by Daniel Fox
Willuna, trying to press her way through the crowd, realized that this was true. Because where the farmer had been walking, she had been walking too. Would the farmer have been chased by those horrible clown creatures if it hadn't been for her? Would the Miser have learned about the farmer's sack of coins? She stood on her tiptoes and saw that the militia men were slipping a hangman's noose around the farmer's neck. She couldn't let the farmer die because of his association with her. She stopped, wondering what Anisim would do in this situation, but she realized that was no help. She couldn't swing a sword like Anisim, or shoot a bow, and where was she going to get a hundred horses for a proper charge on such short notice? It didn't matter what Anisim would do - the real question was, what would Willuna do?
Well, she could undoubtedly use her beauty to enchant the men of the militia. They were all frightened and angry of course, but she was confident her radiant looks could win them over. But there just wasn't time. She'd never make it through the crowd in time to display herself before they kicked the stool out from under the farmer's big clumsy feet.
Luckily she wasn't just a fantastic beauty, she was also a master of disguise. Nobody had recognized her as royalty in the market when she had first seen the Miser, and that was proof enough of her credentials for her. She cupped her hands around her mouth, and disguising her voice, called out, "Oy! Don't he get a final wish? Only proper like and whatnot!"
The Miser thought for the smallest of moments, and then said, "No."
But Willuna had found allies in the audience. A familiar woman with a familiar young girl called out, "Just one last wish!"
Willuna could see the Miser eyeing the crowd. The idea was finding kindling in amongst the town-folk, catching fire as more of the good people caught up with the idea. It burst into flame when the little girl, the very same one who had nearly drowned, was ushered forward by her mother.
"Pwease," she said, her great big eyes puppyish, her little lower lip pushed out and trembling, "Oh pwease mister, pwease?"
"Awwwwww," went the town-folk.
"Ick," went the Miser.
"How can anyone say no to a face like that?" said the leader of the militia.
The Miser leaned down from the edge of the gallows, making the whole platform rumble and squeak, and stuck his face right up close to the girl. "No," he said. "Nooooooo. No and no and no again. No!" He turned back to the men of the militia. "See? It's easy."
But now there were rumblings in the crowd, glances exchanged between the members of the militia. It wasn't their way to just up and hang somebody lickety-split. And to do so just like that, with no last words, no last meal, no final wish? Well that was just downright rude. And wasn't this scarecrow of a man the very same fellow that was constantly accusing this merchant of having his thumb on the scale, or that shopkeeper of selling him rotten apples but only after he had eaten them all up?
The militia leader had had enough. He turned to the farmer and said, "Right then you, what'll it be?"
"I suppose going free is out of the question?"
The militia leader scratched his head and winced. "I'm afraid so," he said, "we all saw those… those things come scampering right for you. Can't have you spreading evil about like butter over bread."
"Well…"
Willuna called out, "How about leaving these good people with a gift?"
The farmer brightened, as much as a fellow with a noose about his neck can manage such a feat anyway. "Yes, good idea," he said. "I wish for all of us, be they man, woman, dwarf or goblin, to live together in peace and-"
"A different kind of gift, a gift of…"
The farmer frowned and shook his head. "Sorry, I'm not-"
"The gift of muuuuu…" said Willuna, urging him on.
"Nope," said the farmer, still not getting it, "I'm not-"
"Play your fricken' fiddle you idiot!" yelled Willuna, then she clapped a hand over her mouth because that is not at all the way proper young princesses talk.
But at least her harsh language had served its purpose. "Yes!" said the farmer. "Absolutely, yes!"
"Absolutely no!" cried the Miser. But he was ignored. As the Miser scurried around the gallows, flapping his hands at the militia and at the crowd the farmer's hands were untied and his bow and fiddle were placed in his hands. The Miser finally cornered the militia leader on the corner of the gallows' platform and insisted on having a word.
But the farmer told him, "No more words," and began to play.
