Alydia Rackham's Fairytales

by Alydia Rackham

  Through many faithful messengers, he told them exactly what the poison would do to a person. He said “The Magician has disguised it now, to look like all kinds of good things, so that you will want it, because he hates you, and hates me. But I know what everything looked like before the poison existed, and I can easily identify what the poison has ruined.” He told them not to go near the disguised poison—not to eat it, bathe in it, play with it, nothing—because it would utterly destroy them. Instead, he told them to eat the food he showed them, drink what he instructed, and live within a protective border where the poison could not grow. That way, they could live a blessed life—however, they would still eventually die, because of the first poisoning. And after death, they would live in a peaceful place—but not reunited with the king. Not yet.

  The poison, though, remained vicious and very alive, and the Magician attacked the Children constantly, still seeking revenge. Those Children who strayed outside the King’s boundaries and took the poison were consumed and destroyed by it, and separated from the King forever. Those who urged others to leave the boundaries to get the poison, or brought the poison inside the boundaries to the other Children—the king told them that a small amount of poison could be counteracted by the blood of an animal. But if someone had taken too much, that person had to be killed, to keep the contagion from spreading to everyone else.

  This way of life became very burdensome for the children, and deeply grieving to the King—so many rules, so much blood and death—and their father seemed distant from them, and the King and his Children fought all the time about his rules, for the Magician was constantly concocting new ways to disguise the poison and lure them out of the boundaries, and confuse them. And all the while, the Children still had to stay outside the perfect kingdom, for they all carried that first contagious poison—the poison that made them die slowly. And so even if they did all the King asked, they would still be parted from him during life, and after death they would be stuck waiting in that uneventful, peaceful place. Slaves to rules and boundaries.

  This was not good enough for the King. In fact, it tormented him to lose so many of his Children to the poison, and to be parted from them. His desperation to save his Children and bring them home had never abated. He gave them all the rules and boundaries, and told them exactly what the disguised poison looked like, and showed them how to sacrifice to save themselves, all so that they would understand and accept the help he was about to give next.

  He took on a mortal body, became weak and vulnerable to the poison, just like his Children, and entered their land—and he told them exactly who he was and what he was doing. And then, he took all the poison in their bodies and absorbed it into his own, and then he did what he had to do to rid the earth of it: he died. But because he was also the immortal King, he broke the Magician’s spell and came back from the dead with a new body.

  Because of this, he had the power to give an incredible gift: any Child of his who asked to be healed—the King filled that Child with a strong immunity the King gained when he broke the spell, so that the Child could be purified completely, and even if the Child made a mistake and took some of the poison, it could never separate the child from the King again, because, with the King’s help, the immunity would fight it and get it out. To further help them fight the poison, the King came to live with them, and asked them to be with him, learn from him, stay with him and do what they were meant to do, far away from the Magician’s poison. He also urged them to go chase after their brothers and sisters who were wandering around in the poisonous fields with the Magician—to tell them what the poison looked like, what it would do, and to bring those Children back to the King to be healed and made safe.

  The breaking of the spell did one more thing: since the Children’s bodies had been corrupted by the first poison, the sickness could always still try to re-enter, make them sick and frail and cause misery for both the King and the Children—but now, once the healed Children died, they would get new bodies, bodies that could no longer be corrupted by any poison, and they could come home to the perfect kingdom at last. This also happened for the obedient Children who had died before the King broke the spell.

  However, many children decided not to believe the King or the Children he had healed. They did not want to believe those disguised things were poisonous and would destroy them. They did not want to follow the King, or do as he asked—because they did not believe he knew what was best. And, though this utterly broke the King’s heart, he would not force them to let him cure them. What more could he do? He told them exactly what the poison looked like and what it did, how to avoid it; he set apart a safe place away from it, and then he died to break the spell of the poison, then offered them immunity and life for the taking, along with a perfect and safe home. He did everything he could. Now he would leave the choice to them—and keep relentlessly calling them to leave the poison, the Magician, and come home to be healed.

  The Riddle Book

  For Phoebe

  Once upon a time, there lived a princess named Arin, who had long hair black as midnight, and a temperament cool as the rivers that softly rushed down the bright rocks all around her castle. She kept her chambers in the tallest tower, and surrounded herself with books. She had seven brothers—all loud and brave and boisterous—and while she loved them, she preferred the quiet of the high rooms, and the solitude of endless reading.

  One morning as she sat in the wide window seat, the shutters open to let the morning light spill in over the pages of her book, Arin heard the faraway blast of

  a herald’s trumpet. Yes, it sounded faraway, but she recognized the call as belonging to the watchmen at the front gate of her very own castle. She closed her book—a wonderful tale about a girl whose finger was pricked on a spinning wheel—and looked out her high window to the road approaching the castle.

  There, approaching her home, stretched a grand red-clad procession carrying fluttering golden flags and riding proud black horses. Arin frowned and got to her feet. She recognized these banners—they belonged to the kingdom of Envane, their neighbors. But Arin’s father the king had always said that the king of Envane was cruel and devious, and he would have to watch that king carefully lest he attempt to make war.

