Rapunzel: The One With All the Hair Page 8

  “Yes, I know. But when you hear what I have to say, you may feel differently.”

  He looks doubtful, but I rush ahead.

  “First tell me this: Had you ever seen that kind of bug before? The one that your son swallowed?”

  He scratches his bald head for a moment and then says, “No, I don’t believe I have.”

  “And when you said the Great Forest was quiet like after a rain, had it actually rained that day?”

  He stops to think, then shakes his head.

  I continue. “Is it possible the witch was the only person in sight because she scared everyone else away?”

  He wrinkles his brow. “I suppose that is possible.”

  I lean forward. “Steven, I have seen one of those giant flying bugs before. It was the day the witch showed up at my home to take me away. Three of them were flying around her head, but she didn’t shoo them away like anyone else would have. I believe the witch set you up from the very beginning. She handpicked you for your skills. She waited until you and your son were alone in the tunnels and then commanded one of those bugs to fly in his mouth. She knew you would run out into the open, and she made sure she was the only person you could go to for help. You are not truly in her debt at all.”

  I hold my breath as I watch his expression change. It goes from doubt, to uncertainty, to consideration, to acceptance, and finally lands on fury. His green skin turns a deep purple.

  “You are right,” he says, his voice shaking with anger. “She set me up. I owe her nothing.” He sits rock-still, seething. I am slighty afraid he will explode into tiny green pieces. Who knows if his species explodes when angered to such a degree?

  I reach out and touch his arm. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “All this time away from my family for nothing,” he says in measured tones.

  “You can go home tonight, Steven. We both can.”

  He leaps to his feet and starts pacing. “I believe something escaped your notice,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Think about it, Rapunzel. If the witch set me up, she set you up, too.”

  “But I am here because of a deal she made with my parents.”

  “Exactly,” he says, extending his hand and helping me stand. “Out of the blue, your mother suddenly craved rampion more than anything in the world, right? Even though she knew the only place to find it was the witch’s garden, which was off-limits. She did not consider your father’s safety by making him steal it, nor the welfare of the babe she was carrying, even though she had prayed for years to be with child. Now tell me: Is your mother the type of woman who would ever do such a thing?”

  I stare at him for a moment, going over his words in my head. I can hear Mother clapping when I sewed my first pillow, and laughing when I tried to cook my first meal and wound up putting so much pepper in the roast that Father sneezed until the sun came up the next day. I can see her crying in anguish when the witch dragged me away. I have been blind to the truth this whole time.

  “No!” I tell Steven, my voice rising. “My mother would never have put me or Father in harm’s way. Mother was bewitched! I am such a fool!” I fall to the floor and bury my head in my hands. All this time I thought my parents were to blame, when they were duped as much as I.

  “Come, Rapunzel,” Steven says, kneeling at my side. “Pack up your trunk. It is time to take our leave of this place.”

  In a daze, I do as he says. It takes only a moment to pack my meager belongings. I tuck a sleepy Sir Kitty into my dress pocket and stand back as Steven carries the trunk up to the attic with him, and then returns for me. He lifts me off the ground as if I weigh no more than a goose feather. When we reach the attic, I see what a dreary place it is. At least the tower room has a window. He hurries me over to the stairs and grabs his own oil lamp to light our way down the dark staircase. The stairs twist around in a spiral, and I am dizzy by the time he pushes the bottom door open. The warm breeze is the first thing to greet us. The second, about to step foot into the clearing, is the witch! Her gaze has not alighted on us yet, but it is only a matter of seconds.

  “Run!” I tell Steven, pushing him away from me and grabbing my trunk from his hands.

  “I will not leave you behind,” he insists.

  “We must run in opposite directions. She cannot catch us both! Your family needs you. Go to them and hide where she cannot find you. I will figure out another way.”

  He hesitates, and in that second, the witch sees us and starts running wildly toward the tower.

  “Please, Steven,” I implore him. “Leave now, or both of us are doomed!”

