Mary-Cade Mandus - The Spell Bound

Torin

Nagging thirst, pounding headache and ringing in his ears greeted Torin’s second awakening.

Muslin curtains, once-upon-a-time white and in a progressive state of deterioration, rode jauntily on a whimsical breeze, bright sunshine flashing piercingly through their numerous rents to lance his rheumy eyes and lay assault to his throbbing head. An involuntary moan escaped and his body dug into the mattress as though it could back away from the pain.

After a moment or two the agony thinned. Taking a ragged breath and counting to three he cautiously slid one lid up, then the other only to press back into the pillow with a start. Mrs. Crockery’s cheery, chubby visage hovered within an inch or two of his nose, her gooseberry green eyes peering intently into his own.

Seemingly satisfied with what she saw the old woman plumped up the pillows [he gritted his teeth, stifling an unmanly groan at the jarring] and tucked the coverlet tight under his chin, then patting his shoulder, she waddled out.

Unable to concentrate…think…remember.
Whatever had occurred to place him
in this room…this bed…
was obscured by a rhythmic pounding…thumping
resonating through his skull…
as though a hundred giant-wielded hammers
were using it for an anvil…concurrently.

Trying to hold his head steady he gingerly slid up the pillows to a reclining position. Leaves rustling outside the casement drew his attention. Wincing he cocked an eye in that direction in time to see a lithe figure drop noiselessly to the floor. Before his blurry vision could discern its species, the cat was on his chest, whiskers tickling his nose and chin as it sniffed delicately and examined him closely. The act was so reminiscent of Mrs. Crockery’s earlier posture that Torin chuckled weakly, regretting the action almost immediately. Like the majority of its kin the cat had no, or very little, sense of humor and took his display of amusement personally. Affronted, it stalked to the end of the bed and, lying down, sent scowls of wounded pride his way.

Wishing to atone Torin extended a weak hand in truce. Somewhat appeased, but not wishing to appear to forgive too quickly, it ignored the offering of peace for a count of ten languid tail flicks. Then, rising, it moseyed back up to his side making an exaggerated investigation of any rents, stains or pulled threads it encountered on the way. Finally, it settled, not too close, but well within easy stroking distance.

Caressing the cat, feeling the purr vibrating through his fingertips, Torin tried to make sense of how he came to be in this room and in such a wretched state. Just then the doorknob turned and Mrs. Crockery bustled back in, arms bearing a tray overladen with a bowl of rich golden chicken broth, a raspberry tart topped with a dollop of clotted cream, and a clay pitcher of cool fresh milk. She clucked with disapproval upon spying the cat but held her tongue and left well enough alone. If It didn’t bother her patient, it wouldn’t bother her. Besides…it had most assuredly saved his life.

Not up to managing a spoon but gratefully accepting and draining a mug of the milk Torin begged the old woman to stay, if her duties permitted the time, and give him an account of what had transpired to leave him in such deplorable condition. Beaming, she pulled up a rocking chair, settled her bulk by the bedside and related how it was…

…that very cat his hand so gently stroked…that had sounded the alarm. It had come flying through the kitchen window caterwauling loud enough to shrivel the Naked Emperor’s family jewels and evaded all their efforts to catch and oust it. During the ensuring melee it had knocked over pots, pans, pails of fresh milk, and scared the scullery maid half to death when it leapt upon her back. Having gotten everyone’s attention it had raced to the door then back again, back and forth, forth and back…until it had finally dawned upon the lot of them that the crazed creature wanted to be followed. It had led them straight to the barn, and what a dreadful sight it was that had greeted them. [A quiver entered her voice and she dabbed at her eyes with an apron corner].

The floor stones and the straw had been awash with blood. He, Torin, had lain like one departed but had proved to be only unconscious [thank the Five Ladies] with a nasty gash cutting through his scalp. And…the poor dear horse [the sight haunted her sleep] had been standing over him weaving drunkenly on its feet with a a pitchfork embedded in its shoulder…the punctures oozing red.

A doctor had been fetched lickety-split [or should have been but truth be told, she suspected that that sorry good for nothing, Tom Foolery, had taken his own sweet time. She aimed to box his ears good when time permitted] from the neighboring village of Puddin‘n Taine.

