by Shelby Bach
Then the Director explained that the ninth graders had prepared a skit depicting the history of EAS. We were free to talk throughout the performance, but she expected absolute silence during the ceremony. Then, finally, she added that to begin our meals, we each needed to tell our Table of Plenty “chicken” or “pasta,” depending what we wanted for the main course.
As soon as she said “Enjoy” and sat back down, we turned back to our places.
“Pasta,” I said. Chatty waved her hand in my face, pointed at the steaming bowl of Alfredo that appeared in front of me, and then at her spot. “Pasta,” I said for her too, and a second bowl appeared.
Chase immediately sliced into his chicken with gusto. “Feast meals are always the best,” he told Ben.
Melodie grabbed Lena’s sleeve and mine, and we both bent down. “Did you want to do something for him?” the harp asked, too low for Chase to hear. “It’s too late to throw him a party today, but—”
I wondered why I hadn’t thought of this first. “Yeah! Maybe on Monday! We can invite the triplets!”
On the beach, the stage curtains were pulled aside to reveal a forest. Not like a set of painted trees, but an actual forest, with oaks as big around as our table and dappled green light shining through the leaves. It stretched back and back, even over the water, like someone had placed a strip of trees right on top of the ocean.
Shocked, I stopped twirling my fork through my pasta.
On the sand beside the stage, Gretel’s mouth moved. She was a sorceress, so her magic worked a little differently than Lena’s. A rainbow blur of light spilled from her cupped hands and crawled outward across the stage.
The actors gathered around a campfire among the trees Gretel had conjured. An old woman gestured hugely with fingers crooked as sticks, and the others—who also looked a lot older than ninth graders—listened intently. I waited for a giant to come pulling up trees, or big bad wolves to howl, but the actors just kept talking.
The skit didn’t even have any sound. Kind of a letdown.
Kenneth decided to make the skit more exciting and get rid of his vegetables in one swoop. He loaded his spoon with peas and pulled it back, aiming at the stage. He might have gotten away with it if he hadn’t checked to see if Mia was watching (she wasn’t).
Hansel snatched the spoon catapult away—peas and all. “We have guests, Kenneth. Three strikes and I will take you out. That was one.”
Kenneth slid a fraction closer to Mia. “Yes, sir,” he said with so much sarcasm I hoped Hansel would count it as strike two.
Rapunzel nodded at the figures onstage. “The first meeting of the Canon.”
“But no one called it that. Maerwynne just called everyone together to exchange stories. She’s the one in the red cloak.” Melodie pointed to the dark-haired woman sitting alone on a stump. Gretel’s illusion made her taller and her face a little more lined, but it was still easy to recognize her—Gwen, the best friend of Lena’s sister, Jenny. “She wore it until her death. It reminded her of her eleven sisters. After the ‘Twelve Dancing Princesses’, nine Failed their Tales, and five died as Red Riding Hood before Maerwynne took the cloak and slew the wolf. She called this meeting so no family would be ravaged as hers had been.”
“Nine Failed their Tales?” I said. Failing your Tale was pretty much as embarrassing as flunking out of school, except it was usually life-threatening. “Nine?”
“Back then, fairy tales weren’t collected in books. In fact there weren’t very many books,” Melodie said. “You depended on word of mouth for all your news, but Maerwynne and her sisters were princesses. They didn’t meet many travelers, and they spent half their time underground, dancing with Queen Titania’s court. They’d never heard of Red Riding Hood.”
“Lena, imagine that you find a beanstalk in your backyard, instead of here,” Rapunzel said softly. “Imagine you know nothing of beanstalks. Imagine you climb it, and you know nothing of giants. You know not even that they eat humans. Do you see how easily you could be devoured?”
Lena didn’t answer. She was made uncertain by creepiness.
Chase snorted. “Nobody needs to convince Lena that knowledge is power.”
Suddenly, some weird noises came from the witches’ table, all the way in the back—squawking and screeching and cawing. I thought for a second that they’d been enchanted to sound like birds of prey, but then they stood and started clapping. They were cheering.
“What set them off?” I asked.
