Charming, Volume 1

by Jack Heckel

  What a laugh, thought Charming. All my father’s horses and all of his men couldn’t keep me from those tarts. They are like blind cats sitting before a blank wall thinking it’s a mouse hole.

  They would never catch him. The castle with its twisting halls and endless rooms was his domain. He took another bite and sighed contentedly.

  He was just passing the Royal Library when he heard the voice of his father from within. It was not unusual for his father to be up this late in consultation with this lord or that, on that problem or this, but whomever his father was talking with, and whatever the topic, it was serious. Charming knew his father’s moods well, and though muffled, Charming could tell from the tone that his father was even grimmer than usual.

  Charming was about to continue on, feeling lucky that it was not him on the other side of whatever lecture was being given, when a single word, rising above the general murmur, stopped him dead in his tracks.

  “ . . . dragon!”

  Holding the tart away from his body, he pressed his ear against the keyhole. At once, he recognized that there were three ­people in the room besides his father, and not just any three ­people but three of the most highly ranked members of the court: Duke Northingham of North Northingham, the richest noble in the kingdom; Lord Jocksley, his father’s closest friend and hunting companion; and Lady Greenleaf, without doubt the sharpest mind and tongue of the court.

  “But, Your Majesty,” Northingham was saying, “the monster is demoralizing our subjects and destroying trade in the kingdom.”

  ­“People are beginning to grumble a bit, Rupert,” Jocksley added in his customary drawl.

  “Grumble?” Lady Greenleaf said acidly. “I see that your powers of understatement remain without peer, Jocksley. The fact is, Your Majesty, the dragon has terrorized Royaume for years, and the ­people are fed up. What’s more, the creature is beginning to go further and further afield.”

  “Lady Greenleaf is right,” Northingham pounced like a tiger. “The beasty used to be satisfied to attack places of no consequence, like Prosper and Two Trees, but now it dares go after places that actually matter!”

  “I think you are taking gross liberties with my argument, Northingham,” said Lady Greenleaf archly. “However, Your Majesty, he is correct that if something is not done soon, the ­people will demand action.”

  There was a pause, and Charming could picture his father puckering his brow and fixing the three nobles with the commanding gaze he gave when he was challenged.

  “What would you have me do? Would you have me send more knights, more troops after it? We’ve lost nearly four-­score men trying to hunt the creature down. How many more would you have me sacrifice? And why? The prophecy is quite clear that it is my son who will defeat the dragon.”

  “Frankly,” Northingham said, “it’s the Prince we are interested in talking to you about.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well . . .” Northingham began, but trailed off.

  “Is there a problem with the Prince?”

  “Look, Rupert,” Jocksley said with forced cheerfulness, “it isn’t that anyone questions the Prince, or you—­”

  “As well they shouldn’t.”

  “But—­” Jocksley tried to continue.

  “But?”

  “Let us cut to the chase,” Lady Greenleaf interceded. “The Prince is twelve, soon to be thirteen. I don’t think I need to tell Your Majesty that, for many peasants, thirteen marks the age of majority. Indeed, many farmers on my estate are getting married at thirteen, and many more are beginning to keep their own fields at that age.”

  “And what exactly is your point?”

  “The point, Your Majesty,” she said, “is that the ­people are beginning to question when the Prince will be ready for his quest, or, indeed, if he will ever be ready.”

  Behind the door, Charming felt a rush of blood to his face and an emptiness fill his chest. Are the ­people really beginning to question me?

  At the same time, there was a spluttering noise that Charming took to be his father trying to compose himself, and Jocksley stepped into the fray. “Look, Rupert, it isn’t the Prince we are questioning, it’s just how realistic it is to imagine that a boy of thirteen, or fifteen, or even seventeen, is going to slay a dragon. For instance, take my son, Daniel. I love the boy to death, but he’s sixteen now and has taken to running about in the woods with a bunch of his friends, doing who knows what. Boys like Daniel and Charming are just . . .”

