The Heart of Glass

by Vivian French

  Marlon leaned forward. “So — we’re talking traps. One way only? In but no out?”

  “I would imagine so.” Edna pondered for a moment. “I suggest Marcus try to talk to the dwarves. I’m sure they could dig Gracie out again. . . . I imagine she’s fallen into some kind of pit.”

  “Marcus — dwarves — chitchat — rescue — happy ever after. Check.” Marlon stretched his wings. “Better be off.”

  Edna held up her hand. “One moment. The dwarves don’t always take kindly to humans, especially if the humans are asking for a favor.”

  “But Marcus is a prince,” Elsie said in shocked tones.

  “In my opinion, that’s a distinct disadvantage,” Edna told her. “It’s the Royals who keep the dwarves so hard at work. They’re always wanting gold for weddings and suchlike.” She fished in her pocket and produced a handful of silver threads. “Here — take these. They’re offcuts from the web of power, and they can be quite useful, although you never can tell exactly how they’ll work. Pure and unadulterated goodness is an odd commodity. Give a couple of them to the dwarves with my best wishes, and keep a couple for emergencies. Do be careful, though. They can have unexpected side effects.”

  Marlon looped the threads around his neck, staggered, and fell off the chair. “Got a problem,” he announced from the floor.

  Elsie hurried forward and removed all but one of the silvery wisps. She looked reproachfully at the Ancient One. “You never remember how heavy these are, Edna. They come from the web, remember. Only Truehearts like you and Gracie think they weigh nothing at all.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Edna said. “Are you all right, Marlon?”

  The bat nodded and fluttered back to the chair. Even the single thread seemed to be weighing heavily on his small, furry shoulders, but he held his head up high. “Report soon as mission accomplished,” he promised. “Erm . . . what about Gubble?”

  The Ancient One smiled. “Let’s hope you and Marcus will have rescued Gracie by the time he reaches the Unreliable Forest. He’s not the speediest of travelers.”

  Marlon nodded, wobbled, regained his balance with an effort, and launched himself into the air. “See ya!” he called, and swooped out the window.

  Elsie watched him go, then turned to Edna. “Tell me,” she said, “I didn’t want to ask in front of Marlon — I didn’t want to worry him . . . but what if Gracie’s fallen into a tunnel? Where would it lead?”

  “To the trolls’ caverns, most likely.” Edna shook her head. “Not a happy thought. The underground trolls are better than they used to be, but they really are a completely different breed from overground trolls like Gubble. Still, at least they sent all the Old Trolls away. They were even nastier than the ogres, and that’s saying something.”

  Elsie looked uneasy. “Wasn’t there some rumor that King Thab kept one of the Old Trolls as a bodyguard?”

  “What?” The Ancient One’s voice was sharp. “Where did you hear that?”

  Elsie took her wig off, scratched her head, and replaced the wild red curls. “I really can’t remember. I could be wrong, of course.”

  “Let’s hope you are,” Edna said. “You should have told me about that as soon as you heard it. And while you’re busy digging around in your memories of the past, is there anything else I should know?”

  “Well . . .” Elsie hesitated. “I was wondering, how do underground trolls feel about Truehearts? Isn’t there an old story about a Trueheart and a troll king?”

  The Ancient One sat down hard on a kitchen chair. “Oh, my goodness. You’re right. The prophecy . . . Oh, Elsie, how could I have forgotten?” She frowned for a moment, then sighed. “It’s no use worrying about it. We must hope the dwarves find our Gracie safe and sound . . . and then, as soon as she’s back here, we can warn her. No more exploring — or, at least, not where there might be underground trolls.”

  “Or Old Trolls,” Elsie added.

  Edna nodded, pulled herself to her feet, and set off for the door. “I think we’d better check the web right this minute.”

  Elsie hurried after her.

  They heard Val calling them before they even got through the door of room seventeen — and by the time they reached the loom, it was all too clear that ugly mud-colored stains were creeping across the sheet of silver. “What does it mean?” Val asked anxiously. “Doesn’t that color mean trolls?”

