The Prince and the Hag
by Joe Williams
©1987 by Joe Williams. All Rights Reserved.
Before men built cities and tamed the
wilderness; in the
ages when magic was stronger than science and not all the creatures
were named,
there was born to Magwitch the hag a small son.
Now at about the same time, the Queen
who lived in a castle
near Magwitch’s forest gave birth to a beautiful daughter. The king and
queen
were quite proud of this, their firstborn child, and they named her
Eleena.
Magwitch fumed and grumbled in her
underground catacombs,
casting gnarly fanged scowls at her crying son. She hated the baby, for
although it was ugly, with big ears and a protrudent nose, it was also
white
and soft and not at all like the black haired pups of the other
haggorym. It
cried and whined all day long, keeping her awake during those sunlit
hours that
she preferred to spend sleeping. Wrapping the baby in a filthy grey
blanket,
she resolved to find herself a better mannered baby, one that cried in
the
night when children were supposed to. She particularly longed for a
daughter to
cook and sew for her, a girl that would perhaps grow ugly and withered
enough
to take her place as Queen of the haggorym.
So, under a moonless, midnight sky,
Magwitch slunk from her
forest carrying her gurgling bundle. Hearing the high pitch wail of a
baby girl
coming from the King’s castle, Magwitch slipped a cloak of darkness
around
herself and slid through the castle walls, seeping like tar through the
smallest cracks. Once inside, her shadow glided along torchlight halls,
coming
at last to the nursery. There, baby Eleena wailed and screamed, for the
candle
that comforted her at night had burned out, and the darkness frightened
her.
“Tis not half as black as the pit
you’ll soon be in,”
cackled Magwitch. She scooped the green eyed baby girl from her crib,
dropping
her own filth swaddled package in its place. The girl let out a last
terrified
scream before Magwitch smothered it with a wrinkled claw.
Footsteps sounded outside, and the
bolt on the nursery door
was drawn back. Magwitch draped her black cloak about her, blending
like a
shadow into the darkness of a corner.
The Queen herself entered the
nursery, holding aloft a lamp
that glowed like silver off her silken nightgown. She hurried to the
crib and
leaned over it with a mother’s concern. Shock registered on her
exquisite
features as she saw the dirty grey rags, and pulling them aside, she
let out a
horrified exclamation at sight of the ugly baby lying in her daughter’s
crib.
The Queen quickly realized the
dangers of panicking. Her
emerald eyes flashed about the chamber, pausing on the window to
ascertain that
shutters were still locked, and then passing on to probe the dark
recesses. But
Magwitch’s cloak hid her from even this scrutiny, allowing her to watch
with a
grin the Queen’s scarcely controlled panic.
The Queen knew what had happened. No
mortal kidnapper could
have infiltrated the castle to spirit her child away. She tossed the
long black
hair back from her face with a gesture of her head. “Hear me, whatever
evil
lurks here tonight.” Her voice was strained and quite, yet unwavering
in its
purposefulness. “I will not accept this foul creature as my child.
Return to me
my daughter and take your own wretched offspring back. There is no room
in the
world of mortals for changelings.”
Magwitch held a wicked chuckle behind
a wrinkled claw.
Hearing only this faint cackle, the Queen turned back to the crib and
from the
putrid swaddling she hauled the baby boy by his ankles. Lifting him
aloft, she
slapped the pink flesh of his bottom. The baby’s face turned as red as
his
bottom as he set up an ear splitting wailing. Over this shrieking, the
Queen
shouted, “Return to me my daughter! Or must I make your son suffer for
your
crime?”
She spanked the squirming baby again
and again, driving
greater and greater squeals from his small lungs. Mortar flaked from
the stone
walls, and a candlestick toppled from a mantle. Tears flowed from the
baby like
water from an overturned jug. Teardrops also stained the Queen’s fair
cheek,
yet her resolve to regain her daughter was greater than her mercy for
the
ungainly hellion, and she continued her deliberate blows with mounting
fury.
The craggy mug of Magwitch broke into
a tortured scowl. For
though she was a haggorym, and hence her veins and heart were filled
with the
blood of ogres, she still retained a hint of the mothering instincts
that the
Queen intended to play upon. Yet Magwitch refused to relinquish the
struggling
flesh she clutched so fiercely to her bosom, and at the same time the
sight of
her son’s beating caused her more pain than she cared to endure. Two
taloned
fingers slipped into a pouch hanging from her wide girdle, drawing
forth a
small needle. A flick of her wrist sent the needle streaking into the
Queen’s
flesh. It brought forth only a single drop of blood as it passed
entirely into
her body.
The Queen’s hand stopped in mid
stroke. Teetering, she
dropped the hellion carefully in its cradle before clutching her heart
and
crumbling. Her green eyes closed, and weeping now for her lost
daughter, the
Queen breathed no more.
Nursemaids now invaded the nursery,
drawn by the baby’s
wailing. Two sought to comfort the odd child in the crib, while the
third
stooped momentarily over the Queen. Finding no life within her
erstwhile
employer, the nursemaid set about warming a bottle to help soothe the
baby. For
while there is no comfort for the dead, there is still much the living
need.
Old Magwitch chuckled at her
mischief. She bent her long,
crooked nose down to the baby girl she held. The wart on her nose
touched the
baby’s forehead, and the little girl smiled, wrapping her small hand
around the
gross proboscis.
“Your mother is dead, little worm,”
Magwitch cooed. “Come
with me. Old Maggie will take care of you now. Worms and toads and
rotting
flesh will be your toys, and a bed of mold will be your cradle.” Thus
saying,
Magwitch oozed through the castle walls and made her way in darkness
across the
plains to her forest.
When the King learned of his bride’s
death and his
daughter’s disappearance, he was stricken with sadness. But when the
ugly boy
who had been left in the cradle was brought to him, an ember of hope
broke
through his depression. “Though my family has been taken from me,
leaving me
without wife nor heir, at least Fate has granted me this son to blunt
my sorrow.
He shall take his place beside me where once my family sat, and he
shall be my
family. And in the time of my passing, he shall take my place upon the
throne
where once I sat, and he shall be King in my stead.”
He called the boy Elan, and upon this
small ungainly baby he
heaped all his affection and fatherly devotion. The secret of how he
had been
found in Eleena’s place was hushed, never to pass the lips of the King
or the nursemaids.
And the hellion child grew into
boyhood, creating mischief
and suffering to those around him. The palace cat was found racing the
halls
with teacups tied to its tail; and there was Elan, giggling. The King’s
hounds
were found sneezing and whining, their snouts packed with pepper; and
there was
Elan, snickering. The handles of the chef’s cooking pots came off in
his hands,
spilling steaming soup down his apron; and there was Elan, laughing.
But when the cook laid hand upon Elan
and threatened his rump
with a wooden ladle, Elan twisted his ugly lips into a haughty sneer.
“I dare you
to beat met I am a prince, the son of a king! My flesh is the flesh of
royalty.
Bruise me, and you bruise the crown. Now let me off your knee before
you lose
your head along with your temper.”
The cook feared these boastful words,
and in his fear he forgot
they came from a mere boy. He released Elan and begged his forgiveness,
but
from then on he was under the boy’s domination.
But Elan wasn’t just a boy. He was
changeling. On his chest,
he bore the birthmark of the hellions: a pentagram of red over where
his heart
should have been. But there was no heart in him, for he was the son of
a
haggorym, and the haggorym have no souls.
So there was no constraint upon Elan.
From an ugly boyhood
he grew into a grotesque manhood, becoming a proud young prince of
repulsive
aspect and unequaled vanity. He scoffed at the work of the servants,
saying
“Who tended my rooms? That maid left my bed unmade.”
And the maid said, “Forgive me sir,
but I thought for sure I
made it this morn.”
Which only prompted Elan into a rage
as hideous as his
aspect. “You dare argue with a prince! If I say my bed is unmade, then
you are
to make if, whether you made it before or not. Now go, and bedevil me
no more.”
And so it was with the gardener, the
butler, the hostler,
the captain of the guard, and all the other palace servants. All
suffered the
prince’s ingratitude and threats, yet none dared raise protest against
the
King’s son.
One morning, while the cook served a
delicious breakfast of
roast fowl and cranberries, the prince paused from complaining how much
better
he could have prepared the meal to cast his haughty glare upon his
goblet. He
raised the golden chalice to his eyes, his tin lips curling above his
crooked
teeth. “Tell me, why must a prince suffer to drink from a plain golden
goblet?
