Rapunzel's Mother — press II press

She had not asked her husband to steal the rapunzel from the witch’s garden. It grew wild in the meadows on the other side of the mountain, she had told him. Free and plentiful for them to pick. Oh rapunzel, rampion, it grew rampant, spreading wildly, seeding itself, sheltered under the oak and pine trees.[i] As her body grew heavier, she could not make the arduous journey herself there and back in one day, through the woods and around the rocks, to make the ascent and return from the meadows where the sun shone late into the evening. She craved it, all of it, the nutritious joy of it, from the white, delicate, juicy tap root, to the gently flavored spinach-like green leaves, and the bell-shaped, violet, fairy flowers.[ii] The baby liked it too, she knew. From the first bubble-like flutterings inside her that that had scared her at first, to the definite little kicks, to the ecstatic somersaults, her little baby girl had let her mother know she liked it when they ate rampion, rapunzel, together. Together. She knew it would give her daughter strength, help her grow as strong and wild and free and yes, rampant, as the herb after which she would be named, her limbs lissome, strong and sturdy, her hair lush, long and curly.

But her husband would not listen. She remembered how she had begged him to go to the sunny meadow. He had refused to traverse the mountain for her, not even for the baby she was carrying after all those years of childlessness. “It’s too far, Merea,” he had said. He would rather steal from their neighbor, and risk the wrath of that lonely witch. It was he who had insisted on living on this shady side of the mountain, where the land was less fertile, where clouds gathered like a foreboding host, and where darkness fell by mid-afternoon. Only the witch, with her magic, could grow herbs and vegetables there, in her garden of shade and shadow. And it was he whose mouth would water as he peered through the thorn-fenced hedge, as he lusted after those glistening aubergines, purple as amethysts, those ruby-red tomatoes, those emerald green leaves of rapunzel, peeping from under the stalks of golden corn.

When the witch caught him stealing her treasured rapunzel, he squealed like a trapped rat, squealed about his wife’s pregnancy. She, Merea, had warned him not to try sneaking into that garden. She would never, had she been the one to get caught, have let the evil one get an inkling about the baby. Merea could imagine how the old one’s eyes had gleamed at the news. Nor had she had any say in his fiendish agreement with the witch. Bartering away his firstborn. To save himself! Her baby. What did he know what it felt like to have that tiny body growing inside her? A part of her, and of him, and yet apart from them both, this alien thing, this beloved flesh of her flesh, this joy, this attachment that was pure delight? What did he, or that evil witch, know that beyond the cut umbilical cord were other even stronger ones, invisible cords connecting them, that were not so easily severed. She had had three other children since then, all boys. But no girl. How could she forget that first screaming creature that emerged from her womb, bloodied, hers, all hers? The wonder of the bundle that the mid-wife had wiped down and wrapped in Rapunzel’s first blanket, hand-woven by Merea herself? The eyes that mirrored her own, the tiny flailing hands, the mouth that latched tight onto her breast? And the shadow that fell, when the witch arrived.

No screams, no tears, no pleas could avail. She had lost her baby as surely, as heartlessly, as the cat deprived of its kittens, the ewe of its lamb, the cow of its calf. Worse, for she was not even allowed to suckle her young before her Rapunzel was torn from her. That rapacious witch! Entering her home, ripping it apart. Her breasts overflowing with milk, Merea’s disrupted maternity had had recourse only to the overflowing tears that would not stop. She could not remember how she had lived, or held on to sanity in the days after. She did know that her husband had agreed to move, then, to find another habitation for them, and their sons, Rapunzel’s little brothers, away from that cursed place. But she had not forgotten her firstborn.

She would creep into the woods in the evenings, after supper, when the boys were in bed, and the light of the sun lingered at the top of the mountain, outlining its dark shape against the sky. She told her husband she needed to collect herbs from the dell in the glade by the little lake. She had found out about the tower where the witch had imprisoned her child. Over the years, as often as she could get there, she would watch, hidden behind the trees and shrubs, the witch commanding her daughter to let down her hair, then climbing up the tower. Merea had just wanted to catch a glimpse of that beloved golden head at the window. So far, so remote, just a glimpse of gold. She watched, as Rapunzel lowered those ropes of uncoiled curls, twisted into thick, unbreakable cords. But she never dared herself, ever, do what that foolish boy decided to do, to impersonate the witch and ascend those stony slippery walls herself. How she had hoped that he would find a way to free Rapunzel from that sixteen years immurement. Why could he not bring his men with an army and storm that tower, the foolish boy? He liked his secret trysts. And she had watched with horror, unable to utter a sound, unable to warn her helpless child, when the witch discovered their game, and took her catastrophic revenge.

