My Name is Rapunzel Page 8

  There had to be a point at which my body would give out.

  Would I live on through my torture? Was there any escape from that punishment?

  I stared out my window as the lights grew closer.

  Could I run? I peered across the valley to the forest beyond. Even if I could outrun or outsmart the men, I’d never outrun the dragon that would be stirred by the chaos and was already on guard.

  They drew closer and closer. There would be no escape.

  What about Gretta? Maybe I could run down and get her to undo the curse so I could die. Or maybe they were coming for Gretta alone and didn’t know about me at all.

  I felt the vibration of their approach.

  Well, I’d made it 50 years since Father died. If only I knew I could find that sweet release, I would gladly surrender myself to their flames. It was the fear of not being able to succumb that drove me to self-protection. The fear of eternal torment—being burned at the stake and never dying. There had to be a way out. There had to be a way to die.

  But Gretta would never tell me. No matter how many times I asked her what it would take to break the curse, she wouldn't tell me.

  One man stepped forward as leader of the pack and pounded on the front door, his face angry with accusation. The men standing behind him strained toward the door, the bloodlust evident in their eyes.

  Would Gretta answer?

  “Come out! I know you're in there—both of you!” The man shouted as he pounded.

  Well, so much for slipping away unnoticed. I sighed with the realization that I was facing defeat.

  I watched from the tower as the front door slowly opened. Gretta pasted on her most friendly smile. “What’s all the commotion? What can I help you boys with today?”

  “We hear this town has been entertaining some witches in this castle. Something must be done, and we are here to do it.”

  The men cheered in unison.

  Gretta laughed. “Witches? Nothing witchy about us. Just two ladies living alone, trying to make ends meet and take care of our needs without doing anything we’ll regret when we meet our maker.” She narrowed her gaze. “You know, you boys wouldn’t want to do anything you'd regret. Would you?”

  A burly man stepped from behind the pack, his face red with fury. “Is that a threat? I dare you to threaten me, witch.”

  Gretta waved her hand. “Now I would never do such a thing. How could I threaten you? You're a big, strong man, and I'm a little old lady. I don't think it's much of a fair fight.”

  “Where’s the other one? You said two ladies. Where is she?”

  I knew I’d better hurry down to the door or they’d break in and come find me. I took the steps two at a time and was at the front door in a flash.

  “What’s all the noise about, Grandmother?” Thank goodness I’d heard her claim about our relationship previously. Besides, it was the only explanation that made sense.

  “Hello, dear. These nice men are just wondering who we are, since we’ve never been introduced proper-like.” Gretta threw wide the door. “Boys, this is my granddaughter.”

  I heard a few of them gasp. The others just stared with jaws dragging the ground.

  “Hello, miss. You’re quite lovely.” A man said, then lifted his torch above his head.

  “Well, thank you very much.” I gave a slight curtsey and stared back at them with a question in my eyes. As long as no fear showed through, I believed we stood a chance.

  “We’re very sorry to have bothered you like this, ladies. You’re obviously not what we thought.” The man in charged tipped his hat. “If you’ll forgive us, we’ll be on our way.”

  “No harm done.” Gretta smiled. “In fact, we feel much safer knowing that men like you are working to keep our town safe. Blessings, boys.”

  Each man tipped his hat and hurried away.

  Gretta closed the door and I slumped against the wall. That could have ended so differently than it had. “Now will you fix this mess? Don’t you see the danger you’re in?”

  Gretta’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, no, my dear. If I removed the curse, I’d never be able to see theatrics like that again. You were magnificent!”

  ***

  The sound of Pepper's vehicle flying down the lane pulled me from my memory. I shifted my gaze toward the man on the hillside, but he was gone. Who was he? I'd probably never know.

  It wasn't long before Pepper’s car made it to the mailbox behind the grassy knoll where I reclined.

  “Hey, chic!” She flapped her hand like a hummingbird’s wing. She slowed the Jeep to a halt and waved the dust away from her face. Pepper pulled off her glasses then squinted at me as she cleaned them with the hem of her shirt. Her eyes looked smaller when she didn't have them on. Just seeing Pepper made me smile. She liked to wear her short brown hair in an unruly, spikey style and usually added temporary color to the tips. This time they were purple.

