Five Magic Spindles: A Collection of Sleeping Beauty Stories

by Rachel Kovaciny

  “Those two!” said the girl, waving her hand over Franz’s head in the general direction of the heroic figures. “I chose them first, you see. I have to choose a new hero once every hundred years. To break the curse. But first one then the other succumbed to Lady Mara’s temptations, and—”

  Before she could finish this baffling speech, her voice was cut off by the most blood-curdling roar ever to shatter the eardrums of a living man. Surely dragons could not make such a din, nor even demons. Franz screamed—making the two men in the driver’s box laugh—and flopped down on his side, trying to hide his face in the floor. The roar sounded again, and a third time. Each roar seemed to go on for an age.

  At last all was quiet. Franz, his heart ramming in his throat, turned his face to look in wide-eyed dread at the ghost girl. “What was that?” he gasped, his voice nearly silenced by his own terror.

  The ghost girl gave a little shrug. “Oh, that’s just the Slavering Swamp Beast. Nothing for you to worry about.”

  Chapter 3

  “HOW DID YOU FIND this place?” the oldest fairy demanded, taking a step forward as though to protect her two younger sisters. “I placed the wards myself. You should never have so much as glimpsed Briardale from afar! Not unless invited in by a member of the household.”

  The Lady of Darkness only smiled. “I have eyes and ears in more places than you can possibly imagine. Though you never realized it, you practically did invite me in.”

  She took three steps into the room, her long cloak billowing behind her like tattered storm clouds. Her sweeping eye landed on the princess’s still form. The spindle lay as though just fallen from her fingers, and a trickle of blood fell from the tiny wound its point had inflicted.

  “I’ve had eighteen years,” said the Lady, breathing the words like poisonous fumes, “to think what I might do to circumvent that counterspell you”—with an evil glance at the trembling youngest fairy—“dared cast to destroy my original curse. Did you think I would sit idly by all that time? My enchantments have only grown more potent and dreadful!”

  She flung out her hand. Before the three fairies could even twitch their wands, dark streams of enchantment shot from the tips of the Lady’s fingers, wrapping around the princess like the coils of a huge serpent.

  And the princess’s rose-petal complexion paled . . . then darkened to hard gray.

  “What is she doing?” cried the youngest fairy, nearly dropping her wand in terror.

  “She’s turning her to stone!” the middle fairy replied. And she was right—for as the enchantment dissipated and drifted away, they saw their princess’s image in perfect stone lying upon that floor, stone curls still covering part of her face.

  But, the oldest fairy noted with some grim satisfaction, her mouth, though hard and uninviting, still lay exposed, the lips gently puckered as though waiting for a kiss.

  She did not dwell upon this thought, however, for she saw then that the dark tendrils of sorcery had not dissipated. Instead, they flowed along the floor of that tower chamber, crawled up the wall, and poured out the window. With a cry of dismay, the oldest fairy leapt to the window and looked down into the courtyard below . . .

  The courtyard where the king and his retinue were now dismounting and looking around for some sign of greeting from the castle inhabitants. The king himself—tall, noble, beautiful beyond the ken of mortal minds—seemed to sniff the air, his fair brow constricting. He looked up just as the first snakelike enchantment reached him, winding about his head and body before he had time to draw breath.

  One by one, every member of that noble company—and even their noble steeds—fell under the Dark Lady’s spell.

  The courtyard, which only moments before had brimmed with life, was now full of statues.

  The roar of the Slavering Swamp Beast still ringing in his ears, Franz pushed himself upright and faced the ghostly girl. “I-I don’t believe in-in Swamp Beasts,” he said at last.

  He’d heard stories, of course, but stories were just . . . stories. Make believe. Harmless horrors used to frighten unruly children into obedience at bedtime or when the boiled greens looked particularly unsavory. They weren’t real.

  “For that matter, I don’t believe in ghosts,” he added.

  She laughed. “How about elves? Do you believe in them?”

  “No.”

  “Fairies?”

  “No . . .”

  “Heroes? Please tell me you believe in heroes.”

