But this time it was the word-witch’s turn to smile. “Oh, but Highness, aren’t you forgetting something? We made an exchange.” Her toothless grin trailed a string of eager drool. “A legally and magically binding contract. You owe me a kidney—and it is a debt you cannot pay without forfeiting your life. I may be, suddenly, an unlettered woman, but still, I shall dine tonight. And not just upon a single kidney, oh no indeed.” The word-witch smiled a smile as wide as all the world’s sin.
Mynda nodded, her face impassive. “We did have a deal. And I shall pay you all that I owe.” She walked around the car to the driver’s side and withdrew a small burlap bag from below the seat. Tossing it to the crone, she slid in behind the wheel.
The word-witch undid the twine which held the bag closed, opened it, and found herself staring down at an abundance of small white grains. “This isn’t a kidney. This isn’t even meat.” She glanced up in irritation. “What, do I look vegan to you?”
Mynda leaned her head out the window. “I believe you once told me you worked under an ancient formula,” she said, “which you must follow to the letter. To the letter. And our deal was made under unique phonetic conditions, madam.” The last of the Ps had made their way into the vehicle. Mynda turned the key in the ignition, heard the engine roar, and turned back to the word-witch one final time. “Speak, if you wish, the words of your ancient creed. The words you spoke when we made our deal. And then tell me what I owe.”
“For magic, or for sage advice, all who come here must pay the …” The witch did a double take, looked down at the bag of rice at her feet, threw back her head, and emitted a howl of feral rage.
She raised her wand to smite the princess. But Mynda was already gone, her taillights vanishing into the darkness, trailing Ps behind her like an overhydrated toddler.
* * *
In truth, things in Lexico never did get completely back to normal. A few Ps decided that they enjoyed the heady taste of freedom, and rather than returning to their assumed roles, they took to the open road, taking up life as hitchhikers, highwaymen, troubadours, and rogues. And so, every now and then, a blank space would turn up where a P was needed, and a suffering typesetter or jurist would shake his or her fist in the direction of the capital, cursing what had become known as Mynda’s Mistake.
But the worst of the crisis had passed. The missing citizens returned, glad of the brief holiday, as did the crops and missing appendages. Lady Priscilla was particularly grateful and impressed by Mynda’s cunning; her brother once again felt comfortable hitting the clubs on Saturday night, and her ever-affectionate father was quick to forgive her. And when, years later, Mynda finally came into her kingdom, she ruled with both compassion and wisdom—recognizing the power of words, but rarely seeking to police them. She opted instead to directly address the problems they described.
Neither the problems nor the problematic language were ever fully eradicated. Nevertheless, all involved lived more-or-less ha**ily ever after.
* * *
Steve DuBois is a high school teacher from Kansas City and the author of over a dozen professionally published short stories. For more of his work, visit www.stevedubois.net.
In the castle behind the enchanted wood, Princess Aurora lay dreaming in the sleep of a hundred years. And in her dreaming, she walked.
* * *
She walked through time, a spectator of the scenes of her life that had shaped her fate. Of course, there was Lilac, her savior, telling her parents about the spell that would imprison her in sleep rather than death, but there were other moments, too: her mother weeping, a pile of burning spinning wheels, an ancient fairy dressed in darkest blue leaning over the cradle to seal Aurora’s destiny.
She returned to this moment again and again, thinking that maybe if she watched it enough, it would make sense to her. That she could understand why the fairy Indigo would be willing to kill an innocent child.
It didn’t work, though; Aurora never got an answer. That is, until the time she watched the scene unfold before her yet again—and looked up to see Indigo watching her back.
Aurora gasped.
“You can see me?” she breathed, and Indigo laughed a bright, mad laugh.
“Of course, I can,” she sang. “This is the dreaming, and the dreaming makes its rules to suit. It wanted us to meet, wanted us to speak. Maybe wanted you to ask a question.”
Aurora trembled with wanting to know the answer and not wanting to know it.
“Why did you do it?” she whispered. “Why did you wish me dead?”
Indigo looked at Aurora with sad eyes, taking the princess’s face in her hands.
“My darling,” she said. “I did it to set you free.”
And in a twist of starlight and flame, she disappeared.
* * *
In the dreaming, Aurora walked through space and found a flawless duplicate of the castle where her body lay in the waking world. She made her way through the still corridors, eerie in their silence, until she reached the great hall.
The hall was filled with slumbering people. They were dressed in servants’ livery and military uniforms, velvet cloaks and sumptuous gowns. Some were stretched out on the floor or propped against the wall; others sagged forward with their heads on the tables next to lavish platters of food. Aurora walked among them, gazing at their faces. She had mostly been raised away from court, for her protection, so she recognized some of those she saw, but she found many of them strange.
What’s happened to them? she wondered in distress. Why are they here?
Her parents were nowhere to be found, but that was not unusual; they often lived apart from her. It did feel strange and somewhat frightening, though, to be without her usual crowd of tutors and attendants telling her where to go, what to do.
Eventually, she made her way to the front of the hall, where the royal family traditionally sat during feasts, and found Sir Edgar, the captain of her father’s guard, asleep on the edge of the dais. He was as still as the others, eyes closed and breath coming slow and deep.
