Maleficent

by Elizabeth Rudnick

  Special thanks to Brittany Candau.

  Copyright © 2014 Disney Enterprises, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information, address Disney Press, 1101 Flower Street, Glendale, California 91201.

  ISBN 978-1-4231-9048-6

  disneybooks.com

  disney.com/maleficent

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyrights

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  For L.W.

  THIS IS THE STORY OF THE FAERIE MALEFICENT. Not the story you think you know. Not the one that starts with a curse and ends with a dragon. No. This is what really happened. And while it may have a curse and a dragon, it has much more. For it is a story of lost love, found friendships, and, ultimately, the power of a single kiss.…

  LATE AFTERNOON SUN FILTERED ACROSS A WIDE EXPANSE OF THICK GRASS, TURNING THE GREEN BLADES GOLDEN. In the sky, clouds moved slowly, their unhurried movements mimicking the fluffy white sheep in the field below. Sitting on a nearby stone wall, a shepherd and his four-year-old son kept watch over their flock. At their feet sat two collies, their eyes closed as they relaxed from their watchdog duties for a moment.

  This was the young boy’s first trip to the pasture with his father. He had waited for this day forever, always the one left behind while his brothers took the flocks farther and farther afield. But now it was his turn. He had run behind his father the whole way, trying not to scare the sheep when they finally found them at the back of one of the farthest fields. Then he had hooted and hollered, mimicking his father as best he could, to make the furry creatures move on.

  With all the new experiences and all the running and yelling, the boy had worked up quite the appetite. Supper had been quickly devoured, and now he took a big bite of his sweet cake. Crumbs fell onto his lap as he enjoyed the treat. Noticing his father had placed his own treat on the ground next to him, the young boy cocked his head. “You don’t want your sweet cake, Papa?” he asked.

  “I’m leaving it there for the Fair Folk,” the shepherd answered, his weathered face serious.

  Wasting a treat? The young boy had never heard of such a thing. “Why?” he asked.

  Smiling at his son’s inquisitive nature, the father answered, “To thank them for making the grass grow tall and helping the flowers bloom. To show that we mean them no harm.”

  But that was not enough of an answer for the boy. He had more questions. “Why do they do that? What would we harm them for?” he asked, his tiny voice full of confusion.

  Before saying anything, the shepherd smoothed the dirt beneath him with his worn boot. The soles were brown with the earth of the fields, and the tips were faded. Times had been tough of late, with King Henry demanding more and more of their crops and sheep every year. Things like boots, hope, and dirt were what the farmer held on to tight now. “They’re part of nature. They care to the plants, the animals, even the air itself,” he went on as he scooped up a handful of loose dirt and slowly made a soil wreath around the treat. “But not all humans appreciate them. Some people attack their land, wanting to reap the benefits of all their natural treasures. Aye, there have been many pointless wars between greedy humans and the Fair Folk. And no matter how many times both sides strive for peace, we always seem to be on the brink of another.” The shepherd looked into the distance wistfully.

  This was too much for the boy to handle. His father was talking gibberish! Whenever he said silly things, his mother would cuff him upside the head and send him out to the barn to clean the stalls. But since he couldn’t do that to his own father, he just asked, “Why are you doing that with the dirt?”

  “It is a sign of respect,” the father answered matter-of-factly. “We want the Fair Folk to know it is safe for them to eat it. We don’t want them thinking we’ve tried to poison them. Faeries can be quite mean if they are provoked.” Standing up, he whistled to the dogs and began to walk home.

  Behind him, the boy sat on the wall, his mind racing. He had never heard of mean faeries. Looking nervously over his shoulder, he scanned the large wall. Not satisfied that he wasn’t being watched by mean faeries, he jumped off the stones. Then, uttering a soft cry, he raced after his father. When he was safely by his father’s side, the boy let out a relieved sigh. He began to look around the fields, eager to catch sight of one of the Fair Folk.

  As they moved down the hill, herding the sheep toward their farmhouse, which was just a spot in the distance, the young boy peered up at the sky and down at the ground. Spotting something green on a nearby flower, he stopped and pointed it out to his father. “Is that one of the Fair Folk?” he asked hopefully.

  The shepherd shook his head. “No,” he answered. “That’s a grasshopper.”

  Pointing at another flower, the boy once again asked, “Is that one?”

  Once again, the shepherd shook his head. “No, that’s a dragonfly,” he said. Realizing that until he gave his son more information there would be many more questions, the shepherd added, “Not all of the Fair Folk are small. Some are as big as we are. Some have wings and some don’t. But they all have pointy ears.”

  Reaching up, the boy rubbed his own ears. His eyes grew wide. “Papa!” he shouted. “I think I’m one!”

  Stifling a chuckle, the shepherd stopped and turned toward his son. “Let me see those ears,” he said, gently examining the boy’s head. “No, not pointy.” Then he turned his son around. “And no wings, either. You’re just a boy.”

