Charming, Volume 1

by Jack Heckel

  Liz shook her head at the impracticality of such a plan as she passed the dragon’s immense body, but at least the work would keep him occupied and out from underfoot.

  By the time Will had finished covering the dragon’s body with a mound of dirt and burnt cornstalks, it was midday and the sun, now sitting like a squat toad above the treetops, was baking the blackened field. In that time, Liz had somehow managed to turn the barn into a home, cook lunch, and pack for him; and as the sun set, they loaded the last of his provisions into the old wooden cart behind, Grey, their mildly annoyed swayback nag. She placed the key in Will’s pouch and his badly burnt and mottled pitchfork at his side. In the back of the wagon, she had loaded two weeks’ worth of jarred food and about three dozen somewhat moth-­eaten wool blankets she’d found in an old chest in the hayloft.

  He looked so young sitting behind the reins, and she felt the tears she had been fighting all day trying to rise again. He smiled warmly and, in his most reassuring voice, said, “You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve been up in those mountains plenty of times hunting. I know where the old road to Dragon Pass starts; and if you go one ridgeline over and the day is clear, you can almost see where the beast lives—­lived. I’ll return with the Princess—­if she exists. Then we can hand her over to the Prince, collect our reward, and forget the whole thing.”

  Liz frowned and shook her head. “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy,” she said. And then thought to herself, If this really is a fairy tale, then it’s never that easy.

  Will laughed and gave her a wink. “Come on. What could possibly happen, Liz?” She looked at him sternly. If he noticed, he ignored her. “Don’t work too hard while I’m gone,” he said in a voice ringing with humor. “You’ve got to have a nice complexion for when we visit the King. Maybe we can get you married off to a nobleman so you won’t be so much of a burden to me.”

  Aloud, she clucked with disapproval, but inside she smiled. Liz had never seen her brother so happy. The truth was whether he was fighting cornstalk trolls with his toy sword as a boy or jousting the straw man on Grey when he was older, he had always wanted to have one chance to be the hero, and this was it. She put on a stern face that was only ruined by the upturned corners of her mouth.

  “Now, don’t go being cheeky with the Princess. You be polite and show her that our family has a bit of breeding—­that we weren’t always a bunch of ignorant dirt farmers. And comb your hair before you wake her up. You look like the scarecrow. I’ll run and get you a brush.”

  Will stayed her hand as she turned to go, bent down and kissed the top of her head. “Quiet now,” he said. ”She’s not going to care what I look like. Now let me go, long goodbyes make for long journeys.”

  With this last—­annoyingly homey—­admonition, he click his tongue and gave a little rattle on the reins. Grey snorted once and then plodded forward, jerking the big iron-­rimmed wheels of the cart into a slow roll toward the forest road and the distant mountains beyond. Liz stood in the barnyard amid the restless chickens watching him go, a little knowing smile on her face. As he disappeared into the woods, she whispered a blessing on the heavy night air: “Good luck, dear brother. May your fairy tale come true.”

  Chapter 2

  Love’s First Kiss

  DEEP IN THE cursed Southern Forest, an ancient road twists its way up through cold gray mountains to a narrow jagged pass. At the top of that pass, buffeted by cruel winds, stands a tower of jet-­black stone. There lives the dread dragon. Few foolish or unlucky enough to journey on that dark trail have lived to tell the tale, for dangers most foul haunt the way. Dire creatures only mentioned in the darkest of fairy tales prey on hapless and lost travelers, and the very land itself is accursed and twisted with evil.

  At least that’s the way the story was always told, but Will found the journey did not quite match the drama of the book. The road to the abandoned tower was easy to find, and in surprisingly good condition. The weather also held in his favor, with a cool breeze and no rain to make the path the least bit treacherous.

  Because of the fair roads, favorable weather, and a distinct lack of danger, Will had plenty of time to consider his quest. It certainly seems to be going well, he reflected as he watched the leather reins slap across Grey’s back in rhythm to her plodding gait. I’m making good time, and have plenty to eat. Although, the thought of another night of pickled carrots and beets made him shudder.

