Snow White and the Seven Samurai Page 6

  ‘Maybe, maybe not,’ replied the frog. ‘Actually, I have a theory that constant exposure to fresh sap rots their brains. There’s only one way to find out.’ He blinked twice with disconcerting rapidity. ‘What it comes down to is: who are you more afraid of, them or me?’

  The elf subsided. ‘Go on, then,’ she muttered. ‘What’s the big idea?’

  ‘Better attitude. Now, on my mark I want you to run about and start yelling at the top of your voice The wolf is coming, the wolf is coming! Can you manage that, or would you prefer it if I tattooed your lines on your knees?’

  The elf scowled. ‘I should be able to manage that,’ she said. ‘But what’s it going to achieve?’

  The frog grinned. ‘Because, my one-thirty-second-scale friend,’ he said, ‘that way they’ll be looking for a big bad wolf, not a frog. Simple, isn’t it, when you think it through.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ replied the elf. ‘Okay, ready when you are.’

  It worked. As soon as the elf broke cover, the woodcutters leapt to their feet and hurried off in the direction she’d just come from, allowing the small green frog to hop unmolested out of the bushes and squeeze itself through the crack under the door.

  Wonderful! He was in.

  Now all he had to do was eat the grandmother.

  In front of him was a huge black thing, like a low hill. Further reconnaissance proved it to be one of Granny’s shoes. It was then that the frog realised that perhaps, when he was planning the mission, he’d focused a little too intently on getting in and hadn’t given as much thought as he should to what came after that. With a lot of effort, a little luck and a week to do it in, he might just manage to eat one of Granny’s toes.

  Then the ground began to shake. He tried to hop, but something huge and burning hot caught him and lifted him high into the air. Involuntarily he closed both eyes; when his conscious mind had recognised that self-induced blindness wasn’t likely to be the editor’s choice for Survival Trait of the Month and had sent word down his cheapjack amphibian synapses to belay that last order, he was staring into a vast pink — Face.

  ‘Hello, little frog,’ said a girlish voice that reverberated from one end of the galaxy to the other. ‘I’m Little Red Riding Hood. I think you’re cute. Have you got a name, little frog?’

  The frog wanted to snarl, lay his ears flat to his lean wedge-shaped skull and bare his teeth; the best he could do was croak ‘Rivet!’ very weakly and kick into thin air with his back legs. The giant red-hot human let forth a silvery laugh that threatened to bend the sky.

  ‘Oh you’re so sweet,’ said the voice, ‘I think I shall call you Sugarplum and keep you in the pocket of my apron. Wooza itta bitta pretty liddle frog, den?’

  The face came slowly down on him, like nightfall on a man condemned to hang at dawn, and the frog could see an opening beginning to form in the sheer rose-red wall of flesh. It was opening its mouth.

  Poetic justice, thought the frog, I’m going to get eaten. In a way, it wasn’t such a bad way to go at that. Looked at from the right angle, the food chain’s more like a party conga, winding in and out through the discarded paper trays and slices of cake ground into the carpet and taking everybody with it. He braced himself; then couldn’t help a spasm of terrified pain as the burning hot surface membranes of the all-enveloping mouth made contact with his skin. There was a ghastly slurping sound—

  And then, nothing. He hadn’t been eaten after all.

  Not eaten.

  Kissed.

  That was when things really started to happen. It was as if he’d topped off a meal of beans, onions and garlic with a large primed bomb, and his skin was stretching under the force of the blast. He was also falling — the girl had dropped him — and his ears were deafened by her little gasp of surprise. He landed, but found he was going upwards, and standing on his hind legs at the same time. He was growing, dammit, and at a terrifying rate. He was — There happened to be a mirror on the wall opposite. The mere fact that he was tall enough to look in it should have been enough to warn him that things had just defied the laws of physics and got worse. He looked into it. ‘Oh, shit a brick!’ he moaned.

  ‘Language,’ Little Red Riding Hood warned, wiping her lips on the back of her hand. ‘If Grandmama catches you swearing, she’ll rip your ears off.’

