by K. C. Hilton
I knew he would have made a great King. I used to think our love was written in the stars, one for the books and one that we could tell our children one day.
But fate had other plans.
I squeezed my eyes shut and felt a tightening in my already clenched jaw. Another mass of birds fluttered away, squawking loudly as they escaped the trees. They knew death was near and they felt it. I wanted to escape. I wanted to fly away just like they did. Yet…I remained still. I was frozen.
I didn't move. I didn't run.
I'd been a naïve nine-year-old girl who made a covenant with a witch. I thought she was my friend. As I’d grown older, I never thought much about that silly agreement, or her for that matter, but apparently Gretta had never forgotten and fully expected me to satisfy our arrangement.
The world around me started to spin. My body weakened with each breath I took. Something was wrong with my eyes, because everything looked blurry and I could only hear the sound of Henry's voice and the witch's chanting bellowing through the winds.
“Die!” the witch yelled, without remorse. “Die!”
A flash of bright light blinded me and Henry's hands lost their grip on my shoulders. But nothing could prepare me for the word I heard next.
“Dragon!” the witch screamed. I heard the fear in her wicked voice and her feet scampering across the stream. She was running away. She was afraid. Like me.
The winds immediately died down and I could no longer hear Henry's voice. I was alone. Darkness surrounded me as I tumbled to the ground.
The last memory of that horrible night was a horrendous blend of the witch's screams and the roar of a dragon. Henry was gone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
2013
Dear Miss “Rapunzel,”
Why did Mr. Jenkins insist on putting my name in quotes? It seemed downright rude. Rapunzel. My name. Not possibly my name or if that's my name… It was my name. I’d have to teach him a lesson in being polite.
Thank you for sending me your story. It's certainly good enough to be published. Sadly, I'm not a publisher, but I do have a good friend to whom I could send your manuscript for possible consideration.
You nearly had me going—that is, until you mentioned the dreadful, fire breathing, dragon. Of course, the obvious fact that you'd have to be well over 250 years old for your story to have any merit did not escape my attention. If you're telling the truth, you couldn't possibly be alive. Are you writing to me from the grave? Furthermore, I'd dread the thought of how you must look at such a feeble age. How I love a good laugh.
Well, I never! Never in my life have I experienced such a rude man. He’s laughing at my old age? It’s a joke to him to perceive me as feeble and elderly? That Mr. Jenkins possessed quite a sick sense of humor. I drummed my pen so hard against my tooth I feared it might crack.
If you wanted a job in the newsroom, it would have been much easier to fill out an application for employment. I could put in a good word for you, that is, if you're interested. I'm confident the editor would find your story just as amusing as I did. My only advice would be to hold out for the health benefits and vacation package.
Could you send the rest of the manuscript? I'm eager to learn more about the dragon and what became of Henry. As I said, I've always enjoyed a good story.
I'd be glad to interview you about your passion for writing fairy tales and do a follow up in my next article. If you wish, I could arrange an afternoon off and meet with you in person.
Will the dragon be chained up or in a holding pen? I don't want to be eaten alive or burned to ashes! All kidding aside, the full moon will be here soon and I must turn in my completed article before the deadline. Please respond at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely,
John Jenkins
Paradise Daily News
I huffed and puffed as I blustered across my room to the side table and grabbed a few sheets of paper and a sturdy book to write on. I plopped on my bed, pen poised to write. Where to even start? Honestly, Mr. Jenkins didn't deserve a reply. He deserved to be fired and publicly flogged for his indecent rudeness. How dare he talk to a customer of his newspaper in such a manner? Maybe my next letter should be to his supervisor.
I chewed the end of my pen and thought about how I would formulate my words, being sure to leave nothing out.
Dear Mr. Jenkins,
I'm glad you found amusement in my story. As I stated in the previous letter, my story is real. I am real. My life isn't a fairy tale, nor do I wish to apply for a job. I initially contacted you to tell you the truth. I wanted the world to know what really happened.