Why is it not gem encrusted? Are my lips to endure touching such base,
unadorned
metal?”
“But milord, that is the finest
goblet in the palace!” And
indeed, the cook spoke true, for the goblet was masterfully crafted in
the
shape of a dragon’s claw, with each scale painstakingly engraved in the
gold.
“Bah!” The prince dashed the goblet
to the marble floor. “I
will not drink from such a poorly made trinket. If I were king, all my
goblets
would scintillate with gems. I would have such treasure that the vaults
could
not contain it. When I am king, I will not settle for the baubles of my
father,
I will have wealth beyond his grandest imaginings, wealth suited for a
king of
my indomitable stature!”
While Elan raved, the cook slipped
from the dining hall and
hastened to the King’s quarters. Well the cook remembered his ill
treatment at
Elan’s hands, and now he saw his chance to settle the account. With a
worm’s
tongue, he persuaded the King to come with him. And the King went with
the
cook, and from the doorway behind Elan he heard all the vain youth’s
boasting.
The King’s face reddened with rage, his beard jutting boldly.
“So, this is how you slander your
father the King! If you
are so powerful, then find your own kingdom, for you shan’t have mine!
I
renounce you. You are no longer my son, for you never were my son. Go
from this
place in the rags of a pauper, taking neither gold nor possessions,
only a
small bag of food. You are banished from my kingdom until you can prove
your
boasting is true. On the day you bring me a wagon filled with the
greatest
treasure in the world, then on that day I will again accept you as my
heir.”
Elan laughed at the King’s rage.
“I’ll gladly leave this
place, old man, for this kingdom is too small to suit the needs of a
true king.
And if it pleases me I will come back one day and take this castle, and
give it
over to my lowest stable hand, for it is not suited for the habitation
of real
royalty. There are bigger things in this world that are meant for a man
of my
stature.”
And so that very day Elan was
banished from his father’s
kingdom. He left the castle gates wearing a peasant’s tunic, and a pair
of worn
slippers found in the stables. His clothes stank, and Elan felt angry
and
abused. It had taken six guards to hold him down while three more
wrestled him
out of his fine clothes and into his rags. Elan hadn’t taken the sack
of bread
and cheese his father offered him. It was too lowly a meal for his fine
palette.
Late into the afternoon, Elan walked
along the road from the
castle, until the palace was a small speck on the world’s rim. The
furrowed
fields gave way to rolling grasslands, and afar off a dark line marked
the beginning
of Haggorym forest.
Elan trudged along with downcast
eyes, for his legs hurt and
his stomach ached and his pride rebelled at the rags he wore. In a
ditch beside
the road he came upon an overturned wagon. Scattered crates and baskets
and
trunks littered the grass, and a horse with broken tack grazed nearby.
A fat
merchant sat on the overturned wagon, his many chins resting in his
ring
studded hands. Fine robes of purple silk hung about his shoulders, and
satin
breeches trimmed with ruffles and frills bedecked his legs, and on his
feet he
wore high black boots of soft polished leather. Elan felt seething
jealousy
that this pompous merchant should wear such elegant finery.
Looking up from the ground, the
merchant saw Elan and his
blubbery features broke into a relieved smile. “Ho, young peasant! You
look
stout and eager for work. I’ll pay you a shilling if you help me right
my wagon
and collect my cargo. It’s too much for one man, and I must reach the
castle
before night fall, least the demons of the forest find me exposed out
here,”
and he crossed himself to ward off any evil that might be lurking
nearby.
Elan looked from the wagon to the
powerful draft horse that
grazed nearby. “What happened, fat merchant, that you should end up in
this
ditch?”
“My horse was frightened by a hare
that ran across the road.
But come, help me right what the small hare has done, and I will pay
you well
for your troubles.”
Elan broke into sardonic laughter,
his big ears flapping.
“Why should I work for you? I am the son of a king! It is you who
should serve
me.”
“Come to your senses, boy. You are
but a lad in peasant’s
rags.”
This snapped Elan from his mirth, and
his brow wrinkled with
a frown. “You are right, this raiment doesn’t suit me in the least. I
suggest
we exchange attire, for you are more suited to rags, just as I am more
suited
to silk. Its unnatural for royalty to go about in such filth while mere
merchants wear robes!”
Sweat blisters popped on the
merchant’s brow, wrung from the
wrinkles of his forehead by fear and uncertainty. He glanced at the
sun, so
close to the western horizon, sitting like a giant blood drop above
Haggorym
Forest, and he realized his fear of the denizens of that forest far
outweighed
his uncertainty of the ugly youth’s sanity. Dabbing a silk handkerchief
over
his brow, the merchant smile his serpent’s smile. “You are right, boy.
Clothes
do make the man. But if you would have my clothes, than let us make a
bargain.
I shall ask you a riddle, and if you answer it true, you shall have my
clothes
and you can leave me naked here with my wagon. But if by chance you
cannot
answer my riddle then our clothes remain on our respective backs and
you will
help me right my wagon and collect my goods. Are we agreed?”
Elan stoked his knobby chin, his
greedy eyes scanning the
merchant’s boots and breeches and satin shirt. “You make a fool’s
bargain, fat
man. With my intelligence, there is no way you could outwit me. So ask
me your
riddle, but be prepared to lose your shirt.”
The merchant shrugged. My question is
quite simple. What is
it that wise men have, and fools squander. The soul of man and the bane
of
ogres?”
“Money,” Elan answered. “That is what
wise men have and
fools squander.”
The merchant shook his head. “But
ogres value treasure , it
is not their bane. I’m afraid you have lost the riddle. Now help be
gather my
goods before the sun sets.”
“Wait! We agreed on three guesses. I
still have two left!”
The merchant hesitated. He knew this
wasn’t a part of their
bargain, but from the wild look in Elan’s pale eyes, he knew it would
be unwise
to cross him. So he sighed and said, “Very well. You have two guesses
left. But
if you don’t have the correct answer by the time the sun’s bottom rim
touches
the treetops, then you will have forfeited, and then you must help me.”
“Silence, fat jabber box, and let me
think.” He paced to and
fro, his head bent in thought. From the roadside, he picked up a fist
sized
rock and weighed it contemplatively in his hand. A sudden snicker
pulled his
lips from his teeth. “Power. That is the soul of man and the bane of
ogres. All
ogres fear power. How simple was your riddle, fat simpleton. Now your
finery
shall be mine,” and he strode closer to collect his prize.
“Hold, young man. Yet again I am
afraid you have answered
wrongly. For while it is true wise men have power, it is equally true
that
fools do not, and hence how could a fool squander what he does not
have?” The
merchant wrung his soft hands together. The sun was near the horizon,
its red
glow slanting into his eyes. “You have one guess left, my boy. You had
best use
it before the sun goes down, although it seems to me you are incapable
of even coming
close to the right answer.”
“It’s as plain as the nose on your
face,” responded Elan
without a second of hesitation. “The answer is my fist.”
Surprise registered on the merchant’s
features. “Your fist?
But that isn’t the right answer.”
“Oh yes it is!” And still with the
rock in his hand, he
smashed his fist into the merchant’s bulbous nose. He fell back in a
swoon,
blood leaking from his nostrils.
“That’ll teach you not to play games
with royalty,” murmured
Elan as he tossed the bloodstained stone aside. Whereupon he stripped
the
merchant of his fine clothes and left him lying in the ditch with only
his
undershirt on.
Clad now in expensive, if somewhat
baggy raiment, Elan
strode happily onward, his bouncing gait earring far down the road to
the
forest. The path wound and wound again, turning from a road to a trail
as it
entered the woods, and from a trail to a footpath as it meandered into
the
shadowy realm of dryads and unicorns. Undergrowth clogged the forest
floor to
either side of the path. Tangle vines and bramble bushes formed a wall
between
the massive tree trunks. Overhead, a roof of greenery and intertwined
branches
draped in vines blocked the evening sky, allowing only a few stray
shafts of
sunlight to slip through.
