In Sleeping Beauty's Bed

by Mitzi Szereto

  “I am but a poor orphan out to seek my fortune in the world,” answered Johannes, the stark contrast between his previous actions and his stated objective apparently lost on him.

  “Aye, I am of a like enterprise. Shall we keep company together?”

  Poor Johannes eagerly agreed, pleased to have found a companion upon his lonesome journey. The two immediately became fast friends, although it would soon become evident that this congenial stranger was very much the wiser of the pair. He had traveled the world many times over and knew intimately of its capricious nature. In fact, there seemed to be no subject unknown to him.

  As the sun lifted itself high above their heads, the travelers settled their weary limbs beneath the shade of a tree to partake of a meal, which had been thoughtfully brought forth from the stranger’s knapsack. At the same time, an old woman could be seen hobbling up the grassy slope toward them, the weighty burden of wood upon her back causing her to become more stooped than she already was. She came to a groaning halt before the two lunchers and leaned unsteadily upon her walking stick, the logs shifting threateningly along the hump of her spine.

  “Good day,” replied Poor Johannes, tipping his hat respectfully as his father had taught him.

  The old woman nodded warily, suspicious that this fresh-faced young laddie and his older and more polished accomplice might be of a mind to steal her handbag, which dangled precariously from one of the logs. While she stood there perusing them with eyes that had long ago lost their focus, a fly stopped to rest upon the tip of her nose. Reaching up to shoo it away, she lost her hold on her walking stick and collapsed in a spindly heap at their feet. From the grievous manner in which she shrieked, the two travelers realized that the old woman had broken her leg.

  Johannes proposed they carry her home, for she would perish if left to her own devices. However, his worldly-wise friend appeared to have something different in mind. He rummaged around inside the worn burlap of his knapsack until his hand emerged with a jar, which he declared to be a special salve capable of curing any malady—including that of a broken leg. Scooping up a portion of the ointment in his fingers, Johannes’s traveling companion proceeded to rub it high up beneath the broken-limbed woman’s skirts. Almost immediately she began to writhe and moan. The leg that had lain broken and useless stretched slowly out and away from its healthier twin, twitching and jiggling with renewed life. The jar’s benevolent custodian continued with his ministrations, no doubt determined that the cure should be complete. By now the old woman’s legs were kicking like those of an excited colt, her withered thighs flung wide as she endured her restorative treatment from this stranger. With a cry like that of crackling parchment, she sprang up from the ground and sprinted off down the hill, leaving a trail of logs in her wake.

  With their bellies full and a good deed done, the two travelers continued on their way, moving toward a range of dark mountains whose tall peaks snagged the passing clouds. Although they looked fairly near, it would require the entirety of a day to reach the dense black forest that marked the entry point to the great metropolis located at the far side of the range. Ever mindful of the dwindling daylight and the resultant drop in temperature, Poor Johannes and his companion decided to avail themselves of a modest inn they found along the way. A puppetmaster was in the process of setting up a little theater inside the taproom, and everyone had gathered around to watch, including the inn’s new arrivals. Unfortunately, the burly butcher from the village and his slobbering bulldog chose to settle themselves directly before the miniature stage, thus procuring for themselves the best seats in the house and blocking a good many views, including that of Poor Johannes, who contented himself with half a view rather than complain.

  The play got under way, its central characters being those of a king and queen. Other dolls had been positioned at points to the right and left, playing the roles of courtiers and ladies-in-waiting. As the queen arose from her throne and glided crossways over the miniature stage, the bulldog suddenly let loose with an angry barking, only to bound forward and, hence, away from the reach of its master. Seizing the delicate figure of the queen within its powerful jaws, the animal gnashed its sharp teeth together, cracking the puppet at the neck. Satisfied with the carnage, the dog trotted proudly back to the butcher, whereupon the two made a hasty exit—although not before alerting the innkeeper that the boyish presence of Poor Johannes would provide payment for the chalk marks that had accrued upon the slate beside the butcher’s name.

