Medley of Fairy Tales and Fables Page 3

  “Fly, Robin,” Ihoke incanted, “Find your name.”

  Chapter 6

  I t was the familiar smell of stone blackened by ashes that slowed Robin’s feet when she entered the room from the window. Though she had never been permitted on the third floor, the manor was the only home she had ever known.

  Before she was old enough to scrub pans and linens she toddled from room to room downstairs sweeping warm ashes from the servant’s shared hearths. By afternoon, the scrawny little bird they called Robin was coal-black from toes to nose and was bathed in the sinks before the vegetables were scrubbed for supper.

  The memories rushed at her, distracting her. She nearly stumbled into a delicately carved wooden screen that separated the sleeping bed from the anteroom. Taking a moment to find the exiting door, she ran her fingers over the many delicate things that seemed to glitter in the dark, reflecting the scant moonlight from the window.

  Creeping into the hallway, she stayed low, ears waiting for any sound. Light flickered along the length of the hall, the candles tapered into smooth, sweet scented pillars. They seemed a stark luxury in comparison to the smelly tallow wax used for the servants.

  She made her way to a convergence with another corridor.

  A muffled thud shook the floorboards.

  Frozen in place, she waited.

  Another thud sent the candle light into a strange dance as if an opened window had pulled the air away from the hall.

  Thud.

  Thud thud.

  THUD.

  Footsteps, she realized. Heavy footsteps.

  Master Townsend was awake!

  With a sweep of her hand, she wafted out the candles nearest to her. Backtracking into the first hallway, she did the same, making shadow as Ihoke had taught her. Curls of smoke snaked from the spent candles, creating a thick fog along the ceiling as she moved carefully down the now darkened hall. There were four doors from which to choose. She knew the one she came from was not the study. Testing the ornately inlaid handle on the opposite wall, she pushed through into total blackness.

  “You do not need eyes to see in the dark” It was as if her teacher was whispering in her head. “Your fingers, nose and ears know what your eyes do not.”

  She felt a rug beneath her feet. The air all around smelled of leather, animal fur, soot and a tangy, sticky smell that took her a moment to place as ale.

  Reaching out, she found the wall and shortly after a long, metal cylinder.

  Gun.

  “Not the study,” she whispered to herself. She heard lighter footsteps outside the door then a scramble of limbs knocking about. Dreading going back to the hallway, she cracked the door open just enough to see as someone swept by in a huff.

  “Someone put them out!” a voice not far from the door spluttered, “They were lit a moment ago!”

  “Well relight them, you idiot! I nearly fell!” Robin knew the tenor of that second voice. Sir Armie Farthen. She felt her heart quicken when he continued, “This house is beset by thieves, and I’d swear it! Where is my robe? Fetch it from the rooms, you mongrel! And get me some wine! I’ll never get any sleep in this den of noise - OH WHAT IS GOING ON DOWN THERE?”

  The servant’s feet scuttled away. Robin suppressed a laugh when Sir Farthen muttered to himself, almost in a whimper, “I do hate thieves. I hope they haven’t taken my brocade slippers.” He was lingering in the hallway, wringing his hands in the dark, looking stupid in his bedclothes.

  A staggering, bold thought caught hold of Robin. Hardly believing herself capable of even dreaming such a thought, she somehow opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

  Three paces from her, Sir Armie Farthen stood in mute distress as she raised to her fullest height, knowing in the dark, in her hood and cape, she would be indistinguishable as the kitchen girl that failed to save his tortured horses.

  The knight made a gagging noise and staggered back a step or two, his finger coming up to point. He seemed incapable of much else.

  A wash of grim satisfaction propelled her forward and she whisked by the astonished Sir Farthen and into the next hallway.

  “Thief!” His voice screeched behind her, “Townsend! Thief! Heeeeeelp!”

  Connecting that hallway was yet another, this one lit by candles enclosed in glass sconces. She hurriedly blew them out, one by one, as she worked down the hall checking doorknobs. They were locked.

