The Girl with the Golden Ribbon

Stephanie Stratford gazed out her bedroom window reflectively. The snow had been falling since she arrived home from college that morning. It was a lavish estate with spruce pines flocked with white snow and rolling hills in the distance. It was the house she had grown up in, her grandmother’s home with tall ceilings and oak floors that were always shining.

It was a Currier and Ives setting—peaceful and quiet—too quiet. At the end of the drive, the gaslight gave an ethereal appearance to a gnarled old oak tree in the lawn, making it appear monstrous. It contributed to the uneasy feeling about being alone in the big house for the first time. She had been fighting melancholy.

Stephanie shuddered. Her cat, Boots, jumped up into the wide windowsill, a welcome distraction. She gathered Boots in her arms, rubbing her black and white soft fur, thankful for the company. And grateful for Brighton House that held the memories of her grandmother. She had always known that the house would one day be hers, but the day had come too soon. She wasn’t ready at the young age of eighteen to lose the person who had given her a fairy tale life and loved her unconditionally. She’d never spent the night alone in the house and wondered if she could sleep. She shivered and turned away.

It was then her eye caught a glint of something shiny. The baroque key lay stark against the cherry wood of the dresser. It hadn’t been there this morning when she’d arrived home from college; she was sure of it. Yet, as she picked it up, she felt the chill of premonition. There was only one piece of furniture in the rambling house she hadn’t been able to open—her grandmother’s vintage desk.

Flames in the fireplace cast shadows that skittered on the walls as she crossed the room and crept downstairs to the library. As Stephanie opened the door, an image of her grandmother seated at the desk tending her correspondence flashed into her mind. The stab of pain her death had brought hadn’t lessened.

Stephanie ran her fingers over the rosewood inlay on the antique desk that her grandmother’s second husband, John Brighton, had bought when they were vacationing in France. She had been twelve years old. John had insisted on buying it when he saw how much her grandmother loved it. The house reflected her grandmother’s exquisite taste: filled with eclectic antiques and plush overstuffed sofas and chairs. Stephanie’s hands shook as she inserted the key in the lock. It clicked as her heart gave a thump. She lowered the lid. Neatly stacked monogrammed stationery graced the leather insert, and a fountain pen and inkwell nestled in the corner. Stephanie slumped in the chair, disappointed. She had hoped for a letter, something written in her grandmother’s lovely handwriting that would ease her pain.

Stephanie put her head down on the desk, her fingers tapping the back of the desk abstractly. When the wood gave way, she thought she had broken the desk and sat back, sickened that she had damaged something her grandmother cherished. Upon closer investigation, she realized there was a secret compartment, and when she reached inside, she was surprised to find a black book titled The Feathered Pen. She scrutinized the cover, baffled as to why her grandmother would hide a book. Moreover, its pages were old and yellow. But the most amazing thing was the beautiful penmanship; it had been written by a quilled pen.

Stephanie smiled when she discovered the book was about a wizard. She’d loved the Wizard of Oz as a child. Tired but intrigued, she curled up in an overstuffed chair with a glass of sherry, opened the book, and began to read:

Ludwig Castle — 1867

Wizard was in his den at Ludwig Castle, conjuring up a potion when his messenger, Celeste, arrived. The celestial hummingbird fluttered about, chirping rapidly. “The babe has arrived. You must hurry to place the spells. The monks have begun to chant over her. Already they have given her many gifts.”

The cavernous chapel at the monastery—charged with spiritual power—seemed darker than usual on that dreary evening. The sweet fragrance of incense filled the air as two monks circled the room; the thuribles on chains swinging from their hands brushed their brown robes. It was a rite used to keep demons away. Twenty-three monks huddled together near the altar, chanting over the babe.

With a tap of his staff and an uttered invocation, Wizard flashed into the sanctum of the monastery—blinding the monks.

The older monks were struck with fear, for they knew what the apparition before them meant. A few dared to look at him: Wizard, an evil presence who they feared as much as they feared the devil himself.

“God save her,” they cried out.

As they struggled to find their vision, Wizard snatched the babe away from the head monk and brazenly held the infant above him, turning to the four points of the compass. His eyes changed from blue to fiery red. At each point, he repeated, “I claim this babe born with the golden ribbon. I hereby place the spell of The Promise on this child to become the bride of Prince Damien, the Lord of Ludwig Castle. After drinking from the Golden Chalice, she will lose her memory and forget her past life, her family, her friends, and live for the sole purpose of serving Prince Damien. The spell of The Promise has been cast and cannot be broken.”

Wizard stood against the backdrop of a magnificent Baroque altar, centuries-old, cradling the tiny innocent babe in the crook of his arm. He seemed oblivious to the holy objects surrounding him. The medieval stained-glass windows with their scenes of angels did not deter him. The scent of the incense meant to banish him had no effect, and the eyes of the crucified Christ boring into him made no impact. His blue eyes, fixed on the babe, appeared mesmerized. A slight smile curved his lips, and for a brief moment, his sharp features softened.