  Curious, Arin slipped down her long, spiral staircase and crept through the corridors toward the great hall. She was so slight and ghostly that hardly anyone heard or noticed her as she passed. At last she found a small side door and peered inside.

  There upon the throne sat her resplendent father, bearded and crowned, beside her lovely, golden-haired mother. And there before them, at the foot of the

  dais, stood the ruler of Envane, King Merald. He had black hair and a pointed beard, and he smiled up at Arin’s parents.

  “Thank you for journeying all this way,” Arin’s father said graciously. “I am so happy that you have come, so that we may discuss terms of a permanent peace between our two great peoples.”

  “I am equally happy to be here,” said King Merald, his smile broadening. “May I be permitted to offer your Royal Majesties a gift?” And from beneath his cloak he drew a gorgeous blue book, all adorned with sparkling jewels.

  “It is beautiful,” Arin’s mother said. “What does it contain?”

  “Incredible magic beasts, mazes and puzzles, riddles and problems,” said King Merald. “Many say they are impossible to tame or solve!”

  “I shall look forward to the challenge!” said Arin’s father.

  “I’m certain you will prove to be quite clever, Your Majesty,” King Merald agreed. “But perhaps

  later? I would like to water my horses and rest my men.”

  Arin’s father agreed, and the visiting king and his subjects were ushered out and into the guest rooms. Arin, troubled and thoughtful, retreated to her tower room, unable to shake the sight of that book. Usually, the sight of a book filled her with excitement. But this one…It felt like a coiled snake.

  But that night, Arin jerked awake,
a terrible feeling washing over her. She listened, and could hear no echoes throughout the castle, as she usually could, for servants always moved about, no matter the hour.

  But she did hear a stranger sound: it seemed to be many hoofbeats. She got up, put on a dressing gown, and moved to her window. And out in the moonlight, she could see King Melard and his men riding swiftly away from her castle.

  Her heart beating harder, Arin hurried out of her room of books and down through the palace. She did not call out. She listened, and listened. She rushed to the kitchen, but found no one there. She hurried through the washroom, and found no one there.

  She ran to her parents’ bedroom, and found no one. She dashed to each one of her seven brothers’ chambers, and found them all empty—all neat and clean, as if they had never gone to bed at all. In an instant, Arin realized that no one was in the castle anymore.

  Beginning to panic, she raced into the great hall, still fully lit by torches. No one, not even the guards, stood within the hall. But still, she stopped, her breath catching in her throat.

  For at the foot of the dais lay her father’s sword, unsheathed and gleaming. And in the center of the floor lay that big, gorgeous book that King Melard had brought—its pages open and still.

  Arin felt cold all over, and realized she had been right to begin with: there was something sinister about that book!

  She bent down, and picked up her father’s heavy sword, and approached the book. She peered down at it, meaning to strike it with the blade…

  And then she saw it.

  The picture of the sphynx on one of the pages was moving.

  And then she remembered what King Melard said—that the book contained creatures, riddles, puzzles and problems. Creatures! Which meant…

  “They are trapped in the book,” she realized. “And so…Could my family and the court have become trapped, too?” She was a bright princess, and knew that this must be true, and King Melard had brought this book to trap every one of his enemies inside. So Arin bent down, and pressed her hand to the pages.

  Suddenly, the world snapped, and went black, and the next moment, she stood before a great and menacing sphynx amidst a maze of ruined stones.

  “Answer me a riddle, or you shall be sent to the center of the book and trapped forever,” said the sphynx. “How can a dove be without a bone?”

  Most people would be quite puzzled by this question—but Princess Arin had a thick book of riddles in her room, and she had read every one.

  “When a dove was an egg, it didn’t have any bones,” Arin told the sphynx. The sphynx nodded its maned head, and disappeared.

  But as Arin moved forward through the maze, she found danger after danger—dragons, trolls, mermaids, leprechauns, traps, chess games, and puzzles. But she had read that dragons have a spot on their neck they cannot reach, and so when she reached up and scratched it, the dragon’s tongue lolled out, he became quite harmless, and did not roast her. She had read that trolls love pearly white stones, so she gathered a handful of them and gave one to each troll she found, and they let her pass. She knew to flatter the mermaids’ vanity endlessly, so that they would begin to fight amongst each other, and not trouble Arin at all as she hurried around the lagoon.

  Leprechauns were simple—she simply avoided the pot of gold, refusing to even look at it. She worked her way through every game and puzzle, remembering all she had studied. And finally, she came upon a vast rocky space where the entire court of her castle, including her parents and brothers, stood huddled together. She hurried to them, explained how she had found them. Her father angrily told her that yes, King Melard had tricked them, and the enchanted book had sucked them all into its pages. Arin assured him that she knew the way

  out—they only needed to follow her. The king and queen knew their daughter was very clever, and in fact she had proven it by finding them! And so they told her to lead the way.

  As they traveled, she warned them not to look at the gold, urged her brothers to flatter the mermaids even further, play the games by the rules, give the stones to the trolls, and scratch the dragon’s neck. At last, they all stood before the sphynx again.

