Triple Ripple

by Brigid Lowry

  Glory’s heart trembled. She’d forgotten all about Mirabella, all about her duties. Her body was cold as marble. An ill wind whistled down the edges of time. She waited. ‘What was the curse?’

  ‘Sit down, My Dear,’ Madame Star said gently. She took Glory’s arm and led her to the velvet couch. ‘Would you care for some elderflower cordial?’

  ‘What?’ Glory was in a state of shock. Nothing made sense. ‘No, thank you,’ she managed to murmur. ‘I want to hear what happened. Please, I must know.’

  Madame Star knew there was no sense in delaying any further.

  ‘In return for the loss of her son, Agatha demanded that Rosamund’s firstborn child, whether male or female, be sent to the palace. This would happen when the child turned fifteen, the same age Prince Oscar was when he died.’

  ‘But . . .’ Glory was still confused. ‘To leave my mother and live in the palace . . . surely that is not so bad?’

  Madame Star looked down at her hands. There was no way to avoid the news she must deliver.

  ‘The curse also declared that, at the palace, a fatal accident would befall Rosamund’s child.’

  Glory, white-faced, said nothing, for what was the use? It seemed there was no way to escape whatever lay in store.

  ‘However,’ Madame Star continued. ‘What . . . stop! You have not heard . . .’

  But it was too late, for Glory had leapt to her feet and bolted.

  THE WRITER

  She packs her red suitcase and flies home to her own bed, garden, kitchen, life. Joy! The writer’s editor has seen the first part of her manuscript and says the fairytale is going well, and she has noted her helpful suggestions in the margins, for the writer to take or leave. The writer thinks long and hard about the tiny pencilled notes. She wishes she could find the problems instead of having to fix them. She goes back to worrying . . . Why did she ever put a curse in there? Should Mirabella and Glory become friends? Will Mirabella marry? Maybe she’s gay? Maybe she runs away? With Arlo? Maybe she dies? Maybe she tricks a prince into . . . In an effort to avoid these conundrums, the writer sets off to perform her daily errands: post office, library, groceries. On the street outside the library foyer, she treads on some sticky chewing gum, which takes ages to get off her shoe. Bugger.

  The Reader

  › It began with roasted vegetables and ended with. . . well, you’ll see. Last night we had chicken salad and roasted veggies for dinner: pumpkin, onions, potatoes, and a whole head of garlic — an idea Mum got from a cooking show. We squeezed the creamy, soft garlic onto Turkish bread. Delicious. However, in the car this morning, Mum said I reeked of garlic. I’m already pretty low down on the popularity stakes, and I couldn’t face school with another reason for Dylan to hassle me. I panicked a bit, imagining her calling me Stink Breath or Smelly Girl, while Toby and Nigel laughed. Luckily, Mum remembered there was an old packet of chuddy in the glove box, so I went to school chewing gum, for ultra breath freshness. During first period, in Social Studies, we were having a discussion about the changing role of fathers in families, and Dylan piped up, in a really loud voice, ‘Nova’s father goes away a lot. I don’t blame him.’ No one laughed much. In fact the room went mortifyingly quiet. Dylan was sitting in front of me, tossing her long shiny hair. So I stuck my chewing gum in it; took out the sticky pink wad and rubbed it right into the strands. What satisfaction. Short-lived, though, because it was straight to the headmaster for both of us. Mr D tried to untangle Dylan’s sticky, knotted hair, but it was impossible. Miss R, the deputy, was called in and suggested eucalyptus oil, but there was none to be found, so they phoned Dylan’s mother and asked her to bring some in. Dylan faked a few tears, and I tried to explain what a bitch she’s been. At first, Mr D couldn’t get past the chewing gum incident, but finally it sank into his pea-sized brain that there were issues here beyond me being a hair-wrecking maniac. So now Dylan and I have to go to the school counsellor together, tomorrow at lunchtime.

  ‘There are always two people in a personality clash,’ Mr D announced.

  Bunkum! I thought, but managed to keep my mouth shut.

  I didn’t want to tell Mum about what happened, but the school sent a note home. Now she’s all anxious and sad. I’m feeling guilty and miserable and really worried about what tomorrow will bring. This is so not my fault, but if there’s any way to make it seem like it is, Dylan will find it. Glory’s not the only one who’s cursed.

