THE PRACTICAL PRINCESS and Other Liberating Fairy Tales (3 page)

“Good,” said Sylvia. “I know where Dwindle is, at any rate. We’ll leave at once.”

They set out together, Sylvia on a milk-white horse.

The way was shortened by Marco, who told stories and sang songs and recited his verses. By the times they got to Dwindle, Sylvia remarked thoughtfully,

“I’m not sure it matters all that much, knowing your right hand from your left.”

A friendly innkeeper showed them the house where the maiden, Roseanne, lived. “Don’t bother knocking,” he said, “because she never answers. Just go right in-if you can get the door open,” he added, rather mysteriously.

They tied up their horses outside the cottage. It was a pretty place, thatched with straw and covered with honeysuckle which perfumed the air. They pushed at the door and after a struggle got it open. Then they saw why it had been so difficult. The floor was covered with gold pieces which had piled up against the door like a drift of yellow snow.

A girl was washing dishes with her back to the door. She was humming and making such a clatter in the sink that she hadn’t heard Marco and Sylvia enter.

Marco cleared his throat and said, “Iyou’re your pardon.”

The girl turned round. “Oh! You startled me,” she exclaimed.

Four bright gold pieces fell from her mouth and clinked to the floor.

The girl clapped her hand to her forehead and said,

“Drat!”

Another gold piece dropped from her lips. She took down a large pad that hung on the wall and began writing busily on it. Marco and Sylvia came and looked curiously over her shoulders.

“I am Roseanne. Welcome,” the girl wrote. “As you see, I have something of a problem. Some time ago, I saved the life of the good fairy, Melynda. As a reward, she said to me, ‘My child, since you a poor but kind, a gold piece shall fall from your mouth with every word you speak.’ ”

“Heavens!” said Sylvia. “Can’t you make her change her mind?”

“I don’t know how to find her,” Roseanne wrote, mournfully. Then she added, as an afterthought, “I’m sorry about the floor. I had some friends in for a party last night, and I haven’t had a chance to sweep it up yet.”

“I do wish I could help you somehow,” Marco said, earnestly. “I don’t know any magic, but I do know an infallible cure for hiccups. Would you say that what you have is a kind of hiccups?”

“It wouldn’t hurt to try,” Roseanne said, clasping her hands. Five more gold pieces went jingling down to join the rest.

“Very well,” said Marco. “You must put your head in a large paper bag. Hold your breath while I count ten, and then breathe in and out through you mouth ten times.”

Roseanne got out a paper bag and did as he ordered. When at last she took it off her head, they gazed at her in suspense. “Speak!” said Sylvia.

“I’m afraid to,” Roseanne replied. But nothing happened-not a gold piece appeared. With a look of joy, she touched her lips. “It worked!” she said. “I’m cured.”

She burst into laughter and, throwing her arms around Marco, gave him a kiss.

“What can I do to show my gratitude?” she said.

“You can tell us how to get to the Green Glass Tower,” said Marco. “I have to rescue a princess there.”

Roseanne nodded. “I can tell you how to get to the Green Glass Tower,” she said, “but alas, my telling you won’t do you much good. The tower is a hundred and ninety miles from here, beyond deep ravines, high mountains, pits full of flame, the Direful Mud, the Bottomless Bog, and the River of Knives.”

“Dear me,” said Marco.

“The only way to get there,” Roseanne continued,

“is to use the seven-league boots belonging to Fylfor the Necromancer, who lives at the other end of this village.”

“Do you think he would lend them to me?” Marco asked worriedly.

“He will lend them to you,” Roseanne replied, “if you give him something he needs, which he doesn’t know he wants and which he won’t know he has when he gets it.”

Poor Marco looked at her in bewilderment. “I can’t even remember the beginning of that sentence,” he said. “What does it mean?”

“I don’t know,” said Roseanne, “but I know that it is so.”

“Never mind,” Sylvia put in. “We’ll go and see this Necromancer. Perhaps he’ll help Marco anyway.”

Bidding Roseanne farewell, they went to the other end of the village. A tall, narrow, dark house stood alone in a garden of toadstools. At an open window high under the eaves sat the Necromancer. He had his back to the window and was reading.

“Good afternoon, sir,” called Marco.

The Necromancer did not stir.

“Good afternoon,” Marco repeated, more loudly.

“Hey!
Yoo-hoo!
SIR!”

“He must be deaf as a post,” remarked Sylvia.

Now in fact, the Necromancer was not usually deaf.

But some days before, while engaged in magic, he had dropped a heavy spell on the foot of a small but bad-tempered imp. In revenge, the imp had settled invisibly on the Necromancer’s head and plugged up his ears with its fingers.

Sylvia said to Marco, “Give him a whistle, and maybe that will attract his attention.”

Marco put his fingers between his lips and whistled. It was so loud and shrill a whistle that chimneys in the village shook. Birds fell out of the sky covering their ears with their wings. And the invisible imp with a squeak of fright left the Necromancer’s head and flew off into the next kingdom.

The Necromancer, of course, did not know what had happened. He had not heard Marco’s whistle, nor had he known that the imp was plugging up his ears.

All he knew was that suddenly he could hear again.

The clock was ticking. The wind was rustling the leaves. He turned and glanced out of the window and saw a handsome young man and a pretty girl standing in the street staring up at him.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “Were you waiting to see me?”

“We need your help,” Marco answered, “but I hope we haven’t disturbed you.”

“Disturbed me? Certainly not,” said the Necromancer. He found that he was suddenly feeling very fit and he thought to himself that this fine young man deserved his attention.

