Several feet away, she saw a narrow path, and she decided that, at this point, there was very little to lose by taking it. She walked lightly at first, painfully aware of the snap of every little twig, though in time her fear began to subside in favor of fatigue and irritation.
With each step, things looked more and more the same. Also consistent were the sounds of the forest, and they remained that way for some time until Elspeth heard a very loud thud directly behind her, followed by a high-pitched shriek and a groan.
She turned to see a roundish bush beneath a tall tree. The bush was moving about violently, making both rustling and grunting noises as if a human and a shrub were engaged in a wrestling match. Elspeth, despite her all-around rotten attitude, had never before fought with a shrub, though she did once tackle the Christmas tree after discovering that Santa had failed to bring her a real live unicorn.
The fight finally ended when out of the bush came a mess of flailing arms and legs attached to a large, oval body.
“And stay out!” yelled the shrub at the oddly shaped man, who had risen to his feet and was now brushing leaves and dirt from a well-worn black tuxedo. He appeared to be missing both neck and shoulders, his head and body one continuous thing. What drew Elspeth’s attention next were the cracks running down the left side of the man’s face. Not lines of age, but actual cracks in the surface of his leathery skin.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” the man said to the shrub in the most suave British accent one could imagine. “It’s my vertigo come to call once more. I must, henceforth, eschew any and all desire to sit in trees and upon walls. Please accept my humble apology.”
He bowed slightly toward the talking shrub, and the shrub seemed to think about it for a moment before saying, “Don’t worry about it. No harm done. Just don’t let it happen again.”
“Rest assured, I shan’t,” replied the man.
Being in the presence of a talking bush, Elspeth’s first instinct was to take off running. But considering that she had no idea where she was, she decided to go with her second instinct, which was to ask for directions and then take off running.
She put her hands on her hips and thrust her chin forward to convince the man and the shrub, but mostly to convince herself, that she was not afraid. “Hey! Mister,” she said in her most polite voice, which by anyone else’s standards would be considered quite rude.
“Yes?” he said in that delightfully smooth accent, his right eyebrow arching up just slightly. “May I be of some assistance?”
“I hope so. I need you to tell me where I am, and I need you to tell me right this instant.”
“Where you are right now, my child, is in the forest.”
Elspeth rolled her eyes and puffed out a sharp exhale of frustration. “Uh, hello? I know it’s a forest. What I need to know is where I am in relation to my apartment so that I can get home again.”
The man arched his eyebrow once more, a bit surprised by Elspeth’s extreme lack of manners. He looked back at the shrub, and the shrub seemed to shrug. Of all the things Elspeth had never expected to see during her lifetime, a shrugging shrub was very near the top of the list.
“How utterly rude,” said the bush.
“You want rude? I’ll show you rude,” said Elspeth. She kicked a small rock, and when she did, the rock hollered, “Hey! Watch it!”
Elspeth jumped nearly a foot off the ground and let out an ear-piercing shriek. “This is ridiculous,” she snarled. “Is everything alive around here?”
“But of course,” said the man. “You mean to say that things aren’t alive where you come from?”
“Not rocks,” said Elspeth. “Or bushes, or dolls, for that matter.”
“Ahh,” said the man. “You’re from the Deadlands.”
“I’m from the greater Seattle area,” Elspeth retorted.
“Yes,” the man said. “I’ve never been to the Deadlands, but we have had the occasional emigrant.”
He stepped toward Elspeth, then, upon closer examination of her face, he abruptly froze. His eyes widened and his jaw slackened. “Oh my goodness,” he gasped. “Could it be? Is it really you?”
“If it’s not me, then it’s someone doing a very good impression,” said Elspeth. “Of course it’s me.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” said the shrub to the man. “But it’s not her. Slight resemblance, but too chubby.”
“I am not chubby,” said Elspeth, folding her chubby arms across her chest.
“And too obnoxious,” the shrub added.
