Sleeping Beauty, but she's read Kant
A tale in reference to one of the ghastly inspirations for Sleeping Beauty, “Sun, Moon, and Talia.”
A well-dressed man in extravagant, purple riding garb plodded up the step ladder reaching into the manor’s first-story window. His face was incongruously scruffy, with dark patches marking his tunic and cloak.
A throng of dishevelled attendants on the ground holding crossbows, counting coins, and sharpening knives advised caution at increasing volumes. One of them steadied a restless horse. The purple man ignored them and his pace quickened, until eventually he reached the top. The manor’s upper floor had evidently been unused for some time. The ornate furniture was either draped in silk too fine to fit the purpose or smothered by dust. Hand-woven rugs and enormous landscape paintings covered the floors and walls. A candle had fallen out of a sconce, evidently long ago.
The purple man climbed through the window, taking care not to get his luxurious fur cloak caught. He landed on the floor planks with a thud, remaining off-balance only for a moment, but moment enough for the assembled throng to let out exaggerated cries, each competing for the revered pomp’s attention.
There was not much else to see in this dusty parlour, but he couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong. He threw his head back to the open window and yelled “quiet!” to silence the chatter of his companions, to which they complied. Now it was abundantly clear this place was abandoned.
As he moved through the rooms, he saw no evidence of recent life. No cookware or food was out of place. No clothes appeared in wardrobes. Evidently this was a planned evacuation. He was just about to head downstairs to make for the conventional exit when he heard a sigh down a hall. He turned to follow it with brisker pace. To his left was a bedroom with no occupants; evidently the sound was further down. He continued down the hall and caught glimpse of a study, again without any luck.
It was only in the third room where the source was abundantly clear: a sleeping woman in a luxurious four-poster bed. She was dressed in a fine green and gold dress, with rings on every finger, a necklace, and even shoes. The man would have found this sleeping attire peculiar were he not entranced by her beauty.
“Excuse me, my lady?” No reaction. “Please forgive the intrusion. The… door was open and I thought someone might have been home.” The woman didn’t react, her eyes moving restlessly beneath her eyelids. The man was emboldened by this. He moved with hungry intent toward the bed, and sat beside her. He placed a hand on her hip, eyes periodically darting to hers to check for any sign of a reaction. With every check, his hands grew ever bolder, until at last a green-sleeved, ring-bedecked hand violently shot out and grasped his wrist. The woman’s furious eyes opened. She sprang to sitting position without warning, twisting the yelping purple man’s arm away, causing him to retreat and nurture his wrist.
“My dear, please forgive the intrusion; I was merely assessing your wellbe-”. He cut himself off when she pulled a concealed stiletto from her sleeve, not once breaking eye contact. “My lady, I was here on a hunting trip. I thought your home was inhabited. I merely wanted to request water for my horses before setting back home.” The man was relieved when this didn’t incur any further threatening movements from the lady in green.
“I’m disappointed to have met you”, the woman said. The purple man now stood in the doorway, with one foot pointing out, too curious to leave but too fearful to stay. “I’m disappointed”, she reiterated. “Not just because you invaded my home, and not just because of your unwanted familiarity. I’m disappointed because you lied.”
The man screwed up his face at this. “Lied?”, he asked. “It is true that my royal retinue requires water. For the horses, you see.”
The woman suddenly remembered her own physiology, checking a jug by her bedside table. The contents had long since evaporated. “You said the door was open. It isn’t, because the draught it creates creeps upstairs and permeates every room. If it were open, we’d be freezing.” She attempted to swing her atrophied legs around, but they refused to comply. The remains of the purple man’s chivalrous instinct took over for a moment, causing him to start for the woman, before remembering his precarious position and returning to the door frame. “Many of the windows, on the other hand, don’t have that effect, for whatever reason”, said the green lady. “Perhaps it’s their position relative to the current, or time of day, or any number of things. It matters not. What matters is you lied.”
“My lady, please don’t trouble yourself with these things. You’re evidently unwell. Let me fetch you some wate-”.
“You are not permitted this luxury, sir. You are not permitted to play the gentleman rider any more than I’m permitted to play the cutpurse.” She sheathed her stiletto. “This is not your court, I am not your lady, and I am certainly not your mistress.”
The man cast his eyes to the floor, as though the carpet had suddenly become interesting. He heard the woman attempt to leave the bed several more times with exasperated grunts. “I admit wholeheartedly that I’ve wronged you, my lady.” He caught himself. “Please forgive my continued use of this honorific. How might I refer to you decently?”
The woman snarled as she caught her breath on the side of the bed. “Not at all in the first instance…” she wiped some sweat off her brow. “... but you may call me Talia in the second, if only for the sake of convenience.”
“Talia…” the man said, now returning his gaze to the woman. “I have wronged you, and for that I am sorry.”
“Your apologies ring hollow sir, for if I had not awoken, or perhaps had awoken without the strength to decline your advances with prejudice, I’m certain of the outcome. Yours was a chain of opportunistic crimes: crimes against me, crimes against society, and crimes against yourself.” The man stood perplexed, still unwilling to move from the door frame. “Talia, I must admit, I’ve never heard a woman speak in such a fashion. From where did you learn such manners? I admit that I have wronged you, but I’ll have you know I’m a king in my own right, and I am owed such honours and deference as befits the title.”
