by Daniel Fox
By now Idwal had taken the trouble to learn the names of all the dwarves. So he knew it was Winfried who said, "It was only luck that we arrived back in time to loosen poor Snow-Drop's stays."
The princess was simply shocked. "You touched her underthings?"
"She was suffocating."
"Yes, but still!"
Idwal intervened. "But if you saved her, then why does she lie before us?"
"There was a second assault," said Cosimo. "Got no idea how the witch learned her plan had failed, but she was soon back in another disguise."
"Wait a moment," said the princess. "If this wicked step-mother of yours has the power to change her looks with the wave of her hand, why didn't she just make herself more beautiful?" This got her no answers, only a bunch of scowls. "Well I'm right, aren't I?"
Egon stepped shyly forward. "We warned our precious Snow-Drop to be cautious, but once again she traded with the crone, for she had a most soft and gentle heart."
"You think her heart was soft?" muttered the princess.
One has to assume that the wicked witch had somehow changed her disguise. But perhaps not all that much. Willuna was right, Snow-Drop may have been astonishingly lovely, just downright gorgeous, really, but she wasn't the sharpest knife to ever cut butter.
So the witch had come back, maybe this time with a patch over her eye. This time she had held out a shiny comb. Snow-Drop, with her thick dark hair that, quite frankly, any man would have killed to be able to run his hands through, had clapped her hands with delight. Unfortunately the reason the comb was so shiny was that it had been dipped in poison. The tines of the comb had been sharpened to fine points, and as Snow-Drop ran the comb through her hair the poisoned points had pricked her scalp. In went the poison, and down to the ground went Snow-Drop.
"Poisoned!" said Idwal.
"Oh don't worry," said Winfried, "we saved her again. But her step-mother once again somehow learned that our beloved Snow-Drop lived on, so one day-"
"Wait," said the princess, "are there many more of these?"
"Last one."
The princess flapped her hand… get on with it.
The poisoned apple is of course the bit that all historians agree on. Long story short - the crone, now maybe with the patch on the other eye, offered Snow-Drop the poisoned apple. Snow-Drop clapped her hands at the apple. Snow-Drop bit the apple. Snow-Drop hit the ground like a dropped sack of hammers.
Winfried carried on. "The poison on the apple was so great that this time we could not bring her back. And so…" He motioned sadly to the casket.
Dietwald ran a hand over the glass. "She breathes still, though oh so slowly."
"What?" said the princess, her eyes wide, "she's alive but you put her in a casket anyway?"
"So that all may come and lay eyes on her beauty," said Cosimo. "Besides, it's not like we buried her."
"Let me get all of this straight," said the princess. "You take her in, she lives all alone with the seven of you, um, men-like people…"
"Yes?" said Egon.
Idwal could see that this could lead to nothing and nowhere but trouble. He opened his mouth to remind the princess that they were there to get directions to the magician (well, truth be told, Idwal was there to hopefully find out that the dwarves had no idea where the magician was, and really just assuming that they would know because they had magic in their blood seemed kind of racist to him), but the princess waved a hand to command him to be silent.
"And each time you went off to work," continued the princess, "leaving no guard, the same crone came by and duped Snow-Dip here-"
"Snow-Drop," said Idwal.
"Whatever, the witch duped her over and over again with a shiny this and a glossy that, even though you warned her every time."
"Indeed," said Friedemann.
"Exactly," said Gerhard.
"You've got it," said Udo.
"Well," said the princess, mulling this over for a moment, "what a silly little twit. So! Would anyone here know anything about a really evil magi-"
***
Idwal and Willuna fled through the woods. Happily, dwarves are slow runners, what with those stumpy legs and all.
That's how Idwal learned that a certain princess could really haul ass if the occasion warranted.
Chapter 12
Sweat worked like ants under her dress, against her skin, tickling its way just everywhere. Willuna didn't care for sweating, it was both uncomfortable and unladylike. She had in the past perspired at the most during vigorous dances. But now she was drenched, hair plastered to her temples in whirls, clothes sticking to her body. An alarming thought - what if she smelled?
