Dean-Na and the Hairless Rose

by Robyn Fraser

  With that, Percival Portiscue stepped over to the yellow transporter hoop and pillow with the sign ‘Insufferable Isle’ above, and stepped into it. “Wish me luck,” he said. He sat down heavily, a thick cloud of dust rising up from the pillow, obscuring the porpoise and his pink sparkly gown in the second before he disappeared. It seemed no one traveled much to that island. Dean could understand why.

  “Good luck,” said Dean to the dust. Then they picked up their backpack and, with weary resolve, pushed up from the overly comfortable beanbag chair and took the route through the castle that Percival had shown them earlier. The one that led to the highest tower of Magus Manor, from which the forest, the mountain ridge and the western shores of Slightly Silly Sea could all be seen.

  It was a round room, maybe thirty feet across, with a full circle of windows to see out in every direction. The walls were painted bright yellow with colorful drawings of flowers and people (humanish and non-humanish alike) frolicking through them. A ladder in the middle of the room led up to a trap door in the ceiling. Dean took this, pushed open the door and pulled themselves out onto the low-walled rooftop.

  It was really quite the view. They could see for miles and miles, especially using the retractable rainbow-colored telescope that Percival had given them. Directly to the east, the dense greenery of the Fantabulous Forest swished in the breeze like it was waving to Dean, maybe trying to call them back in. They quickly looked away.

  Beyond this was the Riddled Ridge and then, to the south, were the western shores of Slightly Silly Sea. The grey navy ships were sitting there, just off the coastline. Dozens of smaller boats filled with Concreta Control Corps were making their way to land where, already, at least a few hundred soldiers were milling around, waiting for the wall to drop, waiting to attack Magitoria.

  Between the Riddled Ridge and the Sea, tanks were rolling west along the uneven ground and meeting up with the foot troops. Dean’s heart fluttered at the sight—the army was huge. Much larger than they’d realized. Their plan suddenly seemed completely and utterly useless.

  “It’s our best chance,” they said to themselves. “Our only chance. It’ll work, it’ll work, it’ll work.” Dean kept up this mantra as they used the telescope to scan south of Magus City to the Mildly Moldy Marshes in the distance. Though allergic to mold, Dean was nonetheless thankful for their presence. The Reversing River wandered from Slightly Silly Sea, through the marshes and right past the centre of Magus. Luckily it was too narrow for Concreta’s war ships to travel through. And the marshes themselves prevented Mr. Sactual from invading farther south on foot, which instead left him and his army with what was a fairly small area in which to march into Magus for their attack. Not that they’d get that far, if things went as planned.

  Dean couldn’t see far past the marshes, but knew that several small Magitorian towns were situated beyond them and then, much farther south, on the other side of Magitoria’s boundaries, were Port Potty and the Juggernaut Jungle.

  To the west, where the sun was now high in the bright, cloudless sky, more towns dotted the rolling landscape, intermixing with vegetable farms and small lakes.

  It was really a beautiful view and one that Dean hoped to have the chance to appreciate for a long time after 4:18pm today. They glanced at their watch: 12:22. Less than four hours.

  Dean climbed back down the ladder into the circular tower room and glanced at the beanbag chair against the wall. They considered a short nap—their exhaustion was weighing them down like a lead safe—but finally decided against it, worried about not waking on time.

  Instead, they sat on the hard stone floor, stared out the window to the east, opened their backpack, pulled out a veggie-filled pasty and ate it. It was leftover from the food they’d been munching on throughout the night while creating The Plan.

  When they’d finished, Dean grabbed the flask of coffee that Percival had insisted they bring along.

  “It’ll keep your eyes open when you think you can’t stay awake another moment. Puts the hair on your chest, too,” he’d said, pointing to the handful of hairs sprouting over the neckline of his gown. While Dean wasn’t so sure they wanted chest hairs, it did remind them of how much they missed the mustache and goatee. Regardless, Dean did have a desire to stay awake, so they opened the lid, poured some of the warm, thick black liquid into the cup, and took a sip.

