Rapunzel: The One with All the Hair

128 Pages·2006·1.31 MB·English

by  Mass Wendy

To Norman and Adaya for the Florida sun; and to Lisa, Gail, Betsy, and Pat for
helping Rapunzel’s hair to grow
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINTEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
I seriously CANNOT BELIEVE what has happened to me today. I am currently
throwing a tantrum on the pile of straw that is supposed to serve as my bed (!)
and — this is the most unbelievable part — I am LOCKED IN A TOWER IN
THE MIDDLE OF THE FOREST!! In case I am never rescued and blackbirds
fly through the one tower window and pick my bones clean, I hope the tragic
circumstances that have befallen me on the dawn of my twelfth birthday will not
go forgotten by history. Kicking and screaming in frustration is not doing me
much good. Truth be told, my body is beginning to ache from the effort.
My candle sheds just enough light for me to see the strange shadows dancing
on the walls. The only reason I am not lying in complete darkness is that the
witch (yes, WITCH, complete with scraggly hair and hairy wart) did not know a
handful of candles was in the trunk along with the meager possessions she
allowed me to pack.
My day started out fine. Mother was preparing a special morning feast to
celebrate my birthday, and I was setting up the stool and shears that she was
going to use later to cut my hair. Now that I turned twelve, this was to be my
first official haircut and I couldn’t wait. Once it was shortened, I could finally
wear my hair loose instead of tied upon my head. It was so long I could sit on it!
From the kitchen window, I could see Father out back, tending the garden.
He is famous in our village for the rampion herb that refuses to grow in any yard
but ours. In the heat of summer, the orders for fresh rampion pour in and we live
high off the hog (or herb, as the case may be) right through the autumn harvest.
Then, in November, I help Father dig up the stalks and he rides off for a
fortnight to deliver the herb as far as the riverbank on the other side of the Great
Forest.
Some ladies boil it and apply it to their cheeks for a smooth complexion.
Mostly, though, it is made into salads along with lettuce and spinach. I’ve heard
whispers that there’s something not natural about rampion, that it can make
feeble old men strong again and will keep your breath fresh even if you bite into
feeble old men strong again and will keep your breath fresh even if you bite into
a clove of garlic.
Mother had finished spreading honey on the almond pies that would be my
special birthday breakfast, and told me to go fetch Father. When I pushed open
the heavy wooden gate that protected the garden, I was shocked to see that
Father was not alone. In twelve years of life, I had never seen an outsider in the
garden. The stranger wore a black cape with a hood, even though it was deadly
hot out. I could not tell whether it was a man or a woman, only that he or she
wasn’t much taller than I.
Father and the stranger looked to be in heated debate. I dared not move
closer lest the bells on my belt alert them to my presence. Soon the gate behind
me banged open and Mother appeared. I could tell she was about to scold me for
dawdling when her eyes lit upon the stranger. Her hands flew to her mouth. She
gasped, and the sound caught their attention. The stranger turned and I saw
immediately that it was an old woman with beady, penetrating black eyes, white
hair, and a long nose. Three large flies circled around her head but she did not
wave them away. I felt a cold shiver run down my spine.
Mother grabbed the sleeve of my special yellow birthday dress and tried to
pull me back into the house. It was no use. Our feet were suddenly stuck to the
ground. Mother started to cry. Father buried his face in his hands. I was too
shocked to do either of those things; I just gaped at the woman.
She crept toward me. “You must be Rapunzel,” she said in a raspy voice.
“I’ve waited a long time for you.”
Father rushed over and stood between us. “You cannot have her,” he said
firmly. “We made that deal before she was born. Surely you cannot hold us to
it.”
Mother paused from her crying to yell at Father. “It was not WE. It was
YOU! YOU made that deal!”
Father yelled back, “You wouldn’t eat anything other than the witch’s
rampion! After we prayed for a baby for all those years, I couldn’t very well let
you starve when you needed your strength for the birth!”
I turned my head between the two of them. Mother pursed her lips and didn’t
respond. A witch?! A birth? Did they mean me? I managed to make my mouth
work enough to ask my parents, “Will someone tell me what is going on? Who is
this … this person?”
The old woman made a loud cackling sound. I think it was a laugh.
“Stupid man,” she said to Father in a dark whisper, “you don’t make a
bargain with a witch and expect her not to hold you to it. Our deal was clear:
your freedom for your daughter. You stole the rampion from my garden, and I
did not destroy you for your thievery. I’ve made you a rich man all these years.
did not destroy you for your thievery. I’ve made you a rich man all these years.
Now that she is a maiden, I have come for her.”
She did mean me! My eyes widened. The old lady grinned and her wart
stretched along with her lips. Don’t even ask me to describe her teeth, because
what was left of them was not pretty. She must be a rather poor witch if she can’t
even fix her own appearance. I mean, honestly, even the apothecary in town can
cure a wart.
Things happened quickly after that. My father picked me up in his arms (and
I’m no little thing anymore) and tried to run. He, too, found that his legs refused
to move. With a swoosh of the witch’s arm, all the green stalks in the garden fell
to the ground and shriveled up like they’d never sprouted at all. With alarming
physical strength, the witch pulled me from my father’s arms and dragged me
into the house. Mother’s shrieks followed us. The witch seemed to know where
my room was, because she led me straight to it and ordered me to pack my bare
necessities in the wooden chest. I tried to dart from the room but she blocked the
door. Then I did as she instructed … because what else could I do? I grabbed
what I could until she slammed the chest shut.
In an instant I was blindfolded and found myself lying across the seat of a
swiftly moving carriage. I tried to scream but my voice had left me. Being
familiar with the pathways of the village, I tried to follow the turns of the streets
but soon was lost. I felt very drowsy and had to fight to keep my wits about me.
The next thing I knew, I awoke on a pile of straw. The blindfold now off, I
could see in the fading daylight that I was in a round room, with a threadbare
blue rug covering the center of the stone floor. Faded as it was, the rug provided
the only splash of color in the place. The walls were built of gray rectangular
stones that did not let in even the tiniest crack of daylight. Even in the height of
summer, the room had a cold dampness to it. My eyes lit upon an open window,
big enough for me to climb out of. I couldn’t believe my luck! I ran up to it and
was about to swing one leg over the ledge when I saw what was below me. The
treetops! I stared in awe. I’d never seen the tops of the trees before.
I realized with a sickening feeling that I was higher than the tallest spire in
the village. I stuck my head out and looked down. It was dizzying. There were
stones all the way down — no other windows, no doors or ladders that I could
see. I figured the tower was about twenty times taller than me, and I’m tall for
my age. A party of blackbirds was lazily circling the tower, cawing occasionally.
Their presence did not inspire confidence. Were not blackbirds the ones who
waited for people and animals to die and then picked over their remains? Or
maybe those were ravens. I did not want to find out.
I backed away from the window and moved along the walls, feeling
carefully for loose stones or the outline of a door. There were none. I lifted the
dusty rug. No trapdoor in the floor. The only other objects in the room besides
the straw “bed” and my trunk were a small table and chair that looked like they
may have once been painted but were now a dull gray. When I stood perfectly
still in the center of the room, I could have sworn I heard a rhythmic breathing,
but I was clearly alone.
Now, utterly exhausted from the events of the day, I lie here and wonder:
How did I get in here if no door is to be found? How will I get out? What will
become of me? Are there ghosts of other young girls in here, also forced away
from their parents and their homes?
My first pimple is upon me from all the stress.