  A VERY

  IMPORTANT

  CHAPTER

  THE PRINCESS WAITED and waited, but still glory did not return, with or without the gown. Finally, Mirabella got dressed and headed for her mother’s chambers but instead met the queen in the gloomy grand hall.

  ‘What is it, daughter? i’m eager to give Mrs Blossom instructions for tonight’s dinner. you haven’t fallen out with your chambermaid already, i pray?’

  ‘On the contrary. glory was most civil, and i was too, Mama. we chose your green silk for the ball. glory went to the dressmaker to have the hem altered, but that was a veritable age ago. she has vanished.’

  ‘I doubt she has vanished. you must not be so melodramatic. it takes time to sew a tidy hem, My dear.Accompany me to the kitchen, and we shall send someone to the dressmaker to find out what’s become of her.’

  The kitchen was fragrant with spices because Mrs Blossom was making her finest preserves, which were to complement the meats on the evening of the ball. Elda sat on a bucket, glumly peeling onions. She sniffed with envy when Rolf was given leave of his task.

  ‘Off to Madame Star, Lad. There’s no hurry for the gown, but the princess needs her chambermaid, so fetch Glory to the kitchen,’ instructed the cook.

  Rolf smirked. Removing apricot pits from ripe fruit was a messy business, and seeing Glory would be a welcome treat.

  Mrs Blossom dusted her hands on her apron and fetched her leather-bound recipe book. Princess Mirabella sat quietly while the cook and the queen added several new dishes to the feast menu: wild boar cassoulet, and apricot syllabub dusted with saffron. The kitchen was such a friendly place of warmth and delectable smells. It seemed to the princess that the life of a commoner would be far more pleasant than her burdensome life of royalty. She wished she could wear a dusty apron and cook hearty fare, enjoy ordinary things, and most of all marry whom she wished. Mirabella didn’t realise that Elda was cranky, or that Mrs Blossom was worried about the freshness of the day’s meat. All she saw was the marmalade cat basking under the table, the cheery bunch of daisies, and the sun beaming in the window on this peaceful morning. As she pondered the joys of a simple life, the princess’s idyll was interrupted by a flurry of footsteps and the sudden appearance of Madame Star and Rolf.

  ‘Glory’s run away!’

  Mrs Blossom gasped. Elda jumped up, scattering onion skins everywhere, which frightened the cat, and Queen Petronilla turned very pale.

  ‘Does she know?’ Her question was directed at Madame Star.

  ‘Yes, Your Highness, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’ The queen’s tone was most serious.

  ‘She only knows of the curse. She did not wait to hear anything I said after that. She just ran . . .’

  Glory swept her skirts around her and ran — out of the studio and away from the palace. She sprinted as fast as she could, past flower gardens, past trees cut into unusual shapes, past vegetable gardens and orchards, along the willow-lined brook, and she kept running until she was deep in the woods. Exhausted, Glory threw herself down onto a mossy log under a yew tree. Her heart was pounding and her limbs felt strangely heavy, like dead tree branches. So, this was how it must be. Events of the past, dark and ill, had conspired against her, and she must die. It all made terrible sense, now. Why her mother had always seemed sad about Glory’s indenture to the palace. Why the queen had made her stay in the palace instead of sending her home. She, Glory, was to give her life in exchange for the life of Prince Oscar. Although she understood the way things must be, Glory was flooded with despa
ir. I’ve done nothing to deserve this, she thought miserably. I’m a pawn in a twisted game. I want to grow old and be happy. I want to dance with the one I love, to marry on a spring day, to have a child and sing to it, to feed it milk and rusks. I want to breathe the sweet air of summer, see the changing colours of autumn, wrap myself in a red woollen cloak on a chill winter’s day. I want life. I want my life. Glory looked around the dark woods. It seemed that the trees spoke to her in a language she could not understand, and a vast unknowingness came upon her. She lay down on the grass and wept, and then she fell asleep.

  THE WRITER

  The writer has read about such things, in articles about famous writers and their work.