  All but one.

  Thinking it was the room from which Sir Farthen had emerged, she let herself in and closed the door quietly behind her.

  “And who are you supposed to be?”

  Anchored between two bed posts, clinging for dear life, it seemed, was Master Townsend. He looked as unstable as an ox stood on two hind legs, massive, protruding belly sagging nearly to his knees, his little arms and hands gripping either side of the ornately carved four-poster. His night clothes were a silly shade of lilac, feminine if it weren’t for the scowling, bloated, bearded face that sat atop them.

  Every drop of audacity drained from Robin. She cowered against the door, scrabbling for the knob.

  “Who are you? What are you doing?” the words were accompanied by a fierce rattling as the man shook the bed posts. “Get out of here! How dare you!”

  Finally, her fingers found the knob and she wrenched the door open, flinging herself into the darkened hallway. Stumbling on the heavy fabric hemline of her cloak, she tripped several times before finding her feet and bolting toward a window at the end of the corridor.

  “Take your name back!”

  Panting, the words seemed to rise up inside her as she clamored to the ledge and began struggling to push the window open.

  “Tsakaka, find your name!”

  “Find your name, take it back,” she whispered to herself, forehead pressed to the cool glass of the window. “Find your name.” Looking back toward Master Townsend’s door, she ground her teeth together, “Take it back!”

  As she approached his door, she heard the thud of his attempted footsteps rumbling the floors. He could never run her down. He could never even walk her down. Like a great, fleshy boulder, maybe he could roll her down. She laughed at the thought; the fat man rolling down the hallway of his own manor, mouth open, bemoaning her escape.

  She went through the door again and closed it quietly, turning to face her owner. Piggish little eyes squinted in the light of a few simple, hastily lit candles. He bellowed, “WHO ARE YOU?”

  She pulled the hood back and dropped it at her neck, giving him a moment to study her strange appearance. He looked utterly flummoxed.

  “They call me Robin.”

  “They who?” he thundered, stomping his foot. The unlit chandelier above his head shuddered. He had moved a few steps away from his bed and was propped against a wide cabinet. She took two steps closer, stopping when he drew his hands back in fear and struggled to stay standing.

  “You have my name and I am here to take it back. I will no longer be your slave. Where is your study?”

  He chuckled in a low, throaty way that kicked some of the fervor from her stance. “You belong to me, eh? Another unlicked cub from the byre!” He straightened up some, the wide area of his paunch rising a few inches, “Looking to recover freedom? Freedom to go to what, you silly girl? To starve to death on the road? To peddle your worthless wares until your fingers have frozen off in winter? What wares have you? Ah! None! You have none because you are nothing without me. Nothing!”

  It was a peculiar tantrum, the way he rose one foot and stomped it three times, his scraggly, weak arms clinging to the cabinet as the movement set his considerable girth off balance.

  “I am going to take my name,” Robin stated boldly, “And I will be free of you and this house forever.”

  “HA!” he roared, “You, a scrubby jackanapes pretending to be a thief!” He grasped suddenly at an ornament on his chest and tucked it beneath the fabric.

  A key.

  She inhaled quickly and shouted at him, “You listen
to me, you stinking blob of puff guts! I am taking my name and I’m taking it now!”

  In his astonishment of such severe impertinence, Master Townsend’s hands flew to his face. Robin leapt on him, sweeping the key from off his chest and yanked, pulling him forward. The string snapped, the key came free. Arms wind-milling, he tipped.

  The resounding crash must have woken the entire household if they weren’t already.

  Somehow, in the pit of her being, she knew she had time. For the noise and madness raised tonight, only Sir Farthen’s poor manservant had been forced to show interest.

  None of the house staff cared for ‘tyrannical Townsend’ and she would bet her moth-eaten petticoat that no soul, unless roused by demand, would bat an eyelash if their cruel master met an unseemly end at the hands of, oh, say...thieves.

