Rapunzel: The One With All the Hair
To Norman and Adaya for the Florida sun; and to Lisa, Gail, Betsy, and Pat for helping Rapunzel’s hair to grow
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINTEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
I seriously CANNOT BELIEVE what has happened to me today. I am currently throwing a tantrum on the pile of straw that is supposed to serve as my bed (!) and — this is the most unbelievable part — I am LOCKED IN A TOWER IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FOREST!! In case I am never rescued and blackbirds fly through the one tower window and pick my bones clean, I hope the tragic circumstances that have befallen me on the dawn of my twelfth birthday will not go forgotten by history. Kicking and screaming in frustration is not doing me much good. Truth be told, my body is beginning to ache from the effort.
My candle sheds just enough light for me to see the strange shadows dancing on the walls. The only reason I am not lying in complete darkness is that the witch (yes, WITCH, complete with scraggly hair and hairy wart) did not know a handful of candles was in the trunk along with the meager possessions she allowed me to pack.
My day started out fine. Mother was preparing a special morning feast to celebrate my birthday, and I was setting up the stool and shears that she was going to use later to cut my hair. Now that I turned twelve, this was to be my first official haircut and I couldn’t wait. Once it was shortened, I could finally wear my hair loose instead of tied upon my head. It was so long I could sit on it!
From the kitchen window, I could see Father out back, tending the garden. He is famous in our village for the rampion herb that refuses to grow in any yard but ours. In the heat of summer, the orders for fresh rampion pour in and we live high off the hog (or herb, as the case may be) right through the autumn harvest. Then, in November, I help Father dig up the stalks and he rides off for a fortnight to deliver the herb as far as the riverbank on the other side of the Great Forest.
Some ladies boil it and apply it to their cheeks for a smooth complexion. Mostly, though, it is made into salads along with lettuce and spinach. I’ve heard whispers that there’s something not natural about rampion, that it can make feeble old men strong again and will keep your breath fresh even if you bite into a clove of garlic.
Mother had finished spreading honey on the almond pies that would be my special birthday breakfast, and told me to go fetch Father. When I pushed open the heavy wooden gate that protected the garden, I was shocked to see that Father was not alone. In twelve years of life, I had never seen an outsider in the garden. The stranger wore a black cape with a hood, even though it was deadly hot out. I could not tell whether it was a man or a woman, only that he or she wasn’t much taller than I.
Father and the stranger looked to be in heated debate. I dared not move closer lest the bells on my belt alert them to my presence. Soon the gate behind me banged open and Mother appeared. I could tell she was about to scold me for dawdling when her eyes lit upon the stranger. Her hands flew to her mouth. She gasped, and the sound caught their attention. The stranger turned and I saw immediately that it was an old woman with beady, penetrating black eyes, white hair, and a long nose. Three large flies circled around her head but she did not wave them away. I felt a cold shiver run down my spine.
Mother grabbed the sleeve of my special yellow birthday dress and tried to pull me back into the house. It was no use. Our feet were suddenly stuck to the ground. Mother started to cry. Father buried his face in his hands. I was too shocked to do either of those things; I just gaped at the woman.
She crept toward me. “You must be Rapunzel,” she said in a raspy voice. “I’ve waited a long time for you.”
Father rushed over and stood between us. “You cannot have her,” he said firmly. “We made that deal before she was born. Surely you cannot hold us to it.”
Mother paused from her crying to yell at Father. “It was not WE. It was YOU! YOU made that deal!”
Father yelled back, “You wouldn’t eat anything other than the witch’s rampion! After we prayed for a baby for all those years, I couldn’t very well let you starve when you needed your strength for the birth!”
I turned my head between the two of them. Mother pursed her lips and didn’t respond. A witch?! A birth? Did they mean me? I managed to make my mouth work enough to ask my parents, “Will someone tell me what is going on? Who is this … this person?”
The old woman made a loud cackling sound. I think it was a laugh.
“Stupid man,” she said to Father in a dark whisper, “you don’t make a bargain with a witch and expect her not to hold you to it. Our deal was clear: your freedom for your daughter. You stole the rampion from my garden, and I did not destroy you for your thievery. I’ve made you a rich man all these years. Now that she is a maiden, I have come for her.”
She did mean me! My eyes widened. The old lady grinned and her wart stretched along with her lips. Don’t even ask me to describe her teeth, because what was left of them was not pretty. She must be a rather poor witch if she can’t even fix her own appearance. I mean, honestly, even the apothecary in town can cure a wart.
