Enchanted

by Alethea Kontis

  Rumbold closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the goose. As one, the men turned and began running again, headlong toward the Wood.

  19. Those Left Standing

  SUNDAY AWOKE on the stones by the window in Wednesday’s aerie. It was still dark. The birds were quiet. Clouds still obscured the moon, and the wind whipped through the trees. A storm approached, but it hadn’t started raining yet. Thunder rumbled in the threatening sky, followed by the sound that had broken through her dreams and prodded her awake.

  Trix was calling for her.

  Sunday didn’t stop to change out of her old nightgown. She didn’t care if she woke Saturday or Peter as she fled down the tower steps, nor did she call out to whoever was still tending a fire in the kitchen at this hour. She left the front door wide open behind her in her haste. Trix called for her and no one else. Her brother needed her, so she ran.

  “Sunday!” he cried. “They’re coming!”

  Sunday rounded the corner of the house to see Trix, dwarfed by the monstrous beanstalk, pointing toward the sky. She squinted up into the darkness until finally, against a paler swath of cloud cover, she made out several tiny figures climbing down the beanstalk. As they grew larger, she realized they were men. There were four of them: two made their way down quickly and one of the slower ones carried something under his arm that hampered his movements, something that dislodged itself and fluttered, then glided, slowly to the ground.

  “No!” he cried, and she knew at once that it was Rumbold up there trying desperately not to fall from the beanstalk. The white goose he’d held in his arms landed at Sunday’s feet and looked up at her with violet eyes. Wednesday’s eyes.

  What had happened at the castle after she’d left?

  The dark figure in the lead made quick work of the distance from the heavens to the ground, until he had come far enough to leap the rest of the way. “Quick,” Velius said breathlessly as he crouched at her feet. “We need to chop this thing down.”

  “Trix, go get Saturday’s ax,” she said, but Saturday was already running toward them, ax in hand, long golden hair streaming about her determined face. Her white gown billowed in the darkness as if she were a warrior ghost fresh from beyond the veil. Their avenger waited only long enough for the burly redheaded guard to jump clear of the base before she lifted her strong arms and swung. The polished blade of her small enchanted ax bit into the flesh of the beanstalk and sank deep, but it would not be quick enough to stop whatever was chasing them.

  Sunday met Trix’s eyes long enough for them to make the mutual decision not to discuss Saturday’s miraculous recovery. “I’ll get Papa,” he said, and ran toward the house.

  Velius looked down at the goose, who watched the scene with detached indifference. “Is she...?”

  “She’s fine,” said Sunday.

  “Sunday, whatever you may think—”

  “Not now,” she said. “Please. Just help them.”

  Erik had already begun hacking at the mass of beanstalk with his dagger, pulling each smaller stalk back and away to get to the heart of the tree at its base. Papa raced past Sunday in a loose shirt and trousers and added his own ax to the effort. The guard stepped aside as Papa and Saturday fell into a cadence: one striking and then the other in a long-practiced rhythm.

  Sunday had never witnessed her father and siblings at work in the Wood. Their skill was impressive. Papa blew out even breaths as the sweat began to bead on his forehead; her sister was a flurry of muscles and blade and hair. But fast as they chopped, Sunday knew that none of the Elder Wood they felled was as thick around as this beanstalk.

  Trix rejoined her at the base of the tree with bow and arrows in hand and the rest of the family in tow, all in dressing gowns save Aunt Joy, who must have been the one keeping the fire in the kitchen company with her confounded tea. Mama and Friday were both swaddled in blankets. Sunday should have been cold in her ancient nightgown and bare feet, but she felt nothing. She looked up at the beanstalk, at the resolute face of the man whose dreams she shared, and she felt nothing. He had come, as she hadn’t dared hope he would.

  He had come, but he hadn’t come for her.

  Thunder rolled again as the clouds trembled and slowly broke apart.

  “That’s not thunder,” said Velius.