  ‘My characters just started doing things by themselves. They took over the text and began behaving in ways that suited them.’ But the writer has never believed it. The way it

  seemed to her was that being a writer was a chance to play God on paper. You created little puppet people, then you did what you wanted with them. Except that the writer had planned for Glory to remain in the room with Madame Star. After the girl heard of the curse, something else was about to be disclosed. But Glory had other ideas. Instead of waiting to hear the next bit, she took to her feet and ran away into the forest, all by herself, with no regard for the writer’s plan. So now the writer must follow Glory into the dark woods . . .

  The Reader

  › Ms Golightly only began working as a counsellor at our school this year. She sports a diamond in her nose, which is pretty cool for a teacher. She’s not too old, skinny, and wears unusual outfits — sporty-grunge meets boho-indie. Today she wore black, baggy hemp pants, black sneakers, a black t-shirt with blue flowers on it, and a black headband pushing back her messy blonde hair.

  ‘Come on in, Girls.’ Dylan and I had both arrived at the appointed time. We didn’t greet each other, just stood dumbly outside ’til she ushered out Max O’Connor — who’s always in the shit — and called us in. Dylan and I sat at each end of the sofa, not looking at each other, and Ms G sat opposite us, in a red wicker chair. There was a box of tissues on the table and an ivory statue of an Oriental goddess on the windowsill, beside a posy of violets.

  ‘Okay, here’s the deal,’ Ms Golightly said in a friendly tone. ‘You’ve been sent here to me because of yesterday’s incident with the chewing gum, and also because it seems there’s some sort of problem between you. Is that right?’

  We both nodded.

  ‘This is what we’re going to do. I’ll toss a coin to see who goes first. You’re each going to take a turn at saying what you think the problem is. Just call it as you see it. When one of you is speaking, the other listens. No butting in, no arguing. Make an effort to hear and understand. See if you can imagine what it is like to be in the other person’s shoes. When you’ve both had a turn, we’ll see what needs doing next. Okay?’

  We both nodded mutely. I resisted the temptation to say I’d rather take party drugs and dance naked on the table. When I’m tense, silliness is my first resort, but it doesn’t usually go down well with grown-ups. Instead I crossed my fingers behind my back and prayed that Dylan would lose the toss and have to go first. But she didn’t. Ms Golightly gave me an encouraging smile, Dylan gave a smug grin, and my guts turned to concrete. I stared at the tiny goddess in the window. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but I could swear she winked at me. I remembered something we learnt in drama when we worked with masks. Don’t rehearse. Take a deep breath and go for it.

  ‘Dylan treats me like shit. I don’t like it. I don’t deserve it and I’m sick of it.’ I stared at my classmate. She was stony-faced, but I noticed her swallow nervously. She couldn’t hold my gaze. She glanced down at her fingers, and I saw that her nails were short and bitten. I’d never noticed that before.

  ‘Care to give some examples of Dylan’s behaviour?’

  Ms Golightly asked.

  ‘Not really.’ I intended to play it safe and strong, and not say much, but then more came blurting out of me. ‘Okay then. She sniggers and sneers. She put a nasty sticker on my back. She hid my bag and she calls me Pizza Face. Yesterday, in front of our whole class, she insinuated that my dad chooses to work overseas because he doesn’t like me. That’s when I snapped and put the chuddy in her hair. I’m not sorry, by the way.’

  ‘Thank you for sharing, Nova. Okay, Dylan, your turn.’ Silence. Dylan just kept staring down at her lap while the silence became more and more uncomfortable, for me at least. After what seemed like forever, Ms Golightly spoke in a firm but fair tone.

  ‘This may be hard for you, Dylan, but participating today is not optional. Here’s your chance to say what’s on your mind. You need to take responsibility for your part in what’s been going on between you and Nova. It’s time to deal. Let’s hear from you.’

  Just when I thought the nerve-racking silence would never end, the oddest thing happened: Dylan started to cry.

  CHAPTER

  THURSDAY WITH

  SURPRISES AND

  STARBLOSSOM

  WHEN GLORY WOKE it was nearing evening, and the woods were silent and eerie in the dying light. despondently, she began to make her way back to the palace, for there was no point trying to hide. once a curse has been cast, it can always find its victim. I must be valiant and face what lies ahead, she resolved, but the plucky girl’s head clamoured with questions. Shall I know the manner of my death? Will the cruel blow strike at any moment?

