by K. C. Hilton
Yes, I’d be spending a lot of time there. If only I could hide it from Gretta.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In no time, I had my bedroom looking decent, even if I didn’t feel at home in that space. When I had finally settled in, I found solace for a time. Peace. Father and I settled into daily walks in the garden and meals by the big fireplace. It was an easy existence, and Gretta left us alone.
One afternoon, like the many that had come before, I found Father standing in the center of his bedroom. Just standing. “Father? Maybe a stroll through the garden?” I placed my hand on his shoulder to get his attention.
I waited for him to gather his thoughts. As time went on, it seemed to take longer and longer for things to connect. I thought, please, say something. Sometimes it seemed he even forgot who I was. Once I said just the right thing to awaken his memory and bring him back, he’d fall into confusion again in a moment. I often wondered if one day he would venture off into the great beyond and never return.
His eyes flickered with the start of recognition. Ah. There it was. “Hello, Father. Want to go for a walk in the garden?” It was so hard to see him like that. Other than being frail and a bit scattered, he was quite healthy. Actually, he was much healthier and stronger here at the castle than he’d been back home. For that single reason, I’d never again worry that moving to the castle was a mistake.
“Father? A walk?”
He startled as though it was the first moment he realized I was in the room. “That sounds like a perfect idea. Let me just get my sweater.” He shuffled over to the wall and retrieved his tattered sweater from its hook. I'd offered to get him a new one or even knit him one myself at least a hundred times, but he wouldn't hear of it. He’d explained that wearing it was like getting a hug from an old friend.
Father pulled on his sweater as we carefully made our way down the stairs and turned right in the Hallway of Horrors where a dozen pairs of eyes followed our every move. We left the main house through the garden doors. The outside air rushed our senses and we both drank it in desperately.
Notes of lavender and magnolia danced on the breeze. Father lifted his face and basked in the sunshine. “Do you feel that, sweet girl? I think that wind is your mother calling me home.” Father turned and faced me. He smiled with his eyes. “It won't be long now.”
I shuddered. “Don't talk like that. There's no reason to say that. You’re healthy. I believe you’ll be around for a long time.”
“I'd like to say I wish you were right. But I don’t, really. I think my time is drawing to a close and I’m okay with that. I hope you will be, too. Don't mourn me. I've watched you grieve the loss of your mother. She took a piece of you with her when she left. Please, don't let my death do the same thing to you, dear one.” He squeezed my hands as tightly as his weakened ones would allow. “I can’t bear the thought that you’ll spend your next years weeping, mourning my loss. A loss that was bound to come.”
“Father. Please, stop it. You’re healthy. You’re fine. You're not going anywhere.”
“I'm not fine at all, Rapunzel. I've been sick for a long time. I’ve just done a pretty good job of hiding it. Every day, when we take our walk, I wonder if it will be my last one.” He shrugged, his expression unchanging.
“Well, I'm not listening to this. You're not going anywhere. You’re going to be fine for a long time.” We wandered silently through the rose bushes around by the pond, and then Father bent down to feed the koi. They rose to the surface, their mouths open wide in anticipation of food—completely dependent and so appreciative. That was how I felt much of the time. So dependent on other people, appreciative, I guessed. Resentful a lot. If only I could be as free and carefree as the fish.
I watched Father's hand tremble as he released the pellets into the water, and then I looked in his face. Was he sick? I studied him closely. Now that he mentioned it, his skin did have sort of a yellow tinge to it, and his hands trembled. He’d lost a lot of weight. How had I missed the signs? Was it just that I so badly wanted him to be healthy? I dropped to my knees and lifted his face. “Father I'm so sorry. I…”
His eyes took on a smile as he realized I'd finally woken up to the truth. He shook his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You are a wonderful daughter and you have made my life very happy. One day, maybe not today, but one day soon, I will go to bed and I will not get up. I want you to be okay with that. Just let me go and remember the life we had together with joy, not mourning. Will you promise me?”
Why did life have to go so fast? Everyone else's sped by as mine crawled along like a turtle. I nodded softly. “Yes, Father. I promise.”
He lifted the corners of his mouth, his smile half forced, but then it traveled to his eyes. He was at peace. I could take refuge in that knowledge. But for now, I wanted to hear a story. “Tell me about the first time you saw me.”
“Oh. Now there is a favorite memory, sweet girl. I looked upon your big, blue eyes and your sweet, rosebud lips. You were already squirming in your mother’s arms by then. Bigger than the average newborn, I think you waited a little longer than usual to be born. Stubborn even then. But once you got here you sure didn't let us forget about you.”
“What do you mean?” Not that I hadn't heard the story a hundred times before, but I’d have done anything to keep words coming from Father as long as I could.
“Well, you seldom cried. You just had a way of getting positive attention anytime you wanted it. It was like you entered a room or approached a person and said, here I am. Notice me. And they did, every time. If I had a coin for every time someone said you were a beautiful child, I'd be a wealthy man.”
I looked up at the castle. “You are a wealthy man.”
“Well, you know what I mean.” We both laughed.
“What else?”