  He’d turned into a handsome prince. ‘Turn me back!’ he yelled hysterically, staring at the mirror. ‘That’s awful! I don’t want to be one of those things!’

  ‘Tough,’ replied Little Red Riding Hood with a grin, and as she advanced towards him, she produced from the pocket of her dainty scarlet cape a pair of handcuffs and a nasty-looking hypodermic. ‘That’s the way it goes, buster. And you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing it’s all in aid of medical research.’

  ‘Uh?’ Fang goggled at her. ‘What are you drivelling about?’

  ‘Medical research,’ the girl replied, making a grab for his arm that he only just managed to avoid. ‘The nasty old authorities banned us from using frogs for our—’ (horrible grin) ‘—experiments. But we found a way of getting round that, as you can see. Just turn the frog into a cute boy, the cute boy gives his consent to the experimental treatment programme, and Bob’s your uncle. Now if you’ll just hold still…’

  A last tiny drop of adrenaline flopped from his pineal gland and gave Fang the little spurt of energy he needed to dive between the girl’s legs and bolt for the door. ‘Spoilsport!’ she screamed after him; then she threw the handcuffs, which hit him behind the ear and raised a nasty bump. Fortunately, he still had enough of his wolf mindset left to prompt him to jump into a tangled thicket of brambles, where a mere human wouldn’t dare follow for fear of being horribly scratched.

  A short while later, he remembered that he was a mere human now, and later still spent a thoroughly miserable couple of hours picking thorns out of all sorts of places, many of which wolves don’t even have.

  In fields, mushrooms; in high streets and shopping precincts, video libraries, designer greetings cards vendors and small, eternally hopeful shops stocking silver jewellery, aromatic oils and CDs of traditional Tibetan music; here, castles. They pop up out of the ground, bloom, burgeon; then, when the story’s finished with them, they vanish without leaving so much as a scar in the grass.

  This castle, at the other end of the forest from the wicked queen’s rather more substantial pad, is the #2 Enchanted Kingdom set. Its graceful coned roofs and swan-necked towers imply that it’s happy-ending compatible, but the absence of rosy-cheeked peasants and bustling market-stalls outside the gates suggests that the happy ending’s still a reel away, or even that the story hasn’t started yet.

  There were two halberdiers in fancy dress armour in front of the castle gate when Dumpy, the Dwarf With No Name, slithered awkwardly off his Shetland pony and tethered it to the guard-rail. He looked at the halberdiers, and they at him.

  ‘You’re a dwarf,’ said one of them nervously.

  ‘So?’

  The halberdier fidgeted with the handle of his spear. ‘And there’s just the one of you, right?’

  ‘Reckon so.’

  The two halberdiers exchanged glances. ‘Pass, friend.’

  ‘Mighty obliged to you.’

  He chuckled to himself as he crossed the courtyard and started to climb the spiral staircase. How dwarves had acquired this extraordinary reputation for blind savagery and skill at arms he didn’t know. Among the empty cardboard boxes and string-tied bundles of old newspapers in the cellar of his memory was a vague recollection of a time when it hadn’t been this way; of having to scamper out from under the feet of contemptuous humans in the streets, of the sting of sand kicked in his face on a hundred beaches right across the dimension, of jeering references to fishing-rods and dinky red hoods. Since the furthest back he could remember was last Thursday (or Once Upon A Time, local designation) this wasn’t saying a great deal in absolute terms. Around here, people simply didn’t remember things for very long. A goldf
ish, which forgets where it’s been in the time it takes to swim a circuit of its bowl, could have made a good living in these parts as a database.

  In which case, he mused as he rested halfway up the vertiginous stairs of the tower, how come he seemed to remember a time when he was able to remember back to a time he’d since forgotten?

  Must be a reason. He scratched his head. If there was one, it had slipped his mind. Couldn’t have been important.

  There were more halberdiers at the top of the stairs, standing on either side of the doorway that led to the royal apartments. They looked at him and flinched.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said, in a tone of voice implying the exact opposite. ‘Just put down the halberds where I can see ‘em, nice and easy, and nobody’s gonna get hurt.’

