The Perils of Princess Penelope

[johnnyampersand]

Last night we watched the movie Atonement, which inspired me to finally read the book Atonement, which I got for Christmas years ago. The opening of the book is about a young girl who likes to write stories. It talks about how great it is to write stories and I thought, "Yeah! It is great to write stories!"  I decided, as a warm-up exercise, to write a real quick, 2-3 page story in one sitting. Inspired by the sweet, charming little girl in Atonement (okay, actually she's not very sweet, and she ruins a bunch of people's lives, but that's later in the book) I started writing about a princess in love.

Unfortunately I got interrupted before I could finish it, because Alice and I had a cookout to attend, but when we came back I powered on through to the end.  Which means it was written in two sittings, which is close enough. It is also much longer than originally intended. But it is, in fact, a complete story. Stories are fun!

Here it is, for your reading enjoyment. Remember, no planning, no proofreading, no refunds.

Princess Penelope gazed wistfully out the castle window, and sighed. With a single clap of her hands she could summon a servant who would wash her feet, braid her hair, or trim her nails. If she wanted, she could stroll down to the kitchen where the finest chef in the land would concoct for her new culinary delights guaranteed to stimulate and amuse the tastebuds-pheasant jerky with lime sauce and custard; fennel cakes with a sprig of fresh parsley, drizzled with cherry-butter; toasted wolf hearts stuffed with croutons and baconmeal, served over a bed of curried yams. Or she could meander down to the stables, where the mighty stallion Durandarel waited patiently for her, and only her, to ride him across the king’s meadows.

Penelope could do all these things, or a hundred others, if she so wished. But she did not wish. These activities that had seemed like such good fun all the sixteen years of her life now seemed drab and meaningless. The whole world seemed drab. She looked out at the royal gardens, the carefully maintained labyrinth of rose bushes, the ornate sundials, and took no pleasure in it. She saw only mindless plants, digging their roots into the filthy soil, wrapping themselves around the bones of those long-dead. She sighed again.

“Why is my father such an idiot?” she said.

“Excuse me?” said the serving girl.

Penelope turned around. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. I was just talking to myself.”

“Of course, mistress,” said the serving girl. It was the dark-haired one. Penelope didn’t know their names. She held a tray, and on the tray were a pot, a saucer, and a cup. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“What kind of tea?”

“Mint Crinoline,” the girl said. “Would you like some?”

“No. You drink it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Have a seat.” Penelope gestured toward one of her chairs. “Drink the tea.”

Confused, but accustomed to following orders, the girl sat down. She sipped the tea.

“My father,” Penelope said, “has declared that I cannot see the man I love. Did you know that?”

“Yes,” the serving girl said.

“Why? Do they talk about me, and my misfortune, down in the servants’ quarters? Am I the target of jests and gibes?”

The girl looked terrified. “No, no, of course not, princess. I mean, I had heard, in passing-”

Penelope sighed again. “Of course you did. Everyone knows. And why wouldn’t they? Who doesn’t love to gossip? Did you know, for instance, that my brother Claudio has three illegitimate children?”

“No.”

“Now you do. Why do they say that my father has passed this cruel edict? Denying me my true love?”

“They say, princess, that your father found him to be an inappropriate sort. A scoundrel. That he wished to protect you.”

“He is a scoundrel,” Penelope said. “A rake, and a rogue! And my love for him . . . my love for him burns like a furnace.” She paced back and forth, across the smooth stone floor. “And I will see him tonight.”

“But princess-”

“Quiet, I’m thinking.” Penelope thought for a moment. “I have it. You will run downstairs and fetch me a cloak, a common traveling cloak, one large enough to cover my face completely. You will help me sneak down to the stables. Then you will inform the kitchen staff that I am feeling poorly, and wish to dine in my room. You will personally bring dinner to my room, indicating to no one that I am absent. Do you understand?”

Penelope looked into the serving girl’s face, and saw a conflict raging there. On one hand, she was sworn to obey her mistress; on the other hand, participating in this deception could expose her to the ire of the king. The girl blinked rapidly, and gulped three times, before she said, “Yes.”