“Madame Benne,” Lena breathed, staring at the stage.
“The witches feel that as a fellow magical being,” Rapunzel explained, “Madame Benne was their voice in the Canon.”
Onstage, Jenny played the role of her ancestress. Her hair had grown four feet, into a long black braid wound with leather and ribbons, but the biggest change was her skin—it was gold.
“Ummm,” I said. “Is there a reason she looks gold-plated? Did that happen during her Tale or something?”
“She didn’t have a Tale. She was the only Canon member who never had one,” Lena said.
“Honorary founding member,” said Melodie smugly.
“Gold skin,” I pointed out again, in case they missed what I was shocked about.
“She was only half human. And a quarter Fey, and a quarter mermaid.” Henry frowned at me, probably wondering exactly what EAS was teaching us these days.
“The mermaid’s blood on Madame Benne’s paternal line helped her raise and quell storms. She was famous for it.” Lena sounded so proud I couldn’t believe she’d never brought it up before.
“Lena, you’re part fairy—” The word “too” almost slipped out, but my tongue tripped, getting magically snagged in my teeth. I guessed it was the Binding Oath’s way of reminding me not to go there.
Chase went uncharacteristically still.
Lena shrugged. “Madame Benne was over twenty generations back. This is like a drop of fairy and a drop of mermaid. Nothing to brag about. Most Characters have a bit of nonhuman way, way, way back in their family tree. That’s why most of us can study to be magicians.”
“I have a drop of mermaid,” Rapunzel said. “On my mother’s side.”
“My wife used to joke that I was part dwarf,” added Henry. “Because I’m so short.”
From the sly look on Chatty’s face right then, I guessed even the mute girl had a goblin grandfather or something. I was the only person at that table who was completely human.
Chase decided to change the subject. He pointed to a dark-haired boy with broad cheekbones sitting near Maerwynne. He wore leather chaps so embarrassing they begged to be mocked. “Ben, that’s Rikard Longsword, the last of the great Hungarian horsemen. They say he rode a Dapplegrim into battle and slew fifty-seven giants before he turned forty.”
Ben looked intrigued. “Dapplegrim?”
Chase grinned. “Just wait. There’s a Dapplegrim cameo in about four minutes.”
Onstage, Madame Benne moved through the crowd, handing out golden apples.
“Where is Jenny’s harp? I was with Madame Benne then! I am forgotten by history.” Melodie plucked her strings in a pathetic-sounding minor scale, which was probably her version of bringing out the sad violins. “And they weren’t actually apples! That was just the code name for the object that held the antiaging enchantment. This is so inaccurate.”
Lena’s eyes followed her sister. “I could use a golden apple. Not for too long,” she added hastily, seeing my face. “I don’t want to live forever exactly. Just maybe another century. Do you know how many more inventions I could perfect if I had an extra hundred years?”
“Lena, you sound kind of creepy and obsessive when you say that,” Chase said. “Mad scientist in a bad way.”
Normally, this was where I told Chase not to insult Lena, but he had a point.
Lena’s jaw jutted forward. “Are you saying you wouldn’t want to stop aging?”
“No, I wouldn’t. I’m going to live to be an old man and die i
n my sleep. An extra hundred years aren’t worth it if you live long enough to bury all your grandchildren.” Then, clearly relishing Lena’s shocked expression, Chase picked up his lemonade and raised it to his mouth.
Chase’s mother was Fey. Most fairies stayed the same age for years and years. Of course Chase would think about this more than the regular kid.
“Anyway, I helped Madame Benne develop the formula, derived from some ancient Fey magic—” Melodie started, but Chase’s cheeks bulged, like a blowfish. Then he made a choking sound, which gave us a half-second warning before he turned his head—away from me, fortunately—and sprayed the whole bench next to him.
It amazed me how much lemonade could fit in Chase’s big mouth.
“Crap! Sorry.” Chase wiped his tongue down with a napkin.
Because Ben had bent over to tie his shoes, Kenneth got the worst of it. His face looked decidedly purple. The Director didn’t seem too pleased either when she saw what a commotion our table was making, and the way the delegates from other chapters had turned to stare. She shot Hansel a glare that clearly said, Take care of it.
