by Jack Heckel
The vision held out its hands; in them was a golden circlet. Tears of flickering light fell from blank eyes. “Return what is mine,” it moaned, and then dissolved as though smoke dispersed by a strong wind. Gwendolyn scrambled backward off the chair to cower against the wall—shaking in fear—tears stinging her eyes. “What is happening to me, fairy? What are these visions?”
The light in the globe shrank to a glowing ember. “It is a warning, Mistress. This power is beyond thee. In the end thou willst not be able to control the visions, and they will drive thee mad. Free me now, and I can still put things to right. I swear it can be done.”
Gwendolyn raised her hand as though to dash the orb to the ground, but one of the shadows reminded her about another of the fairy’s promises made long ago. Hatred burned fresh inside her, and fear transformed back to resolve.
“No.” She rose to her feet. “I have heard your promises before. You promised to make my wishes come true. You promised me true love. You promised the dragon a life of glory. Your promises are empty and cruel.” She resumed her seat on the high chair, the ball resting in her lap.
“Then thou art doomed, Mistress.”
“Perhaps, but this time the doom will be of my own making.”
Chapter 4
Beastly Luck
CHARMING WAS LOST. The last few days he had wandered aimlessly—until now, when he found himself staggering along an overgrown cart path through the dark forest in the Northern Waste. The branches of ancient black-trunked trees formed a dense roof that kept out most, but not all, of the steady, driving rain that he could hear pelting the canopy. At his feet, a spider web of roots reached like grasping hands across the road, making his footing slippery and treacherous. He hadn’t slept nor eaten more than a few handfuls of nuts and some wild berries since he’d left the Cooked Goose. He was tired and hungry but did not care—he couldn’t escape that last look of loathing on the face of his father, the King.
With a deep sigh, he left the path and rested against a hard tree trunk. He leaned his head back and tried to see something of the sky through the dense branches. “Is it day or night?” he wondered aloud. “How long have I wandered in these wretched woods? Does it matter? Is this where I will find my end?”
Don’t be absurd, his mind rebuked. It has only been a few days since your former father, the King, cast you away like a common piece of refuse.
Charming reflected that, though this might be true, in his heart (and legs) it felt like weeks had passed since he had known the comforts of companionship and camaraderie (and saddle) that had marked his previous life.
“Perhaps my body has been slain by heartbreak and fatigue, and has fallen somewhere in this dark forest . . . and I am naught but a specter, an accursed wraith, left behind to struggle on through this hell for all eternity.”
Let’s think about that for a moment, he suggested to himself. If your body has fallen, then death has not been the cure for mortal pains that the priests always claimed it would be.
True, he ached all over with weariness. And, based on the throbbing of his feet, he could only imagine the blisters that must be forming. Wraiths don’t get blisters. “This is the worst,” he groused. “I was intended for jousting, fighting, leaping. But endless walking over and over . . . no. Now walking is my fate, my doom, to walk and walk and walk in never-ending . . .” As he realized that he had stopped walking, he pursed his lips and reconsidered his words: “hardly ever-ending . . . penance. Why am I so cursed?”
Then his mind’s eye conjured up the face of his father, the King, and again that last look of loathing. A deep melancholy drove him and his inner monologue to silence. He stood and shuffled away from his tree.
This is why we keep moving, his thoughts ventured after a time.
They were right. Every time he had tried resting since beginning this pointless pilgrimage, his mind eventually wandered to some dark place and he would force himself to stagger on.
“But to what end?” he asked. “I have fallen. I am doomed to live this miserable existence—wandering aimlessly, an unknown, dirty vagabond, suffering righteously, as a moral lesson for all who would let pride lead them down the path of wickedness and deceit.”
Say, there’s a good couplet in there, he suggested to himself.
The monstrous nature of the thought caught Charming off guard. He paused midstride and, clenching his fist, shouted, “No!” The now-dark forest echoed the word back at him. Suddenly, aware of the stillness of the trees, he muttered quietly, “I am unworthy of couplet . . .”