Without any hesitation, they embarked on the plan, and twenty minutes later Penelope rode Durandarel into the woods.

Even though it was still light out, the woods were dark, and filled with ominous rustlings and howlings. Penelope ignored the noises and kept to the well-traveled main path. If she rode quickly, and well, she could make it to the small town of Havers by dusk. Then it would be a short journey to the inn where Rondo, the love of her life, was staying. She would surprise him there. He, who had been laboring under the assumption that he would never see her again, after her father’s cruel words, would be thrilled to see her. Then they would plan the next step, would develop a plan of some kind so that they could live their lives together.

Penelope knew the nature of men. She knew that Rondo, believing he would never see her again, might have sought solace in the arms of another woman. She did not begrudge him this. She knew that, the moment he saw her, he would send any such trollop packing without another thought. The last night she had spent with Rondo, when they had stood by the effervescent cascade and looked into each other’s eyes without speaking, she had felt closer to him than she ever had to another living being. She knew he felt the same.

A sudden jolt startled her out of her thoughts, as Durandarel rared up, whinnying his angry displeasure. She grasped the reigns tightly. Something had darted out in front of them, had startled the horse. She looked down and saw the culprit-a small gray squirrel.

“Durandarel!” she said. “Calm down, old friend. It’s just a squirrel.”

“Aye!” said the squirrel. “I’m harmless. No need to be frightened!”

Penelope screamed. At the same moment, she released the reigns. Durandarel, more panicked than ever, rared up again, hurling Penelope off his back. She hit her head on a rock and lost consciousness, just as her horse bolted off into the woods.

When Penelope opened her eyes she was in a dark, musty room. She rubbed her aching head and looked around, trying to identify her surroundings. She was on a low wooden cot, under a straw-filled blanket. She shoved the scratchy blanket aside and sat up. Next to her bed was a candle, sitting on a crude wooden stool. The rest of the room was shrouded in darkness.

“Hello?” she said. No one answered. She remembered falling off her horse. Someone must have found her. And if they had found her, they must have recognized her. Which meant that whoever owned this hovel had probably alerted the king, who might already be on his way to fetch his willful daughter.

Penelope stood up, and hit her head on the low ceiling. “Ow!”

“Watch the ceiling, princess,” said a voice in the shadows.

“Who’s there?”

A gray-haired old woman with bright eyes stepped out of the shadows. “Just a loyal subject, princess. How is your head?”

“It . . . hurts. Quite a bit,” Penelope admitted.

“Try some of this broth,” the old woman said. She produced a steaming bowl and a spoon.

Penelope hesitate to taste the broth, due to its strong odor, but decided it would be discourteous to turn down such an offering. After all, this old woman had conceivably saved her life. She sipped some broth out of the spoon. It tasted good. Spicy, too-something about it made her lips tingle.

“This is delightful,” she said. “I don’t recognize the flavor. What is it?”

“Herbs from my garden. It’s powerful medicine. You’ll be feeling better in no time.”

“Thank you,” the princess said, slurping down the rest of the broth. She would have to bring this dish to the royal chef’s attention. And, as the woman had said, she already felt the pain in her head fading. “I owe you my life.”

The old woman shook her head. “It’s nothing, princess. Anyone who came across you would have done the same. I’m sorry to say, though, that your horse is long gone.”

“Durandarel will return home.” And, Penelope realized, once he returned home, her father would send his men out to search the countryside for his missing daughter. “Blast! Does anyone know I’m here?”

“No one but you and me, princess.”

“Good. I need to think . . . what time is it? How long was I asleep?”

“A good six hours have passed, princess. It’s just about midnight.”

“Blast!” the princess exclaimed. She paced around the tiny cramped room. “I’m running out of time. My father may already know I’m missing. I need to be on my way.”

“At this hour? Surely you can afford to pause and get a good night’s sleep.” The old woman put a comforting hand on Penelope’s arm.

“No!” Penelope shouted, pushing away the old woman’s hand. “I snuck out of the castle so I could rush to the side of my true love. I should already be there by now, but my stupid horse ruined everything, and now I’m late, and, and . . . ” She started to cry.

