Rapunzel, the One With All the Hair (8 page)

One more day until the hunt. Father suggested I practice shooting arrows into bales of hay, and I had to eagerly obey so as not to raise suspicion. So far, while aiming squarely at the hay, I have narrowly missed two ducks who were innocently floating in the pond, one lady-in-waiting out for a stroll with a squire, and the village cobbler, who has come to make Annabelle her first pair of leather-soled shoes.

I am truly hopeless. Andrew assures me the men will be too busy worrying about who will bag the biggest stag to bother with me. I hope he is right. Our whole plan depends on it.

I tried to keep my eyes open throughout the night so that when Steven came to collect the tub, I could share my new plan. At one point in the night, I actually had to use my fingers to hold my eyelids open. Alas, I must have succumbed to sleep even without my daily dose of sleeping powder, because the squawking of the birds has just awakened me. The tub is gone, Sir Kitty is playing with the scab on my chin, and it is almost dawn. With a sigh, I blow out the lamp and store it away in the trunk. Before my imprisonment, I saw this time of early morn only during harvest time with Father. Who will help him this year if I am not back? I shake the thought out of my head. I will be back. I have to be!

Belly growling, I pick up Sir Kitty and we go to the window to watch the birds soar over the dew-covered treetops. Soon the last stripes of pink and orange in the east have been burned off by the sun's glow. No doubt as thirsty as I
am, Sir Kitty has discovered she can lick the dew off the window ledge. As I stroke her back, her fur suddenly stands on end and her ears flatten. That can't be good.

“You have been busy,” a voice cackles from behind me. It is not the voice I had hoped to hear.

My heart begins to pound. What does she mean by that? Has she found out that I know about Steven? Clutching Sir Kitty so tightly she mews in protest, I slowly turn around to face the witch. She is standing in front of my cottage on the wall. She spits onto one of her gnarled fingers and wipes it across the scene, smudging the drawing as she goes. I cringe but refuse to cry out. After all, I have a plan now that will bring me back to the real cottage. I put Sir Kitty down and she runs under the wool blanket. I would, too, if I could. The smell from the pot of meat pie the witch left on the table draws me like bees to a honeysuckle shrub. Truly my mouth is watering. Garlic and mustard fill the room till I feel almost faint from it.

When the witch is done ruining my sketch, she turns and peers right into my face. My body tenses, but I do not move. She gives me a slow once-over and I try to keep my heart from leaping out of my chest. It occurs to me that after my bath I must look quite changed.

“Hmm,” she says, tapping one finger against her long,
square chin. If I weren't so terrified, I would laugh, because the finger she is tapping with is the one covered in ash from my drawing. She is making quite a mess of her face. “You look different somehow. I cannot place it.” She continues to look, even asking me to turn around. As I turn, I see out of the corner of my eye that Steven is slithering silently down the rope. I am glad I am now facing the other way, because I am sure my expression would give him away. Why is he risking the journey? For one brief second, I wonder if he is going to sneak up on the witch and toss her out the window.

The witch barks at me to turn back and face her. As I do, I see Steven climbing back up the rope. In one hand he is gripping the towel I had used to dry from my bath.
Hurry, Steven, hurry,
I plead silently. He just has time to reach the top and pull up the rope before the witch turns around.

“What are you looking at?” she demands, whirling back to face me.

“Noth … nothing,” I stammer, quickly returning my gaze. “The cat startled me, that is all.”

“I expect your full attention, young Rapunzel. Or I will be only too happy to clear this room of distractions.”

“Yes, witch,” I say, then hurry to correct myself before her glare deepens. “I mean, yes, Mother Gothel.”

“Your sleep,” she says, her voice taking on a lilting quality that on anyone else might be considered pleasing. “I trust it has been deep?”

“Yes, Mother Gothel.”

“And your meals, they have been satisfactory?”

“Oh, yes, Mother Gothel. Very much so.”

“So you would agree that your accommodations have been good?”

I know by now what she wants to hear. “Um, yes?”

She grins widely, and her broken and stained teeth almost make me gag. “I knew you would be happy here. I never had a child of my own before, you see. My line of work is, shall we say, solitary.” She cackles like she has just told a joke, then starts to cough. I turn my head as the green phlegm flies from her mouth and lands on the front of her black cape. Charming.

I do not have anything to add, so I keep silent. Where the witch is concerned, silence has proven best.

