Layer 9: The King’s Speech

Dama was meeting with a client in her office – some corpulent woman named Sprat who needed something special to help her diet, as her odd metabolism rendered her incapable of digesting any but the fattiest foods, or so she claimed – when the sound of loud animated conversations sprang up from the direction of the reception room.

“What in Grimms’ name,” Dama muttered, rising from the plush chair behind her desk. “Excuse me for a moment, Mrs. Sprat,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips and pleasantness into her voice, and then headed for the door.

Mrs. Sprat – who was sitting in a lower and less comfortable chair before Dama’s desk – nodded, watched Dama depart, and then when she was sure she was alone, pulled out a greasy Friar’s Triple Cheese Bigburger from her tote bag and began munching it down greedily.

Meanwhile, in the hallway, Dama was nearly to the door to the reception room when it burst open and Jerome came hurrying through, nearly running into her. “Oh! Fairy Godmother!” he said, screeching to a halt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“What is it, Jerome?” Dama demanded.

“News from Far Far Away, Fairy Godmother. King Harold is…is no longer king!”

Dama’s mouth fell open. “Harold…is…dead?” she asked. But she was taken aback for only a moment. Harold was certainly no spring chicken, but she hadn’t anticipated his dying just yet. Still, although this sped up her timetable, it didn’t upset it entirely. It certainly raised the stakes on Fiona’s rescue, but that actually worked to her advantage. Thank goodness she had spurred her son on. Now Charming wasn’t rushing to rescue a princess, but rather the new queen of Far Far Away. And when he married her, he would become—

“…the new king,” Jerome was just finishing saying something.

“Yes,” Dama said, smiling, a far-off look in her eyes. Then she shook her head, snapping herself back to reality. The elf couldn’t read her mind. Caught up in her mental recalculations, she had missed the first part of whatever Jerome had said. “What? Say that again, Jerome?”

“I said that Harold’s fate is unknown, but Rumpelstiltskin is the new king,” he replied.

Dama gaped again, stunned. After a few moments she said, “What? That little imp that spins straw into gold?”

Jerome shook his head. “No, Fairy Godmother. It’s the younger one, the one with the contracts.”

“How…did this happen?” Dama said, thinking, what did that idiot Harold do now?

Jerome shook his head. “No one knows for sure, Fairy Godmother. But the new king has announced he is going to give a speech tonight at eight o’clock where all will be explained.”

“Oh, he’s got some explaining to do, all right,” Dama snapped, then turned on her heels and marched back toward her office. She threw the door open, startling Mrs. Sprat, who was in the midst of chugging a bottle of heavy cream.

“Oh! Fair Godmother!” Mrs. Sprat said, embarrassed, wiping some spilled cream from the double chin beneath her blushing face. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Gimme that,” Dama barked, seizing the bottle as she walked by her client, all pretence of sweetness gone. As she reached her side of the desk Dama stood for a moment and chugged the remaining contents of the bottle down herself.

“Fairy Godmother!” Mrs. Sprat gasped, aghast.

“Just stow it, Kirstie,” Dama said, slamming the now empty bottle down on the desktop. She wiped a thick liquid moustache from off her lip as she jabbed the intercom button for her chauffeur. “Kyle, ready the carriage. We’re going to see this so-called king, now!”

It didn’t take long for Dama’s airborne carriage to reach the outskirts of Far Far Away. “Go directly to the castle, Kyle,” Dama ordered as they topped a hill and saw the towers of the castle gleaming in the distance.

As they drew nearer and were able to make out people around the castle, Dama squinted at the structure. “Circle it once, Kyle,” she ordered. The chauffeur did as he was told, and Dama examined its exterior. It appeared that every balcony, at every height, had at least one soldier standing on guard in full armor and holding a sharp steel pike. Dama smirked. So, the little imp was already feeling a bit paranoid, was he? Afraid she might try to sneak in on him? Well, the Fairy Godmother of Far Far Away had no need of sneaking. “Land us right by the front doors,” she ordered as Kyle completed the circle.

As Kyle started their descent, Dama noted that people were already starting to gather in the public courtyard for the ‘king’’s speech that evening. She saw where many who had arrived on foot had brought blankets and were now relaxing on them and eating from picnic baskets, while others who had arrived in carriages had opened their tailgates, pulled out grills, and were socializing while barbequing a variety of meats. Some had small barrels packed with ice and flasks of ale and beer that they passed around to each other. Dama caught the aroma of roasting meats wafting up and it caused her stomach to growl. “Not now,” she chastised it.

