, the beggar almost fell back down, for he missed a rung and stumbled. But he held on tight and called out for the Princess.
“Miriam, my Miriam!” he cried. “Your beggar has come!”
A hand was at his cheek, then, and he heard a soft voice whisper in his ear.
“I knew you would,” the Princess said.
“Oh, Miriam, I cannot see,” he said mournfully. “I have learned to be brave, and clever, and kind, but how can I be any of those things again, without my eyes?”
Miriam kissed his eyelids, and laughed. “You have not gained any worth that was not already yours,” she reassured him, “nor have you lost any worth with your sight, for you have given it selflessly, for the sake of another. And besides,” she kissed the beggar’s mouth, “though they cannot see, your eyes remain as bright as any star.”
And so the beggar, with his Princess in his arms, climbed back down the Ladder-to-the-Stars, and as Miriam’s feet touched the stone of the Mountain, she once more became a mortal woman.
Aki, the messenger, came to bid them farewell, and took them to the cave of the dragon Chua, who was more than glad to ferry the young couple back to Miriam’s palace. There, the King was shown the error of his ways, and the beggar was married to his Princess.
The years passed, and Miriam and the beggar ruled the kingdom as King and Queen for many long and prosperous years.
And when the couple finally died, Aki pulled back the veil between the heavens and the mortal world so that all the people of the kingdom could see the twin shooting stars flying to their final rest.
I think it should be something a little more challenging...
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