I don't receive visitors. Ever. The witch wouldn't approve and the dragon, no doubt, would have you for dinner if you tried. Do not take my warning lightly. Yes, you're correct; I am nearly 268-years-old and very much alive. However, I don't appear to be older than an eighteen-year-old girl. I've been cursed. Remember?
No, I will not forward the rest of my story. I refuse to be ridiculed any further. If you're not in a position to make my story known, please feel free to forward it to someone who is capable of doing so, preferably someone who will take it seriously.
I'm well aware of the full moon and its scheduled appearances. I fear each of them.
Sincerely,
Miss Rapunzel
100 Dragon Lane
Paradise Valley
I folded the letter and shoved it in an envelope, never minding the wrinkles. I licked the back flap and pressed it closed, then slid the envelope into my pocket. I grabbed the newspaper and tiptoed to my door, then opened it with hardly a creak. I set myself for a silent trek down my stairs.
Some creaks were unavoidable, but unlikely to be heard from where Gretta spent most of her time near the man-sized fireplace in the drawing room. I’d have to pass that room in search of the stamp, but it certainly wasn't the first time I'd had to make it past Gretta in pursuit of something.
I reached the bottom and turned left down the main hallway toward the kitchen. Worst-case, if I bumped into her, I could tell her I was hungry. She’d probably make me stop and eat a plate of cheese and crackers or a biscuit. My stomach rumbled. Oh, guess I was hungry after all. But that could wait.
Passing the bathroom, then the parlor, I approached the drawing room. A misty smoke wafted through the doorway. I peered through the crack as I passed by. Gretta, in all her black-draped splendor, stirred the contents of an iron cauldron over the fire. She made a back and forth movement and then switched to circular. Her lips moved the entire time. What was she cooking up in that witch’s brew? She usually had a similar pot simmering on the stove. But it had been 100 years or more since I’d seen her cook over the open fire. What did it mean?
No time to worry about that now. I hurried away. At least she was preoccupied and didn't notice me. The sunlight streamed through the library windows and out the door beckoning me to enter. I raced through the door and over to the credenza in back. I pulled open the tiny drawer of stamps and plucked one out. I licked the back and affixed it to the front of the envelope. Sneakiness always exhausted me.
Almost time for Pepper. I’d better hurry. I scurried to the front door and slipped through, then I made my way down the gravel path to the mailbox. Just as I approached, the Jeep pulled around the corner and came to a stop right in front of me, sending up a cloud of gravel dust.
“Hey, Chic. You okay?” Pepper squinted against the sunlight and peered at my face. “You look kind of mad.”
If she only knew. “No, I'm all right. Just one of those days. You know how it goes.”
“Boy, do I? I hear ya, sister.” Pepper reached out a hand. “Looks like you have mail going out?”
I glanced down at the letter in my hands. Did I want to send it, or did I want to tell my story at all? Maybe things were best left alone. After all, there had been that one time, long ago, when the outside world mingled with my world. No good had come of that. None at all.
But, then again, human nature wa
s destined to repeat itself. I guessed I was no exception. But that time was not yet.
I thrust the letter into Pepper’s hand and stormed back to the castle. John Jenkins didn't deserve to know the rest of my story. He didn't believe me! That was the last laugh he would have at my expense. It was hard enough to relive the memories I'd tried so hard to suppress. Explaining the hurt and the torment I had gone through ripped my heart to pieces. I could hardly bear to remember.
A horn honked behind me. Pepper! I spun around to wave good-bye to my friend. “I’m sorry. Just one—”
“—of those days. I get it. It’s all good.” Pepper grinned and waved her hand out the window as she drove away.
Now, how could Mr. Jenkins possibly understand what I went through after I awoke on the ground that night?
Not one sound could be heard in the forest. The horses had run off, the witch was nowhere to be found, and Henry was gone. I was alone. I wept for what felt like an eternity, until no more tears fell.