The people noticed Dama’s carriage and many excitedly pointed up to it as it drew nearer. Some started calling her name. Dama sighed. She was in no mood to play the role of popular, benevolent Fairy Godmother just then. Just then she meant business.

The carriage landed deftly just a few feet from the steps that led up to the large ornate doors that made up the main entrance. Two armored guards, visors down, pikes at the ready, stood before the closed doors. It was a sight meant to discourage visitors. Dama didn’t care. Kyle had barely opened the carriage door that faced the castle when Dama, ignoring the calls of the people eager to see her, flew from the carriage directly toward the entrance, her gossamer wings beating madly. She gripped the wand tightly in her hand, and the tip started glowing.

As she drew near, the two guards simultaneously leaned their pikes toward each other. The pikes’ long handles met together, forming an ‘X’ before the entrance doors. “Halt!” they demanded in unison.

Dama halted in the air and hovered a few feet before them for several moments, looking at their inscrutable visors. Forcing her voice to remain calm, she said, “Very well, gentlemen, as you say.” She then landed and, staring up at each of them in turn, said, “Tell the new…king…that the Fairy Godmother is here and demands an audience with him.”

“Demands, Fairy Godmother?” a raspy voice came from beyond the door. “Isn’t that a bit presumptuous?”

One of the doors opened and a particularly tall, armored knight stepped out, wearing the insignia of the head of royal security. He raised his visor, revealing the craggy features of Sir Hoariman. The two guards snapped to attention, parting the pikes and setting them parallel to their stiffened forms.

“Oh, thank goodness!” Dama said. “Hoariman, where is Har— I mean, King Harold? What is the meaning of this usurping little pygmy?”

“Harold is king no longer,” Hoariman said, passing between the guards. He took a stance in front of Dama, clasped his hands casually behind him, and looked down at her. “And I’d suggest that you consider more carefully how you address our new monarch.”

For the third time that day Dama found herself agape and at a loss for words. It was becoming a new and entirely unpleasant habit for her.

Hoariman continued, “But King Rumpel is quite aware that the people are anxious about the suddenness of events, and will address those in his speech this evening. And the king has expressed a keen interest in meeting you, Fairy Godmother, as one of the leading citizens of the kingdom.”

“I’m sure he has,” Dama said cautiously. “When might I be able to do so?”

“I believe that we should be able to accommodate a visit at around noon tomorrow, if that is agreeable to you.”

Dama, her calculating mind reasserting itself and forcing her emotions back in check, considered both the proposal and the face of the man making it as she unconsciously patted her wand against the palm of her free hand. Should she force a confrontation now? No, she decided, not yet. It was apparent from the increased security and Hoariman’s greeting her at the doorway that the impudent imp was expecting her. Who knew what he might have planned for her if she forced her way in now? Also, such an uncharacteristic show of force might not play well to her image, with so many of the citizens behind her, watching her every move. Heavens knew what rumors that Sprat woman was already trying to spread, but fortunately she was just an old busybody that nobody really listened to anyway. Physically unable to digest lean, indeed. No, best for now to bide her time until the next day…and make some plans of her own. “That would be fine,” she said eventually, her voice carefully neutral. “I’ll be…looking forward to it.”

“Very good,” Hoariman said, and gave a short perfunctory bow. “Until tomorrow then.” He then turned and strode back to the castle and disappeared through the doorway, the door shutting behind him.

Dama stared at the doors for a brief while longer. It had been Hoariman, but there was something not quite right about him. The security chief was usually a cool and measured customer, but his delivery this time was too mechanical, almost stilted, as if he were acting against his will. All signs, Dama knew, of a person under a spell. But Hoariman knew better than to agree to one of Rumpelstiltskin’s contracts, even if Harold didn’t. So either those foul witches that hung about with the imp had dared to cast something or…no, of course! Once Rumpelstiltskin had tricked Harold out of the kingship, he had exploited Hoariman’s loyalty oath to the monarchy to spellbind him – and likely had done the same to the other knights and soldiers. It was a particularly cowardly and pernicious piece of spellcraft. Even after Charming became king, Dama had no intention of stooping so low as to use it. Well, not unless it became absolutely necessary. Now, though, it appeared that Rumpelstiltskin’s little coup had made such scrupulous decisions academic.