Things happened quickly after that. My father picked me up in his arms (and I’m no little thing anymore) and tried to run. He, too, found that his legs refused to move. With a swoosh of the witch’s arm, all the green stalks in the garden fell to the ground and shriveled up like they’d never sprouted at all. With alarming physical strength, the witch pulled me from my father’s arms and dragged me into the house. Mother’s shrieks followed us. The witch seemed to know where my room was, because she led me straight to it and ordered me to pack my bare necessities in the wooden chest. I tried to dart from the room but she blocked the door. Then I did as she instructed … because what else could I do? I grabbed what I could until she slammed the chest shut.
In an instant I was blindfolded and found myself lying across the seat of a swiftly moving carriage. I tried to scream but my voice had left me. Being familiar with the pathways of the village, I tried to follow the turns of the streets but soon was lost. I felt very drowsy and had to fight to keep my wits about me.
The next thing I knew, I awoke on a pile of straw. The blindfold now off, I could see in the fading dayligh
t that I was in a round room, with a threadbare blue rug covering the center of the stone floor. Faded as it was, the rug provided the only splash of color in the place. The walls were built of gray rectangular stones that did not let in even the tiniest crack of daylight. Even in the height of summer, the room had a cold dampness to it. My eyes lit upon an open window, big enough for me to climb out of. I couldn’t believe my luck! I ran up to it and was about to swing one leg over the ledge when I saw what was below me. The treetops! I stared in awe. I’d never seen the tops of the trees before.
I realized with a sickening feeling that I was higher than the tallest spire in the village. I stuck my head out and looked down. It was dizzying. There were stones all the way down — no other windows, no doors or ladders that I could see. I figured the tower was about twenty times taller than me, and I’m tall for my age. A party of blackbirds was lazily circling the tower, cawing occasionally. Their presence did not inspire confidence. Were not blackbirds the ones who waited for people and animals to die and then picked over their remains? Or maybe those were ravens. I did not want to find out.
I backed away from the window and moved along the walls, feeling carefully for loose stones or the outline of a door. There were none. I lifted the dusty rug. No trapdoor in the floor. The only other objects in the room besides the straw “bed” and my trunk were a small table and chair that looked like they may have once been painted but were now a dull gray. When I stood perfectly still in the center of the room, I could have sworn I heard a rhythmic breathing, but I was clearly alone.
Now, utterly exhausted from the events of the day, I lie here and wonder: How did I get in here if no door is to be found? How will I get out? What will become of me? Are there ghosts of other young girls in here, also forced away from their parents and their homes?
My first pimple is upon me from all the stress.
A prince’s life is not as exciting as one might imagine. So far I have had no grand adventures. Certainly nothing that a traveling minstrel would write a song about. For instance, this morning I practiced my backstroke in the castle pond and watched enviously as the squires jousted in the nearby fields. At night I dream of becoming a knight, but that is not my destiny. I shall be a king someday. That’s simply the way it works.
After swimming, I tried but failed to locate where I had last set my extra pair of glasses. My mother, the queen — or Mum, as I call her — gets vexed when I do not have them at hand. She is always worried I’ll lose the ones tied with horsehair around my neck and walk into a wall or fall down the dung chute straight into the moat. I am quite blind without them.
Mum watches me like a hawk. My father, the king, says it is not good for a woman to baby her thirteen-year-old son. I couldn’t agree more. She won’t even let me listen to the fiddlers who practice in the courtyard. I’m lucky if they don’t make me leave when the minstrel plays at supper on Sundays. She says it is not healthy for a boy of my position to be so enthralled by music, so she took away my lute when I was nine. She’d rather I practice my discus throwing or archery, but I’m so uncoordinated that I tend to shoot my arrows too close to unsuspecting couples out for a stroll in the gardens.
Swimming is about the only physical activity during which I am unlikely to injure anyone. I am also good at chess, which I feel should count as physical activity because you have to reach over and move pieces all the time. Some of the boards are quite large, so one must lean AND reach at the same time, thereby expending even more energy. Mum does not agree that chess equals physical activity, and thus I am only allowed to play on Sundays.
Fortunately for all of us, Mum has a real baby to baby, my sister Annabelle, who is three years of age. Annabelle smells quite poor due to the fact that she refuses to be trained to use the dung chute, but she is bubbly and sweet. Truth be told, I am quite fond of her.
Andrew, my favorite page and my only real confidante in the castle, has come to fetch me for supper in the Great Hall, where I will be made to sit next to Prince Elkin, the ever-bothersome, froglike cousin of mine who is visiting for the summer. I will have to pretend that I cannot see the rye seeds stuck in his teeth or his unnaturally round bug-eyes. He is a year my elder but is so short that it is hard to remember that I am the younger. I will be on my best behavior. That is what princes do.
Mostly.