  “I will never forget you, Lady Rapunzel,” he says, kicking up a trail of dust as he runs into the forest toward home.

  “Nor I you,” I reply to the wind.

  I do not bother to run. There would be no point.

  The witch is upon me in seconds, dragging me by the hair up the stairs. I am too exhausted to protest. Thankfully, Sir Kitty remains silent and hidden deep in my pocket. I am sure in her wrath the witch would not look kindly upon her. When we reach the open trapdoor in the attic, she tosses my trunk through it and I hear it crash to the floor below. I will not be surprised if she tosses me next. Tightening her grip on my hair, she says, “You are a stupid, stupid girl. I shall have to lock these doors, now that you know of the stairs. Who will feed you now?”

  I had thought MY PARENTS would feed me now. I had never planned on darkening the witch’s doorstep again. But I am too miserable to answer her. I may never speak again.

  “Off with you,” she says, fire in her eyes. She pushes me toward the trapdoor and I grab on to the rope and wrap my ankles around it like I have seen Steven do. It takes me much, much longer to reach the bottom, and when I do, my hands are raw from the rough twine. As I step over to my trunk, I feel a whoosh of air followed by a thump behind me. The witch has cut the rope.

  “Now throw it out the window,” she commands.

  All the fight now gone from me, I drag the rope to the window and push it out.

  I am truly trapped now.

  I am still in disbelief as I lead our horses to where Andrew stashed the tomatoes. This is not the Elkin I thought I knew. He now has a big grin on his face and is humming the tune the jester was singing the night we got caught. I am pleased by this turn of events, but I still do not fully trust him and will be watching him carefully. As we ride, I glance back and see him take the basket of arrows off his back and tie it to his saddle. I follow suit, and also stash my hat and cloak inside one of the saddlebags. Ah, much better.

  “There it is,” Elkin sings out, pointing to a tree a few feet to our right. Andrew has hung the satchel on a low tree branch so I will not have to dismount. He is very thoughtful that way. I plan on giving him what is left of my portion of the treasure after Elkin takes his share. I shan’t be needing it. Not that Elkin would, either, but somehow I doubt he would be so quick to give it away.

  I grab the satchel off the branch and am surprised at how light it is. I reach inside and pull out a paltry four tomatoes. There were supposed to be THREE TIMES that number. I reach in again and pull out a note from Andrew. With my back to Elkin, I read the note:

  Prince, the garden was bare of tomatoes. I had to beg the head cook to give me these. I told him you and Elkin had to use them as target practice before the hunt. Sorry I could not provide more. Good luck! Your friend and loyal page, Andrew.

  My first thought is to call the whole thing off. The book said that one tomato reaching its target would be enough to fell the troll, but it would give us little room for error.

  “Do hurry,” Elkin says. “We do not know how long the hunters will remain in the forest.”

  He is right. It is now or never. I stick the tomatoes into a saddlebag and hang the empty satchel back on the tree. The empty bag is the signal Andrew came up with to let him know the plan is under way.

  “Ahem,” Elkin says, holding out his hands.

 
“Yes?”

  “Aren’t you going to give me some of those?”

  “You’re actually going to help me fight this troll?” I ask as I reach in and grab two of them.

  “I am,” he says, accepting the overripe tomatoes and thrusting them in his own saddlebag. “Now which way?”

  I take a minute to get my bearings, and then gesture off to the left. I can still hear the hunters galloping and whooping in the other direction. With all the noise they are making, it’s a wonder we ever see meat on our table.

  My trunk is a mess. Between the broken ink bottle and the oil from the shattered lamp, everything is coated with a black goo. I did pull one item from the trunk unharmed — Steven’s silver spoon. He must have shoved it in there when I was not looking. He is sneaky that way. I miss him already. Sure, he was smaller than my father — and greener, of course — but he was the closest thing I had to one in this place. Even though I am back here, I am glad that he is home where he belongs.

