The
young man paused his typing and cracked his knuckles. Taking off his
eyeglasses, he rubbed his tired eyes and took a drink of his long-cold coffee.
He replaced the glasses and glanced at the newspaper that lay on the desk
beside the typewriter. AL CAPONE BEHIND
BARS, it announced, and JAPAN AND
CHINA STRIKE PEACE. He sighed and turned his attention back to his story.
The
princess was the most beautiful creature anyone in Tyrenia had ever beheld.
With flowing, curling locks the color of honey and eyes the color of sapphires,
she sent the heart of many a young man fluttering.
The
writer sighed again and leaned back in his chair. Opening a desk drawer, he
rummaged through it until he found an old photograph buried near the back. The
girl in it bore a striking resemblance to the princess he had just described.
He turned it over to read the inscription for the umpteenth time. “Michael—have
a great summer! You’re a pal, hope to keep in touch. Much love, Eva.” He rolled
his eyes. He ventured to guess that she hadn’t written “you’re a pal” on the
senior picture she had given Jerry. Shaking his head to clear the memories, he
reminded himself that he was certainly NOT writing this story to alleviate the
pain of those college years. He stuffed the photo back in the drawer and turned
his attention back to the story.
However, it was only the prince of the
neighboring kingdom to whom she returned any affection. To no other man would
she bestow even a second glance, so besotted with the prince was she.
The
typewriter ceased its clacking as Michael paused and furrowed his brow. He
thought perhaps he had worded that too strongly. After all, the quiet,
steadfast stable boy had to get through the cracks of her protected heart
somehow. So far he hadn’t written any cracks. He decided to view it in person,
although these visits had to be brief. He transitioned his writing accordingly.
I met the princess in her garden on a warm
summer’s day.
As
soon as the period had clicked into place, the young man was there in the garden,
watching the princess as she wrote in what he assumed was a journal of some
sort. She sat on a stone bench in the shade of an overhanging willow. He
approached her cautiously. This was his first time visiting this particular
story of his.
“Good
morning, Princess Evelyn,” he began.
The
princess stood, startled, dropping the book and quill. She stared at him, her
bluer-than-blue eyes large with confusion. “And who are you, good sir? How did
you come to be in my garden?” She remembered her things and bent to pick them
up while trying to keep her eyes on the stranger.
The
writer bowed and stepped toward her, stooping to pick up her quill. “My name is
Michael, Your Highness.” He was grateful to have a name acceptable in both his
world and in the worlds he created. He handed her the pen with a smile. “I…work
in the palace and have observed your comings and goings as of late. Forgive me,
Highness, but I wonder if you might indulge me the answer to an impertinent
question.”
She
smiled her dazzling smile. “That depends on how impertinent the question. But
what queer garments you wear, Michael. What, pray, are those pieces of glass
that sit upon your nose?”
Michael
mentally chided himself for forgetting to remove his glasses before entering
the story. They always caused unnecessary confusion, and he tried to make a
habit of leaving them on the desk. “They, uh, aid my vision, Your Highness,” he
said, taking them off and tucking them away in his breast pocket. His vision
was unaffected; this was a quirk of his writing he couldn’t really explain but
didn’t mind in the least. “Highness, forgive me, but my question concerns your
imminent engagement.”
“To
Prince Gerald?” she asked, a lilt in her voice. Her eyes sparkled.
“Yes,
my lady. You see, as one who has observed both yourself and the prince, I
cannot help but feel that you two are not entirely suited for one another.”
The
sparkle left her eyes. “Not suited for one another? We knew at one glance that
our love was true. How can you say such things?”
“As
I said, Your Majesty, though you have not seen me before, I am quite familiar
with both you and your lover. Have you never considered casting your affection
elsewhere? There may exist, within your own palace even, someone whose love for
you transcends even the prince’s. Someone of low stature but noble character.”
