Once upon a time there lived two sisters—Prete the younger and Paresse the older—born to parents of modest means and gentle temperament. The sisters grew up the best of friends, always generous and kind toward one another in all things.
Though the sisters came from humble beginnings, they were quite extraordinary in one regard: their voices were exceptional, clear and bright as summer stars. Indeed, both girls could sing so beautifully that no nightingale would nest within a thousand fathoms, for envy.
All day long, the sisters would compose little songs which they sang to one another, and to their parents. Nothing gave them greater joy than to put their talent to such delightful use, and wistful were the travelers who heard such a happy home as they passed by.
Alas, the time came for the poor sisters to go out into the world and seek their fortunes. They had few possessions to pack, but their mother and father sent them off with enough food to start their journey and enough love to keep them warm forever.
At least that’s what they thought, those fairy-tale parents. You and I know that love can’t mend a sock, or fill a belly, or patch a leaky roof. Neither can music, for that matter. You and I know that in the real world, only firewood feeds the fire. So learned the two sisters, who all too soon found themselves with nothing but a hunger no song of theirs could soothe.
“Let us stop there,” cried Paresse, seeing candlelight in the window of an innkeeper. “Surely they’ll take pity on us, give us something to eat and beds for the night!”
The younger sister hesitated. “We’ve relied on the kindness of others too long already,” she said, thinking of their parents. “The village is close. We must go there, learn a useful trade, and earn our way properly.”
But the older sister was persistent, and she persuaded the younger girl to join her in begging at the inn.
“After we eat, we’ll treat them to one of our songs,” said Paresse. “They’ll be quite grateful, I’m sure.”
The sisters were met warmly by the innkeeper and his wife, who fed them well and then led them to a cozy attic to sleep. But when offered the gift of the sisters’ singing, the couple declined, tired from their long day’s work.
The next morning, the sisters continued on their way, refreshed and humming a cheerful tune. It wasn’t long before they came upon the village, bustling with shops and tradespeople of all sorts. There were tailors and seamstresses, bakers and cobblers, fruit-sellers and ironsmiths. There were maids and ladies-in-waiting on errands from their mistresses. All around were the trappings of commerce, and the sisters stared in wonder. Here was the world where they must make their fortunes, for better or for worse.
“Well,” said the younger sister bravely, “I suppose we should see what we can do!” And before her older sister could say a word, she grabbed her hand to pull her into the nearest shop.
As it happened, the sisters had stepped into the shop of an old tailor. He was a clever fellow, and had devised an ingenious way of getting more light into the little shop, with a roof that could be moved through a series of pulleys and levers. But even more fascinating was the tailor’s work itself. All around the sisters were bolts of fabric, jars of buttons, and plump pincushions stuck through with shiny silver needles. Wondrous, colorful things that were nevertheless hard to connect to the finished dresses and stately suits that hung throughout the shop.
“We’ve come to the village to learn a trade,” said the younger sister, offering the old tailor a deep curtsey. “Pray tell, good sir, what is the life of a tailor like?”
“Hmmm,” grumbled the old man. “The life of a tailor, you ask. Well, it’s stuck thumbs, for one. It’ll be years before you’re proper handy with the thimble. And your back will trouble you sorely, what with hunching over your work day in and day out. Oh and your eyesight will go, no doubt, from all the squinting at seams. And—”
“Enough!” cried the older sister, who pulled Prete back outside roughly. “Bloody fingers and blindness? Surely there must be something better!”
The two walked on a bit until they reached a pleasant little shack, ablaze with the light of a dozen ovens. The delicious scent of fresh bread came wafting through its open windows. Peering inside, the sisters could see a woman kneading dough. Her apron and arms were dusty with flour and her face was deeply flushed.
“Look, Paresse!” cried Prete. “A bakery! Wouldn’t it be lovely to make cakes all day? You’d never be hungry again!”
