The Curious Case of Mary Ann

by Jenn Thorson

  “No, see, the axe is a new feature for him,” said Rufus. “So I’m thinking, what we need to do is to have a chat with the people at the source of it. See what they know about it and him. Persuade them, if need be.”

  “All right, but magical axes … They’re five brasses a dozen around here, aren’t they?” Truthfully, she had no idea.

  “Of course not,” said Rufus. “If they were, everyone would have them and no wars could ever be waged properly. We’d just keep calling it a draw and have picnics instead.”

  She eyed him. “Are you sure that wasn’t a flicker of a sense of humor?”

  “No, it was sarcasm,” he said. “Anyone can do sarcasm. It doesn’t count. It’s not funny, it’s just contradictory and mocking.”

  “If you say so …”

  “No, I know of only one place in which a person could get a good magical weapon such as an axe like the one you describe. So get tomorrow’s chores done today. Because bright and early tomorrow morning, Mary Ann, you and I are going on a quest.” He gave her a look. “A real quest this time. Not playing courier to a rabbit.”

  “Really, are you sure that’s not hum —”

  He glared and stalked off.

  “Yes, okay,” she called after him. “Sarcasm, Sir. Humor’s loophole. As you prefer.”

  She headed back to Mrs. Cordingley and the rugs. From the noise of it, the lady was having a real battle with a knotted berber.

  Mary Ann spent the day doing double-duty on chores and by afternoon, she had a good solid body of backwards cleaning that could run through in her absence. The last thing she had to do was a bit of sweeping and dusting in the kitchen area.

  This was usually light work. Emmaline was quite competent about keeping their space clean, though Cook herself was not. The scullery maid wasn’t as rigorous about it as Mr. Rabbit’s chef, of course. But she was far more enthusiastic than the Duchess’ Cookie Mills, who took cleaning with a pinch of salt (and a pound of pepper). Mary Ann never minded this work.

  It was such a large, echoing house, that the kitchen with its low ceilings and timber beams felt especially snug and comforting. She liked the smell of lovingly-made meals and the scent of ingredients for dinners still to-be.

  Mary Ann crept around the baseboards, giving them the attention they deserved, and finally reached the end of the woodwork at the Tower stairs. She noticed the first two steps there were dusty. She had, of course, been told in no uncertain terms that the Tower wasn’t her concern. But dust did tend to trail so. And if you had dusty stairs, it was only a matter of time before someone whisked through, sending the stuff flying, only to have it settle on the dishes. It wouldn’t hurt to just mop.

  So Mary Ann mopped those first few stairs, then the next, then round and round, and before she knew it, she was up at the top of the spiral staircase.

  She eyed the door. She never had gotten round to sneaking the keys from Mrs. Cordingley and having a look-see inside, had she? She pressed an ear to the chamber. Indeed, she could hear movement within. “Hello? Knock-knock,” Mary Ann called, trying to sound friendly, even though she didn’t have that key. “Is anyone in there?”

  “Oh no,” said a male voice in dread. “Not again! I won’t do it. I won’t do it and you cannot make me.”

  “Do what, sir?”

  “I won’t say it. I won’t say it because it’s not funny. Not in the least. So you can just forget about it. And if you bring that thing in here again, I will … well, let’s just say you’ll be sorry.”

  “If you please, sir — who’s there?” she asked.

  “Ah, see, yes, I knew it! — that’s how it starts. Well, I won’t be fooled. Change your voice if you like, but I’m not falling for it, funny voices or not —”

  “Funny voices?” Certainly Mary Ann’s voice hadn’t gotten a lot of use until recently, but it hardly seemed fair to call it funny.

  “Very funny voices,” sneered the one from inside the room. “And not funny ha-ha, either, in case you get lofty ideas about yourself.”

  “Lofty ideas about myself? I’m the housemaid.”

  “Oh, I see. So now it’s coming out. ‘Knock knock.’ ‘Who’s there?’ ‘The housemaid.’ ‘The housemaid who?’ And then I suppose you say something like, ‘The housemaid a creaky noise in the night … BOO!’ or something to that effect. That’s your game.”

