Alydia Rackham's Fairytales

by Alydia Rackham

  In a while, Hetchel opened the door, frowning, and carefully shuffled out, and reached down to her bucket…

  To find it full of fresh water. With a start, she looked up to see her woodpile heightened, her garden weeded, and her path clean. Quickly she found Red where he sat cross-legged by her gate. Again, he smiled brightly at her, got up, came to her and made a bow, then held the roses out to her.

  “Please take these,” he said. “I have no doubt you could not have enjoyed them before, since they were far out of your reach.”

  Carefully, the witch took the roses from him, working her gums. Finally, she looked at him.

  “You want something from me.”

  “Not at all,” Red insisted.

  “You must. You have put me in your debt.” She sighed. “And I cannot say that I mind, for my old bones are tired.”

  “I ask nothing for myself, Hetchel,” Red insisted. “But these past two nights, a wraith has come through the village and is killing the animals. We fear it may kill a person next. Do you know what we can do?”

  “The rest of the village can do nothing,” Hetchel said. “But you can.”

  “What can I do?” Red asked.

  “I will give you two magic words which you must tell no one,” she said severely. “The first will unlock the door to a cave in the side of Harr Mountain. The next will show you a sword with which you can kill the wraith.”

  “Tell me,” he begged.

  “The work you have done here is worth one magic word,” Hetchel said. “To earn the other, you must promise to come back and work for me for a year, doing whatever I ask.”

  Red hesitated a moment, then nodded.

  “I shall.”

  And so Hetchel leaned toward him, and whispered the two words to him. Wasting no time, Red set off for Harr Mountain.

  He traveled till nightfall, to the foot of the huge and terrible mountain, searching for the great wall of smooth rock Hetchel told him about. At midnight, he finally found it. Hoping this would work, Red lifted his voice, and said the first magic word:

  “Apertus!”

  And with that, a great door suddenly appeared in the rock, lit by a strange blue light. Chills running up and down his spine, Red crept inside. He followed a long and winding path into the heart of the mountain—a path which soon opened up to a vast chamber. In the center of the chamber, on a table of stone, lay a great long wooden box, locked with a hundred iron locks. Biting his lip, feeling cold down to his bones, Red approached and held out his hand.

  “Mihi!” he cried.

  And, true to Hetchel’s word, the locks flew open as one, and the lid swung open, to reveal a glimmering golden sword beneath. Carefully, Red reached inside and pulled it out. He had never felt such a lovely weapon—light as a feather, and almost alive, as if he held a sleeping snake.

  With a heart filled with both joy and urgency, Red fled the cave, and hurried back to his village.

  Once he arrived, out of breath, he found the village square dark, deserted, and utterly still. Everyone hid in his house, terrified. He was terrified, too. But he stood there, gripping the splendid sword in his hands, and waited.

  And then, it came. That great rush of terrible wind, that snarling roar, that smothering darkness. And it swooped toward him to devour him, to freeze his blood and paralyze him forever…

  He lifted the sword. It blazed like the sun, blinding as daylight. The wraith screamed, and recoiled—

  Red lunged, and slashed the wraith in half. It shrieked, split into hundreds of pieces, and fell into nothing.

  The moon and stars came out again. Everyone emerged from the houses, murmuring in awe. And Red could only stand there, amazed, staring at the shimmering sword in his hand.

  The next day, whistling a happy tune, the sword slung over his shoulder, Red strolled back toward Hetchel’s house. He knocked on the door, and when the old lady came to the door with a frown, he grinned and bowed, and held out the sword to her.

  And the old lady smiled in return, and took it for safekeeping, for it was indeed full of powerful magic. And Red stayed with Hetchel, not just one year, but five, helping her with all of her work, and easing her burden so much that soon she did not have to fret, and could knit, or cook, or merely sit and look at the beauty of her new garden, rather than slave with her tired old hands and back. And after five years, when Red married, he brought his wife into the house with him and Hetchel, and the two young, laughing people and their children brightened Hetchel’s life till the end of her days.

