The old man looked at her and said, “You are right, I didn’t. Now as I was saying, Harry was pacing and pacing until suddenly he stopped.”
Not to be put off or surpassed, the little urchin interrupted again. “But she has to have a name. She just has to. People can’t just go around calling her princess!”
“Why not?” the old man asked, pretending to be irritated.
“Because she does,” the imperial highness stated with both hands on her hips, jumping down from her grandpa’s lap and staring at the old man. The crowd was starting to snicker, but neither combatant seemed to notice as their focus was so intent on each other.
“So, what’s her name?”
The old man got a sly look on his face and asked, “What’s yours?”
The little girl looked at him suspiciously and said, “Sarah.”
“Isn’t that the most amazing coincidence,” the old man replied. “That’s the same name as the princess.”
“Reaalllly?” her imperial majesty questioned, head tilting in disbelief.
“No, but that is what I am going to call her.”
By this time the crowd was into it. People were howling and laughing at the impasse and listening for the next round to begin.
“What’s her real name?” her riled-up highness demanded.
“Fine, her real name was Princess Arimathea Moni Caitlín Joline Bethany Mary Jane Stewart.”
“No, it wasn’t!”
“Yes, my dear it really was. See royal families with a lot of kindred to pacify tended to name their children for everyone in the family of any distinction, and that is why, by the way, most of her friends just called her Sarah. Are you happy now?”
As she crawled back into her chuckling grandfather’s lap, the little girl grumbled, “For now.”
The old man shook his head and started again. “Harry decided, finally, after a night of pacing and pondering, that he would just have to start out and see what happened. He had no one to go to for counsel, no armorer to grant him shield or sword, and no horse to ride into battle. All he had were the clothes on his back and the wits in his head. And with that he walked out of his house and headed toward the dark hills that hid the dragon’s lair.
“The trip to the mountains was long and treacherous, especially now that Romlott Hus was guarding the way to his lair. He didn’t get far before he got hot, and sweat began to stream down his face and body, soaking his clothes and skin. He stopped for a moment under a shade tree and took a drink from his water bag. He only intended to stop there a moment, but it was so hot, and he was already tired from his troubling dream and lack of rest, that he fell asleep. As soon as his sleep deepened, he began to dream and was soon dreaming the familiar dream of the princess seated at the flickering fire. As he approached her, she seemed to sense his presence.
“‘I’m so glad you are back,’ the princess said. ‘I don’t know how you are doing this, but I am so glad you are, even if you’re a figment of my imagination…’”
Immediately several hands shot up. The old man, ready for them, said, “Figment means fabrication or hallucination.” He smiled as he saw that many of the children didn’t know what fabrication or hallucination meant either but were getting the idea.
One little boy elbowed another in the ribs, leaned over, and said, “That means you make it up.”
The old man continued, not missing a beat, “‘But right now, you are all that is holding me together. Can you hear me?’
“‘Yes, I can, Princess. I am on a journey to find you. Is there anything you can tell me that might help me find you?’ Harry asked patiently.
“‘I don’t know. I don’t know where I am!’
“‘Can you describe what you have seen or heard or even smelt, anything to give me a clue as to your location?’
“‘Let me think. It’s dark and musty, always dark. I must be in a cave. I am sure of it. I am underground surrounded by rock, and there is a stream here, but it stinks like marsh and something else, very nasty. I think maybe it’s run-off from the city’s sewer. I can’t drink that filth and have to find water from other sources here in the cave.’
“‘Hmmm,’ Harry said. ‘The city’s sewer, that’s a couple of miles north of here, and it runs toward the mountain valley and then out to the sea. I’m coming Princess, hold on. I will come for you. Don’t give up. Please don’t give up.’
“‘What’s your name? When I pray, I want to call you by name.’
“‘My name is Harry, Princess. Just plain old Harry.’
