Funny Fantasy

by Gail Carriger

  Still . . . ogres live a very long time. Perhaps the lout was going to remain a dog for the next several decades, waiting until my master grew old and died and the castle was abandoned—provided the Princess did not produce an heir to pass the castle along to. Or perhaps the ogre intended to remain a dog forever. Maybe he found the ghastly form an improvement over his natural one. Maybe he liked sleeping at my master's feet. Maybe he liked the Princess cooing over him and scratching his ears, maybe he liked hiking his . . . .

  Maybe he had something sinister planned.

  I needed to get inside and talk to the Marquis. I knew the Marquis' brother was coming to visit today—the middle son who had inherited the donkey. Perhaps I could sneak in with him, hop into a pack or something. But he might not arrive until the afternoon, and I didn't want to wait that long.

  Neither did I want to wait out the ogre-dog, hoping he'd grow bored of standing on the drawbridge and go elsewhere, giving me an easy way in.

  No, I couldn't afford to wait. And so I decided to make an arduous sacrifice. I drifted deeper into the foliage and began circling the castle wall, paralleling the moat. I breathed deep and steadied myself for what I had to do. I located a suitable spreading fern, and beneath it I carefully placed my boots, cloak, hat, and bag for safekeeping. Then I continued on my route until I was behind the castle, where "Prince" couldn't see me.

  I padded to the moat's edge. The breeze sent faint ripples across the water, making my reflection shimmer and dance and seem somehow mystical on this early morning. Water—the thought of it made my throat instantly dry. A shiver raced down my spine as I urged myself into it. Some say the part of the cat that hesitates is the paws. Especially over the prospect of getting wet. But I know it is essentially the whole of the cat. Every inch of me wanted to stay on this dry, chill ground. Every inch except one very small and persistent part that made me again pity the young man I'd turned into a Marquis. And it made me want to warn him.

  "No recourse," I said as I somehow found the water lapping over my toes, then against my stomach, as I somehow found myself practically submerged and swimming oh-so-quietly toward the rear of the wall that circled the castle. I felt something brush against my side, and for an instant I wondered if there were foul beasts lairing in this foul water. But nothing grabbed me, no toothed snout appeared, and no carnivorous fish dared to strike at my churning legs. And so moments later I found myself on the opposite bank, wet, cold, wet, thoroughly miserable, and thoroughly drenched. I started to rub against the tall grass that grew against the castle wall, then quickly stopped myself when I recalled where "Prince" tended to relieve himself. I most certainly would rather be wet and miserable than. . . .

  I glanced up at the crenellated wall. Though I'd lived inside the place for the past few years I'd never appreciated just how imposing that wall was. Thick and impossibly tall, ogre-sized naturally—likely constructed to keep out whatever huge creatures might threaten ogres (never mind keeping out small clever cats).

  "No recourse," I repeated, as I stretched against the wall and began climbing, claws digging into the hardened mud mortar between the blocks of stone. My muscles were screaming in protest before I'd reached the halfway point, and my chest felt like a fire being stoked. The small part of me that had urged me into the moat was delighting in this. For too long I'd been sedentary, enjoying the pampering of the Marquis and the Princess and the servants. My walks were brief ones, my lounging considerable, and my food heavy on the tasty aspect and light on nutrition. Often someone carried me up and down the stairs.

  I should be carried up and down the stairs, I told myself. I should be pampered. "Why ever am I doing this? Why? Why? Why?" I hesitated, clinging fast and working hard to catch my breath. I'm doing this so I can be carried up and down the stairs, I decided. I'm doing this to oust "Prince."

  I don't know how long I hung there, waiting for the fire within my chest to die down just a bit. It seemed like an eternity, my paws aching fiercely, but I knew it was only minutes. By the time I resumed my climb, and by the time I'd made it to the top, my fur was still dripping.