Elan, having been raised since his
earliest days in the
palace, had no recollection of anything so expansive and mysteriously
foreboding
as the forest. He felt an inexplicable pull towards the groves and
dells and
secret places hidden deep within the woods, a tug within his past that
drew him
on; a tingle within his skin that called him ever further. Never mind
the
rumors of goblins and night hags. Already twilight dimmed his eyes, but
no
thought of turning back could stop his legs from carrying him on. And
what did
he have to fear? He was the son of a king, no one would dare bring him
harm.
Darkness congealed in the forest
underbrush. With the
sinking of the sun, shadows crept up the tree boles and crawled out
among the
branches, surrounding Elan in a tunnel of blackness. The bounce in his
step
grew weary, prompting him to consider where he might find a place to
rest. The
darkness made his task even harder, for he could hardly see an arm’s
length
ahead of himself.
A full moon rose round and golden
above the forest. A single
lance of moonlight penetrated the treetops. It landed like white gold
on the
crown of a giant toadstool sprouting in an opening on the side of the
path. The
toadstool glowed like a beacon, drawing Elan straight to the cover of
its vast
dome. The small clearing around the toadstool was just big enough to
give Elan
space to roll over, the ground here was soft with thick moss, and the
toadstool
shaded him from the moonlight and protected him from the dew. Happy to
find
such an opportune spot to spend the night, Elan curled up under the
toadstool
and was soon fast asleep, dreaming dreams of the treasures and the
kingdoms he
would find in the wide world outside his father’s castle.
It so happened that full moons are
perfect for the
harvesting of worms and mushrooms, and that night was particularly
appropriate
considering the moon was surrounded by a golden ring, and everyone
knows a gold
halo increases the enchantment of toadstools tenfold.
Of course, on such an ideal night,
Magwitch was out
collecting toadstools and worms for her kettle. The bag on her back
swelled and
wiggled with an excellent selection of both, yet Magwitch wanted one
more
toadstool. She knew where the biggest shroom in all the forest grew,
and she
had waited years and years for just such a night to reap it.
So Magwitch made her way to the
clearing under the
moonlight, where grew the giant toadstool. Much to her delight she
found a far
greater prize curled beneath its wide brim! For there lay Elan, his
cloak
snuggled around him and his feathered, foppish hat resting atop the
toadstool.
Magwitch cackled hideously, her
forked tongue darting across
her craggy lips. Not often did mortals wander into her woods at night,
and this
one looked soft and plump enough, but not too fat to make for a fine
stew, or
maybe she could cook him up whole on a spit with a rotting green apple
in his
mouth.
Magwitch loomed above the sleeping
youth, her claws dragging
the serpentine dagger from its sheath on her girdle. She drew the blade
only
partway, then her fingers loosened on its handle and it dropped back
into its
sheath. Her hungry grin faded, replaced by a bland expression of
uncertainty
and confusion.
The lad looked so handsome lying
there in his rich garb.
Never had Magwitch seen such beautiful features on a mortal. The hooked
nose,
so much like her own, though not nearly as long. The lad’s reached only
to his
upper lip, while the tip of Magwitch’s nose touched her chin. And he
had such
gorgeous ears, so broad and splayed, like the wings of a moth set in a
display
case. The twisted knob of his chin bore a blackish mole, and Magwitch
touched
the wart on her own gross chin, scratching the long bristles that grew
from it.
Confused by her own behavior, she pondered her reluctance in slitting
this fine
stock’s throat. When it came to filling her cavernous belly, Magwitch
rarely
dallied for the sake of mere aesthetics.
If, for even a moment, Magwitch had
suspected she was gazing
down at her own son, she would have gobbled him down right where he
lay, for
she had hated him as a baby and she would have hated him as a man. Yet
Magwitch
never realized that the features she found so appealing in him were the
reflection of her own exaggerated countenance.
She could eat him at any time,
Magwitch realized. But such
beauty should first be enjoyed for an hour or two. It would make the
feasting
so much more pleasant if she personally knew the main course.
Her crooked fingers returned to her
girdle, this time
pulling a small sliver of hagwood from her pouch. The black wood
gleamed in the
moonlight with a sickly green sheen. Bending over the slumbering youth,
her
face drawing close to his similar face, Magwitch puffed her cheeks in a
noxious
exhalation. Greenish vapor coiled and twisted in her breath, grappling
and
gripping and clawing into the lad’s nose and mouth.
Elan awoke, coughing and gagging and
sneezing and choking
all at the same time. His eyes sprang open, and for an instant he
glimpsed a
horrible visage looming above him, a wrinkled hag draped in stinking
rags, with
hair like brittle hay and straw-like whiskers jutting from her chin.
But even
as Elan opened his eyes, Magwitch cast the hagwood splinter into them.
Lark became light and light became
dark. To Elan’s eyes,
clouded by the hagwood splinter, Magwitch appeared to be a beautiful
maiden
dressed in white frills. The worms she held were a bouquet of flowers,
and the
moon was a springtime sun. Elan was too enchanted by the appearance of
Magwitch
to wonder how he had slept so long.
Rising lithely, Elan bowed deeply to
Magwitch, in the same
motion straightening his clothes and sweeping his hat into his hand.
“My dear
lady, I am Prince Elan, at your service. Might I inquire who you are,
that you
should be all alone in these ill reputed woods?”
“I am Maggie, the princess of the
woods.” Magwitch guffawed
with sardonic mirth, but to Elan it sounded like the most delicate of
giggles.
“And I am not alone, I am with you. Would you care to accompany me to
my
castle? There is a banquet tonight, and I would be much pleased if you
would
join me. I think the food will surprise you.”
Indeed, Elan felt quite hungry from
the previous day’s
journey, and he greedily accepted Magwitch’s offer. “It is well that
you are
having this feast, milady. I am famished, and the hospitality I have
met so far
is much less than should be granted upon the only son of a king. I am
glad to
see that at least the kingdom of the woods respect the true worth of a
man.”
“The worth of men is easily measured
on any scale.” Magwitch
visually proportioned Elan. A fair shank and meaty sirloin leg would
make an
ample meal for the feast of the haggorym, but for dessert, she didn’t
think the
brain pudding would go very far. “Now, if you’d be gentleman enough to
carry my
bag for me, we can be off.”
Magwitch handed her bugling sack of
worms and frogs and
toadstools over to Elan, and he swung it over his shoulder. To him, it
looked
like a sack of berries and peaches. He moistened his lips at the
thought of the
feast awaiting him, and he gave a little skip as he hurried after
Magwitch. The
old witch led him down hidden paths through seemingly impenetrable
brambles.
Undergrowth parted before her, and the forest closed again right at
Elan’s
heels, forcing him to keep as close to Magwitch as possible. Not that
he
minded. He gladly followed her apparently lithe figure, enjoying its
every
undulation.
Deep within the heart of the forest,
Magwitch stopped before
a giant willow tree. Its sagging branches touched the ground, forming a
vast
dome. At a gesture of Magwitch’s hand, the boughs parted, allowing
Magwitch and
Elan to pass before dropping closed like the door to a trap.
Inside, it was pitch black, but to
Elan’s altered vision,
all seemed gaily illuminated. The willow’s trunk rose in the center of
a circle
of barren black ground. Fungus and mold ate at the tree, and swollen
carbuncles
oozed sap from its bark. Magwitch touched the gnarled, decayed bole (to
Elan,
or course, it appeared strong and healthy), and a door swung free,
opening onto
a spiral staircase that descended through the rotted core of the tree.
Elan’s heartbeat quickened as he
followed Magwitch down into
the tree. All looked pleasant and cheerful, yet his skin crawled where
the bag
touched it, and his nose wrinkled although the place smelled fresh and
inviting
to his distorted senses.
Down in the underground roared the
sounds of revelry. At the
bottom of the staircase, Elan stepped into a world grander than any
castle
built on the surface. “I have found my fabulous kingdom,” murmured
Elan. “Here
is a kingdom worthy of my grandeur. How jealous my father will be!”
A cavern larger than any great hall
stretched out before
him. Arches along the walls led into myriad side passages. Gems
glittered in
the walls, amidst veins of gold and silver. Throughout the hall,
figures
cavorted before huge bonfires, their shadows dancing and jumping about
the
walls as though with personal violation. To Elan’s eyes, clouded by the
hagwood
splinter, the figures looked like ballroom dancers, waltzing on a floor
of
marble. Minstrels played a happy tune on lute, flute, harp and violin.
There
was much laughing and the rustle of ballroom finery, and flashes of
scintillation
from the gowns and tuxedos.
