The Cricket Prince: a sort of fairy tale
[This story came about because a friend posted on FB about a cricket in his basement, and somehow in the comment thread, I said something about wanting there to be a fairy tale about a cricket only with gender roles reversed to the prince gets rescued, or something, and my friend's wife basically said, "Well then write it, you dork." Well, without the 'dork' part. So anyway, I wrote it.]
The Cricket Prince
There had been an early hot spell that summer, so when the weather returned to normal, the shortest night of the year felt unbearably cold to the cricket; his knee joints ached and his antennae stung. He searched his domain for a collection of leaves or a mound of pine needles, but the strangers had come at mid-day with their smelly metal loudnesses, and they always took away his homes. But sometimes they left a tuft of grass against the straight-straight wall whose stones smelled of hot earth even on rainy nights.
He did not find a grass tuft, but as he approached the end of the wall, he felt, inexplicably, a warm breeze. Barely a breeze at all, just a wisp. He huddled in the wisp for a moment, but then realized his antennae were just a bit warmer than his knees; the wisp was warmer in front of him. He moved forward one stiff hop, then another, and another. Now his knees were warmer than his antennae, so he stopped, and turned, and hopped once back. His antennae told him to look up. Above him was a small ledge, just about the height of a good jump, or at least a good jump on a warm night. He pondered a moment, prepared his mind and body, and pushed abruptly against the ground with his back legs. And then he was on the ledge. And it was warmer still.
In one corner of the ledge, there was a gap. This was where the warmth was coming from. Warmth, and a smell, a mix of the hot-earth stones and moss and something like mushrooms but not quite mushrooms. The smell was good, and the warmth was very good, and his antennae told him he could squeeze his body through the gap, and so he did. And he found himself in another land, unlike the world he knew.
There was the scent of metal, and just a bit of the stink from the loudnesses he knew, which alarmed him, but there was no loudness sound, and no strangers.
There were many strange things, though, which were almost things he knew, but not those things from his old world. There were pieces of almost-trees, straight-straight like the walls, but they were neither living trees nor dead trees. These almost-trees smelled similar to the stink of the loudnesses, and he knew not to eat them.
Farther along, there were other almost-trees, which smelled different from the first kind, and these were softer. These could be eaten, and some smelled faintly of earth and mushrooms and tasted very good.
Everywhere, the ground was not earth but strange stone, smelling of old-world stone but also of something sharper. It was flat-flat, and met the walls in a perfect line. Much of that line also smelled of earth and mushrooms, and in some places of moss and lichen. Here and there, grit had collected, and among the grains of sand were tiny bits of dead insects and spiders, and fragments of the soft not-wood that were even better than the large pieces, and small pieces of grass and leaves, long dead but still food.
As he explored, he realized there was no living grass at all. Nor seedlings, nor trees, nor real moss. But neither were there lizards, nor frogs, nor the ominous songs of birds. And there were no other crickets in all the land. And so he brought his wings together and loudly proclaimed this his domain:
I have left behind the familiar,
The mundane,
To discover a world unknown
By any other prince.
This strange land is mine
And mine alone.
Proud and contented, he settled down to slowly chew a flake of soft-not-wood.
--
The sun rose and set, visible through a straight-straight rectangle above him. His new diet seemed less and less strange with each day, and he molted, then molted again, and now he was no longer a child, but an adult. He wanted for nothing, not food nor safety nor warmth. Yet, he felt something lacking, without knowing what. Each night his wings sang the same song, but the tune slowly changed from triumphant to melancholy. Finally, one night, as he listened to the last notes echo off his domain's walls - mine alone - he realized: he was lonely. So he decided to leave his solitary kingdom and return to the land of other crickets.
It was an arduous journey back up the steep wall, with many false starts and falls, but finally, toe-claws aching from tightly gripping the miniscule cracks, he arrived at the ledge again. He made his way back to the corner with the gap - but his antennae warned him that the gap was too small. How could this be? He thought of his two molts, such small changes that he hadn't noticed getting larger. But his antennae would not lie. Exhausted and defeated, he half-stumbled, half-slid back down to the flat earth, and even though he didn't have the will to sing, his wings seemed to play of their own accord:
I have left behind the familiar,
Left behind my kin,
Lured by a world unknown.