  The show having reached its premature conclusion, the audience dispersed, leaving the inconsolable puppetmaster on his own with his broken queen. With great tenderness, he fitted her serenely smiling head back atop the jagged remains of neck, not daring to blink for fear it might roll off again. At that moment the stranger who accompanied Poor Johannes stepped forward, promising that all would be put to rights. As the puppet man looked doubtfully on, the worldly traveler removed from his knapsack the very same jar of ointment that had cured the old wood-collector’s broken leg. Yet rather than concentrating the mysterious unguent’s application upon the doll’s headless neck, he rubbed it high up beneath its skirts in the same location he had the old woman.

  Like magic, the puppet-queen came to life. Her dissevered head knitted itself back onto the splintered shards of her neck, leaving behind not a mark to indicate it had ever been separated. Fully restored to its rightful place, the doll’s tiara-crowned head rolled recklessly about as she kicked her wooden legs and pumped her wooden arms—and all without the slightest pull upon her strings. The puppetmaster was absolutely delighted, for no longer did he need to orchestrate the movements of the queen doll at all; she could move about entirely on her own and, indeed, with a will of her own.

  Later, after everyone at the inn had retired for the night, a lamentable sighing could be heard in the taproom. It carried on for so long that it roused the sleepers from their beds. Concerned that the bulldog might have returned, the puppet man sought out his little theater, since it was here whence the sighing seemed to originate. Yet what he discovered would have made him question the rightness of his mind had not the two travelers also borne witness. Scattered every which way across the stage were the puppets, their wooden limbs intertwined like a heap of kindling. The king and his courtiers along with the queen’s ladies-in-waiting had been reduced to a jumble of confusion. It was they who sighed so piteously, their glass eyes staring entreatingly at those who had come to investigate. For like their queen, they, too, wished to be rubbed with the magical ointment.

  At the sight of such terrible anguish upon the prettily painted faces of his wooden friends, the puppet man could only stand there weeping and promising to give the stranger with the knapsack his entire takings for the month if he would anoint his cherished dolls with the miracle-producing salve. But the prospect of money did not interest Poor Johannes’s traveling companion, who instead proposed to the puppet troupe’s tearful orchestrater that he relinquish his sword, which glittered sharply at his side. By now the plaintive wailings of the king and his subordinates had grown so grievous that the puppetmaster would have been willing to pay any price to put an end to it. Hence a bargain was struck and the jar of ointment brought forth.

  No sooner did the traveler unbutton the dolls’ breeches and lift their skirts to apply the embrocation than a celebration erupted. After much flapping of arms and kicking of legs, the male puppets hopped up onto their wooden feet to dance with the flesh-and-blood ladies who had gathered in the taproom, the female puppets taking a turn with the flesh-and-blood gentlemen. In all the excitement, Johannes’s worldly friend had not been given an opportunity to refasten the courtiers’ breeches, thus their pink appurtenances normally kept concealed bounced wildly and discourteously about, severely stiffened by their curative rubbing. The ladies-in-waiting danced with their human partners, demonstrating equal if not greater abandon, their skirts swirling higher and higher up their wooden thighs and revealing smaller and daintier versions of this a
ppurtenance. As for the puppet king, his majestic representation rose out from his braided breeches, only to be attended by the rouged mouth of a comely barmaid, as would the queen’s rosier counterpart. It proved to be a merry eve for all.

  The next morning, Poor Johannes and his traveling companion resumed their journey. Together they ascended through fragrant stands of pine and juniper until they could ascend no more. To the far side of the summit, a new world lay before them, offering mile after mile of exciting adventures to the two trekkers. A city with many towers of crystal shimmered in the distance, and from its center arose the turrets of a magnificent castle. It was in this direction that the travelers would go, although not without stopping once again for rest and refreshment.

