New Tales From Old Yarn

by Barbara Becc

  ...Well.

  Well, well, well.

  Jiang’s eyebrows betrayed his curiosity at Pagos’ reaction, reaching impressive heights as Pagos realized what they had just asked, “Not that I- That came out wrong. I just meant- I didn’t expect him to- Stop smirking!” Wrestling his expression into one of at least a neutral smile, Jiang continued to stare at Pagos with eyebrows raised. Pagos huffed again, stomping back into the back library, Byron following while happily panting.

  A tentative knock at his door forced another snort of laughter out of him, and Jiang opened his door, voice sugar sweet as he addressed the forlorn looking Hori. “Yes?” Hori made a face at Jiang in momentary defiance at not being let in, but sobered instantly, seeming nervous as he pulled at his coat sleeves, “The lizard isn’t really all that mad, right? Sometimes I can’t tell...”

  ...Well.

  “Why don’t you ask them the next time you see them. And maybe stop calling them lizard. They only respond to what you yourself throw at them. Although I suppose I should just be happy you two have stopped trying to murder each other.” Hori laughed, voice cracking a bit, “I guess that’s true... Old habits, you know?” Jiang sighed heavily, thinking of ancient fights and rivalries. What could have been prevented if only there had been some understanding given despite bad blood long past. “Old habits indeed.”

  Hori gave another nervous laugh, adjusting his increasingly wet newsboy cap, “You don’t think you might... put in a good word?” Jiang pretended to consider, hand running through his beard before replying with a polite, “No” and shutting the door in the immortal’s face. If Hori couldn’t handle Pagos’ temper, Jiang did not see a reason to attempt to help him. Those two were on their own to figure out how to handle each other. And the way things seemed to be progressing...

  For a moment, Jiang thought he should say something to stop whatever was developing between the two rivals. It would perhaps be safer. There were not many basilisks or kamaitachis left to the world, but there were enough to warrant a possible social banishment from both if something should... become official. There was such bitter hatred between the two immortal races, surely any alliance would not be accepted.

  And then, Jiang remembered that the old ways had no bearing anymore. So many times there were better paths to take, newer routes that weren’t even conceived of in the early days. If something were to happen, if two immortals of opposing species came together, what was the worst that would happen? What would be lost? Nothing that Jiang could see, except the gain of evidence that the future held possibilities that no one had thought of. And besides, the consequences were for Pagos and Hori to consider, not Jiang. He would be there for Pagos, for advice and an ear as usual, and perhaps words of caution. But the prevention of progress was not his way. The concept of new magic and fresh power from other sources than the old ways, if anything, encouraged Jiang. The entire reason he even opened his back library to a select few was the hope of innovation.

  Byron ran to Jiang, a commanding bark demanding attention from the librarian. Jiang knelt down to ruffle Byron’s fur, a deep chuckle rumbling through the room. He needed a vacation soon. It had been too long since he last traveled. Perhaps Pagos could recommend somewhere to go. He had every faith that whatever the young one recommended would be a fantastic experience.

  “He didn’t give you any trouble, did he?” Jiang looked up to Pagos, who was glaring at the door that Hori had been so recently thrown out of. Lifting Byron into his arms, Jiang let out a loud laugh before responding to Pagos’ confused look, “No trouble. But I have a few suggestions to one up that one before he can catch your scent again.”

  Pagos lit up, smile twitching to life on their face as Jiang continued, “But none of that phoenix egg nonsense again, I know that look. Come on, let me finish that map. And give me a hand with putting some books away, won’t you? My last visitor was an enthusiast on the Holy Grail, and you know how that always goes.”

  Jiang would say that the magic of the world was not dying, as many immortals feared. It was simply transforming. The old magic was not being restored as time passed, but that did not mean there was nothing coming of it. Perhaps there was a new magic being made. Old times repeated in new ways. Jiang could only hope that he would still have some space on his shelves for them.