  The son smiled, relieved. While he wanted to see one of the magical creatures, he definitely did not want to be one.

  Raising a finger, the shepherd pointed to the land that bordered their family’s grazing fields. “If you were one of them,” the boy’s father went on, “you’d live in there. That’s the Moors—where the faeries live. That’s what all the fuss is about.”

  The boy’s gaze followed his father’s finger, and his eyes grew large. He had never seen the Moors before. Their farmhouse was too far away. But he had heard his brothers talk about sheep wandering in and never returning. Even in the warm glow of afternoon light, the Moors were covered in mist, hiding anything or anyone who walked upon them. They stretched out in both directions, with tall trees that twisted and turned toward the sky concealing the land beyond. At the base of the trunks, cattails grew tall in the dappled sunshine, s
tretching out toward the human land as though they were curious. The little boy shivered.

  Turning his attention once more to the sheep, the shepherd resumed his walk down the hill. Behind him, the boy lingered, his eyes glued to the Moors. He could just make out food on the ground, along with totems and talismans that swung from the branches of the trees that edged the faerie land. Squinting, he tried to make out more through the mist. Unable to, and overcome with curiosity, the young boy began walking toward the misty glen.

  Moments later, he found himself at the edge of the Moors, the mist clearing around him enough that he could make out the rocks and small shrubs that covered the ground. Kneeling down, he reached into his pocket and cautiously placed his half-eaten sweet cake on a rock. Impatiently, he grabbed a fistful of dirt and spattered it around the rock. He took a step back and waited.

  Nothing happened.

  The boy nudged the cake closer to the center of the rock.

  Still nothing happened.

  Disappointed, the boy turned to go. The sun would be setting at any moment, and he needed to return home with his father. Suddenly, he heard a soft fluttering sound behind him. The boy stopped. Turning back around slowly, he watched with wide eyes as a pair of small, insect-like antennae rose over the rock’s edge.

  Quickly, the young boy ducked behind a nearby stone, his heart racing and his breath coming in short gasps. The antennae quivered as if testing the air. A moment later, two tiny blue wings came into view, and then a brilliant blue faerie climbed onto the rock. Her skin was almost iridescent, like a dewdrop, and her colorful wings were mesmerizing as they fluttered behind her. She was the most beautiful thing the boy had ever seen.

  Unaware that she had company, the tiny faerie reached out toward the sweet cake.

  Behind his stone, the boy felt his nose twitch. He wiggled it, trying to prevent the inevitable. But there was nothing he could do. He sneezed.

  Spinning around, the faerie locked eyes with the young boy. For a moment, neither of them moved, each in awe of the other. But then there was a loud bark and one of the collies bounded over. Before the boy could say a word, the faerie flew off, leaving the sweet cake behind.

  With a sigh, the boy stood up and began to walk away from the Moors, his mind racing with thoughts and questions. What kind of faerie had that been? Was she young or old? Was she nice or mean? Were there many more like her? And most important, where was she going?

  THE BLUE DEW FAERIE FLEW QUICKLY AWAY FROM THE YOUNG BOY WITH HIS FRIGHTENING FURRY CREATURE. As she made her way farther and farther into the Moors, the sun set farther and farther into the horizon, releasing hues of brilliant pinks, purples, and blues. The sky grew darker, and the sounds of nature became louder. There were the hoots of owls, the cawing of crows, and the buzzing drone of bugs as they went from flower to flower. Behind her, the trees that provided a natural barrier to her world faded into the distance, but bigger, older ones came into view. Their trunks ranged in color from dark brown to light gray. They rose high into the sky, creating a canopy that provided a roof of sorts for the Moors below. Within the canopy, birds called to one another while squirrels raced from branch to branch, undaunted by the height.

  The faerie moved quickly along. She passed a large pond where a group of faeries splashed about, sending water droplets glittering into the air. Waving, she continued on, flying up over a hill and down through a small glen. She veered to the right at a large tree that was split in two, and made her way through a field of bright red flowers that stretched on for nearly ten tree lengths. Beyond that was another pond, this one murkier, with a dark cave at one end that was home to a family of mudgeons. She ducked her head so as not to make eye contact. The tiny creatures—with their big ears, and foreheads that were always wrinkled, as they tended to worry about everything—were sweet, but they were a bit too relaxed in their housekeeping for her taste. The dew faerie’s wings beat faster and faster.

  Finally, she arrived in a beautiful wooded grove, the Faerie Mound. In the very heart of the Moors, the Mound was a special place to all who lived there. Imbued with magic, the Faerie Mound practically pulsed with energy drawn from the creatures and flora that inhabited it. Naturally circular, it consisted of large peat bogs, several small streams, and, taking up the most room, a large tree that sat perched above everything. Landing on a small rock on the edge of a bog, the dew faerie looked around and smiled, happy to be home and to see so many familiar faces.