  “There is no ‘boy’ like Charming,” his father said. “Look, Jocksley, Lady Greenleaf, Duke Northingham, I know that this delegation represents the leading nobility of the kingdom, and you have been charged to deliver this message to me. I appreciate your candor, but you can send this response to the nobles, and be at peace in your own hearts: All is in hand. The Prince will be ready—­and soon. I have spared no expense or effort in his education. He trains daily at combat and arms, and at building his body to the peak of physical readiness. He studies under the finest tutors to sharpen his mind, and to develop his strategies and tactics. In short, he is growing into the very model of honor and chivalry, an example to hold up to the rest of the kingdom.”

  Charming’s heart swelled as he listened to his father extoll his virtues. He felt, almost, that he could ride out tonight to fight the dragon. Nothing could stop him.

  Suddenly, a sharp pain raced through his left ear.

  “I caught you, you little thief, and red-­handed no less!”

  The baker had his ear. The beefy man pulled him away from the door and ripped the tart out of his hand. Charming had no time to plead as the baker knocked loudly at the door.

  “Come!” said the King.

  As the door was thrown open, Charming saw his father standing behind his enormous gold gilt desk, which was piled high with rolls of parchment. He was holding a scroll in one of his many-­ringed hands, gesturing broadly about the room. On the opposite side of the desk, the three nobles turned to look.

  “What is the meaning of this?” his father asked. “Charming, what are you doing out at this time, and Baker Crumplet what gives you the right to handle my son, the Prince, in this unseemly manner?”

  The baker released Charming and then bowed low. Charming rubbed his stinging ear.

  “You may rise. Now, Crumplet, I expect an answer to my question.”

  “Y-­Your Royal Majesty,” the baker said with a slight stutter of nerves, “I beg your forgiveness for this intrusion, but I have caught the tart thief.” The odious man then held the apricot tart high in the air, beaming as though it were a magnificent trophy.

  The King’s gaze settled on the apricot tart and his face clouded with anger. There was a stifled chuckle from Jocksley, while Duke Northingham cleared his throat uncomfortably. Lady Greenleaf was disdainfully silent.

  “Edward?” his father said coldly.

  Charming felt his heart thump violently in his chest, and a sudden queasiness rose in his throat. His father may never have been warm to him, but Charming had also never had his father’s full wrath directed at him.

  “Explain.”

  “I—­I cannot,” Charming said, his voice catching as tears began running down his face.

  “I see. So this is how you choose to repay me for all your years of privilege, education, and training? To steal the bread from my own table, like a common thief?” his father roared. “Shall I deal with you as I would deal with any other thief? Shall I put you in irons, or perhaps parade you through the village for the ­people to throw rocks at and to spit on? Is this what you want?”

  Charming could not speak.

  “Answer me!”

  “N-­N-­No, Father,” Charming finally said between sobs.

  “What punishment would you have me mete out, if I am denied my customary due?”

  Charming had no answer, and so r
emained silent, and the silence stretched on and became oppressive.

  Jocksley’s voice cut through the tension. “Come now, Rupert. What boy doesn’t sneak a treat from the kitchens now and then? We never caught whoever was stealing tarts in our kitchens. All we ever found were arrows. Strange, but as in this case, no harm done.”

  “Jocksley, did I not just assure you—­no, did I not just demand—­that you deliver a message to the entire court that, upon my honor the Prince was like ‘no other boy,’ and that they could place their faith in his character? Does my honor and name mean that little that my words should be thus proved false before they have even left the ears of those that hear them?”

  Jocksley said nothing at this and the King addressed Charming again. “I am waiting for an answer, Edward. By what means can this wrong be righted?”

  Charming had never felt so empty and low. Death would be preferable to this. And then, with the clarity of youth, he knew what he had to do. Taking a few deep breaths, he raised his blurry eyes. “You must send me against the dragon, Father. It is the only way that I can redeem myself, and if I fail then it will be of no great loss if I am gone.”

