Fractured Fairy Tales (24 page)

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The prince looked exhausted. Shadows circled his eyes, skin pale and sallow, his hands trembled slightly and his eyelids drooped.

“She is too old.”

“She is too common.”

“Her father was an enemy of the king?”

“She may still be tainted?”

The courtiers whispered amongst themselves, not so softly the prince could not hear. He turned his head and gazed unseeing out of the window near his seat.

The king and queen called for their advisors. They advised the prince should not marry the girl from the tower, he should spend more time with debutantes more suited to his station, the girl should go to a cloister, her lineage was not suitable and many other things more negative than the last.

“Has anyone asked him what he wants?” an elderly woman knitting in the corner made her soft voice heard over all the others. They all quieted and turned toward her. Her needles clicked loud in the lull of other sounds. “There seems an awful lot of talking about, instead of talking with.” Her attention returned to the thing she was knitting, and the others in the room looked across the council table at each other.

“I want happily ever after, and I can only have it with her,” the prince declared emphatically.

“Have you asked her if that is what she wants?” The knitting paused.

“I am a fool.”

“You are a fool! Though, even fools can learn.” The needles resumed their rhythmic click.

The prince sought his lady in the room of his tower they had reserved for her alone.

“You ask me to exchange one tower for another. My father locked me up in some crazy fit of grief. He stole my life, my time and my home so long ago I can’t recall, and here you are demanding the very same conditions. To live above the world and not be in it, I think not. You are my dearest, only friend, you are my first true love.” She touched one cheek tenderly and kissed the other soft and warm. “Not e’en for you, and never more, will I live in an ivory tower. Happy ever after is not a place I want to be, it is far too simplistic and limited in scope, and I have a world to explore.”

The prince felt his heart constrict in pain, but he was a man trained to a role. He knew, though he could coerce her to stay, he had no right to hold her against her will. He bowed deeply and kissed her hand.

“Fare well, my Lady. You will be ever in my heart.”

“Fare well, my Prince. You will ever hold a place in mine.”

With that, they parted, and their lives were never the same, because life has a way of being an adventure—no matter what height you view it from.

The Innkeeper’s Daughter

Andrea L. Staum

The modest inn, with its two stall stable, was nestled deep in the forests. All roads led to it like the spokes of a wheel to the center hub; however, very few made the journey down the darkened trails. Those who did, wanted to hurry to their destination, only stopping for a brief repose in the damp common room of the inn or to water their horses. Still, the innkeeper kept his doors open to those few weary travelers wishing a bed for the night. With his wife as the cook, his daughter, Ararinda, to tend the hens and small vegetable patch, the innkeeper was content. He rarely traveled farther than the wooden fence that lined his property and warned his women to never venture farther than the stream just beyond.

Ara grew up unaware of the world beyond the trees. She rarely spoke to those travelers that stopped. There was a fat monk that came at least twice a year. He laughed, drank with her father and had tried a couple times to bring her to his god, but when his hands wandered low on Ararinda’s back in front of her mother, she was sent to her room in to avoid him. Occasionally, a caravan of traders came from the south would exchange new cloth and rare spices for a warm bed.

The traders were her mother’s favorites, and Ararinda had caught the caravan leader and her mother behind the stable a couple of times. After a few strong lashes, she knew better than to mention it to her father. Then again, her father was not innocent of dalliance. A fine lady had come through with her guard and servants, and Ara had stumbled upon her father, braying like a goat, atop a handmaiden.

Regardless, Ararinda grew up naïve of her own beauty. She wore only the handmade dresses her mother made her, and they were usually some shade of brown or gray. Once, she had been fortunate and received a bright yellow one, but had soiled it cleaning the stables. She only saw her black ringlets once a month, falling to the floor when her mother took a straight razor to her head.

“Why can’t I grow it long like you, Mama? Why can’t I braid it like you?” Ara pleaded with each scrape of the blade.

“Because only a married woman can have long hair,” her mother replied.

“But some of the trader girls have long hair, and they’re younger than I am. Do they have husbands?” She tried to turn her head to see her mother, but her mother’s firm hands forced her to look forward once more.

Her father had come in as she had asked the question and responded when her mother remained silent. “They do not have to clean out chicken coops and horse stalls or milk the goat. It’s a curse having long hair, child. This keeps it from getting in your way while you work.”

“I don’t see what husband would want me with a prickly head,” muttered Ararinda resentfully as she looked down so the blade could cut the hair near the base of her skull.