  “I'm doing well. You've changed your hair.” I smiled. “I love it.”

  She reached up to touch the purple locks. I was jealous that I couldn't do the same. What would it be like to have a hairstyle?

  Pepper laughed then put her glasses back on. “You don't think the plum is too much, do you? I might try hot pink next month.” She pulled out an armful of magazines, placed a folded newspaper on the top, and handed them to me. It was a big bundle today.

  My heart swelled with joy. Pepper was this lifetime’s only friend. And we’d become good friends during the past few months. Not that we’d gone for coffee or gone shopping together, but she was someone I could talk to, if only for a few minutes, and only about things that didn’t matter.

  “So, how's it going today?” I tried to use some of the slang I heard from each generation. It was getting harder and harder to keep up with the way people talked. Whatever had happened to proper English?

  “Oh, I'm good. Getting ready for my birthday party tonight.” Her green eyes twinkled.

  “Oh? Happy birthday. I had no idea. I’d have gotten you a gift.” Online shopping was the best. Or the bomb? Did they still say the bomb? Probably not.

  “There's still time. Having a party tonight at Spanky's. You have to be twenty-one to get in.” She narrowed her gaze. “You are twenty-one, right?”

  “Yeah, I'm definitely of age.” If she only knew.

  “Come join us any time after eight o’clock. I'd love to see you there.” Pepper took a stack of envelopes and stuffed them in the mailbox. A model of the perfect postal employee, she still wouldn’t just hand them to me. I'd given up trying to convince her to break her well-trained protocol months ago.

  “Man. I’d really love to. But, I…” Come on, think. Think of something. Wash my hair? That was stupid. Not feeling well? No, dummy, that was obviously not true. “My aunt is coming in from out of town for a few days. In fact, you probably won't see me again until next week.” There, a little extra buffer and distance to boot. Perfect.

  “Bummer.” She shut the mailbox. “Well, it's all good. You can still buy me a gift any time.” She winked.

  I laughed. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  “Sorry I can't stay and chat. I have tons of mail to deliver today and party planning to do.” Pepper threw the Jeep into reverse while sorting through a bunch of envelopes in a long plastic tray. “Tomorrow should be a light day. We'll chat then. Meanwhile, take a look at that fashion magazine. It has some awesome styles for long hair. I think you might like them. Gotta go! Oh, and my friends and I meet at Starbucks every Tuesday at nine o’clock in the morning. Join us anytime.”

  “I just might. See you tomorrow.” I raised my free hand to say goodbye. Before I had taken two steps away from the mailbox, she peeled away, leaving a trail of dust in her wake. Tuesdays at nine? So that’s why the mail was always late on Tuesdays.

  I waved until she disappeared. That was a quick visit. Pepper could usually talk my ear off, but she was worried about her party. What would happen if I went? What if I just got dressed up like everyone else
and showed up there? People might assume I was from out of town. Or they might think that they’d never seen me, because I didn't go out much. Unlikely they would jump right to the conclusion that I was a 250-something-year-old girl with a curse, living in a castle with a witch and a dragon. Yeah. That seemed like an unlikely assumption.

  Or maybe, just maybe, no one would notice me at all. What a blissful thought.

  I would give anything to walk in Pepper's shoes for just one day. To be able to drive, talk to different people, cut my hair and style it any way I wanted, meet friends for coffee, have a job—the list went on and on.

  Pepper was the happiest person I knew, not that I knew many people, but she sure lived an enviable life. She didn’t have to hide away from people like I did. She could do whatever she wanted to do, whenever she wanted to do it. Envy burned in my gut. Why couldn’t I have that kind of life? Not that I’d wish my life on her as a trade.

  The Jeep reappeared in view. It backed up the drive and pulled over by where I stood.

  Pepper buzzed down the window. “Hey, I was thinking, would you and your aunt like to meet me and some of my friends at the coffee shop tomorrow? You’d love my friends and I think…well…you need to get out more.”

