Princess Charlotte leaned far out the single arched window of the tower, high above the rocky slopes. “Are you ready, Fizzle?” she called excitedly. Her scaly companion chirped happily, chain rattling as he thumped his massive tail. She had once feared the dragon - until she realized his ferocity was due to hunger. After all, the basket with her day’s rations came every morning, but she had never seen anyone feed the poor creature. From then on, she had offered him her daily portion of meat, and he never showed a tooth in her direction again.
The food was delivered by winch, from some unseen servant of the witch. The crone had struck a deal with her father when she was just a babe, promising Charlotte’s bright future married to the prince of Charmagne in exchange for his daughter’s freedom until she came of age.
That day had come and gone, and the prince had married someone else. Twelve years ago.
Why should he be able to decide his own fate, while she was trapped here alone, forgotten?
According to the witch, no wedding, no freedom. The old bat didn’t care that the marriage had been her end of the deal. Knights were sent to the rescue, so the witch imprisoned the dragon as guard. A few crispy would-be heroes later, her father had given up.
Today, Charlotte would take matters into her own hands. It had taken months - and every piece of fabric and upholstery in the room - to fashion her escape. The bedsheets and curtains were cut into strips and sewn together for a rope, nowhere near long enough to reach the ground. So she had ripped the seams of the furniture, salvaging the leather for a makeshift harness.
She whistled, and Fizzle flew as close to the window as his restraints would allow. She tossed out the rope, tied fast to the bedpost. The harness looped around her shoulders, she climbed onto the ledge and slowly, carefully, rappelled halfway down the tower. Fizzle stretched one great wing out below her, muscles taut. Charlotte gulped, held her breath, and launched herself off the wall.
She bounced off the membrane like a trampoline. Quick as a whip, Fizzle rolled and caught her in his talons. He flew to the ground and set her down gently. She patted his flank gratefully.
“Now, let’s see about your freedom,” she said, and moved toward her fiery friend’s neck to examine the collar. Just a pull of a pin and the heavy chains clattered loudly as they fell. Fizzle pranced thunderously, and she giggled. She felt euphoric.
Fizzle again extended a wing to her, and she climbed up. The harness buttoned around the nape of his neck, and seemed to fit well enough. She strapped herself in. Fizzle’s muscles tightened beneath her, then a sudden lurch, and they were flying. Flying!
Charlotte’s heart swelled. The whole world lay before them, the world they had both been denied. And they would discover it together.
We were ten. I liked to read at recess in the shady turret of the tallest slide. The others were busy chasing each other around the field, I could be alone there - most of the time.
She had come again. The shadow of her head fell on the pages my nose was buried in, and I looked up at that half-cocked grin I had learned to associate with misery.
She began her taunting tirade with the basics: loser, nerd, freak. Nothing original, but enough to set me on edge. Then the harsher attacks. Friendless. Worthless. A waste. Better off dead. I tried to keep from crying, to convince myself that I didn’t believe her, but I did. I had heard it all before.
I stood, the book still dangling from my fingers. Sensing my need to flee, she sidestepped and blocked the slide. I fixed my gaze on hers. Her grin widened. I wanted to slap it off her face.
“What’ch gonna do, huh?” she said softly, her voice a menacing whisper. She stepped closer to me, taller. “Huh?” Her breath deepened, and her fingers flexed. I froze. My gaze wavered. She jerked and I flinched, shriveling inside. “That’s right, nothin’,” she spat, “‘cause you are nothin’. Just like your mom.”
I saw red. The book connected with her lower jaw and I dropped it, my palm cramping. The blow knocked her back a step. She bared her teeth like a rabid animal about to charge. Without hesitation I leaned sideways, lifted my foot, and slammed it into her stomach, hard. She backpedaled, one step, two. Her third step fell on air over the slide.
Time slowed down. Her grin disappeared, her pupils shrank to pinpoints as her eyes opened in ovals, big as eggs. Her hands grasped for an imaginary handhold, fingers stretched out in slow-motion like tentacles, and I stared uncomprehending for a moment. In that second I imagined her on the ground, bruised and bloodied, lip busted open, her arm shattered in seventeen places.
Suddenly I saw myself in her fearful eyes. I had been her, once, my own mother’s unrecognizable face burning down on me as I teetered at the top of the stair. It had taken months for that arm to heal. The trust never did.
I lunged, and time resumed. I caught three of her fingers with my left hand, clamped my right down on her wrist. I buried my feet in the floor and pulled, leg muscles screaming with effort. At last, she toppled on top of me. She pushed off, kicked me in my side, and left.