“Tsk, tsk,” the old woman said, shaking her head sadly. “The things we do for love.” She put her hands on Penelope’s shoulders. Penelope resisted, but felt feeble all of a sudden, and the old woman kept her grip. She gently pushed Penelope back to the bed. Penelope sat down on the corner.

“Love,” the old woman repeated. She turned away from Penelope. “You wouldn’t know it, now, but I was beautiful, when I was your age. At least as beautiful as you. Princess.”

“I’m sure you were,” Penelope mumbled, only half listening.

“I knew love. And, at the time, it seemed like the most important thing in the world. I felt like I would die, just die, if I did not win the heart of . . . you know, I forget his name. Funny. The things that seem important to you . . . but, anyway, I wanted to win the heart of a man. Do you know what happened?”

“What?”

“He died. A hunting accident.”

“Oh, that’s terrible!” said Penelope.

The old woman shrugged. “But if he hadn’t died, I never would have met my true love, the man I married.”

“Well, I suppose that’s-”

“Then he died. They all die, sooner or later, princess.” She turned back around. Her face no longer looked friendly or concerned; it was distant, detached, showing only the sort of curiosity a man shows when studying a praying mantis. “That’s the thing to remember. But you won’t listen to me, will you?”

The princess shook her head. “Rondo is my life, my heart, my world. I will climb to the moon, if I have to, to be with him.”

“It won’t be that difficult,” the old woman said. “Follow me.” She picked up the candle and led Penelope out of the small room, into a larger chamber.

The house was dark and damp. There were few furnishings aside from some odd shapes carved into the walls. Penelope took a closer look at a long, twisting protuberance, and ran her finger over its grimy surface. “This . . . this is a root.”

The old woman nodded.

“Are we underground?” Penelope asked.

The old woman nodded, and led her to a chest in the corner. “Lift up the chest,” the old woman said. Penelope lifted it. “Under the chest is a hole. Reach in the hole and pull out a key.”

Penelope reached into the hole. The slick earth felt warm. Her fingers slipped over a smooth piece of metal, and then another, and then another. “Which one?”

“Just pick one.”

Penelope pulled out a key and held it up in the candlelight. Her heart was racing. “Is this the right one?”

“There is no right one,” the old woman said. “Now open the chest.”

The key slid in easily, turned, and popped the lock open. Penelope beamed. “It is the right one! I knew it!”

The old woman said, “I don’t have much, in this world. But I have certain skills. With herbs, with nature, with objects of special significance.”

“Do you mean magic?” Penelope said, grinning. She could not believe her luck.

“Look in the chest. I’ll let you borrow three items, so that you can find the man you love.”

Penelope sorted through the objects in the chest. An hourglass, a compass, a ring, a glass disk, a dagger . . . “There are so many. How do I choose?”

“What do you need?”

“I need speed, so I can get to Rondo before my father’s men find me.”

“Take the hourglass. Carry that, and even at a stroll you will move far quicker than the king’s fastest horse.

Penelope clapped her hands in delight. “Excellent! But the woods are dark, and I will need help finding my way.”

“Take the compass. It will point the way to what you desire.”

“Good, good. My only concern, then, is protecting myself from the brigands and mountebanks who lurk in the forest at night.”

“The dagger will provide protection. Simply throw it at your target. It never misses.”

Penelope picked up the dagger. “Could I have a small sack, then, to carry these-”

“No,” the old woman said. “Three items only. If you want a sack, you must put something back.”

“I can carry them,” Penelope said, no longer feeling comfortable with the old woman. She stuck the dagger in her belt and held the compass in one hand and the hourglass in the other. “Now I must be on my way.”

The old woman led her through the winding house, up the stairs, and out the trunk of a tree.

“This is a fascinating home you have,” Penelope said, admiring the tree.

“You can borrow these three items, and do what you like with them,” the old woman said. “All I ask is that you return them.”

“I may have some difficulty finding your, uh, tree,” Penelope said.

The old woman shook her head. “No. When you are done with the items, set them in front of you. Close your eyes. Say the words Ex Morvilius. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Promise me you will do this.”

“I promise.”

The old woman nodded, turned, and went back inside her tree. Penelope stood, watching, grateful that the old woman had left.

