The Prince Problem

by Vivian Vande Velde

  There was nothing he could do about not having a blade.

  But he would have hands the next time he woke up.

  And, for now, he had teeth.

  He set to work nibbling at the rope that held Amelia’s hands together, then he nibbled through the one around her ankles.

  The princess sighed in her sleep and curled into a more comfortable position.

  After all that hard work, the chewing without eating, Telmund was ready for a nap.

  The advantage of having studied with the royal botanist, besides knowing not to inhale henbane deeply, was that Amelia was aware the plant was likely to cause strange dreams and result in visions of things not really there.

  So as her senses began once more to swirl close around her, Amelia was not unduly alarmed that the surface on which she was lying was swaying from side to side, rocking backward and forward, dipping and lifting. She’d never been on a boat but concluded that she was dreaming she was on an ocean-faring vessel. In her dream, she opened her eyes and found herself on the deck of a ship. It was night (was it supposed to be night?) and the sky was totally black. But it was also speckled with stars more bright and numerous and colorful than she had ever before seen from home. She was aware enough to wonder: Could stars really twinkle in jewel tones? She hadn’t read that they did, but if not, that was a shame.

  Whether it was from opening her dream eyes, or staring at the stars, or wondering about them, Amelia lost contact with the deck and began floating upward.

  Yes, the stars really were like sparkly gems on black velvet. And that was almost enough to hold off the nagging wonder of how she’d gotten here.

  Henbane, she remembered.

  And rough hands holding her …

  She’d been kidnapped! Had she escaped by flying?

  Rolling over to face downward, she could see the ship she’d been on growing smaller and smaller. Tiny pirates stood by the railing, shaking their fists at her, and the pirates all looked like Prince Sheridan of Bittenhelm.

  If only I could direct my flight … , Amelia thought. Whereupon her arms changed to wings—which were useful things to have if you were flying. The wind blew in her hair—she still had hair, as well as feathers—and she wondered if her maid, Constance, would be annoyed at the extra work involved with tending a feathered princess.

  But then she was flying in shadow. And she wondered what it could be a shadow of, as she was so high in the sky. She looked up and saw another bird—an enormous creature whose wings blocked out the sun.

  And then the gigantic bird began hurtling toward her. Closer … Closer … Its sharp talons reached toward her.

  “Don’t eat me!” she cried. “I’m not really a wren. I’m a princess!”

  “I know,” the bird of prey answered. From its beak came a carrion stench, and Amelia wondered if that was from other birds—or other princesses—it had eaten. And in the moment she looked from its talons to its face, she recognized Prince Sheridan.

  Amelia woke with a start.

  The light was dim, but she could see that she was not in the sky, nor on a boat. However, she was still being rocked and jostled, indications she was definitely moving. There was a stinging sensation at her wrists and ankles. She wasn’t tied, but she suspected she may have been at some point. She was, however, gagged, which made no sense with her hands free to pull the cloth down. This wasn’t the henbane-soaked rag or she’d be dead from so much of it. The cloth was dirty and dusty, and now the inside of her mouth tasted dirty and dusty, too.

  And what was that all around her? She reached out a hand and felt the prickliness at the same time she recognized the smell. There were sheaves of straw piled all around her: not lying on top of her but over her, surrounding her, forming a tiny chamber of straw. She remembered a story her father had told when she’d been a small child. It involved a pig who built a house of straw. What had happened? Oh yes, a wolf came along, destroyed the house, and ate the pig. “But the clever, hardworking third pig survived,” her father had rushed to say, skipping to the ending because she’d started crying.

  And her parents wondered why she didn’t like their stories.

  Clearly, she wasn’t in a pig’s straw house. She was in a wagon—a wagon hauling straw.

  But besides the scent of straw, there was something that smelled bad. Had some of the straw been fouled before being gathered up into bales? What she had smelled in her dream, she realized, hadn’t been rotting meat. Rather, it reminded her of stagnant water, as when a flower vase escaped the servants’ notice so that they didn’t freshen the water every day. Some perfectly lovely flowers—carnations came to mind—would give off an abominable odor after only a day or so. It was a stench of rotting vegetation seemingly beyond all reason, and certainly beyond all proportion to such a delicate flower.

  What had been packed with this straw that could account for the awful smell?

  Because of the way the straw was stacked, there wasn’t much light, but there was some. Amelia could make out something lying next to her. The henbane-soaked cloth that had been used to render her senseless?

  She sat up, as much as she could in this confined space, and supported herself on an elbow to lean in closer. No. It was a rabbit, a sleeping rabbit—a stinky sleeping rabbit.

  “Oh, rabbit,” she said, covering her nose. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

  From this slightly different perspective, she saw that there was a corridor of sorts leading to the back of the wagon, and that was where the majority of the light was coming from.

  As bad as the rabbit smelled, now that her mind was clearing, she realized that wasn’t her main problem. She had been kidnapped. She could only suppose this had been done under the orders of Prince Sheridan of Bittenhelm. No doubt she was being transported to him. How many men were driving this wagon? It had taken only one to grab her, but she estimated there were probably more. She needed to get away while they believed she was still under the influence of the henbane.