She continues. “One of these days, you and I shall have a lovely chat about your future. You won't be attending school anymore, of course, so there will be plenty of time for you to learn how to hem my clothes, clean my shoes, and so forth. Yes, we have much to discuss.”

I can keep quiet no longer and blurt, “What do you
mean, I will not be attending school anymore? My parents told me that an educated woman is a rare jewel.”

The witch throws back her head and laughs. I truly hate it when she does that. I cross my arms and wait for her to stop.

“I am your only parent now,” she says, jabbing her finger at my chest. “And the only rare jewel I care to own is one I can wear around my neck. Now go to the window and mind my words. You have one future ahead of you, and it is mine.”

My mouth set in a straight line, I march to the window, stamping my feet as I go. I cannot think of a more horrid future than the one she's described. I count to ten, turn around slowly to confirm the witch has gone, and run to the table. I set the sardines and milk down on the floor, and Sir Kitty pops her head out from under the blanket. She nearly trips over her little legs jumping off the “bed.” I barely taste the meat pie as it passes my lips. I am sure Steven took extra care with it, because the smell of the herbs wafts through the air as I eat. The tray is now empty except for the lid of the pot. I lift the lid off the tray to place it on top of the empty pot, and as I do, something green catches my eye. In the spot where the lid had been rests a small plate of mint jelly and a tiny silver spoon. Steven must have hidden this from the witch with the lid! I pick up the spoon and am surprised at its weight. This is surely a valuable piece. I peer
closer and see a tiny letter S on the handle and wonder if Steven made this himself. I am now so used to eating with wooden utensils and keeping watch for splinters that I am not sure which is the bigger treat, the jelly or the spoon. I take the time to savor each bite. Everything tastes better when eaten with a silver spoon given by a new friend.

 

MIDDAY

I had fully expected Steven to appear once the witch was gone from the tower. But by the time I finish the mint jelly, he still has not come. I put the tray in the middle of the rug with the silver spoon on top, hoping that might signal him somehow. I gaze up at the trapdoor, but it does not move. I sit back down on the chair, drum my fingers against the tabletop, and wait some more. And then some more after that. I had no idea time could move so slowly. Now more than ever, I realize I must leave this place as soon as possible. I do not think I would make a very good shoeshine girl. I do not wish to find out.

 

EVENING

The sun has set. The moon is only a thin shard tonight and the tower room is dark. I am still waiting. My empty tray is still sitting on the rug. I do not know why Steven has forsaken me without even hearing my plan.

 

LATER THAT EVENING

I have fallen asleep in my chair twice now and each time smacked my head on the hard tabletop. At this rate I shall knock myself senseless, and then where will I be? I push back the chair and open my trunk. Pushing aside the dresses, I lift out the lamp, matches, ink, a quill, and my last sheet of vellum.

I light the lamp and set everything up at the table. I dip the quill in the ink and get ready to write what will be the most important letter of my life thus far.

I leave the note faceup on the tray so he will be sure to see it right off. I clean up, bring the lamp closer to the “bed,” and settle down to wait. Again.

Three valets are dressing me for the hunt. Why they think I am old enough to carry a weapon but not old enough to dress myself is one of life's great mysteries. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Andrew running across the Great Lawn. It was his job to hide a satchel filled with tomatoes a few feet off the riding path in the forest. He looks up and raises his left hand to signal the job has been completed. From here on, it's all up to me.

“Don't you look handsome,” Mum says, entering my chambers as the valets bow and take their leave. Her eyes mist over as she examines me. “So grown up.”

From the inside out I am wearing: a thin cotton undershirt, a shirt made of chain mail, a thick woolen tunic, red riding britches, black boots, a leather armband to protect my forearm from the twang of the bow, and a little tin helmet that comes to a point about four inches above my head. Over this my riding cloak is fastened. I can barely move my upper body because of the little loops of metal from the
chain mail shirt. How those little loops can weigh nearly twenty pounds is beyond me. The mail and the super-thick tunic will protect my upper body in case one of the animals I'm supposed to be shooting decides that I am the prey and attacks. Even though my outfit is uncomfortable, I admit I feel better facing the troll now.

Still misty, Mum reaches over and straightens my hat. Her left hand is wrapped in a linen bandage, and she is careful not to touch anything with it.

“Mum,” I ask as she circles me, patting and pulling on various parts of my outfit, “why did you reach into the fire like that? Annabelle can always get more dolls.”