  Buoyed by that, she held the stolen key taught in her fist and stared down at her owner.

  Sputtering, cursing, thrashing, he pawed at the floorboards trying and failing to find something to help him stand.

  Standing over him, Robin held up the key, “Where is your study? Where is my name?”

  His eyes reflexively shot to a bookcase then skittered back to Robin. “Never, you cur!” Chomping down on the words, he gnashed, “You are mine, girl! Mine!”

  “The bookcase then?” She said easily, going to it.

  He held his breath, seams of saliva dripping into his beard.

  The dirty-faced girl wondered if her freedom lay in one of the books, pressed between the pages like a flower of some sentimental value.

  “Which book?” she asked.

  “I would see you dead before you were free.”

  As if asking herself, she said aloud, “Red binding, green binding, embossed gold?” Her finger tapped the edges, stopping at a leather-bound tome with very little give.

  “Leather bound with wood pages, perhaps?”

  Master Townsend bellowed like a dying heifer as he lay on the floor, utterly unable to stand. First she pulled the book but it didn’t move. Next she pushed it and deep inside the wall, something clicked.

  The bookcase rolled to one side, opening a closet of sorts.

  Inside was a simple desk. Townsend was quiet but for the puffing of his overworked lungs.

  “Is this what that Frenchman made for you two years back?” she asked quietly, fitting the stolen key into a visible locking mechanism on the desk. “Rumors of some new cabinetry made their way to the kitchens. I never dreamed of something so clever. And all to hide our names from us.”

  She sifted through the papers for a moment then brought out a rolled parchment from within the desk. Going to him, she kneeled in front of his face, unfurling the stiff vellum so he could see.

  “Robina Wilhemine Atwood” She said her name gracefully, as if it belonged to someone else. “Acquired: age three.” She studied the words for a moment, “I’ve been here ten years.”

  Strings of spittle had gathered on his fat, pursed lips, his face inflamed, furious as he spat, “How can you read? You’re the filthy spawn of a shag bag and fussock! Worthless to all but ME!”

  She brought a candle closer so she could read the rest of the terms surrounding her existence. Leaning toward the flame, she lit the edge, watching Townsend’s eyes go wide.

  Standing, she held the burning paper over his head, “If you ever so much as utter my name again, I will come back here and smother you in your sleep.”

  She left the parchment burning in the hearth, being sure her former master had an excellent view of her name as the flames blackened it out of his grasp forever.

  Before leaving the manor, Robin remembered Ihoke’s code of honor, “Never take and leave nothing in its place.”

  One leg dangling from the third story window, she removed her cloak and left it draped on the sill.

  From the din surrounding the gates at the manor, Robin suspected Ihoke was still busy tormenting the guards. Flames flickered, smoke filled the night sky. She grinned.

  Only the drowned crow was waiting for her inside the little room above the church. It cawed at her, begging for crumbs, which she provided from the crust of a loaf of bread she had taken on her way out.

  Silent Feathers appeared in the little window when the grey sky split and rain washed away the night, bringing a gloomy, chilly morning to Croyden. Wrapped in a fur, feeling free, feeling exhausted, feeling hungry, Robin waited for Ihoke to return.

  A. Shepherd

  A. Shepherd loves words and books and rain and movies and her husband and her kids and mountains and beaches and coconut and rollercoasters and otters and tigers and small towns and big stories and soda. Also, she likes churros. Also, she doesn’t know how to write a bio.

  The Princess with the Golden Touch

  By Jenni James

  Chapter 1

  L ong ago there was a beautiful princess. Her hair was golden, her eyes were golden, even her skin had a golden glow. The day she was born was a special day smack dab in the middle of a golden autumn. And she even had the good timing to be born during a most spectacular golden sunset.

  Princess Brielle entranced all who met her. But it wasn’t by her beauty—which was very remarkable—no, unfortunately many did not get past her hands to see the stunning girl who owned them. Most of those who had heard about the princess only heard about her unbelievable and priceless ability.

