by Lotus Rose
The Storyteller smiles broadly at Malice. “Hello, Queen Malice! I rushed over as soon as I sensed the good ol’ giant over there wants to kill you and put you in a sandwich.”
“How deplorable!” Malice says. “I am not luncheon meat!”
“I daresay you aren’t,” Humpty concurs.
The Cat says, “But if you were, would you taste better with mustard or ketchup?”
The Hatter merely says, “Oh, dear,” as he looks off at the giant in alarm.
And now the sound of the giant’s voice: “Fee fi fo fum, I’m hungry to eat up the Malicey one!”
Malice feels fear grip her as she looks doubtfully at the distant guard cards who can no longer keep up with the bounding giant. She says, “Perhaps this is not the best place to be standing. Perhaps we would be safer inside.”
Meanwhile, the Hatter is squinting his eyes at the giant. “I wouldn’t like to see you eaten, My Queen, but I don’t see that he’s carrying any bread.”
“Perhaps in one of the bags on his belt,” Humpty suggests.
Malice shoots Humpty a glare, so he corrects himself, “Err, though I should not like to see you eaten either.”
The Storyteller says, “I’ve no doubt that Alice would make a most delectable meal, but that needn’t be the outcome, for I know how to stop the giant. You see, I know his weakness.”
Malice fights to keep the panic out of her voice as she espies the giant stomping ever closer—he will soon be upon them. And those scrambling three guard cards are left trailing behind.
“Which is?!” Malice nervously prods.
And once again the voice of the giant comes to them again, his loud booming voice delivering them now this poetic gem:
“Fi fum fo fee,
I shall slather her in onions per the preference of me.”
Malice notices the Hatter is making a face, which makes sense, since she knows how much he despises onions.
Malice can see Humpty and the Cat pulling a face as well, and feeling the need to defend herself, proclaims, “I very much like onions, thank you so much, just not on me, but…good god, man! What’s the giant’s weakness? He’s almost upon us!”
The Storyteller wobbles his hand in the air. “The zealously overgrown lad possesses an overproportionate appraisal of the dangers of a certain creature.”
And Malice is thinking, What is with this joker? as she struggles to discombobulate his convoluted verbiage. “He has a phobia?” She struggles to remain polite, but she really wishes she was the kind of person who would punch this Storyteller upside the head right now. In fact, she almost has the urge to slap at her chest to make her ticktock heart stop (thus ceasing its artificial kindness programming it uses to force her to pretend to be kind).
The Storyteller grins big—he is straightening his back, weaving his hands through the air, as if delivering the punchline to a joke. “The bloke is afraid of spiders…which is why I brought this…” He reaches into his bag, pulls out a round wooden container, as the giant bellows, “Fum fi fee fo, no pickles on my queen sandwich, just so you know!”
The Storyteller unscrews the top from the container and shows everyone the large tarantula inside, it’s so large it would quite fill the palm and fingers of her open hand.
“Eep,” says the Hatter.
“Crikey,” says Humpty.
“Nice one!” exclaims the Cat.
And Malice merely scrunches her mouth crookedly as she peruses it—she doesn’t much like spiders.
The Storyteller says, “I’ll put it in the hand of the first volunteer—don’t worry, she doesn’t bite, usually. At least she’s not poisonous.”
“To what purpose?” the Hatter says.
The Storyteller says, “Are you daft? To scare the giant. Best hurry, too.”
“Why don’t you do it?” the Hatter says.
The Storyteller replies, “I’m more of an observer than a doer, much like the Cat here.”
Malice says, “Perhaps it’d be best to step inside.”
“Hey,” the Storyteller says, “I’m trying to help you out. And that giant could do a lot of damage to your castle walls and guards.”
The giant stops twenty feet away from them. He puts his fist to each side of his hip and chortles. “Queen Malice sandwich?!” he calls down to her. “Her Royal Sandwich?!” He points.
“I say,” the Cat says, “that isn’t the appropriate protocol for addressing a queen is it?”
