THE PORCELAIN HEART.
Once there was a princess who was born with a heart outside of her body. It was a pale and slippery thing, and her parents lamented so, for how was she to be a great ruler in the kingdom with such a feeble heart? As if in demonstration, her mother went to pick up the heart, and cried out as the mucous tissue escaped her fingers and fell to the floor. There, the heart sat in a puddle of its own fleshy juices, surrounded by the eyes of the doctors and nurses, the king and queen. How was the princess to survive with a heart that could not withstand the light touch of fingertips, let alone the calling of a kingdom?
A lot had been placed on the shoulders of this baby without a heart. She had not been the product of an easy birth. With no brothers and no sisters, the weight of her lineage rested at the foot of her cot. And here she was, with soft skin and supple lips, dainty features and a lick of golden cupid’s curls, perfect in every sense of the word bar the slimy, slug-like object on the ground at which her mother now pawed, attempting to retrieve it from the reddish mucus. The doctor bent to his knees, gently pushing the queen away, and retrieved the heart from the floor with the lithe fingers of a skilled surgeon. Well-versed in bedside manner, he told them in soothing tones that the girl would survive. It would not be an easy life that she would lead. She would have to carry her spineless and slippery heart with her, wherever she went, and keep it safe. It would need to be protected, held safe. He was certain that a cage of sorts, a portable device designed to safeguard the heart from greedy fingers, from foul smells and poisonous substances, from careless bystanders who might crush it by accident, or trample it by force. It would take some adjusting, but with time, he was certain the princess would learn to live with the heart outside of her body.
The mother and father of the girl wept bitterly. They were grateful for the birth of their beautiful and blessed child, but they feared that it would be nothing but a short life that she would lead, with such an important organ beyond the safe confines of her skin. One mistake, one thoughtless manoeuvre, and the heart might be squished and pulverised into a pulp of nothingness. So, they prayed to the old gods, of whom we speak little and dare seldom to grant us wishes, for fear of powers so great they may only be whispered. They prayed that the girl’s heart would be strengthened and supported, so that she might be able to lead a normal life. The gods are cruel, tactless, and often take fancy in the torment of man. Prayers might come answered, and wishes granted, but never without a clause. Whichever god happened to be listening on this occasion delighted in acquiescing the pleas of the parents. One flick of the wrist of the powers of old, and the slippery red heart hardened and thickened, the soft, porous walls lengthened and fixed, and the heart transformed from something spongey and tongue-like, into a beautiful and shimmering heart of porcelain. The king and queen dried their tears and peered down at the baby and the chinaware heart nestled beneath her elbow, baffled by the modification and dubious as to whether this was actually an answering of their prayers. The doctor, ever versed in positive approaches, leapt to his feet and jumped to and fro in an excessively delighted manner. The gods had answered, a medical miracle had taken place, and though the heart had not been moved inside the boy, a heart of porcelain was far harder to break than a heart of blood.
The girl grew, and wherever she went, either she or one of the king and queen’s many servants carried the porcelain heart. It was transported with delicacy and caution, wrapped in sables and furs and kept far from harm’s way. Not until the girl got older, was anyone other than her mother and father allowed to handle the porcelain heart. The lick of golden hair had lengthened into bouncy golden curls, her skin remained soft, her cheeks rosy and her eyes dark and bright. She was hard not to look at, and attracted the gazes of most of the young and available suitors of the kingdom (and some that were neither young nor available). Soon, there were more suitors lining up at the door than the kitchen staff had time to prepare tea and libations for. They clamoured and called, begging to enthrone the golden princess, to wrap a golden ring on her finger, or a ruby crown on her head, to spin her round the ballroom, or to trade her for the season’s pickings of produce and livestock. They were so enamoured with the princess’s round cheeks and light laugh, they failed to see the chips in the pretty porcelain heart, where cracks were already beginning to form.