  “Ahh! Mother Puck!” Dean cried, referring, of course, to the Creator of all the Waterways, wishing water what they were drinking now. Even with the dumpster load of sugar Percival had added (or maybe because of it) the coffee tasted more gross than eating someone else’s boogers. But they took another sip anyway, thinking of it like medicine that would help them get through the coming hours.

  Dean’s outcry had them thinking back to their first day in Illusiland, when they’d been captured by the pirates of the Mother Puck, and they wondered if any of them had survived. Especially Measley, without whom they wouldn’t be here right now. Captain Capitan had really been quite pleasant in her own way, too. And honestly, anyone who liked Harry Potter couldn’t be all that bad. Unless they rooted for Slytherin of course…

  “Ugh, uhhh…” Dean’s head jerked up from their chest, eyes suddenly wide open. They’d almost dozed off. They glanced at their watch: 1:42. They had dozed off.

  Quickly, they forced back some more, now cold, coffee, sat up and returned to the rooftop. Everyone should be ready and in position by now. It was time to get started.

  Dean pulled out their grey cell. It was much like the mobile phone they’d had before the pirates had captured them, and exactly like the one Hercules had been using. They pressed a button, put the cell to their ear and forced themselves to stare out at the Fantabulous Forest again.

  “All ready over here, D.” It was Rose. “Just waiting for your signal.”

  “Good,” replied Dean. “As soon as I know everyone is ready to go, I’ll get back to you.”

  They pressed one button and then another.

  “Hercules Poisson, at your service.”

  “Hercules, is Percival there with you?”

  “Yes, mademoiselle, he is.” Though Dean didn’t speak Belchant, they felt that mademoiselle wasn’t quite the right title for them anymore. They’d talk to Hercules about it some other time. “He has shared with me your plan most formidable. But,” he lowered his voice, “if you might go over it one time, Hercules would appreciate this. Your friend, he is missing a few of—how do you say—”

  “The grey cells?” interjected Dean.

  “No, no, mademoiselle, he has several of those and has passed them out to others in our party. Ah, the marbles, that is what I meant to say.”

  Dean quickly went over the plan with Hercules. “So, are you all ready to go when I give my signal?” they asked.

  “Oui, mademoiselle, we are most ready here, have no fear.”

  “Great. Thanks so much, Hercules. Hope to see you soon.”

  “Moi aussi, mon ami. Moi aussi.”

  Dean made two more calls. Everyone was in place and ready. Another watch check: 2:02pm. They’d wait until two-thirty. Then they’d put their fantastically far-fetched plan into action.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Where:

  A: Dean Wins the War

  B: Magitoria is Made Mundane

  C: Both A and B

  D: None of the Above

  Two-thirty. Okay, here goes everything, thought Dean. They were still up on the Magus Manor tower rooftop, facing east, toward where all the action was about to happen. And where it would hopefully all end before the spell did at 4:18pm. Before the Concretian army could invade with their tanks, guns and bullets and take over all of Magitoria and its people.

  They held the grey cell to their ear again. “Rose, it’s time. Any questions?”

  “No, we’re ready to go.” Rose sounded determined. “See you soon, D. May Dog be with you.”

  “May dog be with you, too, Rose,” said Dean.

  They put
down the cell and steeled themselves to watch the Fantabulous Forest. Nothing happened for a minute, two minutes, three. Then, suddenly, the treetops exploded in a burst of multicolored feathers as over two hundred chickens flew up from the forest floor and traveled south, toward the Concretian troops.

  “Okay, okay, you’re almost there,” said Dean, holding the telescope to their eye.

  As planned, the chickens passed over the tanks and headed for the foot soldiers, who had now seen the flock and had guns raised to the sky. The sharp crack of bullets filled the air. Three chickens fell.

  “Now, now, now!” cried Dean, though they’d never be heard.

  But as if they had been, the skies below the chickens suddenly filled with a storm of falling blue, red and grey powder—the crushed bits of hundreds, if not thousands of the Fantabulous Forest’s mind altering berries, mushrooms and mushberries.