EVENING
I have been sent to my room by Father. Apparently I am still not old enough to join the lords and ladies who have gathered to watch the court jester dance, joke-tell, and juggle three silver balls. They will drink ale and brandy, and laugh at the jester in the floppy hat who, if you want my honest opinion, looks very silly for a grown man in that silver-and-purple silk outfit.
Still, I’d like to be able to watch. The worst part is that Elkin (who, as I suspected, has rye seeds and parsley stuck in his teeth) is up here in my room with me. I am planning to ignore him by reading my favorite book and sulking. It truly burns me up. At my age, some princes are already married and can listen to wandering minstrels and jesters whenever they please! Not that I would ever want that fate, mind you. Girls my age make me uneasy. I was asked to leave the winter ball last year when I caused a princess’s foot to bleed from stepping on it so many times. In my own defense, I have recently had a growth spurt that has left me tall and gangly. I am waiting impatiently for the return of the balance that I once had in my childhood.
“Stop,” Elkin says, putting his hand on my arm as I reach for The Adventures of Roland, the Great Knight, which has a permanent spot on my bedside table. “What are you doing?”
“If you must know, I am going to find out how Roland rescues the damsel in distress.” Reading is my favorite pastime, and if I were not a prince destined one day to be a king, I would be an illuminator who paints wondrous pictures in books. If I couldn’t be a knight, that is.
“There. Is. A. JESTER. Downstairs,” Elkin says slowly, as though I don’t speak the language.
“Yes, Elkin, I am aware. That is why we have been sent to my room.” This boy is truly daft.
“Then why are we dawdling here?” he asks, grabbing hold of my arm and tugging me toward the door. “Let us be off to the sitting room!”
I must say, I am surprised at his boldness. As much as I would like to do as he suggests because the call to adventure is very great in me, I pull away. “We can’t go down there; Father does not like being disobeyed. It’s a king thing — you know how it is. Can’t show weakness, and all that.”
“Then we shall hide behind the couch and they will be none the wiser. Do come, Benjamin. I’ve never seen a jester before.” His cheeks are glowing with excitement, making his carrot-colored hair look even brighter than usual.
It is temping. “But if we hide behind the couch, we will not be able to see the jester. What would be the point?”
“At least we could hear him,” Elkin says pleadingly. “Now come!”
Elkin is more forceful than I had imagined. I suppose the adventures of Roland can wait. I follow Elkin out the door and down the tapestry-lined hallway. I feel that the great knights and ladies in the wall hangings are watching us with disapproval.
We make it to the sitting room without getting caught. Which is a miracle, really, on account of all the servants and maids running hither and yon. I follow Elkin behind the largest of the velvet couches and we wait for the adults to come in. We don’t have long to wait. We have just tucked our feet underneath us when the room begins to fill. Mum sits down right in front of me, with Annabelle on her lap. Apparently Annabelle is allowed to be here because she won’t understand the jester’s sense of humor. Harumph.
Everything is going according to plan. The jester makes his entrance and the audience’s clapping echoes loudly in the cavernous room. If it were not the start of Augustus, it would be very cold on this floor and I should be much less comfortable. The jester must have begun his performance by juggling, because the adults are oohing and aahing without his saying a word. Then I hear, “And this pr
etty little silver apple is for the pretty little lady.” He must be handing something to my sister because she squeals and says, “Wheeee! Apull!” Then she must try to bite it, because Mum says, “No, dear babe, that is not dessert.”
One of the lords sitting by the window chimes in with, “Let us hope she stays as pretty come her marriage day a decade hence.”
Mum laughs nervously. “Of course she will, Lord Albrick. You have nothing to worry about.”
What is that? What is she saying? She’s marrying off my sister a decade hence, when she is my age? My three-year-old sister is engaged? I start to stand in protest when Elkin grabs me and forces me back down. My glasses nearly fly off my face.
“It is not for myself that I worry,” Lord Albrick replies. “My boy is quite picky, you know. He is only seven now, but already he can tell if a lady’s hair is not properly combed and bound.”
My blood is starting to boil. My father clears his throat and says, “I assure you that my daughter, the princess, will not disappoint.”
Annabelle chooses this moment to yell out, “Poopy bottom, poopy poo!”
Elkin and I stifle our laughter. Too bad Lord Albrick’s picky son couldn’t hear his future bride now! Mum hushes her, and the jester begins to sing a little ditty about a knight rescuing a fair maiden.
Darn the stupid tradition of marrying off children so two families can merge their assets and increase their status. My father has been trying to annex Lord Albrick’s estate for years now. Clearly he’s found the way to do it — by promising my sweet baby sister to some bratty kid!