  “Um, I don't know.” I hesitated and looked down at my feet. She meant well, I was sure of that. And her friends did sound nice, though it did sting a bit to realize that I wasn’t Pepper’s best friend like she was mine. I desperately yearned for normalcy and companionship. I wanted to hang out with her and her friends. It always sounded like so much fun. Maybe I could go just this once? Yes, I could go and be home before dark and nobody would ever know the difference.

  But, oh no! My aunt. What would I say about her?

  I must have paused too long, because Pepper interrupted my thoughts. “It's all right chic! I totally understand. Maybe next time?”

  “Yeah, maybe next time.” I smiled and hugged the magazines closer to me. I glanced down at the hairstyle book. Yes, Pepper was right. That one on the cover would suit me. If only.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I held the magazines close to me as if I were hugging the world, hugging my parents, hugging Henry. My heart began thumping to a fast beat and I nearly ran back to the castle. I rarely experienced much joy, and it's sad to admit those magazines and a simple newspaper could do just that. They were my connection to the world and to people.

  Gardening would have to wait.

  I flew up the stone spiral stairs to my room in the tower. I dropped the magazines on my bed with a thud. Grabbing the folds of my skirt I plopped on my mattress and rested on my elbows. I tore through the pages of beautiful women in fashionable clothes, careful not to rip them or there'd be nothing to read later. This ritual first glance through was more for visual pleasure than anything. I could linger over the words later tonight by candlelight.

  Exotic beach locations. Fancy hairstyles. Beautiful elaborate wedding dresses. Homes decorated every inch. And gardening. I saved that for last because it actually applied to me. Page after page of tips for growing my flowers and vegetables to award-winning standards. Tips I’d already mostly learned centuries ago, but still liked to ponder. Every once in a while I came across something I hadn't considered before. Learning made me feel alive.

  I reached for the weekly newspaper so I could learn about the comings and goings of the folks in Paradise Valley. But first, I dug through the folds. Ah! There it was. I plucked the crossword puzzle from the middle section and laid it aside for later in the week. I scanned through the Community section and turned to the Local People part, hoping to see a familiar face so I could add some information to my scrapbook.

  I popped up from my elbows and reached into my side table drawer to retrieve my scissors. Weddings, births, and obituaries. I added the data and the clippings to my Paradise Valley scrapbook. Boy, those Harpers sure kept me busy over the years. Happy people, living, loving, dying. The cycle of life. It was shocking how people mourned that cycle.

  Well, that about did it. A sense of melancholy descended upon me as I reached the end of my connection to the outside world. Sure, I'd consume it again in greater detail later, but that initial rush had passed for another week. I sighed, then scanned the article titles one last time and lifted my hand to fold the newspaper closed.

  Wait, what was that?

  Fairy Tales are for Children

  By John Jenkins

  Dear Readers,

  Welcome to the sixth full moon article this year.

  I'm sure you've had your romantic fill of candlelight dinners, flowers, and candy for the year. I know my wallet has suffered dearly, during the past four months, and I'm ready to get back to a normal life, without every kiss ending with a hope of a promise or a proposal. I'm so glad the pronounce-your-love day is long gone and only celebrated once a year!

  Recently I've read some hilarious articles about adults believing in childhood fairy tales. Maybe not so much as Jack and the Beanstalk or Red Riding Hood, but more like Cinderella or Snow White.

  Let me just say, fairy tales are not real. They don't exist. It's that simple. I hope I don’t burst your bubbles by pointing this out. While I'm on the subject, might I also remind you, dear readers, that neither Santa Clause nor the Tooth Fairy exist either. I'm simply trying to keep things real here, folks. Just because your neighbor claims to have found true love or someone wins the lottery doesn't make it a fairy tale. A wish or a dream-come-true doesn't count as being a fairy tale.

  How can we tell the difference? Fairy tales are fun stories told to children in grade school. They do not exist and therefore they are not real. I can't stress this enough.

