Fairly Wicked Tales (34 page)

“Aye, but nothing lucky about facing imminent death.”

“You should keep your distance,” the wolf said, casting another glob of phlegm from high up on the battlements.

“One of the few advantages of being part egg is we’re immune to most infectious diseases.”

“Lucky for you,” B.B. muttered bitterly.

“Another advantage is we’re our own best source of protein!” Humpty chuckled, but B.B. could not rouse himself to share his joviality. “I guess it’s a jest amongst us eggs.”

Humpty quieted for a moment, lost in sullen thought. The only sound was the gusting wind snapping the flag that fluttered importantly from the ramparts. “A friend of mine, a little lad named Rumplestiltskin, recently came down with something similar to what you’ve got. It’s going around, this plague.”

“And?” B.B. puffed again.

“Well, he made it his business to work off some karma.”

“What in the realm is karma?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” Humpty said. “It’s got something to do with whatever good deeds you do get paid back to you. Good deeds attract good things to you. Same idea for bad things, too. In fact, he is of the opinion it was how he got the disease in the first place. He was an imp of ill repute.”

“So, what did he do?”

“He made sure everything he did was considered … well, good. He helped people, gave to charity, fed the hungry—everything he did, he did so he would be paid back in kind.”

“Did it work? Did he beat the sickness?” B.B. asked.

“No, he died,” Humpty said. “But he did so with a clear conscience. The Gods will treat him kindly for that.”

It did warrant consideration. After the prognosis was given to him that he had contracted this common, but ultimately fatal disease, B.B. withdrew himself from everything. His pack abandoned him, his family shunned him, and society deemed him an outcast. If the Gods were kind, he could defeat the disease and set about rebuilding his life once more.

“Egg, you might be on to something. Many thanks, friend,” B.B. said, and reached over to pat him on the back. It wasn’t hard, but enough to crack his shell with his claws.

“Ah! My back!” Humpty called out, and attempted to reach behind him. He over balanced and his oval form slipped from the wall. B.B. tried to grab him but he was too late. The egg-man screamed as he fell for what seemed like an eternity, before ending with a sickening crack on the pavement of the market below. Market-goers screamed with revulsion, and shopkeepers reeled in horror, as the viscous, clear and yellow goo flowed from his cracked body.

“Hmm,” B.B. muttered. “Not a great start.”

***

An early morning shower gave way to a clear, sparkling day. B.B. followed a well-worn trail through the woods. Birds chirped and chattered as he passed, their songs sweet music to his ears. Even the most stonehearted of man or animal would concede it was a beautiful day.

The trail tracked through the dense forest, a popular road used by traders with wagons, and travelers, as evidenced by the multitude of horse droppings on the path. B.B. dodged them with care.

An off-shooting path broke left, into another part of the woods. Keen for adventure and looking for an opportunity to do right, he followed it into denser brush, his rough paws parting ferns and overgrown vines obstructing his path.

Eventually, the path widened and melted into a large clearing. B.B. crouched by the tree line, assessing the scene. Nothing was ever gained by being brash, especially with ruthless hunters and axe-wielding woodsmen lurking about.

B.B. had grown up on tales of these woods. He heard of the wood elves that would lead lost and weary travelers back to main road or redirect them to the nearest inn. Stories of lively forest sprites dancing through the leaves and trees, creating a natural spectacle. Tales of wood sirens whose song would calm wanderers and keep them safe from any harm befalling them … but Mama Wolf failed to mention what B.B. espied.

A tall, solitary tower stood in the middle of the clearing, rising high above the treetops like a village spire. There were no other buildings attached, or indeed any entrance that B.B. detected. In fact, the only remarkable thing he saw about the tower was a window, set high, from which a voice carried on the breeze:

Oh my, my, things are really awry,

My hair keeps on growing while I wait for some guy,

It’s far past brushing; the knots make me cry,

Singing, all I ever do is sigh,

Hoping my Prince Charming is nigh.

In between verses there was a lot of muttering, cursing and burping. There was a slosh of liquid, and the breaking of glass. B.B. stepped into the clearing and looked around. No one else was in the area. He approached the tower. “Uh, excuse me? Hello up there.”

