The Undesired Princess & the Enchanted Bunny: Being the First Tale of the Coin, the Sword and the Medallion
Chapter I: How It Began
So, my Dad said I should write this down while it was all fresh in my mind. I don’t think he really believes me about what happened, and, to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t believe me either, were I standing in his shoes. I mean, it’s all so weird that it could easily qualify for Poppy Dream of the Century, but every last bit of it actually happened. I know it did. I know it. I mean, I’ve still got the Coin right here as I write this.
And just where should I begin? Should I start with that last battle of wits and try to, you know, work backwards? Or would the fight with the spooks in the woods be a better starting point? Maybe I should just stick to how it happened to me, without any fancy flashbacks or whatever.
Anyway, Dad told me to get it all down on paper, so here goes.
It all started one day last month when we were visiting my Mom’s brother, who I call “Uncle Fixit”. I tried calling him “Uncle Gadget” a few times, but that always annoyed him for some reason. Well, I wrote “one day last month” as though it was just another day on the calendar, but it was actually New Year’s Eve (not that I can see why there’s all this hoopla over the passing from one year to the next; I mean, that happens every day, if you think about it) and Mom’s three older sisters were visiting from clear over on the other side of the country on account of that, so we drove over to Uncle Fixit’s place that morning.
Uncle Fixit lives in a pretty big and impressive house that’s kind of a ways outside of town, but quite close to the Consolidated Big Exotic Machine Works where he’s employed to design new Big Exotic Machines; he calls it “living on campus”, though I’m not sure why. The thing of it is that since the trip out there from where we live always takes a fair bit of time, I (being “a young and energetic boy”, as Mom keeps reminding Dad) needed something to occupy me during this ride, so they chose one of my books for me to take along and read as Dad drove us over there.
We took our 48 Jeep Station Sedan this time; at least we didn’t take Dad’s 51 canary yellow Jeepster, since he never likes to put the top up, and (among other consequences of that that I hate) I particularly hate the howling noise that the wind makes when he drives as fast as he likes to with the top down because it always leaves my ears ringing. Dad’s Jeepster was practically the last one sold in the US—and you can tell why, whatever Dad’s Jeepster Club friends might say. Be that as it may, there was no wind to mess around with the pages of whatever book my parents chose to have me read, so I spent my time on the way to Uncle Fixit’s reading from a collection of Russian fairy tales one of my aunts had given me; choosing this particular book for me to peruse proved a great mistake on my parents’ part, but why it did needs a little bit more of an explanation.
We were all gathered in the living room, each of us ensconced in our preferred (or, in my case, simply designated) seat: Mom and Dad on the small love-seat, Mom with her head on Dad’s shoulder; Uncle Fixit in his plush red leather recliner that always looks like it’s about to burst when he sits in it; Mom’s sisters on the big, ornate and quite uncomfortable-looking couch that usually sits closest to the coffee table (and the various plates and bowls of snacks thereon from which I am never allowed to graze when Mom and Dad are present, and the ashtrays also thereon, since the three of them smoke like chimneys; Dad and Uncle Fixit both prefer pipes, while Mom abstains completely); and me, thoroughly uncomfortable on a high-backed chair taken from around the table in the dining room and placed nearest the hallway to complete the circle.
As was customary, I was expected to just sit there with that ornate carving gouging into my back and listen quietly while all of the adults were sitting around talking. And talking. And talking. All this great volume of words was, as was also customary, about stuff in which I had not the least bit of interest: people I’d never meet (though some of those stories at least had the benefit of being humorous); the things Mom and her sisters had planned for vacations that they were going to take on their own; the gifts they’d given and received over Christmas; and, of course, a litany of job-related woes from Mom’s sisters that Uncle Fixit could sympathize with but Mom and Dad couldn’t.
As I wrote, choosing a collection of Russian fairy tales for me to read on the way to Uncle Fixit’s was a great mistake on my parents’ part. I mean, how could I sit still and listen quietly to tales of the various ailments advancing age was bringing the adults when visions of flying ships taking you wherever your heart desired and lost kingdoms in the middle of the woods and wardrobes filled with devil ravens waiting to peck your eyes out filled my mind? The physical discomfort my chair induced didn’t tend to help, either.
Somehow, I managed to stay in my seat, only wriggling occasionally, but it was hard. My mind kept going back to the book, and, despite all the advice I’d ever received about being careful of what you wished for, as it may well be granted to you, as the adults’ conversation floated over and around me, I wished with all my heart that I could be like the heroes in the old fairy tales (but not, you know, doomed to a horrible fate where death would be a kind release; these were Russian fairy tales I’d been reading, after all).
