Cinderella: Ninja Warrior

by Maureen McGowan

  She did, but all her senses could focus on was Ty: the height of his lean, strong body next to hers, the caress of his hands, the warmth of his breath as he spoke softly.

  “What are your senses telling you?” he asked.

  Heat burned her cheeks. No way could she tell him the truth.

  “Focus,” he said.“What do you hear? Which way is the wind blowing? How far away are the stands?”

  She took a deep breath and blocked out the shivery deliciousness of Ty’s attention. The rest of the arena slowly came into focus in her mind’s eye. The wind was light, blowing from east to west across the arena, almost perpendicular to the hoops. The nearest stands were twenty-two—no, twenty-three feet away, and the scent of a sausage hit her nostrils. A man in the front row burped.

  Grinning, she opened her eyes and turned to Ty. “You’re right. If I focus, I can feel things around me.”

  He gently squeezed her arm. “I knew it. I just knew it. There’s strong magic inside you, Cinderella. Just let it guide you. Trust yourself. Believe in yourself.”

  “Thank you.” She looked into his eyes and felt the strangest conflicting sensations. It was as if she were melting, yet becoming stronger at the same time. Stronger than she’d felt in her entire life. She could do this. She reached up to touch his face, then, realizing the boldness of her gesture, pulled away.

  He caught her hand in his, held it, and bent to place a soft kiss on her cheek. “Good luck,” he whispered. “I wish I could stay, but if I don’t get back soon, I’ll be missed.”

  Ty dropped her hand and stepped back, and she felt lost, as if something had been sucked from inside her, leaving a vacuum. “Can you come back before the next event?”

  “I’m not sure.” He looked down, then back up. “My duties.”

  “Of course.” She’d been so silly. He was a servant of the royal family. He couldn’t just drop everything because she needed him.

  He bent down toward her, softly placed a kiss on her lips, and she felt as if her body had lifted from the ground. She rubbed one foot along the turf to be sure she was wrong.

  “Come to the ball.” He sent her a wickedly powerful and dimpled smile that shot straight into her heart.

  “I’ll try.”

  He nodded, then he turned to run back to the entrance of the arena.

  “Who was that?” asked a tall girl in pigtails standing next to her.

  “My friend.” She had a friend. Her insides warmed at the words, but she couldn’t think about Ty right now. It was time to focus on hoops, distances, and trajectories. She’d need to utilize a variety of tricks, depending on the weights of the balls and the wind speed as she made each throw.

  “He’s kind of cute,” the girl said. “But you’re nuts to let a servant boy kiss you.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m holding out for the prince.”

  Cinderella said nothing, but simply nodded at the girl and then excused herself to focus on the hoops course and the daunting task ahead of her. Nothing—even setting this girl straight—was more important than winning the competition.

  Lost in the concentration of preparation, she jumped when someone nudged her. Her number had been called, and she stepped forward to let the wizard’s assistant put a blindfold over her eyes. It didn’t appear or feel thick, but the fabric was clearly enchanted; it quickly molded to her face, leaving her in complete and total darkness.

  The assistant led her forward and then set her hand on the basket of balls. She suddenly realized she didn’t even have any idea where the other competitors’ scores lay, or how many points she’d need to do well; she’d been so distracted by Ty and then studying the course. Perhaps it was better not to know. Better to concentrate only on the hoops, the balls, and the task at hand.

  A bell rang. It was her time to begin, and behind the darkness of her blindfold she pictured the heights and sizes of each hoop and their locations on the field. She picked up a ball, felt its weight and rubbery soft surface in her fingers, and then lobbed it, underhanded, toward the closest of the hoops.

  A horn sounded. She’d missed.

  Come on, Cinderella, she admonished and then quickly encouraged herself. You can do this. Concentrate. Have confidence in your abilities. Believe in yourself.

  She picked up another ball, stood very still, focused, and then tossed it higher and farther, aiming for one of the mid-field hoops blocking the path to the ones at the back.

