My Name is Rapunzel

by K. C. Hilton

  “Make sure you do, Gretta.” Father pointed at her face. “I have your word and your promise.”

  “My word is my promise.”

  All this nice small talk made me sick to my stomach. I turned to face my enemy. “If you’re coming, you will sleep in the barn.” I jutted my chin forward in defiance. She didn't deserve to step one foot in my father's childhood home. Offering the use of the barn was a generous concession.

  “Rapunzel, darling.” Father lowered his voice to a tone one might use to coax a skittish cat from a tree. “She will live in the servant's quarters and has agreed to do the cooking and cleaning. She has promised to take care of you and protect you after I’m gone.”

  “No harm will come to you, my child. I promise.” Gretta smiled.

  “I'm not your child.” I might be forced to live with her and call her by name, but I didn’t have to befriend her. I narrowed my eyes to a glare. “Do not speak to me. Ever.”

  Father patted my hand again, “Rapunzel, you must try to get along with her. You don't know how long you will live. You might live to be 100 years old, if not older. You might not ever die.” Father's forehead creased with worry. “You may come to depend on each other.”

  That fear was no stranger to me. Father was suffering the weight of the same realizations I’d been faced with for decades already. How old was Gretta fifty years ago? How old was she now? Father was right. Against my better judgment, I must try to get along with her. She was my only hope to break this curse. I was stuck with her.

  I looked straight at Gretta and tried to remain calm. “Remember what I'm about to say, and don't you ever forget it,” I said, gritting my teeth. “The place where we are going is my family's home. My home. You will only dwell there and you will not tell me what to do.” If the curse were ever lifted, she would leave…alive or dead. It made no difference to me. “Understood?”

  “Of course, dear.” Gretta gave a wavering smile.

  “Now, if you’ll please excuse us, Gretta?” Father requested.

  Her eyes darkened for a brief moment. “Of course. I have a bit more packing to do. Tomorrow approaches quickly.”

  Father waited until he heard the sound of the front door latching as Gretta left the cottage. “It’s going to be all right.” he leaned his head back on the seatback and his eyes drifted closed. He’d worn himself out worrying.

  Seeing him that way settled it. I would be no further concern to him. I’d go along with whatever he wanted and then sort it out when my choices couldn’t hurt him or cause him any further grief.

  I ran my hand over the intricate design carved on top of the trunk that had its home at the foot of the bed. For as long as I could remember, Mother had been tucking prized possessions into its cavernous belly. A wedding gift from my grandparents, it now contained all of her jewelry, the first and last quilt she’d made, and several others in between. It also held family heirlooms, important documents, and some journals. And Father’s guns. He’d promised to teach me to use them. Please, let there be time.

  Their journals. Back around the time of Henry’s demise, Father and Mother had begun writing together. I was desperate to get my hands on them, but Father said I could read them after he was gone. I expected that reading them would provide me comfort as I eased into a new phase of my life alone.

  Father let out a soft snore from his chair where he’d slumped. Time to move him to the bed so he could get a good night’s sleep. Our journey was going to be a long one. Thankfully, I didn't have to be in the same wagon with the witch.

  ***

  The time had come. I helped Father say goodbye to the home he’d loved for so long. In a way, we had to say goodbye to Mother, too, and that was the hardest part. We silently made our way to the wagon he would share with me for the long journey. I helped him settle comfortably in the back.

  I watched until the house was a speck on the horizon, and then I stared as the town faded in the distance. I watched the smoke from someone's chimney until it vaporized into nothingness behind me. It was over. Somehow, I knew I would never return. I couldn't. Every bump of the carriage jostled memories of the home we’d left.

  I tried to sleep and enjoy the journey, but it was a futile effort. Perhaps it was the constant bumping and banging that kept me awake. Or maybe sorrow over my loss kept my mind from racing. Or, more likely, it was the fact that in the wagon behind me sat the witch who'd stolen my life. I shook my head. How could Father have asked me to spend the rest of my life, however long that might stretch for me, with her? Did he know what he'd sentenced me to?