“No,” Dama muttered defiantly to herself as she turned away from the doors. “Charming is still going to be king. I’ll just have to come up with something smarter.”

As she drew nearer her carriage, the crowd in the courtyard beyond it began cheering her and calling her name. She looked up at them. Well, at least she still had her carefully cultivated celebrity. Maybe she could eventually use that to her advantage. She forced one of her trademark smiles and headed into the crowd, specifically in the direction of one of the carriages whose tailgate grill was throwing off a particularly tempting aroma. Stress had always stimulated her appetite, and she was finding her present predicament quite stressful.

Dama found her celebrity a two-edged sword, as so many of the groundlings seemed to presume, since she always seemed to be ‘in the know’, that she knew what was going on now. She assured her listeners that she was as much in the dark as they – a fib that was too close to the truth for her comfort – and kept her responses non-committal. She might eventually need to foment the crowd against Rumpelstiltskin, but now was not the time, not until she had better bearings. As repulsive a thought she found it, she realized that she might eventually need to strike a deal of her own with the new ‘king’; albeit on her terms, and certainly not his. At last, after what seemed like interminable minutes of pleasant but evasive non-answers and autograph signing (which she did by simply tapping the proffered object with her wand and willing her elegant scrawl to appear there), the frustrated crowd stopped pestering her, and she was able to sample the wares of several of the amateur cooks as she joined the others in waiting.

Finally, as twilight faded into night and the crowd had grown to capacity, the hour came. The constant murmuring faded as from somewhere in the castle the first notes of Also Sprach Zarathustra started playing. Dama put down a half-finished chicken wing, dabbed at her lips with a napkin and stifled a small burp as she joined the others in looking up at a wide, tall third story balcony as light started shining from the thin spaces between and to the sides of two large, thick burgundy curtains that hung there, obstructing any further view. The light grew in intensity as a loud professional announcer’s voice started reverberating from within.

“Loyal subjects of the kingdom of Far Far Away, the Royal Palace is proud to present to you tonight your new monarch: the great, the powerful, King Rumpel the First! And so, ladies and gentlemen…let’s get ready for Rumpellll!”

The music hit a crescendo – baah…baaaah…BAAAAAAH! – and the peal of base drums resounded as the curtains drew aside to reveal an extra-large, brightly backlit poster of Far Far Away’s royal coat of arms which took up the entire background of the balcony. Suddenly there was a loud explosion and a huge cloud of smoke sprang up before the poster, causing gasps of shock and awe from many in the crowd. But then the smoke cleared to reveal a ten foot-tall 3D holographic projection of Rumpelstiltskin’s head hovering before the coat of arms, most of the projection’s height made up of a tall powered wig. The face was beaming a large benevolent smile.

“Greetings, fair citizens of Far Far Away!” Rumpelstiltskin’s voice boomed. “I want to thank everyone for showing up tonight. I know you’ve all got questions, and a few worries, so relax, and let me allay those for you. Really, you’ve got nothing to fear but fear itself. First, for those of you who haven’t heard, my name is Rumpelstiltskin.” Suddenly the image of the head morphed into a large still 2D picture, a color drawing, showing the imp, dressed as he normally did before become king, standing alongside a smiling, obviously happy and apparently married couple dressed in commoner garb. The man and woman each clasped a bag that had a golden sheen. The man was leaning down and shaking hands with Rumpel while Rumpel’s other hand held a rolled-up scroll. In the background sat Rumpel’s egg-shaped carriage hitched to his goose Fifi. “I’ve been running a modest and respectable magical deals business for years, working hard to bring joy and happiness to all of my customers,” the imp’s voice continued in narration. Dama nearly coughed up her chicken.

The image of the drawing swirled into another drawing, this one showing Fiona in the window of her castle tower, weeping. Beneath her the dragon stood guard, belching flame. Off to one side stood Harold and Lillian, also weeping, as they looked up at the princess. “Such was my reputation and abilities that the king and queen, anxious to end their daughter’s imprisonment…”

The drawing swirled into another one, showing the royal couple and Rumpel inside Rumpel’s carriage, with Harold signing a contract. “…turned to me to save the Princess from her frightful plight!”