“Or cool,” shuddered Paresse. “Those ovens must be scorching! Sweating morning, noon, and night? What a dreadful life that must be!”
And so it went all day. As they walked through the village, Prete asked questions of the shopkeepers and tradeswomen, exploring their workshops and examining their wares. Everyone she met was eager for help, and she knew that she and Paresse had only to choose. But Paresse merely followed mutely, silently wishing she didn’t have to work at all.
“My dear sister,” said Prete gently, pulling Paresse under a nearby tree. “If I cannot convince you to join me in some apprenticeship, if nothing appeals to you, then I fear we must part ways. We promised Mother and Father that we would do our best, and I cannot beg another meal from the good innkeepers.”
“Oh, Prete,” wailed Paresse, finally confessing her true thoughts. “I wish we could have stayed children forever. I wish instead of stitching or cooking or cleaning we could just sing our pretty songs!” And with that, she collapsed in a tearful heap against the trunk of the tree. Her younger sister pulled her close, and for a time the two girls sat together, each lost in her own ideas and worries.
Now, it just so happened that at this very moment, perched in the tree above them was a sleek black crow. Only, the crow was really a witch who had disguised herself so she could come to the village and see what evil could be done. And when she heard Paresse, the witch knew exactly what that would be.
With a caw! caw! of wicked delight, she jumped from the tree into the bush, to hide her next transformation. When she stepped in front of the two sisters a moment later, they saw a woman with raven-black hair and a magnificent black velvet cloak. Her eyes glinted formidably, and the sisters felt compelled to bow before what they could only assume was a noblewoman.
“My dear,” said the witch, addressing Paresse. “I could not help but overhear you just then. Am I to understand you are great songstress? If so, that is a wonderful coincidence indeed, as I have been searching for just such a thing!”
At these words—indeed, at the very sight of this striking presence—Paresse was so shocked she couldn’t utter a word.
“Well…m’lady,” stammered Prete. “We….I…my sister…we’ve come to the village to—”
“Yes!” cried Paresse, having found her voice. “Yes, I am! I am indeed a songstress! I can sing song after song after song, as you wish. As can my sister! We can show you, if you like.”
The cunning witch suppressed a smile. “Is that so?” she asked, now addressing Prete. Prete nodded, though somewhat hesitantly.
“Well then, doubly lucky am I today. I shall take you both,” she declared matter-of-factly. “You shall sing songs for me every day, when and as I wish. Happy songs, sad songs—whatever I command, however many I command. Les deux chanteuses. ”
Beside her, Prete heard Paresse gasp. She, too, was amazed by what she heard. But young Prete was sensible, so she summoned the courage to be bold. “By your leave, good lady,” she replied, “could you kindly tell us more? Are you from the royal court? Does the king seek entertainment? Are we to live at the palace?”
The witch’s lip twitched ever so slightly. “No…” she began slowly. “It is not the king who requires music. Indeed it is of no consequence who does. You shall live by your songs, that is all that matters. Or perhaps…” and here she shifted her gaze meaningfully to Paresse. “Perhaps you would be happier in a scullery? Scrubbing pots and pans is good, honest work for girls such as yourselves…” The witch let her words trail heavily, with just a touch of scorn.
Paresse stepped forward. “No, m’lady. We…I—”
“How much?” Prete broke in. The terrible witch narrowed her dark eyes dangerously, but the young girl pressed on. “How much, for a song?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t wish to put a price on the beauty of music,” said the witch lightly, glancing away. “I only ask that you sing…” (and here she paused to look back at the sisters) “...all day. As I imagine you have done all your lives, no?”
Paresse nodded eagerly, but Prete remained silent.
“It is your very favorite thing in the whole world, is it not?” Again Paresse nodded. “Then how,” she smiled and spread her hands, “could you possibly ever grow tired of it?”
Prete and Paresse looked at one another, each thinking something very different.
