Rapunzel, the One With All the Hair (6 page)

I am beginning to suspect that the witch somehow makes me fall asleep even when I am not tired. One minute it is early afternoon and I am storing my soap safely in my trunk, and the next I am curled up on the “bed,” the sun has reached three quarters of the way across the tower floor, and a tray of food is getting cold on the rug. I hurry over and search under every plate and bowl for a response to my note. The extra bowl of milk is here, along with a small plate of sardines that I figure is also for Sir Kitty — and even if it isn't, she has already licked each one, so she will get no argument from me. No reply to my note, though. Well, it was worth a shot. At least the little guy wasn't caught by the witch, and that is the most important thing.

With a sigh, I pick up my wooden spoon and am about to thrust it into the thick vegetable stew when I notice seven peas resting on top. Two next to each other, another centered below them, and four others forming a U-shaped curve underneath the rest. Little Green Creature has left
me a happy face! I smile down into the stew, then pick out the peas and pop them in my mouth one by one.

After I lick the bowl clean, I head over to the window. I know the creature will not come again tonight, so I do not bother with the mirror. The sun shall set soon, but for now the forest is still aglow. I used to think that there were only two colors in the forest, the grayish-brown bark of the trees, and the green of the leaves. My time in the tower has taught me otherwise. The greens are not only one color. There is a deep, almost blackish green of the lower leaves; a green the shade of a ripe lime; a green that looks yellow when the sun lights it. Besides the array of greens, every color of the rainbow lives here. The bushes that ring the tower base are home to purple and red berries, which look round and succulent although I can only stare down longingly at them. Father has told me never to eat strange berries, but surely he did not know of these, nor of the plump oranges that grow in a grove west of my window. Sometimes they still glow after the sun has set as though lit from a candle within. It used to be a rare treat when Mother brought oranges home from the weekend market, but here they are for the picking. (Not by me, of course, but someone who is NOT trapped in a tower by an evil witch could surely pick them with no problem.)

I wait until I can see the first star before lighting my lamp.
The flickering wick casts interesting shadows on the ceiling. If I peer closely, I can see the lines where the trapdoor opens better than I can during the sunlit day. Will I never discover what is above there? A feeling of resolve comes over me. I am NOT going to be defeated so easily. I walk over to the wall and trace my finger over the lines of the cottage I drew there, careful not to smear the ash as I go. I shall get back there one day for certain. For a girl who never spent a day on her own before, I have gained a strength I never would have guessed I owned.

“Are you up there?” I call out as loud as I dare.

No response.

I try again, a little louder. “Little green guy? Sir?” My voice reverberates off the walls and sounds unfamiliar to my ears.

Still no response. I rummage through the trunk to find things to throw up at the ceiling. Aiming for the center of the trapdoor, I hurl my comb, but it spins wildly and hits nowhere near the door. I try with the tin of ointment, which not only does not reach the ceiling but falls down with surprising force and smacks me on the knee. Now I have to use the ointment to avoid a bruise! It smells of rampion, its main ingredient, and I try not to breathe in the fresh smell of my enemy.

I have better luck with my boots, in that they at least hit the upper parts of the walls before plummeting. By this
time, I have learned to stand back so I do not fall victim to their plunge. While I am putting everything back in the trunk, Sir Kitty stretches her paw at me from the straw bed and gets it tangled in my braid. I would tug the braid away, but it would not do much good. My hair is so long now, I'm surprised when there ISN'T a paw tangled in there! As I watch her try to get untangled, a new plan begins to form. I remove her paw and take the belt out of my trunk, the one with the little silver bells that I was wearing on my birthday (now forever known as The Day Of My Kidnapping). I pull out the hairpins that hold my hair to my neck and shake my braid loose. Then I tie the belt around the very end of my hair where the pink (now gray) ribbons have been holding the strands of hair together. For the record, once the braid unfurls, I have to pull, hand over hand, for quite a long time to even REACH the very end of my hair.

