My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me: Forty New Fairy Tales

MICHAEL CUNNINGHAM. The Wild Swans

HERE IN THE CITY LIVES A PRINCE WHOSE LEFT ARM IS LIKE ANY other man’s and whose right arm is a swan’s wing. He’s a survivor of an old story. His eleven formerly enchanted brothers were turned from swans back into fully formed, handsome men. They married, had children, joined organizations, gave parties that thrilled everyone right down to the mice in the walls.

The twelfth brother, though, got the last of the magic cloaks, and his was missing a sleeve. So — eleven princes restored to manly perfection and one with a little something extra going on. That was the end of that story. “Happily ever after” fell onto everyone like the blade of a guillotine.

Since then, it’s been hard for the twelfth brother. The royal family didn’t really want him around, reminding them of their brush with the darker elements, stirring up their guilt about that single defective cloak. They made jokes about him, and insisted they were only meant in fun. His young nieces and nephews, the children of his brothers, hid whenever he’d enter a room and giggled from behind the chaises and tapestries. He grew introverted, which led many to believe that swanarmedness was also a sign of mental deficiency.

So finally he packed a few things and went out into the world. The world, however, was no easier than the palace had been. He could land only the most menial of jobs. Every now and then a woman got interested, but it always turned out that she was briefly drawn to some Leda fantasy or, worse, hoped her love could break the old spell and bring him his arm back. Nothing ever lasted long. The wing was graceful but large — it was awkward on the subway, impossible in cabs. It had to be checked constantly for lice. And unless it was washed daily, feather by feather, it turned from the creamy white of a French tulip to a linty, dispiriting gray.

He’s still around, though. He pays his rent one way or another. He takes his love where he can find it. In late middle age he’s grown ironic, and cheerful in a toughened, world-weary way. He’s become possessed of a wry, mordant wit. Most of his brothers back at the palace are on their second or third wives. Their children, having been cosseted and catered to all their lives, can be difficult. The princes spend their days knocking golden balls into silver cups or skewering moths with their swords. At night they watch the jesters and jugglers and acrobats perform.

The twelfth brother can be found most nights in one of the bars on the city’s outer edges, the ones that cater to people who were only partly cured of their spells and hexes, or not at all. There’s the three-hundred-year-old woman who got nervous when she spoke to the magic fish and found herself crying, No, wait, I meant young forever into a suddenly empty ocean. There’s the crownletted frog who can’t seem to truly love any of the women willing to kiss him. In those places, a man with a single swan wing is considered lucky.

If you’re free one night, go out and find him. Buy him a drink. He’ll be glad to meet you, and he’s surprisingly good company. He tells a great joke. He has some amazing stories to tell.

When I was a kid in the suburbs of Chicago my family had a copy of the stories of Hans Christian Andersen, with beautiful, rather grotesque illustrations by Arthur Rackham, which I found so terrifying that I could not only not open the book but could not, on some of my more delicate days, enter the living room in which the book was shelved. This terror metamorphosed eventually, naturally, into fascination, and one day when I was six I forced myself to take down the book, open it, and gaze unflinchingly, unaccompanied, at its pictures. I believed that that day, I became a man.