Only one figure stood in this
wonderful crowd, a single flaw
clouding this gem of perfection. A serving girl, dressed in a drab
dress and
apron, waited on the long curved table at the room’s far end. She ran
ceaselessly along its length, filling goblets with wine, serving
haunches of
meat, and ladling stew into bowls. A crowd of ladies and gentlemen
feasted at
the table; every chair was taken and still others stood and ate buffet
style.
The serving girl seemed almost done in, for she was the only servant
waiting on
a crowd of nearly a hundred. But what first caught Elan’s attention,
and what
made him shudder, was the gruesome appearance of the girl. She was fat
and her
hair was matted and her ears were big and her eyes were crossed and her
nose
was crooked and her chin was twisted and her teeth were jutting and her
face
was sweaty and her hands were big and her legs were bowed and her feet
were
pigeon toed and he swore he saw snot running down her nose. Elan
couldn’t
understand how such handsome gentility could suffer to have such a
deformed
wretch around them. Just looking at her made him lose his appetite.
It was towards this table that
Magwitch escorted Elan,
although he balked at the proximity to the ugly serving girl. Yet it
soon
became evident that Magwitch was taking him directly to her.
The dancers parted before Magwitch,
and many gawked at her
passage. One handsome fellow mentioned what fine food she had brought
for them,
and Elan grinned and nodded, saying, “Yes, indeed, these berries and
fruit I
carry look mighty delicious!”
Only the wretched serving girl didn’t
step aside at
Magwitch’s approach. She faced her with what looked to Elan to be a
happy
smile. At least the ugly creature is happy here, Elan thought, although
he
would have preferred to have her banished.
Magwitch said to the serving girl,
“You there! I have
brought more delicacies for the kettle. See that they are well cooked,
or I’ll
have your gizzard out!”
You there, as Elan assumed the
serving girl was called,
waddled forward to take the bag from Elan, and he hastily thrust it out
to her
for fear she might touch him in the transaction. Who knew, but maybe
such hideous
malformation was contagious.
You there locked her pale green eyes
on him and insisted on
stepping closer, though he flinched back, his face averted from her
ugliness.
In a croaking whisper she gurgled a brief warning to him. “Go back,
young man.
They mean to eat you. Can’t you see you’re in a den of haggorym?”
What else she might have said was cut
off my Magwitch. “You
there, what are you up to? Haven’t I warned you to stay away from my
guests?
Now be off with you to the kitchen, before I put an end to your
repulsive evil
for once and all.”
“Yes, mistress, as you will.” The
serving girl curtsied, and
with a final warning glance to Elan, she scurried towards a nearby
archway
through which Elan glimpsed a large boiling kettle.
Magwitch sidled up to Elan. “And what
did the little monster
say to you, O’ mighty prince?”
“She merely complimented me on my
elegant garb, is all,”
Elan replied, although he knew not why he lied. Somehow, he knew, the
truth
would bring harm to the ugly serving girl, and her life was miserable
enough
without added troubles. He saw her through the archway, dumping the
contents of
the sack into the steaming kettle.
“Come with me,” Magwitch said,
sliding away from him. “I
would show you the wealth of my kingdom. Perhaps you can tell me if
they have
such treasures outside the forest.”
Elan went with Magwitch. She took him
to an adjoining chamber,
and there Elan’s breath fled from him at sight of the treasure heaped
all
around. A throne carved from obsidian and ornamented with rubies sat
upon a dais,
and behind it and to either side of it was heaped more treasure than
Elan had
ever seen. The chamber itself was illuminated by a golden light
radiating from
the jewels and precious metals piled about the room. In the pile Elan
saw
glowing swords and fiery rings, a rolled cloak and a folded blanket,
all he
suspected of bearing powerful enchantments. Heaped also were bracelets
and
necklaces and anklets and girdles and jewelry of all shape and
description. And
coins! More coins than Elan could hope to count in a hundred years,
coins
minted in kingdoms of forgotten eons, or from lands m the other side of
the
world. Coins as big as the wheel of a cart, made from solid gold, down
to the
smallest coin the size of a pin head, used by pixies to buy ointment
for their
wings.
At its highest, the mound stood twice
as tall as Elan, and
at its peak rested the greatest of all the treasures, a supreme crown
made from
shimmering gold, with gems that radiated magic fires. Elan gasped and
pointed
to the miraculous crown, but he found no words to express his wonder or
his
desire.
Magwitch chuckled at his awe. “No, my
boy, that pretty isn’t
for mortals like you. That be the Crown of Kings. The man who wears it
rules
the world. All who see him will pledge their allegiance, and give their
life in
service to him.”
“I must have it!” Elan cried. “By all
rights, it is mine!
Who else could it have been made for?”
“It was made for no man.” Magwitch
lifted a double handful
of coins. “But this, this was truly made in the furnaces of hell for
all men.
Think of what you could do with such wealth, Elan. After seeing such
riches,
could you ever return to the poverty of the surface, where you have to
fight
merchants just to steal a few ill-fitting clothes?”
A flush of embarrassment lit Elan’s
face, and he wondered
how Magwitch knew about his misadventure. The sparkle of the treasure
reflected
in his eyes, and a slow smile spread across his mouth. “I have found
where I belong.
I would never want to leave this place.”
“And so you never shall.” Dropping
the coins back into the
pile, Magwitch removed a medallion from her own neck. “Here, let me
bedeck you
as properly suits the prince of the forest!”
Elan smiled as she fastened the
medallion about his neck. To
him it looked very valuable, but it would have turned his stomach if
not for
the hagwood splinter in his eye! Other ornaments followed, a ring, two
bracers,
a diamond studded belt. Each pleased Elan more than the previous one,
but still
his eyes drifted to the crown atop the pinnacle of treasure.
Magwitch enjoyed playing with Elan,
she relished debasing
him without him realizing the jokes she played. They spent many hours
in
cloistered company, until from the great hall an eerie chant started:
“Blood and
bone,
“Gizzard and
gall
stone,
“Bring us
the meat
“We want to
eat!”
At this Magwitch flew from the
treasure vault to quite her
guests. In her absence, Elan wandered to the treasure mound, and
standing on
tip toe he stretched for the glorious crown at its peak. It still lay
at least
three feet out of reach, and before he could start to climb he heard
the rustle
of Magwitch’s gown and he guiltily turned his attention to a lesser
bauble.
“Noisy louts,” Magwitch muttered.
“They’ll have no meat
tonight. And if you continue to bring me such amusement, perhaps
they’ll have
no meat at all,” and she grinned slyly at Elan.
Elan simpered stupidly back, and they
returned to their game
of dressing up in jewels and finery, a game Elan found enjoyable yet
somehow
hollow so long as he stood within sight of the Crown of Kings.
A soft pad of footsteps interrupted
their play as the
serving girl waddled wordlessly into the chamber. She carried a huge
soup bowl
on a silver platter, and in the doorway she stopped, holding the bowl
thusly.
Elan saw what looked to him like carrots and potatoes and beef and
cabbage
floating in the thick stew, and his hunger was reawakened with a growl
from his
stomach.
Magwitch plopped in the obsidian
throne, her glaze gabbing
sharply at the serving girl. “You there, bring me my dinner. And then
you can
go and fetch my guest a bowl of his own, as I can see you have
forgotten to
attend to his needs.”
Elan rubbed his belly as the ugly
girl passed him with the
bowl. Its aroma brought drool to his mouth. “My fair Maggie,” he
practically
pleaded, “I think I will die of starvation if I don’t eat this very
minute. I
think then that bowl should rightfully go to me, as I am the one in
more need,
and perhaps you could wait for …”
Magwitch cut him off. “Nonsense! It
would be impolite for
you to take a bite before your hostess does.”
“Then perhaps, after you have taken a
sip, I could consume
the remainder.”
“Don’t complain to me.” Magwitch
dismissed both his
suggestion and the ugly serving girl with a wave of her hand. “It’s not
my
fault my servant failed to bring two bowls. And if you insist on
complaining,
I’ll have to request my servant not to bring you any dinner at all. I
should
hate to think of you gobbling down your food and choking on a turnip or
something.”
