How to Rescue a Dead Princess

by Jeff Strand

  "Let's circulate another petition," said a second one.

  Randall and Sir William reached the entrance to the mausoleum, ducking underneath the outstretched arms of one of the flesh-eaters. "Should we knock?" Randall asked.

  "That might alert her to our presence," said Sir William. "I think we should just burst in. Prepare yourself. I'll kick the door open on the count of...uh, one."

  "Oh, great," muttered Randall. "This bag's been leaking." He pointed to a trail of ashes that led through the graveyard over to the Realm of Mystery. "You think those are important parts?"

  "We haven't got time to sweep it up," said Sir William. "Let's just burst in, and worry about that later. Ready? ONE!"

  He kicked the door open. Had he known that the door swung out rather than in, the pain would have been significantly reduced. Both of them leapt into the mausoleum, then cringed at the ghastly sight that burned its way into their eyes.

  The witch Grysh was bathing. Water poured down upon her from out of nowhere, and vanished as it hit the floor. The sight of the water on its own would have been rather impressive, but adding the witch to the visual stew turned it into pure horror. She was not a pretty lady, and on this occasion was having a particularly bad face day. Her eyes were crossed, a sight made worse by the fact that they dangled from their sockets. Her skin looked like it was about eight sizes too large. She had more body hair than seemed appropriate for a woman of any age. Her breasts were in serious danger of tripping her.

  She snapped her fingers, and the water vanished. "I've been expecting you," she said. Her voice did not possess a musical lilt by any stretch of the imagination.

  "You...you have?" asked Randall.

  "You're Gaggles and Boo-Boo, right?"

  Sir William shook his head. "No, I am Sir William of Mosiman, and this is my squire, Randall. We wish to speak with you. If possible, we'd like to be out of here before Gaggles and Boo-Boo show up."

  "Speak, then," snarled Grysh.

  "Don't you want to get dressed first?" asked Sir William, hopefully.

  The witch snapped her fingers. A small scarf appeared, which she draped over her shoulders. "Now, speak."

  "We need your help," Sir William explained. "We were escorting Princess Janice to the Kingdom of Rainey, when there was kind of a...slip-up."

  Randall lifted the bag and shook it, rattling its contents.

  "She's all there," said Sir William, "aside from maybe a little trail we left through the cemetery, but she's sort of...uh..."

  "Dead?" asked Grysh.

  "Dead, yes, of course, but I think we can carry that adjective even further. She's, uh, very dead is, I guess, the best way to explain it."

  "Give me the sack," said Grysh, reaching out. The sack was yanked from Randall's hand by an invisible presence, and flew toward her, ripping apart in the process and spilling out the princess in a cloud of soot. "I see your problem," she said.

  She crouched down and began poking through the remnants. Sir William and Randall exchanged uneasy glances. "Can you help her?" Randall asked.

  "I think this counts as more than 'very' dead, don't you agree?"

  Sir William and Randall nodded.

  Grysh stroked the eight or nine hairs on her chin thoughtfully. She twirled one around her finger several times. "Let me call my slave. Demon Baby, you are needed!"

  A young man walked around the corner. He grimaced momentarily at the sight of Grysh from the rear, but quickly regained his composure and kneeled as she turned around to face him.

  "His name's Demon Baby?" asked Sir William.

  Grysh nodded. "After thirty hours of labor, his mother was in a lousy mood." She gestured to him. "Fetch my book-o-spells, volume three, second printing," she ordered.

  Demon Baby arose and left. Grysh looked at Sir William. "Tell me, knight, do you read much?"

  "Define much."

  "Ever."

  "No."

  "I see. So, I take it you've never heard of the fabled Necklace of Power?"

  Sir William shook his head. "Was it named by the same guy who called this the Forest of Death?"

  "The Necklace of Power is an ancient relic," said the witch. "I can return the dead to life, yes, but without this necklace, there's very little I can do for your princess, unless you don't mind returning her as a living pile of ashes."

  "That would be disappointing," said Sir William.

