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Princess Florecita

There was once a princess whose kindness was as rare as her beauty, who lived in a time when magic was not trickery, and enchanters were unforgiving when they envied. Florecita, she was called, “little flower”, it meant in Spanish.

She was dearly loved by her mother and father. She was their only daughter, and because she was as kind and good as she was, they took great pleasure in delighting her with gifts. One day, her father the king, presented her with a fine pony. Overjoyed, Florecita threw her arms around her father and graciously thanked him.

She rode her pony everyday around the vast gardens of her father’s palace. But the pony, being young and curious, seemed to grow tired of circling the same spaces. Florecita, being a very considerate young girl, pitied him. Just for today, she thought, I will cross the boundaries of the garden into the woods so that my pony can enjoy the wildness of the forest. She rode into the woods with caution. Not that there seemed much to be cautious about. It was a fine day. The sunlight sparkled through the branches of the trees. But ponies, like young children, are easily frightened.

The howling of the wind through the forest frightened the pony. He galloped nervously through the woodland, and Florecita could not control him. She lost her grip and fell. She managed to get on her knees when she saw a hand reach out to her offering to help her. She looked up and found herself looking into kind, soft, green eyes. The boy was a few years older than she, and was regally dressed. Florecita believed this must be no ordinary boy, but the son of a prince, perhaps.

“Stay but a little, señorita, I shall go find your pony.” The boy said. He got on his horse and rode away. Moments later, he returned with her pony. The pony was much calmer now. The boy stroked his mane.

“Thank you.” Florecita said graciously.

The boy smiled. “Talk to him.”

“What?” Florecita asked, not knowing what he meant.

“Talk to him. When he knows you better, he will be more trusting of you. He will not be afraid to go wherever you lead him…”

Florecita smiled in response. The boy rode away. Later on she asked herself, why did I not ask for his name?

From a beautiful little girl, Florecita grew up into a beautiful young woman. It was the talk of the kingdom that princes far and wide throughout Spain, Portugal, and even Italy, would bid for her hand in marriage. Most young princesses would have let such talk get the better of them, putting on excessively ornate clothes, letting hours pass, having themselves adorned in front of a mirror. But Florecita, she just smiled, and went about her days, tending the gardens and helping the servants in the kitchen. When winter came and it was quite unbearable to go outdoors, Florecita would embroider for her mother.

One day she was sitting by the window, embroidering. She looked out, wishing spring would come soon to melt the snow away, so she could once again tend to her garden. In her distraction, she pricked herself, and a drop of blood fell on the windowsill. It was then that she noticed a blackbird looking intently at her, perched on the branches of a near by tree.

The bird began to sing.

“He lies asleep the good kind prince…
In a land so far away…”

The bird stopped, gingerly preened it feathers, and looked at her again, as if to ask her to converse with him.

“Please sing again, little bird.” She asked.

“He lies asleep the good kind prince…
In a land so far away
And that way he shall stay
Till a maiden comes to take the evil spell away
He wakes but once in the night
Of a midsummer day…”

“What does your song mean, little bird?”

The bird flew and perched on the windowsill. “In a castle far away, the kindest of princes suffers. It is a most unjust thing.”

“Pray, tell me of the Prince.”

“Golden hair, the fairest of skin, the kindest of eyes, the most handsome prince in the world… An evil enchanter envied him so much that he cursed the prince to sleep until his death. It is only once a year, on Midsummer’s Eve, that he wakes. Very slowly, he dies…”

“Is there nothing that can be done?”

“Suffering…”

“Suffering?” Florecita asked.

“If a maiden were to make her way to his castle carrying the burden of iron shoes, walking in them until they are completely worn through, and on midsummer night strokes his face with a black feather…Then shall the spell end…”

“How odd a quest it is…”

“Not odd…For the enchanter believes no such maiden exists, who would let herself suffer so…Will no one save him…?” With that, the little bird spread his wings and took flight, leaving a lone black feather on her window sill…