Marianne, the Matchbox, and the Malachite Mouse (9 page)

Buttercup had very odd dreams. The nagging voice which had not lately bothered her had returned to tease at her with nebulous commands and comments. ‘I hope to hell you can get out of this’ was one, as well as, ‘You never learn, do you?’ When she woke it was with an ominous sense of something very wrong. When she came fully awake, she found herself in a stout cage behind the marple-bread cottage. Honsl was sitting disconsolately beside a tree, his ankle chained to a nearby post. The dog was nowhere to be seen, but Buttercup could hear his atrocious harf, harf, harf off somewhere in the woods. Though she was somewhat disoriented, she pulled herself together enough to address the pale young male before her.

‘Honsl! What has happened?’

‘The old witch caught us, is what.’

‘Not a nice way to refer to an elderly Grisl, Honsl.’

‘Don’t care,’ he sulked. ‘She is.’

‘Why in the world are we confined in this way?’

‘Got the – for us,’ he mumbled, the mid-part of the information lost in mid-mutter. Nor would he repeat what he had said.

Buttercup was at first inclined to think it was some kind of joke. Perhaps the old Grisl had taken offense at the dog. Perhaps she was merely a bit scattered, as the very old sometimes become. As the day wore on, however, she began to believe that it was the old Grisl’s intention to starve her to death.

During the day Honsl received several plates of cakes with tea. Buttercup was given only water. All attempts to communicate with the aged Grisl met with a sly smile and complete silence. By evening, Buttercup was beginning to feel slightly dizzy from hunger, and it was at that time that the dog, crawling on its belly through the tall grasses, brought to the cage the bodies of several small, juicy examples of the local fauna.

Buttercup had been schooled to avoid raw meat. As she was about to turn from the still warm bodies in disgust, however, her interior voice said so loudly and so very clearly that it should have been audible across the clearing, ‘For the sake of good sense, Buttercup, eat the damn things. You must. If you can’t see the plot outline emerging here, I can!’

Buttercup had no idea what was meant by this, but as things stood, she was both ravenous and had little choice of menu. Calling softly to Honsl, she offered to share the meat and was met with a shudder of rejection. An obscure impulse (Mouse, who wished to guarantee a continued source of sustenance) moved her to say, ‘Good dog,’ and she watched with interest as it wagged its posterior appendage to and fro in response to each utterance of this phrase. ‘Good dog.’

When Buttercup had finished her meal, she tossed the bones away into the shrubbery, licked her bloody fingers clean, and lay down to sleep, aware of Honsl’s reproachful eyes upon her. She would like to have cheered him, but since he would not share the provender furnished by his own dog, there was little she could do. Now that she had eaten the raw and bloody meat, she felt much better – well enough, in fact, that she wondered why she had been taught not to eat it.

Some days went by. The aged Grisl offered her nothing but water, but the dog brought dead animals at evening and at dawn. On the fifth day, the old Grisl began to approach the cage frequently, peering at Buttercup with wicked old eyes, totally ignoring all attempts at conversation. She was looking for something. Toward evening, when dog brought the catch of the day, Buttercup realized what the old Grisl was looking for. Mother Marple expected Buttercup to show signs of weakness! Five days of starvation would normally be enough to reduce even a well-conditioned Grisl to semi-consciousness.

Buttercup (encouraged by Mouse) resolved that, when morning came, she would play the part just to see what happened. During the night she was disturbed, as on the previous two nights, by erotic dreams. Such dreaming, she had been told, was a well-known consequence of eating raw meat, especially in the quantities Buttercup had recently been consuming. She had not been told, however, how amusing such dreams were. When morning came, she found herself looking at Honsl in a frankly lubricious way which should, in most circumstances, have stirred some signs of appreciation. Honsl, however, merely went on looking depressed and rather constipated.