  Demon Baby returned, a large book tucked under his arm. He handed it to Grysh, and then took hold of her right arm with both hands and began twisting her skin back and forth, wringing out the excess water.

  "Let's see," said Grysh, thumbing through the pages. "Transforming your enemies into saliva...twelve ways to magically extend your tongue by a good four feet...starting Armageddon... putting cream in pastries without leaving tell-tale holes...here we go: raising the dead when there isn't much left of them."

  She glanced over the entry. "Oh, there are some definite problems here. In addition to the Necklace of Power, I'm going to need the breath of a sleeping maiden, the toenail of Jenstina the Ogre, and the legendary berserker Shreddriff himself."

  "But I don't know any more maidens," Sir William protested.

  Demon Baby began to wring out Grysh's right leg.

  "Okay, the maiden's breath will turn up," said Randall, "but Jenstina, Shreddriff, and the necklace...where exactly would we find them?"

  Grysh shrugged.

  "You have no idea?" asked Randall.

  "None. You're on your own. All I can tell is that the journey to locate them will be fraught with peril, just to keep it interesting." She tapped Demon Baby on the shoulder, then pointed to the princess clump. "Sweep that up, and put her in the back room with the others." Demon Baby nodded and went to get a broom.

  "I'd rather not leave her here, if it's all right," said Sir William.

  "It's not."

  "I see. Well, I'd like to thank you for your help. You certainly aren't the foul crone we were expecting."

  Grysh's expression darkened. "Ah, but I am. You don't think I'm helping you for free, do you?"

  "Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please don't ask for the wooden leg," begged Randall.

  "Do you find me attractive?" asked Grysh.

  Randall began to choke on the air in his mouth. "I hadn't really thought about it."

  "Did you know I can tie my breasts into a square knot?"

  "That didn't come up in the description I was given."

  "I'm a real animal when I want to be."

  "With the fur to prove it," mumbled Sir William.

  Grysh gestured, and Sir William suddenly flew up into the air, smacked his head against the ceiling a few times (almost, but not quite, in the "Shave and a Haircut" rhythm), then dropped to his original spot.

  "Sorry," he said. "And ouch."

  The witch returned her attention to Randall. She licked her lips, then cracked her knuckles. Then she cracked the joints in her arm. Then her shoulders. Then her neck. Then the spot where her nose would have been if she had one. She bent her knees, but that came out more of a creak than a crack.

  "I think we could enjoy each other's company," she told Randall.

  "That sounds...interesting. Almost fascinating. But, you know, I'm just a lowly squire, and I don't think Sir William would approve."

  "Go for it," said Sir William.

  Randall's heart felt like it was trying to beat its way out of his chest and onto the floor. "I'm a woefully inexperienced kisser," he said. "I'd probably miss your lips completely."

  "I don't have to look this way, you know," Grysh said. She snapped her fingers, and instantly transformed into a tall, leggy, astoundingly attractive redhead.

  Sir William cleared his throat. "I don't suppose there's any way I could tactfully put myself back into the equation after that fur comment?"

  "I wouldn't think so, no."

  "Just checking."

  "So, Randall," said G
rysh. "Care to join me in my Chamber of Looooooooooove?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Good." She looked over at Sir William. "Stay there." She considered for a moment, then snapped her fingers. A bright light surrounded Sir William for a moment, then faded.

  "You turned him to stone!" Randall gasped.

  "Plated with pewter. He won't be going anywhere. Too bad he had such a ridiculous expression on his face--otherwise I might've been able to get a good price for the statue. Follow me."

  Randall followed her around the corner into an area filled with all manner of books and reagents for spells. There were also cobwebs to add a touch of atmosphere. Demon Baby walked by, holding a broom and a new sack, and looked jealously at Randall.

  "In here," said the witch, opening a door disguised as a door-shaped stack of books with a doorknob protruding from them. She let Randall enter first, then shut the door behind them, casting them into complete darkness.

  "Be careful," she said. "Watch out for the floor spikes. And cobras."

  "I'll just stay put."

