Rapunzel: The One With All the Hair Read online

  “That is the spirit!” Andrew says, clapping his hands together. “Now, how are we going to get you into the forest? To discourage bandits, your father has decreed that only the royal hunters are allowed entrance.”

  We are pondering this question when Elkin strolls in, munching on a crab apple. He eyes the map curiously, and Andrew snatches it off my bed and hastily rolls it back up.

  “Can I help you, Elkin?” I ask sweetly. No use being antagonistic. Bad for the soul.

  Elkin glances suspiciously at Andrew and the rolled-up parchment, but says only, “Your father wanted me to alert you that we shall be taken on our first hunt six days hence.”

  Andrew and I exchange a look and my heart leaps a little.

  “IF you are better, of course,” Elkin adds.

  “He will be,” Andrew answers before I have a chance.

  When I woke up today, the supper tray with my hidden note was gone. I hope my new friend found it. I hope I did not insult him by addressing the letter to “Little Green Creature.” If I had known his rightful name, I certainly would have used it. What if the witch found the note instead? I would lose the only ally I have. I shudder to think of what would happen to the little guy if he got caught giving me gifts. Have I put him in danger? Was I thinking only of my own needs?

  Meanwhile, my hair keeps getting longer and longer.

  The hunt is in a few days and I am off to meet Andrew in the courtyard to discuss the plan. I have just finished reading the book on trolls from cover to cover and am ready for whatever I might find at the cave. Or at least I am telling myself that I am ready, in the hopes that I may come to believe it. I learned only two things from the book:

  Trolls are huge, scary, hairy, and hungry, which I pretty well knew already. They will eat anything, from the smallest berry to the largest horse. To illustrate its point, the book thoughtfully included artists’ renderings of the trolls eating exactly that. I shall have nightmares for weeks.

  Trolls are highly, even deathly, allergic to tomatoes. Something in the flesh of the tomato is poisonous to their system. They don’t even need to eat it. Merely getting it on their skin will do the damage. I plan on stuffing as many tomatoes as I can in my saddlebags. They will be my main mode of defense.

  Andrew has the map spread out on the stone bench when I arrive, and is drawing on it with the edge of a piece of coal. “This is where the hunting party will begin,” he says, marking a small X at one entrance to the forest. “Most of the group will head into the heart of the forest near the head of the stream. That is where they will find the greatest number of animals.” He draws a path leading away from the stream. “But once the party has separated, you will quietly ride off to the west, where the cave should be.”

  My already low amount of confidence is dwindling. “Are you sure I’ll be all right riding through the forest on my own?” I ask. “What if the cave-guarding troll isn’t the worst creature there?”

  “What’s worse than a troll? A goblin? A witch? No one has reported either of those in years. The tomatoes will take care of the troll, and there shall be nothing keeping you from the treasure and the chronicles of history.”

  “I hope you are correct, Andrew,” I say, rolling up the map and sticking it in my leather satchel. “For otherwise it will fall to you to explain why I have not returned with the rest of the hunting party. I’m sure Mum won’t take it out on you too badly.”

  For the first time this morning, Andrew’s grin slips and he grimaces, as he says, “I think I’d rather face the troll.”

  I am beginning to suspect that the witch somehow makes me fall asleep even when I am not tired. One minute it is early afternoon and I am storing my soap safely in my trunk, and the next I am curled up on the “bed,” the sun has reached three quarters of the way across the tower floor, and a tray of food is getting cold on the rug. I hurry over and search under every plate and bowl for a response to my note. The extra bowl of milk is here, along with a small plate of sardines that I figure is also for Sir Kitty — and even if it isn’t, she has already licked each one, so she will get no argument from me. No reply to my note, though. Well, it was worth a shot. At least the little guy wasn’t caught by the witch, and that is the most important thing.

  With a sigh, I pick up my wooden spoon and am about to thrust it into the thick vegetable stew when I notice seven peas resting on top. Two next to each other, another centered below them, and four others forming a U-shaped curve underneath the rest. Little Green Creature has left me a happy face! I smile down into the stew, then pick out the peas and pop them in my mouth one by one.

  After I lick the bowl clean, I head over to the window. I know the creature will not come again tonight, so I do not bother with the mirror. The sun shall set soon, but for now the forest is still aglow. I used to think that there were only two colors in the forest, the grayish-brown bark of the trees, and the green of the leaves. My time in the tower has taught me otherwise. The greens are not only one color. There is a deep, almost blackish green of the lower leaves; a green the shade of a ripe lime; a green that looks yellow when the sun lights it. Besides the array of greens, every color of the rainbow lives here. The bushes that ring the tower base are home to purple and red berries, which look round and succulent although I can only stare down longingly at them. Father has told me never to eat strange berries, but surely he did not know of these, nor of the plump oranges that grow in a grove west of my window. Sometimes they still glow after the sun has set as though lit from a candle within. It used to be a rare treat when Mother brought oranges home from the weekend market, but here they are for the picking. (Not by me, of course, but someone who is NOT trapped in a tower by an evil witch could surely pick them with no problem.)

  I wait until I can see the first star before lighting my lamp. The flickering wick casts interesting shadows on the ceiling. If I peer closely, I can see the lines where the trapdoor opens better than I can during the sunlit day. Will I never discover what is above there? A feeling of resolve comes over me. I am NOT going to be defeated so easily. I walk over to the wall and trace my finger over the lines of the cottage I drew there, careful not to smear the ash as I go. I shall get back there one day for certain. For a girl who never spent a day on her own before, I have gained a strength I never would have guessed I owned.

  “Are you up there?” I call out as loud as I dare.

  No response.

  I try again, a little louder. “Little green guy? Sir?” My voice reverberates off the walls and sounds unfamiliar to my ears.

  Still no response. I rummage through the trunk to find things to throw up at the ceiling. Aiming for the center of the trapdoor, I hurl my comb, but it spins wildly and hits nowhere near the door. I try with the tin of ointment, which not only does not reach the ceiling but falls down with surprising force and smacks me on the knee. Now I have to use the ointment to avoid a bruise! It smells of rampion, its main ingredient, and I try not to breathe in the fresh smell of my enemy.

  I have better luck with my boots, in that they at least hit the upper parts of the walls before plummeting. By this time, I have learned to stand back so I do not fall victim to their plunge. While I am putting everything back in the trunk, Sir Kitty stretches her paw at me from the straw bed and gets it tangled in my braid. I would tug the braid away, but it would not do much good. My hair is so long now, I’m surprised when there ISN’T a paw tangled in there! As I watch her try to get untangled, a new plan begins to form. I remove her paw and take the belt out of my trunk, the one with the little silver bells that I was wearing on my birthday (now forever known as The Day Of My Kidnapping). I pull out the hairpins that hold my hair to my neck and shake my braid loose. Then I tie the belt around the very end of my hair where the pink (now gray) ribbons have been holding the strands of hair together. For the record, once the braid unfurls, I have to pull, hand over hand, for quite a long time to even REACH the very end of my hair.

  I drag the small table to the center of the r