Goose Chase

by Patrice Kindl

  Once ensconced in the tree, we sat in silence and watched the soldiers running toward us. A thought struck me.

  "Do not the uniforms of those soldiers look very much like those of the King of Gilboa's?" I whispered.

  "That is because they are the King of Gilboa's soldiers," explained the Prince.

  "But that cannot be! We must be many miles away from Gilboa."

  "Nay, Goose Girl. You have never left Gilboa since you departed the tower and flew over the border."

  "But—!"

  The Prince silenced me by placing his forefinger on my lips. The soldiers had drawn very near. 'Twas evident by their behavior that they knew we were close by and were searching for us amongst the trees.

  Biting my lips as I watched them, I reflected that I would never have guessed that Gilboa was so very large a country. 'Twas sad, really, to think that so much land should be under the rule of a man like the King.

  They did not find us at once, and for a time I hoped they would not at all. Indeed I began to think that unless we set the tree afire they would never notice us in it. Twice the Prince sneezed while a soldier stood below, and once a foraging squirrel discerned us and set to scolding us for invading a favorite nutting tree.

  I blush to say that 'twas an act of mine that brought discovery down on us. Something—I cannot say what, but some small insect—bit my leg quite painfully and it twitched uncontrollably. Off flew my little glass slipper and struck a soldier violently on the head. He caught it as it rebounded and regarded it quizzically.

  '"Od's bodkin!" he muttered, scratching his pate. "Shoes from the sky. Now there's a wonder for you! Pretty little thing, too, all made o' glass. I expect," he said, his eyes widening as the explanation came to him, "it belongs to an angel. She'd be flyin' by, ye see," he explained to a nonexistent companion, "an' givin' a little flirt o' her wings and a kick o' her heels, it mighta fallen off, accidental-like." He rubbed his hand over his mouth, and his face lit up with sudden cunning. "I wonder now," he asked his invisible friend, "just how much money do ye reckon a thing like this might bring in at the market fair in Clove City? A gen-yoo-wine certified angel shoe like this here one?" He answered himself with considerable satisfaction, "A pretty penny, that's what. A pretty penny."

  I reached out a hand and gripped the Prince's in mine, holding my breath. Could it be that even now, after the disaster of the slipper, we should be saved? The soldier, overcome with greed, was about to hide the "angel's" shoe in his tunic, when his superior officer appeared and spotted it.

  "What, pray, is that, Smeatt?"

  "O nowt, nowt at all, sir."

  "Where, Smeatt, did you get that woman's shoe?"

  "Tis not a woman's shoe, sir, but footgear belonging to a member of the Heavenly Host, and not for your delectation, sir, nor mine."

  "Give me that shoe, Smeatt."

  "O, sir!"

  "How came you by this shoe, Smeatt?" demanded the officer, taking my slipper in his hand.

  "It fell from the sky, sir, it did. From the heel of an angel, sir. 'Tis holy, like."

  The officer looked up into the tree at us.

  "There is your angel, Smeatt."

  Smeatt looked up and his jaw dropped.

  "Why, so she is, sir. And I'm sure I'll be a better man from now on, knowing what it is I have to look forward to, iffen I behave meself in this world."

  "Yes, well, while we are awaiting that event, why don't you help the lady down out of the tree, and the gentleman as well?" And the officer aimed his musket at the Prince's heart.

  Given this troop of soldiers' known lack of ability with gunpowder, you might think we were fools to come down, but we were sitting targets, and where, after all, was there for us to go?

  We came down.

  "Identify yourselves," demanded the officer crisply.

  "O sir," I said, endeavoring to look helpless and innocent and devastatingly beautiful, all at once, "we are but poor Gooseherders, whose flock has gone astray. Mayhap you saw them, as you were coming through the wood?"

  The Prince jabbed me with his elbow. I jabbed him right back. Had he any other ideas? Finding the King's missing bride as well as the King's rival for her hand, wandering far from home on the King's own land, would be a prodigious feather in this man's cap.

  "We saw them," said the officer, but he did not offer to let us go after pointing out the direction they had taken. Instead he turned to Smeatt, who had been fluttering his eyelashes soulfully in my direction.