  The small part of me that had impelled me up the wall rejoiced in the exertion. The rest of me simply rejoiced in the view. It was all so amazing from the top of the wall, the lush greens of the woods and meadows spreading away in all directions, the water of the moat looking like a silver ribbon festooned with beads of sunlight. The breeze carried the scent of wildflowers, the small fragrant ones that hung on at the close of summer, and I could hear the faint twitter-song of swallows. Turning inward, I could see the castle and the service buildings around it—the stable, blacksmith's stall, and the barracks. Workers busied themselves scurrying about while the guards stood like statues—two on either side of the archway that led to the moat, two on either side of the castle door, two more on parapets. The castle itself stood in the midst of it all, made of white granite shot through with glistening veins of black, a turret rising above this wall with a pointed conical roof looking like a spear jutting into the cloudless sky. There was a window high in the turret, and I'd never thought to perch in it before and absorb the view.

  I would now, after "Prince" was dealt with and I'd retrieved my clothes and boots. I'd make that windowsill my favorite spot, and from it I would survey this glorious countryside—after I climbed the stairs to reach it, of course, making sure that small part of me was satisfied that I'd gotten some exercise. An ogre did not deserve such a magnificent place, and could not appreciate the beauty of the land. An ogre would not enjoy the view. So the ogre had to go . . . now.

  The castle was trimmed around the windows and balconies in pale blue, the Marquis' favorite color. But the trim had been burnt orange and was chipping dreadfully when I'd acquired the place from "Prince's" brother. The ogre hadn't done much to keep the place up. His brother would do no better job. I felt bile rising in my throat as I continued to think of the ogre-dog that was likely still on the drawbridge.

  I started down the other side of the wall, using the cover of the castle to hide my presence. It was a little easier climbing down, and easier still to rush across the ground and dart inside the kitchen door that was timely being opened by a cook.

  "Puss!" she said, as I shot past. She'd made a motion to pet me, but I hadn't the time for such pleasantries. "Where's your hat and . . . ."

  I was well beyond her and her trivial prattle, through the dining room and into the gallery before I came to a stop behind a suit of decorative plate armor. Here I listened for the beat of the place. Every castle has a heart. Sometimes it's a strong one—like those great ancient edifices belonging to important kings. Sometimes it's a small and feeble one, like a few places I'd slipped into during my kitten days, pretentious castles built for men who have titles but lack the miens and brains for leadership. This castle, I'd learned shortly after its previous owner's demise, had a dark heart. Its beat was hard to hear, but if you were a chartreux and if you listened for it, you could manage.

  Its steady thrum spoke of its long decades on this land, of its deep foundation filled with dungeons and treasure chambers, of the blood-stained floors in its secret rooms. It beat with the brush strokes of paintings stolen from merchant caravans, with the stitches of great tapestries fashioned by human slaves, with the last gasps of the lives lost to the ogre who once held sway here. And it pulsed with the presence of the damnable ogre-dog.

  Why couldn't he have stayed on the drawbridge?

  I could hear the beast in the room beyond, nails clicking rhythmically over the stone floor, breath coming short and even. He must have come in from the drawbridge shortly after I'd given up that route, and was now patrolling the main room and the winding stairway that lead up to the chambers where the Marquis was most likely to be found.

  His ogre-heart beat in time with the castle's, not as strong, but darker, I sensed. The Marquis would deal with the monster today, I vowed. Then perhaps the beat of the castle's dark heart would be silenced and a new heart would replace
it—one that beat in time with mine.

  I slipped back into the kitchen and made my way up the narrow stairs that lead to the cook's room. Faintly, from below, I heard the clacking of the ogre-dog's nails. Could he sense me as I sensed him? Could he smell my pleasant musky odor as I was forced to stomach the stench of him?

  I moved faster, darting beneath the cook's bed while I listened more carefully. The clacking was coming up the stairs.

  Faster still and I was out of the meager room and into the hall beyond, rushing toward a wider staircase that would lead to the sitting room the young Marquis and his Princess favored. My sides were aching from the exertion of the swim across the moat, from climbing the wall, from now climbing these stairs. The small part of me that was oh-so-proud at my efforts would be prouder still when the ogre met his demise.

  Faster.

  "Puss!" the Princess exclaimed as I slipped into the massive sitting room filled with stolen paintings and slave-made tapestries, scented tapers and the soft glow spilling in from high narrow windows. "Puss, you're wet! And you've lost your cloak and boots!"

