“This is to be my first act as queen,” Snow White proclaimed; with that said, she placed the scroll on the table and with the large feather quill, signed her name to the treaty.
Alice picked up the other quill, and then hesitated. “There were factions close to me that deceived me into calling a war on your land. I am truly sorry that their attempted coup to dethrone me spilled over; and for the damage and lives it cost. Wonderland acknowledges this treaty and the generosity of the throne of Marchenton. We graciously accept these terms.”
Alice bent down and signed the treaty next to Snow White’s signature.
Loud applause erupted from the gathered crowds both inside the halls and as the news the treaty was signed, applause and shouts of celebration could be heard from outside as well. As the cheers continued, Alice leaned over and whispered to Snow White.
“You know that I am no longer Queen of Wonderland. This treaty is only binding to the army that remains here. Should Wonderland invade again, this treaty won’t mean a thing.”
“I’ll take what I can get,” Snow White replied. “It’s more for the kingdom to see and to believe in. To give the people and myself, hope that better days are ahead.”
Much like the story of the young girl whom Snow White had met, who had carried the broken shards of Cinderella’s glass slipper and who had given hope to a kingdom and its people that someday there would be a happily ever after.
EPILOGUE
ELLA
One Year Later.
Outskirts Of Cornish Province, Marchenton.
The light of the day was not quite faded as an orange glow still hung in the evening sky. A warm summer wind tickled the leaves on the trees. Crickets and frogs chirped and croaked about the fields outside a small and modest farmhouse.
A horse and rider clip-clopped slowly up the road known as Beanstalk Lane. The road was the shadowy footprint of the fallen beanstalk that had scarred the kingdom when it fell across the land over a decade ago; where it rested no plant would grow. This wide swatch of dirt resembled a road some five hundred feet long. It was said the road was cursed, and dark branches grew over it to obscure it from the sky. Over time, locals had put up barricades and brush to hide its entrance. But the mysterious rider had not come all of this way to be turned back by branches. There was only one place Beanstalk Lane led to.
A long, deep crimson cloak fell about the ground as the rider dismounted a black horse at a set of gates that marked the other end of Beanstalk Lane. Two rocky pillars on either side held the iron gates and a rusty lock and chain kept them closed. A hand painted wooden sign hung on the iron rungs. “NO VISITORS” it read. Ahead, the rider saw the evening lamp lights cast their warmth from the windows of the distant farmhouse.
Pulling a glove from the right hand, the rider pulled out an old weathered and worn map from a satchel and checked it. For a moment the rider’s pale soft forearm was exposed and the burned scar of a rabbit’s foot print was visible. Then she pulled back the deep hood of her cloak and let it fall about her blonde hair.
“This is it,” Alice said, breathing out to calm the nerves in her stomach and the voice in her head that told her to turn back and forget it. It had taken the better part of year searching a kingdom she only recent began to call home.
Jack had not been very easy to find.
Putting the map away, she looked at the lock and chain on the gate and gave it a tug. The chain and lock had only been a visible deterrent. With a pull, the lock unlatched and the chain easily pulled away, clicking against the iron rails. Alice dropped the chain to the ground and pushed against the rusty hinged gates; they gave way reluctantly with a low metal creak. Alice walked her horse towards the house still with a slight limp in her stride.
Alice quietly passed a small garden and rock wall; two simple tombstones marked grave sites within the garden. “MOTHER” it read. Next to it, covered in green mold and moss, was a weathered darker stone that read “FATHER.”
The house was by no means grand, Alice observed as she approached. Stopping to loosely wrap her horse’s reins on a nearby tree she studied it. Two stories, recently built, probably on the same foundation where his original house stood, it was bigger than most houses she had seen in the area, but not grandiose. Nearby by was a large barn, built better than most she had seen. He lived well, Alice gathered, not poor but not grand, just enough to not draw attention… considering, she thought to herself.
She approached the wooden platform steps with sudden nervousness. Standing there in front of the thick door for a moment, her arm felt too heavy to raise it to the door to knock. A voice in her head tempted her to turn and walk away; there was still time to not open an old wound.
Then the door opened suddenly, startling Alice. A wash of warmth and light fell upon her, causing her to blink while the sweet smell of baking bread and a cooking stew embraced her sense of smell.
“I seem to have startled you, stranger. Are you lost, perhaps? We’re not used to having visitors,” the woman in the doorway said.
Standing in front of her was a woman in a simple villager dress with braided blonde hair holding a bristled broom. The dress was taut about the waist as the woman’s pregnant belly was tight and round as a ball.
“I might have the wrong house; I was looking for a man named Jack... Spriggins,” Alice offered politely. “I was told he might live here. I happened into the area, so I took a chance.” Alice lied perfectly.
“Oh no,” the pregnant woman laughed with a sparkle in her eye. “This is the right house. Jack does live here. He’s not here now, though should be back from market in a little bit. I’m his wife, Ella,” the woman said. “You are welcome to come in for a bit. Have some supper with us. Tell us some stories of your travels,” Ella shifted to welcome the stranger in.
