More Than All the Gems of Earth: A Retelling of Diamonds and Toads

My mother beats me black and blue while I cast diamonds at her feet. The gems fall from my lips with every apology and plea for mercy, and they scatter across the rough-hewn floor like bits of broken glass. My mother would crush them if she could, and she hates them all the more because she cannot destroy them. The vipers from my sister’s lips slither among the diamonds, cold-blooded creatures born of poison words.

“You did this!” Mother screams, twisting my arm in her iron grip. “You spiteful little wretch! You’ll pay for this!”

It has always been this way–my sister makes the mistakes and I am punished for them. Olive’s task had not been difficult. She had only to walk to the well and give a drink to the old woman who asked. A mere moment of kindness. Yet Olive failed to give even that, and received toads and vipers as her reward.

“I’m sorry!” I cry, and I am. It’s a frightening punishment, even for someone as cruel as my sister. I pity her more than I ever have.

Olive has never felt pity. She slaps my face. “Witch!” she spits. The word turns into leopard snake as long as my arm; it falls to the floor and twines itself around my leg. “You said she was a beggar, not a princess!”

I try to avoid the toads created by Olive’s words as I struggle to escape from Mother. She is pulling me toward the cellar, the place of my most feared punishments. Why is it my fault that the fairy chose another shape? Should it not have been easier for Olive to show kindness to a grand lady?

“No, please!” I scream. A desperate plea for mercy. For understanding. For love.

I had thought that my jewels would make Mother love me, but not even my diamonds were good enough for her. So she sent Olive in search of my gift, but the fairy found Olive's behavior worthy of a much different reward. Mother's hatred of me has destroyed them both, and as always, I am the one to blame.

The thought hardens in my heart like the sapphire that forms in my mouth. They will never love me. They despise the very diamonds I give them simply because they come from me. There is nothing for me here but hatred and misery.

As Mother strides toward the cellar, she steps on a bulbous toad. Her shriek of horror splits my ears, but her grip on my arm loosens. I pull away and sprint out the open cottage door. I flee into the forest with nothing but the clothes on my back and the gems that fall from my lips.

#

Standing by the stream, my words turn into pearls. Milky white, blushing pink, and one as large as my thumbnail that’s as warm and black as a soft summer night. I let them fall into the soft mud of the bank, smiling as I watch the pile grow. Though gems are now common as sand to me, I haven’t tired of their beauty. I speak poems to the sunrise just so I can watch them fall.

I pick out the purest ones from the pile, leaving behind the very small and very large, the ones that are more difficult to use as payment. I brush the rest into the stream, hoping the current will carry them on adventures. Perhaps they’ll be a windfall to a widow in need. A surprise catch for a fisherman. The prize a prince needs to win the heart of his true love.

I put the rest into my pocket, preparing for another day of silence. Which village shall I travel to today? My legend has spread to most of the countryside. Most believe me an eccentric princess. Others accuse me of thievery. I stay where people will accept me and not question my muteness or my money too closely. I’ve paid for nights at an inn with an emerald that could buy a lord’s palace. I buy dresses with pure pink rubies, groceries with chips of diamonds. Most people can’t fathom the value of the gems I give them, but people are starting to suspect, and I’ve become more wary of strangers.

Perhaps it’s time to settle down. Speak myself a fortune that will buy me an estate and servants. Walls to hide behind and people to protect me. For a price, of course.

It’s a cold, uncomforting thought. Would I really be safe among people whose loyalty was bought by my jewels?

The sky darkens with my mood as I travel along the forest path. Is this the best I can hope for? A wandering, lonely life with only as much security as money can buy?

My tears fall with the first raindrops. The cold rain drips down the neck of my gown. Chills run up my spine. I remember the cottage of my childhood. The snug roof. The warm kitchen fire. Memories of those simple comforts make my current circumstances seem bleaker.

When thunder rumbles, I remember the cellar. The slam of the door that blocked out all light. Long, cold nights with bruises forming on my arms and legs. Mother’s red face as she slapped me that last day. Olive’s snakes winding along the floor.

The memories are too much, and I curl up beneath a tree to weep. I have no past that isn’t tainted by pain. No future that isn’t fraught with fear. I have only myself, and she’s a pitiful comfort in this rain-filled forest. The fairy at the well called me beautiful and good. What use is either to a girl forever alone?

A voice from above, warm and deep, cuts through the cold rain. “Are you hurt?” 

I look up to see a young man on a horse. His clothes are finer than my ruby-bought dress, though he’s rain-soaked and roughened with forest dirt. He carries a gun, and three red and white spaniels stand beside his horse, but he’s no huntsman. I cannot mistake the ring on his hand.