With a trembling hand, Aurora reached out and touched Sir Edgar’s arm.
In an instant, he snapped awake, throwing himself upright and looking around the room in alarm. When he saw Aurora, he dropped to one knee, his eyes on the floor.
“Your Highness,” he said somberly.
“What is happening here?” she asked. “Who are all these people?”
“They came to celebrate your birthday, Your Highness,” he said, still not meeting her eyes. “That is, until we heard about you …” Finally, he looked up at her, his brow furrowed in confusion. “They said you pricked your finger. That you had fallen into the magical sleep.”
“I did,” said Aurora.
“But then, how are you here talking to me?” Sir Edgar asked.
Rather than answer, Aurora turned and gazed out at the hall spread before them. Sir Edgar got to his feet and stood beside her, taking in the scene.
“Is this … are we in your dream?”
“Yes,” Aurora said quietly.
“But … how?”
“I don’t know.”
After a long pause, Sir Edgar said, “We should wake the others.”
“I suppose so,” said Aurora.
And they stepped off the dais, into the thick of the dormant bodies. Circling the room, Aurora woke each of the sleepers with a touch: Phillip, the page boy. Lord Dorian, her father’s most senior councilor. Lady Adeline, the nursemaid from Aurora’s early childhood. Polly, the assistant cook who made Aurora’s favorite sweets. And so many others, including the ones Aurora had never met, who had traveled from far and wide to reach the castle on that momentous day.
As more and more people became alert, there was a rising clamor, as they questioned each other and looked around for missing companions. Sir Edgar stood on the dais, raising his hands for quiet, and, when that didn’t work, letting out a sharp whistle. The voices subsided into a murmur.
“I know that many of y
ou have heard the gossip regarding the princess,” Sir Edgar said, and some of the courtiers looked around guiltily. “Their Majesties tried their best to keep the situation quiet, but under the circumstances, I feel I can confirm to you that the rumors are absolutely true.”
The noise level began to rise again.
“At Princess Aurora’s christening, Indigo did indeed condemn the princess to death on her sixteenth birthday. The fairy Lilac managed to save her, by changing the sentence to a hundred-year sleep. The princess is now in this sleep, and, somehow, we seem to be in it with her. And whoever or whatever brought us here apparently saw fit to leave the king and queen and the others who were in the castle behind.”
The room exploded in shouts and exclamations. Aurora stood in her usual spot at the back of the dais taking in the scene and feeling progressively worse and worse; it was her fault, all of it. Slowly, she took a step forward and then another. Eventually, she stood even with Sir Edgar, though she had no idea what to do next.
One by one, the occupants of the great hall noticed her standing there and began to fall silent. With all those eyes on her, Aurora was nearly frozen in fear, but she clasped her hands in front of her and began to speak.
“I’m sorry,” she said, a slight quaver in her voice. “I never intended for any of this to happen. None of you should be here. I wish I could end this or send you back, but I can’t … I don’t know how.”
And a tear slid down her cheek.
No one in the hall moved or made a sound. Aurora started to think they might stay like that forever, until she heard a commotion near the wall to her right. A child in shabby, tattered clothes, perhaps a helper from the stables or even a villager who had snuck into the castle hoping for some food, emerged from the crowd and walked up to the dais. He held out his hand, offering a grubby handkerchief to Aurora.
Aurora felt a pang in her chest at this simple act of humble kindness, something altogether too rare in her world. She knelt and took the handkerchief, ignoring its less than pristine state. She smiled down at the boy, who beamed back up at her.
“Thank you, good sir,” she said, and she felt a shift in the room, as some of the tension dissipated and more smiles appeared here and there.
Aurora stood, wiping the tears from her cheeks (though she used her hand, not the handkerchief). She felt calmer now, less frantic, as she turned to Sir Edgar.
“We don’t know how long we are going to be here,” she said. “But we should probably figure out how to make everyone comfortable, yes?”
Sir Edgar watched her, his eyes unreadable, and then gave a sharp nod.
“Yes,” he said. “Let’s do that.”
A quick reconnaissance of the dream castle revealed that all the rooms in the real version were present and accounted for, so everyone had a place to stay; in the end, though, most ended up spending the majority of their time in the great hall, finding comfort in the camaraderie. Patrols were assembled to explore the grounds and the surrounding wood, to see what lay beyond, but no matter how long they walked or which direction they took, they always ended up back at the castle.
“Unnatural,” Sir Edgar muttered, gazing out a window at the wood.
“No,” Lord Dorian said, stepping up beside him. “Only magical. It’s true to the nature of the dream.”
It was a strange nature, to be sure. None of the children grew, and none of the adults seemed to age at all. They never perspired or shivered or ached. They became phantoms, drifting through the castle and yearning for the freedom that was maddeningly beyond their reach.
There was no day or night in the dreaming, only a long stretch of in-between time. When the courtiers wanted food, they ate, more for the novelty of flavor than for sustenance. When they were tired, they rested (they never really slept, for they were already asleep). And, when they were bored, which was often, they found ways to amuse themselves.