John Jenkins mocked the night I lost my existence. I was never the same after that. A part of me had died, and it was funny to him.
It was entirely my fault the witch had released her wrath upon us. How could a nine-year-old girl understand the consequences of an unfulfilled promise? I'd been stupid to have forgotten my promise to Gretta all those many years before. That promise took my life and ended Henry's. And Mr. Jenkins called it all a fairy tale.
I would tell Mr. John Jenkins, the old codger, that Henry had adored my long hair, and that the witch wanted it. Since she took Henry's life, I vowed she would never have my hair. No matter what. No matter that I’d promised. So far, I’d managed to keep her from it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
After mailing the letter, I knew I had made the wrong decision and I decided to finish my story. It had to be told and Mr. Jenkins needed to hear about the arrival at the castle if he’d ever believe what followed. How to phrase it? I poised my hands above the keyboard and pondered the starting point for today’s letter.
***
Dear Mr. Jenkins…
It was the year 1831. When the wagon came to a full stop, I climbed down, but couldn’t pull my eyes from the sight of my new home. Father had been right in all his stories. It was a castle. Sparkling marble, ornate stained-glass windows, a drawbridge. And the tower. I could see right away why its height scared Father as a child, but I wasn’t afraid. I was eager to explore my new home.
Gretta’s shrill voice yanked me from my thoughts as I heard her directing her driver where to put her things. I hadn't spoken two words to her since we started the journey. Too bad ignoring her hadn’t made her disappear. Yet, ignorance was nice while it lasted. I took no small pleasure in the fact that she’d be kept busy cleaning that monstrosity of a home. As magnificent as it was, it needed a good dusting.
Father grinned as he trudged up the steep driveway and climbed the cobblestone steps leading to the front door. He looked back at me and winked, then motioned for me to follow.
I couldn’t tear my eyes from the enormity of the structure I was about to enter. Forget enter—I was going to live there. I reached the spot where Father stood and we stepped through the arched doorway together.
My breath caught as I was swallowed by the foyer. Marble tiles covered the floor under a copper ceiling that seemed a mile away. To the right stood a stone stairway that spiraled to…I craned my neck to find the top. Well, it spiraled straight to heaven, it seemed. I realized that must be the tower.
Father’s memories had been accurate, if not a bit restrained. His were definitely not the exaggerations of a childlike imagination.
I stepped away from Father and peeked into the nearest room. All the furnishings had remained in place. They had been covered with heavy white fabric to keep the dust from collecting, but it was clear they were authentic to the castle. It would be fun to fold the covers back and expose the treasures beneath.
Paintings decorated the walls in every room, and silver candlesticks sat on just about every flat surface. The floors were splayed with authentic hand-woven rugs of the finest quality from far-flung regions of the world. No expense had been spared in decorating.
I turned the corner and approached a door beneath the spiral staircase. I stepped inside and thought my knees might buckle. The library. It had to have been two stories tall. Shelves lined the walls and each had a robust collection of books. Books I'd never seen before, never heard of, beckoned to be read. Rolling ladders leaned against each wall so that a person could reach any book in the room. A large desk stood at one end of the room. Across from it, a couch and two chaise lounges had been staged in front of the stone fireplace. This room would be my escape from reality. This room would help me survive each day. This room would be my cave.
Thick layers of dust covered every inch of the home. Dust webs were strewn across mostly everything. Cleaning was going to be a laborious task. I couldn't guess how long it would take to even make the library look presentable, but it would give me something to do, and I was eager to stay busy and keep my mind off the pain. More often than not, when I started thinking of Henry and that awful night, I would pick up a rag and start cleaning. I used to hum one of mother's favorite tunes to help get me through.
I found my way to the master suite where Father had insisted I make my home. He preferred the room he’d loved as a small boy, and he wanted me to have the best the castle had to offer. It was an impressive room. A massive four-poster bed with intricate designs carved into the mahogany filled the center of the space. I folded back the fabric covering the beautiful furniture, and wondered how long it had been since it was last used.
