Rapunzel: The One With All the Hair

by Wendy Mass

  So much for my great escape. At least I tried. If I can’t leave on my own, perhaps I can get someone’s attention. A hunter, or a knight, or a traveling merchant. I’d even settle for a wayward bandit. But how? I don’t dare scream — the witch would probably hear it before any rescuer did — and even if I still had candles left, they wouldn’t give off enough smoke to make smoke signals. Nor would my matches. I look around the small room for ideas and find myself turning in circles. So I keep turning. Faster and faster I whirl, my dress swirling around my legs, my head spinning. I do not stop twirling until I am so dizzy that I fall into a heap on the rug.

  Well, that was mildly entertaining. Not, you know, HUGELY, but somewhat. I wipe the sweat from my brow with my forearm and lie there panting. Perhaps spinning isn’t a very productive use of my time, but it took my mind off my situation by scrambling my brains for a few seconds. I shall have to try it again. I stand up and am about to begin again when an unfamiliar odor wafts by. It smells like … rotten eggs?? I had no breakfast, and the witch did not leave eggs last night, I am sure of it. I quickly get to my feet and search the room. No eggs anywhere, but I still smell them. Odd. Gradually it dawns on me that the smell is coming from me! From my ARMPITS!

  Mother always laid out my clothes each morn. Without her to do that, it hadn’t occurred to me to change out of my birthday dress. How pathetic am I! I need my mother to tell me when to change my clothes? For the first time, it truly sinks in that I am on my own here. Possibly forever. Sir Kitty has moved from the table to the window ledge. I hope she isn’t planning on trying that means of escape. Has she learned nothing from my failure? I pick her up and hug her close to my chest.

  I am sure no one will blame me if a few teardrops land on her head.

  While she purrs in my arms, I watch out the window as the birds swoop above the trees, darting in and out as though playing hide-and-seek with each other. They are so free and don’t even realize it. I didn’t realize how free I was until this happened to me. Perhaps no one does until it is taken away. After a few minutes of feeling sorry for myself, I take a deep breath, put the cat back on top of the little table, and head over to my trunk. I am NOT going to let this evil witch break me. She may be able to rob me of my family and my childhood, but she CANNOT make me smell!

  I pull out the five dresses I brought with me and choose my favorite. Mother bought me this dress for my first day of school last year. It was the first dress she ever purchased from a merchant at the market rather than sewing herself. It has blue ruffles on the collar and also at the ends of the short sleeves. The white skirt falls in pleats to just above my knees. I pull my birthday dress over my head and go to stuff it back in the trunk when I realize that it will just make everything else smell. The yellow stripes are now gray with the dust and dirt of the tower. But I have nothing to wash it with.

  I slip on the new dress, which smells nice and fresh like the lavender that Mother mixes with sheep’s fat and ashes to make her special soaps. Sometimes Father will leave his shirts outside in the wind to air them out; perhaps that would work for me, too. On the left side of the window are some iron hinges that must once have held a swinging windowpane. It takes me a few tries, but I finally manage to secure the dress to one of the hinges by wrapping the sash tightly around it. The rest of the dress is now hanging out the window, blowing in the breeze. The forest smells of pine and cedar, and I am pleased with my innovative solution. I am sure by tomorrow morning the dress will smell like new.

  I hear a little plop behind me and figure Sir Kitty has jumped off the table to the floor. But when I turn around, I see she is still lying on the table, cleaning her foot with her tongue. So what was the plop? I glance around and catch sight of an oval-shaped object sitting in the middle of the rug. I bend over it. It is an oil lamp made of copper and glass! And it is filled with oil! I bet there is enough oil in there to last for weeks. Is it possible that the witch is kinder than I thought? Why else would she leave this for me? I put it away, deciding to take it out only at night. For the first time since my arrival, I feel a tiny surge of hope, quickly followed by gratitude that she hadn’t arrived just a little bit earlier. She would have found me hanging from the window ledge!

