Briar and Rose and Jack

by Katherine Coville

  “All right! That’s enough. I believe you,” Briar interrupts, embarrassed.

  “So you’re not mad that I kissed you?”

  “I’m not mad,” she says, blushing furiously. “In fact, I really should thank you for waking me.” She wants to add that it was a wonderful kiss, but for this she is not bold enough. She dusts herself off, then suddenly cries, “Rose! What about Rose? Did she fall asleep too?”

  Jack springs up and answers, “We’ll have to go to the castle an’ see.”

  “But that will take time, and Lan is in danger every minute. Even if Rose is asleep under the curse, the best thing we could do for her is bring Lan back. He could wake her if anybody can. Either way, we should go now and try to free Lan first and bring him home.”

  “Yes, that makes sense,” Jack agrees. For a moment he looks into her eyes; then, looking away, he says, “I hate to cut this short, but if we’re goin’ to save him, we’d better hurry.”

  Briar quickly finishes braiding her hair, then dons the knapsack and steps to the mighty beanstalk.

  “Quentin, your father’s a woodsman,” calls out Jack. “You direct the choppin’ so the beanstalk falls away from the village, toward the mountain. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, Jack,” Quentin replies. “I’ve helped my pa cut down lots of trees. We’ll cut out a wedge on the side facing the mountain; then, when you give the signal, we’ll chop the other side until the whole thing gives way. It’ll go down nice as you please.”

  “Good. You’re in charge then. Everybody listen to Quentin!”

  Jack too dons a knapsack, and Arley hands him his father’s horn, which Jack wears on a leather thong around his neck. He steps to Briar’s side. “You go first. I’ll be right behind you,” he assures her, “so I can catch you if you slip.”

  “Maybe you should go first,” Briar replies. “I’m stronger.”

  Jack laughs. “Oh, yes. I forgot. I’ll go first then.” The twining beanstalk gleams blue-green in the bright moonlight, and Jack and Briar say a solemn farewell to the others and begin their climb.

  * * *

  The handful of guards at the gatehouse stand at attention, doing their duty, which seems to be to look impressive for all the guests. No one anticipates any trouble on this festive occasion, so the castle is only lightly guarded. The drawbridge remains down, and the portcullis up, to leave the way open for any late carriages arriving at the ball, but there is nothing much happening, and the guards are half asleep at their stations.

  A large hay wagon rumbles across the drawbridge and comes to a stop at the gatehouse. Durwin, the porter, not even curious, waves it on through, and a few minutes later does the same with another hay wagon, both of which continue on in the direction of the stables.

  Suddenly the first wagon pulls around a corner and stops. The second wagon does the same. Then something curious happens: the hay begins to erupt into dark shapes—shapes in the form of men and women. They are villagers, and they have come to secure the drawbridge and the portcullis, to keep the way open for the rioters to follow. They brush themselves off and quietly jump down, holding clubs and ropes and shovels and whispering to one another. They quickly split up, one group heading toward the stairs to the wall walk, the other turning back toward the gatehouse.

  Cloaked by the night, their attack comes as a complete surprise. They silently overpower guards one at a time, sneaking up from behind and choking them so they cannot cry out, then tying and gagging them. What the villagers lack in weapons and armor, they make up for in stealth and determination. Confiscating the guards’ weapons as they go along, they add them to their own arsenal. They take their time, careful not to make any noise or be observed, and without too much mayhem, the drawbridge and the portcullis are finally secured. The guards are held prisoner in the room above the gatehouse, and before any more of them can arrive, Arley’s father calls out across the moat, confirming that the castle is only lightly guarded and summoning his compatriots in the village.

  From behind every house, bush, and tree erupt scores of villagers, as angry as a hive of disturbed hornets, until a great, buzzing crowd has assembled in the moonlight.

  In front of them, a small, bent figure with eyes flashing and a surprising air of grandeur, Mother Mudge, holds aloft a burning torch. “Tonight the king and all the other nobles are feasting while our families go hungry! But he is about to face a villageful of uninvited guests! Tonight we eat!” Waving her torch, she steps toward the drawbridge. “For justice!” she shouts, her voice clear and passionate. “For your hungry children! For your self-respect! Tonight we march!”