  The guards did as they were told, laying their weapons down as if they were spun-sugar tubes filled with warm nitro-glycerine. ‘Beat it,’ Dumpy growled. They fled.

  And another thing. Why am I talking in this most peculiar way?

  Doesn’t sound like the way I’d have imagined I usually talk. Sure does seem mighty odd. Yeah, sho’ nuff

  The door wasn’t locked; after all, it was only the door to the king and queen’s private apartments, why the hell should it be? As he reached for the handle, he heard voices on the other side. He listened for a moment or so, then smiled. Yup, he’d come to the right place.

  ‘Valdemar?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Vernon?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Victor?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Vincent?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Well, that’s the Vs. Okay. Walter?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Wilbert?’

  ‘Do me a favour.’

  ‘William?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Dumpy pushed the door open. Inside the chamber it was dark, lit only by the few skinny photons that had managed to squeeze through the loopholes in the wall, but he could see the King (must be the King, because he’s wearing a crown), his young wife, the baby hugged protectively in her arms, and a short, hunchbacked man squatting on the clothes press and swinging his legs.

  ‘Say,’ he demanded. ‘You the dwarf?’

  The little man looked up and scowled. ‘No, I’m Arnold Schwarzenegger, but they washed me without looking at the label first. Would you mind waiting outside, whoever you are? I’m in a meeting.’

  Dumpy ignored him, ducked under a footstool and strode into the room, not failing to notice the way the King and Queen shrank back as he approached. ‘I was told there was a dwarf in this here castle,’ he said. ‘Reckon as how you’ll fit the bill, friend.’

  ‘Jolly good. Now, if you’d care to wait outside…’

  Dumpy folded his arms across his diminutive chest. ‘They call me the Dwarf With No Name,’ he went on. ‘I…’

  He stopped abruptly. The Queen had made a funny squeaking noise. Dumpy spun round and glowered at her, then faced the little man again.

  ‘Do they?’ The little man glowered back. ‘What a coincidence.’

  Dumpy’s eyebrows puckered. ‘Don’t say you’re a dwarf with no name too,’ he said. ‘That’d sure make things mighty complicated.’

  ‘I should say so,’ replied the little man. ‘Actually, to be fair, it’s not so much that I haven’t got a name, more a case of—’

  Dumpy reached out and lifted the hem of the hood that overshadowed the little man’s face. ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘You’re Rumpelstiltskin.’

  The Queen made a loud yipping noise and started dancing round the room, while the King clenched both fists, punched them in the air and shouted ‘Yes!’ For his part, the little man gave Dumpy a look that would’ve poisoned a reservoir.

  ‘Oh thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you ever so much.’ He slid off the clothes press, swivelled round and kicked it savagely. ‘Have you got any idea how long it’s taken me to set up this gig? Six months of hard work, sitting up all night spinning straw into gold, and thanks to you it’s all just gone down the toilet. You blithering…’

  He broke off, mainly because Dumpy had grabbed him by the lapels and lifted him off his feet. ‘I’d think twice about calling me names, pal. That’s how come I ain’t got one. I guess,’ he added, suddenly uncertain. He put Rumpelstiltskin down again.

  ‘All right,’ said the other dwarf. ‘But that works both ways, you know.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Dumpy growled remorsefully. ‘Guess I owe you an apology, at that. Shoulda guessed you might still be pulling that old name scam.’ He frowned. ‘Another thing I forgot,’ he added to himself. ‘C’mon, let’s git,’ he said, pulling himself together. ‘I get the feeling these folks ain’t feelin’ too friendly.’

  Sure enough, the King and Queen were beginning to fidget in an ostensibly warlike manner. The two dwarves headed off down the stairs.

  ‘Why were you looking for me?’ Rumpelstiltskin asked.

