Snow White and the Seven Samurai

by Tom Holt

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘But dwarves always come in sevens,’ Fang replied. ‘Like cans of beer always come in sixes. It’s… it’s.’

  ‘It’s in the story,’ Tom Thumb finished the sentence for him. ‘I know. But suddenly they don’t any more. And I for one’d like to know why.’

  While this conversation had been taking place, Fang’s elf had been sitting on the mantelpiece behind a framed hand-stitched sampler, swinging her legs in the air and chewing on a hunk of ancient grey-streaked chocolate that had turned up among the fluff and broken rubber bands in Fang’s handsome-prince issue embroidered waistcoat. Now, however, she was sitting in rapt attention with a look on her face that could only have had one of two possible explanations, either chronic indigestion or a bad case of love, and as far as he knew the elf had a digestion like a cement mixer. True, it should have been the handsome prince and some generic industry-standard princess getting the treatment rather than a very small, hat-dwelling person and a maladjusted elf. Now sure enough, Fang was greatly relieved at not being in the frame; but he was puzzled as well; the same level of curiosity as a man might exhibit if he’d just walked blindfold across a minefield and not been blown up.

  ‘You were saying,’ he said. ‘About the witch. What’s she got to do with an apparent national dwarf shortage?’

  ‘We were hoping she’d agree to shrink some people for us,’ Rumpelstiltskin admitted sheepishly. ‘And turning the mole into something wouldn’t go amiss, either.’ He stopped and looked round. ‘Hell’s buttons, where’s the blasted animal gone off to now?’

  ‘Here,’ replied a small, muffled voice under the bed. ‘Hey, there’s beetles living under here.’ [Crunch, crunch] ‘I wouldn’t mind sticking around for a bit, unless other people have got things they want to do elsewhere. Last thing I’d want to do is’ [crunch] ‘hold anybody up.’

  ‘Mole?’ Fang queried. Rumpelstiltskin pulled a sour face.

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘What? Oh, right. Good idea at the time?’

  ‘Desperation, more like. That’s why we thought we’d try the witch, see if she could help us out with a little downsizing.’

  ‘Sorry, guys,’ Grimm #2 said. ‘She’s spoken for. If you’re patient, there’s bound to be another one along in a moment. Narrative pat—’

  He shut up quickly, aware that he’d almost made a potentially disastrous mistake. The theory was that if ever the inhabitants of this peculiar pocket universe found out that they were just characters in stories, the dramatic illusion would melt down like a fusion explosion and that’d be the end of it. Even a few of them knowing would seriously bend things…

  Grimm #2 caught his breath. Maybe they already had. Which would explain — oh, all sorts of things. His fingers itched for his ambience meter, tucked inside his jacket, but he didn’t dare reach for it in present company. Nobody likes to fade away and never to have existed in the first place, which was what might happen if he gave the game away to one of the natives.

  On the mantelpiece, the elf was ostentatiously looking the other way while pulling handfuls of dead leaf out of an old, dusty flower arrangement. Tom Thumb was doing more or less the same thing except that, since there were no flower arrangements inside the brim of Rumpelstiltskin’s hat, he had to be content with ripping out fistfuls of felt. Fang and Rumpelstiltskin, having noticed their respective colleagues and resisted the temptation to throw up, met each other’s eye.

  ‘I know,’ said Rumpelstiltskin. ‘Let’s toss a coin for her. Heads wins.’

  Fang shook his head. ‘Nice try,’ he muttered; he knew, of course, that the wicked queen’s coinage had her bust on both sides, ostensibly because it was a nice bust and beauty is truth, truth beauty; really, so the local tradition went, to save her having to choose which of her two faces to put on the money.

  That, of course, was when she was still wicked. Now, Fang realised, instead of regarding her with the proper degree of loathing he’d have felt this time last week, the very thought of her was enough to make him want to run out into the street waving a little flag on a stick.

  ‘All right,’ Rumpelstiltskin conceded, ‘some other kind of game.’

  ‘Five card stud,’ Dumpy said enthusiastically. The others had the good sense to refuse. Compared to playing poker with a dwarf, playing heads and tails with a double-sided coin was positively fraught with uncertainty.

  ‘Hide and seek,’ Fang suggested, aware that in spite of everything he still had a better sense of smell than anything that was entitled from birth to walk on two legs.

