Garden Princess (12 page)

An idea was sizzling in Adela’s mind like the fuse on a firework. The firework went off. “It’s ‘The Dog Princess’!” she exclaimed.

“‘Dog princess’?” asked the magpie.

“It’s a story.”

“What is a story?”

“It’s something you read or tell . . .”

“Tell
me
!”

Adela shook her head. “Not here. Let’s get the shovel. You can show me where the box is buried, and I’ll tell you on the way.”

As rickety as Garth’s wheelbarrow was, Adela was pleased to find nothing wrong with his shovel. She took care to be silent as she worked it free from the other tools, casting a wary glance at the lighted windows above her. It would be the end of everything if anyone heard her.

She rested the shovel on her shoulder and followed the magpie as it hopped around the house. “Story?” said the bird when they reached the garden.

How do you tell a story to a magpie? she wondered, then decided on the ordinary way. “Once upon a time,” she began, “there was a wicked sorcerer who lived in the mountains and raised dragons. The dragons terrorized the people living in the valley below, and —”

“What is a sorcerer?” asked the magpie. “What are dragons?”

“A sorcerer is someone who performs magic — like Hortensia,” said Adela. “And dragons are horrible creatures. They eat sheep and cattle and —”

“Wolves eat sheep and cattle,” said the magpie.

“Dragons are much worse than wolves. Hadn’t we better go? You need to show me where the box is buried.”

The magpie began to hop along the path, and Adela followed, continuing the story as she walked: “The people were so frightened of the dragon that they went to King Ival for help.”

The magpie came to a stop and looked up at her. “King EYE-vull?”

“He’s the hero,” Adela explained.

“What is a hero?”

“A hero is . . . a very brave person. King Ival is always the hero in stories.”

“Why?”

“Because he just is!”

“Why?”

“Because there’s always some villain that has to be defeated.”

“What is a villain?”

They would never get anywhere at this rate! “A villain is someone very bad — like Hortensia,” said Adela. “Please hurry!”

On they went, and she continued. “The sorcerer is the villain in this story. King Ival finds his hideout in the mountains, spies on him, and notices that he drinks out of a special flask every night.”

“What is a flask?” said the magpie, stopping again. It seemed to be unable to ask questions and move forward at the same time.

“It’s a kind of bottle,” Adela explained impatiently. “The sorcerer keeps it in a cupboard that’s guarded by a dragon with seven heads. That’s how Ival knows the flask is important.”

“How?”

“Because why would he have a dragon guarding the cupboard if it weren’t? Anyway, Ival decides to steal the flask. So he does, and —”

“How does he steal it?”

“He kills the dragon! Look, this part doesn’t matter all that much. Please keep going!”

The magpie hopped forward again, and Adela went on. “So, Ival’s about to drink from the flask when the dog stops him.”

The magpie stopped again. “What dog?”

Oh, no! Had she really forgotten to mention the dog? Adela let out a sigh. “What happened was that on his way to the find the sorcerer, Ival met up with a dog. He helped the dog; he took a thorn out of its paw, and after that, the dog followed him. So the dog was there when Ival stole the flask, and it jumped up and tried to stop him from drinking from it.”

The magpie opened its beak as if to ask another question, but Adela rushed on with the story. “So Ival knocks the dog away and tries to drink from the flask again. This time the dog comes at him as if it’s going to attack. Ival draws his sword, and he’s just about to kill the dog when the sorcerer shows up. And you think it’s all over for King Ival. But . . .” Adela paused for effect. The magpie leaned forward. “Just in time,” she continued, “the dog picks up the flask in its mouth and tosses it into the fireplace. The flask breaks, and the liquid inside it explodes. The fire blazes up, and the sorcerer keels over dead.”

She waited for the magpie’s reaction.

There was none.

“The liquid in the flask was a magic potion that gave the sorcerer his power,” said Adela. “When it exploded, he was destroyed.”

Again, no reaction. Adela could see that she was going to have to explain the connection. “I think the box you saw is like the flask in the story. I think the box contains something magical that gives Hortensia her power, just as the flask contained the magic potion. Once we destroy it, Hortensia will be destroyed.”

“What’s in the box is treasure,” said the magpie.

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” Adela was disappointed by the bird’s reaction. Disappointed and a little disheartened. Maybe her idea was a bit far-fetched. . . .

“What happened to the dog?” asked the magpie.

“The dog? Oh! Well, it turned out the dog was really a princess who had been put under a spell by the sorcerer. Once he was dead, the princess turned back into herself.”

“Spell?” said the magpie.

“A
spell
is a kind of magic. Someone bad like a sorcerer or a witch —”

“A villain,” said the magpie.

“Yes. A
villain
casts a spell on you and turns you into something you’re not.”

The magpie tilted its head. “Are you a dog?” it asked.

Adela couldn’t help laughing. “No! And usually it’s the other way around. It’s a person who gets turned into something. For example,
you
might be under a spell. After all, magpies don’t usually talk. You might be a princess —”

“Not a princess!”

“Or a prince.”

The bird’s feathers were puffed up, as if with indignation. “Not a prince! A magpie!” It took off down the path, and Adela had to run to keep up.

“Where are we going?” she called.

The answer came when the bird turned through an opening in a wall.

They were in the courtyard with the rose tree.

Adela stared. The tree seemed much larger than it had before, the scent of its roses even more powerful. She wondered if it was a person like every other flower in the garden.