Right feet kicked high, left feet shuffled around. Arms were flung up and heads began to bob. Everyone, everywhere in sight danced like it was the celebration all over again. Town-folk laughed, the Miser screeched, and the leader of the militia said, "Quite good, isn't he?"
And while they danced and jumped and jigged Willuna ran up on the gallows and slipped the noose from around the farmer's neck. She picked up his bow and arrow and together, laughing, they hurried from the town, the farmer playing them all the way out.
This was how Princess Willuna learned that she cared (a begrudging, teeny tiny bit) about whether the farmer, stupid nuisance that he was, lived or died.
***
The moon laced the little tufts of grass clinging to the mountainsides, as if to give them armour against the dark and angry waves of fury that lapped invisibly out from the castle. Big dark clouds hung across the sky, bloated and the colour of corpses. There were no sounds, nothing dared. Even the wind refrained from whistling its way through the sharp mountain tops and valleys.
Inside the castle, in its deepest darkest parts, Bodolomous' laboratory was alive with beakers bubbling, smoke rolling in sickly green furls, and jesters scurrying scurrying scurrying. They'd been sent out further, cast their dead nets wider, emptied a dozen graveyards and then gone back out for more.
In the middle of it all, in a large space cleared on the floor, Bodolomous kneeled, sewing threads as thick as a child's wrist. With each stitch his hate boiled a little hotter, cooking away the man who had just wanted some applause, leaving behind a monster who wanted everything else.
"No more finery!" he shouted, and the jesters wavered in his fury, "No more finesse! Bring me more bodies, bring me them all!"
He'd been treating this like a game. But a game was something that anybody could win. A game was something a nothing, nobody farmer could win.
Bodolomous wanted something that only he could win. Something where he could ensure that the odds were in his favour. He wanted the whole world to see his fist raised in victory at the end. Bodolomous wanted a war.
As the jesters leapt away to do their master's bidding he cried out after them, "And find me the farmer!"
This was how Bodolomous came to realize he had never before truly known the meaning of the word hate.
Chapter 15
The village was a thing of beauty; except of course that it wasn't beautiful, it was stupendously plain. The houses and stores and dirt roads and the people, the wonderfully beautifully plain people were all solid and normal and doing nothing more than going about their daily business. The celebration's banner had been taken down from across the street, and the stalls had been whisked away. Idwal the farmer was home.
A happy skip kept threatening to introduce itself into Idwal's step, but he did his level best to keep it out. "Prepare yourself," he said to Willuna, "for good solid food, good solid work, and good solid folk. All of our elders are veterans of your father's army. After the wars they wanted a place of absolute peace…"
The princess shuffled on, looking at her feet and not really taking in anything of what was around her. She'd been happy for a bit after rescuing him, but she'd quickly returned to her depression as they'd gotten further away from Owltown. Idwal supposed he could understand; she'd had her heart set on King Anisim her whole life, but that life had been stripped away. He didn't know exactly what had happened between her and the wizard in that room in the inn, but he felt a warm glow whenever he imagined being given the chance to give the magician an
even more thorough thrashing. Idwal had to admit he was bothered by her sadness… even if she was something of a spoiled vain twit.
"I'm sorry I couldn't catch the magician for you," he said.
The princess looked up and gave him a small, albeit sad, smile. It raised Idwal's heart a little. "At least you had the courage to try," she replied.
And then Gretal was there, rushing at him, and Idwal almost forgot about the princess. Almost. He opened his arms for a welcoming hug, but Gretal stopped short and took his face in her hands. She turned his head this way, then that, peering up with shrewd examining eyes. "You've changed," she said.
"Oh, not really. It's so good to see you again. You were always in my thoughts, even in my darkest-"
"Is that poetry?" Gretal frowned. "That sounds suspiciously like poetry."
"Poetry? Me? Of course not. I hope that you've been able to go ahead with our wedding plans."