  ‘I spy?’ Tom Thumb chimed in, not taking his eyes off the elf. ‘Um, what do you, er…?’ he asked her.

  ‘Wonderful idea,’ she croaked back. ‘That was a really intelligent suggestion.’

  Thumb blushed, until he looked like a stray tomato in Carmen Miranda’s hat. ‘Oh, I expect if I hadn’t suggested it, you’d have thought of it straight away.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you to say so.’

  ‘You too.’

  Fang could feel the moment drifting away from him, like a dropped spanner in a space shuttle. ‘Not I Spy,’ he said firmly. ‘Hey, what about charades?’

  ‘Charades?’ repeated a general chorus.

  ‘Yeah, why not? Oh come on, try to think positive. The sooner we get this done, the better. Before,’ he added ruefully, ‘those two start chewing each other’s faces off.’

  ‘Don’t know what you mean,’ the elf snarled at him. ‘Some people will insist on jumping to conclusions.’

  ‘I hate that,’ Thumb added.

  ‘Oh, do you? Me too. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s people jumping to conclusions.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Gosh!’

  Just then there was a groan from under the bed; not, as Fang logically assumed, the sound of someone reacting quite naturally to the show Thumb and the elf were putting on, just Grimm #1 making waking-up oh-my-head-hurts noises.

  ‘Dear God,’ he mumbled. ‘I really and truly hope that there was this amazingly good party last night and that’s why my head hurts. It’d be dreadful to be in this much pain without having done something to deserve it.’

  ‘You did,’ Fang growled, ‘but it wasn’t a party. Come out from under there. We’re about to play charades.’

  ‘Charades.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That settles it,’ Grimm #1 said. ‘Must’ve been one hell of a party, because I’m still hallucinating. Oh Christ, I didn’t marry anybody, did I?’

  ‘Oh for pity’s sake,’ his brother snapped. ‘You aren’t hallucinating. We really are about to…

  ‘Yes I bloody well am hallucinating,’ Grimm #1 interrupted. ‘At least, I sincerely hope I am. For instance, if I didn’t know better I’d think the room was full of little short people. It’ll be pink elephants next.’

  Grimm #2 replied loudly, to cover the inevitable groundswell of muttering from Dumpy and Co. ‘Shut up,’ he advised. ‘They’re dwarves, and they’re after our witch. That’s why we’re about to play charades.’

  Grimm #1 cradled his head between his hands. ‘Bad party,’ he said. ‘It’s a tragedy I can’t remember it. Never could see the point in having a party so good you’ve got to rely on your friends to tell you next day just how good it was.’

  ‘Are you two ready?’ Fang growled.

  ‘No. You go first. I’m still trying to remember who I am and where I might have left my head.’

  Fang thought for a moment; then he was suddenly inspired. ‘Ready or not,’ he said, ‘here we go.’

  He dropped on to all fours, growled and stalked up and down the room, wagging an imaginary tail. From time to time he paused, sniffed and pawed at the ground. Finally he sat up on his haunches and howled a blood-chilling serenade to a virtual moon.

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Grimm #1.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh.’

>   Dumpy and Rumpelstiltskin conferred in loud whispers. ‘We think it’s 101 Dalmatians,’ he said.

  Fang looked offended. ‘Wrong.’

  The Grimms similarly compared notes. ‘What about “How Much Is That Doggie In The Window?”’

  ‘Wrong again.’

  “‘Daddy Wouldn’t Buy Me A Bow-Wow”?’

  ‘You’re starting to annoy me. And no.’

  Dumpy leaned over and muttered something in his colleague’s ear. ‘We think it may be “A Four-Legged Friend”.’

  ‘You do, do you? Well, you’re wrong.’

  ‘Oh.’ Both teams conferred again. ‘You sure it wasn’t 101 Dalmatians?’ Rumpelstiltskin queried. ‘Because if it wasn’t, it should have been.’

  ‘You don’t know, do you? Come on, admit it.’

  ‘Give us a bit more time,’ Grimm #2 replied. ‘I know, what about “Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer”?’

  ‘You’re only making things harder for yourself,’ Fang said coldly. ‘Pack it in, I’ll take my witch and get out of here. Come on, you know it makes sense.’

  ‘One more guess,’ Rumpelstiltskin said. ‘I reckon it must be Cat On A Hot Tin Roof.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t. It was “Leader Of The Pack”. As you’d have guessed,’ Fang added savagely, ‘if you knew anything about wolves.’