  Countless others gather around her and light their torches from hers and then from one another’s, until a sea of flaming brands is moving, flowing across the drawbridge and on into the castle. The rebels cry out, “Food! Food! Food!” as they swarm toward the castle keep and the great hall. They encounter a few more guards along the way but quickly overcome them with sheer numbers. Blood flows on both sides, but the rebels march relentlessly on.

  In the great hall, the noise is barely heard. The king looks around to see what is making it; then the music grows louder and he decides it is nothing. The queen, who has returned to the ball, exchanges glances with him.

  “Our daughter knows now about the gray fairy’s curse. I had to tell her, but at least she’s prepared. That’s the best protection. She’s rather upset.”

  “She had better get over it quickly. We have guests!”

  “She’ll be down shortly. I’ve sent Lady Beatrice to fetch her. I just thought I should give her a little time. Have the fairies arrived yet? I’ll feel better with them here.”

  “I believe that’s them,” the king says, pointing to the chandelier, where what looks like a cluster of colorful hummingbirds seems to be drawn to the light.

  “Oh, splendid. If you order the feast to begin, I’ll give directions for the fairies to be seated on our right and your counselors on the left.”

  The king stands up and announces that the dancing is over and the feasting will soon commence. There is a murmur of excitement as the many guests clear the floor and an army of servants begins setting up trestle tables and covering them with white tablecloths. Meanwhile, the king hears noise that’s too loud to be ignored. He calls for the captain of the guard and charges him with the task of seeing what is going on outside. Several of the guests, including his own counselors, are beginning to look around questioningly for the source of the disturbance. When the noise gets closer and the captain of the guard does not return, many of the brave suitors think to form a group to go out after him. But alas, they have left their weapons outside the door, it being bad manners to come armed to a social gathering. Before they can reclaim them, the noise becomes a roar. Enraged villagers pour in through every doorway, having confiscated the collection of discarded weapons for themselves. At the head of the rioters stands Mother Mudge, torch held high, crying, “Food! We want our fair share of food—and we want it now!”

  The villagers push in behind her, wielding their torches, until the great hall is packed and seems to be in danger of catching fire. The king, who has faced the evil giant up close, is not easily cowed. He stands, holds up his hands, and calls for quiet. Mother Mudge also calls for quiet. It takes several minutes, but finally the clamor dies down and an uneasy hush falls over the room.

  In that instant, a scream is heard, and there are footsteps running down the stairs into the hall. It is Lady Beatrice, and she cries out, “The Princess! She’s dead asleep! I can’t wake her! Somebody help!”

  There are cries of woe from villagers and nobles alike—“Oh, no! Not the princess!”—and there are calls of “The curse! It’s the curse!” from those who remember the gray fairy’s malediction at the princess’s birth. For sixteen years they have felt protective of her, watching her grow in beauty and grace toward her own doom, and now their hearts are breaking.

  Amid the din, the eight fairies fly up the stairs to Rose’s room. Assu
ming their human size, they gather around her fallen form.

  “Oh, the poor dear,” bemoans the gold fairy, wiping a tear from her eye.

  “But isn’t she even more beautiful in sleep?” sighs the blue fairy.

  “Of course not, nitwit,” replies the pink fairy. “What could be more lovely than when she’s awake and her beautiful personality shines through?”

  “Well, I merely said—”

  “Both of you quiet down!” commands the gold fairy, who is the oldest among them. “Let us arrange her in an appropriate way. Four of us on each side now, and we’ll conjure her over to the bed.” This accomplished, they drape her gown prettily and dress her hair until she looks like a living sculpture carved by some passionate genius.

  “But supposing someone can wake her, what will she awaken to?” asks the fairy in white sparkles. “What if a hundred years pass before her true love finds her? Everyone she knows will be dead! Or what if nothing stops that mob downstairs? Anything might happen! They could set fire to the place while Rose sleeps!”