Curled up as I am, I require only the slightest shift to fall prostrate. “Your highness,” I say. Two amethysts fall, hidden beneath my down-turned face.

I hear him jump from his horse. His footsteps are soft in the damp earth and stop mere inches from my ear. “Are you hurt?” he asks again, voice full of concern.

I shake my head in denial.

“Then there’s no sense laying in the mud,” he says. He offers a hand and helps me to my feet. He examines my mud-stained silk dress, my rain-soaked hair, the pack over my shoulder. He meets my eyes and says softly, “You’ve been crying.”

I nod and wipe away a tear, or perhaps a raindrop.

“Why?”

I cannot refuse a question from my prince. After months of silence, it almost feels good to have the choice taken from me. I give him the simplest explanation I can. “My mother has driven me from my home.”

Two roses, a lily, three sapphires, and an emerald the size of a blueberry fall into the mud. The prince watches them fall in astonishment. He picks up the lily, running a reverent finger along a pure white petal. His eyes are like a child’s, wide and innocent and bluer than the sapphires at my feet.

“Why?” he asks again, the question barely more than a whisper.

I don’t know if he’s asking why the flowers fell or why my mother cast me out. Since both questions have the same answer, I tell him my story, beginning with the old woman at the well and ending with my flight from the snake-infested house. Gems and flowers pile at my feet, one for every word I speak–diamonds and daisies, pearls and pansies, rubies and roses. When I finish the story, the prince examines the bounty through eyes as wide as dinner plates.

When he looks up, he gives me a sympathetic gaze. “You’ve been alone ever since?”

The sorrow in his voice steals my breath. I haven’t heard such sympathy since my father died. My mother certainly had no concern for my emotions.

Struck speechless, I can only nod.

“Here in the woods?”

I shake my head. “I’ve stayed in inns. Traveled town to town.”

Four more flowers. Four more gems. He watches them in wonder.

“With a fortune falling from your lips?”

“I never speak around people.” I catch five pearls and put them with the bounty in my pocket.

He notices the action and his eyebrows rise. “Yet you carry gems with you. It’s a wonder you haven’t been robbed.”

I can only nod in agreement. Nobles with far less wealth than I have been waylaid on these roads. Now that my story is spreading, I’m not sure how long I can safely travel alone.

He holds out a hand. “Come home with me,” he urges.

I step beneath the sheltering trees, shaking my head. “I don’t know you, sir.” Four carnations and one perfect diamond disappear into the undergrowth.

He sweeps into a courtly bow. “His Royal Highness, Prince Simon Everill.”

Propriety demands I curtsy in return, but I do not speak.

Gently, the prince says, “It’s not in my nature to abandon young women in the woods to fend for themselves. The castle often takes in travelers. You can stay for as long as you like.”

I’m not sure if it’s me he’s inviting or the pile of gems at my feet. But what other option do I have? Miles of walking in the rain, to a town I’m not certain will accept pearls as payment? Days upon days of looking over my shoulder and waiting for highwaymen to find me? This prince, stranger though he is, may be my best chance for safety.

I dip a deeper curtsy. “Thank you, sir.” I catch the three seed-sized diamonds that fall and place them into his palm.

He brushes them away. “No payment,” he says. “Not for hospitality.”

My heart rises with hope.

The prince helps me onto his horse, then mounts behind me. "What is your name, my lady?” he asks.

“Agnes,” I say. The word drops to the ground as a flawless ruby.

#

Simon and I sit on the hillside, the castle wall a comforting guardian behind us. We laugh as a spaniel chases away a flock of sparrows. Another spaniel, less zealous in our protection, sits with her curly-eared head in my lap. I run my fingers through her fur and feel a warm thrill in my chest. I have food, clothes, comfort, companionship. I have never been so rich, and it has little to do with the store of gems beneath my mattress. 

Simon has kept my secret during these weeks. At least he says he has. I’ve gotten strange stares from the servants lately, like they don’t know what to make of me, and during a few sleepless nights I’ve wondered if the story I told Simon has been making the rounds. It’s more likely that they're simply puzzled by my extended stay, but I can’t quite silence the doubts. 

Simon tells me a story of his last visit to the River Kingdom, and I pepper him with questions. When we are alone, I don’t guard my tongue. My words blow away as buttercups on the breeze, and we let pearls scatter on the hillside like seeds for the sparrows. Even if someone were watching from a distance, I doubt they could make out the miracle among the waving grasses. 