The farmer was standing hands on knees, gulping air like he wanted it all for himself. They'd run like, well, like seven very insulted dwarves were out for their hides. Willuna had had a good mind to turn around and inform them just who it was their were howling at, but then remembered Anisim wanted her to stay in disguise. So she'd reined in her temper and picked up her feet. Eventually they had lost the dwarves and come to a gasping halt here by a farm's split-rail fence.
The farmer shuffled over and plunked down with his back to the fence. "I'm horrible," he said.
"I admit it could have gone better," said Willuna. "But I don't think they knew anything."
"I tried," he said, "I tried to bring myself to shoot."
Willuna looked over. The farmer sat slumped, his head bowed, not meeting her eyes. He was finally showing a person of her station the proper respect by not looking directly at her and yet, somehow, she felt bad. He just looked so sad.
"I don't mean I wanted to kill them, just frighten them a little, zing one through one of their hats. I could have done it too. But… but I just ran. I couldn't turn myself around."
"Well, what of it?" said Willuna. "I was running too. They were scary little men."
The farmer shook his head. "What did I think? That I would get this," he hefted the bow and its quiver of arrows, "and what, I would be brave? Strong? Be like King Anisim? You were right," he said, dropping the bow to the ground, "I am useless."
The farmer was absolutely the most annoying person Willuna had ever met. He was ignorant, a rube, far too familiar with his superiors. And now, on top of all that, he was making her feel sorry for him. And even worse, sorry for having made him feel bad.
Well, she wasn't having it. She was fine with looking down on him, trading words with him, she had even somewhat forgiven him for the slide down the garbage hill (even if Anisim had been the one who actually pushed her down, it was still entirely the farmer's fault for having suggested it in the first place). But feel sorry for this commoner? Absolutely not.
"Get up," she commanded. "I know this place." She looked around. "I think. We need to go."
"Go where? Pardon me your Highness, but why- "
"Because," she said, "it's time for another lesson."
That's how Willuna learned that insults don't always just hurt the one who is insulted.
***
The sun beamed down, straight, locking away shadows for the noon hour. It left nowhere for Idwal to hide his shame. It was now his turn to trudge, to drag heels, to set his pace to the speed of his mope.
The princess wasn't getting them anywhere particular in a hurry. She'd call out that she knew this rock, no, but she recognized this fence, wait and wait again, this lane was it, she was absolutely sure. They twisted and turned and recovered their own tracks like weathervanes in a tornado.
But then, suddenly, aha! Here it was! Idwal looked up from his feet to see exactly what was here, and saw a depressing, lurching house in front of him. Although, he had to admit, the windows looked exceptionally clean.
"Down!" said the princess, and dragged him into hunch behind a rickety fence that was missing pickets.
"Look!" said the princess, and stabbed out a royal finger.
It was the Miser. He was out towards the back of his house, shaking a sharp fist at something in a tree.
"He wronged you. My subject. In my kingdom. I am the queen now. I won't have purses snatched under my watch. He robbed me too you know. Of my time, and my lessons, of my chance to become serious and courageous and wise. Of my chance to become the perfect queen to the perfect king. I want revenge, you want revenge, it's time for revenge."
"What are you going to do?"
"Me? I'm going to walk right up to him and demand satisfaction."
"Pardon me, your Majesty, but I don't know that that's much of a plan. It's a bit bare of threads, if you will. And he nearly got me to hang myself. Who knows what he might do?"
"Who knows indeed? But that's my plan. So unless you can come up with something better…" The princess stood and started forward. "Oh, here I go, all threadbare and vulnerable. Oh who knows what foul fate might befall me. Oh oh oh…"
"Wait!"
"Have you thought up something else?"