I drag the small table to the center of the room and carefully balance myself on top. With all my might, I heave my hair into the air, almost heaving myself off the table at the same time. The end of the braid actually gets pretty good height before falling back down and hitting the floor beneath me, the jingling of the bells slightly muted by the rug. I climb down, gather my hair back up, and try again. If the ghost who haunts this place is watching, I hope she's having a good laugh. I am certain I must look quite ridiculous. On
the sixth attempt, the belt hits its target. The jingling reverberates through the tower. That should do it! If the creature IS on the other side, he surely would have heard that. I sit back down on the “bed” to wait. I wait and wait, my neck cocked back, not taking my eyes off the ceiling. Sir Kitty falls asleep in my lap. My neck finally gets sore and I lie down, trying to swallow the disappointment. Perhaps the smiling peas were just peas.

It is tax collection day. Father has instructed Elkin and me to stand at his side while the villagers come to pay their taxes. The royal tax collector sits behind his large oak desk logging the payments in his large, leather-bound journal. Even the quill he uses is large. The royal tax collector himself, however, is not large. Quite the opposite. He is even shorter than Elkin and must sit on top of ledgers from years past in order to reach the desktop. After each villager hands over his bag of coins and has his name recorded in the book, he bows to Father. In turn, Father gives the head-bob in acknowledgement of the payment. Elkin and I have been instructed to follow. With each bob, I feel a sharp pain in my neck where I injured it. After I gasp out loud for the third time, Father relieves me of my neck-bobbing responsibility and instructs me to just smile sincerely instead.

As I am flashing my nicest smile at the latest villager, the man winks at me and says, “How are those specs holding up?”

I quickly recognize him as Other Benjamin's father, as jolly as ever. I glance at Father and Elkin to see if they heard. If the man tells Father about my trip to the village, I may not be allowed to participate in the hunt, and then this nice man, this dutiful taxpayer, will remain a dung heap cleaner forever. Fortunately, Father is busy in conversation with the bailiff, but Elkin is quite attuned. Other Benjamin's father is waiting for a response. “Quite well, thank you, sir.” I smile nervously and push my glasses farther up on the bridge of my nose.

“I am glad,” he says, and steps down in the line.

As soon as the man is out of earshot, Elkin asks, “What was THAT about?”

I shake my head. “I have no idea. He must have liked my glasses.”

“Why would anyone like your glasses?”

“Do stop talking, Elkin.”

“Sheesh,” Elkin says, head-bobbing at the candlemaker. “Some people are so touchy.”

It is still hours away from dawn, yet I cannot sleep. I toss and turn, feeling even more alone than before I knew about the creature. Surely never was there a girl more wretched than I at this moment. I have blown out the small flame. It is easier to feel sorry for oneself in the darkness. As I stare into the gray air around me, I suddenly hear big heaving sobs. Odd. If I am not crying, then who is?

I jump out of “bed” and quickly strike a match to re-light the lamp. As I do, a round green face appears before me, wet from the tears rolling steadily down its cheeks. In my surprise I drop the match, which instantly lights the ends of my straw “bed” on fire! The orange embers are creeping toward the shawl Mother knit for me. Sir Kitty has the sense to run hissing under the table.

In a flash of a second (although it seems like forever, which moments like this tend to do), the green guy stomps out the flames. It is now dark again. Neither of us says a word. Slowly I pick up the matches again, and although my
shaking hands make the task more difficult now, I manage to light another one and bring it to the wick. As the room slowly illuminates, I half-expect the creature to be gone again, but I find him standing with his back flattened against the wall. Or at least the bottom half of his back, because the top part is hunched over, his face turned to the ground. Mother would be quite aghast at his posture. Every few seconds, a sniffle or a gentle sob escapes from him. I have never seen a grown man cry and it is a bit unnerving. At least I think he is a grown man. It is hard to tell with green creatures. What does one say in a situation like this?

I clear my throat and say, “Er, are you all right, Mr. Green Creature, sir? I am sorry, but I do not know your proper name.”

“St … St … Steven,” he replies in quick breaths.

“Steven?” I repeat. “Your name is
Steven
?”

He takes a deep breath and his breathing steadies. “What were you expecting?” he asks.

I shrug. “Something more exotic, I suppose.”

“Exotic like
Rapunzel
?” he asks. “
Rapunzel
is another word for the herb rampion, you know.”