  Personally, I've never seen a big bad wolf huff and puff and blow a house down. Nor have I seen a little girl as small as my thumb. If a Golden Goose were real, wouldn't we all have one? And let's not forget the famous girl with the golden hair long enough to use as a rope. Let's get real, people! Who on earth would be able to wash, dry and brush all that hair without spending a fortune on shampoo and hairdryers? I promise, if I ever meet her, I'll advise her to chop it all off, then donate it to charity. I bet it would bring a fair price!

  If you work hard and save your money in an interest-bearing account, you can have anything you want. Call it a wish or a dream, that's entirely up to you. I call it setting goals, and goals are not considered fairy tales. Love happens when your heart is ready for it and Mr. Nobody won the lottery because he gambled his money away and simply got lucky.

  As always, please feel free to email or snail-mail your comments to Paradise Daily News. Attention John Jenkins. I'll be more than happy to respond until the next full moon article on July 22, 2013. What are your thoughts?

  ***

  What? What nerve! I huffed the air from my lungs and jumped to my feet. How rude could this man be? “Fairy tales are for children? Donate it to charity?” I mumbled, repeating the words through my grinding teeth. Before I knew it, I had gripped the newspaper in my fisted hands, crumpled it into a ball, and thrown it across the room.

  That would show him! I paced the room, chewing on my lip.

  No, it wouldn't. It wouldn't show him at all.

  How would this Mr. John Jenkins know how angry I was, and especially that I had thrown the newspaper across the room?

  I gave one sharp nod. That was it. I'd show him myself.

  Back to my side-table drawer I pulled out my notebook. One can't tell an ancient story on modern technology. It must be handwritten.

  ***

  Dear Mr. Jenkins,

  I'm contacting you in regards to your most recent article, “Fairy Tales are for Children.” In my opinion, your article was coldhearted and only written to bring amusement to yourself. I hope I don’t burst your bubble. I'm simply trying to keep things real, as you say.

  You said fairy tales aren't true. Am I to understand that you don't believe in magic, and that there are no happy endings either? What tripe! How dare you command people to give up their hope f
or happiness and love? How could you disregard what others believe with just a flick of your pen?

  Fairy tales do exist. You, dear sir, have a lot to learn. As for the girl with the long hair, she is real. I am real. The golden hair was the beginning of my story and, yes, it was also my downfall. The statement you so blithely wrote—to have it chopped off for charity—is not so simple a request.

  My story has been told in many different ways. Except for my hair, I barely recognize it to be my story at all. I know, because I've read them. Muddled versions were made up and told to laughing children over and over again. Those children wouldn't have laughed if they had known the real story. It wasn't their fault. They didn't know the truth. Nobody knew.

  Had you known the truth, you wouldn't have written such an article so carelessly, without feeling, or understanding. How dare you say that I don't exist without as much as a by-your-leave?

  My true story isn't a funny tale and should not be told to children. Not one story ever told had any truth in it. Not one storyteller knew. You don't know the truth!

  My name is Rapunzel and I will tell you my story. I will tell you the truth.

  Sincerely,

  Miss Rapunzel

  100 Dragon Lane, Paradise Valley

  ***

  There. That should do it.

  I dropped my pen and leaned back against my headboard. I folded my arms across my chest and closed my eyes. What would happen if I sent this letter? Would John Jenkins believe me? No matter. It was time the truth was finally known. But, even I knew that a simple letter alone wouldn't do the trick. No, I had to write more…much more.

  I had to write it all.

  I wouldn’t be working in the garden that day. I had something more important to do. I had to tell my story. The full story. But where would I start? If anyone, let alone this Mr. John Jenkins, was going to believe me, I had to start at the beginning. This was going to take a while, but I had all the time in the world.

  I couldn't wait to give this letter to Pepper in the morning. I was tired of waiting on this curse to be reversed and waiting on a miracle that hadn't come—that obviously wouldn't come. I was tired of being a prisoner in my own home. I wanted friends. I wanted to go to town without the worry of consequences. I was tired of being lonely. I wanted to be happy.