  The giant’s foot burst through the clouds and sought purchase on the beanstalk. It swayed, but the monstrous pillar held the giant’s weight. The giant took one step down, then another, and then another. The clouds parted enough to bring out the colors in his wedding clothes and reflect moonlight off his golden crown: the king.

  He bellowed again for his son. He called for his head and threatened to crush his tiny body between his mighty teeth. Suddenly, Sunday did feel something. She felt very, very afraid.

  “RUMBOLD!” yelled the giant, and shook the stalk in his arms.

  Velius was close enough to reach the prince when he fell. Erik dropped his dagger and caught the other man—Rumbold’s manservant? Who brings a servant along to run from a giant?

  Once they had regained their footing, the men moved back to where the family gathered. The prince looked as if he’d been beaten and then dragged a few miles down the road. She yearned to ask him questions, but now was not the time. She ached to tuck herself under his weary arm and give him comfort, but he stood apart from them and did not meet her eyes. He had not come for her.

  “I CAN TASTE YOUR BONES,” said the giant. Sunday felt his voice booming deep in her chest.

  “Do you have another ax?” the redheaded guard asked Sunday. “Perhaps I can help.”

  “No,” said Peter. “You’d break up the rhythm. This is the fastest way.”

  “Could we set it on fire?” asked Friday.

  Velius shook his head. “Too green. Wouldn’t take.”

  Trix began shooting his arrows into the sky, but they fell short of his target. Even if they’d hit the monster, they’d have been little more than an annoyance.

  Mama’s fear got the best of her. She grabbed Velius’s shirt in desperate fists. “You have to help them,” she cried, and then slapped her hands over her mouth.

  “Fool of a little sister!” yelled Joy. “You should know better by now.” She waved a hand, and Mama clutched at her throat. “You can have your voice back when you’ve remembered how to use it. You”—she pointed at Velius—“must help them now. You have no choice. Give them what strength you can.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “You will feel compelled to siphon it all away from yourself. Try not to.” The dukes son nodded and joined Papa and Saturday at the tree.

  Honking furiously, the white goose took flight.

  “No!” the prince cried again. His throat was raw. The guard and the manservant lunged after the Wednesday goose, but it was too late. “If he should manage to eat her...” Rumbold said to Joy.

  “...then the spell will be set,” finished Joy. “And if he dies, she dies, too.” She knew. This was why she had stayed behind at the towerhouse. This was the danger, the future from which she had pledged to save them.

  Having inadvertently doomed yet another child to possible destruction, Mama collapsed into a lump of silent sobs. Friday wrapped her arms around Mama’s shaking shoulders. The rest of them watched the Wednesday goose soar heavenward. She was quickly joined by two small bundles of white feathers: Sunday’s pigeons. Trix cheered them on, the tiny trio set on attacking a giant against all odds. They flew at his face. The giant swatted them away. They missed being caught by his enormous hands and flew around the stalk again to regroup.

  All the while, the Wednesday goose never stopped her taunting, accusatory honking at the giant king. The honking was answered by the screech of an owl. The cry of a whippoorwill. The song of a nightingale. At the bark of a raven, masses of birds burst from the trees around them and flew headlong at the giant. The humans and haefairies below all joined Trix in his cheer.

  The birds pecked at the giant king’s arms, his legs, his neck, his eyes. He didn’t have
enough hands to swat them all away. He leaned backward and forward, trying to dodge the attacks. The beanstalk swayed mightily. Papa and Saturday never stopped chopping. Velius was on one knee between them, hands out to each side, and all three glowed a violet blue. The swaying stalk creaked, and then cracked.

  Peter dove for Papa. The prince dove for Velius. Erik dove for Saturday and rolled her as far away from the base of the stalk as he could.

  “Timber,” Trix whispered.

  Not the house, Sunday prayed. Please, gods, not the house.

  The stalk swayed again over the towerhouse, and then fell away toward the Wood. The growling, howling giant king, still engulfed in nightbirds, plummeted. When they both hit the ground, the world shook. Those left standing fell and were covered over by a layer of debris.