“I will leave you now to consider, but I’ll return at midnight to this very spot. Should you wish to accept my offer, meet me here then.” And in a flash of black, she was gone.
Now, I’ve told you already how much the two sisters loved one another, how in all ways they were devoted to the other. And you’ve seen for yourselves a bit of each girl’s character and nature so far. So I’ve no need to tell you about the argument that ensued between them, and how the division in their hearts pained them both. Suffice to say they were of two wholly different minds by the time midnight approached.
At the appointed hour, the witch appeared, even more dazzling in the moonlight. The sisters embraced and bade one another farewell. And in an instant, Paresse and the black-hearted witch were gone.
Many years passed. Prete took up work with a kindly candlemaker, a trade that regularly brought her into the homes and shops of nearly everyone in the village. Every day she could be seen delivering her bundles of beeswax pillars and tallow tapers, always tied up neatly in paper and twine. As she walked she sometimes sang softly, both for her own amusement and to pass the time. However, it wasn’t long before the beauty of her voice betrayed her, and all the children in village were soon begging her for a little song or rhyme whenever she visited.
To the old tailor and his grandchildren she sang:
Tyrian satin and nimble fingers—
Un manteau mignon pour la reine des abeilles!
Careful now, not to break her stinger
Elle va percer vos petits oreilles
To the baker and her nieces she sang:
Je t’apporte le suif pour les pate brisees,
Je t’apporte le suif pour cuire a la nuit,
Plump berry tarts on copper trays,
Prickets and tinder to last for days
And so it was that Prete the candlemaker became known as Prete la Chanteuse, and her music filled the lives of the villagers with as much light as her candles.
One evening, Prete took a walk to the grove where she last saw her dear sister. She placed her palm upon the tree under which they sat that fateful day and sighed. Soon she fell to singing a beautiful but mournful tune. Her voice carried up into the branches above her, higher and higher until it met the ears of a bluejay at the very top.
The bluejay listened for a moment, then hopped down a branch, then listened some more, then hopped down closer. Lower and lower the bluejay went, drawn by the voice of Prete far below, until it was perched just above her. Prete went on singing for a time, then sighed once more and gathered herself to go.
“Wait!” cried a voice. “Don’t go, dear sister!” Prete whirled about, looking for a the speaker. She saw no one but the little bluejay in the tree. Prete looked around, bewildered, when suddenly the bluejay said: “Sweet Prete! It is I, Paresse, your older sister! Do not be afraid, for it is truly me. I live under the enchantment of the wicked witch we met that terrible day. I heard your voice high up in the trees just now and knew instantly that it was you! Oh, sister, I have missed you so!”
As you can imagine, there was then was a scene of great rejoicing, but also much amazement. Having greeted her younger sister, Paresse went on to tell the story of the spell under which she had lived so many years, beginning the very night the sisters parted. Ever since then, poor Paresse had been forced by the witch to sing all day and all night, endlessly. Every minute of every hour of every day, Paresse sang and sang and sang. Spellbound, she could do nothing else. She could not eat or drink or even leave the witch’s cottage in the woods.
Now, there are all sorts of evil in this world, and the witch’s was the kind that feasts on the pain of others. And since the music that Paresse sang was so full of sadness and longing and loneliness, it fed the witch’s wicked soul quite well. Soon she gave up all her other evil schemes, doing nothing but gorging herself on song. Eventually, the witch grew fat and round and stupid with laziness. Her sleek black hair became matted and her lush velvet cloak slowly tightened, becoming threadbare and dull.
When Paresse saw that the witch was weakening, she decided to try and trick her into letting her escape. Paresse begged her for just one day of freedom. “Oh, please let me go find new things to sing about! I can see that hearing the same songs over and over is making you thin and frail,” she lied. “Soon you will waste away to nothing and die!”