  'Arrest them," he said briefly, and turned away.

  "Sir!" Smeatt cried out as though he had been struck. "O my Gawd, sir!" he pleaded. "Say y'don't mean it, sir!"

  "I do mean it, Smeatt. If that young woman is a Goose Girl, why then I am the Empress of China."

  Smeatt appeared nearly overcome at this wholly unexpected possibility.

  "O sir!"

  "She is no more a Goose Girl than she is an angel. And even supposing her to be telling the truth, then how did she come by that crown she is wearing? And this glass slipper? And the gown she wears, tattered though it is? The only possible answer is: dishonestly."

  Smeatt appeared to be struck by this reasoning. "That crown, sir. I do believe..."

  "Believe what, man? Speak up."

  Smeatt shook his head. "Nowt, sir. I said nowt concerning the crown."

  The officer examined him for a moment, but as Smeatt assumed a particularly wooden expression, he went on.

  "And as for the man," he said, warming to his theme, "come now, Smeatt. Do you think that men tend geese while all tricked out in white satin and metal breastplates? Who they are I cannot say, but who they say they are is assuredly not who they are."

  Smeatt's eyes nearly popped out of his head with the difficulty of following this.

  His commanding officer eyed him severely. "I shall send you some reinforcements to make certain you have every assistance you require."

  "But—but what shall I do with 'em, sir?" asked Smeatt piteously.

  "Escort the noble fowl tenders to the castle of the Baroness of Breakabeen. I am sure her ladyship would be pleased to entertain them until the King has leisure to inspect them."

  My heart sank clear down to the ground.

  The Prince cleared his throat.

  "How goes the peasant revolt?" he asked. My heart rebounded suddenly. I had forgot the peasant revolt entirely. Mayhap things were not so bad after all.

  The officer's eyebrows shot up.

  "What do you say? Peasant revolt? What peasant revolt?"

  "The peasant revolt here in Gilboa. Why, I heard it from—" The Prince checked himself. "That is, I pray your mercy, sir. 'Tis obvious I am in error."

  "From whom did you receive this information?" demanded the officer sharply.

  "O, from nobody in particular," said the Prince feebly. '"Twas only in the air, so to speak."

  "I see, Sir Swineherd, or whatever you call yourself. 'Tis clear to me that I have caught myself a very pretty pair indeed. There is no peasant revolt in Gilboa, no, nor any other sort of revolt. Our King has little patience with that sort of thing. He will be most interested to hear what you have to say, no doubt." He handed me my slipper, bowed very low, and walked away.

  I closed my eyes. 'Twould not be the tower this time, with little caged singing birds and golden goblets, but rather the King's dungeons for me, and perchance the scaffold for the Prince. I swayed a little as I stood, and the Prince gripped my arm to prevent me from falling.

  "Excuse me, miss," said Smeatt. I opened my eyes and saw him standing there with a bit of twine in his hands. "I mean Yer Holiness, that is. Begging your pardon, but I got to tie yer hands together. I know it's a dretful liberty and I'm most humbly sorry, but I got to do what the Major tells me to do, ye see, or I'm finished. "Tis a hard life in this here army and that's the truth."

  I looked wildly around. I saw the Prince do the same. There were two of us to one of him, and that one a fool. Of course, one of our number was a foo
l as well, but still—a wild dash for the forest and then...

  Five more soldiers appeared, aiming their muskets at us.

  "Tell me that you will forgive me, ma'am," begged Smeatt.

  "I forgive you, Smeatt," I said sadly, and held out my wrists.

  "By all the saints!" gasped Smeatt in terror. "What did I tell ye?" He appealed to his invisible companion. "Now how did she know my name?"

  "O, Smeatt," I sighed. Verily, my Prince was beginning to take on the appearance of a wise and rational human being in comparison with this Smeatt.

  When once we were tied to Smeatt's satisfaction, we began walking, surrounded by soldiers.

  "I do not understand it," muttered the Prince under his breath. "Why would the King have told me there was a peasants' revolt if there was nothing of the sort?"

  "Perchance the officer is in ignorance of it?" I suggested, though in the event of a revolt, surely the army would be the first to be informed.