  Rapunzel

  A.S. Volk

  I love comedy, especially slapstick, irreverent, intelligent humor. I adore the works of Douglas Adams and Terry Pratchett, and I still watch Monty Python’s Flying Circus ad nauseum. I chose Rapunzel, a story about a young girl with insanely long hair who happens to be sheltered by a mentally abusive woman, because it’s such a classic story with a questionable moral. And, while there’s really nothing all that funny about it, especially for the time it was told, I wanted to show just how silly fairy tales could be when a little twist is put on them. So, how could I take a tale of woe, for most part of it, and turn it into something that would make me giggle? Why, gender-bend, of course! I also love the idea of poking a little fun at current events and trends because life should never be taken seriously. With crossed fingers, I hope the readers find this version of Rapunzel funny enough to laugh at; preferably with lots of snorts and groans.

  ~~~

  Once upon a time in a far away land, there lived a young couple who, despite their hatred for social conformity, were married and expecting a baby. They lived in an up and coming community on the outskirts of a tiny kingdom that was known for being hip and trendy. Farm-to-table gastropubs littered the streets. Vintage clothing shops sat on every corner. Every single bard who played in the craft ale houses used a second-hand lute to conduct their original pieces. Harmony abounded within the country.

  During the summer months one week was set aside by the king and queen for the subjects to attend a grand music festival. Infamous musicians and performers from the far reaches of the globe traveled to become a part of the immensely popular event the queen had dubbed “Coacharella” because of the influx of coaches and wagons that filled the roads. Everyone in the kingdom looked forward to the festival, although heavens forbid they ever show their excitement outwardly, and perused the shops and cloth-makers for the finest scarves, plaid prints, and floppy hats.

  The young couple, named Atticus and Daisy, were also preparing for the week-long show. Daisy was nearing the end of her pregnancy and began to have strange cravings for different foods. Atticus attempted to satiate her desires but found it more and more difficult to obtain the foods she requested. Money was tight for the couple. The Coacharella tickets were costly and they didn’t want to be the only two out of the entire kingdom who weren’t there. Atticus promised her they would make ends meet somehow and Daisy put her faith into him.

  When the week of the festival arrived they packed up their few, but stylish, possessions, and headed for the great, open field where everyone gathered to watch musicians and artists perform pure, perfect songs that hadn’t been ruined by selling out lyrics to mass-marketing bards who played only for money and not for the sake of music. Daisy’s cravings only worsened and the baby in her belly wasn’t about to settle for the mediocre replacements Atticus brought back from the food vendors. Nothing she ate was being accepted by the little gourmand living inside her.

  Atticus was at his wit’s end. He sat in their tent and watched helplessly as his beloved wife suffered. Until, one afternoon, halfway through the festival, a new tent was pitched next to them. The sign outside read “Stevia: Wise Mystic and Magic-Assisted Life Coach”. An older woman, who he assumed was Stevia the Wise Mystic, sat outside the tent and washed a basket-full of the most beautiful leafy greens he had ever seen. Immediately thinking of poor Daisy, he waved to the woman.

  “Ho, there, woman!” he called.

  The woman regarded him with skepticism and snorted in derision. “How dare you insult me with labels!” she exclaimed.

  “Many pardons,” Atticus apologized, seeing the error of his ways by not asking her first how she pr
eferred to be addressed. “I say, you have many bunches of kale before you. May I ask, are they organic?”

  Another snarky snort came from the old woman’s long, crooked nose. “Of course they are! No chemicals of man shall be poured onto my finest rapunzel kale.”

  “Splendid!”

  “Why are you speaking to me, young person? Can you not see that I am busy?” She gave him a cold frown.

  “Apologies again, wise one. Would you be willing to sell me some of the rapunzel? My wife; she is ill and will not take the food I give her. She requires only the best of the earth and your leaves are perfection.”

  Stevia shook her head. “My rapunzel is not for sale.” And, with that, she disappeared with the basket of kale behind her tent.

  Atticus sat there in the dirt close to tears. Inside their meager shelter, Daisy stirred in her sleep. She groaned and whined, clutching to her endowed belly. He wiped a strand of her hair off her forehead and kissed her cheek.