  Elkin is back! I cannot believe it! His parents have determined he would get better training at becoming a “responsible adult worthy of marrying a princess” at our castle than their own. Mum says this is because there is no discipline at Elkin’s home and he was never taught things like:

  Boys his age do not pass gas at the table just to get a laugh out of the younger children present (meaning Annabelle and me). For the record, I do not actually laugh when Elkin passes gas; I gag and it comes out as a laugh. Annabelle, I cannot vouch for.

  Good grooming is important. It is not a joke to cut off all of one’s hair with the gardener’s shears before the eleventh birthday of your cousin (me again), thereby ruining the family portrait that the castle artisan had been painting all day.

  Do not disobey other people’s fathers (especially when they are the king) and lure younger cousins (again, me) into trouble by hiding behind couches.

  The list goes on. I can see Mum’s point. Elkin truly is rough around the edges. Mum has given me the choice to attend Elkin’s training classes. Or, I should say, she has made it appear that she is giving me the choice, when we all know full well that no such choice exists. What she doesn’t know is that I would have asked to participate even if I had not been invited. Now that I have learned of the fifty (50!!) other Benjamins looking up to me, I realize that I, too, would benefit from some studies in Future Kingness. Our lessons begin tomorrow. I have practiced holding out my hand so that Andrew can kiss my (imaginary) ring, but he did not appreciate the gesture and I think he is a bit miffed at me.

  I have thought of a way to escape! It is so obvious. All I have to do is pretend to be asleep when the witch comes with my next meal and watch how she is getting in and out. That’s even simpler than my old plan! Since I have had no food yet today, and she left none when she brought the oil lamp, I expect her arrival before nightfall. I am lying on my “bed” with my eyes mostly — but not totally — closed. Time is passing ridiculously slowly. My belly is grumbling. WHERE IS SHE?

  WHY IS MY HAIR GROWING SO FAST? What IS she putting in my food?? If I think too much about it, I shall surely go mad.

  What is that smell? Herrings? Warm bread? Surely I must be imagining it, because I did not close my eyes so there is no way the witch got by me. Then I hear a slurping sound. I quickly sit up to find Sir Kitty sipping from a bowl of goat’s milk on a tray next to BOILED HERRINGS AND STEAMING BLACK BREAD! I also notice that I have to squint to see the food because the sun has nearly set! I cannot BELIEVE I fell asleep! I am the worst spy ever!

  I hurry to the table and join Sir Kitty in our evening meal. How could the witch be so cruel to me when I see her and then be kind enough to leave a bowl of milk for the cat? There is more here than meets the eye. I am going to figure it out.

  After all, what else have I got to do?

  NEXT MORNING, 9TH OF AUGUSTUS

  I quickly fall asleep again, and wake to find the sunlight streaming in the window and the witch STANDING OVER MY BED waving my birthday dress in one hand and my fallen shoe in the other. Her face is purple with rage. This can’t be good. I scramble to my feet and instinctively back away. I guess this isn’t the best time to thank her for the lamp and the bowl of milk. She holds up the items and waves them at me.

  “Would you care to offer an explanation for why I found these in the bushes?” she asks through gritted teeth.

  I hurry to explain that the dress must have slipped from the window hinge as it was airing out. The shoe is harder to explain. “Er, I thought I saw a dragon last night and I threw my shoe at it?” Okay, so I’m not the world’s best liar.

  She stares into my eyes with her beady black ones, and I force myself not to look away. Father always says, if you’re going to lie, you have to commit to th
e lie.

  “Silly girl,” she hisses. “There are no dragons anymore.”

  “I did not think there were witches, either,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Do I need to board that window up?”

  “Please, no!” I beg, horrified at the thought of losing my one connection to the outside world. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

  “See that it does not,” she says, throwing my dress and shoe on top of my trunk. “I do not give second warnings. Now stand by the window and hold your cheeky tongue.”

  As I hurry to the window, I feel the weight of something in my pocket. My mirror! I must have stuck it in there last night. My mind races. Keeping my back slightly hunched, I slip my hand into my dress pocket and slowly lift out the mirror and hold it facing me at waist level. Then I tilt it so that I can look down at it and see behind me. If it is possible for a heart to explode by beating fast, surely mine would right now.