  The clacking was louder, the beast closing.

  I glanced about for the Marquis-I'd-made. I'd never spoken to the Princess, only to my young master. Speaking to her now—and about a horrid ogre—would yield nothing but a shocked look on her pretty face. She'd hear my words but she wouldn't listen to what I had to say.

  The clacking and . . .

  Humming! The young Marquis was humming in the room beyond, the music room he called it, a polished marble place filled with poorly-strung harps and ill-tuned lyres. I was a blue-gray streak past the Princess and into the next room, a chartreux blur heading straight toward my master sitting on a plush velvet chair, a skidding mass of fur as I scrambled to come to a stop.

  "Puss!" he exclaimed. "You've been out all night! You're wet!" His tone became playfully scolding. "You've lost your cloak and boots. I'll have to buy you new and . . ."

  "No." It was the only word I could manage at the moment, and it wasn't in reference to his offer of new attire. "No." The word was directed at what was swirling around his feet. There were puppies, eight of them—writhing balls of golden hair and shiny black noses, wagging plumy tails and merry yappings. "No. No. No."

  "So you don't want to wear clothes anymore?" He reached down and picked up one of the pups, cradled it in his lap and twirled his long fingers around its ears.

  They weren't puppies. I could sense it as I could sense the castle's heartbeat. Ogres, all of them.

  "They're not puppies," I started. The words were coming fast now. "I never told you the whole story of how I got this castle for you. There was an ogre. . . ."

  "Yes, yes," he said. "I remember. You somehow managed to slay the vile monster after a fierce battle."

  I inwardly groaned. I never told the Marquis de Carabas the truth, that I'd tricked the brute into transforming himself into a mouse. The slay-the-vile-creature-after-a-fierce-battle-story seemed much more glamorous at the time. The Marquis didn't know that ogres could magically assume different shapes. Didn't know about the mouse. Didn't know about the true nature of the dog he'd brought into the castle. I'd only told the true story to Charles Perrault and a few stray cats, all good friends.

  "Ogres are magical creatures," I began, deciding there wasn't time to explain everything. I was listening for the clacking of Prince's nails, but I couldn't hear it anymore. My heart was pounding too loudly.

  "Not so magical as you," he kindly returned.

  Much more magical, actually, I thought. Aloud, I said: "They can turn into things."

  He cocked his head in polite curiosity and reached down to pick up a second pup.

  "Things like dogs and puppies," I continued. "Those aren't real puppies. They're ogres. All eight of them. And Prince is an ogre, too. Last night . . . ."

  The Marquis laughed then, loud and long, throwing back his head and cackling upward so his voice bounced off the ceiling. When the mirthful cacophony finally subsided, he fixed his eyes on mine. "You're clever, Puss, trying to make me think these delightful creatures are ogres. You probably want me to toss them out of the castle."

  "That wouldn't be good enough," I said. "They'd come back. How'd they get here to begin with?"

  "The pups? They came in yesterday late in a farmer's cart. He was as surprised as the cooks that they were hiding behind the bushels of potatoes. Aren't they . . . charming?"

  "They're ogres," I repeated. "You'll need to drown them. Or behead them. Skewer them with a long spear and . . . ."

  He laughed again, but curtly this time. "I know cats don't care for dogs, Puss, but you're being a little ridiculous." One of the pups stretched up and licked his chin. Another, between his legs and where he couldn't see, raised its lip in a silent snarl directed at me.

  I snorted. "Ridiculous? I'm being realistic. They're ogres, the pups and Prince—warty green-skinned smelly monsters that will find a way to . . ."

  He drew his eyebrows together and studied me.

  "That will find a way to . . ." I so hated to talk in front of the ogres, but what alternative did I have? ". . . to get rid of the guards and deal with the servants, chase you out of this wonderful castle. Kill you maybe. Probably. Ogres kill people." The heart of the castle beat with the last gasps of dozens of humans the previous ogre-owner had slain. Perhaps the heart was too dark to change.