“Low
stature?” She considered this for a moment. “My family would never approve of
that. I must marry someone of royal blood. Besides, you are surely mistaken. No
love on earth could surpass that which Gerald and I hold for each other.” Her
eyes began to sparkle again, and she started humming a love song under her
breath.
Michael
shook his head. He hadn’t meant for her to be this infatuated, but he had been
here long enough already. He would have to resort to other means. “Very well,
my lady. However, if you are able, please think on what I’ve said.”
She
was too busy singing to hear him. He pulled out a small old notebook from his
back pocket, along with a pencil stub. Carefully, he wrote,
He left the garden for the solitude of his
attic.
He
was in the attic again, but everything was blurry. He put the notebook away and
pulled out his glasses. Tucking the wire ends behind his ears, he sat down at
his desk and looked out the window in front of him. It was raining now, and the
sky was a darker gray than it had been when he left. He turned his attention to
the page on the typewriter. New material had appeared.
One day
the princess met in her garden a strange man with circles of glass before his
eyes.
Michael
chuckled and shook his head at his own foolishness. It was too late now; the
scene couldn’t be unwritten. He promised himself he would be more careful in
the future. The scene continued, recording the dialogue verbatim and writing
the narrative in Michael’s authorial voice. It ended with,
The
princess hoped she had not offended Michael, as he seemed to have departed in a
great hurry. After convincing herself not to worry about what the curious man
had suggested, she filled her thoughts with her beloved Gerald and her arms
with flowers until she was called in to tea.
Michael
sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He would have to use other means to
convince Evelyn to choose the stable boy. It was supposed to be a beautiful
‘love-against-all-odds’ type of story wherein the princess discovered that the
stable boy’s love for her had nothing (or very little) to do with her looks and
everything to do with her sweet character, which the prince had not even
noticed.
Michael
decided that Evelyn would have to discover, rather than be told, that the
prince’s love for her was based solely on her beauty. But how? He stood up and
walked the length of the attic. Pacing sometimes helped when he found himself
in need of inspiration. Six strides to the opposite wall. Back again. There
again. Then he had it. Take her looks away. He grinned and sat down again. For
this he would need a new character. He flexed his hands and began typing away.
No one
quite knew where she had come from, but the old woman was most certainly a
stranger to Tyrenia. She claimed to be a distant relation to King William, but
few believed this assertion. With her weathered, frightening face and wild gray
hair, to compare her to the royal family was to liken a toad to a stallion. She
set up residence in a dense grove near the palace, which soon afterward was
said to be haunted by strange noises once night fell. Curiosity did not
overcome the fear the villagers had of her, and for many weeks she occupied her
grove undisturbed. Then one day, the princess herself felt compelled to pay
this strange guest a visit.
Michael
decided to witness rather than write this scene. It was important that this go
according to plan, but he had a feeling that his characters would know what to
do. However, he felt his presence ought to go unnoticed this time, unless of
course he simply had to intervene. He
didn’t want to consider that possibility, though. Choosing his words with care,
he typed,
I found myself in the dark copse southwest of the castle, a mere
stone’s throw from the old woman’s house.
He
was pleased to see that she had situated her house just as he’d pictured. It
was a squat little shack, which looked as if it had been picked up and dropped
a few times. The surrounding trees reached hungrily for the heavily patched
roof, but smoke poured merrily from its chimney nonetheless. He smiled. His
stories often had a way of reading his mind. It made perfect sense, though—his
mind was their birthplace.
He
heard a familiar humming, and thought he’d better get out of sight. After just
barely remembering to remove his glasses, he hid himself behind a particularly
thick trunk as the princess approached the hut on the barely discernible path
that led out of the forest. She wore a satin cloak of a light purple and
carried a basket. She was accompanied by a palace guard, whom she bade wait
outside as she knocked on the crooked door. After a moment it opened with a
squeal. Michael wished to anything he could see the old woman, but decided it
wasn’t worth the risk of his interference.
“Why,
Princess Evelyn!” came a rusty but kind voice.
“Hello.”