  It is working! I can see the “bed” and the table. But I do not see the witch. My heart sinks. Then I catch sight of something in the corner of the mirror and tilt it up a smidge more. I can just make out what looks like a rope being pulled into the ceiling! I tilt the mirror even more and see the rope disappear and a trapdoor soundlessly being pulled closed. THERE IS A TRAPDOOR IN THE CEILING! I can barely contain myself. I want to sing. To do a jig. To laugh and laugh. I have found my way out!

  Our lessons have begun, and Father is teaching. He claps his hands once, and a page appears at his side carrying two pillows with gold crowns on them. Father places the first crown on my head, and the other on Elkin’s.

  “We shall practice your regal bearing,” he says, standing back and sizing us up.

  Elkin and I stare at each other’s head. I haven’t worn a crown since I tried on one of Father’s when I was six, only to have it fall around my neck and land on my shoulders. It would have been funny if the tips of the crown hadn’t punctured my neck in four places. But this crown stays squarely atop my head. I really AM growing up! Or perhaps just my head is. Either way, I am pleased.

  “Back straight,” Father commands in that commanding voice of his. “Head forward, chin raised slightly. Arms at your sides.”

  I hear crickity-crack-pop as I straighten my back. Why didn’t anyone tell me I had such poor posture? I sound like an old man!

  “Now, a king must always be gracious and courteous. When somebody bows to you, or gives you a gift, or pays their taxes on time, you will want to acknowledge them. A king does not bow, but tilts his head and adds a little bob, like this.” Father tips his head forward and to the side, then adds a small bob, like he is nodding once at the person, but sideways. Elkin and I imitate him. Elkin is better at it. With my long neck, I look not unlike a chicken.

  “Gobble, gobble, gobble,” Elkin whispers, but not loud enough for Father to hear.

  Father instructs me not to bob quite so large, and to my further humiliation, I try too hard and strain a muscle in my neck. The muscle has completely seized up and I cannot turn my head to the left. Father sends for Mum, who wants to send for the doctor. I convince her to call for the royal masseuse instead. The doctor is way too quick with those leeches.

  It seems I have NOT found my way out. Just because I know the trapdoor exists, what made me think I could reach it? The ceiling is at least five times taller than I. Jumping up got me nowhere. Standing on the table did not help much, either. Standing on the chair on top of the table brought me about halfway, but that was all.

  All the activity has made my new dress smell and I have to change it. At this rate, I shall run out of clothes before the end of the week! I dare not hang this one out the window, and even after its night outside, my birthday dress still smells like Father’s old socks. It is a good thing I am too young to marry, for no one wants to marry a smelly girl. Or one locked in a tower, for that matter.

  To take my mind off the tantalizing yet out-of-reach trapdoor, I entertain myself (and I use that term loosely) by using the sooty ends of my old matchsticks to trace the pattern of the sun as it travels the length of my floor. Sir Kitty is down here with me, pouncing on the line as soon as I draw it. All day I am on my knees marking the shadow as it grows larger until finally the whole room is in shade. In my own special way, I am connecting with nature. Father would be proud. He always told me the reason he loves tending the garden is because he never feels closer to the source of life than while helping something grow. (Of course, now I know that what he was helping grow has brought my downfall!) After I am done with the floor, I move on to the wall. With my last two used matchsticks, I draw the outline of the cottage where, until this week, I had rested my head every night of my life. I draw the window that looks into Mother’s sewing room and add a wisp of smoke out the chimney. Fittingly enough, the ash on my last matchstick runs out as I am about to draw the garden where my abduction took place.