Only now do I see
This land is my prison
And mine alone.
Each night, he was compelled to call out into the silence, even knowing no one could hear him:
My kingdom is empty,
As am I.
I will sing to a princess
Who will never arrive,
And will continue to sing
For eternity.
I would gladly leave
This empty kingdom of mine
For a tuft of grass
If my imagined princess
Would find me here
And lead me to her home.
He sang his songs for many nights, sometimes lulling himself into dreams in which his princess was real, and led him easily up the wall to freedom. Sometimes he could feel her antennae meeting his, reassuring him, "You're not alone." And always he stirred from the dream and had a moment when he believed. But then each time he came fully to his senses, and knew he was alone.
Until one early dawn.
Grass pollen shimmered on her antennae, and she held a piece of the soft-not-wood in her jaw, testing a flavor that was new to her. She was not a dream. After weeks of aching song, his wings were struck dumb. He had to speak with antennae and toe-claws.
"How did you find me?"
"Your songs, of course." There was a gentle laugh in her touch. "I followed them these last few nights, to the straight-straight wall, to a ledge, through a gap I hadn't known was there."
His soul sank. "Oh. I had hoped there was another way."
"Why?"
"I no longer fit through."
"So? Why do you need to fit through?"
"To follow you back to your kingdom."
She laughed again. "I have no kingdom! It is you who rules a vast domain."
He sighed. "Vast, yes, but lonely."
That gentle laugh again. "So I've heard." Then she held her antennae motionless against his, suddenly somber, and shy. "Perhaps… it would not be lonely if I stayed."
His wings pressed against each other, silent, but prepared to sing. "You would stay here? With me?"
"I have listened to the songs of many princes. They sang for me, but they did not sing to me: they sang at each other, sang of their strength, sang of their power, sang threats. Many songs ended with blows and pain. No other prince has sung to me; no other prince has sung of sadness, of longing. They sought me out; none have made me want to seek them."
"Then you shall be the princess of which I dreamed."
"No. I shall be your queen. For you are not a prince, but a king. No mere prince could discover this new, strange land. There is no other cricket like you. You are the king of which I dreamed."
Originally posted at https://violetcheetah.dreamwidth.org/83018.html. Feel free to comment there
comments
The Cricket Prince
There had been an early hot spell that summer, so when the weather returned to normal, the shortest night of the year felt unbearably cold to the cricket; his knee joints ached and his antennae stung. He searched his domain for a collection of leaves or a mound of pine needles, but the strangers had come at mid-day with their smelly metal loudnesses, and they always took away his homes. But sometimes they left a tuft of grass against the straight-straight wall whose stones smelled of hot earth even on rainy nights.
He did not find a grass tuft, but as he approached the end of the wall, he felt, inexplicably, a warm breeze. Barely a breeze at all, just a wisp. He huddled in the wisp for a moment, but then realized his antennae were just a bit warmer than his knees; the wisp was warmer in front of him. He moved forward one stiff hop, then another, and another. Now his knees were warmer than his antennae, so he stopped, and turned, and hopped once back. His antennae told him to look up. Above him was a small ledge, just about the height of a good jump, or at least a good jump on a warm night. He pondered a moment, prepared his mind and body, and pushed abruptly against the ground with his back legs. And then he was on the ledge. And it was warmer still.
In one corner of the ledge, there was a gap. This was where the warmth was coming from. Warmth, and a smell, a mix of the hot-earth stones and moss and something like mushrooms but not quite mushrooms. The smell was good, and the warmth was very good, and his antennae told him he could squeeze his body through the gap, and so he did. And he found himself in another land, unlike the world he knew.
There was the scent of metal, and just a bit of the stink from the loudnesses he knew, which alarmed him, but there was no loudness sound, and no strangers.
There were many strange things, though, which were almost things he knew, but not those things from his old world. There were pieces of almost-trees, straight-straight like the walls, but they were neither living trees nor dead trees. These almost-trees smelled similar to the stink of the loudnesses, and he knew not to eat them.
Farther along, there were other almost-trees, which smelled different from the first kind, and these were softer. These could be eaten, and some smelled faintly of earth and mushrooms and tasted very good.
