Читать книгу The Fairytale Trilogy - Valerie Gribben - Страница 21

Stopping at a clearing, Robin and Marianne retired early. Once during the night Marianne imagined that she was asleep on her large feather bed, and tried to adjust her pillow before crashing her head down onto a distinctly non-downy rock. What a hard cushion! thought Marianne in her delirium. Whimpering as she patted her head, sleep again ensnared her, drawing her into the world of dreams.

Robin and her parents were sitting by a stream, tickling the water with their toes as Marianne swam, showing off her skill. She couldn’t see her parents’ faces clearly, though, and when she tried to talk with them, they moved away. She jumped out of the water and chased after them. Her parents fled up a flight of stairs and Marianne followed, climbing to the top where they disappeared. Someone pushed Marianne, and she toppled down the steps. At the bottom a tall man with haunting green eyes appeared and threw a shoe at her.

“Marianne! Breakfast!” Before opening her eyes, Marianne vainly tried to make sense of the fleeting nightmare that was blowing away like sand in a windstorm.

Getting up groggily, Marianne rubbed her eyes. Robin was recklessly frying sausages. “Ouch!” he said, shaking his hand after a drop of oil sprayed out of the pan. “Marianne, you’re finally awake! I’ve had time to head over to the carnival and back.” Robin held up a wrapped package. “I bought you—”

“An apple tart,” Marianne blurted, before realizing her blunder. “I . . . I could smell it.”

“Good guess. And raisin scones, too. Do you mind if I have a slice of your tart?” asked Robin, his mouth full of Marianne’s pastry. “Why doesn’t this meat cook faster?”

“I had the weirdest dream last night,” said Marianne, kneeling down and looking around for a knife to split the scones. Robin reached into his boot and pulled out a thin dagger. There was a green stain on it. “What’s this?” asked Marianne.

“Goblin juice,” said Robin, as he finished the tart. “Haven’t the faintest how it got there,” he continued innocently.

Marianne rolled her eyes and handed the knife back to Robin who stuck it into his boot. “Anyway, our family was sitting by this stream . . .”

“Your dreams aren’t very accurate; I wouldn’t have been there. Can’t swim a lick,” said Robin, shaking his head as he devoured the warm scones.

“How can any brother of mine not swim?” asked Marianne.

“How can any sister of mine?” replied Robin, in the same shocked tone.

Marianne continued her story, but left out the ending with Grimholdt. “That’s the last time I let you sleep on a rock,” Robin responded.

Marianne’s mood had lightened by the time they’d finished their satisfying breakfast. “Oh! I cannot wait to see the carnival!” she exclaimed.

“Marianne, the only way I’m getting to that carnival is if you roll me,” he said humorously, before belching. “I beg your pardon, Marianne.”

“Robin, I’ll absolutely die if I have to wait any longer! Please, can’t you just let me go by myself?” Marianne entreated.

“I would feel like the most irresponsible brother ever if I allowed you to go running around unchaperoned with my blessing.”

“I promise I’ll meet you anywhere you say in half an hour. Pleeeeeeeeeaaase?” begged Marianne, her voice rising a few decibels.

“Fine. Tell you what. You can have the rest of this gold,” said Robin, counting out a few pieces. “Go have some fun, but I want you to BE CAREFUL. There are many marvelous people there, but there are also a few characters I wouldn’t trust in a strange forest.” Robin faced her somberly as he tucked the coins into a sack. “I’ll meet you in front of the acrobats in half an hour.” Marianne tugged at the money; Robin held on tightly. “Understand?”

“Understood,” she said reluctantly, and Robin let go. “You are the best brother ever!” Marianne called, running down the path.

Robin began to dismantle the campsite. “Sure,” he muttered, “What could happen?”

Marianne skipped down the road, occasionally breaking into cheerful song. To her, the sky seemed bluer when carrying some gold. After a few minutes she crested a hill and was met with a fan of colors. The carnival workers had set up tents of every imaginable shade, and Marianne raced down the hillside to investigate them. As she drew closer, cheerful shouts from the pleased masses reached her ears. Determined not to look like some sort of uncultured vagabond, Marianne assumed an indifferent air as she meandered through the main alley. Her enthusiasm was hard to contain as she arrived at a beautiful pink and gray wagon labeled:

Melusine’s Manuscripts:

a Bookstore in Operation Since

Before You Can Remember.

A bronzed woman with bizarre amber eyes materialized as Marianne examined the extensive selection. “May I asssssissst you?” she hissed in a foreign accent.