  Franz didn’t answer. Maybe he was a lunatic after all. Maybe Briardale was the perfect home for him. Otherwise, how could he explain his current situation?

  Her cheerful laugh reminded him of a songbird in spring, and her green, shimmery form momentarily brightened. Then it dimmed again, and her face became serious. “I don’t need you to believe in me. I wouldn’t believe in me if I could help it. Being a ghost isn’t pleasant; though it has its uses where locked doors and suchlike are concerned. But I can’t actually touch anything in the mortal world, which can be right frustrating at times! And flying about disembodied loses its charm after a few centuries.” She sighed heavily then shook her head. “No matter! I don’t need you to believe in me, but I do need you to believe in heroes. More importantly, I need you to be a hero. A True Hero.”

  Franz considered the two mighty figures currently driving the cart, then pictured the face and form he knew from the mirror—the freckles, skinny shoulders, and sad eyes. He tended to stoop from the hours he spent each day hunched over his desk, and his fingers were permanently ink-stained.

  A hero? Unlikely!

  But this ride through the Black Swamp might continue for hours, and he needed something to distract his mind from the horrors no doubt waiting for him at journey’s end. So he asked, “Why do you need a hero?”

  “That’s more like it!” said the ghost girl, rocking eagerly back and forth. “That’s the curious spirit I knew you possessed!” She folded her hands like a school girl about to give a recitation. “Once upon a time,” she began.

  Franz interrupted her. “I don’t need a story, thank you. Please, just tell me what you want with me.”

  “It involves a story, I’m afraid,” she replied a little sharply. “So settle back and listen. Once upon a time—more than five hundred years ago, if you must know—King Pintamore of the Elves ruled this land and the three kingdoms surrounding. He was a wise and just king, beautiful, noble, beloved . . .” The girl trailed off, giving Franz a sharp look. “But you don’t believe in him either, do you.”

  Franz shook his head. The straightjacket made him much too warm for comfort underneath that canvas, and the air of the Black Swamp was muggy. Sweat dripped down his face, tickling as it went, and he could do nothing about it. So he pressed against the cage bars in sheer misery and listened to this unbelievable tale related by this unbelievable girl.

  “No matter,” said she with a shrug. “Whether you believe it or not, King Pintamore was the most perfect of all perfect kings, the greatest ruler ever seen across all the magical realms. But he was a born a twin. A younger twin at that. And this proved the source of all his troubles.

  “His sister, Mara—older than him by mere minutes—could not inherit the throne, due to a law set in place by the Elders many centuries ago.” The ghost gazed off into some hazy distance, as if she could see the ancient king and his sister even now, right through the canvas covering. “Mara grew up with bitterness in her heart that her right to rule had been stripped away by some narrow-minded decree made by those who had never met her or her brother. Though she may have begun this life as beautiful and noble as her brother, that bitterness festered, blackening her very soul.

  “No one realized what was happening, however, for Mara always wore a smiling face in public, always played the part of the deferential sister, loyal to her brother in all things. Who could have guessed at the tragedy brewing?

  “You see, the royal family of the elves is gifted in magic more potent and powerful even than the magic
of fairies. But in Mara, that magic took a dark turn. As her powers blossomed, they just as quickly rotted until, by the time she reached full maturity, she was already the first true and terrible sorceress seen in the living world in a millennium. Still, she kept it a close secret. Rumors abounded, but no one knew if those rumors were true . . . and no one traced them back to the king’s own sister.”

  Despite himself, Franz was caught up in the tale. The ghost girl’s straightforward but eager delivery made a fellow almost believe the impossible things she said.

  “Disaster might still have been averted,” the ghost girl continued. “Lady Mara might have kept her evil magic to herself, might even have eventually gotten it under control and turned back to goodness. But then the king’s firstborn child was born . . . a daughter. And King Pintamore made a decision that tipped Lady Mara right over the edge.