I grit my teeth. “Yes, I know. I wish it were not my name.”

“I, too, long for a more dashing name. Alas, Steven was my father's name, and his father's before him. It is my son's name too, but … but …”

He trails off and starts sobbing again. I rush over and put my arm on his bony shoulder. “There, there,” I say soothingly. “It will be all right.”

He wipes his runny nose with the back of his wrist. There is a lot of hair on his wrist and it neatly absorbs the rather hefty contents of his nose. Perhaps the hair on his arms is so thick to make up for the lack of hair on his head. He looks up at me with watery eyes and asks, “How can you, of all people, say everything will be all right?”

He has a point. I consider my answer. “Well, it's better than saying ‘Keep on crying, I'm sure things will just get worse,' right?”

He doesn't answer for a moment, then breaks into a laugh that borders on hysteria. It's a cross between the sound of a creaky door hinge and the noise Father makes when he is choking on a piece of bread. Still, it is better than the sobbing. I must admit that seeing someone even more down in the dumps than I have been has buoyed my spirits somewhat.

“Why don't we sit down on the rug and get to know each other,” I suggest. “I have many questions.”

Still “laughing,” he allows me to steer him to the rug, where we both sit cross-legged. The rope from the open trapdoor swings gently next to us. He pulls himself together, wipes one stray tear from his chin, and says, “I received your
note. I am glad my gifts gave you pleasure. You are right that the witch must never know.”

“So it WAS you?”

He nods.

“Do you have magic powers, too,” I ask, “like the witch?”

He shakes his head again, this time a little sadly. “I can apply only the tricks of the trade — a little sleeping powder here, a dab of hair-growing tonic there. That sort of thing.”

I knew my rapid hair growth was not normal! “But why are you doing those things to me?” I ask. Perhaps he is not the friend I thought he was.

“It is not I,” he says hurriedly. “I am under orders from the witch — or Mother Gothel, as she insists on being called.” After he says her name, he turns to his right and spits once, then repeats the action on his left.

I try not to look at the little puddles of spittle now sinking into my rug. “If you hate her so much, then why are you doing her bidding?”

“I have no choice,” he says, his features falling. “I am in debt to her for saving my son's life. We were in the caves — that is where my race lives, underground — and young Stevie suddenly could not breathe. He was gasping for air, clutching his throat. I called out, ‘Help! Help! Somebody help!' But no one was around. I carried him above ground, which we are supposed to visit only to gather
food when the supply of minerals runs low. Our green color allows us to blend in well with the trees and grass, but we are a private race, you see, and prefer to keep to ourselves. When I reached the air, the forest was still, like it is right after a rain. The only person around was this little old lady. When she saw my problem, she mumbled some sort of incantation, sprinkled some dust, and a bug the size of my hand flew out of Stevie's throat. I mean, this bug, it had fifty legs, antennae the size of my arm, eyes like a —”

I hold up my hand. “I get the picture. It was big.”

“SO big! Naturally I asked the woman what I could do to repay her. When someone saves your life, or your child's life, you are indebted to them for life, you know.”

I nod. Everyone knows that.

“So the woman told me she needed a cook and a sentry, and did I have any training in either of those fields? As it turned out, I often won awards for my famous dishes, and being the largest of my species for miles around, I frequently had the job of guarding the entry to the caves. I knew now that she was a witch, of course, but assumed she was a good witch. After all, she had saved my son's life! She hired me to do both jobs and I bid a sad good-bye to my family, although in truth I believed I would be able to bring them along once I got settled. I had expected the witch to lead me to her cottage somewhere, but she brought me to this tower instead
and led me up a dark, musty staircase. At the top was an attic space where I was to prepare a daily meal. The shelves were stocked full of all the ingredients a cook could ever want. For days I practiced new recipes and wandered in the nearby orange grove. But no one ever ate my food, and there was nothing to guard that I could see. I began to wonder what was going on. Then you showed up.” He pauses here to take a deep breath. “And I, still believing the witch was good, believed her when she told me you were being punished for the terrible crime of theft, and I was to feed you one meal a day without being seen. She showed me how the trapdoor worked, and how to oil it nightly so it did not creak. With my natural agility, it was easy to get in and out without being seen.”