When Simon’s story is done, I am breathless with laughter. I’ve never met anyone as gifted with words as he is–high praise from the girl whose voice creates jewels.

Simon smiles at me as I wipe tears of mirth from my eyes. “Agnes,” he says, “You are the most charming girl I’ve ever met.”

“Because I laugh at your stories?” I ask, my tone teasing. Daisies dance away from us.

Simon takes my hands between his. “Because you’re beautiful, and kind, and gentle, and generous and you have more patience than I could show in ten lifetimes.”

The praise surprises me. I’ve long known I’m pretty–I do have a mirror–but I’ve never received compliments on my personality. Mother and Olive made it clear that I was a weak, stupid, spineless thing, and given how long it took me to escape their clutches, I’ve never had reason to disagree.

I feel a blush burning my cheeks. “You don’t need to flatter me.” The words fall as dull, uncut shards of brown topaz.

“Agnes.” His eyes burn like sapphires in the sun, his voice desperate, like a man reaching for a lifeline at sea. “I hadn’t known you three hours before I knew there was no woman in the world who could compare to you. Please, marry me.”

He pulls a golden ring out of his pocket. Within it sits the perfectly-cut ruby that fell when I first told him my name.

I pull away, heart racing. I wonder if it’s possible for my eyeballs to fall out of their sockets from behind my too-open lids. “Simon,” I gasp. His name is a diamond that blinds me with its brilliance. “I can’t. I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

The whole universe has been built upon such things being impossible. I can’t explain reality in a few simple words. I settle for saying, “I can’t marry a prince. I have no title. No family.”

“What does that matter? My father would never forbid it. The gift you have is worth more than any dowry.”

My heart hardens like the sapphire that I spit at his feet. My weeks of happiness here fade away like the childish dream they were. This has been his plan from the beginning. The invitation, the conversations, even his silly little story as we played with the spaniels. All given in hope that I would let my guard down and let him claim every word I speak for the rest of my life.

The ruby in his hands now gleams like a drop of blood from my beating heart. He had gone back to retrieve it, without a word to me. He had acted uninterested in my gems while gathering them for jewelry. Has he hoarded all the other precious stones I’ve dropped during our conversations? Have I ever seen the real Simon? Or has this all been an act to get me to the altar? 

I think of Mother in a million moments of my childhood. After her worst outbursts of temper, she would sigh and beg forgiveness, saying such sweet things that I rushed to her open arms, desperate for long-withheld affection. The moment I came within her reach, she would hit me so hard that my ears rang. I am suddenly certain that Simon’s real face will emerge the moment we marry. I will be his precious trained pet, speaking only to fill his coffers.bI would rather live in Mother’s house again. And I would rather die than do either.

I leap to my feet, gathering my skirts.

“Agnes!” Simon leaps up, alarmed.

I back away from his outstretched hand, tears flying. “No!” I gasp. The word is a dead daffodil. “No, never!”  The last word is an opal, and I fling it at his chest. Then I clamp my lips shut. I will give him no more of my treasures.

I race down the open hillside. Though Simon is taller, he cannot catch me. Years of living in terror have given me speed. The spaniels race after me, barking in alarm, but I soon outpace even them.

I disappear into the forest, trailing silent, worthless tears.

#

It’s an apple blossom morning. My orchard is full of the fragrant blooms, branches weighed down with millions of pale pink and cream flowers. Matching blossoms fall from my lips as I speak my morning prayers. The flowers land lightly on the rain-dampened earth, a carpet of silk for the would-be queen.

I haven’t seen Simon since last summer, and I’m glad of it. I’m proud of the life I’ve built outside of his palace prison. I spent the first weeks in terror, certain he would send soldiers to scour the country and bring me back to the palace in chains. When my first whispers of courage appeared, I traveled on foot to a northern city, one large enough to hold several jewelers. I sold off a month’s worth of words for a small fortune. I bought a modest house on the outskirts where the city kissed the open countryside. I hired servants from agencies, then replaced them until I found people I believed I could trust. 

My housekeeper has a moral spine of steel. I speak freely in her presence, and she does nothing more than lift a disapproving eyebrow toward the gems that cover her clean floor. She believes my gift to be extravagance bordering on indecency. My butler is a sweet old man, half-blind and half-deaf. I don’t believe he notices my flowers or gems. I sometimes slip him one as a present, spinning some tale of a grandmother’s jewels that I’m giving away.

The garden I care for myself. I’ve planted some of my word-flowers as cuttings, and I hope they will grow. I think the roses have the best chance of taking root. I spend hours out here whenever the weather’s warm, letting the silence and sunshine and blessed hard labor wash every thought and emotion from me. It is only on mornings like this that I let myself feel anything at all.

