With his thoughts already on Marceline, Walt really wasn’t paying attention to the aide just then. A small smile filtered across his face as he thought back to an odd event that had happened when he was, oh, probably eight years old. He and his little sister Ruthie had been left alone at the farm and were playing in the yard under his Dreaming Tree. She had spotted a huge, black animal lying over in a ditch. “Oh, Walt, I’m afraid of the big, bad wolf,” Ruthie had cried and promptly hid behind her older brother for protection when the beast had stood up. Injured by a well-aimed rock to the head, it had whined and limped toward them. Terrified, the girl had gone running back into the house…. But it hadn’t been a dog, like Walt had first thought. That was what the wolf had suggested Walt tell his sister to calm her down, to make her feel better. He had wanted the wolf to stay, but the animal had said he couldn’t. That odd memory—dream?—had remained buried deep inside Walt ever since.
“Not all wolves are villains.” Still lost in the memory, Walt hadn’t realized he said it out loud.
“True, boss, but that one in The Three Little Pigs sure was. That’s why we wanted to use him….”
Walt’s head snapped up. The memory of that warm afternoon in Marceline faded as the aide continued to talk about the wolf in The Three Little Pigs. The cartoon had been the thirty-sixth Silly Symphony they had produced and went on to win the 1933 Academy Award for the best animated film. It became so popular that there weren’t enough prints to meet the demand and sometimes two or three theaters had to share a print, running it back and forth between showings. One theater in New York played the film so long that the manager took the lobby poster and added beards on the pigs. Week after week, as the cartoon kept playing, the beards got longer and longer.
Walt had felt he was trapped with the Mickey cartoons. The audience expected Mickey to act one certain way and would not take kindly to him branching out. The Silly Symphonies had been an experiment in different formats of cartooning. The success of the Symphonies had eventually led to the studio being able to produce Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
In the original tale, the wolf had eaten the first two pigs after destroying their houses, but ended up being eaten by the third pig. Walt himself revised the tale and made sure that none of the particulars—especially the wolf—got eaten.
In the United States, the main song, “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?” played constantly on the radio, and relayed hope to all the people affected by the Great Depression. The story became so popular that Walt was asked if his four characters could be used in a dream sequence in a live-action movie being produced south of the border in Mexico. Half of the proceeds of the feature went to a special charity that provided poor children a free lunch every day of school.
“…and people are still humming that song!”
“Right.” Walt gave a small cough to cover his discomfiture over losing track of the conversation. Quickly getting his bearings back, Walt suggested, “How about if you take out Lady Tremaine and Stromboli and put in Br’er Fox and Br’er Bear. They could add a little comic relief. I think adding them to The Wolf, the Evil Queen, and Captain Hook should make it a good line-up.”
The aide nodded as he scratched out some lines and added others. “We’ll let you know when we have a script.”
When the man had just reached the door, Walt called to him. “You know, maybe it would be a fun idea to have the Mirror steal the show from me and make me disappear in a huge puff of smoke. That way I can make this grand entrance later when it’s time to end the show.”
Nodding as he made more notes, the aide remembered to close the door behind him.
Walt sat back in his chair as he thought about all the villains they had introduced over the years. “I am called by many names,” he muttered quietly. As soon as it came out of his mouth, he frowned and looked away, out the window over the top of the sprawling, busy Studio. “Which movie did that come from?” It sounded like it should have been uttered by one of his evil ones. Making a mental note, he smiled. He was sure it would resurface just when it was needed in a film.
England — 1289
When the last of the pink sparkles extinguished themselves in the lapping foam of the ocean, the wolf was gone. Wals and Rose knew it was time for her to get back to the castle before she was missed. There would be too many awkward questions to answer if they were found alone together so late at night. Wals would probably be thrown into the dungeon and forgotten about for, oh, a few hundred years or so, Rose figured, if she knew her father.
Throwing her hood over her hair, Rose picked up the marauding leader’s forgotten sword. In her mind they would now be doubly armed as she hefted the steel blade. She tried not to wince at the sheer weight of the steel. Wals smiled to himself in the darkness. After living alone in the frontier wilderness for so many years, he had no doubt she would be quite capable of taking care of herself. With his teeth gritted against the pain from his wound, they started off, and retraced their steps to the castle wall and the secret entrance.
Back in his dreary rooms, after cleaning the wound the best he could, Wals wrapped a torn rag around his bleeding arm. It was a long sword cut, one that would probably leave a scar he’d have trouble explaining once he got home to the twenty-first century. Battle scars here in this time were a mark of honor. In his time, not so much. His mind on germs and bacteria and possibly even gangrene, Wals idly wondered why Wolf had gone home without staying to help them or even mentioning the trip to him at all. As he saw the blood slowly seep through the coarse fabric of the rag, all he could do was hope that the wolf would come back and at least bring along some antiseptic cream….