The witch, nearly witless from gluttony, agreed—but on one condition. Paresse could leave for one single day, but she must do so in the form of a bluejay. As such, no one would would be able to understand her if she tried to tell them about the enchantment. And come midnight, she must either fly back to the witch right away or die on the spot.
Hearing this, Paresse was heartbroken, thinking her chance of escape was gone. Still, she agreed to the terms, desperate to get away. As soon as she nodded yes, she felt the whoosh! of evil witch magic transforming her into a bluejay.
As fast as her wings would take her, she flew straight to the little village. There she hopped from window to window, seeking some sign of her sister. But Prete was busy about her candle deliveries, and though the little bluejay visited all the same places her younger sister went, always she missed Prete by a few minutes.
The day wore on, and the little bird grew hungry. But she knew just where to go: the baker’s, where she helped herself to a feast of crumbs swept out the back door. Night came on soon after that, and the cold made her little bones shiver. Again she knew just where to go: from the tailor’s scrap heap the pulled a length of silky ribbon and a strip of soft lace. With these she flew up to the highest branch in the tallest tree she could find. Here she set about making herself a cozy nest in which to spend her last precious hours before she must fly back to the evil witch.
Darkness came over the village, and one by one Paresse watched as each home and shop lit up with candlelight. Never had she seen a more peaceful sight, and her heart ached to think that somewhere in all that soft glow was her long lost little sister.
Of course, you know what happened next—for it was then that les deux chanteuses were so happily and wondrously reunited. Talking further, they decided it must be their close connection as sisters that allowed them to understand another despite the witch’s charm.
Paresse dropped her tiny feathered head sadly. “That means nothing now, though, for the hour approaches that I must fly back to the witch or die!” she cried, despairing.
“Take heart, dear sister!” replied Prete. “I have an idea. If sad songs are what the witch wants, then sad songs she shall have!” she declared. “But come, we must hurry. It is nearly midnight and I cannot fly as you can. You must lead the way!”
Off the sisters sped into the dark forest, Paresse darting deftly through the trees with Prete close behind. With just minutes to spare, they arrived at the witch’s cottage, cold and dark and cheerless. Instantly the little bluejay Paresse changed back into her human form, and the sisters embraced.
“Now sister, listen to me,” whispered Prete. “We are going to fatten the witch up until she cannot move at all. Then we shall kill her, break the spell, and make our escape.”
“But Prete,” said Paresse. “How can I possibly sing sad songs, now that we are together again? My heart is full of nothing but joy!”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Prete answered. “Just take care to sit by this window and leave everything to me.”
And with that, Paresse went back inside the hateful cottage. Immediately, the hungry old witch demanded music. Paresse did as Prete had instructed, and moved her chair close to the open window. Her heart pounded with excitement and the thought of escape. She stalled, trying to remember the hopelessness she felt just a day ago. But when she opened her mouth to sing, what filled the room was not her voice, but that of her little sister. And sing her little sister did. Prete sang and sang and sang, each song more heartbreaking than the last.
She sang about a young tailor losing his beloved wife, stitching bits of her clothing into a blanket for his bed.
She sang about a lonely breadmaker who poured her love into her loaves, when there was nothing else to love.
She sang about a poor old couple missing their daughters.
She sang about two sisters getting lost in the wood, and deciding to seek their way out on opposite paths.
Minute by minute, the witch grew fatter and fatter, her wicked soul gobbling up the sadness in Prete’s songs. She became so frenzied in her greed that she grew blind to everything else. She didn’t notice that it was Prete she heard singing, not Paresse. She didn’t see Paresse carefully climbing out the window to join her sister safe outside. And she didn’t see Prete pull a smooth yellow candle from out of her cloak, light it, and throw it in the cottage. The old witch didn’t see the two sisters pulling shut the window and trapping her inside, but surely she smelled the smoke of the flames before they burned her alive.
And surely the old witch heard the song the sisters sang as they ran away, hand in hand, the spell broken at last. Surely that happy song was the very last thing she ever heard.
The End
