Enchanted
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Poem
1. Fool’s Gold and Fairy Stones
2. Conversing with Fairies
3. Gifts Like Word
4. Godspat
5. Wicked
6. Grim Harmony
7. All Relative
8. Portrait of Sorrow
9. The Greatest Story
10. Monarchy and Magic Spells
11. Too Familiar
12. Beautiful Stranger
13. Swallow the Sun
14. Pain and Punishment
15. The Third Time's the Charm
16. Shadow Angel
17. If You Believe
18. Sight of Joy
19. Those Left Standing
20. The Barefoot Princess
Acknowledgments
Copyright © 2012 by Alethea Kontis
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
Harcourt is an imprint of
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
www.hmhbooks.com
Text set in 12.5-point Perpetua Std
Design by Christine Kettner
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Kontis, Alethea.
Enchanted / Alethea Kontis.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-547-64570-4
[1. Fairy tales.] I. Title.
PZ8.K833En 2012
[Fic]—dc23
2011027317
Manufactured in the United States of America
DOC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
4500349381
For my father,
who first read the fairy tales to me,
for my mother,
who told me to write her a new one,
and for my little sister, who was—
and always will be—
ungrateful.
May we all be doomed to a happy life.
Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go,
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for a living,
But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day
Is blithe and bonny and good and gay.
1. Fool’s Gold and Fairy Stones
MY NAME IS SUNDAY WOODCUTTER, and I am doomed to a happy life.
I am the seventh daughter of Jack and Seven Woodcutter, Jack a seventh son and Seven a seventh daughter hersef. Papa’s dream was to give birth to the charmed, all-powerful Seventh Son of a Seventh Son. Mama told him seven girls or seven boys, whichever came first. Jack Junior was first. Papa was elated. His dream died the morning I popped out, blithe and bonny and good and gay, seven daughters later.
Fortunately, coming first did not stop Jack Junior from being a wunderkind. I never knew my eldest sibling, but I know his legend. All of Arilland’s children grew up in Jack’s shadow, his younger siblings more than most. I have never known a time when I wasn’t surrounded by the overdramatic songs and stories of Jack Junior’s exploits. A good number of new ones continue to spring up about the countryside to this very day. I have heard them all. (Well, all but the Forbidden Tale. I’m not old enough for that one yet.)
But I know the most important tale: the tale of his demise, while he served in the King’s Royal Guard. One day, in a fit of pique or passion (depending on the bard), he killed Prince Rumbold’s prized pup. As punishment, the prince’s evil fairy godmother witched Jack Junior into a mutt and forced him to take the pup’s place. He was never heard from again.
They say my family was never the same after that. I wish I could know my father as tales portray him then: loud, confident, and opinionated. Now he is simply a strong, quiet man, content with his place in life. It is no secret that Papa harbors no loyalty to the royal family of Arilland, but he would not say a word against them.
My second-eldest brother’s name is Peter. My third brother is Trix. Trix was a foundling child whom Papa discovered in the limbs of a tree at the edge of the Wood one winter’s workday before I was born. The way Mama tells it, Trix was a son she didn’t have to give birth to, and he made Papa happy. She already had too many children to feed, what was one more?
My sisters and I—
“What are you doing?”
Sunday’s head snapped up from her journal. She had chosen this spot for its solitude, followed the half-hidden path through the underbrush to the decaying rocks of the abandoned well, sure that she had escaped her family. And yet, the voice that had interrupted her thoughts was not familiar to her. Her eyes took a moment to adjust, slowly focusing on the mottled shadows the afternoon sun cast through dancing leaves.
“I’m sorry?” She posed the polite query to her unknown visitor in an effort to make him reveal himself, be he real or imagined, dead or alive, fairy or—
“I said, ‘What are you doing?’ ”
—frog.
Sunday forced her gaping mouth closed. Caught off-guard, she sputtered the truth: “I’m telling myself stories.”
The frog considered her answer. He balanced himself on his spotted hind legs and blinked at her with his bulbous eyes. “Why? Do you have no one to whom you can tell them?”
Apart from his interruption, he maintained an air of polite decorum. He’s smart, too, Sunday thought. He must have been a human before being cursed. Animals of the Wood only ever spoke in wise riddles and almost-truths.
“I have quite a large family, actually, with lots of stories. Only...”
“Only what?”
“Only no one wants to hear them.”
“I do,” said the frog. “Read me your story, the story you have just written there, and I will listen.”
She liked this frog. Sunday smiled, but slowly closed her book. “You don’t want to hear this story.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not very interesting.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s about me. That’s why none of my family wants to hear it. They already know all about me.”
The frog stretched out on his sun-dappled rock as if he were settling into a chaise lounge. She could tell from his body language—so much more human than frog—there would be no turning him down. “I don’t know anything about you,” he said. “You may begin your story.”