After a thorough examination the doctor had pronounced the head wound to be life threatening in appearance only and had prescribed bed rest for at least a week. A bandage packed with moistened dwarf moss had been secured around his head to stem any seepage and hasten the healing.

A derisive snort discharged through the room startling the cat awake. The cook crossed her arms under her ample bosom and rocked the chair agitatedly, its rockers creaking in protest. In a voice scalding with contempt she related how the old fool of a doctor had actually taken her aside and admonished that the moss be used strictly for the medicinal purposes he’d prescribed. As though anyone under her supervision…in her charge…would dare partake of the filthy stuff!

Seeing her story was being led astray by what she believed to be a personal affront to her character Torin, who’d just suffered quite a shock regarding Fortenbrass, urged her back on track. Nodding apologetically she continued.

The horse was faring very nicely…with no lasting damage its shoulder muscles that the doctor could foresee, so there was no use to fret. A warm poultice [her great-granny’s own recipe] was being applied twice a day to draw out and stave off infection.

His Lordship had been extremely worried and had ordered Torin carried and put to bed to convalesce in this, one of the manor’s very best bedchambers [or at least it used to be.] It had been so good to see The Comte almost like his old self…before…Well, that was neither here nor there.

Shifting her bulk she leaned eagerly forward, athirst with curiosity to see his reaction, and recited the learned doctor‘s summation of what had taken place.

It was all very clear, he’d said. The layout of the scene had attested to the fact that Torin [perhaps in the throes of some terrible rage] had attacked the horse, and the poor creature had been forced to retaliate to save himself by knocking Torin into the wall and thus rendering him powerless.

Seeing Torin’s face growing even paler she winked, tut-tutted and patted his hand reassuringly. She had paid no attention to the old fool’s pontificating for she knew how close the two of them, man and horse, were. But [nodding sagely] sure as the warts on the Wicked Witch’s nose something mighty queer had taken place and there was just no getting round it.

Prompting him to attempt a little bite of something, if only the raspberry tart, and then rest, she left him lying in stricken silence attempting to make sense of a nonsensical state of affairs.

There was no rhyme or reason for any of it. He would sooner cut off his arm than harm a hair on Fortenbrass’ head. It couldn't be true, but he couldn’t deny the evidence. Here he was in bed with a crown cracked bad enough to rival Jill’s Jack’s. That meant Fortenbrass…no, he couldn’t rely on second-hand observation, he had to see for himself.

Rising to a sitting position and swearing at the pain he maneuvered his way to the edge of the bed, slid feet to the floor and carefully stood. The room immediately tipped and swayed, stars danced before his eyes and his mind whirlygigged. Plopping back down he waited a second or two then tried it again. This time he achieved success. The cat, yowling its disapproval, paced nervously making sure to keep well out of fainting range.

After many starts, stops, and near blackouts he managed to dress, get out of the room, down the back staircase and outside all in one piece without loosing his balance or dignity [except for one brief head-between-knees incident on the stairs he’d just as soon forget]. Winding a less than steady course to the barn, he hesitated just outside the door, suddenly terrified what he’d see and how he’d be received. Casting about for bolstering he glanced down at the cat by his feet. It gave him a disgusted you insisted on doing this…now you’re going to stop? look then disappeared inside with a sniff.

Swallowing hard, head aching and pulsing in time with his heart he stepped forward into the cool dimness.

Fortenbrass met him halfway.

Looking into the unwavering brown gaze Torin saw no blame, resentment or fear. Only love and concern for…him. Partly from relief and joy, partly because his knees had given out from the stress, he fell onto the animal’s neck rejoicing in the feel of muscle playing beneath his touch and the pulse of a strong healthy heart. As his fingers patted and stroked they discovered a flaw marring the silky surface. Horrified he traced the rough outline of three ragged holes. At his touch the skin flinched and drew away. This evidence of the validity of Mrs. Crockery’s story proved too much for his weakened state and he collapsed in the straw. Fortenbrass whickering anxiously, nuzzled his head and Torin laid his forehead against the velvety muzzle, closed his eyes and attempted to force his mind to remember, but nothing came…except a splitting headache.

It appeared his memory ended on the bluff above the sunflowers. He remembered the witch [what else could she be?], her hideous familiars; after that…it was all a blank.