To keep her modest, her parents kept her away from anything that could show her reflection. Ara’s mother had hidden the one mirror she had possessed in a small cupboard beside her bed, which was turned so the drawer faced the wall, making it hard for Ararinda to open and sneak a peek at herself.

She had tried getting into the drawer once, when her curiosity had gotten the better of her, but her father had caught her. He had reaffirmed the rule of not looking with the lash of his belt, and she had never tried again. Anything else shiny enough to show the girl her reflection was quickly scuffed or tarnished when it came into the inn.

Even the traders knew better than to show her anything metallic. One time, when she had been no taller than an ax handle, a crooked-tooth trader had given her a silver bauble. For a few breaths, she had gazed into her own distorted blue eyes. The leader of the caravan, seeing this, had slapped the object from her hands. It had rolled beneath the hooves of one of the horses, where it was crushed to a thousand slivers and disappeared into the mud.

That night had been the first in which the voice stole into her dreams. “Come to me, Ararinda,” the whisper had compelled.

She had awakened, shivering, and had closed the shutters, despite the warmth of the summer night. She had rested her head against the dry, paint-flaking wood and had waited for her heart to slow. When the pounding had stopped flooding her ears, she heard a scrape against the floor behind her. She had turned quickly. Her eyes had been slow to adjust to the waking world, but a faint, golden glow seemed to come from the far corner of the room.

Ararinda blinked, and the light had disappeared. She had realized the sound must have come from her parents’ room next door, where she could hear the familiar sound of their coupling.

She had returned to her bed, convincing herself it had been some outside light that had filtered through the shutter. Burying her head under her husk filled pillow, Ara had slowed her breathing and soon slept once more. By morning, thoughts of the voice had fallen deep in her memory as her daily tasks took over.

Seasons passed faster than the travelers did, and Ararinda soon found herself longing to see where the roads could take her. She listened intently to every story the travelers told, imagining the grand cities and towns that were beyond the trees. Even those brief moments of escape were taken away when her mother set her to chores to keep her busy and away from any guests. Ara began to wonder if all her days would be wasted in the tiny place, secluded from the world. Her parents continued to keep the boundaries between the road and the creek firm, despite her every protest.

“How will I find a husband of my own?” she whined to her mother once after a bride and groom had come through on their way to one of the grand cities. Ararinda realized that her parents would have to let her go if a man were to claim her for his bride. The problem was, those travelers that came, knew her, and even the younger traders knew better than to try for her attentions.

Her tired mother shook her head and kept kneading the bread dough. “He’ll come for you soon enough. Trust in that, child, just don’t wish for it.”

Ararinda rolled her eyes and took up the slop bucket. A traveler had given them a pig for payment, and the innkeeper had decided to fatten it on table scraps, in hopes of feasting on it when the next wealthy customer graced them with his or her presence. That had been nearly three seasons before, and the poor creature could barely roll over, much less stand. Still, Ara made sure it was well tended.

As she was going to the makeshift pen, the hog snorted and grumbled. Its snout wiggling impatiently as it caught the scent of food, it became more anxious and more active than it had been at any point since it had come to the inn. It began to push against the wood, and Ara cringed at the sound of the splintering, dropped the bucket and tried to push the beast back. It forced itself against the fence until the dried wood gave up beneath the weight and toppled over, covering Ararinda in a disgusting mixture of mud and filth.

Her father was quick to her side, helping her pen the beast once more. Once the pig was contentedly rooting through its dinner, he saw the state Ara had been left in. “Go wash in the stream,” he ordered, his finger pointing to the running water that bordered her world.

Ararinda rinsed her hands in the horse trough before taking a clean dress from the drying line and making her way to the stream. The air was cold, and goose pimples rose from her arms at the thought of the quick running water rushing over her skin. She knew there was a pool not too far downstream, but it was actually beyond the boundary fence, and she had never gone to it.

Mother and Father sneak to it, so it must be safe enough
, she thought. It would be far better to plunge into the deeper water and be rid of the grime quickly than to scrub at it in ankle deep water.

Ararinda placed her clean dress over the fence post and untied the belt of her soiled dress before pulling it over her head. She cringed as glops of mud streaked her face. She quickly tossed it into the water, where it floated a moment, until the water soaked into the material and it sank, the hem of the skirt still floating. She looked at it a moment before securing it in place with a rock. The gentle current wouldn’t rush it away, but it would clean the muck. Satisfied, she ran to where the pool was hidden.