Using the violent storm of the vortex as a diversion, Wolf didn’t actually go through the waiting blackness this time. He knew he had a pendant to recapture and didn’t want it known that he was still around.
He ran hard through the dark, angry surf and avoided the brighter sand. His black coat had immediately blended into the darkness of the fog and the night. Once he was far enough away from Wals and Rose on the beach—and anyone else who might have been hovering on the fringe watching—he put his nose down and was easily able to follow the smell of the frightened horses.
From the winding, confused trails the horses had trampled, he could tell that the riders, at first, had no control over their frantic animals. Once that control had been regained, the horses and riders had finally all come together at the edge of the forest. It then became obvious to their tracker that the men were not in agreement about which way they should go. After a short distance, the hooves had churned up the mud in multiple directions to show they had simply scattered like roaches in the light, going back to whatever dark hole from which they had emerged.
Wolf, though, was only interested in one horse and one man. The leader’s horse had been the last one to leave the beach and had the strongest stench of fear—both from the horse and from the rider. This was the path Wolf followed, nose down, still at a run and gaining ground. He might not be able to outrun a galloping horse under normal circumstances, but this stallion was scared out of its mind and ran erratically. While many horses of this time were trained to face the terrors of war, the sounds and actions of battle did not usually include the smell of a full-grown, angry, male wolf.
Wolf caught up to the leader and his horse sooner than he anticipated. In fact, because of the swirling, misty gloom of the forest, he almost ran right into them. By then, the man had finally gained control of his beast, but the temptation to again gaze upon the pendant he had successfully stolen from the princess had become too much to resist. Finding a small clearing deep in the woods and out of sight of the tallest spire of her castle should the fog suddenly dissipate, he reined in his heaving, lathered horse. Dismounting, he negligently threw the reins into a nearby bush and walked over to a stream of moonlight that found its way through the ever-changing fog. Reaching into his filthy shirt with his left hand, he carefully pulled the pendant out by its broken chain.
His horse, still skittish from the terror on the beach, suddenly neighed and reared, pulling free the loosely placed reins. With a wide-eyed snort, the stallion pivoted and broke into a frenzied run, mindless of the scratching tree limbs and brush.
Cursing at his temperamental horse, the man angrily turned. And immediately froze. The irritation that marked his face changed into a look of terror as his hand instinctively dropped to his side. As he reached for his sword, a sinking feeling began in the pit of his stomach as he remembered it was no longer there. It had been dropped on the beach. He knew he was still armed, but it was only a short knife hidden in the top of his right boot.
The wolf, the same one that had attacked him on the beach, sea water still dripping off his black coat, slowly shook his head side to side as he saw the man’s hand start to edge down toward his boot. The man’s eyes widened. It was almost as if the wolf was saying no, telling the man not to even try it. Without breaking eye contact, the wolf started to walk toward the man, his fangs bared in a silent snarl. Confusion played over the man’s face when the animal didn’t immediately leap at his throat as expected. The leader’s head unconsciously followed the wolf in a slow side to side movement and the downward motion of his right hand stopped as if he was mesmerized or in a trance. Not daring to move, only able to stand there, he waited and watched as the wolf got closer and closer.
Right in front of him, the animal’s hot breath on his bare arms, the man closed his eyes. His body braced for the attack, he knew it was too late for any means of defense. In a moment, he felt the hot breath, a tug on his left hand, and then…nothing. No sound. No heavy panting. No pain. Even the dank smell of a wet animal that had filled the clearing was gone.
One eye pried open, with the full expectation of seeing the wolf take his final lunge, the man’s mouth dropped. He slowly came to realize that he was alone in the little meadow. He was still alive and the wolf was nowhere to be seen. “What kind of spell be this?” He jerkily turned in a full circle like a puppet suddenly deprived of its strings.
Heart pounding, he started to hyperventilate at his miraculous escape, and ran a sweaty hand over his clammy forehead. It was then that the man realized something else—something that terrified him even more than the sudden reappearance of the wolf.
The pendant was gone. The wolf had actually grabbed the pendant from his hand. That’s all the beast had wanted.
Could that possibly be what had just happened? He quickly spun side to side, checking the ground to make sure he hadn’t simply dropped the gem in his fright. Falling to the floor of the forest, he frantically threw aside handfuls of leaves and dirt in an ever-widening arc, and found nothing.
She wasn’t going to be pleased. His heart, which had not returned to its normal beat, pounded even faster in his chest as he contemplated how he would explain the loss of the pendant to her. Even though he had secretly entertained deep, unspoken plans to keep the cursed stone for himself and riding far, far away, he now realized that this dream, this delusion of his would never have come to pass. She was everywhere.