The bandage about his head felt suddenly too tight and in irritation he tugged it off and tossed it on the floor. A tightly curled, bright purple clump of dwarf moss tumbled out. Something about the plant struck a cord. Something Mrs. Crockery had mentioned that the doctor had said.

Then it came. The doctor had cautioned against its misuse. Suddenly he recalled, with a pang, how his father had issued the same warning to him and his siblings - to avoid anyone offering a sample of the plant, as it could bring on hallucinations or worse, if smoked or consumed.

Was that it? Had he been unknowingly exposed? Could it have been hidden within the trash he’d burnt or the stew he’d had at supper?

No, that didn’t feel right. On the night in question the cat had roused him from a deep sleep and he’d awakened without any ill feeling or disorientation…at least not that he could recall. No, in his heart he knew the culprit was magic, not opiates.

The witch. Spying him upon the bluff she must have cast a dementia spell ensuring he’d be unable to remember or tell what he had seen. Of course, that night’s events only confirmed what he already knew - that enchantment was well abroad at Swan’s Rest.

From the moment he’d set foot upon the estate everything had pointed in that direction: his near drowning in the shallow burn, the Comte’s enchanted miniature [not to mention the old man’s seeming rejuvenation], the grotesqueness of the sunflowers and, most tellingly, the Dream.

Until now he’d not given the indication of magic much thought, just taken it for granted. True, the Pips were normal human folk but an ancestor on his mother’s side had taken a faery wife so such things were not unknown nor frowned upon in the family circle.

But this…was sorcery of the vilest kind. It had caused him to lose so much of himself that he had attempted to kill something he loved more than life itself. That knowledge turned his blood to ice. He’d have to be on guard. The spell had been unsuccessful and there was little doubt the witch would be in a mood to be magnanimous when their paths crossed again [and they would, that much was a certainty]. But, he would not be frightened off. To abandon the vulnerable Comte to her machinations was out of the question. A feeling was steadily growing that there was a correlation between the two, and the focal point appeared to be something secreted within the field.

His head came up, with a jerk. His pulse quickened. A thought had struck - Solace!

Did the witch hold her in thrall? Was this who she sought rescue from?

Aches and pains forgotten he jumped to his feet. Caught off guard, Fortenbrass backed up, watching with concern as Torin began to pace. Acute senses reassured the animal that the motivation was not pain but excitement and he cast a questioning eye towards the cat. The feline, unhelpfully, returned a queried look of its own.

Unaware of his companions’ perplexity Torin weighed what he thought the circumstances to be and cast about for a course of action.

The most obvious and important goal was to establish the witch’s identity and whereabouts. But, where to start? It had been a month since his arrival and her face was one he’d never spied among the manor’s small staff nor midst the citizens of the village where he picked up supplies. So striking was her appearance and visage he knew he would have remembered. Logic dictated she had to be close at hand for her ease of manner in the field suggested familiarity. Thus the only explanation, she was in disguise.

Thoughtfully cocking his head he considered Fortenbrass and the cat. They had been aware of her existence, had even led him to her. Were they part of the enchantment?

He quickly dismissed the thought. He trusted Fortenbrass with his life. Now the cat…well, it and the horse seemed to have forged a bizarre bond, so if Fortenbrass trusted it, then so would he. Motioning the animals closer, he outlined his suspicions and enlisted their keen eyes and senses.

Odile

Well, the fool was resilient…
she’d give him that.
Such a simple plan, so absurdly ruined.
Inspiration had struck when she’d spied him
upon the ridge.
A perfect chance to test her theory,
and be rid of him…all at once.
So uncomplicated.
It had been staring her in the face all the while
but preoccupation had obscured it.
An easy spell.
He’d destroy himself and be out of the way,
once and for all
but, most importantly,
she’d discover
what or who
might again intervene on his behalf.
So effortless.
It had all gone according to plan
but, she’d reckoned without…the horse.

Stupid beast!
When this was finished…she’d see to them both
conjuring something of a more complex nature
to ensure their suffering was deep
but leisurely
thus, more satisfying…for her.
Until then…there was nothing to fear
from the man.
Terror had filled his eyes…
when they’d met hers.
She was confident…
he’d reveal nothing…
if he even remembered.
And if he did, whom would he tell?
What would he say?
It would be surprising to find he still remained
upon the premises
was not halfway to the next Kingdom by now.
Chuckling softly, she settled back in the chair
her fingers unconsciously kneading
the lumpy contours of her skirt.