Eventually, I managed to get myself excused so that I could use the bathroom, which for once I hoped would take quite some time. “Don’t forget to stop by the Garage on your way back,” Uncle Fixit said, his ever-so-casual tone hinting at all kinds of nifty things about as subtly as a baseball crashing through a window.
The Garage. I had always been nearly equally afraid of and fascinated by it. More than five times the size of its namesake at home, the Garage was a dusty warren of mysterious, looming things covered over with oil-stained sheets, shelves and racks filled with oddly shaped bits of metal, wood, glass and plastic, and many, many dimly lit corners perfect for a young boy to hide himself away in. Every once in a great while, though, Uncle Fixit would lead me through the maze and up a secret flight of stairs to his workshop, where he’d wave his hands over a bunch of wires and light bulbs and gears and rubber belts spread over the main bench and some wondrous thing would take form, like a voice-controlled automaton (named Otto Maton, naturally).
Well, the bathroom could wait with Uncle Fixit hinting like that. Scampering directly to the Garage, I paused by the half-open door, swallowed my heart back down my throat, and went in.
One step, another step, and then I was all the way inside, the door swinging back to half-open behind me (Dad is very laissez-faire about where I roam on my own, but he did give me this eminently sensible advice: “Never leave yourself without a fire escape route, kid; you’ll always regret it.”) as I slowly moved forward.
The smell was what hit me first, like always. One weird little gap in my almost perfect memory is that I very rarely remember the smells from a scene without an effort; of course, a familiar scent can bring back any and every memory where I smelled it, just like with everyone else, but that’s generally the only time I remember smells unless I really try (which you can be sure that I will for the purposes of this recounting). The characteristic smell of the Garage is one of dust and metal and that weird kind of oil that you always smell in machine shops (as opposed to Mom’s scented oils); the three and a few other scents mix and mingle into a unique blend that will always take me back to the Garage if I catch scent of it.
At the first turning, I found the treasure Uncle Fixit had left for me: a pile of brightly polished coins, just waiting to be spun. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always loved to set coins to spinning, and here was a whole pile of multicolored metal disks just begging to be spun.
I picked up a silvery nickel-sized Coin, studying one heavily weathered face after the other, and wondered whence it had come. The scratches, dings and even gouges it bore spoke of long, rough usage during years that brought it across mountains and oceans, deserts and plains, until now, when I held it. How many others had held it thus? How many lives had it passed through, for good or ill?
The world stopped as I sent the Coin off with a practiced flick of thumb and forefinger. Then, as it weaved and wobbled, so the world began to wobble and spin, drawing up into a massive gray swirl that swallowed my surroundings.
“Mathetheram thamadrican alamhegred, perethemadrican halicanierom palamanan...”
[Editors’ Note: Obviously, that part of Carinste-Nonthe’s prayer to the One that has been recorded here is in a highly stylized, very formal and almost archaic version of the Mother Tongue; perhaps that accounts for the author’s perception of his own speech stylings in the Mother Tongue as ones that are by far more formal than he himself would have chosen.]
In the middle of the vertiginously swirling mass, there was an old man, dressed in a really weird combination of a toga and chain mail and plate armor. To be more specific, togas in the classical sense were garments designed to show off how the wearer didn’t need to do any work by being so restrictive that the wearer couldn’t move, so combining a toga with armor, where a prime consideration is enabling the wearer as much mobility as can be managed—well, you can see the conflict there. This old man looked like a near dead ringer for Abraham Lincoln, had he survived into old age; the resemblance was accentuated by the neat beard the old man wore and diminished slightly by the utter lack of any other visible hair. He was chanting the incomprehensible stuff I partially transcribed up there over and over, until it changed mid-chant.
“...that he may understand and communicate well with your people of the Realm, that with wisdom he may go amongst them, that he may Prove himself worthy to assume the role of their Protector...”
For a fleeting, but somehow timeless, moment, our eyes met, his basilisk gaze searching mine in a way that seemed to reach into the depths of my soul; then, with a nod, he gestured at me and vanished. Well, that was just odd.
I closed my eyes as my stomach protested, and if I hadn’t been on my knees already, I would have fallen to them. The wobbling slowly abated, and eventually I carefully got to my feet before opening my eyes again, only to find myself looking a girl in the face.
It wasn't a bad face, for that of a girl, except that currently it was twisted into a sneer--the kind of sneer that had you sniffing yourself to ensure your clothes were still clean. The slight, not-quite-plain girl facing me with disdainful nose raised gave off the aura of being a fairy-tale princess--only, the spoiled, selfish and often wicked false princess that existed solely to get her comeuppance from the True Prince in the end. Not that she was ugly; while, as I mentioned before, she wasn’t beautiful, nothing about her features quite put her into the ugly side of the column.
