Rapunzel, the One With All the Hair (5 page)

Our lessons have begun, and Father is teaching. He claps his hands once, and a page appears at his side carrying two pillows with gold crowns on them. Father places the first crown on my head, and the other on Elkin's.

“We shall practice your regal bearing,” he says, standing back and sizing us up.

Elkin and I stare at each other's head. I haven't worn a crown since I tried on one of Father's when I was six, only to have it fall around my neck and land on my shoulders. It would have been funny if the tips of the crown hadn't punctured my neck in four places. But this crown stays squarely atop my head. I really AM growing up! Or perhaps just my head is. Either way, I am pleased.

“Back straight,” Father commands in that commanding voice of his. “Head forward, chin raised slightly. Arms at your sides.”

I hear
crickity-crack-pop
as I straighten my back. Why
didn't anyone tell me I had such poor posture? I sound like an old man!

“Now, a king must always be gracious and courteous. When somebody bows to you, or gives you a gift, or pays their taxes on time, you will want to acknowledge them. A king does not bow, but tilts his head and adds a little bob, like this.” Father tips his head forward and to the side, then adds a small bob, like he is nodding once at the person, but sideways. Elkin and I imitate him. Elkin is better at it. With my long neck, I look not unlike a chicken.

“Gobble, gobble, gobble,” Elkin whispers, but not loud enough for Father to hear.

Father instructs me not to bob quite so
large,
and to my further humiliation, I try too hard and strain a muscle in my neck. The muscle has completely seized up and I cannot turn my head to the left. Father sends for Mum, who wants to send for the doctor. I convince her to call for the royal masseuse instead. The doctor is way too quick with those leeches.

It seems I have NOT found my way out. Just because I know the trapdoor exists, what made me think I could reach it? The ceiling is at least five times taller than I. Jumping up got me nowhere. Standing on the table did not help much, either. Standing on the chair on top of the table brought me about halfway, but that was all.

All the activity has made my new dress smell and I have to change it. At this rate, I shall run out of clothes before the end of the week! I dare not hang this one out the window, and even after its night outside, my birthday dress still smells like Father's old socks. It is a good thing I am too young to marry, for no one wants to marry a smelly girl. Or one locked in a tower, for that matter.

To take my mind off the tantalizing yet out-of-reach trapdoor, I entertain myself (and I use that term loosely) by using the sooty ends of my old matchsticks to trace the pattern of the sun as it travels the length of my floor. Sir Kitty is down here with me, pouncing on the line as soon as I draw
it. All day I am on my knees marking the shadow as it grows larger until finally the whole room is in shade. In my own special way, I am connecting with nature. Father would be proud. He always told me the reason he loves tending the garden is because he never feels closer to the source of life than while helping something grow. (Of course, now I know that what he was helping grow has brought my downfall!) After I am done with the floor, I move on to the wall. With my last two used matchsticks, I draw the outline of the cottage where, until this week, I had rested my head every night of my life. I draw the window that looks into Mother's sewing room and add a wisp of smoke out the chimney. Fittingly enough, the ash on my last matchstick runs out as I am about to draw the garden where my abduction took place.

I have decided to keep the mirror with me at all times so I can learn more about the door and rope system. With the mirror titled backward in my hand, I bide my time at the window. It is dusk now, and the forest has quieted. Even the ever-present blackbirds have gone to their nests for the night. Suddenly I realize there is a reflection in my mirror, and it is moving quickly! I watch, fascinated, as the witch shinnies down the rope, much faster than I ever imagined she could move. She reaches the ground and bends over to place a tray of food on the rug. That's when I notice it:

THIS IS NOT THE WITCH!!!

I almost drop the mirror but manage to tighten my grasp just in time. Whoever this is, he is much smaller than the witch, with a bald head and pale green skin. GREEN SKIN! I am terrified to move a muscle, so I wait until the creature climbs back up the rope. He pulls it back up in the blink of an eye and shuts the door. All of this was in complete silence. My ragged breathing is the only thing I heard the whole time.

I race over to the center of the room and stare up at the ceiling. My legs are shaking, so I sit down on the rug before I fall over. What WAS that? I finally collect my wits enough to look at the food. Meat pie, two hard-boiled eggs, one jellied pastry, a mug of cider, and another bowl of milk. This is my best meal yet! As I reach hungrily for the plate, my eyes land on a small white bag tied with a drawstring. I lift it up and it gives off a sweet scent. I undo the drawstring and peek inside. It is a ball of soap! Instead of lavender, though, it is scented with pine, just like the breeze outside.

Suddenly it all makes sense. A fog clears like a veil being lifted and I can finally see. This
creature
has been bringing me the gifts. The bowls of milk, the oil lamp, and now the soap. The witch knows nothing about it! How can I let this creature know how much I appreciate his kindness? I hurry
over to my trunk and pull out a piece of vellum, my quill, and the ink. In my neatest penmanship, I write:

I fold the note in half and slip it under the plate. Then I dig into my meal with both hands. No need for manners here.

