The Moonbeam Book by Cidney Mayes

Once there was a lovely princess who wrote fairytales. Each day she wrote from dawn until dusk tales of grand quests, true love, and fulfilled wishes. The king and queen thought her charming and indulged her, listening to her best tales each night.

When the princess was eighteen years of age, a terrible sickness swept through the land like a feral beast, killing her mother and father. On the day of their funeral, she poured her grief onto parchment. The ink mixed with her tears, leaving her with nothing but a pool of watery black.

That night, the palace advisor told her that she was to be wed to a prince from a neighboring kingdom. Distraught, the princess ran into her garden.

As she lay weeping, a silver moonbeam spoke to her. “What troubles you, dear one?”

“I am to be married to a stranger,” she replied, heart heavy with grief.

“Fear not,” said the moonbeam. “I gift you this book. Whatever you write shall come true. Blessing or curse, that’s up to you.”

The princess blinked, and a silver book that shone like starlight appeared on her garden wall.

“Only tales written in your blood will come to pass,” said the moonbeam.

Cradling her treasure, the princess rushed to her chamber and wrote well into the night, pricking herself with a sewing needle to make her ink.

The wedding was just as she’d written, the prince even more charming than she’d penned. Their kingdoms were joined in matrimony, and she became queen. Soon they grew to love each other. The queen found her new life so pleasing, that she had a special box made for her book and kept it under lock and key, certain she’d never have need for it.

While the king attended meetings and consulted with his advisors, the queen walked around the palace, into the village, and through the fields.

One day on her walk, she came upon a weeping shepherd. “What is wrong, sir?”

“My lamb has been snatched by a terrible wolf,” he replied.

The queen, who had a gentle heart, was saddened by his plight. When she returned to the palace, she withdrew the little key from her pocket. She opened her book and wrote of the lamb who strayed too far from home, but returned after a grand adventure.

The next day, the queen came upon the shepherd who cried tears of joy. “My lamb has returned, safe and sound! He must have escaped the terrible wolf. How happy I am!”

This pleased the queen, who felt that she had, at last, found some purpose. She decided that her gifts should be shared with all the people in her kingdom. The king agreed, and soon word spread across the land. Many traveled great distances to ask the queen for aid. She heard them graciously and promised her assistance.

Each night she wrote in her silver book, growing more imaginative with each tale. She granted her people the things they lacked to make their own happiness: children, wealth, and land. Their joy made her own heart content, and she did not mind the long nights or bandages she now wore on her fingers as they bleed well after waking.

The queen grew thin with her lack of sleep and the loss of blood. Her people praised her selflessness. They called her generous, noble, and kind-hearted. The kingdom grew prosperous, expanding from the far mountains to the shining sea.

The queen’s gifts sowed jealousy in the hearts of their neighboring kingdoms. They, too, wanted the same happiness and wealth. When the king told her the horrifying news that warships sailed towards them, determined to claim her power for their own, the queen’s blood turned to ice.

“It is the only way to keep us safe,” begged the king. “You must destroy our enemies.”

They spoke deep into the night, and the queen was convinced to write a story of a great, dark wave that tore the warships asunder. Her hands trembled, so the king pricked her finger for her, light as a kiss.

The king was relieved, the people grateful, but the queen bore dark circles under her eyes and her ribs jutted through her skin.

Once the threat had passed, the king came to their bedchamber with tears in his eyes and a plea of his own. “How I long for a child,” he said. “A prince to raise in our image, one who is as kind and fair as you.”

The queen was saddened. She, too, longed for a child, but she was so thin and weak. She knew she couldn’t bear a son. When she objected, the king grew cold and withdrew from her.

She found herself in her garden, weeping, and the moonbeams whispered to her once more. “Dear one, what troubles you? Do you not have everything you ever desired?”

“No,” cried the queen. “The book is a curse and I am shackled to it, left sleepless and wanting.”

“Sculptor of Words, Maker of Worlds,” soothed the moonbeam. “You have all you require to find happiness. For things that have been made can just as easily be unmade.”

She slashed her palm, smearing her blood through years of stories, rendering her words illegible. Cries tore the land asunder as panic bloomed in the night.

The king tried to stop her. As he beheld her, hunched over her book with pages of nothing but watery crimson, his bloodless lips called her a witch.

She only smiled sadly before staining the story of their wedding day with her blood.

Soon, all was quiet. With the last page she had reserved, she wrote her final tale. When it was done, she threw her silver starlight book into the sea where it was swallowed by crashing waves. She whispered to herself the last story she had written as dawn began to break.

Once there was a queen named Elody, who ruled her land with a kind heart and a just hand.