The Enchanter's Daughter

//This is a story I have always been fond of since I was little, most likely Vietnamese in origin, ponified for /mlp/'s entertainment. However, while it is here I also encourage you to pick up an actual copy written by Antonia Barber, illustrated by Errol Le Cain, if you can. http://www.amazon.ca/The-Enchanters-Daughter-Antonia-Barber/dp/0224023993 If you thought the story was good, I know you will think the art in the book is beautiful enough to make up the other half.//

 

In the cold white land at the top of the world there once lived an Enchanter and his daughter. So great was the power of the Enchanter that, even amid the frozen wastes, the gardens of his palace were bright with scented flowers and sweet with the music of singing birds. Beyond the walls, green fields and woods and lakes of shining water stretched right to the slopes of the icy and impassable mountains that ringed them around.

 

Here the Enchanter and his daughter lived alone, for they had no need of servants. Whatever they wanted, whether food or warmth or comfort, the Enchanter had only to wave his horn through the air and everything was as he desired. All his long life he had studied the books of the old magicians and necromancers until he had mastered their arts one by one. But each power once gained, left him dissatisfied. For he had no need of the gold, nor time to listen to the music.

 

The Enchanter would not let his daughter leave the valley. When she asked to see what lay beyond the cold white mountains, he said that traveling would weary her. Instead, he transformed the valley.

 

First it became a tropical island with beaches of white sand and leaning palms with great feathery leaves. The shining lake became a warm lagoon where the Enchanter's daughter swam in the blue water and chased the brightly-colored fish through caves of coral.

 

When she grew tired of this, the Enchanter turned the palace into a castle on a high crag amid pine forests where the deer roamed and the great eagles soared overhead. Watching them, his daughter began to long for freedom.

 

Then the Enchanter filled the valley with jungle forests where brilliant snakes and butterflies shone like jewels in the green shadows, and tribes of chattering monkeys swung through the treetops for his daughter's amusement. Watching them as they played, she began to long for company.

 

The Enchanter's daughter was a very beautiful earth pony. Her mane was black and flowed over her shoulders like a shining waterfall; her eyes were wide and dark like the eyes of a fawn in the forest; her coat glowed like sunlight upon a ripe nectarine. She did not know whe was beautiful, for she had no one with whom to compare herself. The Enchanter knew, but he had come to take perfection for granted: so he did not praise her and she did not grow vain. Her beauty shone out from all the myriad mirrors on the palace walls, but she passed by with never a glance at them.

 

The Enchanter called her "Daughter" and did not give her a name. She did not think this strange, for she called him "Father" and she knew no one else. Sometimes in her dreams it seemed to her that she had once had another name, but when she awoke she could not remember it. At other times she dreamed that she was a small flying bird and did not have a name at all.

 

Having no one but her father, she went in search of him to the high tower where he pored over his books. But he who had once delighted in her company had now no time to talk to her. For having gained by magic all that life could offer, he found that he was growing old. He saw that age and death would rob him of all his power and possessions unless he could unlock the one secret that had defeated all other sorcerors before him: the secret of eternal youth.

 

"Do not trouble me, Daughter," he said, turning the pages of a great dusty book, "for unless I unravel this last mystery I am lost."

 

The Enchanter's daughter saw that her father laid great store by the books. She reached to take one down to look at it more closely. Then for the first time he turned on her in anger, forbidding her to touch the books in which his power and knowledge lay.

 

"Then give me books of my own," she begged, "for I have no companions and time lays heavy upon my hooves."

 

The Enchanter's mind was on matters of life and death. He raised his horn and waved it distractedly. "You will find storybooks in your room," he said.

 

His daughter ran down all the stairs of the tower and found to her delight that the floor of her room was piled high with books. They were bound in bright leathers, tooled and edged with gold, and decorated with glowing pictures--for nothing the Enchanter did was ever done by half.

 

Then for a long time she did not trouble her father again. For she discovered in the books new worlds of which she had never dreamed. She read adventure stories and fairy stories, tales of heroism and tales of romance. She read of happiness and sadness, pain and courage, hope and despair, friendship and love. She learned that there were many lands beyond the mountains and that they were all full of ponies. She found that there were mothers as well as fathers--and brothers and sisters, cousins and friends. And all the ponies in the books had names, which made her wonder again about the name in her dreams she could never quite remember.