  Dumpy stood up. ‘Now you just hold your hosses there, stranger,’ he said, “cos I ain’t happy with that. Reckon as how you’re cheatin’. ‘Cos that weren’t nothin’ like any wolf I ever seen.’

  ‘Oh really? And what the hell would you know about wolves?’

  ‘Enough to know they don’t act anythin’ like that,’ Dumpy replied scornfully. ‘Wolves is kinda graceful and purty, y’know? They don’t stomp around the joint like flat-footed steers. Nor they don’t waggle their butts in the air, neither.’

  ‘I agree with him,’ Grimm #2 added. ‘It’s just conceivable that that could have been a very elderly, constipated wolf with terminal piles and thorns in all four paws, but you should have specified that before you started. Next time you’re passing a zoo, nip in and take a look at the real thing, you’ll see what I mean.’

  Fang felt more or less as if he’d looked in a mirror and seen Winnie the Pooh. ‘But that’s crazy,’ he protested, ‘I know more about wolves than any man living—’ Then he clamped his mouth tight shut, while his words echoed round inside his head. I see. So you reckon you’re one of them now, do you? And maybe you’re right. ‘The hell with this,’ he said, with a slight edge of panic in his voice. ‘I need that witch. Dammit, you’re welcome to her just as soon as she’s turned me ba— done a little job for me. All we’ve got to do is take turns. In fact, if we’d agreed on that in the first place, we’d all be through by now.’

  That did seem to be a fairly convincing argument. ‘All right,’ said Rumpelstiltskin. ‘You go first, then us, and then you two can have her to keep. Agreed?’

  The dwarves grumbled a bit, but eventually agreed. ‘Jes’ so long as you don’t break her,’ Dumpy put in. ‘I hear as how they’re darned inflammable.’

  Grimm #2 nodded towards the wardrobe, whereupon Fang bounded over and ripped the door open — ‘All right,’ he said, ‘quit fooling around. Where is she really?’

  ‘In the—’

  But when they looked there, the cupboard was bare. So to speak.

  ‘Psst!’ said a bush.

  Sis had thought she was way past being surprised by anything she saw or heard; just shows how wrong you can be. She jumped about two feet in the air, but the wicked queen just kept on walking.

  ‘Not now, Beast,’ she said. ‘We’re busy.’

  ‘But you’ve got to help me,’ whined the bush. ‘This time she’s going to catch me, I know it. Look, you’re supposed to be the law around here—’

  ‘That,’ the queen replied severely, ‘is a moot point. Moot, in fact, as all buggery. And even if I was, I wouldn’t help you. Go on, clear on out of it. Scram.’

  ‘But I’m desperate!’

  ‘So I’d heard,’ the queen said. ‘And that remark is less than flattering, if I may say so. Go away.’

  The bush shook, and out from behind it stepped the ugliest, most revolting-looking creature Sis had ever seen outside of a televised Parliamentary debate. ‘He’s from Beauty and the Beast, right?’ she whispered.

  ‘You’ve got it. And I’ll bet you’ll never guess which one he is.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s very nice when you get to know him,’ Sis replied defiantly. ‘It’s in the eye of the beholder, you know.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Well, beauty, of course.’

  ‘What, that old thing? I thought you were talking about a bit of grit or a fly or something.’

  Wheezing and panting like a ninety-year-old chain-smoker, the Beast waddled up to them, sighed and flumped down on the stump of a tree. ‘Thank you,’ he gasped. ‘It’s so nice finally to meet somebody who cares.’

  The queen snorted. ‘You make me sick, you hypocritical bastard,’ she said. ‘Though I reckon that on you, vomit’d be a fashion statement. Get on with it; then we can ignore you and be on our way.’

  ‘It’s Her,’ the Beast muttered, his voice shaky. ‘She can’t be far behind me.’

  The queen nodded. ‘How’d you get out this time?’ she asked.

  ‘Ah,’ replied the Beast, and some of the more mobile components of its face moved together in a vague approximation of a grin. ‘I dug a tunnel and got out through the drainage system.’

  ‘Thereby going into the record books as the first person ever to lower the tone of a sewer.’ She sniffed tentatively. ‘Well,’ she conceded. ‘It saves you having to have your bath this year. Why do you keep bothering to run away, though? She always catches you in the end.’