The muttering stopped and a moment later, a face appeared at the window. B.B.’s heart skipped a beat, as he stared open-mouthed at the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. She had a gorgeous round face, rosy cheeks and the greenest eyes he had ever beheld. Her golden hair tumbled down her back, disappearing into the darkness. “What is it, fool?” she screeched down at him. “Be gone before I tip scalding water on you.”
How did
that
come from anything so comely?

“Oh,” B.B. said. “I … uh, was wondering if you were alright. I heard your forlorn, slightly slurred song and thought you might need some assistance.”

“Not unless you’ve got a pair of shears. This bloody hair is giving me the irrits.” She took a long swill from a bottle of wine she held in her hand. “Who are you anyway? You’re not selling anything, are you?”

“No, no, just a simple traveler who heard your pretty song.”

The girl looked him up and down and a smile played across her lips. “Do you drink?” she said, waving the bottle in her hand.

“Aye, I’ve been known to tipple at times.”

“Come on up then,” she said, and threw a rope from her window … except it wasn’t a rope. It was hair.
Her
hair. “Climb up, it’s safe.”

B.B. hesitated, but thought it would be least he could do. Keeping someone company in drinking could only considered good karma, he decided. He scrambled up the golden tresses and climbed through her window, and was greeted by a pewter mug filled with wine. “Bottoms up,” the girl said.

B.B. learned the girl’s name was Rapunzel (he assumed she had frivolous parents) and she had been locked in this tower by an evil sorceress due to her beauty. He failed to see the logic in the situation, but the wine was sweet and flowing freely so he asked no questions.

Rapunzel said the sorceress came by everyday to supply her with food (and ample wine) and accessed her room via her hair, which she was forbidden to cut. This pained her, as she wanted to be free of this tower. All she had to do was wait for her Prince Charming. They drank heavily into the night, and B.B. vowed to help her escape the next day.

The next morning, light streamed in through the window. B.B.’s eyes opened blearily. His head throbbed like a thousand ox-drawn carts were racing in there, and his mouth tasted like something foul had curled up and died. As with every morning, he set into a coughing fit, loud and hoarse.

His drinking partner, Rapunzel, was stretched out on her pallet, half-naked and covered in vomit.
What in the realm happened last night?
B.B. thought. As he tried to recollect the night’s proceedings, he heard a voice call out. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!”

B.B. struggled to his feet, and was still half-drunk. “Uh, one moment!” he called out in his best female voice, which ended up sounding more like an old hag who liked the pipe a bit too much.

He shook Rapunzel, forcing down the urge to vomit himself as her stench reached his sensitive nose. She wasn’t responding. He shook her more, but her limp form drooped like a rag doll. He listened close to her mouth and gasped. She wasn’t breathing. She had drunk herself to death!

B.B. panicked and crept over to the window. Down below, in the forest clearing, was a young, handsome man dress in colorful finery, mounted on the most impressive stallion B.B. had ever seen. “You there, good wolf!” the man called up. “Would you be as good as to rouse the fair maiden, Rapunzel, and inform her Prince Charming has arrived to bid her to let down her golden locks so I might effect her rescue?”

“Uh … she’s not here,” B.B. lied.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. She’s gone out.”

“Gone out?” the Prince said incredulously. “I was under the impression she was trapped in this tower, awaiting a handsome Prince to free her and take her hand in marriage.”

“She was, but she’s run out of milk and just popped down the village to get some,” B.B. said. “If you come back tomorrow, I’ll make sure she’s here. Thanks for stopping by though. I’ll let her know you dropped ’round.” He pulled away from the window and ducked out of sight.

The minutes ticked by and eventually he heard the retreating trotting of the Prince’s horse and breathed a sigh of relief. Poor Rapunzel! What an untimely demise, which he felt slightly responsible for. He did remember a drinking game they played with a deck of cards, which caused them to both get roaring drunk. But to die by choking on her own vomit was an ugly way to go.

With sorrow in his heart, he let himself down from the window of the tower with her hair, leaving it there for whoever called on her next. Keen to get away without being spotted and wrongly (or rightly) accused of foul play, he slinked back into the forest and found the main road once more.