  A cheer rang out from the crowd; it was so loud she almost didn’t hear the bell signaling her success. She’d done it. If she had hit the hoop, she thought, she would have only scored four points, but that hoop would drop out of the way and clear her path to the ones yielding higher points downfield.

  Four more chances and the time was ticking away. How much of it had passed? She wished she’d thought of some method to keep track of time. It wouldn’t do for the clock to run out before she’d thrown all six of her balls.

  She picked up another and concentrated on one of the rings at the far end of the field. It alone was worth twenty points and was one that no contestant thus far had attempted. But she could feel the ring’s location, as if it were sending her vibrating messages. Here I am. Here I am.

  Not confident she’d make the distance with an underhand throw, she wound up, stepped forward, and used her entire body’s force to hurl the rubber ball at its target.

  The crowd gasped, realizing which hoop she’d aimed for, and she instantly remembered the rule that contestants were immediately out of this round as soon as they missed two targets. If she missed, she was done with this event.

  The collective gasp became a cheer and the bell sounded. She’d made it.

  She pushed aside her joy and pride, ignored the roar and chanting of the crowd, and picked up another ball. She was going to aim for another of the hoops blocking the path to higher-scoring ones.

  She lined up and threw. The crowd went wild and she could almost swear she’d heard two bells ringing. Yes, given the angle she’d thrown, it was possible the ball had sailed through two hoops. If she remembered the rules correctly, she’d score double for each. Pride swelled in her chest, but she couldn’t rest on her laurels or get overconfident.

  She threw the remaining balls, hitting her target each time, and then waited for someone to remove her blindfold. But it turned transparent and fell from her face on its own.

  Blinking against the sunlight, she shielded her eyes and looked up to the scoreboard. Sixty-four points! Even some of her fellow contestants were clapping her on the back.

  She scanned the sidelines for Ty, but couldn’t find him. All she wanted was to see him again.

  If she won the competition, she would have to share a dance with the prince, but she could suffer through that if it meant she would see Ty at the ball.

  By the time a wizard led her non-wand group to their final event, Cinderella was in second place.

  Her jaw gaped.

  In front of them were dozens of rows of narrow beams, and they were not only impossibly—dangerously—high off the ground, they had gaps and other obstacles between them to make transferring between each beam treacherous.

  One of the wizards shed his robe to reveal a loose-fitting black jumpsuit, and the announcer explained the wizard would demonstrate the event to prove passage was possible.

  The wizard leaped into the air and landed on the lowest beam, nearly seven feet off the ground. Cinderella’s stomach flipped over. She was an accomplished jumper, but to leap that high and land on the beam without losing her balance seemed impossible. She wondered whether it would be against the rules to land with her hands first.

  She watched, amazed, as the wizard ran down beams with ease, jumped past swinging blades, and held his balance while the beams shook, spun, rose, and fell. He completed the entire course in two minutes and thirty-seven seconds—without even wobbling, never mind falling down. The contestants’ time limit was ten minutes.

  The crowd cheered as the wizard leaped from the final
platform, nearly thirty feet from the ground, slowing himself to a hover before landing on one foot.

  So graceful. So accomplished.

  “Fabulous job, Anders, fabulous.” The announcer turned toward them. “But the contestants should know that there’s no requirement to complete the course exactly as Anders did. To have reached this far in the competition, all of you have demonstrated some innate magic abilities as well as physical agility and strong powers of logic and concentration. This difficult event will require extremely high levels of those same skills.”

  He stepped back and addressed the crowd. “The event ends if the contestant falls or if any part of his or her body other than the feet or hands touches the beam. Competitors will be judged based on the number of beams traversed in the least amount of time, and extra points will be assigned for style and danger.”