“The tardiness of your advent in this Realm has been of great discouragement to my father and our people, and hence most vexatious to me, as well.” This non sequitur of an acid-edged reprobation was delivered in a tone that somehow perfectly blended snootiness and ice. I blinked repeatedly in confusion, but no clarification was forthcoming. She seemed quite content to leave me befuddled.
Eventually, I glanced away, and discovered that we were standing in what could only be called a classic hovel. It had all the hallmarks: badly daubed walls in dingy brown; dirt floors (also in dingy brown); a pervasive aura of filth aided by various disgusting odors I won’t bother to record further; a small, barely translucent window in one wall whose ragged contours and rakish tilt made me want to straighten it; and thatch overhead. The only way out was currently blocked by an ill-hung door made of rough one-by-six boards that were held together solely by giant, clumsy-looking hinges.
“Your propensity for pointless ruminations at the expense of prompt and effective action is most irksome.” The richly sarcastic tones brought my gaze back to the girl.
With all the dignity I could muster, I replied, my tone as frosty as hers, “The purpose of my ruminations is to ensure the effectiveness of any actions I do undertake, not that you would comprehend such a method for coming to decisions.”
Wait, was that me spouting such la-di-da erudition? I never spoke that way, even if I was quoting someone. I barely speak at all, truth be told, because I tend to stutter, especially when I’m excited or passionate about something; at those times, I essentially lapse into incomprehensibility. Fortunately, writing doesn’t allow for stammering. But, boy, was that last mouthful ever weenified!
Her retort was not slow in coming. “Fine words those, but useless without action to prove them.” She swung the door open, as though using it for punctuation. The bright light of a summer day shone in, temporarily blinding me, but with the light came a wonderfully fresh, evergreen forest-y smell to help nullify the more noxious aromas around me. My nose silently gave thanks.
The girl paused in the doorway, her freckled face scrunched into a squint from the glare reflecting from the rear wall as she looked back at me. In a much more hesitant and uncertain tone than she’d used before, she asked, “Over a month has come and gone since the Pretender seized the throne, and each day since has been worse than that before it. Did--did the cause of your delay in coming to our aid stem from some fault of ours? Were we too arrogant in presuming that, now that a Protector had been chosen and proven, that our Realm must no longer suffer as it has?”
For the first time, I felt some sympathy for this anonymous girl. “I cannot answer questions to which I don’t know the answers. I did not even know I was to be sent here, nor am I certain of how you expect me to aid you, but I shall do whatever I am able to do, if it will help.” Then I grinned wryly, adding, “It may also be worthy of note that the advent of a person or people with a certain ability usually heralds a pressing need for the ability in the near future. Thus, if a Protector is come, your Realm will be in need of greater protection.” Well, that was kinda what I meant to say. This was so weird. It was like I could only say stuff the way it came out, not the way I really wanted to say it.
She made another face at me. “Such might be inferred by the ease with which the Pretender made us all his slaves.” Further elucidating, she explained how, at the height of the Midsummer’s Feast, this Pretender guy had suddenly magicked himself into the middle of the Great Hall in the King’s Castle, immediately using his diabolical powers to essentially zombify everyone present save the Royal Family. The Midsummer Feast was the climax of a week of celebration, and this year’s had been particularly boisterous and blah blah blah BLAH blah blah blah...
I let her run on for another five minutes by the really snazzy watch Uncle Fixit had given me for my birthday a few weeks prior to all of this weirdness before interrupting. “Much as I dislike to interrupt your effortlessly flowing magniloquence, I am impelled to point out that the sun is now perceptibly lower than it was upon my arrival. Was it your plan that we should wait here until the dark of night before making our move on this Pretender?”
OK, was there some kind of Civil War diarist using me as his ventriloquist’s dummy? ‘Effortlessly flowing magniloquence’? Give me a break!
If looks could kill, anyone reading this would drop dead from the penumbral (hey, I can use big words, too, but when I talk to people, I like to keep it simple so that they don’t assume that I’m just parroting something my parents drilled into me and instead know that it’s me talking for myself) aura of the glare she gave me. Finally, she said through tightly clenched teeth, “If you would so please as to follow me,” and walked outside.
Something was terribly wrong with how I was speaking, and this girl seemed to be the key to finding out what, why, and therefore (I dearly hoped) how to make it stop. All unknowing of what would inevitably follow, I hastened after her...