“Oh, it seemed like you did everything fast. Walked early. Ran early. Talked early. Read early. Smart girl. Beautiful girl. Happy girl. You were so perfect that we decided it would be best not to have other children. How could we do it again as well as we’d done it the first time? You were enough. You were everything. You are everything.” Father leaned back against the bench in the garden, his eyes wistful and longing for days gone by.
“Tell me about the horse.” I scooted into a somewhat more comfortable position in the sun.
Father grinned. “Oh, that horse. That was an experience none of us forgot. Wasn't it?”
I nodded and laughed. “No, I never forgot it. But tell me anyway.”
Father nodded. “Oh, it was a beautiful black stallion. A rare specimen. Gifted to me by a customer who was grateful for the help I’d provided over the years when he had no money. I provided things for the family and helped them along. Then when things turned and they came into money and horses, he wanted to do something to show his appreciation. But that black stallion was not broken yet, so I hired a hand to come break the horse.
“But before that expert arrived to do his job, you decided you could do it. You went out to that pasture where that bucking stallion was tied. You were going to make friends with that horse no matter what.”
Father smiled and shook his head. “I'll never forget what it felt like to see you from afar and not be able to get there in time and stop you. I couldn't yell as you approached the stallion, because it would startle the horse and he might kick. One kick could have been deadly. They sure have a knack of planting it right where it can do the most damage—right in the solar plexus, in the face, or even the stomach. I was terrified for your life, but you had no idea.”
“I remember it like it was yesterday. I wasn’t scared a bit.” I laughed. “I didn’t know enough to be scared.”
“You just walked up to that horse like he was your best friend. It was your confidence that won him over. Not to mention those blue eyes and long blonde hair. But he never even snorted at you. He never twitched. Never even blinked. He allowed you to approach him and befriend him as though you were his mother. It was a beautiful
thing, though very scary to watch. When that hired hand showed up…”
I laughed. The vision of that poor boy trying to break that stallion still vivid in my mind.
“He arrived and got to work. Did he have his work cut out for him that day. That stallion was having no part of any of the attempts to break him. No way. So I waited a couple of hours. I let the horse wear that kid out. And then I turned to you, Rapunzel. What did I say? Do you remember?”
“You said, Go ahead and show him how it's done.”
“That’s exactly right. I'll never forget the way that boy looked when a little girl, no more than seven or eight years old, walked right past him and approached that bucking, angry, relentless black stallion, a veritable house of muscle and sinew.
“He watched you boldly walk up to the horse, and then he whipped his head around to look at me in horror. He looked back at you, and then he looked at me as if saying, Do something! Do something! You’re sending her to her death. His mouth dropped open but no sound came out. He was horrified. I don't know if he was more horrified at what was about to happen to you, or if he was just scared he was going to have to do something about it.
“Either way, it was a sight to behold. So you walked right up to that stallion and reached up your little teeny fingers. Your hand would've fit in one nostril but you patted his nose and he calmed right down, and that nose found its way to your neck where he nuzzled you.”
I laughed. “That poor horseman.”
“I agree. That poor boy. I think he gave up horse breaking after that stallion licked him. He wouldn't even take money for that job. He said if a seven-year-old girl could do it, then he wasn’t taking money for it. He stormed off, hopped on the back of his horse, and took off into the sunset. You and I laughed for hours about that.” Father covered my hand with his.
“Well, I guess we could say we laughed about it for years, because we’re still laughing.”
“I sure miss that horse. He was a good boy.”
“Would you like to go riding?”
Father looked me in the eye and shook his head. “I don't think this old body could take it. Those days are over.”
***
It was the year 1814 and with Father passed on, life became anything but peaceful. Gretta's chanting started again in earnest. It echoed throughout the castle all the way to my room—a constant reminder of that horrible night. Being subject to those sounds sent chills throughout my body each time.
I listened to it night after night, but eventually I couldn't take it anymore. I needed to find somewhere else to live. I explored the castle for the furthest room away from Gretta’s quarters. That was my main requirement.
Getting as far from Gretta as possible led me to the tower. I would live there. Why hadn’t I done it sooner?
Inspecting the room, my eyes rested on the stars of all sizes engraved in the stones throughout the room. They framed the sides of the fireplace and encircled the room at the height of the walls, just below the ceiling. “Look to the stars,” I whispered, then traced one of them with my finger. How had Father known I’d find my way to live in the tower? The last words Father said to me before he died were, “If you ever get lost, look to the stars for guidance.” Had he carved them?
I traced my fingers over the delicate etchings. Had my father touched these very stones?
Eventually, I had the room in the tower looking as good as it was going to get, then had the hired hands move the furniture from the master suite into it. Gretta was against me moving my things to the tower and tried to dissuade me, even as I trudged up the steps with my arms full of my bedding.
I spun around, almost knocking her down the stairs and jabbed my finger at her face. “That’s far enough. Leave me alone.” Didn't Gretta know she wasn't there to keep me company? I missed my home and I missed Father. Nothing could ever change that. I was already alone and living in the tower couldn’t make it truer.