Buttercup preened. He paid no attention. Irritated, she began a full display, only to catch a glimmer of motion at the corner of the house. Hastily she pulled her robe together and, as she had rehearsed in her mind the previous evening, dropped to the ground in feigned weakness, tongue lolling unattractively. The aged Grisl approached the cage, peered at her captive for long moments before beginning to jig about in an obscene way, grinning widely. Then, to Buttercup’s complete amazement, the witch dropped her garments and began a pre-challenge display as she jogged her unlovely self around the clearing. The scent of her had its inevitable effect upon Buttercup. Her spurs twitched. Seeing this, Mother Marple unlocked the cage.

Honsl’s head came up sharply, eyes wide with surprise. He was no more surprised than Buttercup herself. Grisls of the age of Mother Marple and in that stage of decrepitude were commonly supposed to be neither interested in sex nor capable of instigating it, since no one in such a state of decay would be able to withstand combat.

Unless – Mouse shrieked at her – unless such an old hen had starved an opponent into terminal weakness, as this one had planned to do.

If that had been the plan, it went sadly awry for Mother Marple. Buttercup dropped her robe and emerged from the cage in one giant leap, in full possession of her faculties, of gleaming spurs, of a dripping fang, and of hands still red from breakfast.

The old witch, as Honsl called her, might have been a worthy opponent at one time. The old movements were all there, though weakly and unsatisfactorily executed. At one point, she so far forgot herself as to screech, though Buttercup, intent upon the battle, hardly heard it. All that raw meat had had its effect. Though she admitted to herself that it was unmaidenly to do so, Buttercup was drawing out the battle in order to maximize its erotic effect upon Honsl. Eggmaturation or not, she felt she had been celibate long enough! As she fought, she thought of Honsl, of his arousal, of the expression on his pretty face when she turned to him at last, triumphant, spurs dripping, fang flirtatiously extended.

He would greet her with welcoming, tremulous expectation, she thought as she finally tired of the play and pierced Mother Marple’s throat with a nicely judged side slash.

She turned to the chained male, flushed with anticipation.

Staring at her across the carcass of Mother Marple with his usual constipated expression, Honsl held the ankle chain out toward Buttercup. He showed no signs of arousal whatsoever. He showed no signs of interest.

There was a lengthy and uncomfortable silence, broken when he said, finally, in a rather self-conscious whine, ‘She would have been most awfully disappointed, wouldn’t she?’

She
would have been? thought Buttercup.

‘I don’t know why it is,’ he went on plaintively, ‘that Grisls always assume males
like
being – well, you know – wanted in that way. Sought after. Lots of them don’t. I never have. It’s just not all that amusing.’ He held out the ankle chain once more, obviously expecting her to find the key and let him loose.

She could not stop herself. Later, she could not recall that she had even tried. She nipped him firmly, rather more than a love bite, and glared at him as she snarled, ‘Not all that amusing, indeed!’

The faithful dog came out of the underbrush to sniff at Honsl a time or two, raising his hind leg at the paralyzed figure in a gesture unfamiliar to Buttercup. She wondered what it signified as the creature left his erstwhile master and came bounding toward her. He smelled no better than he had at first, rather worse, in fact, but she saw the animal through clearer eyes. Clever, clever boy. Nice dog. Large enough to be useful in many ways – to carry baggage, or even to ride upon if one chose.

With the sun moving toward noon, it would be easy for her to find her way back to the road. She left Honsl where he was, striking off through the forest in the direction Mother Marple had indicated on the night they had arrived, Whurfle in close pursuit. She thought that in future she would pay more attention to where she was going. She thought she would find a way to show gratitude to the dog. She thought that when she grew weary, she might ride upon him. She hoped she would reach the nearest village well before dark.

‘Whurfle is a clever animal, true,’ said a voice in her head. ‘But you wouldn’t really want to spend the night out on a dog like this.’

By sundown, Buttercup reached the village of Rivvelford. She thought that perhaps it should be called a town, inasmuch as it was the seat of government for the surrounding area and had not one but two excellent inns. Whatever one might choose to call it, she was glad to reach it. Though she had not suffered malnutrition under Mother Marple’s care, she had suffered emotional exhaustion and wanted nothing more than a quiet room, a warm bath, cooked food, and escape, however temporarily, from dog. She stabled him appropriately though he howled dismally after her as she left him to the tender care of the stable boy and the enjoyment of a large dish of bones and table scraps. She drew the line at sharing quarters with anything that smelled quite so much like wet winter-wear. The stable boys seemed to find Whurfle irresistible, which was congruent with thoughts she had already expressed about the essential triviality of the male mind.