“‘I will do my best, Harry. I’m just so tired, and the dragon’s onslaught against my thoughts is relentless. The only time I get relief is when I am dreaming, like now. Be careful Harry. So many have died. I can’t forget the screams I heard as the dragon sprayed them with flame and devoured them.’
“Harry exhibited courage he didn’t feel – and realized it wasn’t what you felt that was courage, it was what you did in spite of what you felt. He also noticed he was slipping away and shouted as he began to fade, ‘Don’t give up, Princess! No matter what, don’t give up! I will come for you!’
“Then he was gone. He woke under the only shade tree for miles. He started to move but realized that the moment he walked out from under the tree’s protective covering, he would be spotted, especially in this open field. So, he waited. He hated to wait because while he waited, he worried, and fretted, and battled fearful thoughts for the princess’ safety. But not once, and he didn’t even realize it, did he think of his own safety. He thought only of hers.
“Twilight finally fell, and Harry stepped out from the shade of the lone tree and began to slowly move through the sea of grass toward the city’s sewer marsh. The largest city in the realm was Brookstone. It had built miles of tunnels that captured its waste and took it to the marshes. The people worked hard to keep the city clean, and the marsh acted as a natural deposit of waste, which, after a season, also became extremely fertile soil that farmers would collect to use in their fields and gardens.
“Early in the afternoon Harry reached the marshes. The weather had cooled, and he was glad that a breeze was blowing because the marsh stank terribly. The ground bubbled up a thick, slimy goo that gurgled, and even fizzed, releasing a noxious stench. When he first smelled it, Harry thought he was going to throw up. Barely able to hold on, he wondered how he was going to find a way through the marsh and into the dragon’s lair. He searched all day before finally stopping to camp for the night. He had marsh water all over him, stank to high heaven, mosquitos began to bite, and he was miserable. Some hero I am, he thought sadly. How will I ever find the entrance to the cave? Am I even going to survive this night? The mosquitos are carrying me off a little at time, and I smell terrible. Oh gosh, this is awful!
“At this point you would think something should happen. The hero is at his wit’s end. He is helpless, despairing, miserable, weak, and lost. It’s time for something great to happen, right?” the old man asked the little ones scattered in front of him. “What do you think? Is it time?”
“Oh no,” a freckle-faced little boy answered. “He’s got all night. It is time for a commercial though, and a bathroom break, and a pizza nuggets break. But no, I don’t think Harry is going to get any help. He just has to man up and get through.”
“Sadly, you’re right young man. There were no lights in the sky, no special help sent his way, just stench, stale bread, and mosquitos all night long. Finally, Harry realized if he spread his blanket over his head, he could keep most of the mosquitos off most of his flesh, so he did. The blanket was thin and was soon covered in stinky mud, but even that helped to keep the bugs off. Harry curled up against a log, covered himself with his muddy blanket, and fell mercifully asleep to the tune of a million frogs orchestrated against the night.
“In the middle of the night or early morning, Harry didn’t know which, he was awakened by a terrible roar. The dragon burst forth from its lair, bellowed, and blew flames from its nostrils. Its horren
dous scream pierced the night, and Harry felt as if the marsh itself trembled beneath its blast. The dragon flew right over the place where Harry lay covered with mud and marsh. Harry just knew that, at any moment, the dragon’s piercing eyes would catch sight of him, and he almost yelled when the dragon flew so close that he felt the warmth of its body and smelled the odor of its rotted breath. But the dragon did not see Harry, nor did it smell him. Since he was covered with mud and muck, he was invisible to sight and scent. The dragon was not aware that a mighty warrior had watched his flight and also seen the rock formation he had flown out from. Harry had just found the way into the dragon’s den, and the dragon was the one who showed him.
“Harry had gone to bed a miserable, cold, wet young man who had followed his heart into a filthy stinking swamp. When he awoke, he was a soldier with a cold-hardened resolve to track the monster to its lair and kill it. Funny what a night of misery and fear can do for a person.