  After a few minutes, we find ourselves on what must once have been a riding path but is now so overgrown it is hard to recognize as one. The horses have to step carefully to avoid fallen vines and branches. We ride steadily for a few miles until we come upon the large oak tree that signifies we are only a mile or so away from the cave. The rest of the journey will be more treacherous, for we must turn away from the path, with only the trees themselves to guide us. It is cool this deep in the forest, but my thick tunic keeps me comfortable.

  “Uh, are you sure this is the right way?” Elkin asks from behind me. The brush is so thick, there is room for only one horse at a time.

  “I think so,” I answer honestly. “I have memorized the markings that should guide us. See this tree here? It has a slash of red ochre on the trunk. That tells me we are to turn right.”

  “Who made these markings?” he asks, reaching his hand out to trace the design with his finger.

  I shrug. “The bandits, I guess. Before Father cleared them out of the forest.”

  “You are sure they’re gone, right?”

  “Andrew says they are.”

  “Oh, well, if Andrew says so, then I’m sure it must be true.”

  “What do you have against him, anyway?”

  “Forget it — just keep looking for those signs. If we get lost here, no one will find us for days.”

  I am tempted to reply that his hair would be the only beacon our rescuers would need, but I hold my tongue. For better or worse, we are partners now. We continue to ride in silence, finding marking after marking. I only miss one, and that’s because a bluebird is sitting on a branch in front of the mark. We wind up finding a small brook where the horses can refresh themselves with a drink. Judging from the position of the sun above us, it is already well past noontime. We have to hurry.

  Once we are back on track, it is not long before we close in on our target. I bring Snowflake to a halt and Elkin squeezes up beside us. “We are almost there,” I whisper. “I think we should dismount and tie the horses here. That way we will be better able to sneak up on the troll.”

  I expect Elkin to argue, but he only nods and quietly swings himself off Dusty Rose. I join him on the ground and we tie the horses to a tree. We carefully transfer the tomatoes to our pockets.

  “When we get there,” I instruct Elkin, “follow my lead. Hopefully we can approach from behind so the element of surprise will be on our side. I had expected to have many more tomatoes, so aim carefully.”

  Elkin nods, and we creep in the direction of the cave. It is so well hidden that we almost miss it. Elkin tugs at my tunic and points it out to me. The cave is no more than an opening in the rock face of a hillside. A fire pit is smoldering in a small clearing out front. The troll must have just finished his lunch. I wonder where it fell on the long list of options between berry and horse. I put my fingers to my lips, and we both take out our tomatoes and tiptoe forward. To my ears, each crunch of a fallen leaf sounds as loud as the hunt master’s horn.

  I motion for Elkin to stand at the left side of the entrance, and I take post on the right. With my back against the hard rock, I peer inside but can see nothing but darkness. Neither of us suggests going in, so we just stand there, looking around. My heart is beating so loud and hard, I am certain Elkin can hear it.

  After what seems like an eternity (but is probably only ten minutes), we hear a rustling in the cave and both instinctively back away.

  “Get ready,” I whisper, feeling the weight of the tomatoes in each hand.

  “All ri … right,” Elkin stutters. He is pale again, but he’s not backing down.

  The rustling is getting louder. The troll is definitely about to come out.

  “On the count of three,” I whisper.

  Its shadow has now crossed the threshold. The shadow looks big. And hairy!

  “One … two … three. NOW!”

  At that moment the troll emerges from the cave into the sunlight. With matching war cries, we both fire off our tomatoes. Amazingly, all four are direct hits. The troll should now fall down dead. If only it were a troll.

  We have just assaulted an old hermit!

  I have gone to the window to stare out at the world that I was so close to being a part of again. To have been so close and to have failed has left me empty. My belly is rumbling so loud, I am certain the blackbirds can hear it. A yellow-beaked jackdaw tries to land on the same branch as a red-horned owl, and I watch as the owl flaps its wings in warning. Out of the corner of my eye I see movement below the tower. For a second my heart leaps, thinking it is Steven, although I know it cannot be. It is the witch, of course, and she is holding a bowl in her arms.