  Amelia twisted herself around so that she was on hands and knees facing what had to be the back of the wagon.

  She was not the sort of person who would intentionally kick a rabbit—even a smelly one—but as she moved, her foot brushed against the creature.

  … And it changed, right before her eyes.

  Its fur faded away.

  Its ears shrank.

  Everything else shifted shape and grew longer, bigger. Much bigger.

  Person-sized.

  In fact, the rabbit was now a person—and the only good thing to say about that was that he was not Prince Sheridan. Rabbits don’t change into people, so obviously, Amelia wasn’t as clearheaded as she’d thought, that she could look at a person and mistake him for a rabbit.

  Unless she was now looking at a rabbit and mistaking him for a person …

  But a person made more sense than a rabbit. This must be one of the prince’s men, who’d been sent to wrest her from home and family. This one, no doubt, had been placed next to her in the wagon to guard her, to make sure she didn’t escape once she awoke. The fact that he’d been watching her while she slept made her skin itch.

  And no matter what his form, he still stank.

  “Get away from me,” she told him. Amelia wouldn’t kick a rabbit, but she did feel free to kick at a kidnapper. She crawled to the edge of the wagon. It was a lot noisier out here, with the wood creaking and the wheels bouncing in and out of ruts. Over the tarp-covered dome of piled straw sheaves, she could see two more men sitting at the front, one holding reins and directing the horses. The other, improbably, was napping.

  “Princess Amelia,” hissed the youth she had mistaken for a rabbit. He grabbed hold of her arm. “Quiet,” he warned. He crouched beside her at the edge of the wagon and glanced back toward his fellows. “We must escape.”

  Some kind of game? Or test?

  Well, of course she’d want to escape.

  But out here in the sunlight her head ached and the air shimmered and wa
vered, the way it does around a candle flame. The henbane was still affecting her mind, which would make escaping more difficult. They’d easily recapture her, and be on the alert.

  No … he was taunting her.

  Never mind that he looked much too young to be such a villain. That was what he was.

  She kicked him again.

  “Ow!” he complained, but still he kept his voice lowered. “I’m trying to help.”

  Sorry, no—she didn’t believe that.

  She shoved, and he toppled off the edge of the wagon and onto the road, headfirst.

  He didn’t get back up. Amelia hoped, in a fuzzy sort of way, that she hadn’t killed him—even if he was a villain.

  At least he didn’t turn back into a rabbit, which would have made her feel sorry for him.

  She presumed that eventually his compatriots would notice his absence and return for him.

  Meanwhile, she wouldn’t play his game and jump off in a bid to escape. He might well leap up and grab hold of her, for there was a good chance he was only pretending to have knocked himself out.

  Something about that idea—someone knocking himself out—tickled at her uncooperative brain.

  Where had she heard … ?

  But she didn’t know the sort of people who would knock themselves out, so the idea flew away.

  Pretending or not, at least rabbit boy had taken his bad smell with him.

  Amelia put her head down on her arms and fell back asleep.

  Telmund remembered being on the straw cart with Princess Amelia, who was being kidnapped. He remembered her wild and confused eyes. He remembered her kicking him—several times, as a matter of fact—and pushing him off the cart, even though he’d assured her he was there to rescue her. That was even more unfriendly than the fairy girl who had refused to help him get back home. At least she hadn’t resorted to physical violence.

  Being raised in a family of five boys, Telmund hadn’t had much experience with princesses. But the ones in stories wouldn’t have acted that way. They would have cooperated in their rescue—or at least not fought it.

  His head ached. As far as he remembered, the princess hadn’t kicked him there. Ribs and knees, definitely, which must mean his head hurt because …

  He sighed. But he didn’t open his eyes, afraid of what he might see.

  She had pushed him off the cart. He remembered the sharp pain as his head hit the road. Probably the only thing that had stopped him from cracking his skull wide open was that this far from the castle, the road had gone from cobblestones to dirt.

  Every time you fall asleep, the fairy had told him, you’ll wake up as something else.

  Telmund suspected, even with his eyes closed, that he was no longer in his human form.

  What new treat did the witch’s spell hold in store for him?

  He opened his eyes. He was still on the dusty road. There was no sign of the cart carrying away the princess. Just ruts in the dirt to show that many carts traveled this way. He turned to look the way they had come. No glimpse of the castle the princess had been kidnapped from, not even way off in the distance.

  Telmund moved his arms to make sure nothing was broken from his fall but also to see what kind of hands he had.

  The arms didn’t move forward very well—just enough to give him a view of brown feathers.

  He didn’t have arms at all—he had wings.

  He cried out in frustration, and it was a scratchy, grating sound that came from his mouth. Or, rather, beak.

  But maybe this wasn’t so bad. As a bird, he could fly up in the air, get a sky view of the countryside. Rivers and forests and bad terrain would not be a delay but something to explore, to soar over, like moving your finger effortlessly over a map. How often had he watched powerful raptors gliding just that easily on a current of air? They’d plummet earthward to snatch up a meal of some small animal, only to take back to the sky with powerful beats of their mighty wings. He could be back in his father’s kingdom in no time at all.