Already worked into spasms of paranoia, he began to imagine noises where there were none. Mouth open, he leaped to his feet, his head jerked around the dark clearing. Yellow eyes that blinked open and closed seemed to be watching him from the dark corners of the forest. Phantom voices teased at his ears but never formed complete words. Fingers in the branches of the trees and bushes touched his arms and his sweating face, reaching for him.
With a high scream, he broke into a panicked run, and followed the wide path of broken brush his horse had left behind. He ran until he was exhausted and dropped in a dead faint onto the rocky ground.
Coming to hours later, when his eyes forced themselves open, he snapped them shut again and wished for the darkness of oblivion. He found he was at the drawbridge of the Dark Castle.
There was no escape for him now. She was waiting.
“Did you have a nice rest?”
The question was pleasant enough, uttered in a voice almost kind to indicate the concern the words should have conveyed.
Staring at the beautiful face before him, framed by a dark two-horned hat and tinted an eerie shade of green by the flaming torches surrounding the dais on which the ostentatious throne sat, the leader of the marauders knew not to be fooled. The eyes that stared through him were a clear, emotionless gray, her cheekbones high, the nose and chin sharp.
“Madam Male…,” he started to explain, his hand on his heart—a heart that he sincerely hoped would still be beating within his chest when this interview was over.
On her feet faster than his eyes could follow, those gray eyes flashed at him and a narrow, tapered, black fingernail pointed straight at him. “Do not call me that,” she hissed. “Do not ever call me that again!”
The air crackled around him, pricking his skin in too many places to count. Wide-eyed, his bravado faltered. “I…I am sorry, Majesty. I thought that was your name.”
“I am called by many names,” she spat at him, her robes billowing in the sudden gust of stale air that burst through the castle and whipped the shreds of banners high in the smoke-filled rafters above their heads.
“By which would you care to be addressed?” He was aware of a few titles that she would not know. Wisely, he kept his face devoid of any humor.
She glared at him as if to determine whether it was impertinence or stupidity that made him ask the question in such a way. Deciding it was typical of the stupidity that she always faced, she retook her throne. The wind instantly subsided. As the tattered tapestries and pennants on the walls fell back into place, she inexplicably gave him a charming smile, one that might have been bestowed upon courtiers in a more civilized place and time.
The leader didn’t know which was more terrifying—her anger or her smiles.
“I think,” she started slowly, as if the question he had asked required deep thought and meditation, “I think you shall now address me as Nimue.” Through her lowered lashes she watched the reaction on the man’s face. She wasn’t disappointed by the look of shock as the implication sunk in. “It is a fine name,” she continued, her fingers tracing a circle over the green orb nestled on the arm of her throne. “A name that has been too long absent. What do you think, Leader? Is that satisfactory for you?”
His head briefly dipped. “Yes, madam. As you wish.” You can call yourself Merlin himself, but that doesn’t make you so.
Seeing the subtle change in his expression, she smiled placidly again. Let the fools think what they want. They will know soon enough. “I believe you have retrieved something of mine. It has been out of my possession far too long.” She held out an elegant hand in his direction. When he did not advance, her eyes narrowed. “You did do what I asked, did you not?”
All right, this is where it gets tricky. He made an audible swallow. “I did, Madam. My band and I tracked the princess and the newcomer to the secluded beach where we knew they met. He put up a fierce resistance, more than we expected of him.”
“Let me see if I have this straight. There was one unarmed, cowering female and one untried, unknown man against…how many of you, did you say?”
The collar of his tunic seemed to close in on his windpipe. “We were six.”
“And you had them trapped in the rocks?”
“Yes, Madam.” His voice trailed off to a mere whisper.
“Go on with your fascinating narration. I should be writing this down.”
“We quickly disarmed
the man….”
The corners of her mouth tilted slightly upwards at the change in his story, but she said nothing.
Seeing the small smile, the leader cleared his throat. “And took the pendant from the girl.”
“Did she put up a fierce resistance as well?” was the next question that dripped in disdainful sarcasm. “Where was the pendant at the time?”
“Down the front of her bodice. “
“And you went after it?” The evil one suddenly gave out a loud, croaking laugh. “Oh, that must have really upset her delicate sensibilities! Wonderful! Wonderful!” She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Wish I could have seen that closer,” she sighed, confirming the man’s idea that she did, in fact, see everything. “Well, then, hand it here, Leader. You’ve played with it long enough.”
Her eyes again narrowed at the sudden, nervous shifting of his feet and how his glance wouldn’t meet hers.
“You do have the pendant, do you not?”
“Madam Nimue, you see…” He started to make an excuse, but suddenly decided to just get it all out there and take what was surely coming. “There was this black wolf that suddenly attacked my men! They scattered like rats and left me alone to face the demon. He jumped me and my sword went flying.”
“As you are standing whole in front of me, I fail to see what this has to do with my pendant. You obviously got away and…,” she encouraged, the impatience starting to come through her voice.
Wolf! Happily Ever After? Page 10