  This was not her game. Nonetheless, Mary Ann decided to take a different tack. “Do you need anything? May I get you anything, sir?”

  “What, like call me a coach? ‘Okay, you’re a coach!’ Or perhaps you could bring me the favorite fruit of twins : pears! Or —”

  “All right, I’ll take that as a no, sir.” And Mary Ann hastily mopped her way back down the stairs.

  15

  Mary Ann decided to mention the encounter to Sir Rufus the next day during their travels. “Are you sure it’s your sane uncle in the Tower?” she began.

  They were journeying over the hills of Square Eight toward the Lake District.

  “Sure, it’s my uncle,” Rufus said, egging Goodspeed up the gravel grade. “My father told me so.”

  “Well, how can you be certain it’s your uncle? You’d said you hadn’t seen him. How do you know who’s in that room?”

  Rufus’ eyes narrowed. “Come along, Goodspeed, let’s put a little energy into it. We haven’t got all day.”

  “Doing my best, Sir,” said Goodspeed.

  Mary Ann had to push poor Lolly to keep pace, and it still wasn’t enough. “Really, now,” Mary Ann called to the back of Rufus’ head. “How do you know for certain?”

  “My father said as much and that’s good enough for me,” he said. “Are you implying that my father, lord of the Manor and your benefactor, is a liar? Ha, coming from you, that’s rich. You’ve lied to me more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

  “I explained about that.”

  “Yes, explained, I know,” he grumbled. “Anyway, whatever is your fixation with this? Why can’t you just let it be?”

  “Last evening I was mopping the Tower steps and the person in the Tower room … your uncle … spoke to me. He was completely nonsensical and also …” she chose her words carefully, “he told a joke.”

  “Joke?”

  “Yes. A knock-knock joke.”

  “And why not?” asked Rufus. “I mean, he’s supposed to be sane, not humorless. I’d imagine one can be funny and sane.” Though he sounded like he didn’t know for sure. “So let’s hear it.”

  She relayed the housemaid bit.

  Rufus shrugged. “Not funny to me,” he said. “But then I’m no longer the target audience for this sort of thing. For that you need a merry, whimsical person.”

  Goodspeed piped up, “It didn’t tickle my funny bones, either, Sir. But I prefer a good ‘horse walks into a pub’ joke.”

  “I like limericks, me,” said Lolly. “‘There once was a mare from Dumbstruck…’”

  “I’m just wondering if it’s your uncle at all,” Mary Ann interrupted, trying to head off the ending on that limerick. “I mean … could it be your sense of humor in that room?”

  “What? No, of course not. Just because it told a few jokes and spoke absolute babble …?” Rufus considered it, his face growing more concerned the longer he did. “I suppose it could be mine after I’ve enjoyed a jolly jousting day and few mushroom beers … I mean, that one Unbirthday party got completely out of hand …” He scratched his head. “We’ll, er, look into it when we get back.”

  Mary Ann nodded, satisfied. The sun shone warm and pleasant on her back, and there had been something of a lightness in her body, around the lung region, now that she had shared the truth of her problems with Sir Rufus. She was buoyed by the progress.

  She began, “So you said we’re looking for a purveyor of magical things. An expert in these matters.”

  “Yes,” said Rufus. “An enchantress.”

  “And she lives here?” asked Mary Ann. She peered through a telescope they’d borro
wed from the Manor. “I’m afraid there’s no cottage or castle for miles, as far as I can see.”

  “Quite right,” he said. “Technically, she’s a minor water deity.”

  “Oh!” said Mary Ann. “So she lives in one of the lakes.” She closed the telescope with a snap. “Of course! I’ve read about that sort of thing in epic poems.”

  “Erm …” His eyes shifted.

  “Not in an epic poem?” asked Mary Ann.

  “Yes and no,” he said hesitantly. “She’s in the second piece written by the historic Jabberwocky poet, Sir Loral Clew.”

  “I didn’t realize there was a second poem,” she said. “Or a Sir Loral Clew.” Until she’d met Lord Carmine and Sir Rufus, she’d always thought Jabberwocky was one of those tales no one person wrote and everyone keeps adding to. The kind of thing people long ago told around a campfire, back before the invention of bookstores and knitting needles. “How does it go?”