“Yes,” said the man with a nod. “Not the stuff of heroes.”
“Quit talking about me as though I’m not here,” spat Elspeth. “Especially when I don’t want to be here. I want to go home. Now.”
“Yes,” said the man. “However, I’m afraid any attempt to leave is strictly against the law.”
“I’m an American citizen,” Elspeth said in the way that most people do while uttering those exact words. “I know my rights.”
When the man responded with a slow shake of his head, she took a moment to study him more closely. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”
“Not to my knowledge,” said the man. “The name is Dumpty. Humpty Dumpty.”
“You’re Humpty Dumpty?” said Elspeth flatly. “Right. And I’m Little Bo-Peep.”
Mr. Dumpty snickered as he replied, “I mean no offense by this, but I know Little Bo-Peep. She happens to be a very good friend of mine. And you, young lady, from what I have thus far observed, are no Bo-Peep.”
With this, Elspeth let out her own little snort. “I should hope not. She couldn’t even keep track of a herd of sheep. Exactly how dense do you have to be to lose an entire herd of sheep?”
“Flock,” said Dumpty. “Sheep travel in flocks.”
“Whatever,” Elspeth snapped back. “The point is, what on earth was she thinking? For starters, everyone knows that alpacas are a far better investment.”
“Financial considerations aside, the first thing you should know is that Miss Bo-Peep did not lose her sheep, as you suggest,” said Dumpty. “They were taken from her.”
By now, Elspeth had heard quite enough from this condescending ellipse. “I am well aware of the story of Bo-Peep—of how she lost her sheep and didn’t know where to find them.”
“If that’s what you’ve been told, then I’m afraid you’ve been duped,” Dumpty replied.
“That’s right,” said the shrub. “Duped.”
“Excuse me?” barked Elspeth. “I wasn’t talking to you, so maybe you should mind your own business there, Shrubby McHedge.”
“My name is not Shrubby McHedge,” the shrub protested with a haughty rustling of its leaves. “It’s Tanya.”
“I don’t care if your name is Florence Nightingale. I’m quite familiar with the story of Little Bo-Peep, and you’re not about to convince me that she did not lose her sheep.”
“If we can’t convince you,” said Dumpty. “Then perhaps Bo-Peep herself can.” He focused his gaze on an area somewhere behind Elspeth, and when she turned around she was surprised to find a very plain woman, perhaps the age of her own mother, wearing a soiled and tattered calico dress. In one hand was a long stick, nearly as tall as the woman herself, and, draped around her shoulders, a large canvas satchel. Her deep, sad eyes stared at Elspeth in astonishment. “Is that . . . ?”
“No,” said Tanya. “I thought so at first too. But too chubby.”
Elspeth spun around and glared at the shrub. “Say that again and I’ll pull you out of the ground like a common weed.”
“And obnoxious.”
“You know what’s obnoxious?” asked Elspeth. “Grown-ups going around pretending to be nursery rhyme characters. Humpty Dumpty and Little Bo-Peep? Give me a break.”
“I assure you, no one is pretending anything,” said Dumpty. He nodded to Bo-Peep. “The Book. Show it to her.”
Bo-Peep unbuckled the satchel and removed a large, leather-bound book. She then walked
over to Elspeth and held out the book, which Elspeth accepted with reluctance.
“Careful with that, please,” said Dumpty. “It’s one of only two in existence. The remaining copies were burned.”
“Burned?” said Elspeth. “By who?”
“Whom,” came a deep voice from above.
Elspeth glanced up to see, sitting on the branch of a maple tree, a large gray owl. “An owl who says whom? Seriously?”
“Only when it’s appropriate,” said the owl.
Dumpty huffed and shook his head. “Pay no attention to him,” he said. “That’s Fergus, our resident know-it-all.”
“Whom is the correct usage,” said Fergus. “Excuse me for insisting on proper grammar.”