“I hardly think that is suitable
treatment for the Prince of
the Forest,” Elan began, but Magwitch simply slurped nosily on her
soup. She
didn’t bother with a spoon, for none had been brought her. She simply
raised
the edge of the bowl to her lip and drank heartily, her neck bulging as
she swallowed
the larger chunks whole. Elan raised his eyebrows in surprise, for even
the
hagwood splinter couldn’t transform such a revolting spectacle into
anything
less than nauseating.
Magwitch yawned even as she finished
off her stew, allowing
a stream of dribble to wash down her chin. She dropped the bowl and
yawned
again, her jaw distending enough to admit a small melon, and sinking
down into
her obsidian throne, she swiftly passed into a snoring slumber. From
the great
hall, Elan noticed the sounds of revelry had been replaced by further
snoring,
and all was strangely quiet and he felt a tingle of magic in the air.
Everyone
slept but himself, and he didn’t even feel like yawning.
Turning towards the exit, Elan saw,
standing in the archway
between the great hall and the treasure vault, one other wakeful
person. It was
the serving girl. She stepped from the shadows and joined him in the
vault.
Horror registered on Elan’s face.
“You monster! What
mischief have you caused? Stay away from me, or I’ll scream and awaken
Maggie,
and she’ll smack you soundly!”
“Do not scream,” the serving girl
croaked hushedly. “You
would undo all I have done to save you. In the kitchen, I had hidden a
bag of
sleeping powder, a mere pinch I had stolen once when Magwitch had left
her bag
lying within my reach. I have never dared to use it, for I knew I could
never
escape on my own. I have never been outside these caves, and I would be
lost on
the surface. But when I saw Magwitch bring you in, I knew I would have
to risk
my life to save both our lives. I sprinkled the sleeping powder in the
haggorym’s stew, and I served it to them all. I brought only one bowl
here, for
I knew Magwitch would take it for herself, and you would be left awake
and
alert for our escape.”
‘Who wants to escape?” Elan demanded
in a voice so loud that
the serving girl winced and glanced fearfully at the slumbering
Magwitch. Elan
ignored the fear in the girl’s expression. “Except for you, the people
here are
beautiful and much more suitable company for me than the boors on the
surface.
And with the wealth of the underground kingdom, I can raise an army to
conquer
the surface lands. What ruler needs to escape his own kingdom?”
The serving girl shook her head. “You
see this world through
the splinter in your eye. Let me remove that splinter, so you may see
clearly
the choice you have made.”
She stepped forward, her hand raised,
and Elan recoiled, a
gasp escaping his lips. “Don’t you dare touch me! A ugly hag like you
would
give me warts! Whoever heard of a hag touching a prince?”
The girl smiled in understanding, and
to Elan, her twisted
smile made her all the more repulsive. “If you fear for your
appearance, O’
prince, permit me to wipe the smudge of dirt from your cheek. It is
hardly
befitting a prince to have a dirty face. So that my hands don’t touch
you, I
will use this handkerchief,” and she pulled a silken square of cloth
from the
treasure trove.
“Dirt? On my face?” Elan scanned
about for a reflective
surface to examine his features. Lacking a mirror, he caught his
reflection in
the silver tray used to serve Magwitch’s stew. The warped metal gave
back a
distorted image of his already unpleasant visage, making one eye larger
than
the other. In that enlarged eye was something that looked like a small
log, but
Elan couldn’t quite tell because his reflection was fuzzy and dark. As
to the rumored
dirt spot, he saw no trace. But he couldn’t quite tell for certain, and
after
sleeping in the woods it was quite likely he had soiled himself. He
could
imagine the nobles at the banquet laughing at his scruffy appearance,
calling
him a vagabond or a peasant, and he knew he had to look his best. So he
set the
tray aside and said, “Very well. You there, wipe the dirt from my face,
but see
that you don’t touch my skin with your skin, or else I’ll see to it
you’re
properly punished.”
“As you wish,” the girl said, and she
raised the
handkerchief to Elan’s cheek. Elan steeled himself against her touch,
expecting
it to be cold and clammy even through the silk, but instead he found it
warm
and pleasant. Confused, he opened his eyes to gaze down at her. At that
moment
she brushed the corner of the handkerchief below his eyelid and the
world
became suddenly darker.
“You have blinded me!” Elan yelped.
He rubbed his eyes and
looked about him, and through the gloom he saw that everything was
strange and
different and not at all as he remembered. Light was light again and
dark was
dark, and the pile of treasure was still the same (for treasure can be
as bad
as it is good, and its opposite is itself). But Magwitch was now
revealed as
the horrible stinking hag she really was, and the cave was revealed as
the
dank, dripping hole it really was and the ugly serving girl …
The ugly serving girl was gone. In
her place stood a lovely
maiden, green of eye and black of hair, who stood in grey rags that
were worn
from strenuous cleaning in an environment that reeked with filth. Her
nose was
just the right size and her eyes were quite beautiful and she was
pleasingly
proportioned and her legs were appealingly shaped and altogether she
was even
more attractive than she had been ugly. Elan showed his approval of her
appearance with an involuntary gasp.
The girl ignored his reaction. In the
handkerchief she held,
a small green maggot wiggled. She wrapped the cloth around the grub and
tossed
it distastefully aside.
Elan felt a cold sliminess on his
finger, and about his neck
something scaly hung. Looking down, he saw the jewelry Magwitch had
given him
in all its horrid reality. A plump worm was twisted around his finger
instead
of a ring, and instead of a necklace a dead rattlesnake hung from his
neck.
Slugs encircled his wrists and frog heads adorned his belt, and a
garland of
mold hung about his shoulders. Choking on his revulsion, he clawed the
revolting
artifacts from his skin.
Meanwhile, the girl poked among the
treasure as though
searching, passing over many a wondrous gem or idol of gold. She cast
an
annoyed glare at Elan. “Would it be possible for you to be less noisy?
I only
had a thimble full of sleeping powder, and each haggorym received only
a single
grain. It won’t take much to awaken them. That’s better. Now, could you
help me
search through this horde? There’s a magic blanket in here somewhere,
and it
would help us considerably in our escape.”
“A blanket? What use is a blanket?”
Elan scoffed loudly, and
Magwitch, still snoring in her throne, rolled over and snorted. Elan
and the
girl held their breath, and momentarily Magwitch resumed her rasping,
regular
snoring.
“Come on,” the girl whispered. She
found the folded blanket,
and carefully disengaged it from the mound. It shone with rainbow
colors, each
thread radiating a different hue. “Come on,” the girl repeated. “I
found the
blanket. Let us hasten from this place before the haggorym awaken.”
But Elan wasn’t listening, for his
perception was caught by
the crown sitting high atop the heap. Without the hagwood splinter, the
crown
looked even more splendid, its colors sharper and its gems more
radiant. “One moment,
one moment,” he murmured as he reached for the crown. He couldn’t reach
it, so
he put a foot on the arm of Magwitch’s throne, mere inches from the
hag’s
nodding head, and raising himself on that leg he stretched his utmost
towards
the crown straining to reach so high. His splayed fingertips brushed
the coins
the crown sat upon, so high atop the pile. The girl watched him from
the
doorway, too afraid to say anything for fear of distracting him and
causing him
to fall.
Finding he still couldn’t reach the
crown, Elan gave a
little jump. His hand closed on the air just to the side of the crown,
and then
Elan came down. His feet slipped and he fell into the gold, sending an
avalanche
of gold clattering on the floor. The racket exploded in the silence,
and was
answered by the grumble of awakening haggorym in the adjoining chamber.
Magwitch lifted her head from her chest, and from fanged mouth issued a
chilling screech as she saw her treasure tumbling about her. She tried
to
stand, but the golden cascade tumbled about her waist, pinning her to
her
throne. Gold fell from behind her and from the piles on either side,
and soon
she was buried up to her neck.
Elan scrambled to his feet, his head
spinning this way and
that for a glimpse of the Crown of the Kings. The girl, the rainbow
blanket
tucked under her arm, grabbed Elan by the hand and forcibly pulled him
from the
treasure vault. They had to wade ankle deep through coins to make it
out the
doorway.
“Thieves!” Magwitch screamed after
them. Only her head was
visible above her treasure, but its snarl was horrible indeed to
behold. “You’ll
both feed my haggorym tonight! When I catch you, I’ll suck the marrow
from your
bones, and feed your souls to the minions of hell!”
The great hall was dark and musty.