  "They're puppies, Puss, charming, adorable puppies." He offered me a slight smile. "And they're staying. The princess and I discussed it, and we've agreed to keep them all."

  "You can't, you . . . ."

  "And you'll have to accept them."

  I shook my head, droplets of moat water flying away from me. "I can't. I won't. They're ogres and . . ."

  "Then you'll have to leave."

  What? I stared at him incredulously. What did he say?

  "If you can't accept the pups and Prince, you'll just have to find a home elsewhere."

  I heard the clacking again, glanced over my shoulder and saw "Prince" standing in the doorway behind me. He was looking at the Marquis, tail wagging a greeting.

  "There's my good boy," the Marquis gushed. "Prince" trotted over and settled in next to his chair.

  I needed time. I had to think. There must be a way to get the Marquis alone. Perhaps I could again catch "Prince" prowling in the pantry late at night, get my master to see the monster for its true self. But there were nine ogres now, a formidable force. Nine ogres would be more than enough to handle the servants. But nine ogres might not be enough to tackle the Marquis' armed and armored guards. There was still time to deal with this threat, especially if the ogres were attacked while in pup form. Kill them as I had swallowed the mouse. Still time and . . . .

  "Dear!" The Princesses' lilting voice carried in from the sitting room. "One of the maids says she's found more puppies—a half dozen. Isn't that wonderful!"

  "No." I had to think. I whirled and bolted from the room, a blur of blue-gray that was in an instant beyond the Princess and out onto the landing, was racing up steep stone steps that added to the ache in my sides.

  "Puss?" the Princess called.

  "Leave him be." This from the Marquis. Though I was putting distance between myself and the lot of them, my hearing was acute enough to pick up the conversation. "Puss doesn't like the pups. But he'll get used to them. He'll have to."

  "He'll have to if he wants to stay here," the Princess finished. "The pups are . . . charming."

  Charming. The word rattled 'round inside my head. Charming. Perhaps that was it! Perhaps the oh-so-magical ogres had cast a charm spell on the Marquis and the Princess. Perhaps that was why my master wouldn't listen to reason, he couldn't listen to reason, couldn't see the pups for what they really were.

  How could I get my master alone? Or at least catch him when none of the ogres were around. Six more of them! Fifteen in all. I skidded to a stop on a higher landing. Fifteen ogres could defeat my master's armed and armored guards. Fifteen og
res would be enough to take back this castle. To wipe out the servants. To kill the Marquis and the Princess.

  I sensed the castle's dark heart beating more strongly, even as my own heart hammered wildly in my chest. It was no longer a matter of dealing with the ogres. It was a matter of getting my master and his wife and as many others as possible out of the castle before the ogres made their move. I turned to retrace my steps, deciding to make another attempt at reaching the Marquis-I'd-made, when I saw a ball of golden fur bounding up the stairs toward me. The pup's expression was pure malevolence, and I wasted no time in heading back up the stairs.

  How was I to know that the ogre whose head I bit off had a brother?

  And that the brother had fourteen ogre-friends?

  Before I reached the next landing, even the small part of me that had been delighting in all this exercise was complaining. My lungs burned, my chest heaved, my head pounded and my legs throbbed. I wanted desperately to stop, to lie down somewhere and rest. But I forced myself on, and at a faster pace still, as the ogre-pup that chased me was far from winded.

  The stairs were narrowing now, as we were in the narrowing turret, and they were becoming steeper. While at first I considered that an advantage, as my agile cat legs could better handle them than awkward pup feet, a look behind sent my head to pounding more. The pup had cast a spell and transformed itself into a dog, one similar to "Prince," though even uglier. Within moments, I suspected it would be on me. It would chomp my head off and devour me. It would reclaim this castle before my body had a chance to give the monster indigestion.

  "Faster!" I shouted, and somehow my legs complied. "Move!"

  Then I was at the highest landing, through a narrow door, and up on that very high windowsill that provided a glorious view of the countryside. I had no time to absorb the splendor, however, as the ogre-dog burst into the small, round room, snarling and snapping and dribbling saliva on the floor.