Tales of Arilland

by Alethea Kontis

  Inside the cabin were two princes on hunting holiday – one dark and one fair - who had chosen to celebrate the storm as some men choose to celebrate everything. The fair prince began to congratulate himself on his recent success at finding a wife – he had given the girl a test and she had passed with flying colors, having spun three rooms full of straw into gold for him. The dark one proclaimed the Wife Test a marvelous idea, and determined that his wife would be so delicate that she would not be able to sleep comfortably with a pea under the mattresses. They were well into their cups when Monday arrived, a bedraggled wretch on the doorstep begging asylum.

  The next morning, when Monday appeared before them with a rash of fresh bruises from head to toe, the dark prince fell to his knees and asked for her hand in marriage.

  We owe our current livelihood to Monday. Her bridegift was a tower at the edge of the Wood that had no door—

  “No door?” Grumble croaked in dismay.

  “None whatsoever,” Sunday said. “If it had ever been part of a castle, that part was long gone. The tower only had a window, and very high up. The property belonged to the prince’s grandmother. It had been handed down in the female line for generations, but was never used. We were crawling over ourselves like rats in our little cottage, so Papa knocked a door in the tower and built the rest of the house around the base. Unfortunately, it looks nothing like a castle. More like...” She closed her eyes and remembered the years of schooltime ridicule she had borne. “...a shoe.”

  “A shoe.”

  The way he said it made Sunday chuckle despite herself. “Between Tuesday’s fate and our house, it seems that shoes are a recurring theme in my life.”

  “And what of your other sisters?”

  Sunday folded her book across her stomach and stretched out in a patch of fading sunlight on the moss-covered ground. “Wednesday is the poet. She’s been nicking Fairy Joy’s absinthe since she was old enough to hold a pen.”

  “Fairy Joy?”

  “Our godmother.” The sun was warm on her weary bones, and the conversation was low and comfortable. Sunday smiled and wished she could stay there forever. “Thursday always had itchy feet. She ran off with a Pirate King when she was about my age, but she still sends us letters and gifts from time to time. Friday is the best of us all, and spends most of her days at the church helping the orphans and the elderly. Saturday is the sturdy, practical one. She goes into the Wood every morning with Papa and Jackie and helps with the cutting.”

  “And you’re ungrateful.”

  The laugh that burst from Sunday’s lips surprised her. It was a curious thing, having one’s words thrown back like that. She turned to Grumble and propped her head in one hand. “’Bonny and blithe and good and gay,’” she recited. “Who could live up to that? And even if they could, what sort of tapioca-pudding life would that be? I told Mama I would much prefer an interesting life to a happy one. She called me ungrateful, and so I am.”

  “And you are a writer, like you sister.”

  “Well, I’m not quite so melancholy gravy as Wednesday, Our Lady of Perpetual Shadow...but yes, a little in my own way.”

  “You have a gift for words,” said Grumble.

  “A curse more like,” Sunday sighed. “Mama says I spend too much of my life in little fantasy worlds and not enough time in this one. And speaking of time,” the pool of sunlight had long since faded and the night breeze was cool on her skin, “I should be getting back home before I am missed.”

  “Will you come again tomorrow?” Grumble said as she sat up. “Please?”

  “I will try.” She ran her fingers through her hair in an effort to dislodge the bits of twigs and grass that had used her head as a playground.

  “And...Sunday?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you kiss me before you go?”

  It hadn’t worked yesterday; it would no doubt fail again today. Sunday felt terrible for her new friend. But his little heart held more hope than most people had in a lifetime, and who was she to belittle that? “Of course,” she said, and leaned down to kiss his back. “Good night, Grumble.”

  “Good night, Sunday.”

  * * *

  #

  * * *

  “Grumble? Are you here?” Sunday carefully tiptoed around the crumbled pieces of the well in search of her friend. She knew she was earlier than usual, and she didn’t know if Grumble went elsewhere or hid under the well water in the heat of the day. The rocks were perspiring more than Sunday was, and she slipped. She threw her arms out in an effort to catch herself – the last thing she wanted to do was squash the only friend she had – and after tilting about madly for a moment she regained her balance.

  There was a deep, rumbling croak to her left. The little scamp was laughing at her!

  “Caught that, did you?”

  “Yes,” he answered, “though I was afraid for a moment you wouldn’t.”

  Sunday sat down on a more level section of ground. “Grace was not my virtue, remember?”

  “So true, so true.” He hopped closer. “I didn’t expect you until later.”

  “This was the only time I could get away,” she told him as she pulled her little book out of her pocket. “I’m supposed to be accompanying Trix to market to sell the cow, which means my chores will no doubt take up the rest of the day.”

  “Will your brother be all right by himself?”

  That wasn’t what she was worried about. “He knows exactly where to go, to whom he’s supposed to sell the cow, and what price he’s to fetch. He’ll be fine.” Sunday ran her thumb across the pages of the book. “I didn’t have time to write anything for you. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too,” said Grumble after a moment. “There is something about your stories, your words, your voice. They make me...remember. What it was like to be a man.”