A squirrel scampered by on a branch. Penelope suddenly remembered that a talking squirrel had caused her to fall in the first place. “You there,” she said. “Do you speak?” The squirrel said nothing.

Penelope turned her attention to the hourglass and compass in her hands. When the old woman had described the items’ magical properties, Penelope had been caught up in the moment. Now, standing alone in the dark woods, she had to wonder. What if these were ordinary trinkets? What if the old woman was simply delusional?

“It doesn’t matter,” Penelope said. “My resolve is unwavering.” She began to walk. She quickly learned that the hourglass, at least, truly worked as advertised. She felt like she had only taken a few steps when she turned around and realized she had covered a quarter of a mile. She laughed, and scampered on ahead, making excellent time, speeding toward her love.

Or was she? She checked the compass. The needle was pointing straight ahead. She continued on, noticing that as the path curved, the needle shifted accordingly. According to the compass, then, she was going in the right direction.

Off to her right, a branch snapped. Something in the woods was moving. She pulled the dagger from her belt, pointed it in the direction of the noise, and threw it. Actually, she did not so much throw it as nudge it in the right direction-she had scarcely moved her hand before it leapt out, hurtling toward its target with preternatural speed. There was a yelp, and then silence.

Penelope waded into the grass and found the dagger jutting out of a dead rabbit. She snickered. “Sorry, bunny,” she said. “I thought you were something more ferocious.” She pulled the dagger out and wiped it on her cloak.

She continued on, following the compass, making good time. The forest rushed past, a flurry of trees and shadows. Her only regret was the night was cold. “Maybe I should have gotten a magic blanket, to keep me warm,” she muttered, wrapping the cloak tighter around herself. “Would have been more helpful than the compass.” The compass had, so far, only led her down the well-traveled path she had been on since the beginning.

Then, as if to prove her wrong, the compass pointed in a different direction, sending her off the path, into the woods.

“Must be a shortcut,” she said. She did not especially need a shortcut, at the speed she was traveling, but she was tired, and eager to cut some time off her journey.

She tore through the underbrush, knocking aside branches and scaring off the wildlife. She went deeper into the forest than she ever had before, losing sight of the path, barely able to see in the moonlight. Her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, which made the light up ahead stand out all the more.

Campfires. Even from this distance she could make out the noise of human conversation. The only group of people who would be camping this far out in the forest were bandits. Penelope gulped. She looked down at the compass again. Its needle pointed straight ahead-her path led her through the bandit camp. That was the fastest way, true, but there was no reason not to go around. So what if it added a few minutes to her journey?

“No,” she said. “I must be strong. For Rondo.” Slouched over, sticking to the shadows, she walked briskly forward.

“Halt!” Two men with swords stepped out of the shadows. “Who are you?”

“Just a traveler,” Penelope said, making her voice as deep and gruff as she could. She looked down. “Just passing through.”

“What’s your name, traveler?”

“I, uh, I don’t wish to say,” she said, trying her hardest to look like an imposing figure in the bulky cloak.

The men laughed. “A mysterious stranger! Well come with us, sir. Have a seat at our fire and enjoy our hospitality, won’t you?”

“I need to be moving on,” Penelope muttered.

“We insist,” said one of the men, pointing his sword at her.

Penelope followed them to the campfire. There were seven other men gathered around the fire. They were clearly bandits, for they wore a variety of disguises-cloaks, and hoods, and even masks. They looked accustomed to skulking in the shadows, preying on any who happened to pass by.

“Look what we found!” said the man with the sword pointed at her to his comrades. The bandits laughed and raised their mugs in a mocking toast.

“Have a seat!” said one.

Another chimed in, “Take some ale and venison, stranger!”

Penelope felt rage welling up inside her. They had no idea who they were dealing with.

“Won’t you share our food?” said a bandit. “It’s awful rude, to reject such a kindly offer.”

“I need neither food nor hospitality,” she said. “I need to be on my way. Excuse me.” But before she could take a step forward, two of the men had put their hands on her shoulders, holding her in place.

