Terribly Twisted Tales

by RABE, JEAN

  Fifteen days later tears streamed from Pinocchia’s painted brown eyes. The tears weren’t caused by the smoke filling the room. Nor were the tears from pain, as the flames licked up her wooden legs.

  Master Gepetto was dead.

  He had passed away quietly in his sleep.

  She had set fire to the cottage, to consume the old master and all of his machines.

  She cradled his head in her lap and stroked his wild white hair. She was sad that the old man had died. He had given her life, but more importantly, he had given her a purpose.

  The half-burned ceiling beams creaked ominously.

  Without Master Gepetto, she had no function, and a machine with no useful purpose had no reason to exist.

  THE HUNDRED-YEAR NAP

  Skip and Penny Williams

  Skip and Penny Williams profess a love of old things, such as classic Hollywood movies, musty old books, the century-old farmhouse they share, and each other, though not necessarily in that order. Penny has degrees in chemistry and Russian. Skip has numerous role-playing game credits, and has dabbled in many other things. When not dreaming up new twists on old tales, Penny enjoys many different crafts and teaches chemistry and broadfield science. Skip putters in his vegetable garden and orchard (which keep many deer and rabbits fed) and works to reclaim the fields around the farmhouse from the obstinate weeds that blanket them. He also paints toy soldiers. The Williams house is the site of an annual Christmas cookie bake that draws friends from both sides of the Atlantic; it’s also the permanent home to a growing pride of unruly housecats.

  The chamberlain shuffled through the pile of scrolls heaped on the council table and sighed heavily. “How far down the peerage must we go, Your Highness?”

  The stately woman across the table rested one slender, pale hand on the cluttered table, the other on her swelling belly. “All the way down the list, Gerald,” she replied with a beatific smile. “We’re inviting all the peers; they can decide which knights and retainers to bring along.”

  The chamberlain’s expression turned dour.

  “Now Gerald, it’s not every day that the royal heir is christened,” added the queen. “We have waited long for this day, and everyone expects a celebration like no other.”

  Indeed, Queen Meldarerna and her husband, King Galameade, had waited long for a child—so long that they had begun to believe their kingdom would have no heir and their hearts no joy. But at last their prayers were answered, and Meldarerna became pregnant. Never was there a happier mother-to-be nor a prouder prospective father. Indeed, the whole kingdom rejoiced that the royal family would soon be complete. Planning a mammoth celebration for the christening before the child was even born was perhaps a bit premature, but Meldarerna believed in being prepared.

  “We’ll rely on the guilds and privy council members to assist with the rest of the guest list,” continued the queen, “except for the fairies. Brynmor will handle the preparations for them.”

  The chamberlain rolled his eyes. “That old coot of a court wizard? Just put him to work entertaining the kids.”

  “Oh, no, Gerald,” answered the queen. “Brynmor is our expert on everything magical, and I’m counting on him to make sure the most important fairies in the kingdom will be present at the celebration. It will be vital for the child to have the blessings of the fae.”

  The chamberlain only snorted by way of reply.

  “Don’t be so familiar, Gerald,” said Meldarerna, wagging a finger. “And don’t let either my husband or Brynmor hear you carrying on like that. Brynmor worked some impressive battlefield magic in his day, if even half the king’s tales are true. If he’s limited himself to parlor tricks recently, it’s only because he hasn’t been challenged. Perhaps you’ve forgotten the little matter of the dragon last fall.”

  “I heard it was about the size of a newt,” muttered the chamberlain. He fell silent as two men entered the hall. One was the king—a handsome, strapping man, going gray at the temples but still lean from a lifetime of hard campaigning. His companion was older-looking, wearing a robe decorated with constellations of magical symbols and spattered with candle wax. He wore a pair of spectacles on his nose and carried an oak staff in one clawlike hand.

  The king stooped to plant a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “You look positively luminous, my dear. How goes the planning?”

  “We were just discussing the matter of the fairy guests,” replied Meldarerna with an affectionate smile.

  At this, King Galameade turned to his robed companion. “What have you to say about that, Brynmor?”