  There was the grunt of a wallerbog as he sank his ungainly body into the muddy bog to join several others. The creatures all had long pointy ears that hung out from the sides of their heads and thick antennae fringed with pink. Together, they sat, their slobber dripping into the bog, creating more mud, which helped it survive.

  Farther down from the bog, purple fishlike creatures with huge eyes and large mouths filtered dirty water through their netlike fins, making it fresh and clean once more. Nearby, a group of stone faeries, gray hairless creatures that looked like the rocks they worked with, kept themselves busy arranging stones in the now clean stream to help the water flow. Everywhere in the wooded grove, the creatures worked together to keep nature balanced and in harmony.

  In the middle of it all sat the Rowan Tree. Enormous and stately, the tree’s trunk twisted up into thick, long branches and down into a mossy maze of perfectly curled roots. Shiny leaves covered the branches, and when the moon caught them just right, they cast a green light that shone through the grove. Sitting against the sturdy trunk was a beautiful human-sized faerie, her baby cradled in one arm. The faerie’s raven-colored hair shone in the moonlight, and her expansive wings gracefully rested over them both, like a feathered blanket. She hummed a lullaby and raised one hand above her, making night blossoms suddenly unfurl on the branches overhead. Then she made the leaves and flowers dance, swaying to the tune of her song, as her daughter was lulled to sleep.

  “Hermia,” called a warm voice behind her. Suddenly, a tall, handsome faerie appeared by her side. It was her husband, Lysander, his green eyes gleaming as brightly as the stars above them.

  “Shhh,” she chided gently. “She’s fast asleep.”

  “Ah, that she is.” He smiled and tilted his head, basking in the vision of his sleeping beauty. He bent down to kiss his daughter on the forehead and embrace his wife.

  “How did it go?” she asked once he’d settled in next to her against the Rowan Tree.

  He sighed, his brow furrowing into a frown. “It didn’t. The humans did not come. I waited at the border until the sun set, and then headed back.”

  Hermia mulled over this information, knowing the implications of one more day lost in their efforts for peace. Though most Fair Folk distrusted all humans, having witnessed countless attacks initiated by their kind, Lysander and Hermia believed that they could not judge a whole species on the actions of a few. That peace between the races was possible. In fact, for years, they had forged relationships with local farmers and shepherds. These folks were proof that there were humans who appreciated nature as much as they did. In fact, the seeds for their home, the Rowan Tree, had come as a gift from one family who’d thanked them for helping with their crops after a drought. And with just a touch of their magical coaxing, they had turned the seeds into their splendid abode, a piece of nature revered by all the creatures in the Moors, despite its origins.

  However, it seemed their new fragile harmony with humans, as delicate as a twig, was in danger of snapping. Sentries, the twelve-foot-tall tree-like creatures who guarded the border, had alerted the Fair Folk that humans in armor had been poking around the area, which greatly alarmed most of the other faeries. They thought this was a sure sign of a new batch of humans looking to invade and drain the Moors of its riches, the start of a new war. Hoping to break the longstanding cycle of violence, Lysander had decided to go to the border to initiate peace talks.

  “What did Balthazar make of it?�
�� Hermia asked, referencing one of the towering border guards.

  “He was concerned. They have been coming to the great waterfall every day at the same time for a week. It is strange they suddenly stopped their visits.”

  Hermia didn’t respond. The silence was thick between them, but they each knew what was on the other’s mind: The foolish hope that perhaps these humans had merely wanted to explore the Moors, or that if their mission was malicious, they had abandoned it. The fear that they had missed the opportunity to change the course of history, to create a peaceful environment in which their daughter would grow. The undeniable foreboding tension in the air.

  “Tomorrow,” Lysander said, breaking the silence. “I will return tomorrow.”

  “And I will go with you,” Hermia added. “I need to be there. Maleficent will be in good hands here with the others.”

  A mild wind breezed through the branches. Hermia rested her head on Lysander’s shoulder; he rested his head on hers. And with that, despite the heaviness in their hearts, they joined their daughter in a calm sleep under the rustling leaves of the Rowan Tree.

  They heard the screeching birds first. Then the screaming.

  “War! We’re at war!” a stone faerie cried.

  “The humans have attacked!” a water faerie yelled.

  Both Hermia and Lysander jumped up, their wings unfurling instinctively. It was still nighttime, and the sky was now a starless black. Faeries and animals alike raced around on the leaf-covered land, through the burbling streams, and in the velvety air. Hermia looked down at the precious bundle in her arms. Surprisingly, the chaos had not awoken Maleficent.

  Three disheveled pixies flew past them in a hurry.

  “What’s happened?” Hermia stood in front of them, blocking their way.

  “The humans are here. At the border. A whole army of them!” one, called Knotgrass, shouted hysterically.

  “With weapons!” said a pixie in blue, named Flittle.