The princess gave a small curtsey. “I’ve come to bid you welcome to the
kingdom, and to bring you a pie from our kitchens.” She indicated the basket on
her arm.
“Oh,
goodness. Pleasure, I’m sure. Come in, Your Highness, come in. We’ll share that
pie over a cup of tea, if you might stay a spell. Can’t say as the place is
very nice—” here she scowled, and Michael imagined he would get a talking-to if
the woman knew who was responsible for creating her house, “—but it’ll hold
two. Or three.” She eyed the guard looming over the princess’s shoulder.
“Oh
that won’t be necessary. Thomas will wait outside.”
“Well
then, come right in, dear.”
The
princess entered the house and the door creaked shut. The guard stayed rooted
to the spot with absolutely no expression and his arms folded across his chest.
Michael hadn’t anticipated the princess bringing anyone, although he supposed
he should have. The king and queen certainly wouldn’t let Evelyn leave the
palace alone. However, her chaperone’s presence didn’t help Michael in any way.
He
was a mere four yards from where Michael stood behind the tree, and Michael
knew that if he so much as breathed loudly the guard would know. After fretting
about missing the conversation taking place inside the hut, an idea struck him.
He pulled out his notebook and pencil, thought a moment, and scribbled,
As Thomas waited outside the strange
dwelling, he felt himself growing drowsy.
The
guard blinked slowly and gave a loud yawn. It was working! Michael continued,
Finally,
the stalwart soldier could fight it no longer. He sat against a tree and
relaxed as sleep overtook his body.
Michael
looked up just in time to see Thomas’s arms drop from their fold. He silently
congratulated himself as he tucked his notebook away and crept from behind the
tree. He found a window on one side of the house that, luckily, the two women
had their backs to. Pressing his nose against the cold glass, he tried to make
out what they were saying.
“Why…in
love…your prince…understand?”
“We…true
love…”
“Ah,
but true love…beauty…you really are.”
“I
don’t…Gerald loves me…”
“You
might…lesson…love…show you…”
“What
do you…kind of lesson?”
“…show
you.”
Then
the talking ceased as the woman stood and placed a hand lovingly on the
princess’s head. The princess flinched but didn’t move away. They stayed that
way for a moment, and then the woman removed her hand and smiled at the girl.
“Why
don’t…home…again soon.”
Evelyn
nodded although she was obviously confused. She glanced at the window, and
Michael’s heart skipped a beat as he dropped out of sight. He hoped he had been
quick enough. He maneuvered around to the back of the building as he heard the
door open. He pulled out his notebook as he heard the princess say,
“Thomas?
I’m ready to go home. Thomas?”
“Mmgh…oh,
Your Highness!”
He was back in the attic, and the rain
outside had lessoned slightly.
He
looked out the attic window and smiled. No such luck; his was the only world he
controlled. After replacing his glasses, he sat back down at the typewriter and
looked at the page. Thankfully, he didn’t appear in the story this time. The
princess must not have seen him. He wished he had gotten a glimpse of the
princess before he left, but he supposed he could write that in himself. He
began,
Thomas gave her a strange look. “Oh, I’m sorry miss. Where’s the
princess?”
“Whatever do you mean, Thomas? I am the princess.”
“Begging your pardon, miss, but Princess Evelyn bears no resemblance
to you.”
The princess declared, exasperated, “Thomas! It is me! See?” She
thrust her hand forward, on the little finger of which she wore a ring bearing
her father’s seal. Upon seeing her hand, however, her expression stilled. She
brought the other hand up for inspection. The hands that had once been delicate
and white were no longer so. They might even pass for a servant’s hands. With
growing panic, she felt her face. Her nose was larger than it should have been.
Her jaw was squarer. She felt for her hair and pulled it around to her face.
Dark brown and stick straight. She shuddered and pushed it away. She looked
back up at Thomas, frightened. “What’s happened to me?”
“I don’t know, my lady,” he said, still gazing at her curiously.
“What happened in there?” He indicated the hut.