“As soon as it was light enough to see, Harry began to trudge through the marsh toward the hills on the other side. It took all morning, but finally, he began to reach higher ground. The rocks and the hills became steep. He wondered if he had misjudged the climb from the bottom of the wetlands. It had looked closer, but when he put feet to the trail, it seemed a thousand miles away. Sweat streamed down his cheeks and left small white trails through the marsh muck that covered his face. Once, a vulture even flew down to have a closer look at him thinking something that stunk that bad couldn’t possibly be alive. But Harry was alive, and with every step toward the dragon’s hidden entrance, his will grew stronger. He was on a mission, and nothing was going to stand in his way. Finally, during the hottest part of the day, he found the cleft in the rock where the dragon had squeezed through to go on its nightly patrol, and Harry entered the cave.
“The cave was dark. Only a sliver of sunlight penetrated its opening, and it wasn’t long before even that had faded away. Harry had to light a small torch that barely lit the path a few feet in front of him. He worried that the light would draw the dragon’s attention but pressed back his fear and bravely pushed ahead. Every few feet he would stop and listen as intently as he could. He was so quiet and attentive he could have heard a rat run across cotton, but only the drips of water seeping through limestone came to his ears, and so he carefully crept forward. He felt like he had been in the cave for hours, but it was probably only a few minutes. Sweat dripped down his forehead, burning his eyes. A cave should be colder, he thought, but then he realized this one was warmed by the dragon’s breath. Harry’s heart pounded so hard he could feel it beating in his chest. He thought, If I don’t do something about this quickly my fear will consume me, and I will make a terrible mistake. What can I do? A few feet farther down the hall, the tunnel divided with a smaller passage leading away from the larger. Harry felt like he should walk down the smaller tunnel and perhaps hide for a moment to rest. He had been hiking all day and was exhausted. His fear had also drained him, and as he thought it through, he knew it must be past midnight and that the dragon might soon be marching down this tunnel to go on his nightly patrol. So, Harry turned down the smaller tunnel and pushed his weary body along the narrow path. After several yards, he came to an extremely narrow crevice that Harry could only navigate by turning sideways and sliding along with his chest squeezed tight against the rock.
“And there I am going to have to stop the story for the night. It has been a long day, and I can see your eyes are drooping,” said the old man.
“No, no!” The children cried but not too strongly. Their parents and grandparents started clapping, and the idea caught on, and the little ones joined in. Finally, after shooing them into their loved one’s arms and promising to continue the story on the next library story day, the children and their parents left.
The old man escorted his daughter, arm in arm, out of the library. She locked the doors behind them and continued walking her father to his old pickup truck that had seen more miles than most vehicles and had a terrible habit of backfiring. It didn’t bother the old man much because it had a tendency to scare anyone who was too close and not prepared for the sudden noise, which pleased its driver way more than it should have.
As his daughter kissed him goodnight she said, “Dad, I have had this question on my mind all day and, through the cascade of events, have forgotten to ask, but now that I have you all to myself, I can finally ask it.”
“What is that, Roo?” Roo, the baby kangaroo from Winne the Pooh books, was the pet name the old man had called her since she was the tiniest of tots.
She smiled at his favorite name for her and said, “What did you mean when you said the story wasn’t made up, and that it was a true story?”
He looked at her for a moment and then said, “Every legend is founded in some form of fact. It may be embellished or parts added for color, but the best of legends are true, even though they may not be historically accurate.”
“So, this is a myth with a moral.” she responded matter-of-fact.
He looked at her, smiled and asked, “Is it?”
She shook her head, punched his arm playfully, and said, “Good night, Dad.”
“Good night, Roo,” he responded automatically and crawled into his old truck, turned the key, and started home. As he drove out of the library parking lot, he sighed and thought, If only it were not true, Honey. If only.