It was not her fault that the heart had been chipped. Her gaze had one day fallen upon a young stable hand in the courtyard below. He had held her hand and shown her the tall draught horses, and the small stout pigs, and then sat down beside her in the straw and pressed his lips to her own. She had been so caught up in the newness of the feeling, the wetness of his lips and the heat of his breath on her face, that she had not seen him snake out his hands and run them over her porcelain heart, seated beside them in the straw. She had not felt the urgency of his clammy hands, squeezing the delicate ceramic, running grubby nails along its sides. She did not notice her heart contract and splinter, a small shard of sharp china falling off into the straw, burrowed deep amongst hooves and manure and sawdust.
Though this was the first occasion upon which the heart cracked, it was not the last. A deep fracture spread through the pale porcelain, when a visiting merchant’s son swapped some cinnamon for a quick fondle through her gauzy undergarments. A jagged edge broke loose when a young and dauntless prince swept her round the ballroom on light feet, kissed her goodnight with promises of endless returns, and failed to materialise the next morning. Further and further the heart splintered and cracked, until the heart was more splintered than it was whole, and the princess had to walk with it clutched gingerly to her chest, for fear of segments breaking away in her wake. Her curls flattened and her red cheeks paled, and the king and queen came to fear for the princess, who in turn feared leaving her room, and the safe confines by which the heart might not break any further. Anxious and distressed by the calamity of their only child, who now sequestered herself far up in the turrets, afraid of the greedy hands of the world, the king and queen prayed again to the old gods, begging them to repair her porcelain heart. But the old gods turned away and ignored the pleas of the helpless couple, for they had already had their wish granted, and no deity is so generous as to accede to two wishes of mortals (they mustn’t be spoiled, after all).
All around the kingdom, word was sent of the princess’s breaking heart, and a huge prize was prepared for anyone who might be able to repair the ailing organ. Many came, and some tried (the princess was by now very particular about whom she allowed to touch her fragile porcelain heart), but none succeeded, and the heart cracked and splintered further, and the princess became ever increasingly fragile and weak. Curtains were drawn and doors were closed, and the castle became a dark and gloomy residence, of timid movements and careful steps, all in fear that even the slightest of tremors might cause the porcelain heart to crumble.
As does so often in the crucial moment of stories, a tall dark stranger arrived at the doors of the castle. Wrapped up in cloaks and gloves and a long woolly scarf, he spoke in hushed whispers of his trade, and requested a sitting with the princess, as to ascertain the damage to her porcelain heart. The king and queen regarded him with worried glances, but dreaded even more the fast-approaching day that the porcelain heart collapsed, and most probably took their daughter with it into the dust. The stranger was brought up to see the princess, who was by now listless and gaunt, her golden curls lifeless and her eyes drooping and dull. The stranger sank deep into a bow before the girl, and asked gently to see the porcelain heart. He was a pottery maker, he explained, with a penchant for fixing the broken dishes and vases of the world. To lifeless and tired to think of a reason to deny him the request, the princess pulled out a bundle of tattered rags, within which lay the cracked and dying heart. Held together only by thin conduits of porcelain, the heart looked wretched, as if a strong breath might blow it to pieces. With slender fingers, reminiscent of the genteel surgeon who had once saved the slippery red heart from its imminent demise upon the birth of the baby girl, the stranger reached out and stroked the frail sides of the heart. From the depths of his coat, he pulled out a curious looking gel – a home remedy, taught to him by his mother, who was taught by her grandparents, and so forth - and with a swift precursory glance at the princess for her express permission, he began to glue the shards back together.
Now the heart was never truly fixed. It is difficult, if not impossible, to fix things that have been broken. But, with time, and care, a cautious hand and a precise eye, the shards gradually returned into the walls of the heart where they had once stood. The princess fell in love with the man (for how could she have not, having been privy to his soft words and velveteen manner, in a world otherwise full of vying, greedy individuals). The fragment of heart that had once been lost in the stables, amongst the straw, was even found years and years after it first broke loose from the porcelain heart. Together in the castle, the princess and the pottery maker lived, with him patiently on hand to glue parts of her heart back together as they weathered and aged.
