by Jane Yolen
“Of course I can read. I’m apprenticed to a midwife.” She stood, hands on hips, and glared at him.
“Midwives can read?” He sounded even more astonished.
She looked at him with the same withering glance he’d given her. “Would you put your darling in the hands of someone who couldn’t read the script on a pothecary bottle, leading her to mistake a sleeping potion for, say, arum?”
“I . . . I . . .”
It was the first time she’d actually shut him up and it made her grin. She didn’t bother to hide her delight.
He squared his shoulders and tried to look princely. Instead, she thought it made him look like a small boy caught pinching butter from the churn.
“So do you know where we are?” She gave him a smile, trying for innocence and hitting instead on sass. “Or where we are going?”
“I told you these lands tend to move around a bit.” Now he was getting testy.
She sat down, crossed her legs, and looked up at him.
“What are you doing?”
“If the land moves, then perhaps we shouldn’t.” She held her hands palms up, in mock resignation.
They were in a small clearing facing three paths. The middle one headed deeper into the woods, the left one veered off sharply, the right lazed in a twisty kind of way. Not only was Snail certain they’d been here before, she was also pretty sure they’d taken a different path out each time.
Aspen caught her looking at the paths and said, “You choose one.”
“Bad idea,” she said without hesitation.
He plopped down next to her. “Then what do you propose?”
“I told you: if the land moves, then perhaps we . . .”
This time, he glared at her and said angrily, “I heard you, but that makes no sense, ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t.’ Should not what?”
She pointed. “Watch what’s happening.”
Reluctantly, he looked where she was pointing and his jaw dropped.
The land before them was subtly shifting. As if it was a map writ in water, it moved and changed with a slow, unseen tide.
“How did you know . . . ?” he said, practically in a whisper.
“I didn’t. But I guessed.” She grinned. “It was a good guess, don’t you think?”
He stared at the slowly moving landscape. “Knowing doesn’t solve our problem.”
She smiled, still staring at the shifting land. “Midwives say, Do not go to the baby, let the baby come to you.”
“Speak plainly!” he said. “You are as bad as the Sticksman.”
“Let the land show us where to go,” she said. And even as she spoke, the land slowed its shifting, and the left-hand path stopped directly before them.
She turned and grinned. “See?”
“Do we dare trust it?”
She shrugged. “Do we have a choice?” Then she stood and reached out a hand.
Reluctantly, he took her hand and she pulled him up beside her. Then she put her other hand in the small of his back and pushed him forward.
“After you, Serenity. I know my place.” She didn’t even try to hide the fact that she was making fun of him.
He pulled his sword from the sheath and stepped on to the path.
Despite her name, Snail kept pace behind him. Indeed, she didn’t dare let him out of her sight.
The first time the path veered sharply left, and steeply downhill, the prince’s shoulders went up, and he look angrily over at the gentler slope to the right.
Snail grabbed at his arm before he could step off the path, and whispered, “Think of it as a dance, Serenity. Let the path lead.”
“I do the leading in a dance,” he told her snippily.
She laughed out loud. “I’m sure that in the toffs’ grand balls, the men always lead. But in the apprentice dances, anyone who wants to can.”
“And chaos ensues,” he said sharply.
“Chaos was what we had when we were first in the woods,” she reminded him. “When we were going in circles.”
He thought a minute, and without actually agreeing out loud, relaxed his shoulders, and let the path take them where it would.
* * *
FOR A LONG TIME it felt as if they were simply wandering with no apparent destination. By early evening, with no end in sight, the prince was beginning to get nervous. Snail could tell by the way he shifted his grip on his sword, sometimes sheathing it entirely and then, as quickly, unsheathing it and holding it before him.
“We have to find a stopping place,” he said. “Gather wood, make a fire, sleep somewhere safe.”
“And eat,” Snail said, all at once aware of how empty her stomach was. It felt as if she hadn’t eaten in days. And then she realized—she actually hadn’t eaten for quite some time, not since they’d been in the castle and before she was up in the birthing tower. Which had to have been at least a day and a half ago, if not longer.
“And eat,” he agreed.
Just as they both came to that agreement, there was a sudden strange sound, as if something was slowly grinding to a halt. They both jerked forward, then stopped walking.
Snail sighed. She suddenly understood that she was not only hungry, she was exhausted as well. The march through the Hunting Grounds and Shifting Lands must have taken longer than she realized.
“I smell something,” the prince said, sniffing like a boggart on the hunt.
“What do you . . .” and then she smelt it, too.
Someone close by was cooking cabbage soup.
She spun around but saw no lights, nothing to indicate where the smell was coming from: no campfire, no house, no inn, no castle, no . . .
“Look,” the prince said, pointing.
Snail looked through the gloaming, squinting hard to follow his finger.
And there, through the trees, was a dark, round . . . something.
“A cave?” she said. “Bad idea.”
“I think it’s a good idea,” he said. “It will be warm, keep us safe, and—”
“This place is called the Hunting Grounds, my lord,” she said, as if speaking to a child. “Nothing good will live in a cave.”