“Dig here,” said the magpie, scratching at the ground near the roots of the tree.

Adela waited for the magpie to move out of the way, then lifted the shovel and drove it into the soil.

A branch scraped against her neck. “Ow!” She reached up and felt wetness. “I’m bleeding!”

The tree’s branches were swaying as if moved by a breeze. Had there been a breeze? “Did you see that?” she said. “I think the tree scratched me!”

“Hurry up!” said the magpie.

She pushed the shovel into the earth again.

“Ow!” Adela jumped away, and the shovel clattered to the ground. This time the tree had hit her on the head, and she was sure there had been no wind. “Is this an enchanted tree?” she asked the magpie. “Is it a person?”

“Not a person,” said the magpie.

It’s probably lying, thought Adela. The tree must be a person — and an angry one at that!

She picked up the shovel, this time shifting her position so she could keep her eye on the tree. Even so, she wasn’t ready for what happened. As she raised her arms, a branch reached out and snatched the shovel away, hurling it at the far wall of the courtyard. Another branch grabbed Adela’s arm and dug its thorns into her flesh. Still another wrapped itself around her waist, pinning her other arm to her side. She cried out, twisting her body, and the branches tightened their grasp. Adela managed to free one arm, the thorns tearing her skin, but the branch came whipping back.

“Get away! Get away!” screeched the magpie.

“I can’t!”

Adela batted away one branch after another. She clawed at the branch around her waist, but it was no use. She was crying now — her tears were flowing as freely as her blood, but she hardly noticed. She tried to grab for something — anything — to save herself, and her fingers closed around a rose. She pulled and felt the petals fall apart. The branch around her waist loosened. Before it could tighten again, she threw out her arm and found another bloom. She wrenched it from the tree and felt the branch coming unwound. Unfortunately, the other branches were holding on as tight as ever, and more were on the attack. One hit her on the face. Adela knocked it away with her free hand. “Get the flowers!” she shouted.

The magpie zoomed in and out from the tree, grabbing one bloom, then another, so that petals flew like drops of blood. Adela ripped away another bloom, felt the branches around her waist loosen, and wrenched herself free. A branch grabbed her leg, pulling her back. She threw herself forward, using her own weight to break free. Another branch grabbed her foot, but she kicked it aside. The branches whipped about, snatching at the magpie and then — when the bird retreated to a safe distance — at the air.

Adela groaned from pain. “I knew it! It
is
an enchanted tree! Tell me the truth. Did you ever see Hortensia turn someone into this tree?”

“No!” The magpie hopped toward her.

“Has it always been here?”

“No. Not until she buried the box.”

“What?” Adela sat up.

“She made it come up out of the ground.”

“Out of nothing?”

Adela studied the rose tree. She was certain it would attack again if she tried to dig. “It’s another magic spell,” she said, thinking aloud. “She put the tree here for protection, like the seven-headed dragon in the story.”

“Protecting her treasure,” said the magpie.

“Protecting what she doesn’t want us to find,” said Adela. “But we are going to find it. I am going to dig up that box if it’s the last thing I do. I just need something to fight with. A sword, or — I know! A pruning saw! There’s one in the wheelbarrow. Come on!”

It was too much to ask that the pruning saw be at the top of the jumbled mess in Garth’s wheelbarrow. Adela saw immediately that she was going to have to hunt for it. “Quiet!” croaked the magpie as she started to move tools aside.

She didn’t need the warning. She wished Garth had not left the wheelbarrow quite so close to the front of the house. The lights were still on inside, and although there was no music tonight, Adela was certain people were still awake. Suppose someone looked outside.

Then she spied the saw under a coil of rope. “It’s perfect!” she whispered to the magpie. “I’ll go for the branches with this while you attack the blooms —”

She was just lifting the coiled rope when she heard a sound. She whirled around and saw that the front door had been thrown open. A figure was silhouetted in the light. “Miss Adela?”

She began to run, heading around the house. If she could get to the garden, she might be able to hide. But she couldn’t see in the dark. Her foot struck a tree root and she tumbled forward. A moment later, Garth was upon her.

“Miss Adela! It’s me!” He tried to help her up.

“Let me go!”

He gripped her wrist.

“Stop! You’re hurting me!”

He couldn’t
not
hurt her. There wasn’t an inch of her skin that wasn’t covered with cuts.

“You’re bleeding, Miss Adela! What’s happened to you?”

“Please! Let me go!”

But he was leading her back to the front of the house, even as she struggled to escape. “There, now!” said Garth. “Don’t be frightened.” He pulled her to the fountain and set her down on the edge of it, gripping her wrist with one hand and using the other to find his handkerchief. He dipped it in the water and dabbed at her cheek. “You look as if you’ve had a fight with a cat!”

His voice was so kind that tears filled her eyes. “Only a rose tree,” said Adela.

“Trying to do a bit of pruning, were you?”

“No!” Adela tried to pull away again, but Garth held tight. He rinsed the handkerchief in the water and resumed his ministrations.

Adela dropped her voice to a whisper. “Garth, please listen to me! Everything here is magic — even the plants are under a spell.
You’re
under a spell —”

“There you go again, poor thing! Lady Hortensia says it’s the mountain air —”

“Lady Hortensia is a witch! Why can’t you believe me? I can show you. . . .”

If he came with her — if she could show him the rose tree — he would see for himself.