Squat shapes, roused from
their slumber, rose from the ground, their luminous red eyes blinking
and their
warty green hides glinting. Their disguise as human revelers was
stripped away,
and Elan saw them as they really were. Their rat whiskers wiggled and
their cow
tails twitched, and their hairy arms dangled almost to the ground.
Elan and the girl fled through the
cavern. All around them
the awakening haggorym grumbled and stumbled, bellowing as they bumbled
into
each other in their bleary eyed confusion. One haggorym, more alert
than the
others, caught sight of the fugitives and squawking shrilly, set after
them at
a long legged lope. Soon the entire horde had joined in the chase,
howling like
a pack of wolves. Elan’s churning legs raced out ahead of his body, and
his hat
blew off the top of his head. A craggy claw raked against the trailing
edge of
his cape as he scrambled up the spiral stairs on the serving girl’s
heels.
They burst from the rotted willow’s
tree trunk. It was still
night, at that darkest part after the moon has set but before the first
tinge
of purple touches the eastern horizon. Under the willow branches, the
shadows
were pitch black. The serving girl didn’t know which way to turn, but
Elan took
her by the hand and guided her through the curtain of leaves.
Yet there could be no escape. The
haggorym were pouring out
of the tree right behind them. In three leaps and a bound the gangly
monsters
would be through the willows and upon them.
Elan wanted to run, but the girl
stopped and snapped the
rainbow blanket out. Its colors dazzled Elan even in the inky gloom.
“Put the blanket about us,” the girl
said. “I will be a
rock, and you will be the pebbles at my feet.”
Lacking time to argue or to even
express his misgivings at
the feasibility of such a plan, Elan ducked under the blanket with the
girl and
she draped it securely around them. The blanket shimmered and became
grey, and
where once the boy and girl had knelt there now stood a boulder
surrounded by a
few small pebbles.
The haggorym broke through the
curtain of willow leaves and
poured around the stones. They bounded over the boulder and fanned out
into the
woods, never once realizing they had passed their prey. Elan huddled
close to
the girl, his little pebble eyes making everything look so much bigger.
It was
a very odd feeling and he didn’t much like being so small. He wanted to
ask her
if they could switch roles, but there were always haggorym roaming
about and he
dared not try to speak. At last he did try to voice a protest, but
pebbles
don’t have mouths, so his endeavor was pretty fruitless.
Sunrise brought twilight creeping
through the trees. The
haggorym straggled back to the tree, for they had no love of sunshine.
They
grumbled and complained about losing their quarry, and they fretted
most
gratingly over what Magwitch would do to them for their failure. It was
generally agreed that it would be most unbearable if Magwitch turned
them into
something gross and disgusting, like a butterfly or a bunny.
Before the sun had topped the trees,
the haggorym had all
returned to the willow. The girl threw back her blanket and rolled it
in a
bundle under her arm. Its color, though still brilliant, was slightly
faded.
Elan blinked, and finding he still
had a mouth, he quickly
put it to use. “What an amazing article of bedding! But don’t you think
it
would have been more appropriate for me to be the boulder?”
“We are what we are,” the girl
replied. She gazed about
herself, curiously investigating the trees and plants. “I’ve never seen
anything so beautiful. Oh, and look, what a strange animal!” Having
spotted a
spiny hedgehog that was waddling to its burrow, the girl knelt beside
it and
was going to pick it up when Elan intervened.
“Are you trying to get yourself
stuck? Don’t you realize
animals are dangerous?”
“I don’t know anything about
animals.” The girl lowered her
head. “I’ve never been on the surface before. That is why I need you to
guide
me.”
“Well, as your guide, I think it’s
time we started off. The
haggorym won’t be after us until dark, but there are other things that
live
below that aren’t so adverse to the light.” Pushing his way into the
undergrowth, Elan led the girl in the direction he thought the sun was
rising,
but the trees blocked his view and he actually led her in a more
northerly
direction.
In her underground lair, Magwitch
received her haggorym
troops with considerable cursing. Other haggorym had just finished
shoveling
Magwitch free from her treasure, and she was in an ill mood from her
buffeting.
The searchers explained that they had seen no trace of the two
fugitives. They
had seen nothing but a boulder amidst a pile of pebbles.
“Fools!” Magwitch shrieked. “They
have the rainbow blanket!
They were the stones. Bah! Why send goblins to do a demon’s job!”
With that Magwitch marched to the
great hall where the
central bonfire blazed, and raising her arms like the wings of a bat,
she
chanted:
“Burn and
churn and
roast and toast
“Boil and
coil and
flash the most
“Flame burn
higher,
bring life to fire
“Turn my
foes to ash
and cinder
“Bring their
heads
back as cooked dinners!”
The flame quivered, flaring brighter
as sparks flew up its
shimmering pyre. Two embers coalesced within the blaze. They blinked,
while
around them an formed an efreet, demonic visage. Its snout breathed
gouts of
flame and its maw drooled smoke. Curved fangs extended below its
bestial chin,
and fiery spikes protruded from its brow and ears. A mane of flame
lashed and
crackled about its evil face. The semblance of a half-human body
shifted in the
flames below the face.
“Queen of the haggorym,” the fire
demon hissed in a voice
like steam from a kettle. “Do you have the souls I require? Young souls
full of
energy to feed the fires of hell?”
The haggorym cringed in the furthest
corners of the cavern, murmuring
and whimpering amongst themselves, but Magwitch stood before the
towering
demon, her shoulders hunched and her eyes glancing distrustfully at its
insubstantial bulk. “Bring me the two children, and when I’ve finished
crushing
their bones and turning their flesh to mush, you can have their souls
to feast
upon. But bring me their bodies first, and then you can demand your
payment.”
“So be it.” The demon raised his arms
and a column of purple
flame and billowing smoke jetted from the bonfire, gushing up through
the
stones in the ceiling and out into the chill dawn. The bonfire dwindle
back to
normal proportions. The demon was gone, leaving only a scorched ring of
melted
rock on the ceiling and a quivering conglomeration of fearful haggorym
cringing
in the corner.
The forest seemed less intimidating
in the daylight. Beery
step brought new wonders to Elan’s companion, and their escape was
slowed by
her desire to stop and investigate every plant and animal they passed.
The
birds reminded her of the bats of her cave, and the squirrels reminded
her of
the rats, but the surface creatures were so much more beautiful that
she almost
cried for not having seen them before.
The girl pulled Elan to a stop in a
flower patch. “Ooh, what
are these, Elan? They smell so nice, and look at all the colors and
shapes! The
fungus of the cave was never as pretty as this!”
“These are flowers. The red ones are
roses and the white
ones are lilacs and the yellow ones are tulips and the blue ones are
weeds.
They smell nice because fairies sleep in them and leave their gold dust
in the
petals. Now, if you’ve had enough of botany, I think we should be
moving along.
I know the road is somewhere along here …”
“What are you getting so hot about?
You know the haggorym
only travel at night.” The girl cautiously touched a flower, uncertain
whether
it was safe or whether Elan would stop her as he did with the hedgehog.
The
petal didn’t hurt, but when she went to stoke the stem, a thorn pricked
her
finger. “Ooh!” she gasped, unexpectedly sitting down. She sucked on her
finger
and glared sulkily at the flower. This surface world was scary!
Everything was
so dangerous!
Elan was too busy worrying about
pursuit to watch over the
girl. “My ears are hot, so somebody must be talking about us, and I
don’t have
a burning desire to find out what they’re saying. It’s time we put fire
to our
heels and got out of here.”
Whereupon the sky burst into
brilliant intensity. Elan
thought a star had fallen nearby, but there was no resounding
concussion, only
the crackle of a nearby fire.
Elan ran in a quick circle that
abruptly ended against the
unyielding trunk of a tree. He staggered back, dazed yet still
articulate.
“Maggie’s after us! She’s set the
forest afire!”
The girl shrugged, her attention more
on the flowers than on
the approaching inferno. “Magwitch wouldn’t burn down her forest. She’s
sent
Flareon after us.”
“Flareon?”
“That’s what they call him in the
underworld. He’s a demon.”
“A demon!” Elan sprang to his feet
and tried unsuccessfully
to run two directions at once. The walking inferno was close enough now
for him
to smell its sharp tang of smoke. The heat wrung sweat from his
forehead. “We
can’t outrun a demon!”