"I…" Up until that moment Idwal's world had always been plotted out by seasons and seeds and ancient farming wisdom. There had never really been a need to come up with a plan on his own. But now the princess was at risk. So come up with a plan he did.
This was how Idwal learned that necessity was a mother.
Of invention, that is.
***
If you asked the Miser if this story was about him he'd charge you $2.50. And he'd probably get it from you too. He'd been swimming downstream for some time now, ever since he'd met that empty-headed girl at the market. A pretty ornament to be sure, but in the Miser's considerable opinion, her light was all on the outside, not much shining out from behind her eyes. He'd worked her like a mule, and pretty much paid her like he'd pay a mule too.
Then there'd been the rube with that amazing amount of money. He'd cut across the farm boy's path and told him that he, an old fragile man, was being threatened by that rope on the ground. As the farmer had gone to pick up the rope the Miser had screeched at him not to touch it! It's a wicked rope! Simply full of ropely evil! Whatever you do, don't step inside of its circle of devilish ropery! And of course the hick, being overly full of good thoughts and the desire to be helpful, had done just that to prove to the Miser that he was perfectly safe. The Miser had gone over to the tree where the other end of the rope, after looping over the branch overhead, was tied to the harness of a mule (an actual mule, not a girl who just worked like one). Miser slapped mule's rump, mule hee-hawed and trotted forward, rope tightened around country bumpkin. Simple as that. He'd actually been hoping for the rope to squeeze itself around the country boy's neck, but he wasn't sure the farmer was quite stupid enough to fall for the same trick twice, so he contented himself with leaving the farmer dangling. He'd tied the rope off around the tree and picked up a stick which he used to poke at the farmer until the farmer shook the bag of coins loose. A fine day's work that.
As if he wasn't blessed enough, now there was this squirrel in his own back yard. As fine a squirrel that ever squirreled a nut. It was the colour of spun gold, from nose to tip of its tail, and the Miser simply had to have it. It was obviously meant to be his. People would pay to see such a thing. If not, the pelt must be worth a coin or two.
He deserved his good fortune. 'Course he did. Came after a life-time of fighting off vultures and harpies always dipping their claws into his pockets. A man could only fight the good fight for so long without getting tired. Without the world slipping in a little reward.
Speaking of vultures, two of them were hobbling toward him right that moment. Puffy folk. Fat. Didn't lack for food, these two, so why'd they want to bother him? Faces kind of familiar, not that he cared. Dirty. Which meant unrefined, which meant empty pockets, which meant the Miser couldn't be bothered giving them the time of day. He'd hurry them along double-quick, then get back to his golden game.
"You all right there lovie?" said the woman of the pair, her voice a ridiculous croak.
"Fine. I'm fine. Quite fine. Thanks for stopping by."
Drats. The woman had spotted the golden squirrel up in the tree, sending down angry chitters to patter against the top of the Miser's bald head.
"Well lookee that," she said. "Never seen one that colour before. Looks spun of gold."
"Could be he's valuable," said the dirty man. "People'd pay to see the likes of him."
"No!" said the Miser. "I mean, no, I doubt it. I'm sure of it. No. Well, good day to you then." The Miser sketched what might be called a bow by the more generous amongst us, then took a step away. Waited for the dirty people to move off. But they didn't. He stepped back. "Bye." And he stepped away again. Took another step. But the dirty people took hints about as well as they seemed to take baths.
The Miser stepped back and sighed. Fine, if he couldn't get rid of them maybe he could make use of them. That's what a smart man would do. Make something out of nothing. The dirty fellow had a bow and bunch of arrows. The Miser, having no experience with weapons, decided that maybe the dirty people were more good and well-deserved luck fallen into his lap. "Right," he said. "You. I'll pay you a whole copper coin if you use that bow of yours to procure that creature for me."
The Miser grinned as the dirty man stood up straight. "You hear that wife?" said the dirty man.
"Wife?" said the dirty woman, frowning.
