One Small Step, an anthology of discoveries (15 page)

∞
¥
∞
Ω
∞
¥
∞
 

The third time my grandma’s wicked stepmother tries to kill her, Grandma has just turned sixteen, and it’s spring. If you saw the Old Country in spring, you’d know why my parents’ people loved to live there. Everything is green except the flowers, which are all the colours you can imagine. There’s a crystal-clear river running through the land, washing away the red desert silt, and full to bursting with frogs and fish. There are dragonflies and mayflies buzzing over the water, and there are dragons high in the sky, busy in their mating dances. Being sixteen, and this being spring, my grandma has eyes for a certain young man.

He’s the sixth son in a family of seven sons. He is tall and good-looking (in Grandma’s eyes at least) and he has a nice smile, but he has no prospects at all. This gene-line has produced nothing but sons for seven generations, so they’ve learned to be strict with the inheritance rules.

Everything goes to son number one, except enough to buy military commissions for sons two and three and positions in the church for sons four and five. Now this leaves nothing for sons six and seven, but a seventh son is never short of apprenticeship offers of a certain type in the Old Country, and luck tends to go his way. But son number six? Well, he has a nice smile.

At sixteen, he thinks Grandma is a bit of all right, too. The nice thing for them both is that, having no prospects, son number six is free to follow his heart and can seriously think about asking a farm girl, daughter of one of the king’s lowliest men and stepdaughter of a king’s man’s slightly witchy wife, to the next county dance.

You know, I’ve heard bits and pieces of the story of my grandma and grandpa from my mum: how they first met and how they got to know each other and how he did end up asking her to that dance. How he told her about the curse that had been laid on his family, on his great-great-six-times-great grandfather: nothing but sons for seven generations. How it was that not many people knew about the curse, but that everyone knew that family only ever had boys. But how he’d heard privately from his big brothers, off with their wives in far-off lands, that every one of them had just had daughters instead of sons, and so it seemed the curse was finally broken.

How that boy and my grandma fell in love.

But most of this, you don’t need to know for the story I’m trying to tell.

You just need to know that my grandma has my grandpa on her mind in her sixteenth spring, and probably everyone knows it.

Her stepmother knows it and she doesn’t much like it. She has to get rid of Grandma before she comes of age. Most especially, she has to get rid of her before there’s another generation in the offing. Seeing Grandma gadding about with a boy reminds Stepma very strongly of that fact.

So Grandma’s wicked stepmother hatches another plan.

Grandma, at this time, is considered quite a beauty among the giants. So Mum told me anyway. I don’t know what happened to the gene-pool if that’s true, but you have to allow for a little bit a family bias in the way this story is told.

Grandma is a beauty and her wicked stepmother figures that she can use that to her advantage. It’s a high-risk gambit, but she figures she knows her stepdaughter well enough to know that she’ll play the role of the romantic and not give a second’s thought to fame or fortune if it is offered in place of love.

And she knows the lie of the land.

The stepmother leans on her husband to see if he can’t put it into the king’s head to send his son, the prince-in-waiting, along to the county ball. The husband, thinking it’s a favour for his daughter as well as a way to please his wife, screws up his courage and does his best. Somehow or other, the poor chap succeeds.

Or maybe the husband has nothing to do with it and the prince just likes going to balls.

This prince is an ugly brute of a man, more in his manners than his looks. Let’s just say he has a certain reputation among the girls, and it isn’t a good one. But he is the heir to the throne, so he gets away with a lot. The court treats his behaviour as a bit of a joke. The men do, anyway.

Now Stepma has hoarded her witchy powers for a six full months in the lead-up to this ball, knowing that she isn’t very strong, but also knowing that Grandma’s natural good looks are going to count for a lot. She hoards up her powers and then she brews up a brew full of dandelions and boronia, ladybird feet and the nitrogen-fixing nodules from the roots of young snow-peas: an exotic, uncommon mix, but the most powerful that she can come up with. She heats it very gently, keeping it just above the temperature of a baby’s bottle for six days. She strains it through her best spider-silk filter cloth and lets it sit in a brass bowl overnight in the moonlight, and then she uses it to anoint the combs that my grandma is going to wear in her hair on the night of the ball.