“Someone cooking dinner lives there,” he told her.
“What if that someone who lives there is anticipating dinner to walk into his pot?” she asked.
“You do not know that.”
“You don’t know otherwise.”
His stomach growled.
Her stomach growled.
And with that, their fate was decided.
Aspen in the Cook’s Cave
The cave entrance was partially concealed by vines and brambles, and Aspen realized how lucky they were to have spotted it.
If we hadn’t looked up at just the right time, we would have walked right past it, he thought, even though we could smell it. He wondered idly if the cave had been under some kind of hiding spell. Or if they both had been blinded by hunger and fear.
“It smells like roasted nuts and honey!” He hadn’t had roasted nuts and honey since before he had been a hostage. He could barely remember what they tasted like. But he remembered the smell.
“No it doesn’t,” Snail said, sniffing the air with a dreamy look on her face. “It smells like cabbage soup. Lovely cabbage soup.”
The cave was right before them now, and Aspen had his sword out to push the bushes aside so they could enter.
“No one likes cabbage soup,” he told her, but laughed when he said it so she wouldn’t take offense. There was no reason for either one of them to be angry when they soon would have such a wonderful meal.
And Aspen was sooooo hungry. He couldn’t remember being this hungry since . . . well, since ever.
He stepped into the cave first and was surprised and greatly disappointed when he didn’t immediately se
e a fire or a pan filled with roasting nuts and a pot full of honey nearby.
Checking around in the grey light, he saw that there were a few uncomfortable-looking rough wooden chairs, a table with a broken leg leaning against a wall, a great number of hooks hanging from the ceiling, and one very large, very fat, incredibly ugly troll. Its head scraped the rough stone ceiling, and its eyes were asquint. Two tusks stuck out of either side of its massive jaw. A piece of material covered most of its massive body, but there were holes in various places. Enough, he thought in a befuddled way, to throw a drow through.
However, “Uh . . .” was all he managed to say before the troll pulled back a fist the size of a full-grown pig’s head and punched him on the temple. The world went black and he crumpled to the floor.
* * *
JUDGING BY HOW MUCH his head throbbed, Aspen didn’t think too much time had passed before he regained his senses. But what time had passed had been enough for him to be gagged and tied into one of the oversized chairs. He heard a low moan from his right and turned to see Snail similarly trussed up and coming slowly awake.
Oh, what a fool I’ve been, he thought. Of course, the food smells were an enchantment. He couldn’t have expected Snail to know that. But surely he should have.
He wondered if he had grown so used to life in King Obs’s castle, with its ward spells against Seelie magic, countermagic that had been layered on for millennia, that he had practically forgotten he had any magic at all. He shook his head—which made his headache all the worse. And now here he and the young woman he should have been protecting had been brought down, sacked, battered, bagged, and captured by that lowest of enchantments—hedge magic. Cast by a troll no less!
He hoped he’d live long enough to be embarrassed.
I should have known when Snail and I smelled different meals. I should have listened when she warned about going into the cave. I should have . . . He knew he was not finished shoulding on himself.
He realized that a squirrel coming into the cave would smell an acorn; a rabbit would smell a carrot; a fox, a hen. He had smelled a favorite meal from his childhood. And Snail, no more than a peasant, really, had smelled cabbage soup.
But seriously, he told himself, no one actually likes cabbage soup.
If he had had his wits about him then, he could have dispelled the glamour easily. But now, with his hands tied and his mouth gagged, there was very little he could do.
Except get eaten.
There was a scuffling behind him and then the troll came into view. It was truly, truly fat, its belly protruding far in front of it, pushing the stained cloth it was wearing to the limits of the fabric. He realized it was not just a cloth. It was an apron. There was an embroidered motto on the front he had not noticed before. FEED THE TROLL.
Honestly, he thought, who knew trolls could write? Or that they had a sense of humor.
The troll’s belly stuck out farther than its giant nose, which was now sniffing Aspen from trussed-up head to trembling toes.
“Which first?” rumbled the troll, licking its surprisingly thin lips with a gargantuan tongue. “The sweet, sweet sugar of Seelie Serenity, or the earthy dough of the Fee Fi Foe?” The troll sniffed at Snail before wiping its nose on its apron, which only added to the many stains already there.
At that point, the troll wrinkled its nose as if it had just smelled something it did not like. “The Fee Fi Foe, I think,” it said, rubbing its imposing stomach. “The time’s coming soon and I need the sustenance. Ohhhhhh!” Grimacing, it pressed a gigantic hand to its belly.
I think it’s in pain, Aspen thought, a tiny bit of hope growing in his chest like the first thrust of a curled fern in the spring.
The troll stumbled to the far wall where a number of knives and cleavers were hanging. Grabbing the nearest one, it spun back around, its face now clearly showing great pain. By the way it was clutching its belly, the pain was in there somewhere.
May you fall down and die, Aspen thought. May you expire in great pain. May the little hobs eat your innards and crows peck out your eyes.