Candles flickered, causing light to dance on the golden crucifix as Joseph stepped forward. “Did you not hear me, Wizard? We have placed the Seal of the Blushed Rose on my daughter. Not a kiss from a suitor may glance her lips for eighteen years.”

Wizard shrugged. “I’ve heard of the Seal of the Blushed Rose. I could easily break the spell, but I won’t. She will remain pure and untouched as new-fallen snow. And when she is nineteen and nine days old, Prince Damien will take her to Ludwig Castle, and marry her. The babe’s destiny cannot be changed.”

“I beg of you, have mercy on my daughter, Wizard. I have accepted my punishment and understand that I must give my daughter up as penance for my sins, but she is of the light, and Prince Damien is dark. The light and the dark should not be joined together.”

Wizard stabbed his finger at Joseph’s chest. “Your powers are weak, and they come with a price. A monk who delves in the dark is a disgrace to his own people.” He waved his wand in Joseph’s face. “You are a foolish man. It was not your power that led you to the babe’s mother—it was destiny. And you could not resist the temptation set before you. It was thus to conceive the girl with the golden ribbon—born perfect in mind and body. It is her destiny to be joined with the dark.”

Joseph fell back, aghast. “It is cruel to place such a curse on an innocent babe. I will fight for her every step of the way. God as my witness.”

“Your words ring hollow, Joseph,” Wizard guffawed. “You are a monk who delves in the dark. There are rumors in the universe that you are consorting with Lucifer to save the babe from her fate. My advice to you is to accept her destiny. I warn you that if you deal with Lucifer, you will lose more than the child. Even Lucifer would not give her to a mortal. Earthlings have not evolved. They know nothing of magic. Prince Damien is worthy of her. He is more powerful than any mortal.”

“I do not believe it is my daughter’s destiny to serve an evil prince,” Joseph said. “I’ll never accept that. You’re right; I delve into the dark. I’ve studied demonology so I can fight evil. You will not win, Wizard. I have placed The Seven Seals of Protection around her.”

Wizard shot Joseph a sharp glance. “Seven Seals are very powerful. I expected that from a monk who delves in the dark. But you underestimate my powers again, Joseph. I will break the seals too.” He stroked the babe’s smooth head gently with his weathered hand, and his expression softened. “It is best for everyone that you leave her to her fate. I assure you she will have a good life.”

“We must think of the babe now. It is cold in the chapel. We must warm and feed her; she is in rags. I will cut my blanket and give it to her. Hand the child to me now,” Joseph said as he held out his arms, but not in supplication, in command. “If she becomes chilled, she may die.”

Wizard drew back and held the babe tighter. He looked lovingly at her. “I cannot leave her in these swaddling rags. I don’t know that I can leave her at all. I beg you to allow me to take her to Ludwig Castle. Our head handmaiden, Lily, will take good care of her,” Wizard pleaded. “The castle has fireplaces in every room. It is cold and unfit for a babe in this monastery.”

“Your heart seems pure, Wizard, but we cannot allow her to leave our kingdom. The babe is mine until destiny proves otherwise. You’ve placed the curse. Your work here is done. Hand her over.”

Wizard touched the rag with his wand, and the cloth turned to a soft white fleece blanket. Then, with a look of triumph, he said, “There, there, my sweet. This blanket will keep you warm, and I will leave you a plentiful supply of the Nectar of the Gods so that you will not be hungry.” Wizard reluctantly handed her over to Joseph. “What are you going to do with her? You cannot keep her. Who will raise her?”

“It is none of your concern, Wizard,” Joseph said as the monks made a protective circle around Joseph and the babe and began to chant.

Wizard’s face darkened. “My magic is stronger than anyone in the universe,” he hissed. “I can find her by her golden ribbon wherever she goes. I have only to look up into the heavens and find the golden thread.”

“Be gone, Wizard,” Joseph said, thrusting his hand out at Wizard. “You will have nothing to do with her until the appointed time and not even then if I have my way.”

“The Feathered Pen writes,” Wizard said. “Where ever she goes, and whatever she does, I will know. My magic will keep her safe. And the Feathered Pen will write her life story in my den at Ludwig Castle.” He pulled a black book out of thin air. “This book, written by The Feathered Pen, must go with her. It is the heartbeat of her soul. One day, at the appointed time, she will find the book and read of her fate. And when she touches the book for the first time—the book will come to life.” He pointed his wand at the monks, and his blue eyes flashed as he shouted out a warning. “If the book is destroyed, the girl dies.”

Wizard dropped the book on the altar and disappeared as if swallowed up by night.

Stephanie slammed the book shut. A shiver ran through her. This fairy tale was unlike any of the others she’d read—monks, and magic, and a feathered pen writing about a girl born with a golden ribbon attached to her. There was no doubt about it—the book was dark. She ran her hand over the black, worn leather book and held it to her heart. There was something about it that resonated with her.