  ‘Not this time,’ replied the Beast with grim determination. ‘Whatever happens, I’m not going back. I’d rather she killed me first.’

  ‘Who’s she?’ Sis interrupted. ‘Not Beauty, surely?’

  At the word Beauty, the Beast shivered uncontrollably. ‘Not so loud,’ he whispered. ‘You never know who might be listening. All the dear little birds and cuddly little animals in the forest are her friends. They’d grass me up to her so fast my feet wouldn’t touch.’ He calmed himself down by breathing in deeply. ‘You don’t believe me,’ he said, hurt. ‘You think I’m exaggerating. Well, you try being her prisoner for six months in that horrible castle, see how you like it.’

  “Scuse me?’ Sis interrupted. ‘Shouldn’t that be the other way…?’ She checked herself and remembered. ‘Sorry,’ she went on, ‘mixing you up with someone else.’

  The Beast stifled a sob. ‘Sometimes I think I’ll never get away,’ he groaned. ‘A couple of weeks ago this nice dragon came by, saw me locked up in the highest tower of the castle and tried to rescue me. She killed it, of course. She always does. Half of the furniture in the Great Hall’s got dragonskin loose covers now.’

  ‘All right,’ the queen admitted grudgingly, ‘so she’s a tough cookie. And maybe,’ she added, a trifle less roughly, ‘just maybe she’s more than you deserve. I don’t see why you expect us to get involved. Like I said just now, my official status is a bit blurred right now.’

  ‘I think we should help,’ Sis said firmly. ‘After all,’ she added, ‘if all this stuff you’ve been telling me about narrative patterns is actually true—’

  ‘We could boost ourselves into a better storyline,’ the queen said, ‘one we could use to get where we want to be. Not bad, girl, you’re learning. All right,’ she said, turning to face the Beast, ‘what’s she up to now? When you last saw her, I mean.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ the Beast said. ‘She’s gone crazy. Well, she was never exactly what you’d call a stable personality to start with. She’s got mood swings that’s make a pendulum dizzy. But ever since she got that message from her accountant—’

  The wicked queen froze. ‘Did you say accountant?’

  ‘That’s righ
t. Apparently he’s a little man who does sums.’

  ‘I know what an accountant is,’ the wicked queen said, with feeling. ‘This wouldn’t be a little gnomelike twerp—’

  ‘Leprechaun, actually.’

  ‘That’s right. Lives in the middle of a swamp.’

  ‘For some reason best known to himself. Yes, that’s him. Anyway, he sent her a message offering to sell her something. No idea what it was, but it must have been quite valuable, ‘cos she hired Jack and Jill to go fetch it, and they’re expensive. Anyway, ever since then, she’s been sitting in front of her mirror talking to it. And doing this weird wicked-queen laughing — oh, sorry, no offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ the queen replied. ‘I used to pride myself on my evil laughter.’ Something she’d just said made her suddenly thoughtful. ‘Hellfire, yes,’ she added quietly. ‘Didn’t I just. I’d forgotten all about that until you mentioned it just now.’

  ‘Anyway,’ the Beast went on, ‘it’s downright scary listening to her. It was bad enough when she used to talk to the furniture and the crockery. At least they didn’t talk back.’

  ‘Had more sense, probably,’ the queen said. ‘But the mirror does?’

  The Beast nodded, and several of the floppier extremities on his face wobbled revoltingly. ‘They chat away for hours up there,’ he said, shivering a little. ‘And there’s lots of that spooky laughter. Not all of it’s her, either.’

  ‘Really?’ The queen stood up. ‘We’d better go and look into this,’ she said. ‘Do you know a narrative thread that’ll take us there without being seen?’

  The Beast thought for a moment. ‘There’s an unresolved plot strand that comes up slap bang in the middle of the deserted east wing of the castle,’ he said. ‘Will that do?’

  ‘It’ll have to, I suppose,’ the queen replied dubiously. ‘But I know those UPSs. You can always tell them by the way they have these big neon signs saying TRAP THIS WAY!!! just above the entrances. Still, there’s no bucking the story. Just a minute,’ she added. ‘What the hell would you know about narrative threads and unresolved plot strands? You’re just a civilian.’

  The Beast shrugged helplessly. ‘Search me,’ he said. ‘I just do, that’s all. Feels like I’ve known it all my life, except…’