It was completely absurd. Absurd that Sunday was in the middle of the Wood talking to a frog. Absurd that he wanted to learn about her. Absurd that he would care. It was so absurd that she opened her journal and started reading from the top of the page.
“‘My name is Sunday Woodcutter—’”
“Grumble,” croaked the frog.
“If you’re going to grumble through the whole thing, why did you ask me to read it in the first place?”
“You said your name was Sunday Woodcutter,” said the frog. “My name is Grumble.”
“Oh.” Her face felt hot. Sunday wondered briefly if frogs could tell that a human was blushing or if they were one of the many colorblind denizens of the forest. She bowed her head slightly. “It’s very nice to meet you, Grumble.”
“At your service,” said Grumble. “Please, carry on with your story.”
It was awkward, as Sunday had never read her musings aloud to anyone. She cleared her throat several times. More than once she had to stop after a sentence she had quickly stumbled through and start again more slowly. Her voice seemed overloud and the words felt foreign and som
etimes wrong; she resisted the urge to scratch them out or change them as she went along. She was worried that this frog-who-used-to-be-a-man would hear her words and think she was silly. He would want nothing more to do with her. He would thank her for her time, and she would never see him again. Had her young life come to this? Was she so desperate for intelligent conversation that she was willing to bare her soul to a complete stranger?
Sunday realized, as she continued to read, that it didn’t matter. She would have Grumble know her for who she was.
For as long as she had sat under the tree writing, she thought the reading of it would have taken longer, but Sunday came to the end in no time at all. “I had meant to go on about my sisters,” she apologized, “but...”
The frog was strangely silent. He stared off into the Wood.
Sunday turned her face to the sun. She was afraid of his next words. If he didn’t like the writing, then he didn’t like her, and everything she had done in her whole life would be for nothing. Which was silly, but she was silly, and absurd, and sometimes ungrateful, but she promised the gods that she would not be ungrateful now, no matter what the frog said. If he said anything at all. And then, finally:
“I remember a snowy winter’s night. It was so cold outside that your fingertips burned if you put them on the windowpane. I tried it only once.” He let out a long croak. “I remember a warm, crackling fire on a hearth so large I could have stood up in it twice. There was a puppy there, smothering me with love, as puppies are wont to do. I was his whole world. He needed me and I felt like ... like I had a purpose. I remember being happy then. Maybe the happiest I’ve been in my whole life.” The frog closed his eyes and bowed his head. “I don’t remember much of my life before. But now, just now, I remember that. Thank you.”
Sunday clasped her shaking fingers together and swallowed the lump in her throat. He was definitely a man in a frogs body, and he was sad. She couldn’t think what in her words had moved him so, but that wasn’t the point. She had touched him. Not just him as a frog but the man he used to be. A more gracious reply Sunday could never have imagined. “I am honored,” she said, for she was.
“And then I interrupted you.” Grumble snapped out of his dreamlike tone into a more playful one. “Forgive me. As you can imagine, I don’t get many visitors. You honor me by indulging me with your words, kind lady. Do you write often?”
“Yes. Every morning and every night and every moment I can sneak in between.”
“And do you always write about your family?”
Sunday flipped the pages of her never-ending journal—her nameday gift from Fairy Godmother Joy—past her thumb. It was a nervous habit she’d had all her life. “I am afraid to write anything else.”
“Why is that?”
Maybe it was because the honesty was intoxicatingly freeing or because he was a frog and not a man, but she felt strangely comfortable with Grumble. She had already told him so much about her life, more than anyone had ever before cared to know. Why should she stop now? “Things I write ... well ... they have a tendency to come true. And not in the best way.”
“For instance?”
“I didn’t want to gather the eggs one morning, so I wrote down that I didn’t have to. That night, a weasel got into the henhouse. No one got eggs that morning. Another time, I did not want to go with the family to market.”
“Did the wagon break a wheel?”
“I got sick with the flu and was in bed for a week,” she said with a smile. “‘Regret’ is not a strong enough word.”
“I imagine not,” said Grumble.
“And now you’re wondering what would happen if I wrote that you were free of your spell.”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“You might not come back as a man but as a mouse or a mule or a tiger who’d eat me alive. You might come back as a man but not the man you were. You might be missing something vital, like an arm or a leg or—”
“My mind?” Grumble joked.
“—breath,” Sunday answered seriously.
“Ah. We must always be careful what we wish for.”
“Exactly. If I write only about events that have already come to pass, there is no danger of my accidentally altering the future. No one but the gods should have power over such things.”
“A very practical decision.”
“Yes.” She sighed. “Very practical and very boring. Very just like me.”
“On the contrary. I found your brief essay quite intriguing.”
“Really?” He was just saying that to be nice. And then she remembered he was a frog. Funny how she kept forgetting.
“Will you read to me again tomorrow?”
If her ridiculously large smile didn’t scare him off, surely nothing she wrote could. “I would love to.”