“Silly, we don’t have to run.” The
girl unfolded the rainbow
blanket, catching the sunlight in a blur of color. “Put the blanket
about us. I
will be a rose bush, and you will be an unopened bud upon me.”
“But won’t I be too big for such a
small bush?” Elan paced
briskly back and forth, barely in control of his panic. “I would hardly
fit
upon so delicate a limb.”
The girl smiled. “Size isn’t
everything.”
Elan felt the ground vibrate under
the footfalls of a
massive creature. Smoke stung his eyes, and the heat made the feather
in his
hat droop. He had to agree, size wasn’t everything. Staying alive was
much more
important. So he joined the girl under the blanket. The colors on its
surface
shimmered, transforming them into a thornless rosebush with but a
single bud.
Flareon lumbered into the flower
patch. His flaming head
brushed the leaves, withering them into blackened ash. His footsteps
smoldered,
leaving charred earth. Fire shimmered along his crimson hide,
surrounding him
in a radiant aura. The air around him sizzled, stifling Elan and making
his
petals wilt.
The demon snuffled, its snout sending
out puffs of smoke.
His gaze raked across the field of flowers, his lips curving above his
fangs.
“I know you are here. I feel the warmth of your souls. But wait. I
sense only
one soul here.”
Elan was puzzled, until he realized
that a girl who had
lived all her life with haggorym wouldn’t possess a soul. He felt sorry
for
her. He knew a soul was important to people, but he could never figure
out why.
His companion certainly seemed appealing enough without one.
“I hear your thoughts, boy,” Flareon
hissed, his head tilted
in an attitude of listening. His forked tail lashed irritably. “Are you
not
enough of a man to face me? Are you, the son of a king, afraid of a
mere demon?
How are you to be lord of the world if you refuse to face your
servants? Come
out, boy! I challenge you to show yourself!”
Elan tried to stand. What did he have
to fear? He was a
prince, and this demon evidently understood the stature of nobility. He
would
show himself and demand the demon’s fealty. But his flower form had no
legs to
stand on, and the girl held him rooted to her branch. Anger flushed
Elan’s
petal’s even redder. Who was this serving girl to hold him back?
Flareon gnashed his fangs, dribbling
molten fire onto the
sward. His fury doubled the region’s temperature; the leaves around him
burst
into flame, the tree bark flaking into charred powder. Steam vented
from his
spiked ears.
Elan abruptly reconsidered the
advisability of presenting
himself. His pride was strong, but his fear was a tad stronger. It was
easy to
resist the demon’s temptation with the girl holding him.
Magwitch watched the demon’s progress
through the murky
surface of her kettle. Her eyeballs bulged with ire, and tendrils of
smoke
seeped from her ears and nostrils. A bat’s wing floated across her
view,
breaking her vision and her temper. With a screech, she dashed the
kettle over.
Gangly haggorym leaped away from the steaming flood. Some caught sight
of the
tasty rat tails and dove to slurp it up.
“Flareon” the witch screamed. “Back
to the pit with you, before
you set my forest on fire! I’ll gather the wayward children myself!”
Spinning around, Magwitch swept her
black cloak about her
knobby shoulders and leapt into the air. In mid jump she became a dark
cloud
streaking over the sky. Her darkness blocked the sun, spreading above
the
forest like a gigantic net.
Beneath this spreading cloud, Elan
stood scratching his
head, staring at the smoldering spot where Flareon had towered only
moments
before. “I don’t get it,” he muttered. “He just vanished in a puff of
brimstone
and sulfur.”
“He can’t stand frustration,” the
girl said. She rolled the
blanket under her arm. It was dingy now, all faded and bright colors
were
streaked with grey. The girl heard the flutter of wings above the
treetops, and
looking up, she saw a duck flying from the rainclouds that rolled
across the
sky.
“Duck!” the girl cried, throwing
herself to the ground.
“It’s the biggest bat I’ve ever seen!”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,”
Elan said. “It’s only a
gander.”
The girl crawled to her knees. “What
are those clouds behind
it? They’re so dark, and its suddenly so cold. What happened to the
sun?”
A cold wind whipped around the trees,
tearing at the girl’s
long black hair. The dark clouds funneled downwards, twisting in a
black finger
that pointed straight at the pair in the flower garden.
Elan shivered. “Where’s the blanket?”
“It is here. But it is so grey. The
color’s all faded.”
Elan grew pale. His breath clouded in
the cold. “Is there
still magic enough in it to hide us?”
“I suppose it’ll have to.” The girl
held at the drab cloth.
“Put the blanket about us. I will be a lake, and you shall be a duck
held upon
my back.”
Elan took one end of the blanket and
wrapped it around both
him and her. He felt only a slight tingle, a slow feeling of change. He
said,
“If my weight is too great, tell me and I’ll fly away.”
Aid the girl said, “Do as you like. I
won’t feel you when
you’re there, and I won’t know when you leave.”
Then he was floating atop smooth
water. How odd, he thought,
that this water, so insubstantial and fluid, ever changing and never
solid,
should support me and cradle me, rocking me more gently than the king’s
softest
mattress. Feather down and silk sheets were never more comfortable than
simple
water.
Darkness spread across the water, a
shadow fell across his
white feathers.
Darkness spread across the water,
casting a shadow across
Elan’s white feathers. Magwitch stood on the water’s edge, her black
cape
fluttering behind her. She looked huge to Elan’s fowl perspective.
Magwitch knelt on the bank and
stretched out a hooked claw,
but Elan paddled to the other side of the pool where she couldn’t reach
him.
She circled to that side but again he paddled well beyond her reach. To
Elan,
the burbling waves sounded like girlish laughter.
Magwitch fumed, then smiled
cunningly. From under her cloak,
she brought forth a scintillating cornet of bejeweled gold. Elan’s
duckling
eyes popped halfway from his head, for she held the Crown of Kings.
“Such a lovely duckling,” Magwitch
cooed. “How handsome he
would look in this golden crown! If only he would come closer so I
could place
it on his head.”
The crown filled Elan’s gaze,
blocking its holder from his
vision. He paddled nearer, his little beak quivering and his voice
quacking
with excitement. The water became rougher, but he fought it to reach
the bank.
The crown was so close! He could almost put his head in it!
But Magwitch nabbed him by the neck,
choking off his happy
quacks. The spell snapped and he lay with the girl on the now grey
blanket,
with Magwitch standing astride them, her black fingernails digging into
his
throat. Darkness swung around them, transforming the trees into the
walls of a
cave.
They were back in Magwitch’s lair. A
stewpot boiled behind
her, stirred with a long ladle by her haggorym minions. Hopping from
foot to
foot to foot, Magwitch chortled gleefully, “Oh, this is good, very
good. You
there,” she pointed to the girl, huddled on the floor, “you will make a
good
broth for my pot. And you, little boy, you will continue to amuse me
until my
hunger claims you, too!”
“I think, hag, I won’t give you much
amusement this time.”
Elan rose to his feet. The girl seemed more comfortable rolled up on
the floor,
so he didn’t help her up. “But I will make a bargain with you. Free the
girl,
and I will willingly remain your slave until the day you devour me.”
“No!” The girl scrambled upright. “I
would be lost in the
surface world without you. There could be no life for me without you.”
Elan touched her cheek. “If you stay,
she will kill you, and
I will be just as much a captive. For eighteen years you have suffered
here,
allow me to set you free. Make my suffering in the darkness bearable
with the
knowledge that you are spending your life in the sunshine, and not in
the
bellies of the haggorym.”
“STOP IT!” Magwitch yowled. “I’ll not
stand for your
complaining. You’ll do as I say whether you wish to or not!” And with a
flourish of her hand she capped her squat skull with the Crown of
Kings. The
sun itself seemed to shine from the rat’s nest of her head. The
haggorym in the
chamber threw themselves prostrate, groveling before the majestic glow.
Magwitch focused its glare on Elan. “Obey me O’ son of man. Gather up
the girl
and pitch her in my kettle! The power of the crown commands you!”
Elan blinked, almost blinded by the
glare. With the back of
his hand he knocked the crown from the hag’s ugly pate. “My eyes are
open now
witch, and you cannot cloud them with your witchcraft.”
The crown’s luster faded as its gold
turned to tin and its
gems turned to sand.
Magwitch’s rage turned her face
purple and her hair crackled
with fury. “Throw them both in the pot! Tonight we shall feast on meat
aplenty!”