"I have," said Gretal, finally satisfied with her examination.
"I knew I could count on you."
The blessed normality of the moment was broken as a clump of merchants, who clearly should have been at work at that particular point in the day, hurried past. They were followed by another group, store merchants, who had their heads together, muttering.
"What's going on?"
"One of my plans," said Gretal. "Soon you'll be all settled and you'll never fear another adventure again. It's good to have you back." She gave him a smile and then was off, following the crowds.
Idwal turned back to the princess, blushing from the public display of affection. Gretal was no kissing-booth Becky, but that bit about holding his face in her hands had felt rather intimate.
"That can't be your fiancée," said the princess.
"Why not?" said Idwal. "Are you forbidding me? I mean, I know you're the, " he looked around, leaned in close to whisper, "the queen now and all, but I really don't think you're allowed to forbid-"
"I'm not forbidding. I'm telling you as your… your friend."
"I don't understand."
"You don't love her."
"I don't… I'm sorry, but what? I mean, she's…"
"She's what?"
"She's the maiden of my heart's desire. She's plain-spoken and solid and secure and…"
"It sounds like you're describing a house. Where's the love? Where's the affection? Listen to me farmer, Idwal, I know a thing or two about love."
"Here we go with Anisim again!"
"Yes, that's right, and that's King Anisim to you. I'm a princess, and I was raised to be married. Marriage is all I am. And when I think of Anisim I think of his cool head, his dedication, his discipline-"
"Now who's forgetting love? You weren't describing a husband, you were describing a horse."
"You're not in love with Gretal, you just want the girl who most resembles this village of yours."
"How dare… If you weren't my queen-"
"Oh go ahead, say it!"
"I'm not in love? You're not in love. You don't want to be a wife, you want to be a queen!"
"Oh really?"
"Yes! Really!"
"Well lucky me, I guess I got what I wanted after all! And I only had to have my daddy killed to get it! I wonder why I ever waited so long!"
Idwal's anger dropped away. He blinked, then looked around to see if anyone had been watching. A pair of farmers and their families walked by, but they didn't seem to have heard the argument. They gave Willuna's odd dress a glance, then hurried off down the street in the direction everyone else had gone. "I'm sorry," he said, "I wasn't thinking. Really-"
Another family passed, all heads turning to appraise the princess.
"What is everyone looking at?" she said.
"Come on." Idwal took her hand and led her into one of the shops nearby.
"What is this?" asked the princess, looking around.
"What is… It's a dress shop. How could you, of all people, not know what a dress shop is?"
The princess looked around at the dresses on wooden forms, the rolls of fabric. "But why do you need a store? People come and make them for you, everyone knows that."
"Just… just look around. Find something plain."
As the princess looked around it was clear on her face that she didn't expect to find anything else. She gravitated, naturally, toward the fanciest of the gowns, which while plain to her was what passed for an extravagant wedding gown in the village. "No," said Idwal.
So of course the princess' finely tuned senses instantly directed her to the second most extrava-
"No," said Idwal again.
The princess stomped her little foot, getting really quite frustrated. Idwal snatched up the nearest, simplest dress he could find, a modest and satisfactorily plain thing made of a pale pink fabric, completely devoid of any and all decorations. He shoved it into the princess' arms and, taking her by the shoulders, steered her into the dressing room that stood in the back of the shop.
The princess protested the whole way, it was too plain, it was beneath her, she was pretty sure it wasn't even finished - where was the lacework? The scrolling stitchery? Had she ever mentioned how much she hated him?
Idwal shut the door in her face. He turned, wiped at his face, and found the dressmaker seated on her stool, smiling up at him.
"Ah," said the dressmaker, "young love".