  “Still, all in all, I can’t complain,” he said quietly to the horse’s backside.

  The thing was he wanted to complain. He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but this wasn’t it. He wanted some . . . adventure. Nothing truly dangerous mind you, maybe a troll on a bridge he could bamboozle, or a two-­bit rogue he could best. Something, anything, he could brag about when he was older. The biggest danger so far was that he might fall asleep at the reins.

  He rounded yet another of the seemingly endless rocky points along the path and a sudden gusting wind buffeted him. He had passed out of the tree line early that morning and, this high up, the air was bitingly cold. Will started to pull on his cloak and was still tangled in the folds and bends of the garment when the horse stopped. Will stuck his head out of the thick wool and frowned in annoyance. He shook the reins a bit and clucked his tongue. She stood, refusing to move, her mane streaming out to the side under the stiff wind.

  He raised his head to look around. They were at the top of the mountain pass. On a ridge a few hundred feet above his head he could see the outline of a tower—­the tower. A trail wound down and back and forth across the cliff face and ended at a set of well-­worn stairs that emerged on the path from a crack in the cliff a few yards from where Grey had stopped.

  “There’s a girl,” he said brightly. “Liz always did say you had more sense than me—­not that you should tell her I said so.” Grinning, he lifted his pitchfork from the back of the wagon and fed the old horse a handful of oats. “Well, Grey, I’ll be back in a bit, let’s pray, with a princess, let’s hope.”

  And with that, Will began up the narrow stone path. It rose with many a back and forth up the cliff face to a wide ledge above. When he finally made it to the top and the tower was in full view, Will couldn’t help recite a line from the “Dragon’s Tale” aloud:

  “Desolate is the high pass and dark is the tower to which the dragon flew;

  Therein to lie evermore was the princess, Gwendolyn, cursed—­

  A white flower entombed in a prison of cold black stone.”

  He compared the real thing to this literary vision. “Talk about artistic license,” he said with a shake of his head.

  Perhaps in another life the structure had been more imposing, but now it was little more than a jumble of considerably weathered gray stones rising about fifty spans into the air. The roof was a skeleton of half-­rotted timbers that met in a lopsided spire. The only break he could see in the walls of the structure was a large open balcony near the top. A hedge of wild rosebushes had devoured the base of the tower in a riot of small but brilliant red and white blossoms, partially obscuring a rusted ironbound gate. He fingered the golden key in his pouch. Let’s hope this pretty bauble fits the lock, otherwise I’ve come a long way for nothing.

  Will made his way to the base of the tower, and was relieved to see that, though massive, the gate had partially rusted away. Using his pitchfork as a scythe, he pushed his way through the roses and into the chamber beyond. He found himself surrounded by stagnant darkness. He froze, grasped his pitchfork firmly, and waited for some sound that might signal an attack, but beyond the dying echoes of his own passage, there was nothing. As his eyes adjusted to the weak light, the vague contours of the chamber began to take shape; and from the looks of it. no one, not even a dragon, had set foot in the place for years. The floor was covered in a thick layer of dust and a blanket of decaying leaves, rose blossoms . . . and bones.

  He moved int
o the room, the leaves and bones snapping and crunching under his feet. The light from the open gate behind him began to fail, and he was drawn toward another faint glow filtering down a vast sweeping stair that hugged the tower’s curved outer wall and disappeared through an opening in the cobwebbed ceiling. He put a first foot on the stair; his heart hammered in his chest so hard it was painful. Will suddenly realized that he was not afraid, he was excited. He was actually in the dragon’s tower. He was in a fairy tale, rescuing a princess, no less. He grinned and paused, to catch his breath and calm his nerves before continuing. The staircase was wide and the stairs even; and as the light above his head grew brighter, Will gave up any attempt at stealth and began taking the broad stairs two at a time. So it was at a near run that he broke through the thin layer of dusty webs at the top and emerged from the gloom into the blinding light of the chamber above.