  I have decided to keep the mirror with me at all times so I can learn more about the door and rope system. With the mirror titled backward in my hand, I bide my time at the window. It is dusk now, and the forest has quieted. Even the ever-present blackbirds have gone to their nests for the night. Suddenly I realize there is a reflection in my mirror, and it is moving quickly! I watch, fascinated, as the witch shinnies down the rope, much faster than I ever imagined she could move. She reaches the ground and bends over to place a tray of food on the rug. That’s when I notice it:

  THIS IS NOT THE WITCH!!!

  I almost drop the mirror but manage to tighten my grasp just in time. Whoever this is, he is much smaller than the witch, with a bald head and pale green skin. GREEN SKIN! I am terrified to move a muscle, so I wait until the creature climbs back up the rope. He pulls it back up in the blink of an eye and shuts the door. All of this was in complete silence. My ragged breathing is the only thing I heard the whole time.

  I race over to the center of the room and stare up at the ceiling. My legs are shaking, so I sit down on the rug before I fall over. What WAS that? I finally collect my wits enough to look at the food. Meat pie, two hard-boiled eggs, one jellied pastry, a mug of cider, and another bowl of milk. This is my best meal yet! As I reach hungrily for the plate, my eyes land on a small white bag tied with a drawstring. I lift it up and it gives off a sweet scent. I undo the drawstring and peek inside. It is a ball of soap! Instead of lavender, though, it is scented with pine, just like the breeze outside.

  Suddenly it all makes sense. A fog clears like a veil being lifted and I can finally see. This creature has been bringing me the gifts. The bowls of milk, the oil lamp, and now the soap. The witch knows nothing about it! How can I let this creature know how much I appreciate his kindness? I hurry over to my trunk and pull out a piece of vellum, my quill, and the ink. In my neatest penmanship, I write:

  Dear Little Green Creature,

  Thank you well and truly for the milk and the lamp and the soap. I am deeply in your debt. I am certain this was a risk for you, and I am grateful. Please talk with me next time instead of leaving so hurriedly. I am desperate for company and should like to thank you in person.

  With much sincerity,

  Rapunzel, tower prisoner

  I fold the note in half and slip it under the plate. Then I dig into my meal with both hands. No need for manners here.

  I have almost fully recovered from yesterday’s lessons in regal bearing. I have had a neck rub from the royal masseuse, and the local apothecary ground some herbs into a salve that I rub on every hour. Even so, Mum is insisting that I stay in bed with warm linens wrapped around my neck. I’m sure Elkin would be teasing me relentlessly had Father not recruited him for more lessons. So now he is off with MY father learning all about castle politics, giving alms to the poor, and who KNOWS what else. It is simply not fair.

  Andrew peeks his head into my room and asks, “How is the patient?”

  I grunt in reply. He enters, holding a rolled-up parchment in one hand and an old book in the other. He places the book on the night table a
nd waves the parchment in his hand.

  “What’s that?” I ask, pushing myself up into a sitting position.

  “This, sire,” he says dramatically, “is your future!” With a flick of his wrist, he unfurls the yellowed sheet and spreads it out on the foot of my bed.

  I lean closer. “It looks like a map of the Great Forest.”

  “It IS a map of the Great Forest!” he exclaims. “And with it you shall find the bandits’ cave, marked by this X!” He thrusts his finger down onto a far corner of the map.

  I groan and lie back down again. “You’re still thinking about that crazy idea? Have you forgotten about the legendary troll that makes grown knights tremble?”

  “I knew you’d say that,” he said, reaching for the book on the night table. “So I came prepared with this.”

  “Why am I afraid to look?”

  He hands me the book and I see it is even older than I had first thought. The tooled leather that covers the oak covers is ripped in many places, and the stitching is falling apart as well. Even with my glasses on, I have to squint to read the faded gold-leaf title. Trolls: Inside and Out — A User’s Manual. I should have guessed.

  “No, thank you.” I hand the book back to him. “I don’t want to know about the insides of a troll.”

  He leaves me holding it. “Just give it a quick read. It tells you their weaknesses. You could learn enough to vanquish it and save the day for all the other Benjamins out there.”

  “They really could use the money,” I murmur, resting my palm on the book. “And I would like to prove I am worthy of being named after.”