“I owe you nothing, my liege.” Talia massaged her right arm with what little strength remained in her left, aching from the earlier riposte. “I don’t know if you’re lying about being a king, but in the event you’re telling the truth, perhaps some good can come of this. Your subjects may benefit from your instruction. Seat yourself, now! The door will stand on its own.” The man hesitated a moment, wordlessly strafed to the back corner of the room for a carved wooden chair, and seated himself a distance from Talia. He was still within arm’s reach of the door.
“As I’ve said before, lying is the transgression I tolerate least.” Talia moved a pillow to her lower back and another behind her head, positioning herself upright at the back of the bed. Her face conveyed extraordinary pain. “In so doing you violate the victim’s moral right to make decisions of their own volition. Depriving them of information is to deprive them of autonomy.”
“But Talia, what harm was there in saying I’d come through the door rather than the window? I merely didn’t want to alarm you; it was for your own benefit. Does putting you at ease not better prepare you to make decisions, and therefore exercise your… ‘autonomy’? Pardon me if I’ve misunderstood - you speak in ways foreign to me.”
“Telling such a lie, however small you perceive it to be, presupposes you possess greater knowledge than I in what I require. Even if this lie was purely benevolent, and I don’t believe it was but will grant for the exercise, you’ve encoded a heinous presupposition. If we are to act in such a way that our intentions could become universal law, and we ever intend it noble and good that we ever have better insight into others than they, think of the anarchy! Think of the atrocities that could be justified! Imagine. Imagine you saw a sad, lonely, dare I even say sleeping woman, and thought how much happier she could be with children. Think of what you presuppose. You presuppose she wants children, you presuppose she’s sad, you presuppose she’s lonely, and atop this tower of macabre assumptions you inflict a cure. Lies are the thief upon the highway. They take, and take, and take, until the left-hand path is all that remains.” She bobbed the stiletto out of her sleeve once again, contemplating its tip, before tucking it away. “This, of course, is merely an exercise. I must reiterate: I have doubts you came here with my well-being at the fore of your mind to begin with. What do you say to this?”
The purple man contemplated some. “Very well. I admit: I was taken with you. Whether I would have gone further is, perhaps, a possibility.”
“A start,” said Talia. “And what of your sovereignty?”
“Real as that of any sovereign, I assure you.” The purple man removed his cap as though to doff it, before converting the motion to a vigorous and awkward brushing. “This is merely a hunting trip. The commotion you no doubt hear outside is of course my retinue. I mentioned them earlier, did I not?”
“A hunting trip…” pondered Talia, peering between the bed’s bannisters at the extravagant garb of her assailant. “A successful one, no doubt?”
“Only rabbits and such, I’m afraid!” The purple man cautiously chuckled. He looked to the dark patches on his tunic Talia seemed to be eyeing. “The devils are certainly full of… vitality!”
Talia mournfully gazed toward the window. She was unable to get a good vantage point from her place on the bed, but could see tree tops and shafts of sunlight. The occasional laugh or shout was audible from outside the house, but it wasn’t possible to tell exactly where. There were maybe five or six men. Perhaps one or two horses, in her estimation. “Whatever comes next, king”, she said, “my hope is I can convince you to be virtuous in at least one respect. I reiterate: tell me why you came.”
The man smiled a meek smile, raising himself off the chair to gaze out the window. “I have told you the truth; may God strike me down if it be otherwise.” He then gradually moved to sit at the end of Talia’s bed. He then patted her calf with a smile. This prompted Talia to brandish the stiletto once more, now pointing it into her neck. A trickle of blood flowed from the point into her collar.
“You don’t have the bearing of a king,” she whispered. Her voice soon became a bellow: “But of a crusader. God is but another weapon you’ve no doubt brandished as you would a sword or lie. If pricking my own throat was all it took to end your kind, perhaps I would do so. For now I’ll be content to deny your cravings. I am not an innocent Saracen, a caravan on the road, a villager, a heretic, nor even a woman. I am human. I exist in spite of my sex and my circumstances, in spite of yours, and despite this wounded Earth.” She clutched the stiletto tighter as the man began leaning closer.
“Come now with this,” the purple man said. “Let us cease this game and commence another! Your words are certainly pretty, but you are prettier still. I have played the coy gentleman to make you feel at ease, and with respect befitting your evident station. However, as a king, I know diplomacy can sometimes fail.” He edged his way up the bed. She slowly lowered the blade, and to the man’s surprise, leaned toward him.
“Very well then”, Talia said. “Have it your way.” The man excitedly moved closer, and leant in to kiss her, which she seemed to reciprocate. Right up until she drove the knife into his left eye socket. The man screamed and flailed, smashing at the bed and fumbling for the knife in his skull. The voices outside hushed and were replaced with footsteps rushing around the outside of the house. Talia gritted her teeth through the pain in her withered muscles, plunging the knife deeper into the purple man’s eye. She hammered the pommel further and further inward with her palm, until he moved no more. Blood was gushing from the wound as the man slumped over her, but her arms now disobeyed; she was unable to get out from under him.
Four men, two armed with crossbows, barged into the room in horror. They made a metallic jingle as they moved; rings of different crests adorning fingers violently contrasted with boiled leather and simple travelling clothes. One of the crossbowmen wore a cap with a single white feather protruding from the top.
“What’s going on?”, he said. “Fergus, get him off her!” A bald man without a crossbow went around the side and pulled the purple corpse off Talia.
“Long may he reign”, the capped man spat in amusement “And what do you call this, my lady?”. The bald man began pulling rings off the king’s fingers.
“God’s work”, Talia said, using the distraction to lunge at the knife tucked into the bald man’s belt. This was met by a “twang” from the end of the bed, and the distant neighing of a single horse.