  Glory trudged back across the meadow. as she entered the orchard, she heard the birds singing their nightfall songs. an apricot squished beneath her soft leather shoe, releasing a pungent fruity fragrance. Though glory had vowed to have courage, a small sob escaped her. This is what I will miss, she knew, with heartbreaking clarity. I will miss the ordinary things:birdsong, evening, fruit. . .

  ‘Glory! Where have you been? Everyone’s looking for you . . . Thank goodness I’ve found you at last.’

  Glory lifted her gaze, and there was her friend, peeping through the yew hedge. At the sight of dear, scruffy, worried Elda, she burst into tears, despite every intention to contain her emotions.

  The two girls sat down together on a garden seat made of twisted oak. Elda patted Glory’s back gently, trying to calm her sobbing friend. A little grey partridge landed nearby, as if to encourage.

  ‘It’ll be all right, I promise. . .’

  ‘Elda, you don’t understand. You don’t know what has befallen me.’ Glory’s words came out sharper than she had intended it.

  ‘But I do know. I were in the kitchen when Madame Star came to tell of a curse against you, and that you’d run away when you heard of it. Everyone was there, even Queen Petronilla and Princess Mirabella. Rolf is beside himself, and Mrs Blossom became hysterical, saying you’d drowned yourself in the stream.’

  ‘Why should I drown myself? I’m to die soon enough anyway.’

  ‘But we must hasten back!’ Elda jumped to her feet.

  ‘I see no reason to hurry.’

  ‘There’s something more you must hear . . .’

  ‘What?’ Glory asked wearily. ‘If the dressmaker wants to describe the manner of my death, I’m in no hurry to know the details.’

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ Elda butted in anxiously. ‘Madame Star were most insistent. “The poor girl does not know the entire story,” she kept saying. There must be more for you to learn. Come, let’s hurry back. Darkness falls, and we must let them know that you are safe.’

  Safe. I think not, thought Glory bleakly but it was not poor Elda’s fault. The two girls held hands and hurried between the rows of herbs, past the pansy beds, and through the perfumed rose gardens. When they reached the kitchen, Rolf greeted them with joy and amazement, and ushered them inside.

  ‘Lawd! You are found!’ Mrs Blossom’s face lit up and she dabbed her eyes with a tartan kerchief. ‘You are to go at once to the royal chambers. Rolf, accompany her.’

  ‘May I go, too?’ Elda asked.

  ‘No, you stay
here. We shall have some supper waiting for when they return.’

  Glory and Rolf made their way up the grand stairway and through the quiet candlelit halls. Neither said a word until Rolf managed to mumble how glad he was she was found. Glory smiled wanly at him, but could not think of a fitting reply. She felt tired, so very tired, and utterly despairing.

  ‘In you go,’ said Rolf, when they arrived at the door. ‘I’ll be waiting here for you.’

  THE WRITER

  The writer has been channelling her inner librarian instead of her inner spoonchild, eating plenty of salad but not enough cake. She’s been walking miles in comfy old track pants, but not lounging lazily on her bed in her kimono, reading old magazines. Lately, she hasn’t even allowed herself a teensy-weensy bit of retail therapy. How come she keeps forgetting the obvious? ‘People of the World, Relax!’ as Kurt Vonnegut said. So, the writer gets out her coloured pencils, her Mexican recipe book, her sewing box and wonderful fabrics. She paints a flowerpot turquoise, drinks champagne on a Wednesday, buys herself some flowers, just because. The more she smiles at her life, the more it smiles back at her, and the more the writing flows.

  The Reader

  › ‘My dad’s got cancer.’ The words hung in the air, like unexpected visitors from outer space. Dylan had nearly stopped crying, but not quite. Ms Golightly passed the tissues, and Dylan blew her noise noisily. There was no way anyone could have predicted this. I could see even Ms G wasn’t quite sure where to go next, but she took a breath and spoke quietly, kindly.

  ‘That’s awful news. Have you just found out, Dylan?’

  ‘No. He was diagnosed a year ago. My parents want to keep it quiet, so I wasn’t meant to tell anyone. He’s been having all these horrible treatments . . .’

  ‘Chemo?’