  “Whatever it takes, my love, I shall find the cure for your malaise.”

  Later that evening, when Buggy McGeesburg took to the stage, Atticus snuck into Stevia’s tent. She had left earlier to go watch the show and he took that as an opportunity to take a small portion of the rapunzel. Granted, it wasn’t good to steal from anyone, especially from a wise mystic, but Atticus was out of options and he wasn’t about to watch his wife and unborn child die because some snooty witch was being stingy.

  In his hands was the mass of beautiful, emerald green leaves. He should’ve stopped at once, but it all looked so delicious. Three large handfuls of the produce were carefully tucked in his woolen slouch beanie. He started to creep out of Stevia’s tent when, suddenly, the crystal ball which was resting on the small, round table in the corner lit up. Stevia’s wrinkled face, distorted by the shape of the sphere, scowled at him.

  “Why are you stealing MY rapunzel kale?!” the life coach demanded.

  Atticus froze in fear, the leaves clutched protectively in his embrace.

  “I beg of you, oh wise Stevia; let me have the leaves! I shall pay you for it. My wife grows weaker by the second, and I fear for the wellbeing of her and my unborn child.”

  “I do not want to be paid for my precious crops. They are mine! I sowed the seeds, I watered the soil, I fussed over them for many weeks! Rapunzel is a finicky heirloom varietal and it must have the perfect amount of sun, fertilizer, and artisanal fountain water in order to grow. I daresay that a lazy fool like you would ever appreciate the work that went into rearing them! Now, put them back before you bruise the stalks!”

  Tears dripped down Atticus’ waxed mustache. “Please, oh powerful life coach! Have pity on my family. I will give you anything if you show us a little kindness and allow me to feed my beautiful Daisy with your extraordinary harvest.”

  A wicked smile loomed on Stevia’s wall-eyed face. “Anything, you say? Very well; take my precious kale! But if you do, then you will promise me your firstborn child for the theft. What say you?”

  Atticus thought it over. Surely, this old bat was trying to scare him. What kind of a person would actually demand a child in exchange for a few leafy greens? She couldn’t possibly be serious; seriously!

  He shrugged and crept out of the tent, snorting “whatever” as he exited.

  The rapunzel kale was accepted by Daisy and the baby. Although she demanded it be grilled first with grated aged goat’s milk cheese and good vinegar as toppings, she managed to consume one plate and immediately asked for another. Atticus was overjoyed.

  When the Coacharella festival ended Atticus and Daisy packed up, both making sure to passive-aggressively ignore Stevia’s angry scowl when she looked their way.

  “Remember,” the old life coach croaked and waved a crooked finger at Atticus’s fine beard, “you promised me your first born child for my rapunzel. I will be along soon to collect!”

  Atticus shrugged and helped Daisy into their simple, classic wagon driven by a small, foreign-bred mare. A few days later the baby was born. Daisy and Atticus doted and loved on their precious son but couldn’t decide on a name. They were in the middle of such a debate—Atticus wanted to name him Celery but Daisy liked Griffin Samuel—when there was a loud knock at their door.

  A chill crept down Atticus’ spine. Cautiously, he tip-toed to the door and opened it.

  It was Stevia.

  “What do you want?” he grumbled.

  “I’ve come to collect my payment for the rapunzel kale you stole from me,” she croaked.

  Atticus reached into his man bag, which looked suspiciously like his mother’s old leather handbag, and produced a coin purse.

  “So, you are a reasonable crone. How much do I owe you, then? Two shillings? Three?”

  Stevia craned her head around his shoulder and pointed directly to Daisy who was sitting in a rocking chair nursing her son.

  “That is what you owe me,” she said. “The child.”

  Atticus laughed at her and shook his head. “You cannot have him! You could not have been serious about such an exchange. A child is not worth three handfuls of kale, even if they were organic and non-GMO!”

  “Nevertheless,” the witch said and smiled, “you made a deal with me. And should you break a deal with a magic-assisted life coach with the kind of influence and powers I possess I shall make sure that your are cursed to give only bad reviews in taverns that you enjoy frequenting for the rest of your life. Even if you liked the food!”

  Atticus shuddered. He was considered important in his community and didn’t want that kind of a reputation to be taken from him. Besides, he and Daisy were still young; they could always have another child. With a few words of coaxing, he took the newborn baby from his wife’s arms and placed him into Stevia’s bony hands.