  He blinked against the midday sun streaming through a large opening in the wall directly across from him. Unlike the abandoned level below, this upper chamber was light, airy, and obviously well used. A random assortment of tapestries and sheer curtains lined the walls. They were rippling in a breeze blowing unhindered across the room, through the balcony’s open door. Will wiped the cobwebs from his face and, inhaling deeply, caught the subtle hint of rose rising with the air from the bushes far below.

  He moved into the middle of the room, onto a patchwork quilt of overlapping rugs. A few suspiciously impressive tears in the wall hangings and a dragon-­sized area of worn carpet in front of the balcony’s threshold hinted at the identity of the room’s owner. He frowned and looked about. Where was the Princess? There was no obvious sign of another room or indeed any exit apart from the stair he had come up, and for a moment Will worried that he was the fool his sister thought him to be. That there was no Princess. But something didn’t feel right. Scratching his head he considered the size of the room. It was true that the tower tapered as it rose, but this chamber seemed too small. He watched the tapestries lining the walls of the room moving with the breeze and smiled.

  There must be a door hidden behind one of these.

  He began walking in a clockwise circuit from the balcony, tracing his hand along the tapestries and feeling the hard wall behind. He considered the presence of the hangings as he went, and what it meant about the dragon. In every telling he’d heard, a fairy had conjured the dread wyrm from a piece of the night sky and sent it mindlessly out to do her bidding. In the tale, it was always the fairy and some unknown slight that motivated the curse. Sometimes it was that in choosing to marry Gwendolyn, the King had, in the mind of the fairy, betrayed the memory of his true love. In other tellings, the fateful act was the King’s mother’s failure to invite the fairy to the wedding. But here was a beast that collected tapestries? Will was wondering at this, and about what the dragon had really been like, when the solid feel of stone suddenly vanished beneath his hand. He stopped. Here was an opening in the wall.

  He examined the hanging that concealed the opening. It depicted a scene of a young maid surrounded by dark trees, a serpent entwined in the trunks encircled her, mouth open. Was the creature talking with her, or was it about to devour her? The artist left it an open question. With a shaking hand, he pulled the hanging back. A small alcove was revealed, no more than two strides wide and four long. A stone bier about waist high filled the antechamber and cradled a resting figure in white. Thin windows—­really no more than slits set high in the wall—­illuminated the space, bathing the white form in a soft glow as dust motes captured in the rays of light danced like tiny glittering fairies around . . . the Princess! Will caught his breath. The sudden realization that the she was not only real, but lying perfectly preserved a hand-­span away struck him with the force of a hammer blow.

  He wet his suddenly dry mouth and stepped slowly forward, letting the tapestry fall back into place behind him. The Princess was clad in a flowing translucent, shimmering shift of pearly white. Will’s eyes traced the contours of her body beneath the thin cloth, then quickly lifted his gaze to her face.

  She was beautiful, to be sure. But more than that, she was the fairy-­tale princess come to life. Her hair was fair; in the glowing light, it sparkled and, like a curtain of spun gold, flowed down around her body, perfectly framing her face. A subdued blush of pink subtly colored the apples of her otherwise pale cheeks. It was her lips, though, that drew his attention. They were a deep-­deep red, the hue of the rose blossoms flowering outside the tower—­and he recalled with a sudden rush of warmth that, in the tale, it was only love’s first kiss that awakened her. Enthralled, he bent down toward her—­and slapped his hand hard against his thigh, coming to his senses.

  Don’t be a fool, William Pickett! If Liz could see you . . . well, be thankful she can’t. And Gretel, what would she say? Will actually thought about the question for a moment, but came to no answer. Women had always been a bit of a mystery to him. And now you think you’re ready to kiss the Princess. The Princess! What are you doing?

  He stepped back and leaned his pitchfork against the wall. “All right,” he groused aloud, “now what?”