  “Then we’ll put them all to sleep too. Perhaps a nice, relaxing rest will calm them down. We’ll put everyone to sleep. That way it will all stay safe for her while we look for her true love. We will make it so. Adjust your wands. We shall freeze everything just as it is until she wakes up. First to the great hall, then spread out.”

  With that, the gold fairy pops back to her hummingbird size, and the others follow suit as she flies back down the stairs to the great hall. There they come upon a scene of chaos. The rioting villagers are still pushing their way into the room, shouting out their rage, while the unarmed nobles back into one corner, trying to blend in with the wall. The king attempts to make himself heard over the uproar, but no one is listening. The gold fairy puts the king to sleep first, carefully, so that he slumps to the floor unharmed, then the queen. Their crowns fall off and roll away. Next, the king’s counselors are put to sleep one by one, Bishop Simon falling clumsily on his head. Before Mother Mudge can react, her torch is put out and she too is asleep. The fairies go quickly about, snuffing torches, spreading their magic over villagers and nobles, musicians and mummers and servants, until everyone in the hall is asleep, the weapons lying harmlessly on the floor. Then the fairies go into every room and tower in the castle.

  Hilde has finally argued herself into putting in a polite appearance at the ball, and she is just starting down the stairs, with the imp obnoxiously poking her in the back, when the pink fairy buzzes up the stairway so fast that she ricochets off the wall and does three backward somersaults.

  “What in the name of heaven are you doing?” Hilde demands after the tiny pink fairy has righted herself.

  “The gray fairy’s curse has come true! Princess Rose is dead asleep,” she says. “So the gold fairy said we must put everyone else to sleep too!” The pink fairy pulls back her wand-holding arm as if preparing to hurl a mighty blast.

  “Not me, you foo—” The fairy’s magic hits Hilde squarely on the heart, and she slumps down awkwardly on the stairs. The imp squeaks in panic, dodging the pink fairy’s next three blasts of magic until, with one more blast, it too is sleeping soundly on the stairs.

  “There!” says the pink fairy, blowing the excess fairy dust off the tip of her wand, then buzzing downstairs again to join the others. The eight of them continue all through the courtyard, scattering enchantment everywhere. The crowds of rioters are suddenly at peace, their rage extinguished, their heads resting on each other’s limp bodies. Some of them begin to snore. The fairies put every bird and beast in the castle to sleep too, even the dogs in the kennels, the horses in the stables, and the sparrows on the rooftops.

  At last the fairies are done. They arrive together at the gatehouse, greeting one another with grim satisfaction.

  “What else can we do?” the blue fairy asks.

  “Maybe some spell to protect them all while they sleep?” suggests the pink fairy.

  A sickly yellow cloud suddenly explodes on the drawbridge, and a deep voice snarls, “Protect them? Why, I have the perfect thing!” It is the gray fairy, and she seems to be in some kind of fit. Her bloodshot eyes are open too wide and her skin looks like old chalk. “This will protect them!” she howls, striding through the gatehouse and into the castle courtyard as the other fairies back out of her way. With a hissed incantation and a few twitches of her wand, a repulsive gray-green spot appears on the ground. It looks and smells like rot, and it spreads like oil. Everywhere it touches, things begin to grow—great foul black vines with sharp thorns, some of them as big as a man’s arm. They spread with astonishing speed, enveloping everything within the castle walls, coiling over and around the multitude of sleeping bodies, shooting up so high and dense and tangled that they obliterate the moonlight. The castle is shrouded in darkness, and the smell is overpowering.

  “Ahhahahahaha!” gloats the gray fairy. “What do you think of my protective spell, eh? No one can interfere with them now! Not even you!” The gray fairy opens her mouth in a gruesome grin and, laughing maniacally, twirls her wand in a swift spiral and vanishes, leaving her putrid yellow smoke behind.

  The other fairies pop into their human size and all start talking at once. “How can she be so cruel?” asks one.

  “She can’t get away with that!”

  “She’s twisted in the head!”

  “Just plain evil is what she is!”

  “Someday she’s going to get what’s coming to her!”