“Perhaps I should take a vow of silence,” he considered aloud. “Then there would be no temptation to break into verse.” He paused and raised both arms to the sky. “I swear by the moon above that if I am redeemed, I will put things to right—”
That’s a stupid oath, he interrupted himself silently. Am I really this ridiculous? Why do I need to keep turning everything into melodrama?
Of course, he had only ever been Prince Charming, and Prince Charming only existed for drama’s sake. Everybody he’d ever known had turned even the most commonplace moments of his life into epic events, such as the weeklong festival that had been declared to commemorate his first steps. He sighed again and looked up at the heavens to try to find the moon upon which he had been about to swear.
I don’t even think there is a moon tonight. Is it even night? It seems awfully dark. How can I swear on something that isn’t there?
He shook his head to clear his thoughts and wondered if he was growing delirious from hunger. Out loud, he said, “That’s just semantics—”
His silent thoughts cut him off again. Am I resorting to semantics? If there is no moon, then I can’t possibly have sworn on the ‘moon above.’ And, beyond that, what does it even mean to say ‘if I’m redeemed I’ll put things right?’ That’s like saying, ‘if I’m redeemed, I’ll be redeemed.’ The problem is that I never think before speaking, or acting for that matter. Ask anyone. It has been an issue for a while. Now, if I had thought for a moment, I would have told myself to swear on the Morning Star, or the Northern Mountain, or my name. . .
Okay, never mind that one—
“Enough!” Charming said sharply to the night air (as he was sure now that it was night), and then more quietly to himself, “I am being silly.” He rocked back on his heels and sat in the crook of two massive roots, tired and ashamed. “Here I am, arguing with myself about oaths and meaning. This has been my problem for years; I would rather swear a meaningless oath and make an empty promise than actually do the right thing. The people in the tavern were right: I am a fool and have always been a fool.”
It was growing colder, and he shivered beneath his thin shirt. Nothing seemed real anymore, not even the growing numbness in his fingers and toes. He knew he should keep moving but could not muster the energy or the will to stand again. “I’m tired of running. Let me stay here and be done.”
Charming sat and waited. After a time, he wondered how long it would take. Having decided to give up, he was strangely impatient for the end, and this perch was not particularly comfortable. Something was poking into his side. He shifted slightly and adjusted a small leather pouch on his belt, only to realize with a sudden disorientation that that’s where he’d put Elizabeth’s glass slipper before leaving the castle.
He drew it out and stared at its smooth sparkling surface and thought of her. He remembered the smell of her hair, the touch of her hand as they danced. He remembered her smile and the fire in her eyes.
“Why did you take this from the ballroom?” he asked aloud. And then, after only a moment’s reflection, answered softly, “Love of course, but it doesn’t seem possible.”
He closed his eyes and clasped the slipper to his breast. Time passed and Charming slipped in and out of sleep, all the while trying to ponder this last mystery. At some point he heard a voice, distantly .
. .
“As I thought, milord,” came an irritated voice, “it’s just another drunk. He must have wandered up from the Cooked Goose. I’m told by the groundskeeper that there was a large revel there a few nights ago. Perhaps it would be best to leave him here to sleep it off.”
Another voice, a deep voice, responded from further off. “Giles, he is on my estate. It is the duty of a host to care for all in need; and, surely, if anyone is in need, this man is. But do remind me to speak to the groundskeeper about his choice of taverns.”
“Yes, milord.”
Charming saw a lantern and felt hands lifting him from the ground, and then he slipped back out of consciousness.
CHARMING WOKE FROM a dark sleep into the soft caress of silk and the subtle airs of fine oil and incense. He sat up slowly, the vague memories of his dreams flying at his remembrances like a flock of frightened birds. For a warm, peaceful moment, he imagined that he was home and that, for the past few weeks, the death of the dragon, the glories of William Pickett and his own dishonor had all been a terrible nightmare. But as he looked around, he realized that this was not his own bed, and that he was not in Castle White.