  The narrow traveling path broke free from the wooded and rocky terrain and spread into a well-worn road. My body sighed in relief as it settled into a smooth rhythm of movement. Much better for travel, but it had to mean we were nearing people, civilization of some kind. This road had been traveled many times before.

  Father stirred on the pallet beside me, moaning as he wakened. The journey must have been even harder on his old bones than on me. “You okay, Father?” I reached a hand to squeeze his gnarled fingers that had once been so strong. He was fading quickly. How long would I have?

  “I am at peace, Rapunzel.” He smiled. “For the first time since this craziness descended on our family.” The smile faded, and he shook his head. “I don't know what the future has for you, dear daughter, and my abilities to help you have grown very limited. But at least I know you'll be in a place where you can keep yourself safe and hidden. Plus, you'll be able to get outside and stretch your legs. There's plenty of room for you to explore and stay busy. The thought of you cooped up for—who knows how long—in that little house back home—” he shook his head, “—I couldn't stand for such a thing.”

  I squeezed his hand and nodded. Hopefully he had made the right decision. It sounded logical, but not knowing where I was going, it was far easier to say that I'd rather be at the one place I’d ever known than to start over someplace new—especially with the witch in tow.

  Maybe I would run away. Obviously not while Father was still alive, but he wouldn't be with me long. Maybe once he was gone I would pack a few things and take to the countryside. I could stay on the move forever. See everything. Meet new people, mingle with townspeople in various exotic locations, and experience all the things life had to offer without fear of anyone discovering who I was.

  But what would I do for money if I lived on the run? What would I do for food? I supposed I could sell the estate first. That would keep me comfortable for a while. But that might be difficult to do with the witch knowing what I was up to. And then what? Maybe there were ways I could invest money that Gretta wouldn’t know about. Investments that would reap great rewards in lifetimes to come.

  All of those things could be worked out in time, but it was something I could start thinking of so I was ready when the time was right.

  What about when Father passed? I looked at him sleeping again, like a baby, lulled to sleep by the bouncing of the wagon on the rugged terrain. What would I do when he was gone? More importantly, what would Gretta do? What were her plans? If only I could figure out her agenda. Would she punish or torture me? Could I escape her if I tried? Surely she was only putting on an act for Father, but once he was gone…I shuddered. What wicked schemes were bubbling in the black cauldron that was her brain?

  “Whoa.” The driver pulled back on the reins and slowed the horses as they rounded a bend.

  Father jolted awake, his eyes wide-open. He raised his body from his makeshift bed and turned his face. A look of expectance and hope shone brightly in his eyes, even though a cloudy haze had settled in his eyes as he aged.

  I followed his gaze up the path we traveled—nothing but trees, trees everywhere. What was Father so intent on seeing up ahead?

  I felt his eyes upon me, so I turned to look at him. The corners of his mouth turned up and he nodded up the road. “Look, Daughter.” A grin spread across his face.

  I whipped my head around to see what had brought joy to his fa
ce. Still trees. Was he losing his grip with sanity from the long journey? Why was he grinning at trees? I waited. And waited. Then I saw smoke rising above the tree level. Was there a home out there? Someone Father knew?

  The trees began to thin as we pressed on farther ahead. After a few more moments, I could see between them. Then they parted like attendants curtsying for a queen.

  The most magnificent structure lay beyond the bowing trees. The sun shone down on brilliant, gleaming marble and glittering stone. Jewel-toned stained glass sparkled with radiant beams of colored light. A wide moat flowed around the grounds, promising safety to all who lived inside. It was like nothing I'd ever seen or even imagined, and far grander even than Father’s stories.

  My gaze flew to the gardens that flanked the castle. Even from that distance I could see they were fertile and lush. I’d never managed to grow gardens like that at home. I would spend my days in those gardens. They would be my abode.

  Father grinned. “Welcome home, daughter.”

