One Small Step, an anthology of discoveries (16 page)

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The next night, the prince visits Grandma again. This time, she’s ready with a kick to the groin and a dash to the door, but the prince is ready too, wearing an athletic support. He has six guards waiting outside the door, just in case, but Grandma doesn’t get that far. My grandma is a slip of a girl, not even six metres tall. The prince is a burly eight metre scrapper. He grabs her by her forearms, picks her up and throws her against the wall. Somehow, Grandma manages not to hit her head, but the breath is knocked out of her and she wonders whether she has broken ribs. She can’t help but slide to the floor.

“
You are lucky I am so much in love,” remarks the prince, looking down at her. “I said I would ask again today, and I will. Will you marry me?”
 

Still breathless, my grandma closes her eyes and shakes her head.

The prince snorts in frustration. His eyes narrow. The look on his face is not kind. “I will come back tomorrow,” he says, measuring each word. “And I will ask you again. But, young lady, think carefully what your answer will be. I have been gentle with you. I am a generous man, but there are limits.” His voice is hoarse. “There must always be limits. If your answer has not changed by tomorrow, I will have you hung for treason.”

He turns aside but pauses in the doorway, glancing back at the girl on the floor. “In any case,” he adds, “I will have my way first.”

The guards close the door behind him and leave the girl to think. Finally, she finds the breath to sob.

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As dusk closes in, there’s a cough from the window. The girl looks up, hoping to see her sixth son one more time. It isn’t him. It’s the snow fox, scrawny in his summer brown.

He’s standing back from the grate, so she can’t grab his nose, but he looks pleased to see her.

“
Well,” says the fox. “You are in a pickle.”
 

She looks at him, puzzled. “Hello.”

The fox wrinkles his nose. “Do you remember me, girl?”

“
I remember you well,” says the girl, “and I thank you for your help.”
 

The fox flashes a brief smile. “Perhaps I can help you again.”

“
And in exchange? What do you want?”
 

“
Oh,” says the snow fox. “Simply to help an old friend. Do you want help, or not?”
 

“
Yes,” she says. “I am listening. What do you propose?”
 

“
I know someone,” says the fox. “A fearsome witch. A beautiful lady. Someone who helps out, in circumstances like this. She can be here within the hour.”
 

“
A Rumplestiltskin?” asks the girl.
 

The snow fox opens his mouth wide, feigning shock. “Such language! But I see that you understand. Shall I fetch her?”

Grandma thinks for a moment. Making pacts with Rumplestiltskins is like eating fairy food or stepping off the path. But what else can she do?

“
Thank you,” she says to the fox. “Yes, please bring your friend.”
 

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It’s a cold hour waiting, as night sets in and Grandma wonders whether the fox will be true to his word. But when the hour is up, a woman appears in the cell. A beautiful lady, quite young to look at her, but ladies of this type live a very long time. Her eyes are blueish-green: just like yours, if that’s really your photo. Her hair is brown and very long: like yours might be, if you grew it out. She wears a long, blood-red gown, overlain with creamy lace, intricately knotted and very fine.

Grandma is expecting her. She has washed away her tears and changed into a green silk dress from the wardrobe, and satin slippers. She makes a deep curtsey to this lady, who might be able to help.

“
You may rise,” says the lady, approving the gesture.
 

“
Thank you. Has the fox…”
 

“
The snow fox has told me about your situation,” says the lady. “You are unlikely to escape this cell by yourself. Would you like me to help?”
 

“
Can you get me out of this cell?”
 

“
In an instant.”
 

“
And after that? How am I to escape the prince?”
 

The lady’s smile is reassuring. Her eyes look kind. “I will wipe you from the prince’s memory. He will not know that he has ever set eyes on you. If he passes you again, he will not even see you.”

“
That sounds perfect,” says Grandma, hope quickening. “No one would dare to remind him. But what will you take in return?”
 

“
My terms are standard.”
 

“
Let’s be clear.”
 

“
The first boy of your line.”
 

Her first-born son. Well, the lady cannot know what my grandma knows: that she is bound to have daughters if she marries her beau. That’s something she is pretty determined to do.

“
I agree, then.”
 

From a pocket in the crimson gown, the lady brings a contract and a quill. The nib has already, somehow been dipped in ink. Grandma signs. The thing is done.

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There’s a lot more I could tell you about my grandma and grandpa. They do marry, though not before a few more years have passed, and a lot more dances. Nobody ever does remind the prince; not even the stepma. I’ll tell you more about Grandma and Grandpa when we meet, if you like. For now, you just need to know this: Grandma has a daughter. The crimson lady drops by, bringing flowers. She looks into the cradle, looks into my mother’s infant eyes, nods to Grandma, and leaves without a word.

My grandparents stop at one child, reminded of the pact and not wanting to tempt fate.

Grandpa is a good husband, and becomes a good merchant. Grandma is a good farmer. The two of them bring up their daughter very well.

My mother has a happier time of childhood than my grandma did, and not so many adventures. Like my grandmother, she falls in love young, but unlike Grandma, she doesn’t have much patience.

When they learn that Mum is pregnant, my grandparents think about the green-eyed lady for the first time in many years, and they consult a lawyer about the terms. And yes: as you’ve guessed, they find out that “the first boy of your line” could just as well be a grandson and Mum is bound just as tightly by her mother’s signature on the contract. Grandma tells Mum and Dad the bad news.