 

Then the Enchanter's daughter went once more to her father, who could scarely be seen amid the piles of musty volumes.

 

"Father," she asked him, "what is my name?"

 

The Enchanter looked up sharply. "I call you Daughter," he said. "You do not need a name."

 

She tried another question. "Where is my mother?" she asked.

 

The Enchanter turned pale. "Your mother?" he said. "What do you know of mothers?"

 

"I have read the books," said his daughter.

 

Then the Enchanter saw his mistake: for in giving her books he had given her knowledge. For a while he was silent; then he looked at her slyly.

 

"Daughter," he said, "you have no mother. Once when I was lonely and craved company, I made you with a powerful spell from a rose that grew on the palace wall."

 

"Then let me be a rose again," said his daughter, "and I shall know if it is true."

 

"Very well," said the Enchanter, "but only for a day." He stirred the air with his long spiral horn and his daughter became a red rose on the south wall of the palace.

 

She felt the morning dew on her petals as the sun rose through the early morning mists. She felt the rich perfume drawn out of her by the warm rays as the day went on. She felt the many small feet of a caterpillar which passed over her in the early afternoon, and the gentle movement of the breeze which sprang up at sunset. But deep within her petals there was a strange longing which told her that she was not a rose.

 

Next morning, she went to the Enchanter and said, "Father, you play games with me. Tell me where my mother is."

 

The Enchanter saw that she was not deceived.

 

"You are too clever for me, Daughter," he said, "so I will tell you the truth. You were once a small bright fish in the shining lake. I caught you on my line in the old days when I had time for such sport. You pleaded for your life, so I made you into a daughter to keep me company."

 

"Then let me be a fish again," said his daughter, "that I may know my true self."

 

"For a day then," said the Enchanter, tracing a pattern in the air.

 

The Enchanter's daughter felt the cool water flowing like silk over her shining scales. She glided through gently swaying forests of green weed. She leaped up into the bright air and plunged back through a circle of ripples into the mysterious depths. But all the time there were thoughts in her head which told her that she was not a fish.

 

On the following morning, she went to the Enchanter again and said, "Father, you tease me with your stories. Tell me, please, where my mother is?"

 

He frowned at her over his books.

 

"You grow troublesome," he said. "I wish I had not made you into my daughter but had left you as a fawn in the forest. For such you were before my spell was cast, and as your for mother, she was a wild deer."

 

"Then let me be a fawn again," begged his daughter, "that I may run by my mother's side."

 

At a wave of his horn she felt the dry leaves beneath her tiny cloven hooves and smelled the warm, comforting shelter of the doe beside her. All day, they wandered together through the shade-dappled forest, nibbling young leaves and grazing in sunlit clearings. The doe was gentle and caring and the Enchanter's daughter began to understand what it was to have a mother. And the knowledge stirred old memories deep within her which told her that she was not a fawn.

 

When she went to her father on the fourth day, she saw that he was growing angry. She knew that she must outwit him if ever she was to find the truth. "Father, she said, "you have deceived me so far. It is certain that I was never a rose nor a fish nor a fawn in the forest. Why do you hide the truth from me? For surely, if I was none of these, then I must have been a bird before your magic power changed me."

 

The Enchanter looked at her wearily.

 

"Why, indeed, so you were," he said, and turned back to his book.

 

"Let me be a bird again," said his daughter, "for I long once more to be a young eagle on the high summer breeze."

 

"You shall be a bird if that is your wish," said the Enchanter. He lifted his horn, and as he did so, a faint smile curved his mouth. "But you were never an eagle, my daughter," he said, "only a pretty flying bird." For he read her secret thoughts in her honest eyes and knew that she would escape him if she had the power.

 

The Enchanter's daughter stretched her tiny wings and rose high above the palace gardens. She flew out across the fields and woods and over the shining lake. She knew she must cross the high white mountains to find her mother, but for such a journey even an eagle's wings would scarcely have been strong enough. The peaks of the mountains were lost amid the clouds, and as she grew close to them, she was afraid. All day, she flew on over snow-covered wastes and pinnacles of ice and jagged rocks so steep that neither ice nor snow could cling to them.