  She was a terrible friend. How selfish of her to have ever imagined that he asked for her company simply to humor her. “Are you in danger of forgetting?”

  “I’ve already forgotten faces and names,” he said forlornly, “my own included. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to get out of bed in the morning. The feel of clothes on my skin. Food. I think I loved food once.”

  Her heart went out to him.

  “When I’m lost in your words,” he continued, “I forget that I am a frog. Instead I am just a man, sitting here with his beautiful friend, listening to her tell him about her interesting life. It’s a wonderful feeling.”

  Sunday bit her lip. It was the loveliest thing anyone had ever said to her in her whole entire life.

  “I’m afraid you have ruined me, Sunday. I didn’t realize how much I longed for the company of others until I had your words. And when they are gone...the nights are darker without them. The silence is loud and bottomless, and I am empty. I miss them, my beloved Sunday. I miss you.”

  It was no use fighting. The tears came anyway. She was powerless to break his spell, but she could give him what she had. She opened her book to the next blank page and started writing. When she was done, she leaned back and smiled at her friend. “’Sunday was nothing,’” she read aloud, “’until she met Grumble – a beautiful man, with the soul of a poet. He was her best friend in the whole wide world, and she loved him with all her heart.’” She closed book gently in her lap. “I wish—“

  “Sunday!” Her name was yelled loudly, from far away.

  Trix? What was he doing back so soon? He should have been gone another hour or two at least.

  “Suuuuun-daaaaaay,” Trix called through the woods.

  “I’m here!” she called back. “Well,” she said to Grumble, “like it or not, you’re about to meet some of my family.”

  “It will be an honor,” said the frog.

  Trix came crashing through the brush and stumbled into the clearing. “Cooooooool,” he said breathlessly. “A Fairy Well.” For all that he was at least two years her senior, Trix both looked and acted as if he had stopped aging at twelve. Sund
ay grabbed ahold of his scrawny wrist before he could scamper off across the rocks and break his neck.

  “The cow,” She reminded him. “You took her to market and sold her that quickly?” It was more of a hope than a question.

  Trix’s wide grin was unsettling. “I am a lucky tradesman,” he announced, “and a shrewd one. I happened upon a man in the woods who was on his way to market for just such a cow.”

  Sunday’s heart that had only moments before soared in her chest sank lower and lower with every word that passed Trix’s lips. No. Please, God, no.

  “So I sold it to him for these.” He opened his palm so she could see what was inside it.

  Her heart plummeted into her feet. She was going to throw up. “Beans.”

  “Magic beans,” Trix said proudly. “He was only going to give me one, but I bartered my way up to five. After all, what if one doesn’t sprout? Smart thinking, eh?” Trix tucked the beans back in his pocket and patted them. “I figure I can plant them under my treehouse and...Sunday? Are you okay?”

  Sunday had stopped breathing. She was a dead woman. Trix was her responsibility, and she had let him go off alone and trade their best cow for...for...

  “Sunday?” Trix was suddenly worried.

  “Mama will kill me,” she whispered. “We needed that money, Trixie. How will we eat?”

  “You’ll see.” His voice was filled with childish wonder. “My magic beans will grow, and we will have food forever.”

  His innocence was as beautiful in its purity as it was frustrating. He didn’t understand, and she didn’t know how to make him. “Beans take time to grow,” Sunday explained. “What will we eat tomorrow? And the next day?”

  At least that much seemed to sink in. “I’m sorry, Sunday,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you to die.”

  “If I may be so bold.”

  In her misery, Sunday had completely forgotten about Grumble. He was sitting patiently beside a perfectly round, slime-covered rock.

  “Forgive me. Trix, meet my friend Grumble. Grumble, this is my brother Trix.”

  “Wow,” said Trix.

  “Charmed,” said Grumble.

  “Whatcha got there?” Trix sat down unceremoniously beside Grumble and picked up the spherical stone.

  “Something I’m hoping will save your sister’s life,” he said. “A life that’s become uncommonly important to me over the last few days.”

  Frogs must be colorblind after all, Sunday decided. It was a sweet gesture. To Grumble, the ball must have looked like a precious gem, or a fairy trinket, or...

  “Gold!” cried Trix.

  “What?” Sunday snatched the ball out of her brother’s hand. She was so unprepared for the weight of it, she almost dropped it. She scraped at the scum with her fingernail to the smooth, hard surface beneath. “It is!” She hugged the bauble to her.

  And then she remembered that she wasn’t a hoarding kobold.

  Sunday held the ball back out to Grumble.

  “We can’t take this.”

  “Sunday, I’m a frog. What use have I for such a pretty?”

  “But its worth alone...”

  “That and a hundred more like it wouldn’t get me what I want,” he reminded her. “But if it buys even a second of your family’s happiness, then to me it is worth more than any moneylender could possibly exchange for it.”

  He was right, she knew. But her conscience still wouldn’t let her. Sunday stood there, weighing her needs against her morals.

  They both weighed about three pounds of solid gold.

  “Please,” said Grumble.