He hurried downstairs and let Marco and Sylvia in.

“What can I do for you?” he said.

“Please lend me your seven-league boots,” said Marco. “I have to go to the Green Glass Tower to rescue Princess Aurelia.”

The Necromancer looked grave. “My friend,” he said, “I will lend you the boots with pleasure. But I am sorry to say that if you go to that tower you will be going to your death. For there is a two-headed giant on guard, and he is under orders to slay any young man who comes to the gate.”

“I shall just have to take a chance,” said Marco.

“Please let me have the boots.”

The Necromancer got them out of a closet and blew the dust off them. “I don’t travel much at my age,” he explained. “Now, there is one small difficulty. With each step you take in these boots, you will go seven leagues.

Since a league is three miles, seven leagues is twenty-one miles. However, the Green Glass Tower is exactly one hundred and ninety miles away, and twenty-one does not go into a hundred and ninety. If you can wait a little while, I will figure out for you how you can go a hundred and ninety miles in strides of twenty-one miles each.”

“How long will it take you?” demanded Sylvia.

“About three days, I should think,” said the Necromancer.

“Never mind,” Sylvia said, briskly. “I know what to do. Put on the boots, Marco.”

Marco slipped them on over his own boots, like galoshes. “What now?” he said.

“Now, you may take nine giant strides,” Sylvia replied.

He seized her around the waist and off he went.

With every stride they sailed high in the air. Far below, they could see jagged cliffs, deep holes daring out fire, a smoking sea of mud, a black quaking bog, and the glitter of a river of sharp steel blades. But with each stride, Marco managed to touch clear ground and then he was off again, soaring over all the obstacles.

With the ninth stride, they stood in safety among grassy hills. Marco looked about. “I don’t see any tower,” he said.

“We have come 189 miles,” said Sylvia. “We shall have to walk the last mile.”

Marco slipped off the boots and tucked them under his arm. He and Sylvia began walking, and to pass the time, Marco sang songs and told jokes.

Before long, they saw rising up before them a shining round tower of dark green glass, as smooth and as cold as ice.

They stopped a short distance away and stared at it.

No one could possibly climb the walls. There were no windows, for of course in a glass tower one wouldn’t need any. Before the front gate stood a giant with two heads. Both his faces were hideous and frowning. He bore a club twice as long as a man, bristling with iron spikes.

Suddenly Marco snapped his fingers. “My father gave me instructions for rescuing the princess,” he said. “I have them right here.” He looked in his wallet. He searched through his pockets. “No I haven’t,” he said, glumly. “I must have lost them on the road, in the rainstorm.”

“Oh, Marco!” said Sylvia. And she almost added,

“What an idiot!” But she liked him far too much for that, so instead she said, “I have an idea. Wait right here, and don’t move.”

“All right,” said Marco. Then he said,” Wait for what? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going into the tower,” said Sylvia, calmly.

“But-”

“Don’t worry. The monster has instructions to bash any young man who comes to the gate. But I’m a girl.”

She marched to the gateway. Sure enough, although the giant glared at her with all four of his eyes, he didn’t move. Sylvia entered the tower.

In the great hall, she found and old man mopping the floor.

“Is there a princess named Aurelia here?” she asked.

The caretaker leaned on his mop and eyed her.

“Why, my dearie,” he cackled, “if you’ve come to visit her, you’re just too late. She was rescued yesterday by as nice a young man as ever I did see.”

“What?” cried Sylvia. “How did he manage?”

“Had a bit of paper, he had, that told him what to do,” said the caretaker. “He said he found it by the roadside. He came in by the back door, you see. No giants there.”

“Bother,” said Sylvia. “Thank you very much.”

She went back to join Marco, and broke the news to him.

“What a shame,” said Marco, looking very downcast. “Of course, I don’t mean it’s a shame about Aurelia; I’m glad she was rescued. But I just can’t seem to do anything right. What on earth am I going to say to the king, my father?”

“I suppose,” said Sylvia, thoughtfully, “no other princess will do? It
had
to be Aurelia?”

Marco brightened. “Why, no. all I have to do is rescue a princess,” he said. “Any princess-it doesn’t really matter which one.”

“In that case, everything is all right,” said Sylvia. “I am a princess.”

“You are? How splendid!” Marco said. “What shall I rescue you from?”

“You’ve already rescued me,” Sylvia answered.

“You rescued me from boredom. Until you came along, I was ready to scream with weariness and dullness. But with you, I’ve never known a dull moment.”

Marco laughed with delight and took her in his arms. Then his face fell again. “No, it won’t do,” he said. “Why, I can’t even tell my right hand from my left.”

“That doesn’t matter in the slightest,” said Sylvia.

“You’ll have me, and I can always tell you which is which.”

They kissed each other and turned about, and set out hand in hand for home.

The Wise Woman of the West had a daughter whose name was Prudence. She was a cheerful girl, as wise as her name, and as plain as the day is long.

She had a snub nose, a wide mouth, straight straw-colored hair, and so many freckles that it looked as if someone had sprinkled her with cinnamon.

When the time came for the Wise Woman of the West to die, she called her daughter to her and said,

“My dear, you must go out and make your way in the world. I can do nothing about your looks, but you have a merry heart and a lively mind, and there are plenty of people who like freckles. All that I have to give you is this silver whistle. If you blow it once, the birds will come to your call. If you blow it twice, the insects will be your friends. If you blow it three times, the beasts will speak to you. Thus you will never be lonely.”