She had brought with her from Thrumm House a quantity of coin, sufficient, she had estimated, for a journey much longer than the one contemplated, so there was no problem in obtaining a pleasant dinner of baked moor-hen, fresh vegetables, and a wine of the area which, while young, had a certain foolhardy insouciance which she found intriguing. Mr Thrumm had been quite a connoisseur of wines, and some of his snobbish delight seemed to have rubbed off on her. Well, she thought (Mouse thought) after all, if one must travel, one might as well travel with enjoyments appropriate to one’s station. One was, after all, a daughter of the Royal House, Van Hoost or not. Not that she intended to say anything about that.

The inn specialized in elaborate confections, but she had smelled enough marple bread recently to make anything sweet seem abhorrent. She contented herself with the wine, sitting late in the dining room as she watched the fire flicker low and the moon peer through the mullioned window over the branches of the sorbish grove. It was while she was so pleasantly occupied that she overheard the conversation of a group of males at a nearby table who, warmed overmuch by spiritous indulgence, had so far forgotten themselves as to become loud.

One was exhorting to another to attend a ‘revival’ which was to be held in the village square on the following evening at which time the populace would be addressed by a traveling preacher. Though it was unclear what was to be revived, Buttercup had never heard a preacher and was curious enough to spend an additional day in Rivvelford. She was, at this point, only two days journey from the Palace and did not want to arrive too early.

‘Early to bed and early to rise,’ said a hectoring voice from inside. ‘Get a head start to make you wise. Better early than never!’ Buttercup, as was her habit, ignored it. The days spent at Mother Marple’s had already delayed her. Surely one or two days more would not matter.

On the following evening, Buttercup, soberly clad in her quiet robe, joined a crowd made up almost entirely of males with only three of four constabulary Nurseys standing about looking bored. Besides herself, there were not half a dozen robed Grisls in the square. Of unrobed Grisls there were none, as the presence of such a one would have been provocative, inappropriate, and uncivil. In good time the preacher was introduced: Sensalee, a young, slim, serious-looking male, not unlike Sneeth in general appearance and demeanor though far, far better looking. He was well spoken and made an excellent impression upon the crowd.

That impression, so far as the Grisls were concerned, was quickly dissipated when they began to understand what he had to say. He was speaking for a cause he called ‘Male Rights,’ by which they understood him to mean that he wished males to be allowed Grisl privileges or, conversely, that he wished Grisl privileges in connection with males to be curtailed. Most of his remarks were concerned with his disapproval of the Grisl habit of what he called ‘casual sex.’

Casual indeed, scowled Buttercup beneath her robe. It seemed ridiculous that a matter so urgent could be called ‘casual’ by anyone!

The preacher, however, called it casual again and again, spoke of the male being a mere ‘plaything,’ and went on at painful length about the pathetic fortunes of males ‘casually used’ by Grisls and then ‘casually’ disposed of. By which he meant, if Buttercup understood what he was attempting to say, that males should not be left precisely as she had left Honsl. Or, as she had also left Fribberle and Thrumm, Sneeth, two Ribbles, a gardener’s boy, and seven suitors. That is, in some remote or infrequented place to be found or not, as chance dictated.

Buttercup felt that she had never heard quite such unmitigated rubbish. Even Sneeth had never uttered such blather. If males were casually disposed of, it is because they were not pleasing to the Grisl involved. This taught them and others to be more pleasing in future, and in doing so they achieved the epitome of masculine virtue and charm. No male worth displaying for would want anything more than to be regarded with that indulgent delight of which the romantic ardor of a satisfied Grisl is capable. Males were most delightful when they knew their place and did not attempt to leave it. So the books in the root cellar had said, and so Buttercup thought as well.