“No, it is quite rude,” Malice says. Her fear is gone, replaced with anger, anger that the kindness subroutine is working hard to suppress. “But perhaps he just doesn’t know any better.”
The guard cards have caught up to the giant now. They poke tentatively at his feet and calves with their spears. But he is wearing heavy boots and barely seems to notice.
“You are much too polite,” Humpty says. “The dastardly ruffian needs to be taught a lesson. So I shall take the spider and scare the brute.”
“You must hold it in your hand,” says the Storyteller. “That is my condition.”
He gives a curt nod and Malice nods at him and grins and says, “Thank you.”
“Fee fi fo fun, Malice hop inside this bun!”
“Ooh!” Malice snarls, bubbling with so much rage, she fears her face is shining an unseemly red. “No, I shall scare the dastardly clod!”
“I’ll do it,” the Hatter whimpers.
She grins despite her anger. “Thank you, Hatter, for the gesture, but I want to be personally responsible for teaching that nitwit a lesson.” She feels the kindness program asserting itself-perhaps she spoke too soon.
The giant is sneering at her, holding the gaze of her little eyes with his big ones as he pulls out a long bread roll he’d been carrying in a bag on his back. He points at it, then at Malice—the roll is indeed big enough for her to fit into. The audacity of the gesture inflames her anger anew, and this time, she is determined not to let her heart get in the way.
“No, I shall take the spider,” Humpty says.
“He shan’t, I shall,” the Hatter says.
And Malice shoots the giant a rude finger gesture as he is pulling the roll apart on its side for the sake of his intended sandwich.
And before the kindness programming from her ticktock heart can kick in, Malice turns slightly for the sake of modesty and begins slapping the left side of her chest—whap whap whap—hoping to make her often-inconvenient heart stop ticking. It had been occasionally malfunctioning lately, returning her to the natural heartless condition she’d had when she’d been “born”. Of course, lately, the heartless condition was always temporary, since her heart always eventually started ticking again, but there were times she actually craved to be heartless…like now.
She feels the ticking stop and a cold sensation spreading through her chest.
She shudders with delicious anticipation and grins a naughty little grin.
She turns to the Storyteller and holds her hand out. “Give me the spider. I want to do it myself.”
“No, My Queen,” says Humpty. “It’s too dangerous.”
“More’s the thrill,” Malice says as the prickly spider crawls into her hand. “I shall enjoy giving the clod what he deserves. You all stay here.” She walks toward the giant, who watches her with a huge grin.
He waves his hand at the open roll he’s holding out toward her. “You hop in, yes? Ho ho ho!”
“Stand back!” she shouts at the guard cards. “I have a present for you, giant! A garnish for your royal sandwich!” She has one hand cupped over the tarantula. She can feel its tickly squirming in her hand.
“Garnish? Present?” he says, slack-jawed.
She stands at his feet now, looking up at him “Yes! Care to guess what it is?”
He raises a brow. “Me hope it not bean sprouts. Because for me not like bean sprouts.”
She shakes her head sweetly, with a pleasant smile plastered upon her face. “Not bean sprouts.”
The giant’s brows take
turns rising and falling. “Is it onions? Me like onions.”
“Well, why don’t you bring your nose down here and smell?” she says, smiling ever-so-sweetly.
He goes down to his knees, leans forward on one hand (his other hand holds the bread).
He sniffs tentatively. “Me no smell onions.” His breath is rank, but that doesn’t diminish the pure anticipatory joy she’s feeling.
“That’s right,” she says, in a cooing voice. “That’s because it’s not onions, it’s…” She removes her hand from covering the tarantula. “It’s a spider!”
The giant’s eyes go wide in alarm, and he screams. In his panic, he drops his bread. “No! Don’t put it on me!”
“I will, unless you leave immediately!”
He’s dragging his bottom on the ground as he scooches away from her. “But what about my queen sandwich?”
“Her Majesty shan’t be in a sandwich for you!” She takes a threatening step toward him, holding that spider out at him, and he gives out a whimper. And Malice is reveling in being the cause of that beautiful look of terror upon his face. “Now, begone from here!” she yells. “And don’t return, or I shall sic oh so many spiders upon you! A furious snowstorm of spiders.”