"Ha!" said Idwal, and gave the door a kick. He could almost feel the princess sticking out her tongue in return. He paced, wandering the floor, seeing nothing. Young love? Ridiculous. He did his best to ignore the dressmaker's knowing smile as he shuffled. Nobody could love that spoiled, wilful, ignorant brat. Yes, okay, she'd had a rough time of it. And it was true, fine, that she had probably saved his life from that mob. But still, the dressmaker was miles off, he was engaged to the maiden of his dreams, Gretal, the best girl in the village, and that was that. Story over. End of debate. Right?
There was a flicker off to his left. He turned, looking, not very interested, but happy to be distracted from his thoughts. There was nothing over there but a standing mirror. He walked to it, gave the polished metal a tap. He looked back over his shoulder to see what might have caused the reflection. Behind him dresses stood on stands, pale green, grey, beige… but he could have sworn the movement had been of something black.
Another swirl of black from the next mirror over, smaller, standing on a table. He moved to it, looked in. Nothing.
And again, a twist of blackness, this time from a hand-mirror lying on a stool. He looked over to the dressmaker sewing away in the corner, she had apparently seen nothing (except young love where it clearly was not).
There it was again. Idwal crept up to the hand-mirror, careful as a mouse in a house full of cats. He peered down, and saw the wizard looking right back up at him.
Idwal looked up in the direction of the dressing room. The wizard looked up in the direction of the dressing room. They looked back at each other. Idwal raced to the back of the shop, the wizard sprinting from mirror to mirror beside him. Idwal snatched up a bolt of cloth and rushed into the dressing room, stretching the cloth in front of him to hide the princess.
"You're always trying to see me naked!" She pounded on his chest through the cloth.
Idwal looked back over his shoulder. There was a small mirror hanging on the wall of the dressing room. The wizard glared out from it, looking really very angry. He ran a thumb across his throat and pointed it at Idwal - a promise of death for when they next met. The wizard stepped backwards and vanished, the mirror becoming just a mirror once again.
The dressmaker poked her head into the room. "Alright in here?" she asked.
"Fine," said Idwal.
"It's just I don't go for the shenanigans in here, this is a proper establishment."
"There was a, um, bug, that's all. She hates bugs."
"Ah, a knight in shining armour to the rescue of his lady love eh? Carry on." Before Idwal could object the dressmaker had retreated.
"Are you dece
nt?" Idwal asked over his shoulder.
"Yes," said the princess.
He turned and got a slap right across his face.
"Anisim is going to kill you."
"I'm afraid there's a bit of a line forming for that."
The princess shoved him aside. She looked at herself in the mirror, turned this way, then that. "I look… plain!" she wailed.
Not that he would ever admit it, but Idwal didn't quite agree. In fact, if pressed on the matter, he'd have to say that he thought she looked quite charming. Without all the foofaraw and decorations that she usually carried around, there was only the princess left in that simple dress, and that was more than enough.
He caught himself looking at her in the mirror. And by her expression he knew that she had noticed him noticing her too. Embarrassed and blushing, all this looking back and forth in the mirror was still a far sight better than what had been in the glass moments before.
Idwal gently moved the princess aside and stepped closer to the polished metal. His own face looked back at him. "The wizard," he said. "I know how he gets around."
This was how Idwal realized that even though he found the princess to be quite possibly the most annoying creature in all the human kingdoms, he seemed to always be rushing to her aid.
Not that he would ever admit it.
***
The farmer had bought Willuna the dress using some of the coins her father had given him. That was nice of him, she supposed, though she would have much preferred one of those other fancier options. So he had bought her a dress, which was nice, but had only done it because her old dress was too "conspicuous", whatever that meant, and that wasn't very nice. And then he had just come barging in while she was getting changed, which wasn't nice at all; unless the magician really had been in the mirrors like the farmer said, which meant that the farmer had done something really nice by trying to protect her again.
This was all getting pretty confusing. And not at all the way things were supposed to go. Knights were supposed to protect her, and lords, and kings, not peasants. So why did she feel all warm inside at the thought that this stupid country boy was willing to stand between her and danger?