  As with most inns, the proprietor was of a mind to bend the ears of strangers, which is how it came to pass that Johannes and his friend learned that the monarch whose castle they had espied from afar had a daughter—a young woman with a most bloodthirsty reputation. Through her calculated wickedness, many men had lost their lives, for, whether prince or pauper, Princess Hannibella—for so she was called—invited all and sundry to woo her. If the prospective suitor could provide the answers to three riddles the Princess put forth, she would condescend to marry him. If he guessed wrong, she promised to dispatch the failed candidate to the executioner’s ax, if not perform the deed herself.

  The monarch had long ago removed himself from his daughter’s personal affairs, therefore he could do little to halt this slaughter of innocent men. Despite having been warned beforehand of their possible fate, none shied away from the challenge of the three riddles that might win the bloodstained hand of Princess Hannibella. However, all who made an attempt had failed, and over the years many heads had been collected by the murderous Princess, several of which still retained the scream of death upon their shrunken lips. As the innkeeper relayed with undisguised relish this gruesome tale to his audience, Johannes found himself bristling in affronted anger. Did the fellow take him for a fool? For such an outrageous yarn could not possibly be true.

  The innkeeper was interrupted by an exaggerated roar of adulation coming from outside the walls of the inn. The two travelers followed the other patrons into the road, curious to learn the reason for the clamor. An open-topped carriage of hammered gold rolled slowly past the swelling crowd, the team of horses drawing it as black and sinister as the river Styx. Seated high upon a velvet banquette was the daughter of the monarch, who acknowledged her subjects with a menacing wave. The overhead sun turned the rubies in Princess Hannibella’s crown into fiery sparks, their reflections making it look as if her hair had been formed from the flames of Hell. The mantle cloaking her fine figure had been sewn from the flesh of her victims and remained open in the front, exposing the steel breastplate she wore as protection when she went out in public. Hanging from one slender wrist was a small pouch made from the scrotum of her most recent suitor—the innkeeper’s brother-in-law. It was rumored to contain her cache of riddles.

  The commotion drew Poor Johannes to the dusty edge of the road, where he felt his heart softening to jelly inside his chest. Surely this breathtaking creature could not be the bloodthirsty Princess of whom the garrulous innkeeper had spoken. “I, too, shall endeavor to answer Princess Hannibella’s riddles,” he vowed. “For I am desperately in love!” Of course everyone tried to dissuade him, including his older and wiser companion, who genuinely feared for the innocent orphan’s life. Alas, Johannes’s smitten ears chose to deafen themselves to these well-intentioned warnings. Making himself as presentable as his humble parcel of possessions would allow, he set eagerly off for the city of crystal towers and the castle at its center, heedless of the town crier’s pronouncement of “Princess Hannibella strikes again!”

  Known for his equitable nature, the monarch received the young traveler most cordially. But when he realized that upon his doorstep had arrived a new aspirant for his daughter’s murderous hand, he commenced to weep in a most unregal manner. Indeed, here was yet another head to be added to his offspring’s grisly collection. To think how many lives might have been spared if only he had never agreed to adopt her!

  The monarch begged Poor Johannes to reconsider, even going so far as to escort him into the private gardens of Hannibella in hopes that this might dampen the orphan’s youthful spirits. For suspended from the branch of every tree was the head of a former admirer, many of whom had been handsome princes from neighboring kingdoms. Flowers and vines sprouted haphazardly from the graying skulls of those that had been dangling for some time in the garden, twisting and twining sinuously outward from the vacant sockets—sockets that once held eyes that had gazed in adoration upon Princess Hannibella. “Do you not see what will become of you?” bemoaned the monarch, who strongly suspected that his adopted daughter had not been entirely ethical in her dealings.

  However, Poor Johannes had a plan.

  Upon being informed that she had a gentleman caller, Hannibella came out into the courtyard, whereupon the fatherless son knelt to the ground in a respectful bow, his love for her now greater than ever—especially when she presented her foot to receive a kiss from his worshipful lips. The Princess entertained her guest in the drawing room, where he was plied with sweetmeats and petit fours before being presented with the challenge of his first riddle, the answer to which Hannibella claimed to have written down on a slip of paper beforehand. Although as hopelessly in love as one of only so vernal an age could be, Johannes knew his limitations when it came to matters of the intellect. Therefore he had taken the precaution of borrowing from his traveling companion’s burlap knapsack the jar of magic ointment.