Chapter Five
The next library day rolled around sooner than the old man wanted it to. The story had brought up memories so vivid he dreamt about them. He lived alone, so there was no one to wake him from groaning in the night or notice that his cheeks were hot with tears. His dogs knew and occasionally would be so disturbed that instead of lying at the foot of his bed, the female animal would jump into the bed and lick his salty face. This of course, would wake him. He would shoo her off the bed and fall back asleep, only to return to the dream.
As he walked up the drive to the library, the old man noticed a lot more cars in the parking lot than usual. Then he remembered the kid’s parents and grandparents had all wanted to hear the story and apparently had made a way to do so. He walked in the library, an old museum-like Victorian house remodeled to suit the literary needs of their small community, and noticed the crowd. He was starting to get nervous and had just about decided that he would just turn around and quietly leave when he heard the shrill young voice of his snaggle-toothed nemesis. “There you are! I wondered when you were going to get here. We have been waiting on you. Come on, we need to get this show on the road!”
He looked at her grey-haired grandfather, the city fire marshal, who just grimaced and shrugged his shoulders. He had been captured by the little matriarch long ago and was no help in thwarting her plans. The little girl grabbed both old men by their extended hands and said, “Come on!” She then yelled at her friends, “He is here! Come on! Story time is about to begin!”
The old man’s librarian daughter had corralled the children and had them temporarily subdued like puppies waiting on a snack. She couldn’t hold them long, and the old man knew he had better get started, so he shuffled to the front of the room, sat down in the rocking chair, and quietly began to speak. He deliberately didn’t yell for order but began by saying, “All right now, where did I end last?”
His page turner looked at him and said, “Don’t you remember? Harry had crept into the dragon’s lair and was squeezing down a narrow tunnel.”
“Oh yes, then what happened?” the sly old man asked.
“Huh? I don’t know.”
“Well, yes of course, but you might, so I thought I would ask.”
Everyone had gotten quiet, listening intently to the conversation. Waiting for just that moment, the old man began. “When we last left off, Harry had slipped into the dragon’s lair, found a side tunnel that got smaller and smaller and had finally squeezed so far back into it, he felt safe. He knew the dragon could not get to him. He also knew that there were enough twists and turns in the pathway that
even if the dragon tried to spew flame down the tunnel, it would not reach him. What Harry did not realize, however, was that he was stuck.”
“What?!” his audience erupted. “Stuck? What do you mean stuck? How did he get stuck? He can’t be stuck. How is he going to get out?”
The old man hid a sneaky grin beneath his sparkling eyes and said, “Yes, Harry was stuck. He had climbed so far back into the tunnel that he couldn’t get out, nor could he go forward. So, he stayed there till he starved and died.”
“No, no, no! That’s not fair!” the angry chorus of children shrieked. Like a nest of irritated wasps, they rose up and shouted, some cried, and all had something to say about it. The old man started laughing, and the parents of the children, vainly trying to settle them, saw that something else was coming.
Finally, the old man barked a cough and said, “Oh my! I am so sorry. I got my stories confused.” At that everyone in the room quieted instantly. Every eye was focused on him. He looked back at them, raised his eyebrows in response, and said, “I am sorry. It wasn’t Harry that got stuck. But he did see someone in front of him who had gotten stuck. Harry pushed his way down the ever-narrowing tunnel, his small candle flickering against the cave walls, and then he stopped. Had he not been afraid of the dragon finding him, he would have screamed, but before he could shout, his good sense stopped the cry in his throat. He stood, mouth gaping because there before him was…. Oh my! Look at the time. Story time is over.”
Once again, the pathetic squalls of the mob of story-starved children broke against his ears. Sarah, his favorite little snaggle-toothed tyrant, jumped up with a mean look on her snout and walked up to the old man. She pointed at his watch and said, “The little hand is on 10, and the big hand is on 6. That means you have plenty of time to go on with this story!”
The Princess Who Forgot She Was Beautiful (The Harry Ferguson Chronicles Book 1) Page 3