  “Alas, there’s no time,” he said, looking suddenly tense. “This is it.” And he jumped down from Goodspeed.

  Mary Ann hopped off the back of Lolly and took in the view. Before them was a beautiful smooth lake, sprawling silver-gold in the sunshine. “Fantabulous…” Mary Ann breathed. “Enchanting …”

  Rufus tapped her on the shoulder. “No. Here behind you,” he said. “The other way.”

  She turned around, frowning at the road, the hillside. “Where?”

  He pointed down. “There.”

  “The mud puddle in the ditch?”

  “Shhh,” he said. “Don’t get snobbish about it or we’ll never get anywhere on your axe issue.”

  “These minor water deities sound sensitive. I suppose I would be, too, if I lived in a mu —”

  “Shhh. Now drink this.” He handed her a corked bottle.

  “No, thank you, Sir. I’m not really thir —”

  “Do you want to find out about your axe or not? It’s DwindleAde. Take one sip.”

  She sighed, wondering how she was supposed to have known that; it wasn’t as if the bottle were labeled “Drink Me.” But she sipped, and as she handed it back to him, she already found herself getting smaller … smaller … and the grass around the puddle getting bigger … bigger …

  “My, that dandy-lion is enormous!” she said as it roared and snapped at her. “There, there, kitty,” she said soothingly. “We won’t be in your way long.”

  And now Sir Rufus had joined her.

  “What next?” Mary Ann asked, once he got to proper size.

  “This,” he said. “And I can’t believe I’m doing it.” He cleared his throat and in a loud voice, he recited:

  “O, Puddlefae of mud and clay,

  I beg you hear my call

  I come to thee for blade to see

  The Jabberwock doth fall.”

  “Catchy,” said Mary Ann approvingly. “What now?”

  “According to the poem, we wait in ‘teemish phanticipation,’” he said.

  “I’m not sure I know how to do that,” said Mary Ann.

  “Shhh.”

  That part must not have been all that critical to the process, anyway, because the mud across the surface of the miniature lake was already bubbling and rippling. And up, up, up rose a figure clad in silt and grass. Her hair was a mass of slick fallen leaves, her eyes like shining black river pebbles. And she opened her mouth and a voice like an entire brood of tiny tadpoles echoed: “Are you the Red Knight? What are you doing here so early? It’s not Joyble Day.”

  “Er, I recognize that, My Lady!” Rufus said, managing a stiff bow. “Terribly sorry for the inconvenience.”

  “I should say so! Come back later,” she said and started down again.

  “Wait!” he shouted, then remembered himself. “If you please, Madam. We are looking for a magical weapon.”

  “What did I say? Joyble Day. You’ll have to wait. I swear,” she directed this bit to the dandy-lion, “knights these days are so impatient! Not like in the good old days, where they knew they couldn’t rush a proper prophecy poem.”

  “We’re not looking for the Vorpal sword,” Mary Ann added quickly, before the lady’s ears submerged again. “We’re looking for a magic axe. We wondered whether you might have given one to someone.”

  This got her attention. “Magic axe …”

  “Yes,” Mary Ann felt hope rise within her. “One that can cut anything in one chop, clean and neat. It’s silver with a bronze handle and some fiddly thingies etched into the blade.”

  “Do you know of such a weapon?” asked Rufus.

  “Puny mortals,” she began, looking them straight in the eye, “in my possession, I have had magic swords, daggers, rings, shoes, a tea set and even, one time, an autonomous cape. But never in my eight thousand years have I been keeper of an axe.”

  Rufus sighed and nodded. “Thank you, My Lady. I’m sorry to have troubled you.” He bowed, Mary Ann curtseyed, and they started away.

  “I do have this magic rake,” the lady called, reaching into the mud and drawing out a full-sized garden implement, holding it aloft. Difficult to do because it was a hundred times her size. She was apparently very strong.