He stretched and studied his surroundings. He was resting in a large four-poster bed surrounded by drifts of snow-white bedding. The room itself was handsomely appointed. A warming fire had been laid in the stone hearth set in the far wall, and he had been bathed. For the first time since he had left home, he felt clean. The question was, who had bathed him and put him to bed? Then a sudden panic seized him, and he sat up with a start. “The slipper! Where’s the slipper?”
Charming looked about frantically, but his clothes were nowhere to be seen. He threw back the covers and pawed at the linen nightclothes he was wearing. The slipper was gone. There was no trace of it. A sense of dread came over him, gnawing softly at his insides.
Where am I? There are no noblemen in this forest, so who is this lordly host? Is he friend or foe, honorable man or thief?
As if in response to his unvoiced thoughts, the door opened and a tall scarecrow of a man dressed in subdued finery stepped inside. He put a hand to his chest, cleared his throat, looked down at Charming along his long nose, and sniffed disdainfully. “Good, you are awake. If you have recovered sufficiently to return to whatever passes for your life, then my lord has instructed me to provide you with some clothing so that you may go.”
“I . . .” Charming started hesitantly, but then realized that this man must have taken the slipper or knew who did. He rose from the bed and, squaring his shoulders, put all the command of his former self in his voice. “You, whatever your name is . . . where are my possessions?”
The man took a step back, momentarily stunned by his outburst, but recovering said, “You will not use that tone in this residence, and certainly not with me, or I shall send you packing with the dogs on your heels.”
“Are you my host? If so, then either return my possessions, or, despite this fine manor, I deem you nothing but a common thief!” Charming snapped, making his way around the bed and toward the man.
The thin man reddened at the accusation and then seemed to swell with indignation. “How dare you question me? My name is Giles, and I am my lord’s butler. As for the slipper, my lord wishes to question you about that. Specifically, he wishes to know who you stole it from.”
“What?” Charming stuttered, “I—I would never steal . . .”
Despite this denial, the memory of his recent treachery drained him. He lost the anger that had given him strength and sat back down on the edge of the bed. What manner of man am I? Have not my actions been the definition of villainy?
Giles grunted derisively. “I warn you, the dogs will be ready.”
At that moment, there was the sound of movement beyond the door. Giles looked into the hall at something Charming could not see. A deep resonant voice that was somehow familiar came from outside the room. “Giles, help our guest find suitable clothing. I wish to have an audience with him.”
“But, my lord,” said Giles, not turning his eyes from Charming, “I must say this fellow seems mad, and his denial rings of insincerity.”
Charming wanted to shout, “I am Prince Charming!” But, he wasn’t anymore. The whole world had gone mad. He put his hands to his head and mumbled something indistinct and incoherent.
There was a long silence, and it was perhaps for the best that Charming never saw the look of disdain on Giles’s face. “You see what I mean, my lord? Are you certain about the audience? The dogs could see to him without trouble.”
“I am, Giles. Now, help this poor man, and I will consider another matter while I wait. I think I should revisit the incident involving the hounds’—how did you call it? . . . ‘fortuitous escape’ when the dwarves last visited?”
Giles fiddled with his collar, keeping his eyes on Charming. “I’ll help him straightaway, my lord.”
The door shut gently.
Deaf to the exchange between master and servant, Charming muttered on. “ . . . never had the courage to reach the unreachable . . .”
Giles rolled his eyes as he crossed the room to a large wardrobe. He rummaged in it for a few seconds and emerged with a drab and hideously out-of-date outfit. A deep and bottomless despair gripped Charming. He knew it was shallow, but to be robbed of fashion seemed the last insult.