We would never be friends, she and I, but we had a new understanding. We had seen our own demons in each other’s eyes. I was hurt and shaken but had never been more proud. I had finally stood up for myself. And I had shown mercy. I was not like my mother. I would break the cycle.
Leah and Jerry stroll through the softly sifting sand, on the lookout for anything out of place. The sacks they carry are nearly full of brightly colored bits of broken toys, sandy plastic bags, and a handful of red SOLO cups. Three more bags lay stacked against each other, full of beer cans to recycle. There were always more of those after a holiday weekend.
“People are trash,” Leah says darkly, grabbing three more cups out of an extinguished fire pit with her gloved hand.
Jerry snickers. “Well, let’s just throw ourselves in then, shall we?” He begins to put one foot in his sack, turns sideways to Leah, and wiggles his eyebrows at her. She rolls her eyes.
“I’m serious,” she continues. “Look at this place.” She sweeps one hand in a slow circle around them, gesturing to the refuse strewn from the water’s edge to the dunes behind. She shakes her head somberly. “Memorial weekenders are the worst.”
“I thought you said Spring Breakers are the worst,” Jerry teases as he prods at a half-buried plastic bag with his tool of choice, a toy grabber in the shape of a shark that he has reinforced with a thick rubber band.
She ignores him. Instead, she turns to the sea and watches the sun peek through wispy curls of purple across the horizon and sparkle across the water. She and Jerry meet here at dawn every Sunday (plus Tuesdays during summer breaks), going on two years now. His lightheartedness rarely serves to offset her pessimism, but she enjoys his company. Most everyone at school thinks of him as a basketball player, the Cool Guy, but he has the heart of an activist. It was Jerry who had organized today’s school sponsored cleanup. Leah is relieved that they met at their usual time, before the crowd.
Their only companions now are a small flock of sanderlings chasing the ebb and flow of the shore. Leah smiles; the sweet creatures are always a favorite for her. As a child, the way their twiggy little legs flit furiously back and forth delighted her. She once asked why they ran into the water if they’re afraid of it. “They’re hungry,” her mother had answered, and showed her how they scavenged for clams. Leah had beamed at their bravery.
The remembrance of her mother tightens in her chest. She closes her eyes and clenches her fist, breathing, waiting. When she opens them, a glint of green catches her eye near the waves.
“Glass?” she thinks, incredulous. “She stomps toward it. “Of all the lazy, stupid, careless... Who brings glass to a beach?” She steps near and sees it is, thank goodness, unbroken. It is still corked, with a black wax seal, though it contains no liquid. Inside is a single roll of paper. Through the glass, she can see one word printed on it: LEAH.
I was lost to myself, tossed my heart into hell. Don’t want it, don’t need it, don’t know what I’d do with it if it began to beat. I felt if I fell no one could even tell. So I stepped to that edge, leaned out that window ledge and your hand reached out for me.
Tumbling down this tunnel We’re in trouble Can you stand? What we find at the bottom Will take guts if we’ve got ‘em Take my hand
Pull me up to my feet, wipe the dust from our knees. Whatcha see, can’t believe you’re still standing next to me I’m the one who got us stuck. Take a breath, take a rest Which way should we go next? Only way out is to play out The path that has been laid out Before the both of us.
Fumbling through this tunnel We’re in trouble Can we stand? What we find at the bottom Will take time, but we’ve got it Take my hand
Sudden light clear and bright I wish I might, can I? See the light know it’s right Hope I might, can I... love you? I do.
Stumbling out of this tunnel Had our troubles Here we stand What I found at the bottom was my heart, now you’ve got it in your hands.
Trees surround like towering sentinels, keeping their silent watch for years, decades, centuries. Overhead, a skylight opens in the canopy to allow a single sunbeam to pour in like liquid, bright as a mirror, and fall at the feet of the Great Tree. She is the largest, oldest, strongest of the forest. She has housed generations, witnessed the fury of storms and heard the secrets whispered by the wind. The way time has bent and twisted her is a testament to her strength. She squats low to the earth, her toes and feet digging into it, through worms and stones, to hold fast her foundations. I sit in her lap, cozy as a babe in mother’s arms, among her sprawling network of tangled roots. Those roots speak to the soil, carry the knowledge of the earth up into her weather-beaten body, up into her deeper heart and across her strong shoulders, up along the woody veins of her arms to burst forth from her fingertips, to sing to the sun. I can see time stretched out within her; mushrooms sprout from old rot, limb and leaf erupt from a branch once barren, a nest is nestled by her ear, built from fallen pine needles. To everything, a season; she watches the seasons turn. New life springs eternal. The breeze sighs sweetly as it tousles her hair, and her leaves shimmer shyly at the gentle caress.
She is soft as a melody, strong as thunder, old as memory, and full of wonder.