“Don't forget you had a little help by way of the sleeping powder.”

Steven clears his throat. “Well, okay, there was that. But, anyway, it took only a day or two to see that you were not a thief at all. Only a young girl stolen away from her family too soon.”

I can't help but lean over and hug him. He may be bony, but I can feel the strength in his arms as well. He had to be strong — and flexible — to get up and down that rope so
quickly. I would not like to be the prisoner trying to run past him. Perhaps I won't have to be.

“So you will let me go?”

“Sorry, dear child, but I cannot.”

“Yes, you could,” I insist. “You could just lift me up on that rope, and I can climb down the staircase from your attic room. You could come WITH me! We would be far from here before she would even notice!”

He shakes his head adamantly. “I am in her service until my debt is paid off. I must fulfill the terms of my job.”

“How long is your service, then?”

His brows furrow. He picks a piece of lint off the rug before answering. “As long as I live. Or else young Stevie will die.”

I swallow. This witch is surely the most horrid creature in this kingdom or any other. “Then why do you risk her wrath by bringing me gifts?”

His expression lifts a bit at the mention of the gifts. “The witch shows up so rarely, I figure she will not notice. I could not bear to see you so unhappy.”

Poor, brave Steven. Risking so much for someone he doesn't even know. I doubt I would be brave enough to do something like that.

Sir Kitty walks up and, as if she understands the situation, rubs her face against Steven's leg and purrs loudly. Steven smiles and picks her up.

“I was so pleased when I saw how much you liked the cat,” he says, scratching her belly. “I worried she might make you sneeze.”

My eyes widen. “Sir Kitty was a gift from you? I thought she was here before I arrived.”

Steven shakes his head. “I found her in the bushes beneath the tower and knew you could use the company.”

“But the witch saw her! You could have gotten caught.”

“Don't worry,” he says, placing Sir Kitty back on the rug. “Your quick thinking saved me. The witch probably believes the kitten got carried in along with the straw for your bed.”

“As did I,” I tell him, smiling. “You are very sneaky, Master Steven.”

“Stop,” he says, “you are making me blush.”

I cannot help wondering what color blushing cheeks would be on someone who is the color of a lima bean, but I do not want to be rude and peer too closely. “So what do we do? Just stay the witch's prisoners forever?”

“But I am not her prisoner,” he reminds me. “Although I can see how it would appear that way. I shall continue to bring you things to make your life here more bearable. And
even while you sleep, I am protecting you, although you are unaware.”

“But I
was
aware,” I tell him, suddenly realizing what I should have figured out before. “The breathing that lulls me to sleep — that comes from you.”

“You can hear my breathing?”

I nod. “I thought it must be a ghost.”

He smiles. “My dear wife, Katherine, always tells me I am a heavy breather. Worse than the fluttering of a noble lady's fan, she used to say.” His smile slowly fades and he looks sad.

I hope he isn't going to cry again! To cheer him up, I suggest we play a game. I am quite good at chess but, of course, we do not have a set.

“I must decline your kind offer,” Steven says, springing up from the rug, looping his arm around the rope, and grasping it with both hands.

Truly, the man (I cannot call him a creature now that we are friends) moves like the acrobat I saw perform once in Market Square.

Steven twists his legs around the end of the rope and says, “It is almost morn, and one never knows when the witch will darken my door.”

“When shall I see you again?” I call after him as he slithers up the rope at a speed I would have previously thought quite impossible. By the time I finish my question, he is already closing the trapdoor.

“I am always here when you need me,” he calls down as he pulls the door shut. Those hinges certainly
are
greased with magic oil, because they do not make even a whisper. The tower seems smaller, somehow, now that I am alone again. With a sigh, I blow out the wick and climb onto the “bed.” I strain my ears until I can hear Steven's rhythmic, steady breathing. I feel myself drifting off to that place where everything is fuzzy but you know you are not yet asleep. Something is nagging at me. It is as though the answer to a riddle is right around the corner of my brain, yet I cannot reach it. I am not even sure what the riddle is, but I know it is vital that I figure it out.