  “You see, King Pintamore had always thought it unfair that his sister should have her kingdom taken from her. He’d suspected the bitterness in her heart, however, so he made no move to protest the law or to renounce his crown, accepting it as his duty when the time came for him to rule the Elf Kingdoms. But when the baby princess was born, he thought again how wrong it would be for her to never claim her inheritance as queen, particularly if a younger brother should ever come along. Determined that she would not be likewise ill-used, he set to work rewriting the ancient law.

  “It took time and effort, but on the morning of the princess’s Naming Day, the good king was able to celebrate not only the reveal of his daughter’s name, but also her assumption of the role of heir to the throne. When the time came, she would become Ruling Queen of the Elves.”

  Franz watched how the green glow around the ghost girl brightened and her eyes shone with admiration for the ancient, and probably fictitious, king. He couldn’t help being moved by the story.

  The ghost girl met his gaze, and her shining eyes dimmed with foreboding. “Just when the celebration was at its highest pitch—just when King Pintamore lifted his infant daughter above his head for all his court to see—that’s when—”

  Bang!

  The cart came to an abrupt halt, and Franz fell again, this time hitting his head rather badly. Sparks danced before his eyes, and his vision darkened so that he almost couldn’t see when the ghost girl got up and put her head through the canvas and cage bars. She pulled back inside again, her eyes huge. “We’re here already!” she gasped. “Oh dear, I don’t have any time . . . If she guesses who you are, she’ll lock you up in the dungeon, and I don’t know what I’ll do then! I need you to make your daring escape now, if you don’t mind, then follow me quickly.”

  Franz, still lying on his side, the jacket holding his arms in a tight self-embrace, gaped at her. “You want me to what?”

  “Make your daring escape. Your sudden burst free,” said the ghost girl, flitting this way and that, her hands clasped anxiously. “You know, like heroes do. They always burst free at the last moment.”

  “But . . . but . . .”

  The two mighty figures outside spoke together in low murmurs. Then Franz heard the crunch as though of boots landing in gravel outside.

  “Then we’ll have to hide somewhere, you know,” the ghost girl continued. “I’d take you directly to the tower if I could, but with the barrier in place . . . we’ll need to find the missing wands before we can get through . . . Oh, do hurry, please.”

  “You’re crazy!” Franz hissed, rolling onto his shoulder and struggling to get himself upright. “You’re crazier than I am! I’m not a hero! I can’t suddenly burst free of anything, and I can’t—”

  The canvas whipped off the cage, letting in a whole world of blinding gray swamp light. With a little “Oh!” the ghost girl vanished, leaving Franz blinking and wincing in that glare even as the two heroic figures unlatched the cage door.

  “Still in there, I see,” said the raven-haired one. “Not much of a hero, are you?”

  “I tell you, he is her Chosen One,” the golden-haired one replied, his deep voice full of warning. “We’d best keep a close eye on him, just in case.”

  The cage door creaked open. Franz, still mostly blind from the sudden light, saw huge hands reaching toward him, then found himself dragged across the cage floor and falling, falling . . .

  Thwack!

  His back hit the ground, and pain shot through his already battered head. He blinked once, twice . . . his gaze blackened, the world spun, and for one blessed moment he thought he might slip into unconsciousness and be able to forget the tangled web his life had become.

  But it was not to be.

  The darkness receded, and he found himself at a wicked wall of briars and thorns. Just beyond the wall, a tall tower loomed above the swamp trees. It was an intimidating structure, especially since it was . . . upside down? Panic almost seized Franz at this revelation, but then he realized that it was he who was wrong-side up. He had little time to revel in this newest confirmation of his sanity, though.

  “Get up, little hero,” said a mocking yet epic voice. Another huge hand grabbed him by his shoulder, set him on his feet, and held him upright when his knees tried to buckle. “Welcome to Briardale.”

  Franz gazed first upon a gothic gate of scrolled black iron then on through the gate into a courtyard full of gaping-mouthed, hollow-eyed statues. Beyond those statues rose a fortification of moss-encrusted, briar-choked stone . . . a proper home for minds gone mad.

  Minds like his.