"A whole copper coin!" said the dirty man. "No more eating the children. Huzzah!" He leaned over to the Miser. "Good thing the wife's been blessed with them sturdy child-bearing hips eh?"
The dirty woman sneered. "Oh husband," she croaked, "we're rich! We can finally get that vegetable patch! Plant all those exciting turnips-"
By now the Miser had rolled his eyes three times. He felt like he was stepping into the middle of an argument. He additionally felt like he didn't care. All he wanted was that money-making rodent in the tree. "Today would be my preference," he said.
The dirty twits stopped making faces at each other. The man got his bow ready. Then, for some odd reason, the Miser saw the man wink at the squirrel above. Maybe it was a hunting thing the Miser had never known about. Perhaps hunters all over the world were winking right now at deer and rabbits.
The dirty man let an arrow fly. It flew straight, cutting through the branch that squirrel was dancing on. The squirrel fell to the ground, landing on a pile of old leaves that had collected at the base of the tree the previous winter. The squirrel got up on its hind feet, its front paws clapped in front of its little squirrel heart in its final moments of woe. It staggered left. It staggered right. And then it stumbled right into the middle of a thorn bush.
"Don't let it get away!" cried the Miser, and he dove in after the critter. "Catch him!"
"I think not, you wicked man!"
The Miser stopped his scrambling. The woman had lost her screech. And sounded familiar, if no less unimportant. He tried to turn back to look, but his clothing was caught up on the little thorns. He settled for turning his head.
The dirty couple were shedding their clothes which, it turned out, were old burlap sacks. Stuffed with straw. And underneath all that…
"You!" said the Miser, "I know you! You're my house wench." He turned his eyes to the man. "And you're that fool that I had hang himself from a tree."
"Wench?" said the girl, completely indignant.
"Fool?" said the young man, completely considering. "Actually you might have a point there."
"Well you'll not have it!" screeched the Miser, thrashing around. He couldn't free himself from the thorns. "The squirrel is mine!"
The girl put her hands on her hips. "You know what would make this grand day all the grander, oh 'husband' of mine? A bit of music. Something one can tap one's toes to."
"Right you are!" said the man. "I knew there was a reason I married you. Give us a kiss then."
"Play your fiddle."
"Right you are!"
The Miser hated music. It got in the way; p
eople dancing were people not making him money. He really hated this music. It was so happy, with no good reason at all. And yet he found himself up, as best he could in the thorns, and dancing around. And he couldn't stop! His feet kicked. His knees pumped. His elbows jabbed and his arms went swinging this way and that. The thorns danced right along with him, marking time through his clothes, making notes on his skin.
"What manner of sorcery is this?" he screeched. "Stop! I demand that you stop! I'll have you run from this place! From this kingdom! I'll have the king after you, we're the very best of friends!"
"Ha!" said the girl.
"I'll have you flayed! I'll have you swing! I'll have you catapulted all the way to the fairy lands!"
"We'll have my friend's sack of coins back."
It wasn't much of a fight. The Miser pulled the sack of coins from under his belt, clung to them as tight as he could. They were his. His! By right of being craftier than the country bumpkin. By right of being smarter. By right of the fact that the world would be a completely unfair place if someone who would actually walk into a rope trap on purpose possessed such a treasure. But oh, those thorns!
He threw the coins right at the young woman's feet. As she picked them up the young man finished his tune with a flourish. The Miser collapsed. His nakedness was covered more by scraps of cloth clinging to the thorns around him than by anything that could be considered clothing anymore. The squirrel darted in and bit him on the nose.
He watched the young couple walk away, smiling and happy with their evil deeds. The young woman passed over the sack, telling the young man how her father would be proud of him and that he wasn't quite so useless after all. Whatever that meant. "Not bad farmer," she said, smiling at her cohort, "not bad at all."
That was how the Miser learned that if you're going to leave someone hanging from a rope, it really is worth it to make sure the rope is around their neck. Half measures weren't going to cut it.