“Strike one, Chase Turnleaf—” the sword master started.
“It wasn’t my fault. It tastes salty. Really bad, like the ocean.” Chase moved his glass in front of Hansel. “Here. Taste it if you don’t believe me.”
Chatty shook, both hands pressed over her mouth. For a second I thought something had happened to her lemonade too, but she was giggling, madly but silently. The saltshaker was in front of her—unscrewed and empty.
“Wait—you put the salt in his drink?” Hansel asked Chatty.
She nodded gleefully.
“Ooh, a prankster in our midst,” said the Frog Prince, like he was welcoming a long-lost friend.
“You always have to watch out for the quiet ones,” Ben said.
“Wow. You really are corny. We need to introduce you to Ellie,” Chase told Ben. He wasn’t looking when Kenneth rose from his seat, his soda in hand, and started to pour it over Chase’s head.
“Watch out!” I said, pointing.
Chase knocked the soda away before it tipped, which sucked for Kenneth and Mia right behind him. They both got sloshed.
Kenneth jumped to his feet, cursing. Mia blinked at the brown liquid running down her arm, as Ben tossed napkins her way, eager to help.
“Not my fault, Hansel,” Chase said swiftly.
“Kenneth, those were strikes two and three.” Hansel stood up, grabbed Kenneth’s shoulders, and forced him toward the dungeon door, ignoring the eighth grader’s protests.
“The bathroom’s there if you want to get cleaned up,” Henry told Mia. Without a word she swung off her seat and wove her way through the tables.
“Silent but deadly. No one sees her pranks coming,” said Ben, and this time everyone laughed, even Chatty.
Hooves clomped onstage.
Chase nudged Ben. “The Dapplegrim.”
Hearing him, five boys whipped their heads toward the stage. Even Henry peeked over his shoulder. You would have thought some sort of fancy car or superhero were about to show up.
“A real one?” asked one kid.
“No. Just a horse wearing Gretel’s illusion,” said his friend regretfully. “Like anyone would use up a boon from a Dapplegrim just for some dumb skit.”
“But Gretel’s actually seen one,” Chase said. “This might be as close as you ever get to the real thing.”
“What’s a Dapplegrim?” I asked.
Chase looked exasperated. He always gave us that look when we reminded him his best friends were girls. “Only the biggest, most awesome horse to ever stand on four hooves.”
“They talk. They have their own herd,” Lena explained.
“They’re freaking endangered. They only live in the south of Atlantis,” Bryan said.
“If there’s an awesome talking horse in a fairy tale, it’s usually a Dapplegrim,” Chase added. “Now where is it?”
Onstage, a horse the size of an elephant walked through the forest, Rikard on its back, with Maerwynne walking beside them.
The Dapplegrim’s coat was glossy black, reflecting the lamplight from Maerwynne’s lantern in every muscle. Its mane and tail hung in coal-black waves. With every stride, sparks flew up from the ground.
I sneezed. Yep, definitely a real horse underneath the illusion. I knew from experience that horses being magic didn’t stop me from being allergic to them. And I was really allergic.
“Seriously?” Chase said, like my sneeze had messed up an awesome fake-Dapplegrim sighting. “Even from twenty feet away?”
Then, when the air filled with silvery streaks (“Elf shot,” Lena whispered) and Rikard swung Maerwynne up into the saddle in front of him, the Dapplegrim opened its stride. Flames puffed from each nostril, and the trees slid away in a green blur, nauseatingly fast.
Practically every guy sprang to his feet, stamping, clapping, and whooping all at once. They were even more excited about the Dapplegrim than the witches had been about Madame Benne.
A wolf howled, loud and sudden, onstage. Maerwynne yanked the reins, the Dapplegrim whirled, and Rikard grabbed Maerwynne’s waist to keep from falling off.
The Dapplegrim plunged through the woods and stopped in front of a log cabin. Scary movies had taught me to be wary of these.