  The End

  Dragon Tongue

  For Malyna

  Once upon a time, there lived a young woman named Stell, who had fiery red hair she wore in a long thick braid, and an equally-fiery temper. She grew up in the court of the king, but had little patience with the foppery and finery of the courtiers and nobles. Instead, she spent her days in the yard with the knights and the soldiers, or in the stables with the war horses. At first, the men scorned her presence and pushed her out of the way—but one day when she was sixteen, she challenged them all to an archery contest. When she beat them all handily, they were stunned and humbled to their bones, and she could demand of them what she wished.

  And so she took up training with the others. She grew into a tall, lithe, strong lady—fearsome with stubbornness, and excellent in all her manner. The blacksmith fashioned special armor to suit her figure, and the flashing silver next to the flaming braid and her burning blue eyes cast a striking picture.

  When the trolls descended from the mountains and made war upon the kingdom, the king was reluctant to send a woman into battle—but the knights refused to go without her, for she had proven exceedingly ferocious and protective. And so Stell went to war, and proved herself mightily, and when she returned, she was given a knighthood. After this, she set out through the wilderness with several other knights errant, seeking adventure, and treasure for their king. She met many strange folk, and made friends in very odd places indeed. And upon these adventures in the high and dangerous mountains, her sword (newly forged for her alone) gained the name Dragon Tongue.

  One day, as she rode out alone from the castle to the village of her ancestry, through the Gilded Wood, she came upon a fork in the road that she did not remember. For the longest time, she sat in her saddle, considering. Her white horse waited, dipping his head.

  At last, her curiosity piqued, she turned left, quite certain she had never followed this path before. She wandered through the woods, the birds fluttering and singing around her, the high breeze rustling through the emerald leaves overhead.

  Then, at a bend in the path, she came upon a charming little cottage, with roses growing up the side, and a garden flourishing before it. She drew up in front of it, and paused, frowning. The garden flourished a little too well—indeed, it was full of weeds. She listened, and heard nothing from within.

  “Hullo?” she called. “Is anyone home?”

  No one answered. But the next moment, the shutter on the front window creaked—and she spied a little face peering through at her. But as soon as she saw it, it disappeared.

  “Ho, there,” Stell called firmly. “Come out. I mean you no harm.”

  Again, nothing happened for several moments. But then, slowly, the front door opened, and a little boy stepped outside. He had dark brown hair, and wore simple clothes. But he looked thin, and had dark circles under his eyes. He stared up at her, and went pale.

  “What is your name?” Stell wanted to know.

  “Garreth, madam,” the boy replied faintly.

  “And where are your parents, Garreth?” she asked.

  “My mother is dead, madam,” Garreth whispered, staring at the path. “And my father is gone.”

  “Gone,” Stell repeated. “To market?”

  “No, madam,” Garreth said tearfully. “I don’t know where he’s gone!”

  Stell’s frown deepened, and she swung her leg over and dismounted her horse. Her silver armor flashed in the sunlight,
and Dragon Tongue clanked against her leg. She approached the little boy, who shivered.

  “Stop trembling,” she admonished. “I told you, I mean you no harm. Now, what do you mean, you don’t know where he’s gone?”

  “A fortnight ago, the dragon came down from the hills,” Garreth murmured. “And the talk in the town was that someone had stolen from his hoard. So my father and some other men went to kill the dragon.” The boy took a shuddering breath. “All the men who went with him were found scorched to death by the river. But my father was not among them. I’m afraid the dragon took him!”

  “The dragon in the Blue Fells?” Stell demanded, hands on her hips. Garreth nodded. Stell rolled her eyes and groaned—then beckoned to the boy. “Come with me.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Do you want your father back or not?” Stell asked impatiently, climbing back up on her horse and taking up the reins. Then, she held out her hand. The boy paled further.

  “Make up your mind,” Stell snapped her fingers. “We are running out of daylight.”