Everywhere, the ground was not earth but strange stone, smelling of old-world stone but also of something sharper. It was flat-flat, and met the walls in a perfect line. Much of that line also smelled of earth and mushrooms, and in some places of moss and lichen. Here and there, grit had collected, and among the grains of sand were tiny bits of dead insects and spiders, and fragments of the soft not-wood that were even better than the large pieces, and small pieces of grass and leaves, long dead but still food.
As he explored, he realized there was no living grass at all. Nor seedlings, nor trees, nor real moss. But neither were there lizards, nor frogs, nor the ominous songs of birds. And there were no other crickets in all the land. And so he brought his wings together and loudly proclaimed this his domain:
I have left behind the familiar,
The mundane,
To discover a world unknown
By any other prince.
This strange land is mine
And mine alone.
Proud and contented, he settled down to slowly chew a flake of soft-not-wood.
--
The sun rose and set, visible through a straight-straight rectangle above him. His new diet seemed less and less strange with each day, and he molted, then molted again, and now he was no longer a child, but an adult. He wanted for nothing, not food nor safety nor warmth. Yet, he felt something lacking, without knowing what. Each night his wings sang the same song, but the tune slowly changed from triumphant to melancholy. Finally, one night, as he listened to the last notes echo off his domain's walls - mine alone - he realized: he was lonely. So he decided to leave his solitary kingdom and return to the land of other crickets.
It was an arduous journey back up the steep wall, with many false starts and falls, but finally, toe-claws aching from tightly gripping the miniscule cracks, he arrived at the ledge again. He made his way back to the corner with the gap - but his antennae warned him that the gap was too small. How could this be? He thought of his two molts, such small changes that he hadn't noticed getting larger. But his antennae would not lie. Exhausted and defeated, he half-stumbled, half-slid back down to the flat earth, and even though he didn't have the will to sing, his wings seemed to play of their own accord:
I have left behind the familiar,
Left behind my kin,
Lured by a world unknown.
Only now do I see
This land is my prison
And mine alone.
Each night, he was compelled to call out into the silence, even knowing no one could hear him:
My kingdom is empty,
As am I.
I will sing to a princess
Who will never arrive,
And will continue to sing
For eternity.
I would gladly leave
This empty kingdom of mine
For a tuft of grass
If my imagined princess
Would find me here
And lead me to her home.
He sang his songs for many nights, sometimes lulling himself into dreams in which his princess was real, and led him easily up the wall to freedom. Sometimes he could feel her antennae meeting his, reassuring him, "You're not alone." And always he stirred from the dream and had a moment when he believed. But then each time he came fully to his senses, and knew he was alone.
Until one early dawn.
Grass pollen shimmered on her antennae, and she held a piece of the soft-not-wood in her jaw, testing a flavor that was new to her. She was not a dream. After weeks of aching song, his wings were struck dumb. He had to speak with antennae and toe-claws.
"How did you find me?"
"Your songs, of course." There was a gentle laugh in her touch. "I followed them these last few nights, to the straight-straight wall, to a ledge, through a gap I hadn't known was there."
His soul sank. "Oh. I had hoped there was another way."
"Why?"
"I no longer fit through."
"So? Why do you need to fit through?"
"To follow you back to your kingdom."
She laughed again. "I have no kingdom! It is you who rules a vast domain."
He sighed. "Vast, yes, but lonely."
That gentle laugh again. "So I've heard." Then she held her antennae motionless against his, suddenly somber, and shy. "Perhaps… it would not be lonely if I stayed."
His wings pressed against each other, silent, but prepared to sing. "You would stay here? With me?"
"I have listened to the songs of many princes. They sang for me, but they did not sing to me: they sang at each other, sang of their strength, sang of their power, sang threats. Many songs ended with blows and pain. No other prince has sung to me; no other prince has sung of sadness, of longing. They sought me out; none have made me want to seek them."
"Then you shall be the princess of which I dreamed."
"No. I shall be your queen. For you are not a prince, but a king. No mere prince could discover this new, strange land. There is no other cricket like you. You are the king of which I dreamed."
Originally posted at https://violetcheetah.dreamwidth.org/83018.html. Feel free to comment there
comments