“No that’s okay; I would not want to impose,” Alice replied, staying where she was. So this is Jack’s Ella? Alice thought to herself, feeling a small part of hope in her heart fade with sadness. “I just wanted to make sure Jack was okay,” Alice sought to explain herself. “I hadn’t seen him since…” Alice paused to choose her words carefully. “Since a long time ago. It seems that he is well. This is a bad time isn’t it? I am inconveniencing you,” Alice added, feeling like this had been a mistake, Alice wanted to quickly leave.
“It’s really no bother, a friend of Jack’s is a friend of mine,” insisted Ella warmly. “And it keeps a pregnant lady busy from her own thoughts. Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” It was obvious to Alice that Ella did not know who she was.
Alice shook her head to decline once again and quickly shifted the subject away. “How far along are you?” she asked, motioning to Ella’s protruding belly.
“Oh not much longer now, a few weeks left I think,” Ella replied with a proud smile. “If it’s a boy, I wanted to name him Phillip. Jack doesn’t like that name,” she laughed. “Says it reminds him too much of the prince. But isn’t the prince dead? I don’t know why that would bother him it’s not like to Jack to care much about royalty. I told him it’s just a coincidence that it was the prince’s name.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m not from around here,” Alice replied, politely trying to hide a growing anxiety she might be recognized.
“If it was up to him he’d just name him Jack. Jack Junior,” Ella added, “not very inspired,” she joked. “So many Jacks are around. We had a deal if we had a boy I’d get to name him and if it was a girl he’d get to choose.”
Alice gave a brief smile. “I really should be going. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Give him this for me please,” From a pocket in her vest she handed Ella a small wooden carved chess piece of a white pawn.
Ella took the chess piece and noticed the burn on the visitor’s arm. “Goodness! That’s quite a scar there. It looks like a rabbit’s paw print,” she remarked pointing to the scar on Alice’s arm.
Alice pulled down her sleeve to cover it.
“ My apologies, that’s rather nosy of
me,” offered Ella. “Who should I say stopped by, then?”
“Jack will recognize it when he sees it. It’s more important he gets that, he’ll know who it’s from. I wouldn’t want to trouble you further in your delicate condition,” Alice answered, ignoring Ella’s inquiry. She pulled her hood back up over her head. “It was nice to meet you Ella. Good luck to you,” Alice turned to leave.
Ella was taken aback by the sudden end to the conversation; she stood a moment puzzled in the open doorway, absently rubbing her arm up and down her belly as she watched the mysterious stranger leave.
As Alice stepped off the wooden steps, she stopped. A question flashed about Alice’s thoughts and she abruptly turned toward Ella who was just about to turn away and shut the door.
“Just curious- what if it’s a girl?” Alice asked.
Ella stopped, about to shut the door, “Oh, well, Jack wants to name her Alice,” she answered. “It’s a pretty name, don’t you think?”
Alice paused, not expecting such answer, but secretly her hope was confirmed.
“It has a nice ring to it,” Alice smiled as she walked back to her horse.
***
Ella shut the door, thinking it had been an odd though not quite a strange visit. She leaned the broom up against the wall next to the door. Walking over to the mantle the fireplace she felt her baby kick and stir a little in the womb. She smiled and gave her belly a reassuring, soothing rub.
Ella whispered softly and started to sing a lullaby. Thinking little of it now, she set to work to ready the place for dinner. Ella placed the wooden chess piece on the mantle shelf next to her glass slippers.
Roy A. Mauritsen
It was bound to happen, with pictures being worth what they are in words, that a successful creative artist would eventually entertain the idea of writing a novel. Roy’s interests were somewhat atypical as a child. Aside from art and science, there were books and movies—science fiction and fantasy themed—and also role-playing games like Dungeons & Dragons, and a love of fairy tales that started at an early age with a dusty, 1941 hardcover edition of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Exploring every creative avenue available to him, Roy took every art class he could in school, and also any writing class, especially creative writing. Roy has received several awards in recognition of his artwork. But for this artist-turned-writer, the saying “a picture is worth a thousand words” wasn’t enough this time. There was a story to be told, and it demanded to be written. This fairy tale epic fantasy adventure is also the inspiration for Shards, a concept album that Roy collaborated on with the band Gene Pool Zombie.
Roy has had a successful career as a digital artist and graphic designer, and also designing book covers and TV commercials. When he’s not trying to figure out how that happened, he enjoys photography, volleyball, SCUBA diving, and traveling. Roy lives on Long Island, New York, with his wife, Caren, and their dog, a Newfoundland mix named Coda.
Shards Of The Glass Slipper: Queen Alice
Published by Padwolf Publishing, Inc.
Padwolf Publishing & logo are registered trademarks of Padwolf Publishing, Inc.
Padwolf Publishing Inc.
PO Box 117 Yulan, NY 12719
www.padwolf.com
Cover art & book design by Roy Mauritsen
Edited by John L. French
Printed in the United States of America
Copyright © 2014 by Roy A. Mauritsen. All artwork created by by Roy Mauritsen.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address above. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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