Page 51 of How To Survive This Fairytale
The magic pot has been a blessing.It offers whatever food they each desire without needing to ask for it; it stops as soon as Cyrus bids it.Just as the pot begins bubbling, you cast your husband a sharp look and shake your head.
“Not here,” you say, “it’s not safe.”
“We’re not close to the tower.”
“A witch lives there, love.We can’t rest here.”
“A witch?You’re certain?Stop, little pot.”
The bubbling ceases.Having not had enough time to make much else, it produces only one hunk of bread for each of you.With the canteens filled and the horses refreshed, you help Cyrus back into the saddle, then mount your own.
“We’ll ride for a bit, then rest elsewhere,” you promise.“The witch comes and goes.There’s a girl in the tower who throws down her hair like a ladder.”
“A girl in the tower?”Cyrus frowns.“A prisoner?”
“I don’t know anything more than what I said.”
“… A daughter, do you think?”
A cold shiver runs down your spine.You turn back to look at the tower, with no one in its window, no one at its base, and your stomach turns.A daughter.Where is Snow White?Did the Fair Queen send someone else after her?Or did the witch’s child outsmart the witch?
“If a witch ever raised a child,” you say, speaking carefully, choosing each word to avoid the magic noose, “I’d fear for that child.”
* * *
In the next village, you stop at a tavern for the night.Cyrus writes a letter to Gertrude to ask if anything can be done for the sleeping princess.It seems like a useless question to you.You think he ought to let it go.
But then again—uselessandlet it gohave been said to him, too.
While the village sleeps, you plant blackberry seeds outside the tavern.
* * *
Another month in, you come to the castle of the sleeping princess.
“I’d heard of this,” says Cyrus.“Knew it was nearby, too, but… Never came to see it.”
The horses snort and nose the dying grass while you and Cyrus gaze on.In the daylight, the broken windows and ruined stone are even more pitiable.A wall of thorns surrounds the castle, as tall as five men and too thick to see through.The tangled thorns grasp each other and don’t let go, too dense to break through without magic.Or a very good sword, you think.
Woodpeckers fill the silence, a silence not unlike that of a graveyard—sad and powerless, full of grief and pity.And yet life here grows on, and what can you do?This still isn’t your story.You may be a prince now, but you cannot give her True Love’s kiss.Neither can Cyrus.Cyrus can’t even give that to you.
“Is that blood?”Cyrus asks.
He points and you follow his arm to a section of bramble where someone clearly got stuck trying to crawl through.A shred of ruined fabric knifed to a thorn gutters in the breeze.
“Must have hurt,” you mutter.
You click your tongue and with a snort, your horse begins to walk on.
“Someone should be guarding her, don’t you think?”He looks at you, certain that this is good and right, yet uncertain of its actionability.
“The wall of thorns will keep her safe.”
“From people, yes, but what about animals?The windows are broken.You’ve told me bats roost there.”
“And how do you suppose a guard would get through the bramble to fight off the bats and raccoons?”
Though his horse walks beside yours, he looks back over his shoulder at the castle.