It might not matter, if Mum is carrying a girl. There are tests they can do, even then, to find out.

They find out that she is carrying a boy. She is carrying me.

Mum was four months gone before they knew she was pregnant. Grandma and Grandpa, Mum and Dad spend the next three months thinking and putting the best lawyers they can afford onto finding a loophole in that contract. They don’t find one. So there is nothing for it, they think, but to flee.

Grandpa puts his geography to good use, tracing a route across a map of the Old Country, through the twisty, ever-changing paths that will bring them, if they time it just right, across into our world. He puts his merchant wits to good use, too, filling their pockets with the silver-bells that grow wild along the forest edge and with a small purse of gold, for emergencies.

He hugs them, and Grandma hugs them, and they say their goodbyes. Dad makes his farewells to his family, too. There are tears. They know that they will never see each other again.

It’s an adventure, too, Grandpa’s path across the world. They meet Grandma’s dingo, who helps them along part of the way. If this email weren’t already so long, I’d tell you more about their journey, but you already know they get here safe.

After arriving in this country, they polish up their silver-bells and sell them as trinkets. They sell their coins, too, for the gold in them, and find they have more money at the end than they had expected. They have enough to buy a house and fit it out: a safe place to bring me into the world and bring me up.

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That brings us back to me. I had a good childhood. Not a happy one, maybe; I wasn’t a happy child, but I was safe and healthy and strong. Mum and Dad lived out their lives here. Short lives, by any standard, but happy. They were always so much in love.

I never went out much more than I had to. After Mum died, I stopped going out at all. Like I said, it’s not a bad life, but I have to be honest: I do know there is more. So I’m taking baby steps to get myself out again. Putting my profile up on that dating site was my first little step, and you’ve given me the courage to take the next one.

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There’s one more thing you should know. I may be a shut-in, but I’m not naive. I know you already knew part of this story. I traced your IP address and I know you’re not from around here. A twisty and changeable traceroute it was, too, but my skills on the computer are pretty good.

It’s not good for my health to stay here, and my family always were hopeless romantics. I’m more than halfway in love.

Beautiful lady, crimson lady, I’m ready to take that next big step, with you.

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“
W
hat
time does the clock have, Charlie?” Mary looked left, dark, bobbed hair brushing her shoulders. She heard him mutter then carefully shut the doors, locking the timepieces away, before walking around to face her, his little tin feet clicking softly against the wooden floor.
 

“
12 May 1923. Six pm.”

She looked down at Charlie as he packed the powders and glass vials, which were no bigger than her thumbnail, into the black leather doctor’s bag, before climbing in and settling into the spare space at the side. At twelve inches tall, he just fit inside, with a whisker of room between his head and the bag’s brass clasps. “Comfortable?” she asked.

“
I’ll be better when we’ve arrived. Let’s get going.” He clapped his hands together then waved as she shut him in.

Mary walked down the street. Silver waves of time flowed around her in a shimmering cascade as the buildings, the path, the people disappeared or grew or shrank into their new lines as required. Each step carried her quite gradually from 1852 to 1923, the bag clenched firmly in her hand, and she gave a little shiver.
It’s so different
, she thought. All the beautiful clean lines, the geometric shapes of the buildings fronted with sunbursts and arching curves: the simple luxury of it all. Visiting the twenties — whether from the past or the misty future — never ceased to amaze her. There was something so fresh and almost, well, bouncy about it. It was an era in which Mary felt revived, which was no easy feat given that she and Charlie were constantly scissoring back and forth between the decades, centuries, epochs.
 

It had been so long now, Mary had quite forgotten how their journey back and forth through time was supposed to end. She shook that thought away; better to let these things work themselves out.

The air stilled and she looked around. Horse-drawn carriages had given way to automobiles, sleek and chrome, slinking down the road. A shiny brick-red model passed by, the jaguar in mid-leap on the hood shining under the late afternoon sun. The driver whistled at Mary and tipped his hat as she smiled back.

“
What is that infernal racket?” came Charlie’s muffled voice from inside the bag.

Mary listened for a moment. There it was — the unmistakable sound of jaunty pianos and sexy, snaking trumpets. She realised she was tapping her foot.

“
It’s jazz, Charlie, you old stick-in-the-mud. And
I
quite like it.”
 

He mumbled a reply.

“
It’s strange, though. Today doesn’t
feel
terribly important. There’s usually someth—”
 

“
Number 73 Glad Avenue,” was the exasperated response from the bag.

“
Right you are, Charlie.”

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Number 73 was set on a huge expanse of land fronting the river. Geraldine, their employer for the evening, led Mary into the front room that overlooked the lawn rolling down to the river bank, a dark emerald in the dying light.

“
And here’s the bar.” Geraldine pointed to the buffet unit in the corner.

“
Walnut, with marble top, if I’m not mistaken? And chrome trim.”

Geraldine nodded. “We had it shipped all the way from New York, you know. There’s not another one like it in the world.”

“
It’s beautiful. And quite perfect for what we have in mind. I hope I don’t seem immodest, but you couldn’t have chosen a better hostess. You and your guests are in for a treat,” Mary smiled. “I do so love a good party, Geraldine.”