The ladies of the court gave dancing lessons. There were endless games of Prisoner’s Base and Nine Men’s Morris. Sometimes, they would move the tables aside to play Nine Pins. At one point, after a meal, when everyone was sitting around the fire telling stories, Sir Edgar noticed Aurora eying his sword. Quietly, he drew it from its scabbard and held it out to her.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I couldn’t.”
“Go ahead,” he said. “Take it.”
Tentatively, Aurora reached out and put her hand around the grip. As soon as Sir Edgar let go, the point dropped to the floor with a clang.
“It’s heavy!” Aurora exclaimed.
“You get used to it,” Sir Edgar said, amused. “Try again.”
With an effort, Aurora lifted the sword and held it in front of her with both hands. Her eyes were bright as she watched the firelight flicker on the metal.
“Would you like me to teach you?” Sir Edgar asked.
“The sword?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Aurora’s face broke into a delighted smile.
“I would like that very much.”
She gave the sword an experimental swing, which immediately turned into a wild arc as the weight threw her off balance.
Sir Edgar reached out and grabbed Aurora’s arm, taking the sword and sliding it back into the scabbard.
“Perhaps we should start with staffs.”
When she wasn’t working with Sir Edgar, Aurora found herself spending time with Lord Dorian. He was a wise and learned man, who knew about all kinds of things—medicine and the law and the history of Aurora’s kingdom. And he did know quite a bit about magic, which he always discussed with the type of humble modesty that was really showing off.
But his great passion was chess, and he set about teaching it to Aurora.
As they sat at one of the tables in the great hall, Lord Dorian moved his bishop.
“Checkmate,” he said.
Aurora’s mouth fell open, and she examined the board. When she spotted the way he had her cornered, she let out a frustrated groan and dropped her head to the table.
‘“You’re getting better,” Lord Dorian said as he started resetting the board.
Aurora lifted her head but remained slumped, clearly dejected.
“You still always beat me, though.”
“You don’t vary your attack enough,” he said. “You rely too much on your queen.”
“But the queen is the most powerful piece,” she said.
“She is,” he said, looking over the tops of his spectacles. “But she is still part of an army. She can accomplish far more with the other pieces’ support than she can on her own.”
Aurora crossed her arms, scowling, but said nothing.
“Patience, my dear,” he said as he rose to get a glass of wine. “You’ll get it.”
“I’m tired of being patient,” she grumbled. “I want to get out.”
But their confinement dragged on, and so Aurora poured her frustration into her training. As it turned out, she had a fair degree of natural proficiency in combat, but that in and of itself was not enough for Sir Edgar. He was constantly challenging her, pushing her to develop her skills. They were in the thick of one of their bouts when he broke past her defenses and delivered a solid blow to her knuckles. She dropped her staff, cradling her smarting hand and fighting back curses she had overheard in the stables.
Sir Edgar lowered his staff as well.
“Are you all right, Your Highness?”
“Yes,” she said, annoyed at him and at herself. “It was a stupid mistake. And I do wish you wouldn’t call me that. I think we’re well past formalities.”
Sir Edgar cocked his head, gazing at her, then shrugged.
“Very well … Aurora.”
This time it was Aurora’s turn to stop and gaze.
“What is it?” he said.
“I just … thought you might argue more,” she said sheepishly.
Sir Edgar bent over and picked up her staff, holding it out to her.
“Ah,” Aurora said, chastened a bit. “I see.”
Sir Edgar raised his staff.
“Ready for another go?”
Aurora raised hers as well.
“Ready.”
They continued, but before long, Sir Edgar parried one of her blows, and, as she tried to recover, she tripped, falling against the wall. She growled in annoyance.
“It’s these skirts,” he said, poking gently at her hem with the tip of his staff. “They limit your movement.”
“Well, what else am I supposed to wear?” she snapped.
He looked thoughtful for a moment, then called out, “Lady Adeline!”
Aurora’s former nursemaid bustled over from where she had been listening to the children practice reading. As they explained the situation, Lady Adeline pursed her lips and muttered things under her breath that sounded like “not at all proper” and “beneath her station,” but she nevertheless sent the children scampering through the castle, looking for anything that might meet the princess’s needs.
Before long, there was a small pile of clothing on the floor near the fire, salvaged from a host of abandoned chests and wardrobes, and without too much trial and error, they found a tunic and pair of leggings that fit Aurora tolerably well, as well as a sturdy pair of boots and a belt. She had long since taken the pins from her hair and begun wearing it in a single plait, which now hung over her shoulder.
“What do you think?” she said, holding out her arms and turning slowly in front of Sir Edgar and Lady Adeline.
“I think you look very fine,” Sir Edgar said approvingly. “Very fine indeed. What say you, my lady?”
Next to him, Lady Adeline examined Aurora with her fingers pressed to her mouth.
“I suppose it will do,” she said. “If it is absolutely necessary.”
But there was a hint of pride in her voice, and her eyes were warm.
The new clothes gave Aurora much greater freedom of movement, and before long, Sir Edgar decided it was time to move from staffs to swords. He found one for Aurora’s use in the armory (well-balanced, if still far inferior to his), and she took to it with relish.
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