“You don’t understand,” said a man in a red devil mask sitting on the other side of the fire. He stood up. He was tall, and wore a sword strapped to his back. “We welcome you to our camp. But we can’t allow you to leave. So sit down, and make yourself comfortable.” He pulled the massive sword out of its scabbard. “Or I’ll have to cut you into tiny pieces.”

“No,” Penelope said. “It’s you who don’t understand. I am no common peasant. I am a princess.” She tossed back her hood, and shook out her hair. The bandits gasped. “And I will pass.” She pulled the knife from her belt and, like before, gently tipped it toward the man in the devil mask. The knife lunged at him, burying itself in his throat. The man gurgled and collapsed.

As the bandits scattered, screaming, into the forest, Penelope walked past the campfire, stooped over the bandit, flailing on the ground, retrieved her knife, and continued on her way.

When she could no longer see the bandit camp she glanced at the compass again. Then she paused in midstep, confused by what she saw. The compass pointed back the way she came. How could that be? She looked behind her, seeing nothing but darkness. How could she have passed Rondo, here, in the middle of nowhere? Could he have been a captive of the bandits? She turned, and dashed back to the camp.

Seconds later, she was there. With shaking hands, she watched the compass, as its needle pointed unerringly at the bandit bleeding on the ground.

“No,” she said. She knelt beside him and pulled off the devil mask, revealing Rondo’s face. He was pale, and covered in sweat. His eyes bulged.

“Princess,” he gasped. “I . . . did it for you. Needed . . . money. Impress your father, so . . . we could wed . . .” He shuddered.

“I don’t care about money!” she said, holding his head. “Or my father! I came looking for you, so we could be together, and I, I never meant to stab you, it was a mistake, it’s magic, I know a magical old woman now, and she can fix you, she can, can . . .” She started sobbing. He had not heard anything she said. He was already dead.

She held him for an hour or so, weeping. Then, slowly, one by one, the bandits filtered back into the camp.

“I’d rather not kill you, too,” she said.

“No, ma’am, it’s not that,” one said.

“You killed our leader. That makes you leader, now.”

“And Rondo always spoke highly of you, ma’am. Before you . . . you know. It would be our privilege to follow you.”

Penelope looked around at her men, and looked down at the dagger in her hand. “Our first order of business,” she said, “is murder.”

“Who, your highness?”

“An old woman who lives in a tree.”

She led them back to where she had met the old woman, or at least close to where she thought it had been, but she couldn’t find the spot where she had fallen off her horse, nor could she identify the old woman’s tree. All the trees looked the same. She had her men search, for hours, but none of them turned up anything, not even a squirrel.

“What’s this old woman’s name?” one of them asked.

“I don’t know,” Penelope said. “I never thought to ask.”

Shortly after that they gave up and headed back into the heart of the woods.

With the magic compass, and hourglass, and dagger, Penelope soon became the most effective bandit the kingdom had ever seen. She felt the old woman had cheated her, probably intentionally. She saw no reason to return the three enchanted items, no matter what she had promised.

Soon after that Penelope became sick. She could not eat without vomiting, and soon she was vomiting thirty minutes out of every hour. Her vision grew blurry. Her hair fell out. She sat in their camp, propped up against a tree, holding her beautiful locks of hair.

“What do you think it is, your highness?” one of her men asked.

“I told,” she gasped. She retched. “I told you, don’t call me that.”

“What do you think it is, Pen?”

“It’s a curse,” she said. “A magical curse, from an old woman who wants what’s hers.”

“Why don’t you give it to her?”

“Hate,” Penelope said, but before she could explain further the vomiting overtook her. When she had the strength to get up, she burned her hair in the campfire.

She made it another week, until she could no longer stand. The men begged her to say the words Finally she consented.

“Ex Morvilius,” she gasped, and the hourglass, compass, and dagger disappeared, returned to their chest in a room underneath a tree. Her strength began to return almost immediately. She could eat again, without the slightest sense of nausea. But, even though she lived a very long time, her hair never grew back, not even a single strand.

Until the day she died, Penelope never knew if that old woman had known what was going to happen, or if she had genuinely been trying to help. But her hate of the woman never faded and, in its way, was every bit as pure, and significantly longer lasting, than her love for Rondo had been, back when she was a girl.