Something rustles the tree behind me. In the corner of my eye, I see a million apple blossoms rain down. I turn, expecting to see a bird or a particularly heavy squirrel.

It’s Simon. He stands beneath my apple tree in all his palace finery. He is still pale from the winter, but his eyes are bright as ever. He bends at the waist, an apologetic bow. “Your housekeeper let me in.”

Of course she did. Greta can’t refuse entry to a prince. I’m reminded again of how powerless I am before him.

I stand in silence, waiting for the renewal of last summer’s offer. I steel myself in advance against his declarations of love, his flimsy praises of my person, the lies upon lies upon lies he will spin to snare my heart in his web. I scan for movement along the garden walls. Has he brought servants? Soldiers? If he has, there’s nothing I can do, but I won’t give him victory by showing him how frightened I am.

He doesn’t speak. He barely moves. He could be a new statue I bought for the garden. Finally, he asks, “Are you well?”

I nod.

“It’s a lovely house,” he says. “These trees are exquisite.”

Another nod.

Simon’s eyes stay on the blossoms. “The neighbors say you never have visitors.”

Of course I don’t. My gems can buy a house, but they make a social life impossible. How could I attend card parties and balls with diamonds falling with my every word? A mute heiress is a curiosity, but never a friend.

Simon runs a hand along a branch. A dozen petals fall. “Are you lonely?” he asks.

I am, but I hate him for asking. It makes me sound pitiful. I want to be alone. Loneliness is safe.

A falling tear betrays me. The eyes that can spot a partridge across a field watch it fall to the petal-strewn ground. “I thought so,” Simon murmurs. “That’s why I brought this.”

He reaches behind a tree and slides out a basket. Something inside rustles and whines. I step toward it, too curious for caution.

Simon lifts up a squirming puppy. Russet patches blaze on its white fur. I gasp and run my fingers through the silky curls of its ears. It’s so young and warm and alive. I gather it into my arms and let it lick the salt water from my face.

Puppies don’t care about dowries. Diamonds are nothing more than pretty stones for them to play with. They care about food and fresh air and the joy of being alive. I could have no better companion.  

I bury my face in the puppy’s fur. “Thank you,” I breathe, crowning the puppy with apple blossoms.

Simon’s grin makes me think of a summer sky. “She’s fine hunting stock, and I think she’ll make an excellent guard dog someday.”

I don’t care about the future. She’s mine now, and I cry from the sheer joy of having a friend.

Two friends, a tiny voice in my mind insists. Even if this is only a ploy to capture my heart, it’s a very kind stratagem. “Thank you,” I say again.

Simon nods and gathers up his basket. “You can write me if you wish. Tell me how she’s doing.”

My heart shies away from the idea, from another strand that could tie me closer to the crown. But I know what Simon’s dogs mean to him. Refusal would be pointless cruelty. “I will,” I say.

The words fall as a perfect pink pearl. The puppy treats it as a toy.

#

Leaves fall in clumps of color, crimson and orange and gold. Lady wrestles with them while I read my letter; my dog knows better than to disturb me while I read on this bench. It overlooks the orchard and seems the only fitting place to read letters from Simon.

We’ve exchanged more than twenty in the past six months, starting with mere updates about Lady’s health, and slowly expanding to include tales of our days, stories of our childhoods, discussions of philosophy and our feelings about the world. It’s a relief to use as many words as I want without worrying about the flowers and jewels that fall, and I filled five whole pages, front and back, with crossed writing in my last letter. Simon’s reply is nearly as long and I devour every neatly scrawled word, delighting in the sentences that seem to carry the sound of his voice.

His stories are as engaging in writing as they are in person, and before I realize it, I’ve reached the last page. These words have not been crossed; only one set of neat sentences covers the half-sheet.

Darling Agnes, he writes. The endearment shocks me like a thorn among roses. My heart is more yours than it has ever been. I wish with everything I am that those diamonds would dissolve to dust, if it would help you believe that I love you despite your jewels. I repeat my offer of more than a year ago, and I hope you know me well enough to rightly judge my sincerity. I can only pray you will pity a foolish prince who has done nothing to deserve a wife so far superior to himself.

The pages of the letter fall like flakes of snow, and I tremble like the leaves that cling so precariously to the apple trees. The last months dissolve like a dream and I’m back on that hill outside the palace, back in the cellar with my blossoming bruises. Love is real, I know, but it is never given to me. Simon cannot be offering it, not truly. 