  The wizard produced a slim scroll from his sleeve and unrolled it, looking the chamberlain in the eye as he did so. “Here is the list, my liege,” he replied. “We have thirteen fairies living in or near the kingdom who merit invitations by virtue of their magical prowess, their standing in the fairy community, their service to the kingdom, or . . .” The wizard paused to adjust his spectacles and shot a glance at the queen. “Or their generosity toward mortals.” With that, the wizard passed the scroll to the chamberlain. “And all will have to be served from golden plates.”

  King, queen, and chamberlain responded in unison. “Golden plates?”

  The wizard planted his staff and drew himself to his full height—a head taller than the king. The chamberlain put a hand to his forehead. “Here comes another one,” he murmured. The royal couple, however, gave the wizard their full attention.

  “To make the best possible impression on the fairies, we should provide a golden plate for each fairy guest,” the wizard began. “Nothing shows mortal respect more than a gift of gold, even if it’s only lent for a short while. Unfortunately, the royal treasury includes only twelve gold plates. The more junior fairies might be served from silver, which is also a magical metal, but doing so would be a minor affront.”

  The king shook his head: “No, the fairies are our most special guests. We should not slight any of them.”

  “Surely there’s enough gold in the treasury to make another golden plate or two?” suggested the queen.

  “Perhaps not,” cautioned the chamberlain, digging though the pile of scrolls. Locating a ponderous ledger, he flipped it open, ran one slender finger down a page, and said, “With the loss of tax income due to the new holiday, renovations to the nursery, the costs of the party, and the rebuilding expenses from the dragon attacks—I guess it was bigger than a newt—we’re very nearly broke. We’d be better off melting down the plates we have and making them anew.”

  “Wouldn’t that leave us with thirteen rather flimsy plates?” wondered the king.

  “Fourteen, Your Majesty,” piped up a rather nasal voice from the doorway.

  “Oh, now the circus is complete,” muttered the chamberlain, rolling his eyes heavenward.

  “Ah, Armand! I wondered where you’d gone off to,” exclaimed the queen. “We can hardly plan a party without our Chief Protocol Expert.”

  The newcomer bowed to the king and queen, his stylish green trousers, aquamarine shirt, and peony sash making the rest of the group seem drab. “Your Majesty looks particularly radiant this morning,” he said to the queen with a fawning smile.

  The king stepped forward. “Here now, Armand. How did we get to fourteen plates?”

  “Oh really now,” said Armand with a pitying glance at the king, “you never seat thirteen at a dinner table. It simply isn’t done.”

  “Oh. So where are we going to get another fairy?” the king wondered aloud.

  Brynmor waved a hand. “A matter of little import, sire,” he said. “We can find some other guest from the mystical realm to make the fae party even. It might be a good idea to invite a gnome, a dwarf, or even a giant.”

  “A giant? Oh, no!” exclaimed the queen. “Perhaps we should trim the guest list instead. Who was that disagreeable fairy you mentioned, Brynmor?”

  The wizard’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Xyhille? Oh, no, Your Highness, it would be a grave error to risk offending her. If we don’t want
to invite Xyhille, we should invite no fairies at all.”

  “And we couldn’t possibly hold an event of this magnitude without the fairies,” said Armand. “Think of what people would say!”

  “So,” Gerald interjected, “to keep our fairy guests—and our queen—happy without either breaking the treasury or stretching the gold in our current supply of plates too thinly, we need to borrow two golden plates for a day.” The chamberlain paused to consult his ledger. “We can borrow the gold. We can sell the plates afterward to cover the cost. Or perhaps our esteemed court wizard could just conjure us two golden plates?”

  The wizard stroked his chin. “It can be done,” he said after a moment. “It’s against my better judgment, but it can be done. No spell can make lasting gold, but I could fake it for a time. A silver plate or two could be transformed—or I could simply create a couple of temporary gold plates, which we could give to the most junior fairies. Of course, if the ruse is discovered, we could have a nasty scene on our hands. It’s not a great idea, but it’s less dangerous than snubbing Xyhille.”