“It’s just not important right now,” said Dumpty. “The important thing is the stories. All rewritten, whitewashed, and somehow smuggled into the Deadlands by Old King Krool himself.”
“I think you mean Old King Cole,” Elspeth countered. “Who, as I understand, was quite a merry old soul.”
“Merry old soul indeed,” Bo-Peep retorted. “Take a look at page seventy-one, then tell me if you still think so.”
Elspeth thumbed through the pages until she found the right one. It was titled “Little Bo-Peep” and featured a black-and-white ink drawing that bore a very strong likeness to the woman standing in front of her.
“Go ahead,” said Tanya. “Read it.”
Elspeth did not like being told what to do, especially by foliage. And though she was an avid reader, she absolutely loathed having to do so aloud. When she was younger, a sizeable gap between her two front teeth caused her to speak with a slight lisp, which some of the other children seized as the perfect opportunity to make fun of her. The lisp had long faded, with the arrival of her adult teeth and the narrowing of the gap to the width of a nickel, but her dislike of public oration lived on.
Despite her lingering self-doubt, Elspeth cleared her throat and started in. “Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep. Aha!” she said with a smug grin. “I told you she lost them.”
“Read the entire passage,” said Dumpty.
Elspeth sighed, shook her head as if this were the biggest waste of time, and began again. “Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep to the king and his grumbling belly. The miserable glutton turned the sheep into mutton and gobbled them up with mint jelly.” Elspeth lowered the book, not sure what to make of what she had just read. “So wait a minute,” she said to Bo-Peep. “You’re saying you didn’t lose your sheep; they were stolen from you and eaten?”
“That’s right,” Bo-Peep confirmed. By the glassy nature of her eyes, it was clear that hearing the story still caused her a great deal of sadness.
“That is pretty terrible, I suppose,” said Elspeth. “You must have screamed your head off.”
“Not really,” said Bo-Peep. “I did cry for two weeks.”
“Yes, I suppose crying could be effective too,” Elspeth said. “But I’ve found screaming to be more empowering. You should try it next time.”
“What would be the point?” said Bo-Peep. “First of all, there won’t be a next time. I have no more sheep. Second of all, it wouldn’t do any good anyway. King Krool is a very wealthy and powerful man.”
“True,” said Dumpty. “He can do pretty much whatever he likes. After all, look what happened to Little Miss Muffet.”
Elspeth took the bait. “Okay, what happened to Little Miss Muffet?”
“Page twenty-four,” said Dumpty as he took a seat on a mossy log. The log, being accustomed to such familiarity, said nothing.
Elspeth flipped through the book to the page in question, which featured an ink drawing of a funny-looking girl running from a large spider flashing an evil grin. Once more, Elspeth read aloud. “Little Miss Muffet told the king he could stuff it, when he came for her curds and whey. So Krool sent a spider to frighten and bite her—she went bald and now wears a toupee.” Elspeth snorted at the thought of Little Miss Muffet in an ill-fitting hairpiece.
“I’m glad you find it humorous,” said Dumpty, rising to his feet. He took the book from Elspeth and handed it to Bo-Peep, who secured it once more in the satchel. “The poor woman has not been the same since. I’m sure you’ll find it equally funny to hear that the three little kittens lost their mittens in a house fire started by Krool’s nephew Dave. And, that when Little Jack Horner refused to hand over a Christmas pie, Krool sent his goons around to teach the boy a lesson.”
“What kind of lesson?” asked Elspeth.
“Let’s just say he won’t be sticking in his thumb to pull out a plum anytime soon,” said Dumpty.
“I don’t understand,” said Elspeth. “If these are the original stories, why would anyone want to change them?”
“Krool is no different than any other dictator when it comes to image control,” said Dumpty. “He’s done quite an excellent job of erasing any written record of the stories of his many victims, of which I am one.”
“Don’t tell me,” said Elspeth. “Let me guess. You didn’t fall off the wall, you were pushed.”
