Curse of the Thirteenth Fey: The True Tale of Sleeping Beauty

by Jane Yolen

  And then someone else laughed, from the shadows.

  It was Grey. “Prince of Lies,” he said, coming into the firelight. “You will get used to it.” He paused and said in a lower voice, “You will have to.” Then, in a whisper, his handsome face closed and difficult to read, added, “I have.” It was not a plea for sympathy but a heartfelt confession.

  “Family love,” Prince Orybon said. “Half a mile wide and inches deep.”

  “You have dug that hole yourself, cousin,” responded Grey.

  Even with all their bickering, I knew Grey would die for Orybon. When it works right, family loyalty is like that. I didn’t dare think about the Family now, or I’d begin to weep aloud. I didn’t dare think about how Prince Orybon was my Great-granduncle, though there was nothing great or grand about him at all. I forced myself not to think about the spindle in the prince’s hand.

  I had to think of only one thing—escape.

  Well, actually, two.

  Escape—and the Oath.

  We were a long time in silence after that. Me, because I was afraid to say anything more. Grey because he had nothing left to say. And Prince Orybon because he was laughing at us both, but silently, which somehow made it worse.

  At last the prince pulled on the leash hard enough so that I had to stand up in front of him, like a performing bear. Not that I’d ever actually seen a performing bear, except in the B section of our library, where the picture is very sad and the bear even sadder.

  “What is this thing?” he asked, holding up the spindle.

  “A spindle.”

  “I can see that. What is its use to you here?”

  “A present for the princess . . . We were . . . the Family . . . all going to her christening when I fell into your trap.”

  “What kind of thing is that bit of tat?” He pointed to the Cloak.

  I shrugged and closed it over my shoulders. But it was still not working, and I was visible. And what use is magick, I thought to myself, if it only works when it wants to, and not when you want it to?

  The prince yanked on the collar again so hard, I was shaken into a coughing fit.

  “My prince,” Grey said, back in the shadows after his confession, a strange concern in his voice, “you said yourself, she is but a child.”

  “And wasn’t it a moment before that you wanted to take her head?” growled the prince. But he slackened the leash, and I could breathe again.

  “It confers long life on a human,” I told him. “The thread—”

  “Oh, this!” Orybon said, taking a piece of the thread between his hands and casually breaking it into two strands. “I expect your princess will not live long now, so no need to hurry home.”

  It was possibly the cruelest thing he’d done so far, because it was done in such an offhand way. I didn’t know what to say to him, since I’d no idea if the spindle actually worked that way, and I doubted if he knew either. Or cared. I think he did it to make me understand how serious he was.

  “Here now is your Oath,” Orybon said.

  I was suddenly furious, more furious than I’d ever been with anyone. My fists clenched, and I couldn’t remember the last time they did that. “An Oath compelled by a lie holds no power,” I said, speaking strongly, though I feared that wasn’t actually true. I was loud, but not yet Shouting. In fact, in the back of my mind, I wondered if he had any power to compel me. I took some small satisfaction in the possibility that he didn’t, though I was careful not to smile.

  And perhaps, I thought, perhaps the broken thread is not so important.

  “Do not be so sure of that, little Shouter,” he said, smiling slowly, as if he’d just read my thoughts.

  I shuddered, which made him smile even more broadly.

  But I was right to shudder. He should have been shuddering, too. The one thing I truly knew about Oaths, besides what happens if you break one, is that the sacredness of them didn’t lie in the power of the Oath-maker, but the Oath itself. I’d no idea if a compelled Oath taken in this cave could hold the power to make me burst into a thousand stars if I broke it. Or if perhaps an Oath I was tricked into by a lie might cause the Oath-maker to go the star route. Or if the magick making me sick, the magick that Orybon’s father used when he dumped the two men in the cave, changed everything I knew about Oaths, Curses, and magick. The question was—did I want to gamble my life on a guess?