  “She gives me a pain right in the—”

  “Oh, I would just like to get her alone without that wand—”

  “All right,” interrupts the gold fairy, “that’s enough. Now we’ve got to think. What’s needed is someone who truly loves Rose, loves her for herself. So how do we find him? Do you suppose any of those suitors that we just put to sleep in the great hall actually loved her? We could wake them up—”

  “Pshaw! We were watching her while she danced. She didn’t seem too happy with any of them when she was awake. I doubt if she’d want the whole lot of them taking turns kissing her when she’s asleep!” says the green fairy.

  “It does seem kind of . . . unwholesome,” comments the white sparkly fairy.

  “Well, I don’t think we should let just anybody kiss her. She wouldn’t like it. It will have to be someone special,” mused the gold fairy.

  “Anyone who can cut through this forest of thorns will have to be special!” remarks the purple fairy, “but it could be years before anyone manages that. We must go out and spread the story, far and wide.”

  “Yes,” agrees the gold fairy. “Each of us in a different direction. I’d better stay on guard here and alert the rest of you if a likely candidate shows up to try his luck. I’ll turn your wands red to summon you, so keep watch. Quick! Off you go! Be sure to emphasize how very lovely she is—and that she’s as good as she is beautiful. There must be a prince for her out there somewhere.”

   Chapter Four

  JACK IS TIRED OF CLIMBING. So tired. It is the second time today he has climbed the beanstalk clear up to the sky, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep it up. All his muscles ache and tremble with the strain. He calls down to Briar to wait a minute as he pauses to catch his breath in the cold, thin atmosphere, and she halts as well.

  “It looks to me like we’re almost there,” she says encouragingly. “It’s starting to get misty.”

  “Yes, and that’s making the vines slippery. It’s getting hard to hold on. Briar, if I don’t make it, you’ll have to rescue Lan—”

  “Of course you’re going to make it! I am not going to lose you now! Can’t you do just ten more feet? Just ten.”

  “All right . . . ten.” Jack forces himself to reach higher, to hold tight and pull himself up while he gropes for one foothold, then another, and counts, “One . . .” Laboriously he repeats the process. “Two . . . three . . . four . . . five,” more and more slowly until at last he cries, “Ten!”

  “Good! Now re
st for a minute. You’re doing just fine,” says Briar. “When you’re ready, do it again. Just ten more.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to make it to ten.”

  “Then do five. Just five. You can do that.”

  “All right. Five.” Jack sighs. And so, a few feet at a time, they make the slow final leg of their journey together, Jack pushing himself beyond his limits and Briar cheering him on, until they reach a place just above the clouds. Then, with a last heroic effort, they leap off the beanstalk onto the cloud. Jack collapses, spent, on the spongy surface. They can see the giant’s house in the bright moonlight, but they must pause for a considerable rest before going any farther. The house looks huge and menacing, and Briar asks Jack uncertainly, “Do you think the giant will smell us when we get close to his house?”

  “The moon’s waning. He should be sound asleep. You’ll be long gone by the time he wakes up, and I’ll be following you shortly.”

  “Wait—you’re not thinking of sending me back down without you, are you? Because I’m not leaving you here.”

  Jack takes her by the hand and looks into her eyes. “I have a plan, but it’s something I have to do alone. It’s a matter of honor as a Giant Killer. You can understand that.”

  Briar bites her lip, but having just used the same argument on him, she can only nod wordlessly.

  When strength finally returns to Jack’s limbs, they set off toward the giant’s house, Jack aiming toward the spot where he previously discovered the dungeon window. With a little looking, he finds it again and also finds the rope he left there on his last trip. Crouching down to put his face to the bars, he calls out, “Lan! Lan, are you in there?”

  There is no answer. Jack is appalled at the silence, fearing that he has come too late. Straining to see into the inky void, he repeats, “Lan! Are you sleeping? Wake up!”

  This time there is an answering moan, a welcome sound to Jack’s ears, and finally Lan’s voice answers, “Jack! You’re still alive! You came back! Did you get the key to get me out of here?”