  "Smeatt!" the Prince said loudly.

  Smeatt made a gesture to avert the evil eye. "Him too!" he wailed. "That one knows my name too!"

  "Smeatt," said the Prince, "what was this troop of men doing when you found us? Where were you going?"

  Smeatt rolled his eyes like a startled horse and then looked hopefully around at his fellow soldiers for guidance. They all avoided his gaze and began looking up into the sky, or whistling a tune, or examining the cut of their fingernails.

  "O sir, I can't tell yer that. Indeed, I can't. I'd get into 'orrible, 'orrible trouble iffen I did that."

  'And why is that, pray tell, Smeatt?" the Prince demanded, lifting an eyebrow in inquiry, his voice as authoritative as a lifetime of giving orders could make it.

  Smeatt looked desperately at the other soldiers, but they went on disassociating themselves as much as possible from this little drama.

  "Well, Smeatt? Why may you not tell me what I ask?"

  "O, because it might get around to the Prince of Dorloo, that's why, sir."

  "And why would that be a problem, Smeatt?" said the Prince in a terrible voice.

  "O, sir, because."

  "Because why?"

  "Because we be takin' over his country while he's off chasin' after some girl," finished Smeatt in a rush. "That's why, sir."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Bad Baroness of Breakabeen

  THE MOON IS MADE OF A GREEN CHEESE.

  —JOHN HEYWOOD, PROVERBS

  "By my troth, I really fail to comprehend why I should feel the slightest pang of guilt that the King of Gilboa has chosen to invade Dorloo. In what way was it my fault, pray? Had I put the idea into the King's head? Had I asked the Prince to come chasing off after me into the wilds of Gilboa? No indeed, I had not.

  Nonetheless, I found it difficult to meet the Prince's eye after this blow had been delivered. Innocent though I be, I was yet the reason why my own country might fall into the hands of that dreadful and bloodthirsty tyrant, the King, as well as being the likely instrument of the Prince's death.

  After we had stumbled along in silence for a time, I muttered in a barely audible voice, "I—I am more grieved than I can say, s—"I stopped myself just in time before I said "sire."

  The Prince looked up, his eyes dazed with horror. "My father—he is ill and wandering in his wits. I do not know what to do, Goose Girl. There is no one to defend the country, no one to lead—" His eyes flicked around at the soldiers on each side, and I saw him realize the inadvisability of revealing our identities. 'Twould not be for long, but yet we must do all we could to delay their learning who we were.

  The Prince straightened his spine and looked straight ahead. "Tis best we do not speak of it."

  'Aye," I agreed. "Tis best." We walked henceforward in silence.

  Soon the donjon of a castle showed above the trees and a turn in the path revealed the whole. I noticed with apprehension that this was no civilized palace, but an armed fortress on the banks of a wide river. Steep-sided walls, unrelieved by any windows save a line of mean-looking arrow slits, reared up over us, and a great iron portcullis slammed down behind us with a tremendous crash when once we were admitted to the premises. No doubt, being located in this wilderness, 'twas necessary to be ready for trouble, but 'twas not in any way a welcoming place to visitors such as ourselves.

  The Major had joined us, no doubt in order to take credit for our capture, though he had as yet no idea what a prize he had to offer. He walked at the head of our procession, looking well content with himself.

  The Great Hall of the Baroness's citadel was a bleak enough place. I found myself looking about rather critically as we were marched through the enormous, drafty place. 'Twas like a great black cave. There was little light and less furniture or decoration. No tapestries or hangings softened the stark stone walls. A mob of rats scampered away, squealing mightily, as we approached over the greasy, filth-bestrewn floor rushes. The lady of the house was evidently unworried by a trifling degree of dirt and disorder.

  The Baroness was to be found, not in her Great Hall, but in a small room behind it, which was furnished with a chair, a table, and a bench with a broken leg. She sat at the table, writing.

  As we entered she looked up briefly.

  "Sit," she barked, gesturing at the bench with the broken leg.

  Since our party was too numerous to fit on the bench, the Major sent his six soldiers outside to guard the door, while he himself chose to stand. We two were left eyeing the broken bench dubiously.