Jessamine

She pondered
the significance of the news
her mother had disclosed.
Her visit had been full of tidings
wondrous…exhilarating…
frightening.
Tidings of alteration…transformation
that caused her breath to catch…
flesh to prickle…
heart to contract.
Three weeks hence…
she’d come of age.
Be finally free!
Twenty-one days would
bring her birthday…
then she too…would be 21.
But a worm gnawed at the core
of her happiness.
A serpent lay in wait
outside freedom’s gate.

#################################

The atmosphere hummed.
His step roused her
from daydreams of what was to…
might come.
His approach quickened her pulse.
His nearness filled her
with more than gladness.
The knowledge that he was not
of royal blood…
a prince
both relieved and pleased.
Princes apparently were
a vain…self-absorbed lot…
[at least in her mother’s tales]
expending an inordinate
amount of time…energy
on appearance…wealth…titles.
No, far better that he be a Knight
[not in truth…
but she had dubbed him so
in her heart]
as he was full of grace…dignity…courage…
quiet strength.

By his mere presence
the dragons
of Apprehension…Fear…Doubt
were slain…
Hope rescued…
and Happy Ever After [perhaps] assured.
He was her Knight
and her Love.

Drawing to her side…
gazing down into her upturned face
he raised her hand
and grazed its back with his lips.
The smile she gifted him with
caused his heart to tilt.

Torin

As Torin’s foot made contact, the cat scrambled up with a pained yowl and disappeared from sight. With a twinge of guilt [apology could wait until tomorrow] he punched the pillow into a different shape, as if that might invoke sleep…the Dream. Aching to see Solace, render the answer she coveted he’d tossed upon the bed for what seemed like hours. His teeth ground, aching under the pressure. His resolution and sincerity were pointless. No vow could be sworn and no act of liberation could be undertaken without the blasted Dream!

In the end, exhaustion provided entrée.

Kneeling
pressing her hand reverently
to his heart
he pledged fealty.
All that he was…
flesh…bone…muscle…blood
all that gave him being…life
he offered willingly…
without hesitation…
swearing to use any means,
make any sacrifice required
to break the witch’s spell
to bring her into his world…arms.

His outpouring…affirmation
did not induce…secure
one longed for effect…
her voice restored.
Her response
was but a single tear
that fell upon his knee
as she leaned forward
to rest her cheek
against the back of his hand.

They mended quickly, man and horse.

To Mrs. Crockery’s and the Comte’s chagrin, he had declined their urgings to return to the manor house bedchamber, preferring instead to finish his recuperation in the loft where he felt more secure. He did, however, resume taking meals in the kitchen and scrutinized every face, took note of every gesture, and watched for a lapse, a tip of the hand, some sign that a familiar face was nothing but a fabrication. But his vigilance proved futile.

One mid-afternoon, returning to the barn for a forgotten tool, Torin strolled leisurely along, allowing the loveliness of the spring day to override the dark cloud hovering over his thoughts. Breathing in deeply, he savored the intoxicating air. He never tired of the delectably scented breezes that wafted through the Fifth Kingdom. It was as though every flowering thing was vying for attention.

Approaching the kitchen’s herb garden his mood changed considerably as he caught sight of Tom Foolery’s lanky form darting from the potting shed. The nastily smug expression exposed on the narrow face gave Torin cause for concern so, detouring toward the modest structure, he stepped in and gave a quick glance around. Nothing appeared to be out of place or damaged. As he turned to go a reddish glow caught his eye. A magnificent Emperor’s Blush spider was trapped within a jar, the mouth of which was plugged by a large fat cork. The spider’s normally delicately flushed rose coloring had become a heated crimson due to its fear and panic. Forelegs were desperately feeling for an escape route between the lid and the glass when Torin removed the plug. The insect scurried onto his palm and stood with legs splayed, fangs contracting, and lung-books drawing in much needed air. Almost the width of his hand, Torin could feel its terror vibrating through the legs into his skin. He gave it a few minutes to recover then walked out into the garden. On a secluded section of garden wall, beneath the dipping branch of a crape myrtle, he set it down. Its natural color was gradually returning, so he left. Glancing back it could barely be made out amongst the mauve-tinged blossoms.