  Sunday put the bauble in her pocket. She cradled Grumble in her hands and kissed him heartily before he could ask her. “Thank you, my dear friend, more than you will ever know.” He was too stunned for words. “Trix and I should be going now,” she said. “But I will come back tomorrow. And I will write for you, I promise!”

  She did not hear him say goodbye.

  Excited, Sunday skipped in Trix’s wake back through the brush. They raced each other to the edge of the Wood, to where their house laid on the horizon. Their energy spent, they slowed to a walk, the weight of the golden ball knocking reassuringly between Sunday’s book and her leg.

  “He loves you.”

  Trix was like that. Full of snails and puppy dogs’ tails one minute, and unnaturally wise the next. What he said was true, but it did not change the way of the world.

  “And you love him.”

  Nor did that.

  Sunday covered the lump in her skirt pocket with her hand and said the only thing she could think to say.

  “I know.”

  * * *

  #

  * * *

  Sunday awoke to a poke in the side and opened her eyes to see her mother looming over her bed. Seven Woodcutter was not a soft, warm, cookie-making type of mother. She was more of a “spoil the rod” type of mother. At least she wasn’t using the rod to wake up her children. Anymore.

  Sunday felt the familiar rustle of pages under her cheek. Her family’s celebration over their newfound wealth had lasted well into the night, and she had fallen asleep committing the revelry to paper so that she could share it with Grumble in the morning. She knew he would be delighted to hear it.

  Her gaze flew to the candlestick beside the bed, and the small stub of candle atop it. Dear, good Friday. She must have come into Sunday’s room in the wee hours to snuff it out behind her. Mama always let Sunday have it whenever she discovered a candle burned down to the quick, for it was irrefutable proof that at least some of it had been wasted. Despite the fact that Monday could provide for everything they would ever need, Mama was a penny pincher to the end.

  “There’s been a Proclamation,” Mama said by way of explanation.

  Great. Royal Proclamations usually meant more work, less food, and the loss of something they had previously taken for granted.

  “Prince Rumbold is hosting three balls.”

  Prince Rumbold. The prince whose fairy godmother had turned the brother Sunday had never known into a dog. The prince who had been reported ill or missing or dead or all three over the past several months. The prince who had evidently been restored to health, rescued, resurrected or simply rumored about. Whatever the story, the spirit had apparently moved His Evil Highness to throw a ball. So he was pretentious enough to have three, and then announced them to the countryside like anyone cared a fig.

  “Good for Prince Rumbold.” Sunday rolled over and buried her face in the pillow, her pillow that smelled deliciously of sleep.

  Another poke. “The prince is throwing three balls, and all the eligible ladies in the countryside are invited,” Mama said. “If you are very good and do all your chores, I will let you go.”

  “Perfect,” Sunday said into the pillow. “I don’t want to go.”

  She felt the pages of her book slip from beneath her cheek. Sunday reached out to grab it, but Mama was too quick.

  “You will go into town and sell that little golden bauble,” she ordered. Sunday’s eyes never left the book she held hostage; Mama had her rapt attention. “In addition to what we normally use, you will buy all the fabric Friday needs to alter dresses for you girls; she is in the kitchen right now making a list. You will do your chores and Friday’s for the next three days, and then at the end of them, you will attend those balls.”

  “What does Papa have to say about all this?” Sunday snapped.

  “Your father has no say in this. Every eligible girl in the country has been asked to attend, which means that every eligible man of means will find a way to be invited. I don’t care if it is that awful prince’s doing. This may be my girls’ only chance to snare a decent husband, and they will not pass up that chance. I will see at least one of you engaged before the week is out. Do I make myself clear?”

  Sunday nodded silently as Mama slipped the book into her pocket. It would have been impossible for her to not feel Sunday’s desperation.

  “Sunday,” Mama
said more easily, “it’s not that difficult. Just do what I need you to do, and I will let you have your diary back before you go to bed every night. But I will take it away again every morning, understand?”

  “Yes, Mum!” Sunday hopped out of bed, unable to dress and run to market fast enough.

  The trip to market was unbelievable. Sunday was treated like a princess from the moment she arrived at the moneylender’s office. He had smiled at the bauble and told her that he was going to have to consult with someone about it, but as he did not want to keep her from shopping he gave her tokens with the royal seal on them and instructed her to leave one with each vendor she purchased goods from. After Trix’s misfortune she was wary about trading for a handful of anything, but the vendors lit up at the sight of the tokens and made sure to present to her the finest of their wares. She was probably still a little too frugal with her purchases; even though she had to hire a wagon to help her home with them, she still had a small bag full of gold pieces left over.

  Once at home she immediately went to work on her chores. Mama was so pleased with her that she handed Sunday her book directly after supper. While Sunday regretted not being able to spend even a moment with her new best friend, she had experienced the entire day with an eye for how she would tell Grumble all about it. He would be so happy to see her, and she would read to him for hours, and he would understand why she hadn’t come.

  The next two days passed in a blur. The only moments that seemed to drag were the rare occasions that Sunday had to gaze longingly at the treeline of the Wood. She missed her friend more with every hour that she was away, and she hoped he was not desperately pining for her.