  The crowd murmured their approval. Cinderella’s belly voiced its dissent. Points for danger? She didn’t like the sound of that. Her magic skills weren’t strong enough to pull this off. But there was a bright side: because of her Way of the Warrior book, her body and mind were well prepared to do their parts.

  “Spotters will be provided on request.” The announcer gestured toward a group of wizards in robes of various colors who bowed toward them slightly. “The spotters will prevent any contestant who falls from hitting the ground.”

  Cinderella heaved a sigh of relief, as did several others around her.

  “However,” the announcer continued, “any contestant who forgoes the spotters will automatically score ten bonus points simply by landing successfully on the first beam, and another ten points for landing on each successive beam to the end of the course.”

  Wow. She could feel the tension in her fellow competitors. If they completed even half of the seven-beam course without spotters, they’d score an automatic thirty or forty points. But the second they fell, unless they could roll through their landing, or possessed the skills to stop themselves midair, they’d end up smashed to pieces. Hard to believe even the best magic healer could fix that kind of damage.

  “And now, we begin.” The announcer pulled a number from an upturned hat that appeared out of thin air, and one by one, the competitors took their turns, all opting for spotters, until number 22 was called. The tall, strong boy was ahead of Cinderella on the leaderboard.

  Dressed in leather breeches and a shirt, 22 strode up to the starting line and flipped over the black panel hanging from the pole to indicate he was opting for no spotter. The audience hushed, electricity filled the air, and for a moment Cinderella couldn’t breathe. She’d been hoping no one would opt for the no-spotter route to make her choice easier.

  She braced herself and bit her lip as the boy ran forward, leaped into the air, and waved his arms before landing on the first beam with a thud.

  In spite of his heavy first landing, he nearly floated as he ran down the ten-foot length of the beam and leaped up to swing on the bar that, if he were lucky and had timed it correctly, would catapult him up to the level of the next beam. He made it.

  She watched, impressed, as he continued along the course. Even if he looked somewhat awkward, bending his legs in the air and flapping his arms to maintain balance, she figured she was watching her main competition. She hoped. What if someone else was even better? She forced that thought out of her mind. No sense in imagining challenges. Reality was challenging enough.

  When 22 reached the third beam, it started to shake. He was the first contestant to reach that height, more than twenty-five feet from the ground, and he’d done so without the comfort of spotters.

  The next beam had been rising and falling, sometimes as much as ten feet above the third beam and sometimes as many feet below it. Number 22 raced down the shaking beam and leaped for the fourth. Risky move. If he didn’t time it right, he’d have problems. He aimed high. The crowd gasped as the beam plunged while he was in the air.

  The boy’s arms windmilled frantically as he tried to regain control, but it was no use. Cinderella put her hands over her eyes and peeked through her fingers as he landed on the next beam—not on his feet but on his backside.

  She gasped. Even if that was allowed—which it wasn’t—it had to have hurt.

  A horn sounded. Two ropes appeared and wrapped around his body under his outstretched arms. The ropes lifted him off the beam and slowly lowered him to the ground, where a wizard rushed to his side. The boy limped forward, clearly in a lot of pain, but waved to the crowd, which went bananas.

  No matter what his score was, he was clearly now the crowd favorite. Bravery obviously counted for something with this group. Either that or they were out for blood.

  Instead of watching the next few contestants perform, Cinderella kept her eyes on the fourth beam—the one 22 had crashed onto—and tried to discern its pattern of movement. At first it all seemed random, but she soon figured out a sequence of thirteen positions, with a varying number of seconds between lurches up or down.

  She was so focused on verifying that the pattern was in fact a pattern, she jumped when her number was called.

  Walking to the starting line, she gathered every ounce of bravery inside her and flipped the card to show she’d decided against spotters.

  The noise from the crowd swelled in response. Behind her, she heard a few snickers. Clearly, many didn’t think the tiny blonde girl was up to the task, but if she wanted to win, she didn’t have any choice after that boy had scored sixty-two points.