  Chapter 4

  THE ELDEST FAIRY TURNED from the window, her beautiful face stricken with horror. The Dark Lady’s power had grown indeed, festering into such a force of evil that she might ensorcell the king himself, so long as he was taken unawares. Such power was far too great for any one fairy to combat on her own, not even a fairy as strong as she.

  But she was not alone.

  “Sisters!” she cried, lifting her wand and springing across the room to stand between the other two. “Counterspell, at once!”

  The magic in their spirits brimmed, finding focus in their wands, which glowed in three different hues of glorious color. But the youngest fairy whispered, “What counterspell do you mean, exactly?”

  The eldest fairy blinked, for her mind was still galloping to catch up with their circumstances. And in that moment of hesitation, the Lady threw back her head and laughed.

  “Did you think,” she declared, her voice made more terrible by that laugh, “that I’ve not had time these last eighteen years to consider what to do with you three fools as well?”

  With that, she lifted her hand—for elf magic requires no wands for focus—and spoke a single harsh word: “Il’ve!”

  The word was like a slap across the eldest fairy’s face. She staggered and felt her sisters, one on each side, grab hold of her arms. Time seemed to slow, as though dragging through bog muck. The fairies could not move, could do nothing but stare in horror as an onyx ball formed in the Lady’s fingers.

  With a flick of her hand, the Lady sent that ball rolling through the air toward the trio. As it came, it broke into three parts—three snarling wolves made up of shadows and dark enchantment. Each wolf lunged for one of the fairies, mouths gaping wide, wider than should be possible, ready to swallow them whole.

  Botheration! the eldest fairy thought.

  Then the darkness of that wolf throat enveloped her. Tiny stings covered her face, her hands, her wings. Amidst the growing pain, the eldest fairy felt herself tilting, plummeting . . .

  A thin wisp of ghostly greenness floated over the heads of the two heroic figures and the one wretched figure wrapped in a white straightjacket. She hesitated a moment, hating to abandon her Chosen One. But if she spoke to him, tried to offer him advice or comfort, he might respond . . .

  And the two former heroes would know exactly what that meant. They were already too suspicious.

  So the ghost—whose name was Roselee—darted away, a thin stream of ghost-smoke passing through the iron bars of the gate into the
courtyard beyond. The statues standing at intervals about the yard seemed to watch her with their sad stone eyes.

  Roselee shivered and looked away quickly. All those glorious, noble folk depending on her for their salvation! She had not asked for that task, and as the centuries passed, she’d begun to fear it wasn’t a task she could fulfill.

  Nevertheless, she paused before one particular figure. Tall, kingly, his head upraised as though even now he looked upon the dark spell that descended upon him centuries ago.

  His gaze was the one Roselee most dreaded facing. But she offered her best attempt at a curtsy, which was rendered still more awkward by virtue of her insubstantiality. “This one,” she whispered, “he’ll be a True Hero for all of us. I promise.”

  Was it a promise she could keep? By sunset tomorrow they’d know for sure . . .

  One of the former heroes—the raven-haired one, her first Chosen One—pounded on the iron gate, his deep voice echoing across the courtyard. “We’re here, my Lady! We’ve brought the new one!”

  A chill shuddered through Roselee’s phantom being. Though she knew no one but Franz could see her, she could not help ducking behind the imposing marble figure of King Pintamore.

  A door opened in the castle keep. Though it was only mid-afternoon, darkness poured into the courtyard, rendering all as gloomy as dusk.

  Lady Mara appeared.

  She stepped from her fortress dwelling and crossed the courtyard, her pace slow and sedate, as though the heavy robes of black shadow she wore weighed her down. Roselee had never seen her face, not once in the five hundred years since she’d awakened to find herself insubstantial, realized she was a ghost, and began haunting the grounds like a proper ghost should. Many times she had crossed paths with the sinister Mistress of Briardale, but always the Lady wore a veil. Roselee couldn’t guess why. Did she hide some hideous disfigurement? Or was she a monster more terrible than a ghost or ghoul?