She doesn't answer for a moment, and I wonder if I've offended her somehow. Mum can be quite sensitive. Then she says, “Instinct, I suppose. Had I stopped to think first, I should have been more cautious. Those dolls —” her voice breaks for a second and then starts up again, softer. “Those dolls used to be mine. My mother gave them to me, and her mother had given them to her. I had always believed Annabelle would give them to her own daughter one day. But now, well, that is not to be.” She gives one final tug on my cloak to make sure it's secure and stands back. “There. Now you're ready to join the rest of the men. They are planning their strategy by the stables.”

Wow. Mum just called me a man. I could join the rest of
the
men
, she said. I practice my kingly stride all the way to the stable, where the groom has my trusty white stallion saddled and ready to go. (Okay, so my trusty steed is not so much a
stallion
— more like a pony who never grew into to a full-size horse. Still, he and I go way back and I wouldn't trade him for anything, even though he and I are almost the same height now. His name, embarrassingly enough, is Snowflake. He already had that name when Father bought him. I have tried in vain over the years to rename him something more manly, like Samuel or Zeus or Montefeur, but he will respond only to Snowflake. I hope none of the men on the hunt find out.)

Elkin is already atop his horse when I arrive. The tailor must have made him a special riding outfit, because it fits him perfectly. He actually looks quite regal on his horse, a reddish-brown mare named Dusty Rose. Up there, he is not quite as froglike. He watches as I slip my foot into the stirrup, then swing my leg over Snowflake's back. The groom attaches my bow to the saddle and hands up a basket of arrows. I strap the basket onto my back so the arrows are accessible if I reach over my shoulder. Not that I plan on accessing them. The other men — some whom I recognize as friends of my father's or royal archers — are also on their horses, talking in a circle. The hunting dogs dart in and out
of the horses' legs, clearly excited to get under way. Father sees us and waves us over.

Andrew and I have decided that the best strategy will be to alert Elkin of my plan right before the hunt, when he won't have much time to try to sabotage it. But we are only a few yards from the group, and Elkin is moving steadily forward without so much as a glance in my direction. I pick up my reins and swing Snowflake around to follow. Normally by now Elkin would have slung an insult or two my way. He hasn't even asked if Snowflake has been invited to the spring ball yet, which is his favorite way of insulting my horse's manhood. Instead, he is staring straight ahead. As we get closer to the circle, I notice he is even paler than usual and looks a bit sickly, as he did after learning of his engagement.

I pull Snowflake right up next to him and ask, “Are you feeling all right?”

He nods haltingly, still not meeting my eyes. “I'm fine. Just leave me be.”

“Believe me,” I mutter, “I would if I could.”

We approach the circle, and the men back up their horses to allow us in. Father begins a grand speech, but I am too busy rehearsing what I will say to Elkin to pay much attention. I hear phrases like
the hunt makes the man, the man does not make the hunt; divide and conquer; slow and steady; eye on the prize
. Finally he stops talking and the hunt master raises
his horn to his mouth and pauses, looking around dramatically. At last he gives one short blow, then a longer one. The horses neigh loudly as the men dig in their heels and take off, followed by the yapping dogs. I lag behind, trotting instead of galloping. Elkin will not slow down, though, so I still cannot talk to him. The men have thundered into the forest now. I do not understand how they could sneak up on any unsuspecting prey when they are loud enough to rouse the dead.

Elkin finally pulls up on Dusty Rose's reins and comes to a complete halt only a few feet into the forest. Relieved, I catch up. “Listen,” I tell him. “Before we go any farther, there is something I need to tell you.”

“Snowflake doesn't have a date for the ball?” he asks. But something in the way his says it reveals he is not truly interested in his joke. This is definitely not normal Elkin behavior. But I don't have the time to find out what's going on with him.

“You can insult my horse later, but bide me now.”

He finally turns to face me. “What is it? We're going to lose the others.”

In a rush I tell him the whole story. I start with meeting Other Benjamin and his father, then on to the bandits and the treasure and finally the troll and how I plan to vanquish him and share the treasure with Other Benjamin so his
father can become the Spectacle Maker he was born to be. I even tell him he is welcome to half of my portion. Then I hold my breath and wait for his response.

To my great surprise, the color returns to his cheeks and he laughs. “I was hoping for a miracle to keep me from having to hunt today. I never thought it would be a troll!”

“But … but you said you couldn't wait to get in there and bag your supper!”

“I was merely trying to impress your father,” he replies.

As I stare at him in shock, he laughs again and says, “What are we waiting for? Let's go get those tomatoes!”