***

He walked through the shade the dense foliage provided, through shafts of thin light shooting through the gaps between trees. Lost in a daydream, and considering his next action to attract good karma, he sensed trotting behind him. He veered to the side of the road so the horses may pass.

“Make way for the Prince!” came the call from a royal herald as the trotting came closer. He heard the sound of a carriage being pulled, its large wooden wheels crunching on the rocky road. He stopped and waited. It was expected even the King’s animals would show courtesy to the royals as they passed.

The royal banner men came first, mounted on impressive stallions. They carried long poles that bore the banner of King Cole, protector and liege of their lands. A second banner showed it wasn’t the King traveling, but the Prince. Unlike Prince Charming, his half-brother, Prince Gerald, was as opposite his father as could be. He had the face of a God, the body of a warrior and dozens of bards sang of his braveness and nobility.

As B.B. watched the procession go by, the carriage came to a halt beside him. A curtain on the window drew aside, revealing the Prince himself. “Hail, King’s wolf. Would you like to travel with us? We’re heading for the next village.”

Without hesitation, B.B. climbed into the carriage, where he found the Prince dressed to the nines. He had an easy smile about him, deep set blue eyes and an affable manner. B.B. knew why all the women of the realm swooned over him. Cradled in his hand was a delicate golden slipper.

“Shoemaking, your Grace?” enquired the wolf.

The Prince laughed heartily. “I am to marry the maiden whom this shoe fits. We only met briefly at my ball, but she captured my heart and I cannot rest until I find the owner of this shoe.”

“So you’re going to marry a barefoot strumpet?”

“If their foot fits this shoe, I will marry them,” the Prince said.

The Prince offered it to B.B., who took it and looked over it carefully. “That doesn’t really narrow it down much, does it?”

“Oh?” the Prince said, perplexed. “Explain your meaning, wolf.”

“Well, there are going to be dozens of women with this size foot. You realize that, don’t you, your Grace?”

“Yes, well …”

“And how well do you remember that night?” B.B. reasoned, handing the shoe back. “It was dark … you probably had a bit to drink. She probably did too, if she’s leaving shoes all about the place. Any old harlot could claim this is their shoe.”

“I suppose, but I need to find her.”

“This is not the way,” B.B. said. “If you do this, you’ll probably get some washer woman or maid saying that she is the one you’re looking for, not a woman befitting your status, sire.”

“That would be preposterous!”

“Indeed, your Grace.”

“Good wolf, thank you for your assistance and helping me see the folly of my ways. You have saved me much potential heartache. I still intend on taking you to the next village, if you’ll accept.” The Prince flashed him one of his smiles which made him the most popular member of the royal family.

“I would be most grateful, your Grace,” B.B. said.

It felt good to help people.

***

On the outskirts of the village, B.B. watched as the royal procession did an about face and went back the way they came. He coughed, thumped his chest and spat off the side of the road.

In the distance, he spotted a dotted form on the uppermost rungs of a ladder leaned against a hut. B.B. knew helping someone with their house would have to generate some good karma, so he set off towards it.

As he got closer, he noted the hut was attended to by a stoutish pig, straining to weave long strands of straw into the thatching on the roof. His trotters teetered dangerously on the top run, threatening to slip off at any moment. “Good day!” B.B. said.

The pig, unaware of B.B.’s presence, panicked and slipped from the ladder and fell onto the stack of straw on the ground. “Curses, a wolf!”

“Settle, swine. I’ve not come to hurt you,” B.B. said, raising his paws unthreateningly. “What are you constructing here?”

The pig picked himself off the ground and used his trotters to brush some of the dried straw from his clothes. “What does it look like to you? A snowman?” the pig replied shortly. “It’s a blimmin’ house, that is.”

“I thought as much,” B.B. said. “I’m willing to help in its construction, if you’ll let me. I’m somewhat taller than you and would be able to reach the higher places on the roof.”

“I’m wise to you, wolf,” the pig said. “I’m not falling for your ruse. You mean to blow my house down and eat me, you do.”