The Pitchfork of Destiny

by Jack Heckel

  Elle pulled the covers up to her chin and, hoping that bears were like ­people at least insofar as not generally being impolite enough to eat things that were talking to them, she said the first thing that came to her mind. “My! What a great number of teeth you all have. How do you keep them so white?”

  “Wha’?” asked the largest bear with a large-­sized crinkle of confusion stretched across his brow.

  “Our teef?” asked the slightly less large bear with a confused tilt of her slightly less enormously sized head.

  “Oh, we eats lots of fishes and crunch da bones. Best way to keep your teef clean,” said the still slightly less large bear, and he took the opportunity to open his little, only by comparison, mouth wide so she could admire all of his teeth—­front and back.

  Elle swallowed hard as she stared down the throat of the massive creature. “F . . . f . . . fish you say?”

  “No,” the absurdly large bear said in a largely pedantic tone, “he said fishes.”

  “Yea, you know fishes,” the exceedingly large bear said with a wiggle of her huge paw in a moderately fishlike manner.

  “Da fings what have scales,” the simply large bear said with little regard for syntax or grammar.

  “Oh, fish,” Elle said with a nod.

  “Right, an’ now we’re gonna use dem to eat you up,” the largest bear said, and he put out his great large-­sized claws to grasp Elle’s arms.

  “Yea’,” agreed the middle-­large bear, and put out her middle-­large-­sized claws to grasp Elle’s legs.

  “An we’ve gotta get goin’ afore the dragon comes back,” said the little-­large bear, grabbing one of her feet with his little-­large-­sized, but still quite lethal claws.

  “My what lovely large claws you all have, how do you keep them so sharp?” Elle gasped, backing as far up against the carven headboard of the bed as she could.

  “Wha’ now?” asked the absurdly large bear, staring perplexedly at his large-­sized claws. Elle was beginning to believe that the largest of the bears was pretty much in a permanent state of confusion.

  “Interestin’ you should ask,” said the exceedingly large bear, looking proudly down at her own exceedingly large-­sized claws. “I use river rocks meself. Best fing in da world to sharpen up your claws and make ’em shine.”

  “Nope,” said the simply large bear. “If you wants ’em really sharp, you gotta use flint. It gives ’em da best edge.” He demonstrated by slicing away half the bedspread with a single motion.

  The question of which rocks you should use to properly sharpen claws engaged the bears for quite some time, during which they each took turns demonstrating the sharpness of their claws by hacking away bits of the four-­poster bed, the dining-­room table, the chairs, the china, the linen tablecloth, and so on.

  Finally, the largest bear cut a stalagmite in half with a massive sweep of one arm, and roared largely and loudly, “ENUFF! WE ARE WASTIN’ TIME!”

  “Das right,” said the middle-­large bear, smacking her middle-­large-­sized chops. “We come ta eat ya, and we gotta get on wi’ it.”

  “Yup, we gotta eat and run,” said the little-­large bear and licked his little-­large-­sized tongue in anticipation of the feast to come.

  Elle tried to come up with something else to say, but suddenly their claws were on her, and the heat of their breath was in her face. As she closed her eyes, there came two high-­pitched squeals followed by dull, fleshy thunks. Elle opened her eyes and saw the bodies of two bloody and broken pigs lying in the mouth of the cave. A vast shadow filled the opening, and a deep resonant voice said, “Leave her alone.”

  The bears froze where they were, their eyes wide with fear.

  “My, what big eyes you have,” Elle said wryly. “I think you might want to change your plan of eat and run to run before you’re eaten.”

  The three bears looked at her with puzzled expressions, trying to figure out her meaning.

  The dragon roared behind them, “What the lady meant to say is, ‘GET OUT’!”

  All three turned and fled past the dragon to the woods beyond. There was a bright flash of light and heat and howls of pain from the bears as the dragon exacted his measure of punishment.

  Volthraxus turned back to her. “Are you unharmed, Lady Rapunzel?”

