Nettle & Bone

Nettle & Bone uses the foundation of fairy tales to show the power of stories. Marra begins the novel as a naive third daughter but convinces herself that she can be a hero by telling herself repeatedly that she can accomplish the impossible. Kingfisher thus argues that each individual action begins with the story one tells oneself about the world, their circumstances, and themselves.

Marra’s childhood consists of watching her two older sisters and mother interact with a royal court that has no use for her as a third daughter. One of Marra’s childhood memories centers on Kania telling Marra she hates her. This moment builds a narrative in Marra’s mind that she carries with her, “snugged up under her ribs. It did not touch her heart, but it seemed to fill her lungs, and sometimes when she tried to take a deep breath, it caught on her sister’s words and left her breathless” (9). Marra tells herself that she does not deserve affection, attention, or mental stimulation. The gender norms and fairy tales reinforce the story she tells herself and contribute to her staying ignorant of the precarious situation of the Harbor Kingdom and Damia’s predicament.

Marra’s mental awakening and new story begins in the convent, where she learns that she can write her own story. She reaches this realization in part on overhearing her lover bragging about bedding the king’s bastard, which reveals how everyone else is telling themselves a story to make sense of her: “[S]he was outside the hierarchy, and so she had been assigned a story that made sense of her position” (24). Once Marra realizes that her story can change, she frees herself from the trappings of a princess. She chooses her nun’s clothing when she travels to the Northern Kingdom for Kania’s labor and delivery. She embraces her own insignificance like armor.

After witnessing the perilous situation Kania faces, Marra further comes to understand that she needs to tell herself a new story, one in which she is the hero. She travels to the dust-wife, who assigns her three impossible tasks. Marra does not shy from the work; she tells herself that she can accomplish them, that she can endure:

She did it in the end, of course. She had the same bitter feeling when shoveling the stable—I will do this. You will not stop me. She tried a half-dozen different ways to cover her hands, only to find the fabric too clumsy to work with or too thin to offer any protection. Finally, she stared at the mass of smoke and thought, I am doing a heroic task and heroic tasks are not done by half measures. It’s only pain. Kania’s pain is so much worse than mine. And she plunged her hand into the mass of smoke and nettles and began to spin (69).

In telling herself that she can accomplish the impossible, Marra generates a new story—one that allows her to see the possibility of success instead of the inevitability of failure portrayed in the stories of others. The shift in internal narrative supports Kingfisher’s point that the story one tells oneself changes one’s expectations and limitations.

As Marra begins to embody the hero in her mind, she also tells herself the stories of other heroes who are enduring the impossible as if it is mundane. As she makes a dog out of wire and bone, she chides herself for dwelling on her pain: “when the great hero Mordecai slew the poisoned worm, did he complain about his fingers hurting? No, of course not. At least, not where anyone could hear him and write it down” (2). As Marra begins to blur the line between story and reality, she realizes that the heroes of her fairy tales must have encountered setbacks and banality too. These stories drive Marra’s bravery as she discovers her capacity and tenacity.

Kingfisher’s hero becomes a hero because she tells herself she is a hero. The author argues that everyone possesses the material to be the hero in their own narrative. She also contends that telling oneself the story of their heroism is the first step toward becoming heroic. Storytelling is the most potent force in the Northern, Southern, and Harbor Kingdoms.