“And would you ... be my friend?” he asked tenuously.
The request was charming and humble. “Only if you will be mine in return.”
Grumble’s mouth opened wide into what Sunday took to be a froggy grin. “And ... if I may be so bold, Miss Woodcutter—”
“Please, call me Sunday.”
“Sunday ... do you think you could find it in your heart to ... kiss me?”
She had wondered how long it would take before he got around to asking. A maiden’s kiss was the usual remedy for his particular enchantment. Normally Sunday would have declined without a thought. But he had been so polite, and she was surely the only maiden he would come across for a very long time. It was the least she could do.
His skin was bumpy and slightly damp, but she tried not to think about it. After she kissed him, she straightened up quickly and backed away. She wasn’t sure what to expect. A shower of sparks? Some sort of explosion? Either way, she wanted to stand clear of whatever was involved in turning a frog back into a man.
Sunday waited.
And waited.
Nothing happened.
They stared at each other for a long time afterward.
“I don’t have to come back, you know, in case you were offering just to be courteous.”
“Oh no,” he said quickly. “I look forward to hearing about your sisters. Please, do come back tomorrow.”
“Then I will, after I finish my chores. But I should go now, before it gets dark. Mama will be expecting me to help with dinner.” She stood and brushed what dirt she could off her skirt. “Good night, Grumble.”
“Until tomorrow, Sunday.”
***
“Sunday, where have you been?”
Mama was a woman of few words, and those she was begrudgingly willing to part with could sting enough to make eyes water. She took one look at Sunday’s skirt and answered her own question. “Dawdling in the Wood again. Well, I’m glad you decided to come back before the bugaboos made off with you. I’ll thank you to take that spoon from your brother and get to stirring the pot. He’s been at it long enough.”
“Yes, Mama.” Sunday removed the kerchief from her hair and slid her book into the pocket of her pinafore.
“Thanks, Sunday!” Trix happily handed over the spoon and scampered off to meet Papa, Peter, and Saturday at the edge of the Wood, at the end of their workday, just like he always did.
For all that he was two years her senior, Trix looked and acted like he had stopped aging at twelve. His fey blood kept him from growing at the same rate as his foster siblings—ultimately, he’d outlive them all. His blood was also the reason he was allowed to tend the cows but never milk them. Trix had a way with animals, but milk from his bucket was always sour. And if Trix stirred a pot for too long, the stew would be ... different. The outcome was never the same. The first time, the stew tasted of the finest venison, with seasoned potatoes and wild mushrooms. The second time, it stank of vinegar. Mama never let Trix stir the pot for too long after that. She said the family didn’t have enough food to go gambling it away, no matter how delicious the end result might be. Mama only ever bet on a sure thing.
Sunday worked the
spoon absent-mindedly as she dreamt, scraping the bottom after every three turns. Mama checked on the bread in the oven. Friday set the table.
Most of Friday’s dark hair was caught up into a knot, but several curls escaped, much like the halo of iron gray snakes around Mama’s head. Friday had been mending—the straight pins in a row down the length of her sleeve gave her away—and she was wearing one of the patchwork skirts Sunday loved so much. Friday was deft with her needle, her own nameday gift from Fairy Godmother Joy. The fabric stallkeepers at the market gave their rags and remnants to the church in lieu of their tithe, and the church in turn gave them to Friday, along with measurements of any newly orphaned children and what articles of clothing they needed most. In return Friday kept whatever small pieces were left. Eventually, those pieces made up Friday’s multicolored skirts. They were Sunday’s favorite not just because they were so beautiful and lively, but because they were the result of many long hours spent toiling for the love of children her sister might never know.
“Go fetch Wednesday down from the tower,” Mama told Friday as she set down the last fork. “Your father will be home any second.”
Papa walked in the door as if on command, followed by a very weary Peter and a flushed and bright-eyed Saturday. Sunday imagined that on the verge of death, her workaholic sister would still be flushed and bright-eyed.
“Evening, my darlin’,” Papa said as he hung his hat. “Fair weather today, so there was work aplenty. Wasn’t much we left undone.”
“Good, good,” Mama said. “Go on, then, wash yourselves for dinner.” Peter was too exhausted to argue. Saturday kissed her father on the cheek and scampered after her brother.
“Hello, my Sunday.” Papa picked her up in his strong arms and spun her around. She hugged him tightly, breathing in his familiar scent of sweat and sap and fresh Wood air. “Any new stories today?”
“I wrote a little,” she told him. “I mean to do more tonight.”
“Words have power. You be careful.”
“Yes, Mama.” She couldn’t ever mention her writing without this admonishment from her mother. Sunday tried not to be disrespectful and roll her eyes. Instead, she concentrated on Papa as he slowly lowered his large body into the chair at the head of the table. “What of your day, Papa? Did you find any new stories to tell?”