Haggorym grappled Elan and his
companion with ragged claws.
They lifted the girl off her feet and carried her towards the kettle.
Elan
struggled to help her, but the haggorym held his arms pinned. In the
fight, his
shirt tore open, revealing the pentagram birthmark on his chest.
At sight of that crimson blemish,
Magwitch released an
agonized howl. The frightened haggorym released their captives,
dropping them
in a pile. “I recognize you now!” Magwitch cried, her claws tearing at
her wiry
hair. “You are my son! When you were but a baby, I left you in the
palace in
place of the King’s daughter. Now you are grown and your life is ahead
of you.
Blast it, be gone from my sight!” And Magwitch hurled her black cowl
over Elan
and the girl. The cape settled on the cave floor, leaving only traces
of white
smoke where the two had been.
But too late. Magwitch had seen the
fine man her son had
become, and her cruel heart cracked within her bosom. A tear leaked
from her
eye, freezing halfway down her black cheek. The white frost spread
across her
face and body, turning her to ice from the top of her head to the hair
on her
toes. The crack in her heart spread through the ice of her body and she
shattered into a heap of white snow.
The haggorym scowled at her. This is
what became of ogres
that felt the bane of the soulless. A drum pulsed within the dark
caverns,
echoing off the damp stones. The haggorym prepared for the hunt. They
were
hungry and all worked up for a feast, and their appetite for flesh
would not be
denied.
Elan and the girl appeared in the
small clearing where stood
the giant toadstool. The sun was reddening with the oncoming evening,
and the
ground trembled with the war drums of the haggorym, leaving them no
time to
congratulate themselves on their unexpected escape. If they weren’t out
of the
forest by nightfall, their escape would be only a brief reprieve.
The road was within sight of the
toadstool, and passing
through a fringe of underbrush, they were back on the path. The palace
was at
least three hours away, but nightfall was only an hour distant. It
seemed
unlikely they could escape the haggorym hunting pack. The creak of a
wagon
squeaked from around a bend in the trail. They ran to catch up with it,
and
there they saw a fat peasant riding an empty wagon. Elan hailed him,
and he
rained to a halt.
“Good peasant,” Elan called, “could
you please give us a ride
to the palace? We are very tired from our flight from the haggorym, and
if we
don’t get to the castle by nightfall, the haggorym will be upon us.”
The blubbery peasant glared at Elan
from pools of fat. “I
recognize you. You’re the thief who knocked me unconscious and stole my
clothes. And while I lay by the roadside, bandits came and stole my
wares away.
Now I am left with nothing but this rickety wagon, these rags you left
by the
roadside, and this horse. I haven’t the money to pay the head tax at
the castle
gates, and I’m left to wander this forest until some foul monster
devours me.
And you expect me to give you a ride? I’d sooner cut your throat.”
Elan also belatedly recognized the
fat man. He was the
merchant he had robbed when first he left the castle. Elan’s hopes for
an easy
escape from the forest fled him. “Very well, merchant. You can leave
me. But at
least take the girl to the palace. They will welcome the man who
rescued a
damsel from the haggorym.”
The merchant’s fat orbs ogled the
girl. “Indeed, she is a
very beautiful woman. She would make a wonderful merchant’s wife.”
“No!” The girl slipped her hand
through the hook of Elan’s
elbow. “I will stay with Elan. His fate will be mine.”
The merchant shrugged. “But he can
come with us. I am a
merchant, and I am open to fair deals. He has wronged me, and I will
not take
him without payment. What can he offer me to take him along?”
“I have no property,” Elan answered.
“I have nothing but
what you see.”
“Then you still have your wit, don’t
you. I am not a cruel
man. Answer my riddle, and I will offer both you and your fair
companion safe
passage to the castle. But if you fail, I will take only the girl. She
will
ride with me under my promise that no harm shall befall her. If you
should make
it back to town on your own, you will find her waiting, although I must
admit
my hope that you don’t return, so that she may have time to consider
the
benefits of being a merchant’s wife.”
Elan felt the drums vibrating under
his feet, and felt the
girl trembling at his side. “Very well. What is your riddle?”
“No!” the girl cried, but it was too
late, the bargain was
struck.
The merchant’s face split in a smile
that was lost amongst
his multiple chins. “I won’t be fooled this time. Bring the girl into
my wagon
first.”
“And what’s to stop you from riding
off with her,” Elan
asked.
“The same thing that stops you from
hitting me with a rock,”
the merchant replied.
So Elan helped the girl into the
wagon. She was very
unhappy, and angry enough that Elan had made such an agreement without
her
consent that she almost hoped he got the wrong answer. But no, he was
doing
this for her, and it was their only chance to flee the woods before
nightfall.
The merchant smiled smugly down at
Elan. “I will refresh
your memory on my riddle. What is it that wise men have, and fools
squander,
the soul of man and the bane of ogres? And only one guess this time,
and keep
your hands where I can see them.”
Elan thought, and thought again. He
pondered and
contemplated and ruminated and dwelled. He thought so hard his head
swelled and
his heart beat faster and his brain churned and his limbs quivered and …
And his soul came alive.
Laughing, the merchant was about to
whip his horse into a
canter, but Elan yelled, “Compassion!”
The merchant faltered. “What?”
“Compassion,” Elan said. “That is
what wise men have and
fools squander. That is the soul of man and the bane of ogres.”
The fat pendulating from the
merchant’s cheeks trembled with
fury. But he was a man of his word, so he unhappily gestured for Elan
to climb
into the back of his wagon with the girl. And turning his back to the
two, he
whipped his horse into a trot.
While they cuddled in the bouncing
wagon, the girl pointed
to Elan’s chest. “Look. Your birthmark is fading.”
And so it was. By the time they left
the forest, it was gone
altogether.
They reached the castle gates at
nightfall. The gate was
closed, for it was night, but at sight of Elan, he summoned the King to
the
high parapet.
The King glowered down at him from
his great height.
“Foolish stranger! Are you back so soon? Return to the wilderness! Have
you
forgotten your banishment? Remember my vow. I shall never call you son
until
the day you bring me a wagonload of the greatest treasure in the world!”
Elan stood up in the bare wagon. Over
the hills to the west,
he heard the howls of the hunting haggorym. “Indeed, sire, that is
exactly what
I bring you. I bring you the greatest treasure in this world or any
other.”
The King scoffed, his beard jutting
regally. “But I see no
treasure! Your wagon is empty, save for you, that girl, and a merchant.
I can
smell the reek of your clothes even from here. Where is this treasure
you boast
of?”
“Behold, here is my wealth that never
rusts, my fortune that
thieves can never steal, my strength that cannot fade.” He laid his
hand upon
the girl’s shoulder. “Here is the love so many heroes seek yet so few
find.”
The King pulled the chain to raise
the gate himself. Over
the hilltop to the west, a horde of haggorym loped, but a flight of
arrows
drove them off long enough for the wagon to roll inside. When the
haggorym saw
the gate drop closed, they howled and fell upon one another in a
cannibalistic
fury, until not a single one of the gibbering creatures was left.
The King raced down three flights of
stone stairs to the
entry hall to meet the wagon, his long robes streaming out behind him.
There he
gave Elan a joyous bear hug. “Son, you shall sit by my side, and all
that is
mine will be yours.”
The boy was humbled. He couldn’t even
meet the King’s gaze.
“I seek only shelter here, sire. For I am the son of a haggorym, a mere
hellion, and you have no reason to treat me as your son.”
“It doesn’t matter. So I have known
since my only child, a
daughter as beautiful as her mother, was taken from her crib and you
were found
in her stead. But wait!” And for the first time the King saw the girl
close up.
She tried to hide behind Elan, but the King circled around her to get a
good
look at her. “Who is this vision? She looks so familiar, so much like
my long
lost queen. Is this a spirit who has come to remind me of what I have
lost?”
“No, milord,” the girl meekly
admitted, although she was not
too meek to meet his gaze. “My name is Eleena.”
Whereupon the King took her in his
arms and hugged her, for
he had found both his son and his daughter.
Elan and Eleena were married a year later, and when the King died, Elan ruled fairly and justly, although he never quite found a crown that suited him. The merchant lived in the spillover of their happiness, growing fatter every year until it took the largest chamber in the palace to hold his bulk. But he was happy, and Elan and Eleena were happy, and if they haven’t died, they’re living even now.
The End