He was really getting into the silent curse, which was just as well because mostly he was in a panic and struggling against his bonds. But the rope was strong and the troll’s knots held, and he could only watch terrified as the clearly agonized troll stumbled toward Snail, holding its belly gingerly with one hand and a knife almost as big as the girl in the other.
“Snail!” Aspen shouted, only it came out as “Fffffaaaaiiih” because of the filthy cloth stuffed in his mouth.
Snail was fully awake now and was looking at the troll strangely as it approached. She must have been afraid, of course, but mostly she looked . . .
Concerned?
Aspen had no time to interpret that look, because he knew she was about to be butchered. Even in the grey light of the cave, the knife gleamed. And the knife wasn’t just large, it was huge.
I have to do something! Aspen thought.
But struggle as hard as he might there was nothing he could do except watch as the troll stumbled up to Snail, drew back its knife . . .
. . . and collapsed in a heap onto the cave floor.
“Mrrrph?”
“Hurry,” Snail said.
Aspen looked over at her again. Somehow, she had worked the gag out of her mouth.
“We’ve got to get out of these ropes!”
“Mrmm, mrmm,” Aspen agreed. He still could not free himself. But the knife had fallen from the troll’s hand and was right there in front of him. And if he rocked his chair . . .
It took longer than he had hoped—nine or maybe ten seconds that seemed like an eternity—but he finally managed to rock the chair up onto two legs and then over sideways.
“Owrrrmph!” he grunted as the fall and abrupt stop reminded his head to start pounding again. Ignoring the pain, he wiggled like a one-legged salamander and managed to maneuver himself so his hands were near the knife.
“Yes,” Snail said, “just a little more to the left . . . and . . . yes!”
Despite moving only a few feet, Aspen was exhausted by the effort. But he had the knife! It was actually more the size of a Border Lord’s great sword, but with his long fingers, he was able to turn it till he had the sharpest edge against the rope. He used his body more than his hands to set up a sawing motion, praying the whole time that the rope would part before the troll woke, or before he sliced off a part of his anatomy. Simultaneously he gave thanks to the green gods for how sharp the troll had kept its knife.
Moments later, the ropes gave way and his hands were free. He cut the rest of his ropes away, and snatching the gag from his mouth—dirty, foul thing!—he turned to the troll. Raising the knife high over his head, he aimed a huge killing stroke at the base of its neck. He knew that trolls were famous for their powers of self-healing, so he’d have to cast a fire spell to seal the troll’s death immediately after the deed was done.
“Stop!” Snail shouted at him.
He froze, the giant knife getting heavy over his head. “Um, can it wait?”
“No,” Snail said. “We may have only minutes.”
“I think we’ll have plenty of time once I dispatch this big, ugly thing.”
“You can’t!”
Aspen looked over his shoulder at Snail, who was still tied into her chair. Then he looked pointedly at the knife. “You killed that carnivorous mer. I am reasonably certain that I can kill this thing.”
She shook her head. “I mean you mustn’t.” She frowned. “And it’s not a thing. It’s a she. And she’s pregnant.”
Aspen lowered the knife and looked down at the troll. If he had been a true Unseelie prince, he would have just slaughtered her as she lay there, pregnant or not. If he’d had a drop of Border Lord in him, he would have taken pleasure in each cut. But he was a Seelie prince, and a Seelie prince does not slaughter fema
les. Especially pregnant females.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“Absolutely positive,” she answered.
“Oh, nuts.”
The troll moaned and clutched her stomach with both hands.
Aspen leapt back, raising the knife. Since the troll did not move again, Aspen hurried over to Snail and quickly cut her free. He turned to leave, but Snail scampered over to the wall of knives and began examining them.
“Come, Snail!” he hissed. “We must be away now!”
“No, Serenity, we can’t. Er . . . mustn’t.” She seemed to find a knife to her liking, smaller than the rest and maybe cleaner, too.
“I will not kill the awful creature, Snail. That’s not what Seelie princes do. But remember—it tried to eat us! And if we do not leave soon, it may still succeed.”
Snail walked back with the knife and looked down at the troll. “If we leave her, she will certainly die.”
“Not our fault,” Aspen said.
“It would be mine,” she said.
“Why?”
“I’m a midwife’s apprentice, Your Serenity. I have taken an oath.”
“What oath?”
She put her hand over her heart. As she was holding the knife in that hand, Aspen could not help thinking it odd.
“I swear to help all creatures great and small to give birth in painless peace, by Mab’s good heart.”
He knew by the way she phrased it that it was a strong and unbreakable oath.
Snail pointed her knife down at the troll. “The baby’s clearly breached. See the head up there where it should be down here.”
There was a peculiar bump in the troll’s belly. It might have been a head. Or a foot. Or just a large bump. It might have been something undigested that the troll had eaten the day before. Aspen shook his head.
The troll wife moaned.
“If she doesn’t get help soon—very soon—she will die.” Snail looked up at Aspen and in the grey light of the cave, her bicolored eyes were unreadable. “And the baby, too.”
“Nuts,” Aspen said again. “Great roasted nuts.” Then he sighed. “What do you need me to do?”