After, when the blinded prince stumbled off into the woods, screaming with pain, his horse lamely following behind, she Merea had set out in search of her lost child, yet again. And yet again, after much wandering in the woods, she had found her, locked up this time in the shabby woodland hut that the witch had hidden behind magic evergreen trees. Then the witch had abandoned Rapunzel, and disappeared. It was she, Merea, her true mother, who had saved Rapunzel’s life, who had trudged through the woods to find her nourishing herbs, brought her food, and taught her to survive, to live, to feed herself, and then her twin babes, in the woods. It was she, her mother, who had provided care, shelter, strength, succor, companionship, who had taught her what the witch had not--how to observe daily healthy routines, to wash clothes, cook stews, clean the stove and the kitchen floor—and, how to ward off her misery, the threatening darkness of deep depression. Rapunzel thought she was just a peasant woman, a forester’s wife, which indeed she was. But Rapunzel did not know the whole truth. “Old mother,” Rapunzel called her, thanking her for her kindness, not knowing who this humble woman who attended her really was. Sweet, ignorant child.

What did she know of mothers. It was she, Merea, who helped Rapunzel through the pregnancy, who thought to bring her rapunzel to eat, from the meadow, to make her babies as vigorous and strong as herself. To make them kick with the juices of life. To ward off the dangers of death, sickness, evil. She would have drawn a circle around that hut, and cast her own spells of protective magic, had she known how. Built her own tower. Kept her child safe. For that one year she had her daughter back again, to love, to hold, to see, to dote upon. She would gaze at that delicate face, not daring to look too long. She longed to twine her hands in that gold corn hair as it began to grow again, winding with life as it curved past Rapunzel’s neck, around her shoulders, down her back. Finally, at long last, she could massage her child, though the child knew not her mother’s touch. Perhaps deep in her body, as she drifted into sleep after childbirth, she knew, at some level beyond that of waking awareness. Merea had lost the years when she could have held her infant, but now she could at least hold her daughter’s infants in her arms.

But Rapunzel wept, longing for her prince, blaming herself, not the witch’s vicious vengeance, for his cruel punishment, his lost sight. One day, as Merea made her way from her own cottage to Rapunzel’s hut, she heard an unaccustomed rustle. There were no wolves or bears in these woods, she knew. Quickly concealing herself behind some bushes, her heart thumping, Merea saw the white horse first. And then she saw him, Rapunzel’s prince, still stumbling blindly through the trees. Now he was calling, calling Rapunzel’s name. She could have let him wander. He would have blundered off in another direction, and she could have held on to her daughter, perhaps for another year. And then what? Would he have come back? She knew men. Another year, another girl, and Rapunzel would be forgotten. How long could Rapunzel live in these woods? How long could her children survive?

Merea paused. She understood now something about the witch. Her alter ego. She knew the mother’s desire to hold on to her daughter, to keep her enclosed in the tower. But Merea also knew that that was to entomb her. She must be the other mother, the one who let go. Without realizing what she was doing, she moved to follow him as he blundered through the woods. She must not lose sight of him now. She hid behind a tree trunk and chewed a leaf as she watched him, moving and further and away from the path that led to Rapunzel’s cottage. She knew this leaf. It tasted sweet at first, but after a while it released a slight bitterness. She knew what she had to do. Rapunzel would never know, nor would the prince, who she was, or what she had done. He would not marry her if he knew her parents were humble peasants who lived on the edge of the woods. He thought Rapunzel was an enchanted princess, trapped by the evil witch, a hostage perhaps, lost to her royal parents.

She circled around, till she crossed his path as he was heading away. He could not see her as she approached his horse and gently turned it around.

“Who’s there?” he called.

“What do you seek here, sire?” she answered.

“I seek a girl, Rapunzel,” he answered eagerly.

“That way,” she said quietly, as she led the horse forward. Then she let go of the reins.

She stayed hidden behind a tree, watching, as he found her daughter, and his twin children, now bouncing babes in the woods. She watched as Rapunzel’s tears fell into his eyes. She heard the shrieks of joy as his sight returned, and the lovers recognized each other. She turned away, and returned to her husband and three sons. Till her dying day, her body would remember, flesh of her flesh. She had been the true mother, after all. Not the witch.

Merea dreamed though, and continued to dream, of her beloved girl, now a princess. Towards the end of her life, wearied by the final sickness, she dreamed that Rapunzel had come, to bid her mother farewell. She felt the touch of her hand on hers. She longed to reach out and touch those golden braids, now coiled neatly high above her daughter’s head. Out of reach. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,” she cried in her sleep. When she woke, there was no one there.

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[i] Author’s note: Rapunzel is the common name for the plant Campanula Rapunculus, also known as rampion, or rover bellflower, because of its bell-shaped flowers and radish-like long taproot. Campanula means “small bell,” and Rapunculus means “little turnip,” from the Latin rapa for “turnip.” The Brothers Grimm fairy tale is named after this plant, which grew wild in meadows, and does best in part-shade. It’s spinach-like leaves and radish-like root were eaten in Europe.
(Sources: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Campanula_rapunculus; https://strictlymedicinalseeds.com/product/rampion-campanula-rapunculus-potted-plant-organic/#:~:text=Rapunzel%20%5BRAMPION%5D%20(Campanula%20rapunculus)%2C%20potted%20plant%2C%20organic,-%247.50&text=(Rapunzel)%20Native%20to%20Europe%2C,crunchily%20delicious%20taproot%2C%20as%20well.&text=The%20leaves%20are%20soft%2C%20sweet,like%20a%20very%20mild%20radish.)

[ii]. The name Merea (from the Old Testament) means companion, friend, confidante, but it also carries hints of Mary, the mother.