  “Are you ready?” the announcer asked. Cinderella nodded, but knew by now that it was a rhetorical question. Several contestants had been left standing stunned when the horn sounded as they were busy answering no.

  It was on. The horn sounded loud in her ear, but all she focused on was the image of landing on that first beam. Because she was so much shorter, she’d need a little magic right from the start. She had to believe she could do it. She ran forward, did a round-off and three back handsprings to gain speed, and then launched off the ground, her back high and arching. It was the highest she’d ever jumped. She watched her hands as they flew up and back, envisioning the beam between them until it appeared just six inches below her.

  She clasped the beam as her body was upside down, and she easily stepped out of her backflip, legs solidly planted in a lunge.

  A roar rose in her ears, but she forced out the sound. All she could think about was her task, keeping safe, living through this event so she could win the competition.

  She turned to face the end of the beam and gripped it with her toes. The sharp edges dug into the soles of her feet, but she welcomed the pain as a clear signal of where the boundary of her safety zone lay. She inhaled deeply using her diaphragm, and then slowly exhaled, forcing all the air out.

  After inhaling again, she ran along the beam and jumped up to grasp the bar at the end, arching her body to maximize the momentum she’d get as she swung forward. Not feeling confident she’d achieved the proper reach, she swung back again and heard the crowd groan. Clearly they’d assumed she’d given up, but the few extra seconds to execute another swing would be worth it if it assured a clean landing on the next beam, nearly six feet away and five feet higher.

  On her second swing, she let go and somersaulted before landing on her feet on the second beam.

  The crowd roared. She’d been the first to do a flip between the two beams, but she hadn’t just done it for style points. As she’d suspected, the extra propulsion from the flip had made it much easier to get that second beam.

  The beam, starting at twelve feet from the ground, would rise an additional ten feet as she traversed it, but it would do so slowly, so she considered performing some other kind of trick while crossing, but that would be showing off. Even if it might earn her a few points, she didn’t want to be cocky. Confidence was one thing, overconfidence another, and she’d barely started this event.

  Besides, this beam’s main challenge wasn’t its increasing height—reaching over twenty feet by the end—bu
t the hoop at its end, which she’d have to jump through. A hoop that had just burst into flames. Although she knew the hottest part—the section that would cause her clothing or hair or skin to ignite—was only at the hoop’s edges, the action of diving straight through what amounted to a disk of flames would take all the courage, concentration, and careful calculation that she could summon.

  Most competitors had stopped before reaching the flaming hoop. The few who’d dived through but failed had mistimed straightening their bodies for landing on the next beam, and had hit the top edge of the hoop with their backs or legs.

  She had a different technique in mind.

  After tightening the hair ribbon Ty had loaned her, she took a deep breath and ran, focusing on her flaming hoop target.

  She dove through the hoop, her body straight as an arrow, not even trying to adjust to a vertical position for landing. Instead, after clearing the flames, she placed her hands on the next beam, pressed down to lift her body and control her momentum, and then swung her legs forward in a V shape, pointing her toes. Nothing but her hands had touched the beam, and hands were allowed.

  Swinging her legs back, she pushed up to a handstand. The beam started to vibrate.

  Don’t look down. Don’t look down.

  She looked down.

  How could she not look down? Her face was pointed to the ground, now twenty-two feet below her and impossibly far away. Taking the no-spotter option had been a huge mistake. Not only wouldn’t she win, she was going to die.

  She wobbled, but split her legs in the handstand to regain her balance, and stepped down, fighting to keep the beam’s vibrations from stealing her balance. She had to keep her mind focused.

  From the reading she’d done on ninja mind exercises, she figured the key was to be one with the beam—not to fight the vibrations, but to allow them to flow through her. Essentially, to give up control and vibrate, too, so that walking down the shaking beam would be as natural as walking along the floor in her cellar room.

  Letting her body vibrate, she crossed the beam quickly, focusing instead on the swinging blade between this beam and the next.