  Gracie’s stepsister, busy untangling knots on the other loom, snorted. “I can tell you what it means,” she said. “It means trouble. Trouble for your darling Gracie — and it serves the little worm right!”

  High in the air, Marlon came swooping over the forest. Looking down, he saw Marcus sitting on the grass, his back against the comforting solidity of an oak tree; clearly there had been no dramatic developments. As Marlon swung into a dive, however, the silver thread slipped off his shoulders and fell into a particularly thick tangle of gorse below; he muttered and flew after it, but the sun was in his eyes and he could not see where it had fallen. He circled the gorse bushes several times, trying to find a perch among the prickles, but there was no glint of silver anywhere.

  Marlon gulped and headed for the top of the oak tree to do some serious thinking. He had acted as the crones’ messenger for many years, and he had never lost a message or a token before. He debated making a return visit to confess, but on consideration decided against it. “Marlon Batster, me,” he told himself aloud. “Bat of action. Hero to Gracie Gillypot. I can sort it out. No prob.” And ignoring any lingering doubts, he flew a victory roll before spiraling to join Marcus.

  Marcus had long since given up hoping that Marlon would come back with the news that it was all a mistake and Gracie was happily at home with the Ancient Crones, and he was trying his hardest not to feel too gloomy. Yawning, he looked around to see where Alf had gone. “Alf!” he called. “Alf? Where are you?”

  There was a twittering in the distance. “Here, Mr. Prince. I’m marking the tree, but it keeps moving . . .”

  Hearing the underlying note of panic in Alf’s voice, Marcus got to his feet and went to find him. The small bat was clinging to the branches of a silver birch — but as Marcus strolled toward the tree, it shook itself, sidestepped, and vanished.

  “I’m here!” Alf squeaked.

  Swinging around, Marcus saw Alf immediately behind him. But no sooner had he spotted him than the tree was off again, and Alf’s squeak sounded even more plaintive. “I’m getting really dizzy, Mr. Prince. I don’t know how much longer I can hang on . . .”

  “You can do it! Hang on in there!” Marcus shouted. He took a deep breath, charged around the clearing, and flung himself at the tree’s trunk. The tree remained perfectly still, and Marcus loosened his grip. With a twist and a slither, the birch was away, leaving Marcus with a badly scratched nose and empty arms. Scrambling to his feet, he looked wildly around. “Alf?”

  There was no answer.

  Marcus called again and stood still to listen. It was then that he became aware that the woods were very silent. Strangely silent. There was no birdsong, no rustling, not even the buzz of a bumblebee. It was as if time had stopped, and all Marcus could hear was his own breathing. Some sixth sense made him duck behind a thick clump of bracken, and his heart missed a beat as something landed on his shoulder.

  “Kiddo,” said a voice in his ear, “freeze.”

  Marcus did as he was told.

  The silence continued, but Marcus gradually realized that the earth beneath his feet was trembling. The trembling increased and turned into a steady thudding: thud-thud-thud-thud-thud. The thudding was followed by a shaking, until a shower of earth flew out of the hole in the center of the clearing, and a huge head emerged.

  “Back! Go back, Clod! Back!” An elderly and very angry-looking dwarf popped up beside the head and began thumping it on one ear.

  Clod blinked twice, said, “Yug!” and vanished.

  “Master Amplethumb!” A second dwarf heaved himself out of the diggings and onto the
grass, and began to dust the earth off his old brown jacket. “Master Amplethumb, excuse me for saying so — but you mustn’t shout at the troll like that. It won’t make him work any slower, and you might upset him . . . and there’s an awful lot of him to get upset.”

  Master Amplethumb folded his arms and glowered. “But he won’t stop, Bestius. He’s already dug an entire new passage and turned the lower workings into rubble. He’s knocked down half the roof supports, and I’ve had to send a team down to shore them up. And heaven knows where he’s off to now.”

  Bestius pondered. “Why don’t you take him down to the old mine? The one under the road to Flailing? You always said you could smell gold behind the rock face at the end. And that rock is pretty solid — digging there is sure to slow him down for a while.”