Grandma is no fool. She knows something is up when her stepmother is suddenly all solicitation in helping her prepare for the dance, but she’s so head-over-heels for a certain first love that she can’t bring herself to worry.

(I’ve never really been that much in love myself yet, but I wouldn’t rule it out. I’m looking forward to meeting you.)

When Grandma turns up at the ball, she is breathtaking. Literally: everyone in the room holds their breath while they watch her hang up her coat and step into the hall. (This is how my mother told it, but she wasn’t there.) Grandpa’s chest is just bursting with pride, knowing that my grandma is there to dance with him. Every other boy in the room falls in love on the spot.

The prince is one of them.

A large part of that is the spell, of course, but they don’t know that.

Now this is going to be a problem for Grandma, as her stepmother knows. She has a certain amount of native sense, but not a whole lot. Not when it comes to this sort of thing. She’s a romantic and she has never dealt with royalty before. Her father may work for the king, but that doesn’t bring their family into much contact with aristocrats or the court.

The prince notices Grandma straight away, of course. He’s got his eyes on every young girl in the hall. On parts of them, anyway.

When this new girl comes in through the door and hangs her coat, the prince’s eyes drift across to her … and they’re trapped. He can’t look away. He can’t figure what it is: yes, she has a nice shape and she has a nice smile, but so do fifteen other girls he’s spotted. She has a lovely complexion and shiny, red-gold hair (that’s “ginger” to you and me, just like I’ve got), but so do five of the others. The combs in her hair … there’s something about them, perhaps … but no: it’s the girl. He can’t take his eyes off her. He must be in love.

So this brute of a prince sends one of his men over to pinch her backside and tell her that the prince wants to see her.

My grandma knows better than to say no to this, though she hasn’t even had time to say hello to the boy she’s here to see. She has a quick look around the room, trying to find him, but she knows she can’t wait: she has to attend to the prince.

She walks across to his corner of the room, where he’s sitting by the punchbowl. He doesn’t stand, though that was the custom back then; for a man to stand to greet a woman. I think that was so even here.

He waits for her to walk over and stand in front of him and then he waits a little longer as he runs his eyes slowly over every part of her sixteen-year old body. Then he waits a little longer still, while she loses her composure and the men around him smirk and his best friend doesn’t try very hard to hold back a snort of laughter. Then, finally, he gets up from his seat, holds out his hand for hers, and without really asking, sweeps her off into a dance.

He’s a much better dancer than she is. Good enough to make her look good. Good enough to have her feeling good about herself, recovering somewhat from the awkwardness of the moments before. Good enough even to have her wondering for a moment whether she has got him all wrong and he’s not such a bad bloke after all.

But then the music changes and, without ever asking, he pulls her in close for the next dance. Close enough that it’s obvious to everyone that he’s looking right down her front. Close enough that it’s obvious to her, in a way that’s never been made obvious to her before, that he likes what he sees. In short, he pressed up against her, dancing in a very intimate way.

My grandma knew better than to turn down the first dance with the prince, or even the second, but she’s not comfortable with this. She waits until the end of dance number two, but when he tries to claim her hand for the third dance in a row, she has had enough. She has promised to dance with a certain sixth son, and she won’t break her word. She doesn’t want to. She’s been looking forward to this date for months.

So when there’s a break in the music, she steps away with a regretful smile … or tries to. The prince keeps hold of her hand and uses that to swirl her around and pull her back in for another dance.

Grandma grits her teeth and smiles
—
she’s a patient girl, I told you
—
and she waits out this dance, too. When the music stops again, she’s ready for him. She puts both her hands on his chest and pushes herself firmly away, dropping to a curtsey just in time to duck out of his reach. As she rises, she takes two more steps away and calls out. “You do me so much honour, your Highness, but I really must go. There are so many girls waiting for your attention, and I mustn’t be greedy.”
 