  “Look; give him only the finest goat’s milk from locally sourced farms, okay?” Daisy wept. “And absolutely no synthetic wax if he’s going to grow a beard!”

  A gentle smile crossed the old woman’s face as she looked down into the baby boy’s sweet face. She tucked the soft, plaid blanket under his chin.

  “Fear not, child. I shall treat him with all the love and respect he deserves.” And, with that, in a flurry of colorful skirts and beige sweaters, Stevia left with the infant.

  Years went by and the child grew strong under Stevia’s healthy, gluten-free, vegan care. He was beautiful and sensitive and kind to all the animals around. Stevia named him after her precious kale because giving him a common name was just so last age.

  When Rapunzel was twelve years old she took him to a safe space, otherwise known as a tower, and told him this was where he was going to live until she thought the world was acceptable enough for him to explore. He was given every luxury she could afford, which on a magic-assisted life coach’s salary was actually a lot. The tower resembled a much-coveted loft apartment, furnished with luxurious tapestries, antique sofas, refurbished tables and chairs crafted from rare woods, and a library so great that no one else in the kingdom but perhaps the royal family had such a collection. Rapunzel was also given a golden lute with a secret magic spell within. No apprenticeship was necessary to play the instrument; he plucked the strings and the most beautiful, most original music flowed around the tower.

  He grew into a handsome young man with hair a lovely as any maiden’s. His eyes were as green as the leaves of the prized crop he was named after. So fair was his voice even the birds cried to hear him speak or sing. But the one feature Stevia prized above all others was the beard he had been able to grow. Lush, soft, and the color of the finest straw, the beard had grown to such lengths Stevia wondered just how much about him was magic and how much was from his perfect upbringing.

  When he was eighteen the beard was so long that Stevia no longer need to use the tower’s stairs to visit him. It draped down from the one window, nearly brushing the ground below, allowing her to use the golden facial curls as a living rope. She would stand at the base of the tower and cry up “Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
let down your hair!” Down would fall the soft, silk-like tresses, and Stevia would cling to the beard as her son pulled her up.

  Stevia made sure that Rapunzel was raised with a healthy dose of fear along with his carefully prepared diet. She told him to never trust another person. Men and women alike, with the exception of the boy and herself, were wicked, poison-filled fools who relied way too much on material possessions and preyed on perfect souls. If he wanted to remain unscathed and uninfluenced by such evils then he would heed her advice and stay in the tower. Rapunzel, wanting nothing more than to make his mother happy, agreed to never leave.

  The king and queen had a daughter named Avery. Since they prided themselves on being modern parents, despite the fact that they ruled an entire country, they allowed Avery to do as she wished. Beautiful and proud and privileged, Avery spent most of her time taking things that were considered obsolete and making them popular again. Such an example was the old linen scarves with embroidered flowers that no one seemed to like much. Avery, a trendsetter by great standards, began to wear them, which were meant to cover the grey heads of old maids, around her elegant neck. The kingdom tax collectors saw an immediate rise in the purchase of linen scarves across the country.

  Avery loved the idea that she was “a big deal” to her subjects. And she was pondering on that fact as she rode her favorite horse, A Different Color, down a strange trail she had never noticed before. The trail took her deep into the forest. She nearly turned the mare around to get back when the sound of the most amazing voice captivated her and kept her moving forward. The dense wood opened to a meadow. Sitting in the very center of the flowery fields was a tower. The music was coming from there.

  The princess was about to steer A Different Color closer when she spotted an old woman approaching from the other side of the field. She led the horse back into the woods and watched, with awe, as a long gold rope dropped out of the window at the crone’s demand. Her mind began to turn with ideas. She couldn’t resist a good mystery, and if she could solve the riddle of who was behind the richly philosophical song that beat out any current indie bards she heard playing before her parents then she would be celebrated even more.