  “Answer this riddle, or you shall all go back to the center of the book,” said the sphynx. “What is a cherry without a stone?”

  “A flower of course,” Arin said. “Now, may we please leave?”

  The sphynx nodded. The world snapped. Everything went dark…

  And all at once, all of the court stood full and free in the great hall—along with the sphynx, the dragon, the trolls, the leprechauns—and the mermaids landed in the fountain. The next moment, Arin took her father’s sword and brought it down upon the binding of the book.

  The blade hacked into the pages. The book burst into flame. Everyone leaped back, as the book withered and turned to ash.

  And henceforth, the King named Arin as his first royal advisor and court scholar, for her brilliance and cool-headedness. And, much to their chagrin, her brothers were sent to her every day for lessons in how to properly care for dragons, trolls, and especially jealous mermaids.

  The End

  Red and the Witch

  For Matthew, who loves adventure, bravery,

  And beating the bad guys in any form.

  Once upon a time, there lived a slight young man everyone called Red, because of his flaming red hair. He had no mother nor father, but he had a beaming smile that lit up his freckled face, a wonderful laugh, and a sparkling sense of humor, so he was welcome in every house in the village, and no one would ever turn him from their door. In fact, if anyone saw him strolling past as the twilight fell, he would call to him and say, “Red, why not come in and dine with us? We have enough to spare for you!” And more often than not, that same family would let him sleep on a spare bed, or on a pallet on the floor for the night.

  And indeed, Red was grateful for this. He always made certain to rise early, then, and do a chore for this family, be it fetching the eggs, milking the cow, or gathering wood, and then departing before they could make a fuss, whistling a bright tune as he went.

  But one night, as he was sleeping in on the floor in the cottage belonging to the Baker, Red heard a terrible sound, like a great, snarling wind. He awoke, and hurried to the window, just in time to see a mighty black form, like a wraith, sweep through the village square. And indeed, it filled him with a terrible chill. He was not the only one to notice—in fact, the whole village awoke, and gazed with wide eyes out at the now-empty square. But none were brave enough to leave their houses to see what it might have been.

  In the morning, they ventured out to find that the neighbor’s cow had died in the night, and lay covered in ice, although this was now midsummer. A fearful murmur ran through the whole village, and they knew that the dark shadow during the night had come and done this.

  And the next night, it came again. Rushing like a monstrous hurricane through the town square. And in the morning, all of the miller’s chickens had died where they stood, coated in frost.

  “Something must be done!” said the elder at a meeting that noon.

  “What?” demanded the blacksmith. “This is not a creature that can be killed with blade or bow! It must be magic!”

  “Magic!” yelped the baker’s wife. “None of us knows anything about magic.”

  “I bet you old Hetchel does,” Red spoke up, his arms crossed. They all turned to look at him.

  “You know, Hetchel,” Red prompted. “The woman who lives at the edge of the village.”

  “She is a witch!” one person spat.

  “But she would know about magic then, wouldn’t she?” Red countered.

  “Perhaps,” said the elder, stroking his beard. “But she refuses to see anyone, even the button seller and the butcher. She will not speak to any of us.”

  “She’ll speak to me,” Red declared.

  “Oh?” said the blacksmith. “How can you be sure?”

  “Leave it to me,” Red smiled. The villagers were mys
tified, but Red had always been confident, and if anyone could charm the witch, it was he.

  And so that very afternoon, Red strolled toward Hetchel’s house, whistling a bright tune. He passed by an orchard and found some newly-fallen apples that still looked beautiful and rosy, and picked them up, and polished them with his shirt. At last, he arrived at Hetchel’s crooked house, all draped over with vines and flowers. Still whistling, Red strode up to the crooked front door and rapped briskly on it.

  In a few moments, the old woman opened the door. She stood bent and ragged, with a crooked nose and sharp black eyes. Hetchel frowned at him.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” she creaked, looking him up and down.

  “What beautiful roses you have, madam!” he said, smiling at her. “I was wondering if I might have three of them, in exchange for these apples.”

  Her mouth tightened, and she stared at the apples. Red tried not to show it, but he had heard from his friend who owned the orchard that Hetchel bought a bushel of apples every fall, though she was very poor, because she loved them.

  “All right,” she finally grated. “You may cut three roses.” And she snatched the three apples from him. Still whistling, Red rounded the house, glancing up and down the vine at all the blooms. But he did not cut any.

  Instead, he found her woodpile, woefully untidy and small. Swiftly, he re-stacked the pile, then snatched up the little hatchet he found nearby, ventured just a little into the woods behind her house and cut several armloads more, and brought them back and stacked them smartly. He then set to work in her vegetable garden, weeding away from the carrots and onions, making room for the cabbage. After that, he also weeded her walkway, found a broom and swept the stones clean. Then, he snatched up a bucket that stood near the front door, hurried out to the well, drew fresh water, and brought it back to the front door. Only then did he pick the finest roses he could find, which happened to be high up and nearly impossible to reach, and sat down near her front gate.