  “Very well,” declared the king. “Conjure up an extra pair of golden plates.”

  “And, Your Majesties, I wanted to talk about the colors for the decorations,” said Armand, taking the king’s arm. “We simply cannot wait until the birth to choose them—besides, pink and blue are SO common. I suggest forest green with touches of rose gold, in honor of our fairy guests . . .”

  In time, Queen Meldarerna bore a daughter, whom the joyful couple named Rosalind Aliena (after two of the queen’s childhood friends). The christening celebration was announced that very day.

  In the weeks before the event, Brynmor, Gerald, and Armand were three of the busiest men in a bustling kingdom. The wizard filled his days perfecting his transformation spell, making arrangements for the fairy guests, and casting auspices for the blessed event. This latter task vexed him greatly because the auspices for the christening were mixed. The wizard foresaw great trouble but also great hope. He shared his disquiet with no one.

  Meanwhile, Armand sketched fantastic designs for the Great Hall decorations and endlessly altered the seating arrangements according to which noble was angry with whom. As for the chamberlain, he dashed furiously about, seeing to most of the practical preparations for the celebration. Some days, it seemed his tasks would never end, and he wondered—with increasing rancor—just what the wizard was up to, locked away in his tower day and night.

  The day before the celebration, Brynmor approached the chamberlain. “I’m ready to create the extra golden plates,” he said. “I’ll cast the spell just before the celebration and place them on the table myself. Please instruct the staff to set the junior fairies’ places without plates.”

  The chamberlain’s eyes narrowed as he bit back a scathing reply. “You have a place in the procession, Brynmor, as do I. It would be best if you can have the plates ready in the morning. If not, then as soon as possible. We’ll label them, and the staff can set them where they belong.”

  The wizard shook his head. “This is a bad idea, Gerald,” he declared. “I suppose there’s no help for it?”

  “None at all,” the chamberlain said, a gleam of triumph in his eyes.

  The morning of the christening celebration, the wizard brought a stack of fourteen golden plates—including the two he had conjured—to the scullery in the royal castle. He found the chief scullion and carefully explained the plan. Taken aback by the presence of the royal wizard, the scullion promised that all would be done as required.

  Less than an hour later, a harried potboy hustled into the scullery burdened with a tray stacked high with cups and saucers. No one had told him about the golden plates—but, then, no one ever told him anything other than “hurry up.” He was hurrying now, and tray collided with stack, sending plates, cups, and saucers tumbling to the floor in a cacophony of crashes, pings, and clangs. The noise brought the chief scullion running. “Ooops,” said the pot boy, cringing.

  The chief scullion briefly stood aghast and then boxed the potboy’s ears. “Clean this mess!” he shouted. “And mind how you restack those golden plates—they’re labeled.” The pot boy scrambled to obey. But most of the labels had fallen off the plates.

  “Which label belonged to which plate?” wondered the hapless potboy. The messages on the labels looked sort of like names—single words starting with big letters—but since he hadn’t learned to read, he couldn’t be sure. Anyway, what possible difference could it make which label was on which plate? All the plates looked the same. As long as each had a label on it, he couldn’t possibly get in any trouble. Besides, the chief scullion couldn’t read either.

  Later in the day, the serving staff carefully laid the golden plates at the fairies’ table, placing each beside the appropriate name placard, according to its label. Draped in silver mesh and set with golden plates and fine crystal glasses, the table shone like the sun on fresh snow. A touch of color in the form of calendula flowers completed the table of honor.

  And not a moment too soon. The trumpets sounded through the great hall, and the chamberlain himself, dressed in a blue satin suit with silver trim, began to announce the guests as they arrived. Liveried servants escorted the guests to their tables, amid exclamations of awe over the sumptuous green and gold decor artfully sculpted into a faux forest. And at last the fairies arrived, flying in on their gossamer wings like jeweled butterflies clad in shades of pink, aqua, seafoam, daisy, rose, and lavender. Twelve fairies flew gracefully into the hall, alighting one by one before the chamberlain, who checked the crib notes on his cuff and announced their names to the awed crowd. Most had never seen a fairy before, and even those who had been so blessed had never seen so many in one place!