  The collar around my neck chafed. My head hurt. My wing hurt. My leg where I was burned hurt. I was angry. I was hungry. I was cold. I missed the Family. I wanted to feel the sun on my face and the wind through trees. I wanted a book in my hand. I even longed to hear my siblings and cousins arguing.

  And then I understood: even if I had to murder someone to get back home, I was ready to do so, and this after only one—or maybe two—days in the cave with Orybon and Grey. After all, I’d already killed poor old Gargle without meaning to. The difference between meaning and mistake was thinner than a spider’s strand, and I was already caught in the web.

  “Give me the Oath,” I said, my voice croaking. “There may be stars out there tonight, but they won’t be mine.”

  “Well said,” Grey remarked from the dark, still as invisible as if he were covered by the tatty Cloak.

  The prince didn’t reprove me or Grey this time, but smiled his snake smile. “Hands together.”

  I said a quick silent prayer to the Magick Lords, in case they could hear me down here, which I was doubting more and more. But it couldn’t hurt.

  “Now, listen to what I have to say, Pudding Alice, and after, you will swear the Oath.”

  I nodded. I’d no thoughts other than that nod.

  “You will be taken by Grey to Gargle’s people, and they will lead you to the Gate.”

  “There’s a Gate?” I didn’t even notice the mention of Gargle’s people. Not then, at any rate. “Why don’t you just go through it? Is it magick? Is it dangerous? Is it—”

  He yanked the leash again, and I coughed as the collar tightened. “I said listen. That does not include talking.”

  “Majesty . . .” Grey stepped out of the shadow and held up a hand.

  Prince Orybon quieted him with a look, but Grey didn’t shrivel under that dark glance. Rather he gave the prince back a look of his own. If it came down to a fight between them, at that moment I wouldn’t have bet on the outcome.

  It didn’t matter to me that the two of them were now glaring daggers at one another. After that last yank, I couldn’t have spoken if I tried. So I listened. Or at least I tried to look as if I were listening. But I was thinking, too.

  “You will say these words at the Gate. Since you have not been banned, have not been Cursed to stay on this side of the wall till your father spares you, you should be all right.”

  “Should be all right?” My voice, or what there was of it, sounded remarkably like a frog’s. I hoped the prince would allow those four words without another yank on the leash.

  A low mirthless laugh from Grey was followed by a low, mirthless explanation. “He means you will probably not be dismembered by the McGargle tribe. Or broken into a thousand motes of light by the magick of the Gate. Or—”

  Prince Orybon growled. “Now who is frightening the child?”

  “Now who is telling her the truth?” countered Grey.

  If they’d been wolves, the hairs on the backs of their necks would have been standing straight up.

  “I was already frightened,” I croaked. “Of the Oath first and foremost.” And, I thought miserably, if the McGargle tribe of trolls tears me to pieces, it’s really what I deserve. But I hope they will take my age into account. And the fact that I’d only been trying to escape a creature I thought about to eat me, and—

  “Ah, the Oath,” Orybon said. “Because of Grey’s interruptions, I had almost forgott
en the Oath.”

  None of us believed that for a second.

  “Give me the words . . .” It was almost said as a command, when I should have begged. But I was through with begging.

  The prince’s voice became very low, slow, melodic, hypnotic. I’d read about hypnosis in the H section of the library. I’d read it over about a hundred times and had tried it on my brothers and sisters. Only Dusty fell asleep, waking refreshed, but not under my command.

  “You will go to the Gate and recite these words before it,” he said.

  “Here before you, I—penitent—stand,

  Open, Gate, at my command.”

  “Er . . . what exactly am I repenting?”

  “She is right.” Grey’s handsome face was fully lit now by the sputtering hearth. “The Gate won’t open if she pretends to be you. And what does she have to repent?”

  I started to make a list in my head. Leading it was Shouting poor Gargle away. After that came a long list, which included ignoring my sisters, playing tricks on Dusty, not loving my Mother enough, not trying hard enough to be the One . . .