  “Y . . . yes,” she said, letting out a deep breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “I am happier to see you than I have ever been in my life.”

  The dragon smiled ironically. “That is nice to hear, Lady Rapunzel, but I don’t know that it counts for much as I don’t think you have ever been happy to see me.”

  “You have a point,” she said, trying to smile, but the realization of what had almost happened struck her, and she began to shake with fear.

  In an instant, Volthraxus was beside her, holding a crystal snifter of brandy ever so delicately in one enormous, taloned claw. “Drink this, Lady Rapunzel, and put your hands on my side. The warmth will help.”

  She took the drink and leaned herself against the dragon’s body, and in a few minutes, she was able to stop trembling.

  “I . . . I’m sorry, it was just . . .” She did not complete the thought.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for, Lady Rapunzel,” the dragon said gently. “It is I who should apologize. Beo was to stand guard over you while I was gone, else I would never have left you. Speaking of which, where is my erstwhile partner? He and I shall have words.”

  Elle was about to say that she did not know when something the bears had said struck her. “I . . . I think he led them here.” She shivered at the thought. “One of the bears said that ‘it was just like the wolf promised.’ ”

  She felt a deep rumble of anger pass through the dragon’s body.

  “I see.” Wisps of black smoke came from his mouth. “I have been betrayed.”

  He was quiet for a time, and Elle looked up at his eyes and saw that they were glowing a deep red, like a blacksmith’s forge. “What are you thinking, Volthraxus?”

  “I am thinking that I do not like this cave any longer. I am thinking that it is not secure enough. I dare not leave you alone again, and yet I will need to hunt and gather other necessities.” He glared at the shredded bed and the mangled table.

  “I don’t need those things, Volthraxus,” Elle said, feeling oddly guilty. “I can bear far more hardship than I have let you know.”

  His eyes lost their red anger and grew molten and gentle. “I know that, little princess, but I rather enjoy spoiling you.” He grew silent after saying this, as if he were considering his statement. His head tilted in thought, and his smile twisted into something less pleasant, more self-­mocking. He rose suddenly and strode toward the cave entrance.

  “Volthraxus—­” she began to say, but he cut her off.

  “There is a second reason, of course. While this cave is no longer safe, it is paradoxically also too remote. It suited Beo’s purpose well, which I now see was to delay my meeting with your King as long as possible. Now, I wish to force the issue. I must go somewhere that word of my presence will be sure to find him, somewhere that will be marked by all, somewhere . . .” His voice dropped low, almost to a whisper, and Elle thought she heard him say, “Somewhere of legend.”

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAOS IN FOUR-­PART HARMONY

  In fairy tales, events unfold in ways that always seem to draw the story to a neat and satisfying conclusion. Some ­people see in this neat arrangement nothing more than random chance, while others find in it evidence of fate at work. Is it her destiny or whim that leads Beauty to ask her father to bring her a rose from his travels when it turns out that plucking a rose from his arbor just happens to be the one transgression of his hospitality that the Beast cannot abide? Is it simply bad luck or her doom that Sleeping Beauty finds the one surviving spinning wheel in her father’s kingdom on the day of her cur
sed sixteenth birthday? And what of the poor wolf of the woods? Is it chance or some unseen hand that guides that woodchopper to grandma’s house at the very moment the wolf has just finished the best meal of his life?

  Will would often consider whether chance or fate guided him in the days that followed his battle with the animals. Was it written that he would wake from his donkey-­kick-­induced slumber just in time to hear someone or something with a thick accent and a voice like gravel say, “I’m telling you Charming, brother, the King has lost it.”

  Was it just bad luck that Charming replied, “I swear to you, he’s not normally like this. He’s really a levelheaded fellow, but he’s not been himself since Lady Rapunzel was abducted.”

  Will opened his eyes. Morning light streamed through a paned window on his left to illuminate the spare bedroom of Liz and Charming’s cottage. Not liking the reality that greeted him, he closed his eyes again, hoping against all reason that he was dreaming and would wake up. He reopened his eyes. Nothing had changed. It was true. He was back in Liz and Charming’s home.