Laying out the clothes on the bed, Giles clucked his tongue in irritation. “I will warn you only once not to waste my lord’s time. He is too generous and good-hearted, and a great many try to presume upon his nature. We have a troupe of insufferable dwarves that are constantly . . . well, let’s just say, answer his questions and be on your way.”
Charming nodded stiffly in response. Once he was dressed and had been approved by Giles, he was led through the stone halls of the castle to a set of gilt doors. Giles rested a bony hand on the handle and smiled thinly at Charming. There was something about his eyes, a mischievous glee, that made Charming uneasy. The butler leaned forward, coming uncomfortably close, and whispered, “I hope you don’t scare easily. My lord can be . . . disconcerting.”
Before Charming could respond, or even decide how he would respond, Giles pulled open the door and gestured Charming inside. The door closed behind him. The hall itself was dimly lit by a few candles burning in high sconces set into the walls, and appeared to be more of a dining room than a proper audience chamber. High-backed chairs surrounded a great wooden table that dominated the center of the space. A cloaked figure, which Charming could only assume was Giles’s master, sat at the far end of the table, obscured by shadows.
“Come forward,” resounded that now-familiar deep voice.
He moved closer. As he approached, he noted first the man’s breathing. It was deep and powerful, almost like panting. Beyond that there was a general impression of size. Whoever he was, he was massive. In fact, his shoulders resembled Gnarsh the Troll’s more than those of an ordinary man. But even standing next to him, his host’s face was indistinct, a mask of shadows beneath a deeply hooded cloak. Perhaps he should have been scared, but he didn’t have enough energy left for fear.
Once upon a time, I was Prince Charming.
He drew a chair to the lord’s right. “May I take this seat?”
“Be my guest,” came the low response.
Remembering the butler’s request, Charming decided to come right to the point. “Thank you for your kindness, Your Lordship. I am truly in your debt and do not wish to impose on your hospitality, but before I take my leave I would ask . . . no, beg you, please return to me the glass slipper.” Charming stared down at the table as he spoke and felt a burning in his eyes. He blinked away the half-formed tears.
“I will ask you simply and request only your honesty. Did you steal it?”
Charming thought hard about the night at the ball, about Elizabeth running up the stairs, about retrieving the
slipper from where it lay beneath a curtain at the edge of the ballroom. He raised his eyes and stared into the shadowy void of his questioner’s face. “No. I am not proud of how I came to hold the slipper, but I did not steal it. It was lost. I wish only to return it to its rightful owner.”
There was a long pause from his faceless host before he replied, “I am satisfied, but let us speak more about this remarkable shoe as we dine. I apologize in advance if my appearance disturbs you.”
He pulled back the hood of his cloak.
Charming had not known what he expected to see, perhaps that his host was badly disfigured or scarred, but what sat across from him was more monster than man. Seemingly a cross between a boar and a wolf, this lord, his host, resembled a taxidermist’s nightmare come to life. His face was twisted into an elongated snout with sharp white teeth and short tusks jutting upward from his lower jaw. Thick coarse fur covered his head and poked out from beneath a fashionably high lace collar, and sharp ears flicked back and forth as he gazed at Charming with yellow animal eyes.
Instinctively, Charming gasped and his hand reached down for the sword that was not there. A few days, even hours, before, he would have leapt to his feet, ready to slay such a monster, to battle it like a hero. But he was not a hero any longer. He took in a deep breath, but otherwise did not move from his chair.
The man—beast—cocked his head, studying his reaction. Charming knew he was being measured, but did not care. He had already been judged and found wanting. With nothing to lose, he asked, or tried to ask, the obvious question, the only question: “How did you . . . I mean . . . I’m sorry, are you cursed?”
The yellow eyes softened, and, to his surprise, Charming realized that there was something distinctly human behind those eyes, and, what was more, something manifestly good. Gray streaks ran through the creature’s fur, and Charming determined that the monster before him must be well past its prime. The creature spoke: “Do you wish to know why I appear the way I do?”