For a moment, Dumpty’s self-confidence seemed to droop slightly along with his posture. “No,” he said quietly. “I regret to say that I did indeed fall off the wall.”
“At least the king’s men and his horses tried to put you together again,” Elspeth replied.
“Ha! Lies, all of it,” sneered Dumpty. “Not only did they make no effort to put me back together again, but they attacked so viciously that I consider myself quite lucky to be alive.” As a matter of habit, Dumpty ran his hand down the side of his cracked face.
“Why did they attack you?” asked Elspeth. An oddly foreign emotion stirred inside her. Though she couldn’t be certain, she thought that perhaps she was beginning to feel sorry for Dumpty.
“They accused me of spying on Old King Krool.”
“And why would they do such a thing?”
“Because I was spying on him,” said Dumpty, the brightness returning to his eyes and the rigidity to his posture. “After all, it’s my profession.”
Elspeth’s eyelids drooped slightly, revealing her skepticism. “You’re a spy?”
“Indeed,” said Dumpty. “Or at least I was. Difficult business when you’re frequently off balance. It’s stress, I suppose. First came on when Krool took over and hasn’t left me since.”
“This is all very interesting,” said Elspeth, who normally took very little interest in the problems of others. “But I really have to be going, so if you could point me in the direction out of this place, I’ll be on my way.”
Dumpty looked to Bo-Peep, then back at Elspeth, who waited for a response until impatience got the better of her. “Hello?”
“As I mentioned before,” said Dumpty, “any attempt to leave will result in your immediate arrest.”
“If the alternative is spending the rest of my life here, I’ll take my chances,” said Elspeth. “Now, which way?”
“As far as anyone knows,” said Dumpty, “there’s only one way back to the Deadlands.”
“Seattle. I’m from Seattle,” said Elspeth.
“Right,” said Dumpty. “Only one way back. And, as I understand, it’s at the bottom of a well.”
Elspeth scrunched up her face as if it were a wet rag in need of wringing out. “Are you saying I have to go to the bottom of a well just to get home?”
“Afraid so,” said Dumpty.
Elspeth looked all around her, assuming the well in question should somehow be in plain sight. “Okay, where is this stupid well?”
“Don’t know,” said Dumpty. “There are hundreds of them throughout the kingdom. For the location of the precise one you’d have to ask the only two people who know: Jack and Jill. And it just so happens that, at this moment, they are being held prisoner in the castle dungeon.”
“So you’re saying the only way for me to get home is to climb down into a well, but before I do that, I have to go to some castle and ask Jack and Jill for directions?”
<
br /> “Yes,” said Dumpty. “But to do that you’d have to be out of your mind.”
Jack and Jill, with courage and will,
Went looking for their daughter.
While searching they found a way out of town,
Hidden down deep in the water.
Chapter 6
While it is true that Jack Sprat could eat no fat and his wife could eat no lean, contrary to popular belief this had less to do with personal taste than with simple economics. Since Krool ascended to the throne, rising inflation had resulted in prices for food, both fat and lean, skyrocketing out of control. For example, whereas hot cross buns used to be one a penny (two a penny with a coupon), they now ran in the neighborhood of six or seven dollars apiece.
It was assumed by some that this lack of affordable food was what had led Jack and Jill to venture onto the king’s land in search of something to fill their empty bellies. But Dumpty knew the full truth of the matter, for they had confided in him, making him promise not to tell a soul. This was a promise he was about to break.
“They were searching for their daughter,” he said, his eyes cast downward. “Or her remains, more precisely.”
Elspeth was not sure she wanted any further details of this story, but she got them nonetheless.
“When she was but a year old, Krool stole her away and reportedly threw her down a well.”
Elspeth was positively horrified. “He threw a child down a well? Why would someone do such a thing?”
“Fear,” said Dumpty.
“Fear of what?”
“Of the prophecy. That a young girl matching her description would one day rise up and lead the people in revolt.”
Blue in the Face Page 3