  There was a long silence at this pronouncement, during which the nobles and his father, whose face had grown suddenly white, did not move or speak. Beside him the baker stared, dumbfounded.

  Finally, his father cleared his throat. “Well, we have said enough for now. I have important matters to discuss with the, um, delegation from the court. Return to your chambers and we will talk tomorrow.”

  “Please, Father,” Charming pleaded. “I can go tonight. I have dishonored you, and I do not feel right staying here in the castle.

  “You are a child, Edward! You do not know what you are saying! You are not ready! I forbid you to speak of this again! Now leave us.”

  Anger burned through Charming’s breast. He was not a child, and he was the prophesied dragon slayer. His hands clenched into fists. “What about the ­people who died, who are dying? Shouldn’t I go help them? Isn’t it my duty? The ­people think I should go.” He stabbed a finger at the three nobles. “Father, even they say so.”

  A gasp escaped from Lady Greenleaf, and Charming thought that the baker swayed on his feet. His father’s face flushed red with fury. “Edward Michael Charming!” his father barked, eyes ablaze. “You will always remember that I am not only your father but also the King. When you think of me, you must always remember that I am the King, and you will follow my commands without dissent! I will tell you when it is time for you to go questing, and now is not that time. Do you understand?”

  Charming dropped to a knee and, struggling to keep his voice from cracking, said, “Yes, Fath—­” His father, the King, looked at him sharply and Charming quickly amended with a, “Your Majesty.”

  His body shook as he rose, bowed stiffly to his father, the King, and marched from the room. Once out of sight, he took to his heels, running from the room as tears splashed across his face in confusion, shame, and anguish.

  Chapter 1

  Once Upon, Once Again

  “ONCE UPON A Time,” everyone can agree, is a fairly inaccurate way of marking time. “Once upon a time when?” one might well ask. Of course, most fairy tales live in their own blurry and disconnected time, neither now nor exactly then, and so the relative “when” of the story doesn’t matter. But in Charming’s tale, where you inconveniently have more than one “Once Upon a Time,” it can be important to know whether any particular “Once Upon a Time” came before or after the other “Once Upon a Time” that had been or is to come.

  And so . . .

  ONCE UPON A time, at about the same time that the recently disowned Charming wandered lost in his own melancholy, Elizabeth Pickett awoke from a muddled dream about the Prince, little men, and fairies as badly metered ­couplet was running through her head. She lay in bed staring at a short man perched atop a tall stool. He had a disordered white beard matched by a thin head of equally wild hair and had a tiny pair of wire-­frame glasses perched unsteadily on his long thin nose. He clutched a small leather book in one hand, but his attention was on the open window behind him, where a rainbow flock of songbirds chirruped loudly.

  She had no idea where she was.

  Liz sat up. As she did, the birds fell silent and stared at her. For his part, the strange little man spun about quickly, nearly unseating himself. He took a moment to regain his balance and then, smiling widely, said, “The poet speaks, the lady stirs . . .”

  She started to say that poetry could be deadly in the wrong hands when another pair of eyes, sitting just above a short fat nose and topped by a head of curly black hair, appeared above the foot of the bed. The eyes narrowed, and then a deep voice boomed, “HEY EVERYONE, THE BROAD’S AWAKE!”

  This announcement provoked an alarming racket from the room beyond. There was an explosive sneeze, something heavy crashed to the floor, crockery shattered, someone with a high, wheezy voice let loose a remarkably colorful curse, all followed by the sound of booted feet thundering unseen through the door. Then, like gophers in a field, four more heads popped up over the edge of the bed’s footboard. Red hair and yellow, hatted and bare, thin nosed and broad, and each with the same sharp beetle-­black eyes. Liz mouthed silently as she counted out the number: . . . four . . . five . . . six, six little men! No, not little men . . . dwarves!

  Her head felt strangely foggy, so when she spoke, it was without thought. “Wait a minute, I’ve heard of you. You’re dwarfs! Or is it dwarves?” Both words sounded wrong to her.

