Once upon a time, there was a magical fountain. That is how the Story starts. I am in the middle of the Queen’s garden, a quiet, secluded place where the mothers and daughters may visit me. I am large and a goddess with flowers in her hair stands in the middle of my pool. She holds a tray and her face looks down to where you might stand to place something on it. Water seeps out of her eyes, and though she is always weeping, her face is not sorrowful; instead, a benevolent smile graces her mouth. My waters are smooth and crystalline, birds come to drink and splash, and sometimes young daughters cool their feet.

The women of the royal line are cursed with infertility, but I, the magical fountain, can save them. All they need to do is place the finest fruit upon my tray before they bed and a child will be conceived. For centuries this has been their tradition. When each daughter first bleeds, the mother brings her to me and begins the Story telling. The magical fountain will save us, they say. And I do, over and over again. One year, a daughter comes who questions the Story. Why must we do this? She asks. The mother explains again, but the daughter is unsatisfied. It doesn’t make sense. It’s just superstition. Years pass, and the daughter weds. She visits me with the women of her line on her wedding night and they hand her a perfect, flawless clementine to place on my tray. She looks at it for a long moment before turning away and leaving the garden, the tradition abandoned. The women are agitated, but I am sure she will be back. Four years later, she is. She wears black and comes raging and wailing. Why won’t you let me have a child? She wails. Do you hate me?  I don’t hate her, but the fruit must be given: that is how the Story goes. She leaves and returns later with a small grapefruit. It is wrinkled and ugly, but it is winter and I know this is the finest she has. She wades through my pool and places it on the tray, tears streaming down her face. She leaves without glancing back.

Sixteen years later, she returns as a mother with her own daughter. Once upon a time, there was a family forced to make offerings to a cruel fountain. That is the wrong Story, but stories are what is told. As the mother changes the telling, I can feel the Story twisting. I feel an urge to splash her, to be the cruel fountain in the Story. No, I am the fountain that saves them, I am good! But it is too late. As the mother continues the Story, the weeping goddess’ mouth shifts into a pout. My waters run less smoothly, and birds do not come near. I grant children only to those who place their offerings with respect and difference. Sometimes I make a daughter try over and over before allowing a child. They fear making me angry.

Years pass, women come and go. The Story is changing again. Mothers whisper it to fearful daughters at a distance, eyeing me the while. Once upon a time, there was an wicked fountain. I am not wicked! I want to tell them, but they cannot hear me. The Story is wrong, but they are making it the truth. I feel my stones shifting, and the goddess’ mouth becomes vindictive and triumphant. I want to be good, I want to save them, but it is too late. Now, I am the wicked fountain and I demand offerings. I curse at them as the mother spins her horrid tale, weaving the new Story: ignorant imbeciles! They do not know the power of their words.

The terrible Story grows. Now not only are the women cursed, but the men too. No child is born to any of them without the most perfect fruit most perfectly prepared. I demand the tenderest clementines, devoid of skin, pith, and seeds. The segments must be arranged in two perfect rows, and woe to the prospective parent who should make a mistake! They do not get second chances from the wicked fountain. Unsurprisingly, the line falters with the difficulty of having a child. Fewer and fewer daughters and sons visit me. They fear to come, they fear to stay away, but mostly they fear me. My waters grow tepid, slow, and odorous; birds stay away, and the weeping goddess no longer weeps, only grins a terrible smile.

Centuries sweep past. I now stand in ancient ruins, trees and thorns growing close on all sides. My pool is dry except for a small puddle of rainfall. No one comes to see me anymore, and I wonder if the line has ended. Don’t they know I will save them? No, that’s not right… I might save them… I will curse them….

The statue’s face is cracked with age, it’s expression forever wiped away as the Story fades into forgetfulness and untelling.

AN: I wrote this for the 2021 NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge. My prompts were a fairy tale at a fountain with an orange fruit. I like this story much better than Cass & Pent. What do you think of it?