I lay in bed that first night in the tower, not quite a year since moving to the castle. I couldn’t hear Gretta’s chants. Maybe for once, there would be no nightmares. Peace and quiet. I nuzzled down into my feather bed and pulled the covers up to my chin.
Screech. I bolted upright. Screech. There it was again. It sounded like…
No!
I heard a familiar shriek. It wasn't possible. I had to be dreaming. Maybe it was just my imagination—a vivid memory? I scrambled to the window and peered out at the final piece to this sick, twisted puzzle.
The beast had come to Paradise.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Mr. Jenkins, the dragon had followed us to Paradise Valley. I thought back to the wagon journey. Brief moments of shadow had broken through the sunlight often throughout the long hours. Had that been him? The thought of him traveling with us sent shivers down my spine. Where had he been hiding this entire time? What did he want with us?
I paced the room, my fists clenched, knuckles white in frustration. First the witch was forced upon me. Now the dragon! Would I never find any peace? This wasn't fair! And Father thought I would be better off at the castle. I was no better off at all. I was still a prisoner, just in a prettier jail. Looks could certainly be deceiving.
Was he after Gretta? Maybe he was under her command. Here as a threat to me to guard the castle and make sure I'd never leave? I would have to keep an eye on him to figure out if I could ever escape his clutches. Surely he had a weakness. I just had to find it.
A loud roar filled the castle. The thick drapes blustered from the sheer force of the sound.
I rushed to the window and peered into the darkness. A shadow swooped in broad arcs around the grounds as far as I could see. Back and forth, encircling the castle, claiming it. I had never seen the dragon in motion before. How vast was that wingspan? I leaned out the window a bit more, trying to get a look at him in his fullness.
As he dove toward the earth, his wings shot out to slow his descent. The tip of one wing seemed to trail on the ground and the other one tickled the trees. His length, not counting the serpent-like tail, was as big as four wagons. And his color, I shuddered at his blackness—black as night, perfect for a witch’s pet.
I had never seen him this close. His large body was covered in shimmering scales, and he flew gracefully through the air with little effort. Then I saw the glint in his eyes. He saw me, and I knew it. And he knew I knew it. He let out another roar, louder than the last, and swooped down for the witch. She stood her ground, screaming her warnings and shaking her stick.
He gave one last slap to his massive wings and came to an abrupt halt just outside my window. I screamed and dropped my candle, sending sprays of wax on to the stone wall beneath the window I peered through. He turned his gaze, and locked eyes with me. Yellow eyes with red veins pierced through my tough veneer. My body trembled and my heart raced.
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came. What do you say to a dragon? He blinked twice, was that a message? And then used his wings to flap backwards as he moved slowly from the window. He ducked his head to the side and flew away.
Not far, that much I could promise.
How could I be expected to live on these grounds with that thing? Sure he was not very threatening right then, but what about the next day? Dragons weren't known for consistency, after all. Why had he waited until now to make his presence known?
Something pinched my arm. I lifted it to the moonlight that shone through the window. Three little blisters had risen from the surface of my forearm. Burned by the wax. Now the question was just deal with it? Or find my way to the kitchen for some ointment?
“Go away, you beast! Leave us be or you will feel my wrath!” I heard a wicked voice outside.
I stretched my head out as far as it could go and craned my neck until I found the source of the shouts.
Gretta glared with beady eyes up at the night sky. Her crooked arm raised and shook her gnarled walking stick at the dragon's shadowy form. “You are not welcome here, you beast. Leave now!”
>
The moon intermittently flickered as the dragon soared through the sky and blocked its light. He snapped his tail with a flourish as though mocking the witch.
Gretta lowered her stick and shook her head.
Why didn't she destroy the dragon? Was he more powerful than Gretta? That was interesting. I flipped my body over and rested my back on the windowsill. I held onto the stone wall as I leaned out and searched the sky. Where had he gone?
Swoosh.
The black form blocked the moon again for an instant and then settled on the ground in front of me. Directly beneath me. I shuddered. If he chose to, he could reach his long neck up and devour me. Why didn't he do that? Why did he insist on toying with me?
Then I heard the sound I hoped to never hear again. The chanting.
As Gretta’s chanting increased in intensity like it had the night my life ended, the dragon continued his flight. His speed and deep dives to the earth increased with intensity as Gretta continued. Would this end in his death like it had Henry's? Strangely, I hoped not.
How much power did Gretta have over the dragon? Judging from his snorting and rapid, erratic flight, he wasn't happy with her at all.
The dragon pulled back his head and opened his wide mouth. With a hiss he reared back and shot forth a glowing ball of fire. It flew like a cannonball toward Gretta, lighting an orange, glowing path on the ground as it sought his target.
Gretta stumbled backwards and fell to the ground.
I almost lost my hold on the window frame, but I recovered my grip an instant before I would have fallen to my death. Maybe the dragon would have swooped in and saved me. Not really something I wanted to test.
I watched attentively from the tower, wondering again just how much power Gretta had over him. He wasn't happy and didn't seem to like her one bit. Then, in an instant, the massive beast spit another glowing ball of fire from his mouth. It rocketed toward Gretta and she pulled her body back along the ground toward the castle.
