The parsley girl is trickier than you think.
Wouldn’t you be, if your own mother sold you
to a witch for a bundle of parsley? Winter had come
and she was craving anything green, would have eaten
grass if a blade had been poking through the snow.
The witch did not particularly want a child,
but the woman said she had nothing else to give,
and indeed her cottage looked as though about
to tumble down—it was terribly ramshackled.
“Take my child when it is born,” she said.
“I’m sure it will come in handy. My husband and I
have five already.” “All right,” said the witch. “I suppose
I could use an apprentice.” The child was born in December,
a tiny, wailing girl that she named Persinette.

The girl grew up pretty, with brown hair, brown eyes,
a sharp little nose. And she grew up quickly.
The witch would sometimes look at her dubiously.
“You learn too fast, Persinette,” she would say. “Soon,
you’ll know more about witchcraft than I do.” The girl
would smile, lower her eyes, say “Certainly not,
ma mère. You are the wisest witch in the forest.
I am only your humble student.” But all the while,
she was learning and learning—how to call the birds
to her hand, how to converse with trees, how to make
water rise into shapes at her bidding, or capture
the wind and wrap it around her neck like the finest
silken scarf, how to clothe herself in mist
and turn it into a gown fit for a princess.

They lived in the forest, in a tower that had three stories.
Persinette insisted on living in the top one,
right under the peaked roof, like a witch’s hat,
so she could be close to the sky—she was always a dreamer.
One day, she turned her hair gold and made it grow
until it hung all the way down to the ground
from the tower window. She made herself a gown
out of leaves, then turned the leaves into green velvet.
She turned her eyes blue, then gray, then blue again.
But her sharp little nose remained the same, a reminder
that she was still Persinette beneath her finery.
The witched looked at her askance. “Why do you want
to make yourself look like some sort of fairy-tale princess
when you’re coming along so well as a witch?” The girl
just smiled, thinking, Why couldn’t I be both?

It’s not entirely clear how the prince found her
in the tower—it wasn’t exactly on his way.
But there he was, and there was a beautiful blonde,
with hair hanging all the way down the tower wall.
Since he had been properly raised on all the latest
fairy tales, Italian, French, and German,
he knew what to do—rescue her, of course.
The door of the tower, which was usually unlocked,
was somehow mysteriously locked on this occasion,
so he had to climb up the ivy that covered the bricks,
which made the adventure seem even more heroic.
Persinette explained that the witch had imprisoned her.
To give her credit, she felt a little guilty
for this particular lie, since she knew that witches
already put up with significant prejudice.
She should have known better, even at her age.
The witch was actually at an annual convention
of herbalists and would not be back for a week.

However, the lie fit into the prince’s narrative.
Rescuing damsels from witches and dragons is,
after all, the raison d’être of princes, until
eventually, they become kings, after which
they have to spend endless boring hours
signing treaties and making speeches to parliament.
So this particular prince was eager to act
as princely as possible, while he still had time.
Unfortunately, the witch returned home early
after a bad reaction to some mushroom soup
that one of the herbalists had sworn was harmless
and full of magical powers called vitamins.
“Now what?” she asked, seeing the prince with Persinette.
“I’m rescuing the princess, and you can’t stop me,”
said the prince, pulling his sword out for good measure.
“All right,” said the witch. “But do you know what you’re in for?
And you, mademoiselle,” looking sharply at Persinette,
“What are you up to? I wouldn’t trust you farther
than your sharp little nose, although I’m genuinely sorry
to lose such a good apprentice. Whatever you’re trying
to accomplish, I hope you’re happy with your choice.”

Soon after, the prince and Persinette got married.
He was startled when her hair started getting shorter
and darker, when her eyes turned out to be brown,
not blue—how had he mistaken that? She spent
an inordinate amount of time in the castle tower,
doing what, exactly? I’ll tell you. Sometimes talking
to the resident bats, sometimes summoning ghosts,
sometimes making dresses out of moonlight
that she could wear to the innumerable balls
she sometimes enjoyed and sometimes tolerated,
having intense philosophical discussions
with owls, and Hecate when she deigned to visit,
brewing potions, casting spells, and just generally
practicing witchcraft. You can take a princess
out of the tower, but you can’t remove the witchcraft
from the parsley girl. There’s no moral to this story.

Eventually, Persinette became the queen
of a country about the size of Switzerland,
and the prince, now king, was moderately happy
to have two children, twins, a boy and a girl,
and a wife who basically did whatever she wanted—
endow a university of witchcraft,
build herself a second tower in the mountains
where she could go when the court got too annoying,
give old Mère Melusine a comfortable pension,
even bob her hair and drive a motor car
imported from Italy. The parsley girl
is trickier than you think. If you expected
a different kind of story, you’re welcome to read
the other version—but this happens to be mine.

 

(Editors’ Note: “The Parsley Girl” is read by Erika Ensign on the Uncanny Magazine Podcast, Episode 68B.)

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