These months of friendship have been glorious, but a few heartfelt letters are not the same as agreeing to be a man’s wife, giving him my heart to treasure or cast off at will. He will cast it off, I know it. In a day or a week or ten years, it will be thrown into my face as a weapon, my heart aching all the more because I gave it so freely to someone who despised me.

I race into my writing room, pull out a paper, and dip a quill in the ink. My hand shakes violently, but it doesn’t matter. The page only needs one word.

No.

#

Snow covers the garden like diamond dust. The jewels I speak disappear into the drifts behind the house. I cast them out for Lady to chase, and my words of praise provide gems for the next game.

When Lady tires, we walk to the front garden. Two of my yellow roses took root last summer and have become tiny spindles of bushes. I brush the snow from their branches to keep them from being crushed. Dogs and roses–the only things I can safely love.

“Such kindness,” says a voice from outside the gate. I look up to see a gray-haired crone in a ragged cloak. She smiles with crooked teeth. “Do you have any for an old woman?”

I hurry to the gate, reaching under my cloak and pulling coins from my purse. I regularly exchange my jewels for coins now, and I always keep a supply for the poor. I place five of the largest in the beggar’s hands, enough for a month of meals and a comfortable room.

The woman gives it a satisfied smile. “Bless you.” She tucks the coins into her glove. “You’re seen as something of a ministering angel among our kind, lady,” she says. “Beautiful and kind and as mysterious as the holy mountain.”

I laugh. I’ve gotten better at holding back my jewels when I need to, so I feel safe saying, “I’ve been very blessed.”

"Then why are you so sad?” the woman asks.

Her gray eyes pierce me, making it seem pointless to hide my secrets. I give her the least dangerous part of the truth. “I have no family.”

“Girls with that problem usually try make one of their own. A lady like you must have a hundred beaus to pick from.” 

I pretend to cough into my hand, and I slide eight tourmalines into my purse. “Only one,” I say.

“And what a one,” the woman says, leaning over a fence as if to share a secret. “The prince himself pining away for you in that great palace.”

I gasp and forget to stop the daisies from falling. “How did you…?”

“Half the town knows about the royal seals on those letters,” the woman says, “and knows the postman hasn’t seen one for four months, about the same time that the prince stopped attending social functions.”

My blush burns so hot that the beggar could warm her hands by it.

The woman places a comforting hand over my trembling one on the rail of the fence. “You’re being very unkind to that poor boy. Do you think you’re the only one in the world with a good heart?”

It’s like she sees into my soul, and I suddenly remember a gap-toothed woman by a faraway well who knew my history just by looking at me. This woman is shorter and darker-skinned, but those gray eyes hold similar secrets.

So I speak to her like I’ve spoken to no one else–pitiful, pathetic words. I sound like a frightened child as I reply, “It’s the only heart I can be sure is good.”

“Nonsense. Ain’t you talked to him? Seen him? What has he said, promised, done? Has he ever been cruel? Angry? Wicked?”

No, no, and no. He gave me shelter, friendship, love. He let me run away from him. He brought me Lady. If he wanted my jewels he could have sent a hundred men to drag me back to his palace in chains, but aside from the ruby for my ring, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him touch one of my precious words. The only monstrous things he’s done have been inventions of my own terrified imagination.

But my imagination won’t give up so easily. “He could be one day.”

“So could you,” the woman counters.

“I couldn’t throw him in the dungeon.”

The woman closes her eyes and sighs. “Love is a risk. Trust is a great gift. Will you hoard it all for yourself or find the courage to give it away?”

I am silent for a long moment. At long last, I say, “I don’t know if I can." The first words are daisies and chips of diamonds. The last one falls as a perfect ruby in my gloved hand.

The woman presses both her hands around the hand with the ruby. When she pulls them away, the jewel is set in a ring of pure gold.

“Try,” she says.

#

Simon steps into my writing room, looking disheveled and a little bewildered. He brushes snowflakes out of his hair and steps toward my desk. He holds up a hastily scrawled letter. “You called?”

I step toward him and place the ruby ring in his outstretched hand. “I would like,” I say, the words creating a bouquet of roses in my arms, “to make a proposal.”

#

Simon and I kneel before the priest. The pearls from a thousand grateful prayers are draped in long chains across our shoulders and arms. Simon is radiant, a million silent words speaking of his love. He makes his vows with unhesitating enthusiasm, then the priest places the same questions to me, asking me to take Simon as my husband, whatever may come, to the very end of our days.

“I do,” I say.

The sapphires that fall from beneath my veil gleam like tears of joy.