He’s sniffling, trying not to cry, though it seems the tears might start falling any moment now. “Oh, yes, Your Highness, I’m sorry I wanted to put you in a sandwich. And thank you for not putting that spider on me.”
“Now get up and scoot!”
He stands.
Malice gestures. “Now go! I don’t want to see your face again!”
The giant turns and runs off.
He’s left the bread roll behind. She can smell its delicious aroma.
I wonder if I could grab some of it for myself, though it’s fallen on the ground. Perhaps I could take some from the inside, where it hasn’t touched the ground?
The group of watchers are around her now, cheering and congratulating her, and the Storyteller brings out the wooden container again, and Malice gladly returns the spider to it.
“And now,” says the Storyteller, “as to the second reason for my visit.”
He reaches into his pocket, throws something down, and the next thing Malice knows, they are all being enveloped in a billowing cloud of smoke.
She’s coughing.
Everything goes black.
Chapter 24
The Queen of Hearts and Malice both awaken to the sound of a loud gong.
The Queen of Hearts is the one who jolts awake and gives a little yelp. Malice on the other hand, opens her eyes slowly and looks about at a more leisurely pace.
Why am I on the ground? Malice thinks to herself.
A single, leafless tree is a short distance away, but other than that, there is no plant life, only white snow as far as the eye can see.
And there, a short distance away, looking down at them, stands the Storyteller, and behind him, the two Brothers Grimm.
The Queen of Hearts feels utter contempt for the Storyteller, who she had started to consider her ally, falsely so, it now seems apparent. “Really?!” she says. “Another blackout transition? And why isn’t this snow cold?”
It’s true, the “snow” actually feels warm and fluffy, and is not wet against her skin, since it isn’t melting.
The Storyteller sets the gong down, then says, “Because it’s not real snow, Your Highness. You are currently inside the former Fairy Tale Realm, inside the snowglobe.”
Malice has risen to her feet, a task made much easier in her slim dress. She looks down mockingly at the Queen of Hearts.
The Queen of Hearts, in her poofy dress, is fully aware she’s being mocked for her fashion sense. “Oh, do help me up, child,” she says, reaching her hand out, while waggling her fingers.
Malice rolls her eyes, but she helps the Queen of Hearts up.
The Storyteller presses his hand to his chest. “Ah, what a touching scene—lending a helping hand. But aren’t you two nemeseses?”
Behind him, the two Brothers Grimm chuckle.
“Well I have the kindness programming,” Malice says defensively.
The Queen of Hearts, who is standing now, adjusting her skirts, narrows her eyes at him. “You shouldn’t mock.”
The Storyteller looks mockingly taken aback. “Because one day I may get my comeuppance? One day, perhaps, but that day is not today.”
The Queen of Hearts says, “Why are we inside this ugly, broken, useless snowglobe?”
The Storyteller claps his hands once, in delight. “Ah! Perhaps the glorious second act of the fairy tale saga is about to begin! See, when the fairy tales were unleashed into Wonderland, it filled me with much stronger storytelling abilities, abilities that I plan to use to create a very interesting story…”
Malice knows he is waiting to be asked, because he does so enjoy being dramatic, so she asks, “What story?”
He raises a hand up, pointing a finger up in the air dramatically. “The story of how many of the fairy tale beings came to go through the Looking Glass into the outside world.”
Malice gasps. “They’ve gone through?”
The Queen of Hearts says, “I thought they couldn’t go through the Looking Glass.”
The Storyteller rolls his eyes. “The fairy tale beings haven’t gone through, yet. That’s the story that is about to take place. It would be quite boring if they all just simply and blandly flew into the Looking Glass in an instant with no effort whatsoever, don’t you think? It wouldn’t be fitting for such a momentous occurrence. No, there must be struggle, drama—the story must be engaging and drawn out, as the subject matter demands.”
“So…” Malice says, “the fairy tales aren’t in the outside world?”