  Sunday was blind. She opened her mouth to breathe and was choked with dirt and grass and dust. The roar of the giant king mixed with the roar of the earth, and then she could hear nothing at all. No birds chirped. No leaves stirred. The dust settled.

  Friday was the first to find her voice. “Is he dead?”

  “No.” Aunt Joy was the first to find her footing. She marched over to where Peter and Papa lay and yanked Peter’s charmed knife out of its sheath. She whispered to the blade, and blue symbols glowed down its length. Joy stepped over the giant’s crown, pulled his hair back, and neatly slit his throat.

  A geyser of blood and a thick black smoke erupted from the wound. The stench of it made Sunday gag; she pinched her nose shut and swallowed several times in quick succession. As more and more of the inky darkness exited the giant, the king’s body shrank.

  “Go,” Joy told the blackness. “You are not welcome here.” The smoke reared up, hovered over Velius and the prince, and then disappeared in the direction of the Wood.

  The Wednesday goose landed on the king’s stomach; the two white pigeons settled onto the fallen beanstalk behind him. Joy snatched the goose up by the neck and slit its belly with the still-glowing knife. “As your blood gave him power,” said Joy, “may his return it to you.” Another fog seeped down from the stained feathers, this one more violet than black. Wednesday’s body took form in the shadow. Velius was there to hold her when she grew solid and collapsed in his arms.

  Friday moved to cover Wednesday’s naked form with her thin blanket and gingerly took the body of the goose from Aunt Joy’s hands.

  “Now then,” said Joy. “About those shadows.” She drew a line in the dirt around the corpse with the point of the dagger, and several shadows flew free of the king’s. One hovered beside Friday and the goose, her huge wings spread.

  “Peter, Trix,” Aunt Joy called. “Get some bowls and gather up as much of this blood as you can before the ground drinks it. Friday, we’re going to need your needle.” Friday, still as silent as Mama, extracted her needle from where it slept at her shoulder, in the seam of her nightgown. “Rumbold, come here.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I decline any more of your magic, my lady.” He bowed to lessen the hatred in his words. Sunday wanted to laugh, as she’d said much the same to Aunt Joy.

  Joy rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You are stubborn enough to stop a hurricane, young man. Just like your mother.” Rumbold smiled slightly at that. “But if you continue to let Madelyn feed off your life force, that storm will run right over you.”

  “What?”

  “You were transformed for only half as long as Jack,” said Aunt Joy. “You should have recovered completely in a day or two. But when you helped your mother separate her shadow from your father’s, she attached herself to you.”

  The shadow angel bowed her head in shame. She folded her great wings and lingered sadly beside Joy’s own shadow in the moonlight.

  “She’s been protecting me,” protested Rumbold.

  “And in doing so, she’s very nearly killed you,” said Joy. “You must let her go.” She knelt at Rumbold’s feet and used the knife to draw another line in the earth, through his shadow. “She will remain until the moon sets and the sun rises, and then she will be gone. You have that long to say your goodbyes.”

  Sunday’s breath hitched; tears streamed down her cheeks and streaked mud on her dirty old gown. Lost for so long and just found, and now he had only a few hours in which to sum up a lifetime of love and confusion. Sunday looked to where her parents sat on the grass, Mama’s cap burrowed tightly in Papa’s solid embrace. They had their imperfections, but they were still her parents. She would always love them, she would always forgive them, and she didn’t know what she’d do on the day she had to live without them.

  Friday wept, too, crouched over Wednesday’s feet, sewing her sister’s shadow to her body with a thread of blood on her silver needle. Trix held the bowl for her. Peter knelt in the pool of the king’s life and scooped up what he could.

  Rumbold addressed the shadow. “I—” He choked and turned to Joy. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Thank her for having you,” Jack Woodcutter said.

  “Thank her for protecting you,” Peter suggested.

  “Thank her for staying as long as she has.” Friday hiccupped and caught her breath on a sob.

  “Tell her you’re proud of her!” shouted Saturday.

  “Tell her you’ll always remember her,” said Trix.