The prince, who had been starting to frown, smiles when she says this. Because she’s a few steps away now; everyone around them hears her words, and she’s counting on that to make the prince behave.

“
Let them be jealous,” the prince declares. “I’m going to dance with you until the evening is done. Unless you’d rather leave with me now?”
 

My grandma shakes her head. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have promised to dance with another boy, so I really do have to go.”

The prince’s frown returns. He reaches for her again, and she ducks. It’s not so subtle this time, and the music has already started up for the next song. Not many people are dancing, yet: they are all waiting to see this play out.

“
You’ll dance with me.”
 

It’s a statement of command. He’s used to having his own way, and he needs to make this clear. If she doesn’t take his hand now, he’ll look a fool.

She doesn’t care. She has been on her best behaviour, but he seems determined to spoil her night. She’s not thinking about the danger here: she’s thinking about the boy she’s in love with; the boy she’s come to see. She can see him across the room, and he’s as handsome as ever. So she ignores the prince’s words, and she walks away to give her boy that promised dance.

The prince is humiliated. Angry. He’s not a nice man and he is a man with power. Lucky for her, he’s in love. Instead of dragging her away into the dark, never to be seen again, he has his guards arrest her and take her back to the castle.

It puts a dampener on the party, but he’s the prince: there’s nothing anyone can do.

My grandpa follows, a long way behind. He watches where they take her, but doesn’t step in. Not now. These are six strong guards and a prince who is known for abusing his power, while Grandpa, at this time, is just a sixteen-year old boy schooled more in geography than swordplay: geography and book-keeping, because he’s hoping to go into business as a merchant sometime soon.

The prince and his guards take my grandma to the castle and lock her in a cell. It’s a fairly nice cell, as they go. There’s a bed and a wash-stand and even a wardrobe, filled with dresses that the prince has picked out. There’s a narrow window to the inner castle grounds, so Grandma has a bit of light and can smell the wattle on the air outside and hear the parrots twittering on about love. The prince is in love, he tells her, and that is why he has her locked up and not beaten for her impudence. He’ll let her out, he says, but not until she promises to marry him and makes sure of that promise by consummsnating the pact before the fact. He won’t force her, but he’ll give her time to think.

Like I said; he’s a prince. He can do this.

Grandma’s stepmother figures she’s won. My grandmother is far too much of a romantic to ever agree to these terms and the prince is far too impatient a man to let her live in this cell for long, in defiance.

She’s right. After almost a week of waiting for Grandma to send word via his guard, the prince visits her cell in person.

He’s an impatient man and this has been the longest he’s ever waited for anything. Grandma curtsies when he enters the room, but says nothing.

“
Well?” say the prince.
 

“
Your Highness?”
 

“
You’ve had time to think. Ample time.”
 

She lowers her eyes. “Yes, your Highness.”

“
And so?”
 

Her breath catches and she almost squeaks, but still: “I’m a farm girl, your Highness. Not a suitable wife for a prince.”

He looks to the guard beside him, who nods, removes his glove, and steps forward to slap the girl across the face. The prince does not blink.

The guard speaks for him. “You will not speak to the prince like that. It is not your place to question his judgement.”

The slap was a hard one. It will leave a bruise, but for now it just stings. Tears prick my grandmother’s eyes, but still she says, “I will not marry you.”

The guard moves to slap her again, but the prince gives a tiny shake of his head, exercising control.

“
I’ll come back tomorrow,” he says. “And I will ask again.”
 

∞
¥
∞
Ω
∞
¥
∞
 

It’s a sleepless night that my grandma spends in her cell. Not that she’s been getting much sleep all week. She spends the night and the next day worrying and trying to think what to do. Her young man comes by and they whisper reassurances to each other through the high window, but his warrior older brothers are far away, his sorcerer younger brother has not yet come into his powers, and there’s nothing he can think of to do. Soon enough, the guards see him there, chase him away, and order him not to come back or they’ll turn him over to the prince. They all know that would mean his certain death.