“Not yet,” says the Storyteller. “Or perhaps you can keep them from doing so. It all depends on how you fare in the game.”
“What game?” Malice asks.
“You and the Queen of Hearts shall compete. Your actions shall determine which of the fairy tale beings shall go to the outside world, and also, who shall rule Wonderland.”
“Blimey,” the Queen of Hearts swears. “Another sodding game. Why don’t you just put me in charge of both the fairy tales and Wonderland and get on with it? I thought we were on the same side!”
“I have no sides,” the Storyteller says. “My only allegiance is to making sure things make for a compelling story.”
Malice scowls. “So this blasted game that you’re wanting us to play in. You’re setting it up? You’re in charge?”
“Yes, because of my recent power upgrade I have great powers to guide the stories of the fairy tales. I chose to make a game of it.”
Malice’s kindness programming is trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. “But why? The fate of the fairy tales is a very serious matter. It’s no game.”
He rolls his eyes. “Why? Because it shall make an engaging story. I thought I made that clear. I…am the Storyteller!” Again with the raised hand and upward pointing hand.
“And what do those two do?” the Queen of Hearts asks, while nudging her chin towards the two Brothers Grimm.
The Storyteller answers, “The brothers shall serve as players.”
One of the brothers grins, and the other waves at Malice and the Queen of Hearts.
“Well enough dilly dallying,” says the Storyteller. “Let’s get started with this part of the story…the game. I’ll fill you in on some ground rules. The rest you can learn as you go along.”
“I shan’t play your stupid game!” the Queen of Hearts shouts. “Now, you shall grant me control of the fairy tales and make me Queen of Wonderland this instant!” She stomps her foot.
The Storyteller narrows his eyes. “That would not make a very compelling story. No suspense, you see. No, instead, I suggest you do your best in the game I’ve set up. You should know, I have powers and abilities that are great, and I have ways of making you comply.” He turns and smiles broadly at Malice. “Now, shall I explain the ground rul
es?”
Malice nods. She’s not going to test him. If he is powerful enough to shrink them and transport them to inside a snowglobe, she fears what he’s capable of if disobeyed.
“I shall play under protest,” the Queen of Hearts says, crossing her arms.
“Very well,” says the Storyteller. “Now, you, Malice, and the Queen of Hearts are to play on opposing teams.”
“Teams?” Malice says.
“Teams,” he says with a nod. He snaps his fingers. A group of six pops into view to his right.
“Are you some sort of magician?” the Queen of Hearts asks.
“No, I’m the Storyteller,” he says, as if that explains it. “And these are the members of your teams. I have already spoken to them and they are caught up. Malice, your team shall be comprised of Humpty, the Mad Hatter, Tweedledum and Tweedledee.” As he says their names, each of them go to stand behind Malice.
The Storyteller continues, “Queen of Hearts, your team shall be comprised of the Brothers Grimm, one of your finest guard cards and the Knight.” All those called go to stand behind her.
In a whiny voice, the Queen of Hearts says, “How come my group is worse?” This, of course, causes her group behind her to wince and shuffle in offense, so she corrects herself, “I don’t mean worse. I mean more boring, more drab. How come my team’s that way?”
The Knight can be heard to audibly groan.
The Storyteller answers the Queen of Hearts, “Because my dear Queen, very few people seem to like you. And the only reason the Knight is on your team is because of his phobia of young girls.”
“Aye, ‘tis true,” says the heavily white-mustached Knight in all black armor, before hanging his head.
But the Queen of Hearts is fuming. “Well, isn’t that just the typical way of it, then?!” She stomps her foot. “Of course Malice gets the most interesting group, because everyone just fondly adores Malice oh-so-very much, because she looks so much like Alice, and oh how you sorry lot adore Alice now that you all have hearts! But since Alice is gone, you’ll all swoon over her second-rate substitute, Malice, even though the only thing keeping her so sweet and nice is her fake, synthetic ticktock heart. And without that, she wouldn’t be so sweet to you all, I can guarantee you that.”