  Rumbold nodded at each suggestion but remained forcibly calm. He looked at the shadow of his mother and through that shadow to the beanstalk. He opened his mouth to speak and then clamped it shut again. The pain he felt began to show on his face, and he bowed his head. Sunday knew he did not want his mother’s last sight of him to be as a weak man. But she also knew, deep in her heart, that his mother didn’t care. Rumbold’s mother would love her child now, just as much as she always had, and so on forever, until the end of time. Just as Sunday’s own did.

  Mama looked at her then and saw the sorrow in her daughter’s eyes. She punched Joy in the shoulder. Joy waggled her fingers at Mama’s throat. “Just tell her you love her,” Mama said.

  And because Mama had said it, Rumbold obeyed. “I love you,” he cried to the shadow, and then covered his wretched face with his hands.

  Sunday could be still no longer. Rumbold might not have come for her, but she could not let him stand alone. Sobbing freely now, she ran to him and flung her arms around his waist, wishing into him whatever strength she had in her meager body. He hugged her back, burying his face in her neck and letting her shed the tears he could not.

  Sunday felt the night darken further around them as the shadow angel encompassed them both with her wings. If nothing else, Rumbold’s mother would leave this world knowing that her son was loved.

  Wednesday began to stir in Velius’s arms. Mama and Papa still clung together in relief. Rumbold’s manservant whispered in Trix’s ear and sent him scampering back to the towerhouse. Erik and Saturday retrieved the axes at the base of the beanstalk—but what Saturday held up to the sky was no longer an ax. It was a brilliantly shining longsword, its hilt decorated in lines of runes, like Peter’s knife.

  “That’s more like it,” said Sunday’s warrior sister with the miraculous healing ability, not quite so normal after all. She practiced swinging it around wildly. The redheaded guard jumped to stop her from injuring herself again.

  The madness was over. Wednesday was safe. The king was dead. Rumbold’s mother would finally rest in sweet peace long deserved. Aunt Joy had overseen the healing of the world. There they all stood, Sunday in her old nightgown, in a pool of giant’s blood by the ruins of a magic beanstalk, bathed in quiet moonlight and surrounded by the people she loved most in the world. They were going to survive, and in time, they were going to be all right. But not together. This was the end.

  In that moment, Sunday felt utterly, completely alone.

  She let go of Rumbold. Then she spun on a heel and began walking back to the towerhouse, one dirty bare foot in front of the other, back to the quiet insanity of her life before. Trix passed her on his way back, carry
ing one of Friday’s embroidered sofa pillows in his hands.

  “Sunday, wait.”

  Finally. Finally, Rumbold called for her. Finally, when she no longer had the will to turn back. She stared at her house, at the gaudy tower jutting out of it that had been her home and would remain so, always and forever. She kept walking. Maybe now that Wednesday was queen, Mama would let Sunday have the aerie.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She stopped and clutched her hands to her breast, wondering how a heart that had been broken so many times in the past week had any piece left large enough to shatter. Don’t do this, she pleaded silently.

  “Sunday, please,” he cried. “Don’t leave me again.”

  She refused to turn around; doing so would only smash her resolve. “Attend to your mother. You don’t have much time,” said Sunday. “And then go home. Go on without me.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  She closed her eyes. There was so much joy in her, and so much sorrow. How aptly named their godmothers were. What a pair they made.

  “It’s late.” She sighed. “I’m tired”—which was true—“and I’m filthy”—she didn’t want to think about the contents of the grime that covered her from head to toe—“and...”

  The air around her shimmered blue and filled with small bolts of lightning that made all the hair on her body stand on end. Her feet left the ground briefly, and her tears were washed away in a warm, invisible sunlight. Immense happiness filled her, and she glowed, from the inside out. When her feet touched the ground again and the blue fairydust dimmed, she found herself back in the silver and gold ball gown. Her hair was clean and pulled back with Thursday’s fantastical pins. Even the dirt under her nails had vanished. She lifted her skirts to see that the blood had been washed from her feet, and that she wore only one shoe. With no excuses left, Sunday turned around.