  Prince Orybon conceded the point. “Right,” he said at last, glaring at me. “You are a fey girl.” His hand described a circle in the air. “Make something up.”

  I stopped creating a repentance list and roared at him. “That’s it? that’s it?” My voice had come back with just a touch of hoarseness, and now it rose almost to a Shout. I was no longer holding my hands together but shaking them about. “Here you’ve frightened me half to death, dragged me around by a collar, kept me from going home, and all you can offer me is Make Something Up?”

  Grey clapped his hands and began laughing uproariously, which made the prince growl. And below their noise, I thought I heard a scrabbling sound nearby that could have been rats or snakes or the start of a Curse.

  I spun around, looking for that sound, and was brought back by Orybon’s voice.

  “Once you get the Gate open,” he said, “go through and seek out my father. Tell him I give in. I am done with this business. I repent. I regret. I reproach myself. I am sorry for my Curses. My conscience is stricken. I am full of remorse. I am most contrite.”

  “And are you?” I asked, for the more he spoke, the less I believed him. “Truly?”

  “Of course, truly,” he said, waving a hand as if dismissing my question as stupid or uninteresting.

  “Because, even after taking an Oath, I can’t tell your father something I know to be untrue. There’s elf in me, and you know they can’t lie.” My mind was ajumble with thoughts like I am only half elf, and my fey tricksiness often outweighs the truth telling. Which of course I didn’t say aloud. Instead, I said, “What if your father asks me if you’ve truly repented?” I didn’t add, If he’s even still alive to ask me. Which I doubted.

  “You probably should have taken her head when you had the chance.” Grey stood with his arms crossed, looking almost bored, but a mischievous smile played on his lips.

  “Chances can come again,” the prince said. “But done cannot be undone.”

  I shivered. Even the small, smelly fire couldn’t make me warm.

  “Got that? Your Oath is that you get the Gate open, find my father, give him my message of repentance.” Orybon spoke directly to me, dismissing Grey entirely. “And then you report back here to me, and we will go through the Gate on your promise, my cousin and I.”

  “And me,” I added.

  “Of course, you.” He said it without conviction. “Now, hands together, swear.”

  I put my hands together. “I know how to take an Oath.” That is, I knew it in theory. Hands together, then the swear. But of course I’d never actually done one. Or seen one done.

  “For the gods’ sake, child,” Orybon said, “just take the Oath already.”

  “I swear that I will go through the Gate and speak to your father about your repentance and then return to tell you what he says and if it is safe for you to go through the Gate and then go through with you and Grey if it is.” I said this with conviction, though I ran out of breath near the end and had to croak the last three words. I’d also crossed my two pinkies together surreptitiously. I didn’t actually know for sure if crossed fingers were effective in countering a real Oath, though in games with my brothers and sisters, it always worked.

  Prince Orybon didn’t seem to notice the crossed fingers, for the minute I swore, he swiftly, but without any kindness, took the collar off my neck. He believed there was no need for it now. It never occurred to him that I—a girl—might choose to burst into a thousand stars rather than do what he commanded.

  But Grey had noticed. “My prince,” he said, taking one step toward Orybon.

  “Be quiet.”

  “She was not—”

  “I was, too—”

  “Shut up, both of you, and let me think,” said the prince.

  But it was far too late for thinking and far too late for shutting up. The scrabbling noise was even louder, and before I had a chance for a true Shout, we were surrounded by a huge, hairy family of monstrous cave trolls, their shadows so enormous, they blocked the light and the small bit of warmth from the stinking hearth.

  McGargles, I thought, but at least this time I was smart enough to stay silent.

  • 10 •

  THE MAGICK GATE

  With so many of the huge, hairy males and females surrounding us, the stench was almost unbearable, and so I held my breath. Grey and the prince must have done likewise, because when they spoke, their voices were strained and some of their words were hard to decipher.