  A few more shots went wild before the powder hit the troops. And then, as Dean barely dared to breathe, most of the soldiers began to laugh, or stagger, or hug one another. Many dropped their guns to the ground. Soldiers at the periphery of the powder seemed confused as to why their colleagues were suddenly acting so strangely.

  The chickens kept flying south, then angled back toward the centre of the city. Their job was done and, though there were a few fallen souls, the attack had been a success. Dean could only pray to dog that Rose was with the flock and that those who were hit were still alive.

  They directed their attention to the tanks just north of the foot troops; there had been no point trying to powder-bomb them since most of the soldiers were too well protected inside their steel vehicles.

  But they were also in a vulnerable position, with the Riddled Ridge and Slightly Silly Sea closing them in from north and south, and the spell-wall directly in front of them.

  Dean brought the grey cell to their ear and pressed another button. “Tank time,” they said.

  “Eugene, wha’ button does I press?” came the voice from the other end. It was a bit distant and fuzzy as though a finger was over the speaker. “This ‘un? Hullo? Deener, yous there?”

  “I’m here,” replied Dean, suddenly feeling extremely anxious about this part of the plan.

  “We’s on it,” said Minnie through the phone. “No worries.”

  Dean hung up, watched and worried.

  From behind the boulders and within the crevices of the Riddled Ridge, five-dozen Tiramisu trolls stood tall, their hands heavy with large rolling pins and baking pans, their faces orange with mango juice. Even from the great distance, Dean could feel the vibrations as they pounded down the mountain and surrounded the tanks.

  The soldiers on foot raised their rifles and shot, but the trolls used their pans as shields and any bullets that made it past did little more than nick a shoulder or a shin.

  The tanks turned their guns but they were too slow. The first line of trolls, which included Minnie and Eugene, reached down and bent them as though they were flexible straws. Then they ripped open the tank hatches, pulled out the soldiers, and trapped them as a group in large rolls of plastic wrap so that they couldn’t move. The second line of trolls proceeded to use their rolling pins to crush the tanks to smithereens.

  “Thank you, Minnie and Eugene,” exhaled Dean. This was going better than they could have hoped.

  Dean returned their attention further south. Their heart dropped. They had thought all the troops had made land already, but they were wrong. Dozens of rowboats, filled with hundreds more soldiers, were making their way from the large ships toward shore. Luckily, Dean had accounted for this possibility. They put the grey cell to their ear.

  “Time to act, Hercules.”

  “Of course, mademoiselle.”

  Dean returned the telescope to their eye. From a little distance south of the ships, the calm waters of the lake began to churn, swell, heave and race toward the rowboats. Gunfire rang out from the larger vessels, but within seconds had to cease-fire as the wave caught up with the smaller boats and began tipping and flipping them. The heads of porpoises, tunas, whales and other large water people bobbed in and out of view as they worked. Soon, every last Concretian solider was overboard and swimming for shore.

  “Okay, here comes the hard part,” said Dean, their telescope now glued to the larger vessels. They knew that Hercules had recruited every one of his many water friends to the coming task, but neither he nor Dean had known if it would be enough. Now was the test.

  One of the large boats began rocking side-to-side, reminding Dean of the pirate ship’s movements in the terrible storm. The rocking amplified. The goal was to capsize each vessel and it was looking like, at least for this first one, Hercules and his recruits would be successful. But it was taking too long—Dean had another assault they needed to begin before the effects of the berry and mushroom powders wore off on the soldiers. They put down their telescope and picked up the grey cell.

  “Ready at the foot front?” they asked.

  “All set,” said the Safety committee member who was leading this final part of Dean’s plan.

  “Okay. Time to cross the wall. Keep the art high and facing out at all times. But any sign of violence from the Concretians, retreat back behind the wall.”

  “Got it.”

  Dean put down the grey cell and picked up the telescope again, aiming it at the mass of hundreds of Magitorian citizens who were standing on the west side of the invisible wall, facing the still hallucinating and happy soldiers less than a hundred feet away on the other side.