  “Are you hungry, my dear daughter?” she calls up, all sweetness and light.

  Every inch of me cringes when she calls me dear daughter. I still cannot bear to speak to her. But I am very hungry. With a sigh, I nod my head.

  “Then let down your hair and I shall climb up and feed you.” She tilts the bowl so I can see round red objects that must be berries. At this point I would eat the bark off a tree. While I am thinking about filling my belly, her words finally sink in. I have suddenly found my voice.

  I lean out the window and yell, “Did you say to let down my HAIR? And you will use it to CLIMB UP?”

  “Yes, dear daughter.”

  “But it is not nearly long enough, and I would fall from the window,” I point out. “Surely your weight is too much for me to bear.”

  “Do as I say, dear child. Unwrap your hair, and you will find it is both long enough and strong enough to do the task at hand.”

  Certain that she is madder than I already know her to be, I begin to unwrap my braid. Whole minutes go by and I am still unraveling it. I step to the window and lower the braid. To my shock, it really DOES reach the ground. The witch latches on and begins to climb. She moves very quickly, nearly as quickly as Steven climbed up the rope. I can feel her weight, but no more than if it were Sir Kitty swinging on it. The witch reaches the window ledge and I back up to let her in.

  She dusts herself off and hands me a heavy pewter bowl. To my surprise, there are no red berries, only twigs. I look up at her with raised brows.

  She laughs in that way that I hate. I realize I have been tricked.

  “Did you truly believe you would be rewarded for your disloyal behavior? You shall go hungry today to think about what you’ve done.”

  My head sinks to my chest. The witch snatches the bowl from my hands and then climbs onto the window ledge. My hair is still hanging out of the window. She grabs hold of it and lowers herself down. Once again I feel only the lightest tug. When she reaches the bottom she waves up at me. “Ta-ta, my daughter. See you in the morn.”

  This is easily the lowest point of my time here.

  Too stunned to say anything, we stare wide-eyed at the old man as the tomato pulp rolls down his long beard and ragged clothes. He reaches up and parts his long hair so he can see us better. Elkin and I are both frozen in our boots.

&n
bsp; “Well,” says the not-a-troll-but-a-hermit in a cracking voice that clearly hasn’t been used in some time. “What a lovely greeting.”

  I force my mouth to work. “We … we are deeply sorry, sir. Truly, we thought you were a troll.”

  Elkin nods his head vehemently. “We were told — well, he was told — that a troll would be guarding a cave full of treasure.”

  The old man wipes the juice off his face with his sleeve and squeezes out his beard. Then, of all things, he chuckles, and his mouth forms a sort of half smile.

  “Ah, so that old rumor is still going strong,” he says, shaking his head. “All these years. Amazing.”

  Elkin and I exchange a look. “Rumor?” I ask with a sinking feeling. “There is no troll? No bandit treasure?”

  The hermit shakes his head. Tomato seeds fly out and land in the dirt.

  My heart sinks. All my grand plans for Other Benjamin and his father flit past my eyes. There goes my last chance to be immortalized in song. “But the map, the book. They all said —”

  “Come,” the hermit says. “Sit with me and I shall explain.” He heads into the cave and clearly expects us to follow.

  Elkin grabs my arm. “What if it’s a trap? We did just tomato him, you know!”

  “We don’t have a choice,” I reply. “We can’t be rude after what we did.”

  Elkin nods grudgingly and we step into the darkness. Once we are a foot or two inside, candles illuminate the cave fairly well. I can make out a pile of round fruit, a bowl of water, and a bed of straw and feathers covered with wool blankets. Fur pelts line the walls. It is actually quite cozy. Not very roomy, though. With the three of us, there is barely enough space to turn around. The hermit sits down in the center of the cave on a bear pelt, and motions for us to sit, too.

  “Can I offer you anything?” he asks. “Ale? Wine?” He peers closely at us in the murkiness. “No, I see you are not yet old enough for libations. Water, perhaps?”