  “Er, no, thank you,” said Mary Ann. At the look of disappointment on the enchantress’ face, Mary Ann added, “It is a very nice rake. But …”

  “Not the ticket, then, eh? Ah, just as well,” she said, dipping it back into the mud. “Probably best it never caught on. Imagine being forever known as the ‘Lady of the …’” She couldn’t bear to finish it. “… Never mind. But if you absolutely have your hearts set on a magic axe,” the enchantress continued, “what you want to do is to go down the road, make a left, over the bridge and you can’t miss it.”

  “Miss what?” asked Mary Ann.

  “The Ace of Spades Magical Hardware Shoppe. They have everything.” She pointed to Rufus. “Come back when your poem tells you to, young man. Not a moment before.”

  They swung open the door and a little fanfare played from somewhere. It was a nice touch. “Ace of Spades Magical Hardware. I’m Ace, the proprietor — how may I help you?” asked a gentleman in a red patterned apron.

  At first, it gave Mary Ann a start, because the fabric precisely matched the cloak Jacob Morningstar had been wearing at the time of her father’s death. But then she realized that this man was much older, a barrel-chested fellow with a quick smile.

  “Do you carry any magic axes?” Mary Ann asked, glancing around. It was floor to ceiling items for sale in there, so she thought it quicker to ask.

  “Why, young lady, magic tools are my specialty and my selection is all you could axe for. In terms of practical implements, I’ve got hatchets, felling axes, mauls and broadaxes. I’ve got single-headed, double-headed, bardiches, and claw axes. I have axcessories for them and a no axcuse axchange policy. All I’ll need is a proof of quest in the form of an epic poem or legend and two forms of portrait ID. Now in what might I interest you?”

  Mary Ann said, “Well, I’m looking to trace a specific axe. I’m not sure what kind it was,” and she went on to describe it.

  “Oh, that one!” said Ace. “Yes, well, that was quite a while ago — and I’m sorry to say, that was a one-of-a-kind.”

  “So you know it?”

  “Absolutely. It was Queen Valentina’s. Or, rather, for the prop section of her production company, back before she ruled Neath.”

  “That’s right,” said Rufus, sounding like his memory had been tickled a bit. “Originally, she was a famous stage actress or some such, wasn’t she?”

  “Oh yes,” said Ace. “One of the greatest. She was mesmerizing; you couldn’t take your eyes off her. They were doing the play Pack of Lies at the time. We should have realized she was taking her leading lady role as Queen a bit too seriously when she insisted, in the name of theatrical realism, to use actual magical weapons for the beheading scenes. It was the beginning of the end for many of us then. It’s when she first licked the bloody taste of power off those rosebud red
lips of hers. After that, there was no stopping her. I was surprised how many followed suit.”

  “Is that why you’re in Turvy?” Mary Ann asked.

  “Indeed,” he said. “Self-exile. It was a choice between shuffling along behind her, being cut from the deck or leaving the pack altogether. I couldn’t abide the takeover, so here I am. I have no regrets.”

  Mary Ann said, “We think someone’s used that axe to dispatch an enemy of the Crown. We’re just not sure what her grudge would have been.”

  “It’s Valentina, so … what day is it?” He gave a bitter laugh. “Her grudge could be anything from not red enough roses to unlicensed soup.”

  Rufus said, “And you’re sure the axe was in her possession?”

  “As far as I know, it’s been displayed in her castle armory ever since her takeover of Neath. If you check her portraits in the Royal Gallery, I’m sure you’d find it hanging in the background of at least one painting.”

  “What can you tell us about the Knave of Clubs during that time?” Now that Mary Ann had a decent source of information, she wasn’t going to miss out on a single question.

  “Knave of Clubs … Who, Jacob Morningstar?” At their nods, he said, “He’s a two-faced son of a stacked deck, that one.”

  “How so?” asked Mary Ann, surprised how quickly Ace went from friendly to bitter.

  “For one, he has no sense of pack loyalty whatsoever. Once he saw Valentina, that was it. He signed up as the valet just to be close to her, if you ask me.”

  “What does the King have to say about that?” Rufus asked.

  “Oh, him. He hardly enters into it. He’s scared to death of her. I think he lets her keep those Royal Theater shows running that she stars in, and indulges her in the croquet tournaments and Unbirthday parties and whatnot, just to keep her busy and out from under his wig.”