  “Oh, heavens.” My hand flew to my chest and I pressed against my racing heart. I was to live there? In this splendor? “But, Father, why?” Why had we never come here before? Why had he kept this place hidden from me?

  He patted my hand. “I know you have many questions, my dear. Of course you do. I will answer them all in due time. For now, just enjoy the view.”

  The wagon pressed on toward the castle. As we approached, the drawbridge began to lower. Pretty soon, we would roll through that entrance and it would swallow me whole. I turned my gaze to the path we had traveled—a last glimpse at a world left behind.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  2013

  I awoke shrouded in a veil of moisture that clung to my skin. I shoved the saturated down pillow away from my face. Another night of a thousand tears, and I was growing tired of it. Night after night, year after year, decade after… I replayed the same terrible memory in my dreams. My shoulders trembled at the release of the tension that had been held within muscles through the night. Dream? It was more of a nightmare, one that refused to remain just that and imposed itself on my everyday life, painting it a shade darker each and every day.

  I'd never forget what happened that dreadful night, some two hundred and fifty years past. If only I could find a way to encapsulate those vivid truths into a dream and keep it from intruding into my reality. I'd tried to train my thoughts away from the memory, but it was no use. The vision clung to my mind with no intentions of loosening its grip. There was no reality without those memories. It was my first thought each morning and my final thought each night.

  I flopped back on the bed, my arms stretched overhead. The thought of facing another day like so many that had come before was debilitating.

  Time was supposed to be the healer of all pain. I used to believe that. I’d waited for that to prove true in my life. But I no longer believed. After waking like this, to a drenched pillow, each morning for nigh unto three centuries, it still felt as though it happened only yesterday. Hope did fail for entire lifetimes…for many, many lifetimes.

  I should have aged and died long ago, but my prison didn't allow such luxuries. Cursed to live forever, frozen at the very age I'd last seen him—my love, the person to make my ever-after the happiest it could possibly be. With him gone, there was only darkness. There was only loneliness. And there was only the dull drone of my heart that used to beat for Henry. Many have longed for the chance to live forever, but none of those people understood the risk of an eternal existence with grief as an anchor chained to one’s heart forever.

  Would I ever feel love again? Would I ever find peace in my heart? Would I ever awaken to face a new day and not pelt my unanswering consciousness with these same fruitless questions? If not after two hundred and fifty years, then when?

  I threw the covers off my body and let the chill assault me. My muscles tightened against the frigid attack. The main rooms of the castle now had heat with the help of a monster furnace and some vents we’d had installed just last year. I just couldn’t see clear to allowing them to pump that gas-heated air into my chambers. The warmth would be nice on mornings like this, but I’d survived with nothing but woodstoves for many, many years. Then fireplaces. Then oil-filled heaters. I had to slow the mad race to the future somehow.

  Besides, it was a reminder of my existence. If I didn't feel the cold or the heat, it would mean I was dead. If only. I punched the wall with my fist and left a smudge near the others. I stood and allowed my feet to meet the cold stone floor, then quickly found the warm slippers peeking out from under the bed. Grabbing the throw blanket from the corner of the bed, I swaddled it around my shoulders, cocooning myself in its warmth. The stone walls kept the room chilly, but it was nice during the heat of the day.

  I shuffled over to my dressing area, pulling the blanket tighter. It wasn’t fair. I'd lost everything. Then lost it all again. Was I doomed to a life of endless pain? Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? I wasn’t so sure. It wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't been forced to face that truth for so many days, the sweet escape of death so out of my reach.

  My gaze narrowed as I stared at my reflection in the mirror. It confirmed everything to be true—a bitter reflection of the very thing I knew I wanted so desperately to be false, to be a mere a figment of my imagination. But, the silent mirror was honest. Even though I looked just like her on the outside, I wasn't the giddy girl I was on the day of my first…and last…kiss.