  Master Amplethumb’s face cleared. “That’s not a bad idea. And then, when he’s done that, you can take him back.”

  “Ah.” Bestius considered how best to break the news. “Well. I haven’t really had time to explain it to you, but there might be a bit of difficulty. You see, King Thab wanted to make a deal.”

  “Of course he did,” Master Amplethumb said impatiently. “What does he want? Gold? I told you he can have whatever he wants, as long as he doesn’t mind waiting for it. Got to fulfill the palace order first.”

  “But he doesn’t want gold.” Bestius put his hands in his pockets. “He wants a princess.”

  “Eh?” Master Amplethumb stared. “What do you mean, he wants a princess?”

  Bestius looked more and more uncomfortable. “He wants a princess to keep him company. A pretty princess. I . . . I happened to mention there’d be a whole lot of them at the wedding.”

  Master Amplethumb’s mouth opened and shut several times, but no words came out. Finally he said, “Don’t tell me . . . please don’t tell me you agreed.”

  Bestius shrugged helplessly. “He’d never have sent the troll if I hadn’t.”

  Master Amplethumb staggered backward, ­clutching his head. “Oh, my grandmother’s whiskers,” he said. “Oh, my granddaddy’s bones. Whatever are we going to do? If we don’t send Clod back, the trolls will be completely furious. It’ll be war, no doubt about it. If we send him back but we don’t send a princess with him, the trolls may not declare war, but it’ll still be very nasty. And if we dare even to suggest to a princess that she might like to spend time with a huge, hairy troll, we’ll have every single army from the entire Five Kingdoms after us.” He paused and gave Bestius a solemn stare. “You’ve really gone and done it now.”

  Bestius bowed his head. “I thought you might be able to think of something. And there’s a Council meeting tonight; I was going to raise the matter then.”

  Master Amplethumb snorted loudly. “Were you, indeed? Well, I’d say that’d be much too late. He’ll have dug up half our best mines by then. No. I’m sorry, but there’s only one thing to do. You, Bestius, will have to take that . . . that monster back and explain to King Thab that you didn’t have the authority to make any such agreement, and the deal’s off. We dwarves don’t swap trolls for princesses. You’ll have to persuade him to settle for a new crown, or a gold belt, or something sensible. Now come on. Your earth-moving machine’s probably halfway underneath the Five Kingdoms by now.” And Master Amplethumb climbed back into the hole and disappeared.

  Bestius opened and shut his mouth, rubbed his nose, and pulled at his beard. “Oh, no, oh, no,” he moaned. He sat down on the heap of freshly turned earth and put his head in his hands. “What am I going to do?”

  Behind the bracken, Marlon and Marcus were in a state of shock. Marcus was reeling from the size of the troll; the wonder of seeing the dwarves paled beside the sight of Clod’s enormous head, with its bulbous nose, massive ears, and tiny, blinking eyes. Wishing desperately that Gracie were there to share the experience, he had missed much of the conversation between Bestius and Master Amplethumb; Marlon, on the other hand, had heard every word. He too was reeling, but from the realization that his problems could be solved with astonishing ease. He coughed loudly, and the dwarf looked up.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Got a plan,” Marlon said as he flew out from behind the bracken, and Marcus was surprised to hear the jubilation in his voice. “Got a GOOD plan. Bit of a bargain. You help us, and we’ll help you.”

  “We?” Bestius stared at Marlon. “Who’s we?”

  Marlon coughed again. “Allow me to present my friend Prince Marcus, second in line to the Kingdom of Gorebreath.” He swooped back behind the bracken and hissed, “Come out, kiddo! Want to rescue Gracie? Now’s our chance!”

  Princess Marigold was feeling exceptionally pleased with her achievements so far. She had tiptoed to the music-room door to check that Fedora was still busy trilling scales (with much enthusiasm but little accuracy), and then sped along the corridor to her sister’s suite of rooms. There she had helped herself to Fedora’s sky-blue dress covered in pink rosebuds. The dress was on the tight side — Marigold could never have been described as dainty — but determination and a certain amount of breath-holding achieved what had at first seemed impossible.