“Yes, I was looking for a book by Royal Mabel. She wrote Famous Fairy Flum—”

“Flummoxessss, of courssse, I have a sssection devoted to Missss Mabel right here.” The serpentine woman presented an entire side of the wagon. “If there’sss anything elssse I can help you with, jussst let me know,” she added, slithering over to another arriving customer.

The bewitched books called out Marianne’s name. One in particular, Bossy Brownies and Sassy Spirits, shoved aside Passive Pixies to elbow its way to the front. “Yo! Marianne! Ya gonna get me!” it shouted. Marianne responded by laying The Gargantuan Biography of Gargantua on top of it. Marianne was disheartened; all the books were too expensive. As she turned to leave, her eye landed on an item marked for clearance, which bore the tag “Buy at risk of own discontent!” Intrigued, Marianne looked it over for booby-traps that could cause it to burst into flames if she opened it. Seeing none, she asked the owner, “Excuse me, but why is this book on sale?”

“It’ssss defective; I cannot get it to sssspeak,” the woman replied, flashing her torchlight eyes at Marianne.

“Well, I’d like to buy it, then,” said Marianne, taking out her money. “I rather like books that don’t talk back.”

Marianne soon realized that her new acquisition was a hazard in a different way. Trying to navigate around the carnival while reading proved nearly impossible if she didn’t want to bump into people carrying mounds of gimcracks they’d won for throwing lopsided balls into skewed hoops. Settling herself down in front of the acrobats’ tent, Marianne opened her book. She had delighted in hearing the spine crack when a charming melody originating from the scarlet tent across from her permeated the air. At first Marianne tried to ignore it, but the enticing notes began to nuzzle at her ears, begging to be let in. She was overpowered by the persuasive tune. The words of her tome seemed to float off the page and follow the entrancing rhythm from the pergola beyond. Rising, Marianne looked around to see who else had fallen under the spell of this sweet siren song. The people around her hurried by, oblivious to her rapture. Proceeding with eyes half-closed, Marianne read the billboard now rising above her, proclaiming in tawdry letters, which burned brilliantly to Marianne’s eyes:

Scare Yourself Silly in the Tunnel of Terror!

Be Rorried by Werewolves! Horrified by Hobgoblins!

Suffer Malice from Monsters!

Each statement was enticingly illustrated with a picture of a terrified patron who had got his money’s worth of thrills. Mindlessly, Marianne paid her admission to the shady man at the door, who tipped his hat as he pulled a lever, opening the painted stone portico at the entrance. But I don’t like to be scared. The music in her ears swelled to a crescendo, and Marianne entered.

The first room contained a hall of mirrors, each distorting Marianne’s figure as she walked purposefully through. Where is the music leading me? Marianne clutched her book more tightly as she stepped into the next room where a paper cutout of a werewolf fell off its stand as Marianne walked by. The next room’s contents were no better: A hobgoblin puppet dangled limply from the ceiling, his lolling tongue tied into a knot by a disgruntled customer. Marianne was considering undoing the mischief when she heard a sound farther down the hall. Must be my monster.

Striding down the corridor, she heard the music reach greater heights. A peculiar scratching noise was emanating from a tear in the black fabric draped about the walls. Marianne approached it, biting her lip. Suddenly, a freakish head sprouting horns popped out of the hole. The music stopped abruptly. Marianne screamed, losing her book in her haste to find the exit. Finding none, Marianne tore through the thin fabric covering the makeshift walls and fumbled her way to daylight. Once outside, she gratefully sucked in the morning air before sitting down on a bench, her head in her hands as she tried to quiet her frazzled nerves.

Marianne’s downcast eyes saw a pair of scruffy leather boots make their way over to her, followed by a stream of sincere apologies. “I am so sorry about that. I really, really don’t like scaring anyone. This isn’t even my regular job! William got sick, and they told me I had to fill in. Please forgive me. Here, you dropped this.” A gentle hand held out Marianne’s book, but Marianne kept her head down. “I see you’re reading Royal Mabel,” the voice stammered. “She’s a great author. When I met her, she was really quite pleasant. Please don’t be mad at me,” the voice finished.

Marianne raised her eyebrows disbelievingly, but kept her head down. “You’ve met Royal Mabel?” she asked in amazement.

“Certainly,” said the voice that belonged to the boots, “Why, I know her so well, she lets me call her Queen Mab.” At this Marianne gave a laugh and looked upwards at the handsomest boy she had ever seen.