  Gripping the sides of the oval mirror, I pulled my face close and inspected the corners of my eyes for wrinkles, my neck for age spots, anything to signal that time was closing in on me. But as always, there were no promising developments.

  I was still perfect.

  I shrank back. This was why I didn’t look in the mirror very often. It only piled on more pain and zapped any hope of escape from my prison of flesh.

  I turned my back on my reflection and scanned the room. Everything appeared to be just as I'd seen it last night. The wingback chairs stood proud on each side of the settee, positioned in front of a cozy stone fireplace—an invitation to non-existent guests. A sleek silver laptop sat open on the mahogany coffee table next to a vase of wilting flowers I’d picked a few days ago. The black screen slept until my touch would awaken it.

  I'd never been good at remembering to turn it off after using it. Still so new and confusing to me compared to the days gone by when no such things existed. As reluctant as I was to embrace this new technology, I quickly grew fond of it, as it became a welcome diversion. The hours I spent sprawled on my bed, whiling away the time, were ones I wasn’t thinking of Henry.

  Solitaire became my companion, each move like a conversation. And the computer made easy work of writing in my journal. Something felt cold and sterile about composing personal thoughts into a machine rather than scrawling them out by hand. It was almost too easy, but at least my private ramblings were protected by a password. Besides, it certainly beat plunking away at that dreadful old typewriter.

  The book I’d been reading last night laid propped open on the floor where it had fallen, presumably after I’d dozed off the night before. A blue ribbon dangled from between the pages. At least my books had remained constant friends during my life. After so many years, I sometimes felt imprisoned, but through my books, I had been able to temporarily escape without ever leaving home. I comfortably traveled the world, and other worlds, by simply reading written words, and I never had to leave the safety of my tower chamber.

  Historicals were my favorite. They took me back in time to a place that felt more familiar. More like home. Pride and Prejudice, really anything by Jane Austen, felt like I was reliving my own memories, or even farther back to times and places that no one could truly remember. What joy to find them on the pages of books. To realize that there was an existence before mine, even if there wouldn’t be one after.

  Jumping into stories, I would never be ridiculed for the length of my
hair, nor would I ever be accused of being a witch. More importantly, I would never be recognized. I was safe there in my tower with my books. I had no reason to ever leave, although I was certainly safe to do so for a period of time about every fifty years, as one generation gave way to the next and memories were sure to be dim. It was rare that I made an exception.

  “I hate mornings,” I grumbled out loud as I stretched my arms above my head and yawned. I didn't actually hate mornings. I just really disliked waking up. If I could live forever without sleeping, I'd be perfectly content. I'd certainly get a lot more done, that's for sure. Then again, what did I need to do? My morning routine had never been a quick one. What reason did I have to rush?

  I shuffled to the wardrobe and pulled back the hand-carved double doors made by an ancestor—perhaps constructed in this very room. It was a priceless antique, but to me, just a place to store my clothes, a remnant from my childhood. I lifted the sleeves of two dresses. Did I feel pretty today? I eyed a delicate floral print. Or functional? I felt the fabric of a denim skirt. Or maybe some gardening? I considered the folded pile of work clothes. It was too early to know what the afternoon would hold, but I certainly didn't feel pretty. I tugged the denim skirt from its hanger and tossed it over my shoulder, then grabbed a plaid shirt from a folded stack on the shelf.

  I padded over to the door and slid the lock into place, then moved to the old ceramic washbasin that had once stood in my bedroom at home. I draped my clothes on the rack beside it and leaned my face close to the warm water, allowing the steam to bathe my face. Gretta’s morning ritual of leaving my washbasin filled with clean water and my hairbrush clean of loose strands was so perfectly timed I never had to wait. I’d come to appreciate, even depend on, her help with my morning needs, though I didn’t like the thought of her creeping around my space while I still slept.

  I supposed I could always leave my chambers and wash in one of the new modern washrooms we’d had installed. Running water and electricity made things much easier than ceramic pots. Why didn’t I do that? Why not acclimate to the times and their conveniences?