The princess’s eyes widened. She turned around and banged furiously
on the door. There was no answer. In frustration she grasped the handle and
pushed on the door. It opened easily, and the room appeared just as it had mere
moments ago, but there was no trace of the old woman. After staring blankly at
the empty room for a moment, the princess shut the door and turned back around
resolutely.
“Let’s go, Thomas. We’ll figure this out at the castle.”
Thomas, too dumbfounded to reply, followed her as she made her way
out of the forest and back home.
Michael
ceased his typing and stretched out his hands. Time for more coffee. He took
his mug and descended the ladder from the attic to his actual flat. He hadn’t
really been meant to have the attic when he rented the flat, but it was sitting
there unused right above him, and Mrs. Brady, the landlady, had agreed to let
him use it as a workspace. It was a small, bare room, but he liked it that way.
It seemed more conducive to creativity, like a blank canvas.
He
put the kettle on to boil and placed a filter and coffee grounds in the
floral-patterned porcelain dripolater that had been his mother’s housewarming
gift to him. He smiled. He was sure that his mother had assumed he’d be sharing
the flat with a wife before long. No such luck. Soon the kettle began to
whistle, and moments later he had a hot pot of coffee. He decided to take both
the pot and the mug back up to his desk, provided he could find a way to carry
them. Just when he thought he had his hands situated for the climb, the pot
tilted and spilled a bit of coffee onto his knee.
He
almost jumped with pain, nearly spilling more, and barely managed to set the
pot and mug down on his bedside table. He didn’t think he’d been burned, but
the trousers were no longer presentable, at least until they’d had a wash. He
changed them for clean ones and then made two trips back up to the attic, just
to be safe.
Finally
Michael was again situated before his typewriter with fresh coffee at his
disposal. It was time for the princess to meet her true love. He paused. This was another scene he’d much rather
witness first-hand, but he was getting a little too fond of these visits. He
had to be careful not to change the story from the inside unless absolutely
necessary. As he reflected on that morning’s visit with the princess, his
writer’s conscience started hinting uncomfortably that that trip hadn’t been
necessary. He argued with himself for a moment about the scene’s validity, and
ended up deciding that this morning was past, and that as long as he kept out
of sight, he ought to be able to travel to his story whenever he chose. He knew
in the back of his mind that this wasn’t the most rational vein of thought, but
he was too invested in the story to care.
It was late on the evening of the princess’s transformation, and I
found myself in the stables as she came to seek solace in the company of her
horse.
The
musty smell of horses and hay greeted him as he stood in the straw. Aside from
an occasional whinny, the place was quiet. However, Michael knew it wouldn’t be
long before he was joined. He found an empty stall and, tucking his glasses
away in his pocket, hunched down to hear the scene.
A
moment later the princess (he assumed) entered. She sniffed loudly a couple of
times, indicating that she had been crying not long ago. He heard her softly
call her mare, Lily, and heard the horse come clopping to the front of its
stall.
“Hi
Lily, good girl. Good girl,” came the princess’s hushed voice.
The
horse whinnied.
“I
know, I know. I don’t look like me.”
Lily
snorted.
“I
guess I still smell like me, though.”
Michael
could hear a slight smile in Evelyn’s voice.
“What
do you think, Lily? Am I really ugly? Or just plain?”
That
question struck something in Michael’s heart. You’re not ugly, he thought. As he waited for the stable boy to
make his entrance, ready to muck stalls or groom horses, it struck him that the
boy didn’t as of yet have a name. Or a physical description. Or…Michael’s face
went still. He hadn’t created the stable boy. The intention had been there.
From the story’s birth there had been a vague idea of the lad who saw the
princess from afar and wished that their situations were not so far removed. A
lad with a steadfast heart and a good head on his shoulders. He existed in
theory, but not on paper—that is, not in reality. Michael’s stories might be
able to fabricate scenes he had already determined, but they couldn’t scrape
together a new character out of thin air, especially one this important to the
plot.