The ringing of the phone broke the silence and her complete enthrallment in the book. She almost let the answering machine pick up. The dark fairy tale had drawn her in, and it took fortitude to pull her eyes away. She knew before answering, it would be her father. He called every night. She pictured him at his bedroom window, looking down at Brighton House from the mansion that loomed over the countryside—Stratford Place—her family home. Her hand spread protectively over the book as if she were trying to keep it from his sight. Her grandmother had kept the book under lock and key, and she would keep it private.

It was her father, and he sounded worried. “Your lights are still on. What are you doing up so late, honey? Are you having trouble sleeping?”

“No, nothing like that, Daddy. I’m unwinding after a busy day. I was in the library looking for a good book and lost track of time.”

“Don’t stay up too late. Thomas Shrock will come by early tomorrow morning to cut your Christmas tree. There are plenty of nice spruce trees on the north end of your property, at least ten acres. You can only get there with horses this time of year. Thomas is bringing a team.”

“Oh…” Stephanie said, taken by surprise. It was unexpected. She wasn’t sure she was ready to see Thomas—just yet. But she knew it was too late to change plans. “I’ll make sure I’m up early. I still have unpacking to do, and I need to organize my closet. But the tree’s important, too, and I’m excited about decorating it.”

“You can’t squeeze everything into one day, Steph. I know how you like to burn the candle at both ends. You had dark circles under your eyes this morning when I saw you.”

“It was from studying for exams. Everyone does it. I’ll be fine.” She sighed, hoping he wouldn’t bring another bottle of those horrible vitamins that made her gag whenever she took one.

She had mixed emotions after she hung up and turned off the lights. She was grateful that her parents were close by, but she also felt her privacy was compromised. Her father’s ancestral home, Stratford Place, which had been in the family for over a century, sat high on a hill and overlooked Brighton House.

The fairy tale enchanted Stephanie, although she wondered why her grandmother had kept a fairy tale hidden under lock and key. She took the book up to bed to read, but when she climbed between the fresh sheets and her head sank into the billowy pillow, drowsiness overcame her. She fell into a deep sleep with the book hugged to her chest. It was as if the book itself had lulled her to sleep, shrouding her from the noises that big houses make; she was oblivious to the sounds of the heavy winds and the branches tapping at the window.

At midnight, when the grandfather clock struck twelve, the book floated up into the air, then dropped to the floor and opened to the picture of the dark prince. Stephanie slept soundly as the image of the dark prince came alive. He stepped out of the book. His dark heart softened as he gazed upon her beautiful face—her porcelain skin, blush lips, and long lashes. 

“You are more beautiful than I imagined,” he whispered. “The Seal of the Blushing Rose has fallen away. Many men will want you. But you are mine. It is our destiny to be together.” He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. “The Feathered Pen writes in a book in the Wizard’s Den—and tells your life story.” He held up the black book in triumph. “When you opened the black book, you brought us together.”

The Feathered Pen dipped the nib in the black ink and magically flew over the pages: It is time to bring the dark and the light together. Wizard is pleased. The girl has been joined with the Black Book, the heartbeat of her soul. The spell of the Blushing Rose has fallen away, and Damien is bringing her to Ludwig through her dreams. 

In a trance-like state, Stephanie could feel the wind on her face, and could hear the clumping of the horse’s hooves as they crossed a drawbridge. She could hear the soldiers talking and knew that everyone was not happy about her arrival. 

The gods were angry on that furiously cold, wintry night at Ludwig Castle in the Kingdom of Sirius. A storm raged. High ocean waves roared, and dangerous gales of wind thrashed beneath the jagged cliffs, climbing higher and higher up the cliffs as if trying to reach the girl—the earthling. She was not supposed to be at Ludwig Castle—a dark place. If you listened carefully, you could hear eerie whispers in the wind saying, bring her back, bring her back. 

The torrential rains beat against the helmets and armor of the burly guards, but the tough-skinned brutes hardly noticed. Shrieks and shrills filled the air; horses neighed and dogs barked excitedly as the villagers ran across the cobblestone road to the stables, seeking refuge from the storm. 

“It’s the girl who caused this,” a guard called out to the other. “The seas were calm before she arrived at Ludwig.”

“Did ye see her?” the guard yelled into the wind.

His friend’s face reflected awe. “I did. Damien passed by me as he crossed the drawbridge. The girl was sleeping, and she looked like a goddess—young, innocent, and beautiful. Legend says that there’s an invisible golden ribbon attached to her back that goes all the way to the heavens.”

The other guard guffawed and shouted above the wind to make himself heard, “What would Damien want with a holy woman? He likes his wenches wild and wicked.”

The wind carried their voices to Damien. “I will have your heads,” he cried out, his dark eyes flashing angrily. 

His words were met with grave silence as the giant guards cowered and enclosed themselves in the stables. Though twice Damien’s size with Goliath strength, the men were afraid. No one dared cross Damien; he ruled by inciting fear and could be brutal at will. 

The guard had spoken the truth. Damien was arrogant, outrageously good-looking, and he lived up to his glamorous reputation. He had more wenches than any man in the astral kingdoms.