  So Garreth swallowed, reached out, and grabbed her hand. Easily, she swung him up onto the back of the horse, and he wrapped his arms around her waist. The next instant, she kicked her steed’s flanks, and they broke into a gallop, racing through the woods.

  Soon, they left the wood and found the broad, shallow river by which the men of the village had died. Stell urged her horse through the slithering waters and the rolling rocks, and together they leaped out onto the other side. Swiftly, for Stell knew the way well, they traveled up into the hills—but not to the Blue Fells. Not yet.

  “Where are we going?” Garreth wanted to know.

  “To a cave called Imthel,” Stell muttered. “I have a bone to pick with a troll.”

  Soon, they stopped at the mouth of a vast, reeking cave.

  “Stay here,” she told the boy, dismounted, and stepped inside the cave. She drew Dragon Tongue from its sheath, and it shone like lightning, illuminating the craggy rock.

  Within sat a party of trolls, with skin like leather and eyes the color of the swamp. One wore a stolen crown upon his head, and together they chewed on legs of raw mutton. All around them lay piles of jewels and gold.

  “Well, Trafgar, what have you stolen today?” Stell asked, striding in amongst their party. The troll king lifted his head.

  “Dame Stell, and Dragon Tongue! What brings the two of you here?”

  “I hear tell that one of the villagers stole from the dragon of the Blue Fells,” she said. “And so he came down and burned all their men.”

  The troll king snickered.

  “Ah, indeed,” he snorted. “How stupid can that dragon be? Perhaps his nose is failing him.”

  “What do you mean?” Stell asked.

  “How he missed the scent of troll in his cave, I have no idea!” said the king—and he and his fellows chortled with laughter, as if they all shared the most splendid joke.

  Stell stepped forward, swung her sword—

  And in a flash, cleaved the head off the troll to her left. It fell with a thud.

  The trolls sat back with wide eyes.

  “Give me what you have taken from the dragon,” she said, pointing her blade at the king. “Or I shall cut you all to ribbon.”

  The troll king mumbled that it had all been in fun, but Stell stood stalwart, so the king reached back, and lifted a great golden ring studded with diamonds. And he slid it onto the bloody end of Dragon Tongue.

  “It’s magic,” said the troll king. “If you wear it, it protects your home from intruders.”

  “Perhaps you should have had the brains to wear it, then,” Stella jabbed, then turned and left the cave.

  As soon as she had mounted her steed, with Garreth on the back again, they rode high, high up into the hills, up to the blackened, charred and broken rocks, to the source of the gushing waterfalls blue as sapphire. And there they came to the giant mouth of the largest cave in the kingdom. Stell dismounted, and pulled Garreth down with her.

  “I thought that if you stepped across a dragon’s threshold, he would burn you before you spoke a word!” Garreth cried.

  “Usually that is true,” Stell said, drawing her sword. “Without Dragon Tongue.”

  And she held Garreth’s hand, and entered, her sword held aloft.

  The next moment, a giant heaving, like a vast blacksmith’s bellows, roared through the cave—and heat swelled toward them…

  But then…

  A cool gust of wind. And a huge, terrible voice.

  “Stell! It is you! And the beautiful sword I blessed for you, is it not?”

  And there before them towered a mighty red dragon, with eyes like balls of fire. And he grinned at her. Garreth yelped and jumped behind her.

  “Hello, Harfareth,” Stell sighed, putting her sword away. “How are you?”

  “I cannot complain much,” the dragon answered lightly.

  “Oh, no?” Stell folded her arms. “I heard someone came and stole something from you.” She lifted an eyebrow. “And you decided to barbeque some villagers.”

  “Aye me,” sighed the dragon. “Indeed, were it not so.”

  “Indeed, it is so,” Stell said crossly. “Except you made a mistake.”

  The dragon’s eyes widened.

  “A mistake?”

  “Yes. Trafgar the troll king stole from you, not the men of the village.”

  “Oh, heaven’s sake,” the dragon gasped, putting a clawed paw to his heart. “Had I but known!”