  Looking closely at her, he noticed a thin gold chain looped around the Princess’s neck. He examined it, bending till he was inches from her. As he got close, he caught the scent of a beautiful if faded rose. He wondered, How is it that girls manage to do that? Leave me unwashed two days and I smell like a goat. He shook his head to chase away the thought and stood up again. Whatever was at the end of the necklace was hidden in the girl’s clasped hands. From what he could see of the chain, though, it looked like the twin in miniature of the one that had held the dragon’s key. With delicacy, Will grasped the chain and slowly freed it from her grasp. Raising the object into the light, he saw there was a tiny lock with words engraved on its golden surface in that now familiar spidery hand:

  Locked in sleep shall the maiden lie.

  Locked in dream her mind,

  Locked in grief her heart,

  Till love’s first kiss does the key apply.

  Will gazed dubiously at the tiny lock, comparing it in his mind with the oversized dragon’s key. “So, a kiss it is.”

  Gently he laid the lock back on the sleeping girl’s breathless body. Though his course was clear, still he hesitated, chewing on the side of his forefinger and thinking.

  It’s just a kiss, Pickett. You’ve kissed Gretel plenty of times, why should this be any different? Besides, it probably won’t even work; after all, you’re no Prince Charming.

  Will remained unmoving, gazing at that perfect face. Now that he was here, he felt totally inadequate to the job. “You have not come all this way not to try,” he said in a stern scolding voice, and then added silently, urgently, Kiss her.

  Giving himself no more time to think or doubt, Will tenderly rested his lips on hers. Even before he could rise, the lady’s lips parted against his and with a gasp he felt her draw in his exhaled breath. He and watched as the color deepened in her cheeks, her pallor giving way to a healthy soft pink. He hovered there above her, mere inches away, and watched mesmerized. Her eyes fluttered—­but did not open—­and he started to step back, but she murmured in a soft whisper that sounded half plea and half prayer: “Rosslyn, Rosslyn, I was such a fool.”

  Then she was quiet. The steady rise and fall of her breathing still there, but little sign that the kiss had done much of anything. The Princess lay sleeping on her stone bed as she had for all these years. Will sunk low, to the stone floor, and sat back on his heels and scratched his head, then asked the sleeping girl, “Who is Rosslyn?”

  He stood there for some time watching her breast rise and fall, hoping for further word or sign. There was no other movement, though her color was a little better and her features had improved subtly. Will wanted to give her time, to see if his kiss would work, but he knew that outside the day was passing to evening. The light in the little room was beginning to fail, and he n
eeded to make it down the cliff with her before dark.

  “I guess Liz was right. I’m no prince,” he murmured. “I’ll have to carry you out.”

  This created a new complication. He had not noticed before how sheer the Princess’s gown was. He stared, blushing and debating where to put his hands.

  “Yet another practicality the fairy tales never spoke of,” he muttered. “I’m sure I’d remember if the Prince in the story had remarked, ‘Oh, my beloved, though I appreciate your charms so fair, take you now my cape so that you do not catch your death in the cold mountain air.’ ”

  Then the solution came to him. In a flash!

  “A cape! Yes, I need a cape. Every prince has a cape.”

  He turned to the wall hanging covering the opening to the chamber and ripped it down. Dust flew from the ancient cloth. He spread the tapestry on the ground, turned to the Princess, closed his eyes, took a deep steadying breath, and in a quick motion lifted her into his arms. He crossed the few steps, lowered her onto the middle of the drapery, and wrapped her body in the heavy cloth.

  “Well, it may not be dignified, but I think we’ll both be able to manage the journey now.” Then he picked up his bundle, which was surprisingly light, and started down the stairs, forgetting his old pitchfork. The only thing in the kingdom that could rightfully claim credit for slaying the dragon had been left behind.

  After picking his way back through the darkness of the lower level to the tower door, Will paused, considering the long thorny tendrils of the rosebushes. “This’ll no doubt hurt, but you wanted to be the hero.”

  He turned his body so she was shielded by his own and pushed into the narrow space he had made in the bushes earlier that morning. Struggling, he forced himself through the tangled branches. The thorns cut deeply into his flesh and the twisting tendrils ripped and pulled at his hair. Only when he was well free of the last of the vine and into the clear ground beyond did he allow himself to lay the girl gently to the ground.