Maerwynne jumped off the Dapplegrim’s back and drew Rikard’s sword from the saddle. A gray blur leaped through the door. Maerwynne struck. The wolf’s head fell to the ground.
“Oh,” Lena said anxiously. “I forgot about this part.”
Gretel’s illusion brought us and Maerwynne into the cabin, and Chase whistled. “That’s a lot of magenta.”
It flooded the floor, splattered the walls all the way up to the ceiling. Blood. Gretel must have turned it pink to make it less scary. If it had been its normal color, every Character at the feast probably would have lost their appetite.
“What did I miss? Not dessert?” Hansel reappeared at his place, Kenneth-free. Seeing Mrs. Taylor’s horror, he added, “Don’t worry. This happened a very long time ago. Characters rarely confront this today.”
But it had happened. And Hansel was talking about it so calmly, like it was a movie we’d gone to see.
On the floor was an old woman’s nightgown, ripped to bloody pieces, and a magenta-smeared girl, wrapped in a red cloak—barely alive. She was younger than we were.
Maerwynne fell to her knees at the girl’s side.
Lena clutched my arm so tightly it hurt. “All these years later, she still wishes she could have saved her sisters.”
Maerwynne stretched out her hand, and a golden apple rested on her palm. The wounded Red Riding Hood reached for it. When the girl’s fingers closed around it, Maerwynne disappeared in an explosion of silver, finer than glitter.
“If the apple keeps you alive past the day you would’ve died, then you turn to dust as soon as you give it away,” Melodie said sadly, like she was apologizing for the one thing Madame Benne couldn’t perfect.
I glanced at Lena, who bit her lip. That would happen to her if she got that extra century.
The magenta-covered Red Riding Hood onstage stood up, apparently unhurt.
“But it can also heal you instantly, as you take the apple and a place in the Canon.” Rapunzel twisted around and pulled her braid aside. A thick scar wrapped all the way around her neck. “Even if the wound is fatal.”
Mrs. Taylor gasped. “What gave you that?”
“Yeah, what—” Lena started, but she remembered. “Oh right, the witch in your Tale.”
Rapunzel ignored Hansel’s glare, the one that clearly said, Don’t bring that up during a parent visit. “The golden apple can even regrow limbs, if the wound is fresh. And a limb regrown by magical means would make a person into a sorcerer.”
At the high table, the Director stood and raised both hands.
“Finally!” Chase muttered.
“Silence now, if you please,” the Director said. �
�I’ve ordered the elves to deny pie to anyone who fails to obey this instruction. The time for the ceremony has come.”
Threatened with no dessert, the courtyard grew eerily quiet.
Beside the Director, the two real Red Riding Hoods stood up together, side by side, in unison.
The woman in the old-fashioned red Sunday hat passed something to the woman in the red baseball cap. I couldn’t see what it was. Her hand kept it hidden from view.
The second their hands fell back to their sides, the one in the Sunday hat suddenly looked thirty years older, her makeup folded into her new wrinkles. She stared at the age spots on her hands with horror, and the new Red Riding Hood, the one in the baseball cap, squeezed her arm in sympathy.
I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to stop aging if the price was losing decades in a second.
The Director clapped loudly to get our attention back. “Thank you. And now, our guests . . .” She gestured to the witches’ table. Many witches leered back, and one waved. Kezelda scowled—she didn’t feel like much of a guest. “Our guests have prepared a special treat for you tonight: Fey fudge pie.”
The elves streamed among the tables. Each piece of pie had a perfect dollop of whipped cream. When they delivered plates first to the tables closest to the kitchens, Chase said, “Ugh. It’ll take forever for them to reach us.”
“What is Fey fudge?” asked Mrs. Taylor.
“Think of the best chocolate you’ve ever had in your life, and then times that by a thousand,” said Lena.
“I guess it’s too much to ask for it to be gluten-free, huh?” Ben said sadly.
I shook my head. I’d watched the witches put the flour in myself.
Ben sighed. “Wheat allergy.”
“Better not chance it then, dear,” said Mrs. Taylor.
We all felt sorry for him until Ben said, “It’s all right. I’m watching my girlish figure.”