  “Oh, never mind the dramatics,” Stell rolled her eyes again. “Here.” And she pulled the magic ring from out of her pack.

  “My ring!” the dragon reached for it. She jerked it away.

  “Now give me the man back.”

  “Man, what man?” asked the dragon.

  “You know what man—the one you took,” Stell said. The dragon pouted.

  “But he’s the finest chef in all the land,” Harfareth complained. “You should taste his roasted beef and onions!”

  “He has a child, and you can roast your own meat,” Stell countered. Harfareth narrowed his eyes.

  “What is your interest in him?”

  Stell lifted her chin.

  “We are minus a chef at the castle, and the king requires him,” she improvised. “Now come on.”

  And she tossed the ring down at Harfareth’s feet. The dragon huffed, but he slithered aside to reveal a young man with a short black beard, curly black hair, and brilliant brown eyes.

  “Go on, Kenvale,” the dragon lamented. “I shall miss you.”

  And, quite to Stell’s surprise, the young man reached up and patted Harfareth’s flank.

  “I shall come back to cook a Midsummer feast for you,” Kenvale suggested.

  “Oh, yes, please do,” said the dragon eagerly. “I shall await it all spring long!”

  Much amused by the exchange, and impressed by Kenvale’s manner, Stell stepped aside—and Garreth ran to his father and embraced him with a cry of joy. Together, the three of them left the dragon cave, and maneuvered back down the mountain, around the valley and back to the castle.

  There, Kenvale was indeed installed as a chef—and Garreth apprenticed beneath him—and soon Kenvale rose through the ranks to become head chef, directing every meal set before the king and his house. Stell continued her training and adventures, but spent a great deal of time also in the kitchens, listening to Garreth and Kenvale talk and laugh. And somehow, she found it more and more difficult each time she left the castle. Finally, one day, she realized it was because Kenvale—with his hearty laugh, bright smile, and lusty spirit, had captured her heart. And upon the very day that she had summoned the courage to draw near him to inquire if, perhaps, he might feel the same for her—he fell to one knee, and proposed that she should marry him.

  And she did. She wore a splendid ivory gown upon her wedding day on Midsummer’s eve, with Dragon Tongue hanging from a crystal belt. And no one ever imagined such a wedd
ing feast—for it took place in the cave of a dragon, surrounded by the king, his court, and a million glittering jewels—and the deep, throaty laughter of Harfareth overhead.

  The End

  The Knight in the Mirror

  Once upon a time, when England was united beneath the banner of the most just and worthy king it ever knew, there lived a young knight named Sir Aland. He had just been named so quite recently, having served as a page and then a squire in the king’s court for several years. He had blond curls like an angel, a fair face and startling blue eyes that brightened when he laughed.

  Sir Aland adored animals, and had a quiet, gentle spirit. He never participated in hunts, nor did he throw rocks at starlings or squirrels for sport. Instead, he often spent his days riding through the woods, racing the deer, splashing through the streams, making friends with the foxes, or reclining in sunny meadows listening to the chorus of birds. As a result, his place at the great council table often sat empty, but no one begrudged him, for there were many other knights of greater consequence and Sir Aland was still so young. He knew the woods round about the king’s great city as well as he knew the sound of his own parents’ voices, and could easily lead his horse through them even in the depths of night.

  One bright spring day, during a vigorous ride, Sir Aland’s horse threw a shoe. So the knight was forced to walk beside his steed, loosely grasping the reins. He didn’t mind. The dappled sunlight flickered down upon him as he walked beneath the leafy boughs, and the river beside him muttered and sang softly, glittering as it rolled. He rounded a bend, lifted his head, and gazed downriver at the towers of the mighty castle beyond the trees.

  And then a sight caught him. A small island in the center of the river, upon which stood a small stone tower, all covered in vine. He thought to himself, “How strange that I have not seen this before!” Yet he supposed that the walls had been so vine-draped that unless he had glimpsed it in this very light, from this very place, he might have mistaken it for a bit of the forest.