  A soft light without a visible source began to glow at the other end of the room, illuminating the bed. A very lumpy bed that seemed to be adorned with various torture devices.

  "Something's moving inside the pillows," Randall noted.

  "I like to keep the feathers as fresh as possible."

  She moved past him and sat down on the edge of the bed. She began to seductively massage her earlobes. "Come here," she purred.

  Randall sat down next to her. She gently placed her hand on his knee. "Ooooooh," she said. "That's a nice, firm kneecap you've got there."

  "Thank you."

  "Randall, sweetie, why don't you tell me a little about yourself?"

  "Well, I'm five-foot-six, twenty-two years old, brown hair, hazel eyes, and have my mother's chin."

  "Have you ever been in love?"

  "Occasionally."

  "Have you ever loved so deeply that you just walked around all day with a retarded grin on your face? Have you ever loved to such a great extent that the mere sight of them made your internal organs completely rearrange themselves?"

  "No," Randall admitted. "My love was more of a 'Hey, she's cute, too bad I annoy her,' kind of deal."

  Grysh stared off into space for a moment, then wiped a tear from her eye. "Have you ever loved somebody, and then lost them forever?"

  "There's going to be a revelation here, right?"

  "His name was Romeoo. A stable boy, not too bright, poor posture. But I loved him the way the King of McNaughton used to love pomegranates."

  "I remember the King of McNaughton," said Randall. "He was a few kingdoms away from us, but we kept hearing about his pomegranate obsession. Non-stop. Pomegranate, pomegranate, pomegranate. I mean, give it a rest, man!"

  "Our love was as far-reaching as the ocean, and just as wet. But, our families hated each other, for they were God-fearing, simple folk, and we were a coven of witches offering frequent sacrifices to the Dark One.

  "We wanted to run away together, but knew we'd be discovered--unless my family thought that I was dead. So I obtained a vial of liquid that put me into a death-like trance. The funeral was quite nice, I'm told. The food was delicious and plentiful, the eulogy grammatically correct. And so I was carried down into the morgue to await my betrothed. But, alas, he had not been told of my scheme."

  There was a long pause.

  "This is a good time to ask 'what happened then?'" said Grysh.

  "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you'd get to it on your own."

  "I was hoping you'd increase the dramatic tension."

  "My mistake. So, what happened then?"

  Grysh sniffled. "I can't bring myself to tell the story. But I shall show you."

  She gestured, and a white rectangular box materialized in mid-air. An image began to form upon it.

  "Behold the tale of doomed love..."

  Chapter 8

  A Slightly Shorter Chapter than the Previous One

  THE IMAGE on the block began to move:

  Grysh, in her non-hideous form, lay on a pedestal, in a death-like state. Romeoo, filled with big heaping gobs of pathos, stood over her.

  "How oft when men are at the point of death have they been merry, which their keepers call a lightning before death?" he asked. "O, how may I call this a lightning? O, Grysh, my wife...my darling...my love bunny...my passion slave...thou art not conquered. Beauty's ensign yet is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks and in thy knees."

  He thought about the situation for a moment. "You know, it almost seems as if you're in a pseudo-death brought about by drinking a very difficult to obtain, highly illegal and relatively expensive drug given to you by a religious figure that leaves you in a death-like state lasting for, say, two and forty hours after which you'll awaken, a little hung-over but otherwise all right to rejoin me so we can run away and buy that farmland we wanted. But that's silly."

  He sighed with so much drama that Randall felt his eyes begin to moisten.

  "Ah, dear Grysh, why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous, and the lean abhorred monster keeps thee here in dark to be his paramour?"

  Romeoo shrugged, then thought that over.

  "What the hell does that mean?" he asked himself, taking out a copy of Cliff's Notes and looking it up. Satisfied with the answer, he pocketed the book and returned his attention to Grysh. "Oh, Snookums, here, here will I remain with worms that are thy chambermaids."

  He brushed them off her.

  "Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! Navel, do whatever it is you do! And lips, O you, the doors of death, seal with a righteous kiss a dateless bargain to engrossing death!"