When she reached the end of the fence, her steps faltered. One more step, and she would have gone farther than she ever had gone. The trees didn’t appear to be any different beyond that one step, but the sight of them made her palms sweat, and she almost took a step back. She bit at her lower lip, worrying the soft flesh between her teeth as she looked at the clearing that surrounded the pool.

The sun was well past that part of the tree canopy, making the pool black in the shadow the old trees. The bushes on the far edge moved, and she shrank back, grasping the fence post, but had to laugh at her childishness when a rabbit hopped out to drink from the pool. It paused when it saw her, and retreated to its hiding spot.

Some mud slid from her cheek and down her neck, reminding her of why she was breaking her boundaries. She shook off the ominous feeling and took the step.
The pool is only a few paces away, what harm could come to me?
Ara wondered.
Mama and Father will never even know.

When she came to the pool, the eagerness that had come with thinking she was doing something naughty ebbed. Ararinda looked around, suddenly shy about her nakedness and was quick to slide into the cool water. She dunked her head under and scrubbed at her arms. rough in the process, red lines formed along her arms as she scraped away the dirt with her fingernails.

The brush around the pool seemed to quiver in her peripheral vision as she cleaned herself. She paused to look around her, staring into the foliage. As she gaped, everything in the woods seemed to stop. Even the birds silenced their songs as she looked for what had caused her unease. She started to move toward the far edge, hoping it was just the rabbit, but the knot of fear in the pit of her stomach made her believe it was something larger.

“Ararinda!” she heard her mother calling for her from the inn.

Scrambling out of the water, Ara was anxious that she had tarried too long and would be caught outside of the safe area. She hurried into the clean dress that remained on the fence, but when she looked for the one she had left to wash, it was no longer there. The stone she had put on it was in place, but the dress was gone. She knew it had not floated downstream, or she would have seen it while in the pool. Ara worried her mother had gathered it up while looking for her, and she would be caught.

When she got back to the kitchen, her mother said nothing about the dress.

When the family sat down for supper, her father said nothing about it either.

She didn’t dare bring it up herself and excused herself to her room very early that night. She stared out the window at the stream that twinkled in the starlight. A flutter caught her eye toward the top of trees. Ara squinted at it, and her eyes widened as she saw it was her dress blowing in the breeze. How it had gotten so high, she could not say, but it frightened her. The stomach knot she had felt in the pool returned, heavier, as she watched the skirt dance on the light breeze of the night.

She slammed the shutters harder than intended and buried herself in her covers.

“It’s almost time.” The voice came to her that night for the first time since she had been a little girl. “You will come to me, Ararinda. I grow impatient,” it rasped.

As she had before, she pulled her pillow over her head. However, sleep did not return. The voice had seemed so close. When the dawn broke, she had to force herself from her bed. She spent the day in a trance, doing her chores, taking her meals with red rimmed eyes and a yawn not far from her lips.

“What is it girl?” her father asked, the corners of his eyes crinkled with concern, but the edge of his mouth drawn tight in aggravation.

“Did we have a guest come late?” she asked. “I thought I heard talking in the middle of the night.”

Her father seemed to pale at the suggestion, and her mother gave a whimper from the kitchen. Still, both her parents denied a guest coming in the night.

As the weeks passed, the voice became very familiar as he called to her each night.

When her sixteenth birthday came, dreams began to accompany the voice:

She was alone—always alone. She seemed to start at the doorstep of the inn, but the walls were crumbling in, and the surrounding forest was long-dead. Ara found herself forcing her way down unfamiliar paths, overgrown from lack of use, searching for the speaker. When the wind blew, the call would come, and she would force her way past—grabbing branches and snagging thorns, always trying to find the source. Her bare feet bled against the cold and rocky soil the farther she went.

She would come to the edge of the forest and stare into emptiness. There was nothing beyond the woods. The cities and towns the travelers had told her about did not exist, except as decrepit piles of rubble, and beyond those was only empty blackness. Usually, she woke in a panic, gripping sweat soaked sheets when she realized that all her hopes for a life beyond the inn were pointless.

The night of her seventeenth birthday, she willed herself forward, seduced by the speaker to find him in the darkness. The wind had stopped, but the voice came again, different that time, kinder than it had ever sounded to her ears. “So close, Ararinda, so close. Just a few more steps.”

Her head snapped as she was yanked back to the fence and a hand struck her hard across the face, waking her. Her father had hold of her, looking at her with wide eyed panic. Looking around, Ara saw she was at the edge of the stream, almost to the hidden pool.