His
shook his head. He supposed he would just go back, write the boy in, and come
back to witness the meeting. He reached for his notebook, and his heart dropped
out of his chest. His precious, tattered little notebook was still in the
pocket of the coffee-stained trousers. His mind started racing. How was he to
return home? He shifted his weight, and the rustle of straw caught the
princess’s attention.
“Is
someone there?”
He
closed his eyes and took a deep breath. There was nothing to do but reveal
himself. He stood shakily and exited the stall. He had to stop himself from
smiling: she looked exactly as he had pictured. Straight, dark brown hair hung
around a slightly fuller face. Her features were no longer petite, but still
feminine. It was by no means an unpleasant face, but it belonged more to a
servant than to a princess. He quickly formed an excuse in answer to her
question. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness, I, uh, seem to have fallen asleep
here. Do forgive me.”
“Why
Michael, I wondered where you’d gone. But,” she paused. “How did you ever
recognize me? I’m so…ugly.” She said the word as though it tasted foul.
Good question, he told himself. As far
as she knew, he hadn’t seen her like this yet. He thought quickly. “I… heard
rumors of what had happened to you, and I heard you speaking to your horse.
And, forgive me, my lady, but you are far from ugly. Your looks have changed,
certainly. But not for the worse, in my humble opinion.”
She
gave a small smile. “I’m not quite sure I agree, but thank you nonetheless.”
He
nodded. “Your Highness, grant me an odd request: you don’t happen to have a
spare bit of parchment on your person, do you?”
The
princess carried a small satchel at her side, which she now reached into. “A
queer request, but in fact I do. I often enjoy transcribing some of the
thoughts that cross my mind throughout the day.” She pulled out the diary she
had been using that morning, along with a rather squished quill and a small
bottle of ink. “Have you need of writing instruments?”
“Indeed,
and I’m very grateful, Your Highness. I’m desperate to remember something which
I’m certain to forget without making note of it.”
She
smiled and tore a page from her journal, handing it to him along with the quill
and, after she had removed the top, the inkbottle.
Michael
took the parchment, dipped the quill in ink, and, his hand shaking, began to
write. He hadn’t the faintest idea whether it would work, and if it did, his
disappearance would be quite startling for the princess. However, that worry
was not currently his primary concern.
He was back in his lonely attic again.
He
waited with bated breath. The princess was standing beside him, looking on
curiously. After a moment, she broke the silence.
“Is
that all you needed to remember?” She looked up at him with her now-hazel eyes.
“Uh,
yes,” he replied. His mind spinning, he slowly gave her back her quill and ink.
She
chuckled as she tucked them away again. “You certainly are queer, Michael.
You’re like no man I’ve ever met. But I enjoy your company.” She looked up at
him again.
He’d
seen that particular look in her eyes before. It had been this morning, and
they had been talking about…Gerald.
Oh no.
He
still had to answer her. “I, uh, enjoy your company as well, Your Highness.” Why doesn’t her paper work? he asked
himself, trying to contain his racing thoughts. Must be because it’s inside the story. It was created here. I need
something from outside. Something real.
“Might
you accompany me for a short ride, Michael?” The princess jerked his attention
back to the present.
He
looked at her blankly.
“I’m
not to go riding alone, but I’ll hardly be alone if you come with me.” She
smiled.
Even
with dark hair and hazel eyes, it was a lovely smile. Maybe even nicer, Michael thought. It seemed a little more genuine.
But…he tried to knock some sense into his head. He couldn’t go cavorting around
the grounds with the princess. He had to figure out how to get home. He looked
back at the piece of parchment in his hands. Why had he qualified his attic as
“lonely”? He didn’t mind the quiet and solitude…did he?
He
looked back at Evelyn and decided that he really did prefer hazel eyes to blue.
Suddenly he decided to throw caution to the wind. His lonely attic would wait. Crumpling the paper in his hand, he bowed
and replied, “Your Highness, it would be my honor.”