  By the time Hannibella had put forth her first riddle, Poor Johannes had already scooped up a generous portion of the salve in his fingers and, when her attention momentarily lay elsewhere, slipped them high beneath her skirts, rubbing in the approximate vicinity he believed his worldly friend had done with the old woman and the troupe of wooden puppets. To his surprise, his fingertips alighted upon something warm and wiggly that stood straight up like the fin of a fish. It seemed to grow warmer and more voluminous with his ministrations, turning increasingly pliable as he worked. The fin-like object felt quite pleasing to the touch, and Johannes found himself rubbing it with substantially more vigor than he had witnessed being demonstrated by the keeper of the miracle-producing unguent.

  As expected, Princess Hannibella kicked her legs recklessly about and flapped her arms like those of a crazed bird, prompting a sigh of relief from Poor Johannes. Why, in her state any answer he proposed would be the right one! It was then arranged for the resourceful orphan to return the following morning, at which time he would submit his final answer and learn whether he might be allowed to keep his head for another day—or at least until the time came to solve the Princess’s second riddle. For neither prince nor pauper had as yet managed to draw a breath beyond the first.

  Now it just so happened that Poor Johannes’s traveling companion was very concerned about the fate of his young friend. Not wishing to place faith in the fickle hands of Providence, the worldly-wise traveler decided to take matters into his own capable hands. Wishing to do good where it could best be done, he departed shortly after supper for the castle, determined to intervene before Johannes was obliged to take permanent leave of his foolish head. To make certain he would not be followed, he had plied the lovesick orphan with enough drink to keep him in blissful slumber until the arrival of daybreak.

  It was an unseasonably warm night, and the traveler had no difficulty in locating an open window, in fact, several open windows, one of which belonged to Hannibella herself, for he saw her restless figure hovering before it. He waited for the great clock in the city center to chime midnight, at which time he planned to enter her bedchamber and exert whatever influence he could on the Princess. But before the bell managed to alert him of the hour, the room’s lethal occupant had already departed through the window.

  Johannes’s traveling companion blended
himself into the shadows, waiting until Hannibella had gotten clear of him, only to set off after her in stealthy pursuit. He did not need to keep too closely on her heels, as the white cape she wore billowed around her like a ship’s sail against a sea of indigo sky. For nearly an hour they walked toward the mountains, together yet separate, until at last they could go no farther—whereupon the Princess strode purposefully up to a boulder set into the mountainside and rapped against its adamantine surface as one might a door. All at once a terrible rumbling could be heard. When it sounded as if the earth itself would open up to swallow them both, the boulder swung inward, the hermetically sealed interior of the mountain releasing a puff of fetid breath into the air.

  Just beyond this blackly gaping mouth lay a deep cavern. Its corrugated walls glistened wetly in the moonlight, the moisture forming tiny blue icicles. Having already come this far, the traveler decided to follow Princess Hannibella into the stygian bowels of the mountain. An unwholesome smell irritated his nostrils, worsening with each footfall. He stifled a sneeze, puzzled that the bothersome effluvium seemed to have no effect upon his quarry’s highborn nostrils. Its origin would soon become known, for at the end of the cavern awaited a troll. A swarm of fat flies buzzed happily about his stunted person, drawn to what had so thoroughly repelled his clandestine observer. Hannibella placed her foot forward, allowing the unsightly creature’s withered purple lips to kiss it. Poor Johannes’s traveling companion pressed close to the jagged wall, resolved to learn the reason for the Princess’s visit and praying he would not be discovered in the process.

  “I am in need of a second riddle,” declared Hannibella. “For I have a new suitor who appears quite resourceful and may have already guessed the first.”