The drawing swirled again to one showing a scene at a beach. In the foreground Lillian and Fiona, each wearing a tiara and one-piece swimsuit and smiling broadly, were building a sand castle – albeit a detailed one that stood six feet high. In the background, out in the water, Harold, wearing just his crown and swim trunks, was water skiing, holding a tow line connected to a rowboat manned by four furiously rowing Vikings. “Such was their delight at having their family restored, that the royals decided to retire to a seaside resort, where they can live out their days in quiet domestic bliss. But the king still felt obliged to leave the kingdom in capable hands. And who do you think he chose? Well, let’s check out the video…”

The drawing morphed yet again, not into another drawing this time, but into a video screen. It showed a still of the actual footage of where the royal couple and Rumpelstiltskin were inside the imp’s carriage, with Harold speaking to Rumpel. In the lower right-hand corner of the screen was superimposed the logo ‘YeTube.’ Then the footage started to move. “…you are competent and capable enough to run our kingdom”, the king said to the imp, and the video abruptly stopped.

“There, you see?” Rumpel’s voice asked. “A blessing from the king’s own lips! And thus he signed this contract…” The video now morphed into an enlarged image of the contract. A couple of lines had been blacked out and the word ‘DECLASSIFIED’ stamped at the top and bottom. “…granting me the honor of freeing Princess Fiona if I would agree to take on the burden of responsibility for this kingdom. Note King Harold’s signature, which has been validated as authentic by none other than Prince Waterhouse! Thus authorized, I was able to free the princess, not through machismo, but through magismo, succeeding where so many valiant knights had failed, and thus proving that the pen is indeed mightier than the sword!”

Dama looked up at the image of the contract and shook her head. “Harold, you fool!” she muttered to herself, keeping her voice particularly low since an awed, near complete silence had fallen over the transfixed crowd as they watched the spectacle of Rumpelstiltskin’s presentation. A few yards away, someone looking up at the contract did demand “I wanna see the long form!” but he was quickly shushed down by those around him.

The image of the contract swirled away and Rumpel’s disembodied head again appeared. “Now, I know some of you have concerns,” he said. “Can this little guy run such a big kingdom? What qualifications does he have? Has he been sufficiently vetted? Well, it’s true. I wasn’t born to royalty. I’m not part of some aristocratic elite. But don’t you see; that’s a good thing! I am – or was – just a working stiff, trying to eek out a living, just like the vast majority of you. I feel your pain, and I know what trials and tribulations and daily drudgery you have to go through, month by month, year by year. And I know that, so often, government is much more of a hindrance than a help. Rules and regulations to tell you how to run your life, and taxes at every turn. Do you enjoy paying taxes, people?”

Rumpel waited. There was an uneasy stir in the crowd. They apparently hadn’t anticipated the event would require audience participation.

“C’mon, people,” Rumpel chuckled. “Am I stuttering here? Do you like paying taxes?”

There was more stirring, and a few people said, “No.”

“I can’t hear you!” Rumpel said. “Do you like the government telling you how to run your lives, and then swooping in like crows to pluck away the fruits of your labor?”

More people responded, and with more vehemence, saying “No!”

“What’s that you say?”

“NO!” more people joined in, and louder. Dama remained quiet, although her feelings as she watched how this was going were disquieting.

“I’m not here just to hold a kingship,” Rumpel said, “but to gather you to transform a kingdom. Can you image a new future, where we can all move forward together, as one people, with more personal freedom, and lower taxes?”

“YES WE CAN!” the crowd shouted back.

“Then let’s do it!” Rumpel said.

The crowd around Dama burst into applause and cheers. “I’ll drink to that!” Dama heard a voice from nearby, and turned to see that one of the groups of tailgaters had set up a folding table about which sat a large hare, a dormouse, and an odd looking man with a dreadfully pale face and a mop of curly red hair topped by an oversized hat. A pot of tea sat on the middle of the table, and they were all raising their teacups in a toast toward Rumpelstiltskin’s projection.