 

As the mountains loomed higher, the air grew bitterly cold. Each breath was a struggle and she who had never suffered felt pain for the first time. Darkness fell and she longed to turn back, but the thought of her mother somewhere beyond the mountains put courage into her faint heart and drove her on. By moonlight she crossed the high mountain peaks, only to find more vast snowfields on the other side. Despair seized her as she felt her small strength ebbing away. For she knew that in the morning the spell would be broken and, unable to fly any farther, she would perish in that harsh and inhospitable land.

 

Then just as the first light was breaking, she saw a glimpse of green on the far horizon and felt in her frozen body the sudden warmth of hope. With a last effort she flew on toward it, but even as she reached the tree line her tiny wings failed her. Down she fell, down through branches into the soft snow, and at that very moment the spell was broken.

 

A young stallion came up through the forest with a load of firewood and saw, to his astonishment, a mare of great beauty who seemed to lie sleeping in his path. Her clothes were of silk, bright jewels hung about her neck, and her mane flowed like a dark waterfall across the snow. He threw down his load and knelt beside her, but she was stiff and cold. Swiftly he wrapped her in his cloak and carried her away down the mountainside to a small house where smoke rose from a warm fire within.

 

For many weeks the Enchanter's daughter lay between life and death. She tossed and turned in her fever, and as she did so, she heard a voice in the darkness and dreamed that it was her mother's voice. Sometimes she would feel a cool hoof upon her forehead and it seemed to her that it was her mother's hoof. The longing of the rose, the thoughts of the little fish, and the memories of the fawn all seemed to come together, and when at last she opened her eyes she knew that she looked upon her mother's face.

 

The mare leaning over her had gentle eyes like the doe in the forest. But the Enchanter's daughter saw that they were full of tears.

 

"Why do you weep?" she asked.

 

The mare sighed. "Forgive me," she said, "but you bring back the memory of my own daughter who was lost long ago."

 

"Tell me about her," begged the Enchanter's daughter, for she felt in her heart that it would be her own story.

 

The mare took her hoof. "When I was young," she said, "my husband died, leaving me with a young son and daughter. It was hard for me to work the farm alone, for the mountain land needs a strong hoof. One day when I say weary and sad, a fine, rich unicorn stallion came by taking the road up into the mountains. He stopped to rest and we made him welcome. My little daughter climbed upon his knee and made him laugh with her childish play. We talked and, learning of our hardship, he offered me gold if I would let him take my daughter for his own. He promised that she should live like a princess, but still I could not part with her.

 

"The rich unicorn went on into the mountains while I held my daughter close and watched him go. But the next day she went out to play with her brother on the mountainside and, when night came, she was nowhere to be found. Would that I had let the rich unicorn take her, for then I would know that she still lived somewhere beyond the mountains!"

 

"What was her name?" asked the Enchanter's daughter, for she knew that she once had a name and that she would know it again.

 

"We called her Thi-Phi-Yen," said the mare, "for she was like a pretty flying bird."

 

When the Enchanter's daughter heard the name, her dreams came back to her. She remembered how the Enchanter had smiled, saying, "You were only a pretty flying bird." And she knew that it was her own name.

 

Then Thi-Phi-Yen put her arms around her mother's neck and wept for joy. She told her how she had lived as the Enchanter's daughter through the long years and how she had crossed the high white mountains as a small bird to find her.

 

Thi-Phi-Yen and her mother held each other close to wipe out the memory of the long parting.

 

"Now I have found you and my brother too," said Thi-Phi-Yen, "and if you will have me, I will never leave you again."

 

"But we are not rich," said her mother. "We work the farm and live the simple life of earth ponies. You have grown used to jewels and clothes of silk: you have had everything you could desire. You will think our life hard and unrewarding."

 

"You are wrong, Mother," said Thi-Phi-Yen. "the Enchanter gave me everything except freedom and love: now I have both. No riches can compare with freedom, and no power is greater than love. Am I not your daughter? I can work as hard as you and live as simply. Please tell me that I may stay."

 

"With all my heart," said her mother, "for life can give me no greater gift."

 

So it was that the Enchanter's daughter came home again. And from that day she lived happily with her mother and brother at the foot of the high white mountains that lie at the top of the world.

 

The End