I should have felt giddy sizing up this home, but I didn't feel a thing. I stood there in a beautiful castle, a treasure I’d be unveiling for years to come, yet I was becoming bitter. I felt that bitterness creep its way into my thoughts more and more each day. Would it ever end? I didn't want to become an angry person, but I had no happiness to look forward to, no family, no friends and nobody who loved me except Father, and he would soon be gone. I already felt alone and feared I always would.
I wandered from my suite of rooms into a hallway of eyes—a hallway with no doors, nothing but paintings; women on one side, men on the other. I stared into the unseeing, yet all-knowing, eyes of my ancestors. Who were they? What story would each of them tell me? I couldn't wait to uncover their secrets somehow. If I couldn’t find out the truth about them, maybe I’d make up stories. I could write that book I’d always imagined writing. A book about the wealthy men and women who were eternally enshrined within a gilded frame in what I would call the Hall of Horrors.
I followed the progression of years through the dates on the paintings. As I moved through the hallway, the paintings grew more and more current, ending with the most recent. My grandmother. That settled it. My first order of business would be to add my mother to the wall, right next to father, even if I had to paint her myself.
Finally, at the end of the hallway, I turned and looked back. What was the point of this space? What did it lead to? Not a single doorway except for this small arched one here at the end. I placed my palm on the stone wall on either side of the door, feeling for some kind of clue of what lay beyond.
I guessed I’d just have to look for myself. I pulled it open and peered into the darkness beyond the threshold. A dark, stone staircase descended straight down. If I were smart, I’d close the door and turn away. But I had nothing to lose and I had to know. I placed one foot on the top stair and followed with another. I spiraled downward, step after step. Would it ever end? Better question: why hadn't I grabbed a candle to light my way?
I dragged my hands along the wall as I descended. At least I could get back up with little trouble if I couldn't see when I made it to the bottom.
I reached out a hand and felt in front of me until I hit resistance—a solid surface. Was it a door? I felt along the flat wall until my hand grasped something. I felt with my fingertips. It was a doorkno
cker. Dare I knock? What if some goblin opened the door?
Hey. Don’t laugh. Years ago I’d have laughed too. But, after I’d come face to face with a witch and lived with a dragon nearby for years, a goblin wasn’t so farfetched.
I pressed gently and the door gave way. I inched it open and streaks of light flooded the landing where I stood. I stepped through the doorway into a magical place.
I was outdoors. Or was I? I spun in a complete circle. It was a garden like none I'd seen before. Brilliant flowers and rows of shrubs were positioned in a maze of sorts. Low hanging baskets of cascades of flowers pink, red, yellow, purple. Some were the most vibrant orange that looked like little licks of flames throughout the garden. Overhead ivy and branches were intertwined in such a way to give the feel of a complete covering, yet plenty of sunlight poked through.
I stepped forward toward a waterfall that dropped into a trickling brook that was likely fed by the water from the moat. I dropped to my knees and reached a hand into the water. Little fish fluttered away from my fingertips as they followed the water flow back outside the enclosed garden.
I stopped moving and listened. What was that? Birds chirping? I looked up into the branches and saw at least a dozen birds happily homemaking in perfect little nests nestled in the lush trees.
I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the sunlight and let the warmth comfort me. Was there an outside access to this place, or could I only get there by descending the way I’d come? I knew I’d have to figure that out, because I'd be spending a lot of time out there.
The garden had remained unattended for years. Hundreds of vines, sheltering closed blooms, did their best to hide the stone walls. If it weren't for the roofline, they would have kept climbing. Instead they grew thicker, wider, and stronger. I imagined the morning glories opening their blooms, brightening up the castle every day and releasing their intoxicating aroma. I imagined days, weeks, and years of walks among the rows of freshness.