Rumpelstiltskin’s image smiled benevolently down on the crowd while waiting for the cheering to die down. Then he said, “Now, I know that there are a few well-to-do royals and nobles out there who worry about how this might affect their status quo. And I know there are some bleeding hearts that have some…humanitarian concerns about how cutting off government handouts will affect the undeserving poor. But that’s the best part! I am, above all else, a compassionate conjurer. However, I also believe in individual responsibility. So I make this offer. You’ve heard of ‘The Square Deal.’ You’ve heard of ‘The New Deal’. Well, I propose…‘The Rumpel Deal’! Any individual, from any class, who would like to better his or her lot in life, is free to appeal to this administration and I, personally, will construct a deal for you that you simply won’t believe! Remember, such a deal is what placed me where I am today. I’m not just the instigator of The Rumpel Deal, I’m its most successful customer! Yet I’m willing to share this opportunity with you, be you prince or pauper, because, darn it, I’m just that type of guy! So starting tomorrow, we will begin taking applications from those stout souls who choose to take advantage of this most magnanimous offer. But for tonight, relax, celebrate, and remember…ask not what you can do for your kingdom; ask what your kingdom can do for you!”

The people broke into even louder applause and cheers. A chant of “Rum-pel! Rum-pel!” started among many in the crowd. Rumpelstiltskin’s face broke into a wide grin and suddenly fireworks started shooting off into and exploding in the night sky. As people became caught up in the celebratory display, the bright bloom of exploding rockets reflecting in their eyes, the image of Rumpelstiltskin’s head started fading away until nothing was left but the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. (Dama had a feeling that this was as ‘transparent’ as Rumpel’s administration was likely to get.) Then the light behind the coat of arms also faded and the balcony curtains drew closed again.

Dama, upstaged and ignored, just shook her head. The little runt had done it, captivating these gullible dupes and capturing, for a time at least, their allegiance. She wasn’t sure which she felt more of, disgust or…envy. She had spent years carefully and meticulously cultivating her public image, while with equal care and patience she had carried out her secret political machinations until she had become the most powerful person in the kingdom. Well, until today, blast it. But now this brazen huckster had shown up and with audacious hyperbole had these people believing they could have more freedom from the government while simultaneously becoming even more reliant upon it – or upon him – for their personal happiness. But there was a key weak point in this audacity of hype. He could not have ended Fiona’s curse. Dama was sure of that; the spell was much too strong. Only True Love’s kiss could do that. Of course, the curse itself was still a secret, but Fiona’s imprisonment by the dragon was widely known. Yet if Rumpel couldn’t end her curse, then it was highly unlikely that he had ended her imprisonment, as the two were so closely entwined. So he had told a bald-faced lie, and had made that lie a keystone of his legitimacy. If Dama could prove that, then she could reveal to the people that this would-be emperor had no clothes, thus removing his public support. Then she could move on to repeal the imp’s vulgar ascendancy and replace him through a coup of her own, with Charming riding in like a white knight to the rescue with Fiona in tow, to save the kingdom and set things the way they were meant to be. Of course, there would be problems to overcome – not the least of which being the spellbound knights and soldiery. But first things first: expose the lie and rip out the seed of Rumble’s claim to legitimacy before it had a chance to take root.

Dama turned toward Kyle. “Back to my cottage, now,” she ordered. The chauffeur nodded and opened a carriage door. Dama flitted inside, and Kyle shut the door and nimbly hopped up onto the driver’s seat. A moment later the carriage flew off into the night sky, away from the fireworks display, streaking a trail of fairy dust behind it.

So intent was Dama upon her mission that she didn’t notice she was being followed. A band of dark-clad riders had surreptitiously taken off on broomsticks from somewhere along the unlit back of the castle as Dama’s carriage sped off into the night. The riders stayed low, hugging the tree line and keeping as much distance from both the crowd and Dama’s high-flying carriage as possible while also keeping the carriage in sight. There were six brooms, each piloted by a witch, but one of the broomsticks also carried a passenger: a giddily smiling imp, now wigless and dressed in plain dark clothes, who was quite pleased with the way things were working out so far. So quiet, cautious and camouflaged were they that even during the few seconds when their far silhouettes briefly emerged from behind the cover of the edifice and sped off in pursuit of Dama that none of the crowd in the courtyard who were still transfixed by the bright and booming fireworks exploding in a much higher and entirely different part of the night sky noticed them. But then, misdirection had always been a magician’s most valuable tool.