  “Actually,” said the white-­haired dwarf in a pedantic tone, “the etymology of the plural of dwarf has been the subject of debate for some time. Of course, a morphologist would tell you that words ending in a fricative should be pluralized by the simple addition of an s. Therefore, dwarf would be dwarfs.” He concluded by nodding his head sharply as though that brought the matter to a close.

  “I disagree,” smiled a very happily disagreeable fellow to his left. “There are plenty of examples of irregular fricative pluralizations, like loaves and thieves.”

  The bespectacled dwarf frowned back at him. “I’m not saying it’s a universal rule. There are no universal rules in morphophonemics. There is only quasi-­regularity, and you know it.”

  A grim-­looking dwarf between the two frowned broadly. “Well, I think the problem is that you are using the term fricative too loosely. Are we talking about spirant or strident fricatives?”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” snapped the white-­haired dwarf, who gestured violently at his fellow debaters with the book. “How could dwarf be a strident fricative; there’s no tongue involved.” He demonstrated by over-­enunciating the word dwarf. “It’s spirant fricatives we’re talking about, so stop trying to complicate the matter.”

  “Oh,” said the angry dwarf. “So I’m an idiot now, am I? Is that it?” He took a menacing step toward the seated fellow.

  The white-­haired dwarf held up his hands, “Now, now, you know that’s not what I meant—­”

  A dwarf with a violently red nose interrupted. “Actually, dwarf is a voiceless labiodental fricative, and a word like staff can be pluralized staffs or staves, depending on whether you are talking about a group of ­people or a walking stick . . . so . . .”

  This was too much for the white-­haired fellow, who chucked his book across the room. It hit red-­nose square on his red nose, eliciting a loud sneeze from the victim and a roar of laughter from the other dwarves.

  The white-­haired dwarf straightened his glasses unnecessarily. “Now that that is settled, we can have a civilized discussion about the issue . . .”

  Liz was finding it very hard to concentrate and, besides, felt they were getting slightly off topic, so she simply cut to the point she’d been going to make. “The point is, if you are the dwarfs . . . dwarves –whatever—­ if you are the fellows from the story, you know the one, a
ren’t there supposed to be seven of you? Wait—­wait, let me guess your names . . .” She studied the arc of faces. There was one with a bright red nose, one that seemed to be continuously flushing, and another who was snoring soundly and softly at her feet. She laughed. “Well, he’s obvious,” she said, pointing at the sleeping figure. “He fell asleep right in the middle of our introductions, so he must be Slee—­”

  The bespectacled dwarf interrupted her before she could finish. “Now, wait, you see . . .” Clearly uncertain how to continue, he stopped.

  The smiling dwarf took up the thread in a high-­pitched squeak. “ . . . we don’t—­”

  “—­that’s right,” said the bright-­nosed fellow in a nasally voice, “we don’t . . .”

  The angry-­looking fellow that had called her a broad, looked at the other dwarves in disgust. “Don’t hurt yourselves.” He climbed up onto the foot of the bed, put his hands on his hips, and growled, “Listen, lady, we don’t appreciate being reduced to one-­dimensional caricatures. How would you like it if I decided to call you Clumsy for falling down a perfectly obvious ravine and breaking your arm, or Trampy because you are apparently perfectly comfortable receiving six men into your bedroom dressed in nothing but a semi-­transparent dress.”

  Liz looked down. The odious little man was right. There she was, covers pulled around her waist, wearing nothing but a sheer shift that, in the morning light, was at the least immodest. She pulled the blanket up to her chin. The angry dwarf kept haranguing her about the evils of stereotyping, but she didn’t hear any of it, as her mind was fully engaged, trying in vain to remember how she had gotten into this bed, why her arm was covered from elbow to wrist in plaster, and what had happened to her dress. Liz blushed when the inevitable answer to the last question came to her.

  “ . . . I mean, now for instance, I could just as well call you Blotchy . . .”