  His first thought was that Charming had betrayed his oath and abandoned their quest, but this seemed to go against everything he knew about the man. Still, Will could think of no other explanation for being where he was. He almost jumped out of bed to confront Charming right then and there, but lately he had been wrong about so many things. Will decided before accusing Charming, he would see if he could piece together the events that had led them back. That this would require some eavesdropping did not bother him in the least. Everything he did was for Elle. Slowly, he pulled back the covers, and, making every effort to remain stealthy, he crept to the door in his stocking feet and peered into the room beyond.

  Charming sat in an armchair by the fire. Arrayed in a half circle about the chair were the four animals that had attacked him or that he had attacked. The whole thing was a little unclear in Will’s memory. What was clear was how ferocious they had seemed at the time, and yet now they appeared embarrassingly docile and ordinary. There was a rather chubby orange-­and-­white-­striped cat curled in Charming’s lap, a stout, black-­and-­brown bulldog sitting on a footstool to his right, a very scraggly red rooster perched on the mantelpiece among the dwarf miniatures to his left, and directly across from him, splayed across the couch, was the graying donkey that had landed the knockout blow to Will’s chest.

  The five were passing around a stubby pipe from which an aromatic smoke was issuing. Charming took a deep draw and handed it to the cat, which cradled it in both paws and also took a puff, before giving it to the dog. They must have been at this for some time because the air around them was obscured in a thick haze.

  Exhaling smoke, Charming said in a very mellow voice, “I’m not saying he doesn’t have his reasons, but somehow I’ve got to get the old Will back. Liz’s note”—­he waved about a piece of paper he’d been holding against his breast—­“changes everything. She says she’s going south toward Dragon Tower. That makes a lot more sense than the King’s plan. I swear, if he says, ‘We’re going north’ one more time . . .”

  Will narrowed his eyes in suspicion. It was nearly a confession.

  “You shouldn’t have to put up with it, Edward, darling,” the cat purred, stroking itself against his chest.

  “Yeah, you should go solo, man,” brayed the donkey.

  “You’re an artist,” barked the dog. “The way you handled us last night was like . . . it was like . . .”

  “Like poetry, man,” the donkey suggested.

  “Yeah, like manly poetry,” the cat echoed, stroking her head against Charming’s chest.

  “Painful Poetry!” the rooster crowed hoarsely rubbing at his long neck.

  “Really,” the dog said in that same rough, gravelly voice Will had heard before. “My ribs still hurt, brother. Talk about out of control. You were like out of this world.”

  “Hey, there’s a song in there,” said the donkey. “On three. One . . . two . . . three . . .”

  Will held his hands to his ears, expecting the worst, but the rooster crowed and the dog howled, the cat yowled and the donkey brayed, “Painful poooetry, Out of controool, Painful poooetry, Out of this Wooorld,” in perfect four-­part harmony.

  Will watched Charming’s face light up as they sang to him. “That was beautiful,” he said with a tear in his eye. “I always did think of my sword skills as worthy of verse, but I could never find the right words. I had thought that maybe there were none. I wonder what you could do with some of my ­couplets.” In the shadow of the door, Will rolled his eyes. It was like throwing a lit oil lamp on a dry hay bale.

  “So, you are musicians?” Charming asked, as the pipe moved from the dog to the donkey.

  “Yeah, man,” said the donkey, raising his ears as he inhaled deeply. “We’re the Bremen-­four! We used to open for The Seven Players, but they said our sound didn’t fit in with their new quasi-­existentialist exploration of the intersection between fairies and oversized pumpkins.”

  “They sold out,” said the dog gruffly. “I remember when they wrote real plays about real subjects, now it’s all princesses and princes and paupers and glass slippers.”

  “Sold Out!” cried the rooster from the mantel.