  As they were escorted to their table, one more arrived—an older fairy of considerable girth, with bright red-orange hair and flowing robes of white and gold. “And Grand Dame Xyhille!” announced the chamberlain, as the fairy lighted before him.

  “Xyhille? By the fiery forge, they’ll let anyone into these places,” said a gruff voice from the doorway. All eyes focused on the newcomer, a rotund dwarf clad in brown and gold, wearing an outlandish broad-brimmed hat with several colorful feathers.

  “Well, look what the dragon dragged in,” said Xyhille, whirling to face the newcomer. “Hanar Throngand Dwin, what are you doing here? I thought I got rid of you when I dropped you into that quicksand bog six hundred years ago.”

  “Six hundred forty-seven years ago, to be precise, my dear. And that experience did give me the distinct impression that our marriage was over,” said the dwarf, advancing on Xyhille and the chamberlain. “But fortunately for me, a lovely bog sprite was there to aid me. A bit on the smelly side, perhaps, but she had her own sort of charm—especially to someone drowning in quicksand. Those months were special in their own way.”

  “Aha! I always said you’d chase anything in a skirt, and I was right!” shouted Xyhille, drawing back her hand as if to cast a spell. Crashing sounds ensued as several peers of the realm dived under their tables.

  “Please, Dame Xyhille, allow me to lead you to your seat,” said the chamberlain with an edge of desperation in his voice.

  “Never mind, Lord Chamberlain,” said the dwarf, holding up a hand in protest. “I shall escort my dear wife to her chair.” He approached the seething fairy with crooked arm extended, and after glaring at him a moment, she took it. “Now, my dear, this is a party, so let’s try to be civil, shall we?” he said.

  “Oh, this is terrible! Just terrible!” fretted Armand, standing with Brynmor at the edge of the crowd. “How could Gerald have invited her estranged husband of all people?”

  “You heard him say it was more than six hundred years ago,” said Brynmor. “Fairies hold grudges for a long, long time.”

  “I’d better warn the king and queen—oh! It’s too late! Here they come now!”

  “All we can do now is take our places and hope for the best,” said Brynmor.


  At the first flourish of trumpets, Armand, Gerald, Brynmor, and several other key members of the court formed a processional at the end of the hall. Slowly they walked to the throne and parted, revealing King Galameade and Queen Meldarerna, with the baby girl in her arms. Once the queen was settled, the king stood up and addressed the crowd. “All of us have waited long for this happy day, and we are glad that you have come to share our joy. I would like to announce Princess Rosalind’s betrothal to Prince Edgar the Charming, heir to the neighboring kingdom—a match that will strengthen both our realms and one day unite them. We also wish to extend special welcome to our fairy guests, who have graced us with their presence this day.” He extended an arm to the fairy table, and all except Xyhille inclined their heads and smiled.

  “Humph. They just want magical gifts for the kid,” she said loudly enough for all to hear. “Oh, well, at least they set a nice table.”

  “I see that long separation from your husband has not sweetened your tongue,” said Hanar dryly, as the king continued his speech. The other guests resumed their seats, though those near the fairy table still watched its occupants with wary eyes.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Xyhille. “So what have you been doing with yourself all these centuries?”

  “Making and selling spinning wheels,” replied Hanar. “Mundane and magical—I have all sorts. In fact, I was thinking of gifting the young princess with one that spins straw into gold. But I think not. Those have been known to cause all sorts of jealousies. And besides, gold makes mortals act strangely.”

  Xyhille snorted. “You couldn’t make a spinning wheel like that if your life depended on it,” she said, as a servant picked up her plate and piled it high with berries and greens from a large bowl, then set it down in front of her. “Dwarves are so unmagical.”

  “All right, so I got Zelhandra to enchant them for me,” said Hanar, extending his cup toward another servant for a refill. “I have to admit that my own gold-spinning ability is a tad unreliable.”