  Flushed with excitement, Marigold had then hurried to the royal stables, where she was helped on her way by a stroke of good fortune. The head coachman had slipped off for half an hour to smoke an early-morning pipe with the head gardener, leaving the youngest stable boy in charge. He was a small boy, easily intimidated, and when Marigold looked down her nose and informed him that she needed Fedora’s pony and cart prepared as soon as possible because it was a matter of life and death and his job was on the line, he was only too happy to do as he was told. Ten minutes later she was bowling down the palace drive with a triumphant wave of her whip.

  The stable boy hurried back into the yard, where he was met by an angry head coachman.

  “Did I see Princess Marigold trundling off in the pony cart?” the coachman demanded.

  The stable boy nodded. “Said it was urgent.”

  The coachman, who had known all the princesses since they were babies, snorted. “And I don’t suppose you thought to ask where she was going? That’s her sister’s cart, that is, and I’d stake my best boots young Marigold never asked if she could take it. There’ll be trouble; you mark my words.”

  Marigold was far from worrying about any trouble to come. She was humming happily as the pony trotted steadily onward, and from time to time she broke into cheerful and tuneless song. Queen Kesta had a leaden ear when it came to music, and her ­daughters were, if anything, even less gifted. Marigold had a repertoire of three notes, and it was sheer chance as to which she sang; this did not, however, stop her from enjoying herself hugely. “I’m the most beautiful princess in the whole wide world,” she sang, “and I’m going to meet a handsome prince who will love me forever and ever. . . .”

  A couple of local inhabitants heard her and rolled their eyes at each other.

  “Let’s hope he’s deaf as a post,” said one.

  “Deaf as two posts,” the other agreed.

  Fortunately Marigold was out of earshot. The pony was going faster and faster in an effort to put as much distance as possible between himself and the wailing noise behind him; Marigold made several attempts to slow him down, but it was not until he broke into a gallop and she was scared into silence that he finally obeyed the frantic tugs on his reins. By that time they were all but at the border of the Five Kingdoms, and the pony was only too glad to walk at a more sedate pace as the well-made road gradually declined into a rough track.

  The border itself was marked only by a couple of tall stone pillars, and Marigold looked around in wonder as she drove through. She had been expecting armed guards and high gates, or at the very least some kind of challenge, and was almost disappointed she had not had to talk her way into the land of unknown adventures. “Hmm,” she said to herself. “I must remember to tell Mother. Anyone could get in! Horrible trolls and wicked witches and all sorts of nasty people . . . they could just ma
rch in any old time. There really should be at least a few soldiers.”

  Thinking about these unpleasant possibilities made Marigold feel less brave; it didn’t help that the pony began to fling his head this way and that, as if he could sense something lurking behind the tangled bushes and tall, ivy-clad trees.

  I hope Marcus comes soon, she thought. I really don’t want to wait here too long. Still, he’s bound to think I’m very, very adventurous to come to such a scary place. Now, where shall I wait? I think . . . yes, I think I’ll keep the pillars in sight.

  Marigold was pleased to find a shady half circle of birch trees; the grass beneath was soft and green and dotted with daisies, and she decided this would be an ideal setting for a romantic rescue. She pulled the pony to a halt, and after a few nervous glances this way and that, he began to graze. Marigold jumped out of the cart feeling that all was going according to plan. She had taken the precaution of bringing several satin and velvet cushions with her, and she arranged these carefully under the trees. “Three for me, and two for Marcus,” she said, and patted them into place; after a moment’s thought, she rearranged them rather closer together.

  Pleased with the effect, she looked around to see what else needed to be done. There were wild roses growing in the hedge on the other side of the roadway, and it occurred to her that these would make a delightful wreath. Beaming, she hurried across the road and began to help herself. A moment later a sharp thorn embedded itself in her finger, and she screamed loudly. The pony flung up his head and stared around. Marigold was too busy trying to pull the thorn out of her finger to notice, and the pony took a few tentative steps back in the direction he had come. As nobody stopped him, he took a few more — and Marigold looked up.

  “No!” she shrieked. “NO! Stay still! Don’t move!”