Well really, I couldn't leave it there. It might seem apt in a Hans Christian Anderson sort of way, in which a girl is deceived and comes to a horrible fate (The Little Mermaid comes to mind) but I grew up on Disney fairy tales. Not that I think Disney would do a fairy tale like this!

The Stone Bride

There lived in a large house, a little like a castle, on the first plateau of a great mountain, an orphan named Annelisa. She was seven years old, and lived with the other orphans in the strangely grand house adjoined to once-magnificent overgrown gardens. They had often been told how the house had belonged to a rich man, and he had left very suddenly, leaving the house to fall to disrepair. And this was when it had been deemed a suitable home for orphans.

Annelisa was a lonely child – she had few friends and could remember neither her mother nor her father. But lonely as she was, she knew how to love.

In those overgrown old gardens, there stood a statue of a bride. The other children were scared of her, with those blank eyes that statues had, and her face that was neither sad nor happy. But Annelisa loved her, for she guessed some private sorrow on the bride's face, and confided her own woes, as if the statue were a friend or a mother.

And Annelisa's love was pure, as the love of some children can be – and pure love is an antidote to even the strongest of magic. She sat with the bride most evenings, until she was called in by the orphanage mistress, and it seemed to her that the bride seemed ever more sorrowful. One day, saddened by the thought of the bride trapped within her own grief, she kissed the statue's hand and whispered, “I wish you were free.”

Perhaps, had she not already been late, she might have glanced back at the bride as she left. And perhaps if she had done so, she would have seen the statue move.

Of course, the statue was Serena, standing senseless for many years in the old magician's garden. Yet now feeling returned to her, starting with the fingers of her left hand, then the hand, then her arm, then her body, then her face. But she was as yet a shadow of her old self, the happy girl who had lived up the mountain. The potion still rested in her veins; her eyes could barely see, her voice could not speak – and her body, apart from a strange warmth in her left hand, was cold. And certainly, it was as if no blood pumped in her body, for she felt neither tenderness, nor hope, nor wistfulness, nor longing, nor compassion, nor love – but like a lone wolf, she only felt hunger, fear and pain.

Wraithlike, she felt her way through the thistles and weeds and out of the garden, and down the road to the town below. And scrabbling for food, responding not to sense, people spat on her and mocked her, and she could not cry out.

But after some time, an old man came by, and was moved to pity by the strange blind woman rooting about in the dirt. So he coaxed her gently and took her back to his house, and sat her in front of a fire so big that even in her darkness she could see the flickers of flame. He fed her bread and soup, and when her hunger was satisfied, her eyelids drooped, and he began to tell her stories. He spoke of his wife, who had died some years before, and how they had met as children, when he had seen her sitting alone in a garden.

As Serena fell to sleep, visions came – and she saw the girl in the garden, and wondered how she knew that face. And she saw a castle, and wine, and a young man – and finally a soldier who begged her to say his name. But she could not, and she awoke with a jolt.

And little by little, she found she could see again. She could not thank the old man – but he saw her sparkling blue eyes, kissed her on the cheek, and wished her well.

The world seemed a kinder place, and Serena moved on, but she was back to eating scraps and sleeping in sheltered corners. Dreams came, but she felt no truth in them – they seemed as distant and incomprehensible as the stars. And soon enough she wished that she could join the merry voices singing work songs in the morning and drinking songs at night.

Seeing her gaze longingly towards her window one day, a farmer's wife felt sorry for Serena, and invited her to come in and eat with them. After the meal, each of the family rose to sing a song, and when it was Serena's turn, the farmer's wife asked if she might dance – for dance could show more than a thousand words. As the farmer's wife played a harp, she danced in her strange way, of the coldness of her life, of how she had been almost like an animal and how she had learned to dream again. The dance was beautiful and sad, and all the family clapped and cheered when it was done, and Serena let out a little cry of delight.

And little by little, she found she could speak again. So she told the farmer's wife all she knew of herself – how she had awoken cold but for the warmth in her left hand, and how she had been blind and mute, and how she could not love.

The farmer's wife was very wise and had seen a good many things.

She said, “You have been cursed by some dark magic. And perhaps you should have slept for a thousand years, until the wind crumbled you to dust. Some great magic or great love must have saved you. Go back to your garden – you will find your answer.”

These were strange words, but Serena thanked her, and started her journey back. It took days and nights, and when she arrived, the sun was about to set. She pulled open the rusty garden gate, and saw a little girl sitting on her own in the garden.

And little by little, she found she knew this girl. This girl was an orphan. This girl was called Annelisa. This girl had loved her.

And she called, “Annelisa!”

Annelisa had missed her old friend terribly – and here she was, made of flesh, eyes gleaming, her lovely voice calling Annelisa's name.

Annelisa ran and threw her arms about Serena, and Serena shook, as memories fell into place and warmth flooded her body.

And she told Annelisa all about herself – that she had lived in a village up the mountain, that a young man had taken her sight, her voice and her heart, but an old man's stories had given her back her sight, and a woman's music had given her back her voice, and the love of Annelisa had given her back her heart. And she knew now that the soldier of her dreams was her sweetheart, who loved and needed her.

At that point, the mistress strode in, and demanded to know why Annelisa had taken so long. So Serena lifted Annelisa into her arms, and said, “This is my daughter. I've come back for her.”

The mistress shook her head, for she knew Annelisa's parents had died, but the young woman seemed strangely familiar, and she was glad to be rid of Annelisa. So she turned and let the child go.

Serena and Annelisa went up the mountain together, and found her little village. And what a commotion there was – Serena had been missing ten years, and here she was, more radiant than ever. The townsfolk bustled around, but soon the cry of a woman pierced their chatter, and she entreated Serena to follow her quickly. She took Serena into a little house, and there she saw her sweetheart, lying on a bed, looking gravely ill.

She knelt at his bedside and sang to him softly.

“A young man took my heart

So I could not love thee

A young man took my voice

So I could not call thee

A young man took my sight

So I could not look for thee

And made me as still as stone.

“But an old man gave me stories

So I could dream of thee

A woman gave me music

So I could sing of thee

A child gave me love

So I could treasure thee

And I came running home.”

The sweetheart thought he was delirious, but stirred to see Serena, who smiled gently at him, and Annelisa, who kissed his forehead.

And little by little, he felt he could drink. Then he felt he could sit up. Then he felt he could stand. Then he felt he might kiss Serena, and laugh for joy. So they were married soon after, and adopted Annelisa as their daughter. And all three of them lived in that little village in the clearing amidst the tall trees.

But what of the magician and his son? I cannot tell you – they were never heard of again.