  Dean watched as every one of the citizens stepped forward. Many were holding one or two fantastical sketches, either their own design or someone else’s. Some held funky pottery or sculptures out for the soldiers to see. Others, as they approached, recited poetry, mimed, played a musical instrument or even enacted scenes from famous Magitorian plays.

  It’s working, thought Dean, as the citizens gradually surrounded the soldiers on land and the latter gazed in awe and appreciation of everything they saw and heard.

  Other citizens continued on to the shoreline and, as the soldiers from the overturned rowboats scrambled to shore, their weapons either waterlogged or at the bottom of the lake, they surrounded them, too, with their art. These soldiers, having not been bombarded with the forest powders, were not as readily entranced. But, as their eyes and ears took in the imagination of the art that was surrounding them, their bodies relaxed and softened. What Dean had hoped for was happening.

  Then, in the final part of the assault, the citizens gave their artwork to the soldiers, hugging each one as they did so. The soldiers still under the influence of the forest powders reciprocated the embraces with passion. The waterlogged Concretians were more tentative, but most returned the physical gesture. Only a handful stayed away, unaltered by the art assault, but too outnumbered to do anything about it.

  Dean glanced at their watch. It was 4:55pm. The spell was officially broken, most of the soldiers had been ‘Imagified’ (a term Dean coined the night before to describe their idea of using art to reignite the hearts and imaginations of the Concretians) the ships, tanks and many weapons had been destroyed. Cheers and songs, laughter and music filled the air over the outskirts of the city. Dean’s heart lifted. They’d done it.

  “I wonder where Mr. Sactual is?” Dean scanned the soldiers, the tanks, and the lake for any sign of him. Which, they knew, was completely useless, as they had no idea what he even looked like.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear,” came a voice from just behind Dean, “that you might be looking for me?”

  Dean whipped around. Standing just in front of the trap door was a tall woman. She was dressed in grey pants and shirt, as were the five soldiers around her: three men and two women, all wearing large canvas packs on their backs. All were pointing guns at Dean.

  “You’re Deandra, correct?” said the lead woman, a superior smile on her long face, her grey eyes piercing into Dean’s. She took a step forward. Dean gulped and forced themsel
ves not to step away.

  “Actually, no,” said Dean. “It’s Deanna. Deandra was an alias. But I’m going by Dean right now.” Who was this woman?

  The woman’s smile faltered for a moment, but she recovered quickly. “Regardless of your name and gender confusion, am I correct in saying that

  you are the daughter of Queen Juliana and her King by Marriage Robert? I'd be more certain except that your hair is red and it's supposed to be brown.”

  Dean was alone, trapped and weaponless; they didn’t even have a stitch of artwork on them, having given it all away for the ‘Imagication’ assault (another term they’d coined in the wee hours of the morning). Everyone else was out on the ground, putting the finishing touches on what seemed like the successful defense of Magitoria. Dean was basically doomed, but since they’d felt that way several times in the past week, they held on to an ounce or two of hope.

  “I’m their child,” they replied, standing a little taller and speaking loudly to be heard over all the celebratory noise in the background. “The hair is a long story.Who are you?”

  The woman’s smile broadened and her cold eyes seemed to laugh. “You don’t know, Deanna-Dean? I thought you were filled with imagination.” She waved an arm to the east, to where the Concretian soldiers were now dancing with Magitorians.

  “Did you never think that Mr. Sactual, the great fearless leader of Concreta, the one who has tried ceaselessly to eradicate the evils of imagination from his subjects, was actually…” she narrowed her eyes and paused for dramatic effect, “Mrs. Actual?”

  “Ummm, no. No, I didn’t,” said Dean. What a strange question. “Are you saying that there is no Mr. Sactual? That the Concretian leader is actually Mrs. Actual?”

  The woman nodded. “That is exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Oh, okay. That’s weird.”

  The woman’s face hardened. “Weird? That is so the opposite of weird. It’s brilliant! All this time, no one, save for my most trusted group of advisors, has known who I am! I’ve been free to plot and coerce and create the society of my choosing without ever being accountable to the masses. I’ve manipulated my people into submission. At least I had, until you came along and tried to destroy everything I’ve worked so hard to build these past years.”