  Will watched Charming’s face flush as he realized, at about the same time as Will did, that they were talking about Liz’s story. He could see Charming trying to think of a way to change the subject. “But, you all must still be on good terms with them,” he prompted. “You are here.”

  “Oh, sure we’re still good friends, brother,” the dog barked briskly. “They’re just sellouts. They would tell you that themselves if they were here, or at least Grady would.”*

  “Yeah, don’t get us wrong, man,” the donkey said, taking another deep puff on the pipe. “We would love to sell out. I, for one don’t want to go back to carrying sacks of wheat and flour for the man, man.”

  “Absolutely,” the dog said, scratching himself behind the ear with his back paw. “Best thing that could happen to us, brother. I just don’t have the build to herd sheep.”

  “And I hate the taste of mice.” The cat shuddered.

  “Sell Out!” the rooster crowed, flapping his wings.

  “Be honest with me, darling, Edward,” the cat said, licking one of her paws and smoothing back an ear. “Have you heard of us?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Charming said, then Will watched him realize the implicit insult, and quickly add, “But, I’ve been out in this cottage for the past year or so, and this area isn’t a hotbed for music.”

  “It’s not your fault, man,” the donkey said with a resigned sort of sigh that blew out his white beard like a sail. “We don’t get good press, man, so we don’t get good gigs, man. The critics just don’t know how to handle a band like the Bremen-­four, man.”

  “Yeah,” the dog gruffed. “Where do we fit into the mainstream music scene, brother? What’s our genre?”

  “Folk!” cried the rooster, who Will was beginning to believe was unable to say more than one or two words at a time.

  “Yes, darling,” the cat purred up to the rooster. “The question is, what type of folk group are we?”

  “That’s what I was trying to say, sister,” the dog barked, his long tongue lashing out to lick across his snout. “Critics have said we are folk baroque, folk pop, folk revival, indie folk . . .”

  “Chamber folk, avant folk . . .” continued the cat with an irritated flick of her tail.

  “Proto Anti-­folk!” cried out the rooster.

  “Yeah, man, it’s like how can we grow a fan base, man, when the fans don’t know what we stand for, man,” the donkey said, taking yet another deep draw from the pipe, which he seemed loath to pass on.

  “It doesn’t help us,” the dog said gruffly to the donkey, “that every time we talk to a critic, you tell him that we don’t believe in labels, b
rother.”

  “Critics!” crowed the rooster.

  “And pass the pipe,” the dog growled at the donkey.

  The donkey guiltily passed the pipe up to the rooster, who snatched it up in a talon and began puffing violently on it.

  Charming waited till the pipe was in his hand, then said authoritatively, “But, I think the question of your genre is elementary.” He puffed a few times and pointed the stem of the pipe around the circle at the animals. “It is clear to me that you are a proto-­farm folk group with elements of barnyard-­madrigal and neo-­Orwellian primitivism.”

  Will rolled his eyes at this new absurdity, but the animals all seemed enthralled.

  “That’s us, brother!” the dog barked, wagging his tail enthusiastically.

  “Us!” screamed the rooster.

  “It’s nothing,” Charming said with a casual wave of his hand. “Fitting a group to a specific genre is rather mechanical. Genre is nothing more than a stylistic specification that intrinsically relates to classification. You merely compare an artist to what they share with or in how they differ from other similarly situated artists. In your case, your music obviously takes elements from the Pied Piper of Hamlin, who is a perfect example of proto-­folk, but you add in an inherent animalia quality, similar to what the Little Pigs were doing in their primitivism phase.”

  Will hadn’t understood a word of this, but it was clear that whatever it was Charming had said had truly impressed the four animals.

  “How do you know so much about music, man?” the donkey asked, his mouth hanging open in disbelief.

  “Understanding the essence of critique is essential to being a dragonslayer,” Charming replied as he passed the pipe back to the dog.

  “You’re a critic, man!” the donkey brayed in alarm.

  “CRITIC!” crowed the rooster.

  “No, I just understand critique,” Charming said, then asked, “What’s your beef with critics anyway?”