  I caught the Prince's eye. "Both together," I suggested, and smiled cheerfully at him, an "Is-not-this-an-adventure?" sort of smile. For some reason, I did not think I could bear to see him looking so tragic.

  The Prince nodded gloomily and we simultaneously lowered our backsides onto the bench.

  The Baroness went on, scribbling on a large piece of parchment. For a while there was silence while she wrote and we examined her. She was built on similar lines to her castle, large-boned and solid. She looked as though her only recreation was crushing boulders with her bare hands. She sported a small, black mustache on her upper lip and thick, heavy black braids wound round and round her head.

  "How do you spell 'massacre'?" she demanded suddenly.

  The Major appeared to feel that this query was directed at us and not at him. He smiled vacantly and studied the ceiling.

  "You there. The yellow-haired girl. How do you you spell 'massacre'?"

  "I regret to say that I cannot be of service to you, Madam Baroness."

  "Can't read, eh?"

  "That is correct, Your Ladyship," I said, flushing with annoyance.

  'And you, boy? Do you know?"

  "Certainly, madam." The Prince sprang to his feet and bowed deeply, incidentally precipitating me onto the floor in a heap as the bench overbalanced.

  When once I had been picked up, dusted off, apologized to, and replaced on the bench, the Prince cautiously reseated himself as well and said precisely, "The correct spelling of 'massacre' is m-a-s-s-a-c-r-e, madam."

  "Hmmm ... as you know so much, tell me then: should I write 'hanged' or 'hung'?"

  "That, madam, would depend on whether you wish to hang men or pictures."

  "O, let it be men, by all means. Or"—she glanced slyly at me—"maids, if you prefer."

  "No, indeed," he said, turning rather paler. "One says that a man is hanged and a picture is hung."

  "It is of little significance," she said, nevertheless altering her manuscript. "I don't suppose the King of Gilboa cares one way or another." She looked up suddenly and fixed him with her eye. "What is your opinion?"

  I held my breath.

  "I could not say," said the Prince coldly, and I breathed again. The Prince could not be trusted to lie, but at least he had not fallen into the trap and admitted to knowing the King.

  She signed her name and title with a great slashing flourish, folded the document, and was about to close it up with sealing wax when she paused.

  "Nay, I suppose I had
best leave this open until I fathom what you pair are about, wandering through my demesne pretending to be overdressed, overeducated cowherds."

  "Geese, not cows," I could not help interrupting.

  "Geese," she said, shooting me a look in which there was little friendliness. "And so, Goldilocks, you claim to be a humble Goose Girl, do you, taking the air with your learned colleague here, the Goose Boy?"

  I gave the Prince a meaningful look to warn him both to agree with the story I was about to tell and also that I meant to stand up. The bench rocked dangerously as I rose, but did not quite overturn.

  "Your Ladyship," I said and curtsied so low I felt my knee bones crack. "Tis true enough that I am a Goose Girl, but my companion is not, as you in your wisdom have seen. Nay, my sweetheart and I"— here I sensed rather than saw the Prince start so violently that he nearly capsized the bench—"are instead privileged citizens of the Golden Isles, that happy, blessed land on the western rim of the world, where the rivers run with wine, rubies and emeralds grow on golden trees, and the pigs fly about on silvery wings all day, singing like larks in a meadow."

  The Baroness's eyes narrowed upon hearing this last piece of invention. I went on quickly.

  "Judging by our dress you think that we are of noble birth. We are not. All the inhabitants of the Golden Isles dress in satins and velvets and golden crowns. He is but a lowly tutor to the Princess Gloribelle Graciella while I am her Goose Girl."

  "O, aye? And what, prithee, are you doing on my lands? It cannot have escaped your notice that you are no longer in the Golden Isles."

  "No, Your Ladyship." I curtsied again. "We are run away from our homes in order to wed. My dearest"—and here I searched my mind frantically for a man's name—"Osbert," I continued triumphantly, "has been expressly forbidden by his parents to wed me as I am but a poor orphan. Without parental permission we should never have been allowed to join our fates. So we have run far, far away in hopes of finding someone to marry us, after which we plan to return home and present his parents with an established fact."