  He began to lean toward her, then paused about an inch from her lips. "Wait a second--that's sick, she's dead!"

  He stood up straight. "Now, with this poison..." he said, grabbing a bottle of booze, "...I shall join thee in thy grave."

  He drank it and grimaced. "Ugh, the fluid that would bring us together for eternal love doth taste like crap. Thy drugs are quick. With this, I die."

  He waited a moment. Nothing happened. He tapped his stomach, then glanced around the tomb while he waited. Checked his fingernails for dirt. Sighed loudly. Then grimaced in great pain. After a second, the pain ceased.

  "Gas," he muttered. "Forget it, I'm in a hurry."

  He took out a meat cleaver. "O, happy meat cleaver. This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die!" He twirled it in the air several times like a professional chef, then stabbed himself. "Ooh--that's gonna leave a mark," he winced.

  Then he died. It was fairly graceful, as such deaths go, with only a minor bit of gurgling and choking distracting from the mood.

  The image faded, but the block remained, casting a dim light upon Randall and Grysh.

  "Bummer," said Randall.

  "Truly. I revived him, but his anger ran deep, and he left, never to be seen again. Well, not by me, at least."

  "Bummer number two."

  "That is what love means to me," she said. "Loss. Sorrow. Misery. Oh, if only somebody were to find my dear Romeoo and return him to me!"

  Four shadows darted across the wall.

  "But," Grysh sighed, "that's probably not going to happen."

  "Probably not," Randall agreed.

  "So I have to concentrate on physical pleasure instead of love. But I'm still enough into love that I feel we should look beyond surface beauty."

  She snapped her fingers, transforming back into the wretched creature. Randall gagged.

  "Ready?" she asked.

  "Uh...could we go back to that darkness motif?"

  The block of light vanished.

  "And is it possible to temporarily get rid of my other four senses?"

  "You should be more open to new experiences," Grysh scolded. "Am I that repulsive?"

  "No, no," Randall lied. "It's just that, well, I'm too excited, and if something isn't done to numb my senses I'll probably burst
into a fit of unrestrained giddiness that won't be pleasant to watch."

  "Kiss me," said Grysh.

  "You mean now or sometime in the future?"

  "Now."

  "Where?"

  "Here."

  "There already?"

  "It's my hand."

  "Interesting hand."

  "Kiss it."

  "I will."

  "Now."

  "I will."

  "I don't feel it being kissed."

  "Figured I'd practice on my own hand a few times first."

  The witch cursed ("fiddlesticks") and illuminated the room. Randall's stomach twitched a bit as he saw that there were at least ten men chained to the walls.

  "Who are they?" he gasped.

  "My previous love slaves."

  "Any special reason they're chained to the wall?"

  "Purely decorative."

  The men were all giving Randall dirty looks, which he felt rather insensitive considering that he was the one currently getting the worst of the situation. He gave them a light wave. "Hi. How's it going?"

  "They won't answer you," Grysh told him. "They're giving me the silent treatment. They think it bugs me."

  "Does it?"

  All of the chained men began to nod.

  "Liars!" Grysh shouted. "You think something like the silent treatment can bother a witch of my power? I laugh at your feeble attempt! Ha! Ha again! I laugh in your collective faces!"

  The men said nothing.

  "I'm still laughing in your faces," Grysh insisted. "Doesn't bother me a bit that you won't talk. Not a bit. You hear me? Your little stunt isn't working. So you might as well quit it and start talking."

  The men remained silent.

  "I'm gonna kill them," said Grysh, reaching underneath the pillow and taking out a wicked-looking knife with a twelve-inch bloodstained blade and flower designs on the handle.

  "No!" said Randall. "I mean, it's very hard for me to stay romantic after multiple murder. Last time that happened--poof!--my lips wouldn't pucker for hours."

  Then, proving that mercy can be granted, there was a knock at the door. "Hate to interrupt," Demon Baby said through the wood, "but we have a serious problem out here."

  "How serious?" Grysh asked, thoroughly annoyed.