  The sweet baby on her first birthday, during another spectacular golden sunset, began to touch things and turn them gold. At first it was her crocheted blanket, then it was her favorite cup, then rattle, then the chair she pulled herself up on and table she attempted to climb. Soon it became evident that while she possessed an incredible gift, she was also very dangerous.

  The rattle became so heavy in an instant it fell and hit her toe, the blanket so stiff she was nearly trapped within it. Thankfully, anything like people or animals—none of them seemed to turn to gold. But everything else did.

  After some panicked hours, the king and queen sent for a magical fairy who lived not too far from the kingdom. She was asked to produce mittens that would not be affected by the princess’s gift. After several attempts, the fairy finally realized leather was the only material that could block the curse. By the evening she had producers adorable leather gloves that little Princess Brielle could wear.

  Word got around, as it always does in such situations, and the sweet little one was soon kidnapped. Many say she was taken away by a gang of bandits and sold to pirates. Others say a giant took her up into the sky to live with him. And still others talk of a witch so cunning and powerful that she stalked her until she was gone.

  However, truth be told Brielle was not very far away from her kingdom after all. In fact, she was living and thriving with a kind family that had extraordinary secrets of their own. And even though her life may seem very ordinary now, there was a time, about seventeen years ago, when the princess was kidnapped by a gang of bandits, sold to horrid pirates, and given to a giant in exchange for the pirate’s freedom, and then rescued by the quiet ordinary family with extraordinary secrets. And all the while the princess was being watched by a very powerful and cunning witch. A witch who even at that moment knew exactly where our dear Miss Brielle lived. And observed her hanging laundry on the line…

  Brielle paused a moment from pinning clothing on the line to catch her thick, waste-length hair up in a quick braid, and keep it from flying all over her face. It was nearly three o’clock. Papa and Mama would come home in less than an hour and she still had chores to complete as well as finish dinner. Goodness! After chasing the neighbor’s escaped cow for hours her day was nearly gone.

  Brielle sighed and tugged her gloves up over her wrists. She shook out a couple of shirts and hung them up. There was no reason to be so hard on herself, but there were days that she wished life was just a little bit easier. Not that she minded feeding the chickens, and tending to the sheep, pigs and goats. She loved living on a little farm, near a little town in the mountains.

&
nbsp; If only life weren’t so predictable and peaceful all the time. Truth be told, she longed for adventure. Something exciting. Yet, laundry and farm animals and country dinners seemed to be her lot in life.

  After pinning the last of the clothing on the line, she scooped up the basket and walked through the back door of the log home. Brielle knew it was silly to dream of more. It was even silly to dream of adventure. Even though she couldn’t remember any of it, her mother and father shared with her over and over again how her brother Jack had rescued her from that dreadful greedy giant. Who knows what her life would’ve been had she stayed up in that castle in the sky.

  She certainly didn’t wish to go there ever again. And she was more than grateful for her adopted parents. It’s just—she wondered where she really came from and who she was. But mostly, she wondered how she was given the gift and curse she given. So many people think it would be fabulous to have her odd power. Yet, no one realized the pain and annoyance of never really being able to hold anything. To always need a barrier between things.

  Brielle walked over to the simmering pot on the stove and lifted it up. She stirred the stew and then took a sip. Perfection. It took a second to poke her head into the oven. The bread needed another fifteen minutes or so, but it was already smelling delicious. Another meal completed, another day almost over, another week nearly done—and everything was still exactly the same.

  She removed her apron and hung it on the peg near the sink, then she slowly walked up the grand staircase to the room that had once been her mother’s. A couple of years ago, Brielle had sewn a new quilt for the bed and matching curtains on the windows. The sad little bouquet of flowers on the white dresser needed to be changed soon, but for now she had no desire to return outside and cut a fresh bouquet.