I have almost fully recovered from yesterday's lessons in regal bearing. I have had a neck rub from the royal masseuse, and the local apothecary ground some herbs into a salve that I rub on every hour. Even so, Mum is insisting that I stay in bed with warm linens wrapped around my neck. I'm sure Elkin would be teasing me relentlessly had Father not recruited him for more lessons. So now he is off with MY father learning all about castle politics, giving alms to the poor, and who KNOWS what else. It is simply not fair.

Andrew peeks his head into my room and asks, “How is the patient?”

I grunt in reply. He enters, holding a rolled-up parchment in one hand and an old book in the other. He places the book on the night table and waves the parchment in his hand.

“What's that?” I ask, pushing myself up into a sitting position.

“This, sire,” he says dramatically, “is your future!” With
a flick of his wrist, he unfurls the yellowed sheet and spreads it out on the foot of my bed.

I lean closer. “It looks like a map of the Great Forest.”

“It IS a map of the Great Forest!” he exclaims. “And with it you shall find the bandits' cave, marked by this X!” He thrusts his finger down onto a far corner of the map.

I groan and lie back down again. “You're still thinking about that crazy idea? Have you forgotten about the legendary troll that makes grown knights tremble?”

“I knew you'd say that,” he said, reaching for the book on the night table. “So I came prepared with this.”

“Why am I afraid to look?”

He hands me the book and I see it is even older than I had first thought. The tooled leather that covers the oak covers is ripped in many places, and the stitching is falling apart as well. Even with my glasses on, I have to squint to read the faded gold-leaf title.
Trolls: Inside and Out — A User's Manual.
I should have guessed.

“No, thank you.” I hand the book back to him. “I don't want to know about the insides of a troll.”

He leaves me holding it. “Just give it a quick read. It tells you their weaknesses. You could learn enough to vanquish it and save the day for all the other Benjamins out there.”

“They really
could
use the money,” I murmur, resting my
palm on the book. “And I
would
like to prove I am worthy of being named after.”

“That is the spirit!” Andrew says, clapping his hands together. “Now, how are we going to get you into the forest? To discourage bandits, your father has decreed that only the royal hunters are allowed entrance.”

We are pondering this question when Elkin strolls in, munching on a crab apple. He eyes the map curiously, and Andrew snatches it off my bed and hastily rolls it back up.

“Can I help you, Elkin?” I ask sweetly. No use being antagonistic. Bad for the soul.

Elkin glances suspiciously at Andrew and the rolled-up parchment, but says only, “Your father wanted me to alert you that we shall be taken on our first hunt six days hence.”

Andrew and I exchange a look and my heart leaps a little.

“IF you are better, of course,” Elkin adds.

“He will be,” Andrew answers before I have a chance.

When I woke up today, the supper tray with my hidden note was gone. I hope my new friend found it. I hope I did not insult him by addressing the letter to “Little Green Creature.” If I had known his rightful name, I certainly would have used it. What if the witch found the note instead? I would lose the only ally I have. I shudder to think of what would happen to the little guy if he got caught giving me gifts. Have I put him in danger? Was I thinking only of my own needs?

Meanwhile, my hair keeps getting longer and longer.

The hunt is in a few days and I am off to meet Andrew in the courtyard to discuss the plan. I have just finished reading the book on trolls from cover to cover and am ready for whatever I might find at the cave. Or at least I am telling myself that I am ready, in the hopes that I may come to believe it. I learned only two things from the book:

1. Trolls are huge, scary, hairy, and hungry, which I pretty well knew already. They will eat anything, from the smallest berry to the largest horse. To illustrate its point, the book thoughtfully included artists' renderings of the trolls eating exactly that. I shall have nightmares for weeks.
   
2. Trolls are highly, even deathly, allergic to tomatoes. Something in the flesh of the tomato is poisonous to their system. They don't even need to eat it. Merely getting it on their skin will do the damage. I plan on
   stuffing as many tomatoes as I can in my saddlebags. They will be my main mode of defense.
   

Andrew has the map spread out on the stone bench when I arrive, and is drawing on it with the edge of a piece of coal. “This is where the hunting party will begin,” he says, marking a small X at one entrance to the forest. “Most of the group will head into the heart of the forest near the head of the stream. That is where they will find the greatest number of animals.” He draws a path leading away from the stream. “But once the party has separated, you will quietly ride off to the west, where the cave should be.”

My already low amount of confidence is dwindling. “Are you sure I'll be all right riding through the forest on my own?” I ask. “What if the cave-guarding troll isn't the worst creature there?”

“What's worse than a troll? A goblin? A witch? No one has reported either of those in years. The tomatoes will take care of the troll, and there shall be nothing keeping you from the treasure and the chronicles of history.”

“I hope you are correct, Andrew,” I say, rolling up the map and sticking it in my leather satchel. “For otherwise it will fall to you to explain why I have not returned with the
rest of the hunting party. I'm sure Mum won't take it out on you too badly.”

For the first time this morning, Andrew's grin slips and he grimaces, as he says, “I think I'd rather face the troll.”