  “Dake her,” Prince Orybon said to the monsters but pointing at me, “do the Gate.” Then he turned to Grey. “Add you—go along wid dem.”

  Grey nodded, and said to me, “Doh rudding off dis dime.”

  I said nothing, which he took as agreement.

  Then one of the McGargles came toward me and slung me onto his hairy shoulder, and we were off in that rollicking run I remembered from before. It gave me stomach cramps to think of it, of what I’d done to that first McGargle. But I didn’t know what to say or how to say it. I kept my apology and guilt inside, though each thought turned into another stomach cramp.

  As we loped along, I turned my head and saw Grey with a fiery torch at the middle of the pack of monsters. I wondered how long he’d remain there. Running while not breathing through your nose can’t be all that easy.

  Even though I was bouncing up and down on the McGargle’s shoulder, I watched carefully where they ran. As long as Grey and his torch were close by, I could count the tunnels and how many turns we made. I was up to about five right-hand turns and a single left, but suddenly things got darker. I saw that Grey had fallen behind, because the torch kept getting dimmer and dimmer, and pretty soon there was no light anymore, just slate-gray tunnels, which corkscrewed and turned until I totally lost count of which way was which.

  “Oh, Father, oh, Mother,” I whispered, a sort of prayer, but didn’t get any more than that out because the McGargles had begun singing as they ran, a kind of marching cadence. Or perhaps they’d been singing all along and I’d just been too busy counting turns to listen.

  I recognized that kind of cadence because one of the Uncles had been a general, and before he left, he used to make the boys march around the forest in front of Grandfather Oak, counting off in a singing chant. We girls all took turns glamouring ourselves as one of the boys whenever Alliford or Carnell or the twins wanted to skive off from the marching, which was often. The general never knew the difference. Uncles only saw what they wanted to see. And what we wanted them to see. They may have understood about us being the Shouting Fey, but glamour befuddled them. As it was meant to.

  Naturally, the monsters’ cadence was in the McGargle tongue, and so I didn’t know exactly what it meant. But I understood th
e tone and the pattern. And the count certainly kept them running together.

  • • • • • • • •

  After a long, twisting run, the cave trolls finally began to slow down and then gave a series of shouts. As we rounded what turned out to be the final turn, before us—partially lit by another hearth fire—loomed an immensely tall Gate, which blocked the tunnel completely. The way the McGargles were acting, it seemed that this area was probably their home base. For one thing, it smelled entirely of McGargle. For another, it was filled with dozens of dark, hairy bodies lying about on the floor. Some were clearly sleeping, some seemed to be cooking over the fire, and some seemed to be playing. On the far side was an enormous body, not hairy at all. Perhaps, I thought, its hairlessness made the others ignore it. Or ostracize it. Or chain it to the rock—though this last was fanciful, as who could have forged any chains?

  But all that was beside the point because the smell of the Gate cave was so overwhelmingly monstrous, it all but overpowered me. The McGargles each had a musty, fusty, old mop smell crossed with the nasty stink of a cow’s unwashed bottom. A whole tribe of them was . . . well . . . indescribable. Added to that was the strange, sharp, silky pong from the fires. Immediately, I dubbed the place Camp McSmell.

  The dark bodies leaped up as we approached, all except the hairless one in the far end of the cave, and I saw over a dozen little McGargles, who greeted us with whoops and howls of joy. These creatures were ugly and coarse, smelly and loud, but they also seemed loving and joyous, not at all like the sour prince or Grey, whose hand was ever on his sword hilt and a mocking smile ever on his lips. There was suddenly a lot of hopping about and hugging, which reminded me of one of our homecomings after the Aunts had arrived back from a holiday flight. Actually, it was exactly like that—though clearly the McGargle grown-ups hadn’t been gone all that long. Or that far. And of course, the Aunts all smelled of lilac and rosewater.

  The McGargle who was carrying me set me down gently and went over to his family for some hugging and whooping himself, so I wandered over to the Gate to see what it looked like up close.