  If he wanted.

  But a new yearning pulled him in the opposite direction. In fact, he might not even go directly back, if flying was as much fun as he knew it would be. Of course, back home his parents would be worried about him, no doubt thinking he was still a rat, and probably fearful that he was a drowned rat.

  However, given that they would already be fretting, one afternoon longer wouldn’t make that much difference.

  His mind fluttered here and there. Telmund would return when he was tired out. Then he’d find someplace on the castle grounds to go to sleep. Once he woke up, back in his human form, he could go to his parents and tell them what had happened to him. He could also tell them what had happened to the princess. A rescue party could be sent out to find her, and she’d be their problem, not his.

  He was ashamed of the plan as soon as he thought it.

  That sounded like the hard-hearted reasoning the fairy had used on him: Get rid of Telmund so she wouldn’t have to deal with his problems.

  The more honorable thing to do was to find the princess first, before returning home. Honorable, and more. It would be a worthy excuse, even an admirable one, should his mother ask, Did you come directly home?

  I couldn’t, he’d answer truthfully. Because I knew that I’d be able to catch sight of the horse-drawn wagon more easily from the sky, that I’d find the princess with less trouble than any rescue party on foot ever could.

  He’d take note of where the princess was, then go home with that information.

  I can do this, he thought, AND it will be fun.

  What kind of bird was he, he wondered: Gyrfalcon? Peregrine? Hawk?

  He looked down at his feet. Sharp toes were scratching at the dirt as though they had a mind of their own. They were big, but they didn’t look like the mighty talons of one of the greater birds of prey.

  So maybe he was a lesser bird: a merlin or an eagle or even an owl. It didn’t make any difference, not really. He could be a raven and it would still be the same. He had wings; he could fly. And after he’d had his fill of flying, and helped save a princess along the way, his ordeal would be over.

  Telmund flapped his wings. To go along with the not-mighty-talons, he had not-mighty-wings. Maybe he was a sparrow. No doubt the witch who’d bespelled him would have thought that a most entertaining progression: rat, rabbit, sparrow.

  He turned his face to the sun. The not-mighty-wings lifted him into the air. The wind ruffled his feathers. Below him, the ground grew distant …

  Well, not so much distant as away …

  Well, not so much away, as it was beneath him, and he wasn’t touching it.

  Except he would be touching it in another moment: He was sinking rather than rising.

  He reached the lower branch of one of the trees that grew by the side of the road.

  There would be no soaring over the countryside for him.

  He jumped from this only-slightly-higher-than-the-road vantage. And fluttered earthward.

  What kind of bird could fly only about as high as a man was tall?

  He cried out in frustration, but it came out sounding less like the angry screech he had intended, and more like a cluck.

  He sighed, and it came out a very dispirited Cock-a-doodle-doo.

  No doubt about it: He was a rooster.

  Telmund scratched at the dirt while he thought.

  Scratch-scratch-scratch.

  There was no way he could catch up to the wagon carrying the princess, not as a chicken, because chickens were useless, except for eating.

  Scratch-scratch-scratch.

  He could try falling asleep, because then he would wake up as a human.

  But by the time he fell asleep, dozed, and woke up, most likely the princess, the wagon, and the princess stealers would be long gone.

  Scratch-scratch-scratch.

  There was no way he could catch up to the wagon. Not as a chicken, because chickens were useless, except for eating.

  Scratch-sc
ratch-scratch.

  He could try falling asleep …

  Telmund heaved a sigh from the depths of his rooster chest. His thoughts were going around in circles, because …

  Chickens were useless, except for eating.

  Telmund wondered if the three gnats and a beetle that his scratching had uncovered might be distracting him, so he ate them.

  His thinking did not grow noticeably clearer.

  He scratched some more.

  Scratch-scratch-scratch.

  His choices were to chase after the princess as he was, or to take the time—however long that might call for—to sleep off his rooster form.

  He forced himself to stop scratching. Human or chicken, it was just wrong to take a nap while someone he was supposed to be rescuing was in trouble.

  He gave the ground one more scratch.

  Ooo, there was a big, juicy grub.

  Telmund gobbled that up and couldn’t help delaying for a few more scratches in case there was another nearby.

  Maybe there might be another over here …

  … or here …

  … or …

  Stop it! Telmund ordered himself.

  He started walking, as briskly as his little rooster feet would take him.

  … With occasional stops for a little scratching.

  Amelia was reluctant to open her eyes. The last time she’d thought she was ready, the world hadn’t made sense. She’d had trouble determining what was real, and what was dreaming, and what was awake-but-still-not-real.

  Someone had stolen her away from home. That seemed so wildly improbable in a bad-dream sort of way, normally she would be inclined to dismiss the whole idea. But it was the single thing she was most sure of: the rough hands taking hold of her, pressing a cloth soaked in henbane over her face. And henbane explained why her mind was so sluggish, her thoughts only half-formed and slippery.

  So the kidnapping had actually happened.

  What else was real?

  She was being conveyed in a wagon—she could tell by the way the wheels jostled when they hit ruts and holes in the road, and by the creaking of the boards, and by the dusty, nose-scratching smell of straw.