  ‘I’m looking for good dwarves,’ Dumpy answered, as they came out into the castle courtyard. It was deserted, and the only sound was that of hurriedly closing shutters and bolts being slammed home on doors. ‘Dwarves I can rely on. They gotta be smart, mean and fast with a—’ With a what? Suddenly he realised that he couldn’t remember what dwarves fight with. Something small, presumably, and capable of being used to devastating effect against the ankles of their victims. ‘Fast,’ he repeated. ‘Real fast.’

  ‘I see,’ Rumpelstiltskin said thoughtfully. ‘Smart, mean, fast, reliable dwarves. What’s this for, a cut-price pizza delivery service? One where you just carry the pizza in under the door without waiting for the customer to open it?’

  Dumpy shook his head, trying to recall what the job was. ‘Fighting a wolf,’ he said, suddenly inspired. ‘I been hired to keep this wolf from preying on three little pigs.’

  ‘And so you want reliable, quick, clever, stingy dwarves. Sorry if this sounds rude, but the logical connection escapes me.’

  ‘Not stingy,’ Dumpy explained. ‘Mean. Like in, you know… mean.’ Dammit, he knew there should be a better word, a word that’d mean what it meant, but somehow he couldn’t think of it. It was as if there was a big fat policeman standing outside the door of his memory, refusing to let him in there unless he could produce the necessary permits. He knew he was capable of expressing himself in something more lucid than this strange idiom and this horrible drawling accent, which he knew for certain had never been spoken by any real person. ‘Mean,’ he repeated. ‘Don’t you understand Dwarvish?’

  They reached the gate. The two halberdiers on duty took one look at them, dropped their weapons and jumped in the moat. ‘What was all that about?’ Rumpelstiltskin asked.

  Dumpy shrugged. ‘Folks is just scared of dwarves, is all,’ he said.

  ‘Oh. Why?’

  ‘Because we’re mean, I guess.’

  ‘Ah. I can see where that might be annoying, like if you’ve gone out for a meal together, but not frightening, surely.’

  Dumpy concentrated. A stray shard of memory was loose in his mind, but it wouldn’t stay still long enough to be identified. ‘You saying that where you come from, folks ain’t scared of dwarves?’

  Rumpelstiltskin nodded. ‘It’s more or less the other way around, in fact. At least, I think so. Thought so. You know, it’s sort of slipped my mind.’

  ‘Where you come from,’ Dumpy repeated, ‘dwarves are scared of regular folks?’

  ‘I think so. Or at least they try to stay out of their way. Partly I imagine it’s unthinking bigotry and size-hatred, but mostly it’s because they tend to tread on us without realising we’re there. That’s why we’re shy, retiring creatures who live deep in the forests and hide when the Big People come clumping by.’

  Dumpy was shocked. ‘We do?’

  ‘Apparently. Hard to credit, isn’t it?’ Rumpelstiltskin frowned, and the frown hardened into a scowl. ‘Can’t be right, though. I mean,’ he went on, straightening his back and letting his chin
jut out, ‘we’re dwarves, dammit. How come we let those big guys push us around? How come they don’t show us no respect?’

  ‘Too darned right,’ Dumpy confirmed. ‘You ain’t got respect, partner, you ain’t got nothin’.’ He jutted his chin out too, so that the pair of them looked like a bonsai granite outcrop. ‘C’mon, let’s go out there and kick us some ass.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ replied Rumpelstiltskin, punching the palm of his left hand with his right fist and wincing slightly. ‘Mind you, we may need to stand on something in order to reach.’

  Dumpy bristled. ‘Forget that kind of talk, mister,’ he said. ‘Dwarves bend the knee to no man.’

  ‘Well, quite. Wouldn’t be a great deal of point. Still, let’s get out there and teach the suckers a thing or two.’ He grimaced horribly, knowing that for some reason it was the right thing to do. It hurt his face, and he stopped.

  ‘Sure.’ Dumpy rubbed his chin. ‘Though of course we ain’t gonna go around terrorising innocent folks.’

  ‘No? I’d have thought they’d be easier. For beginners, that is.

  ‘Hell, no. We don’t do that kinda stuff. We’re good.’

  Rumpelstiltskin blinked. ‘We are?’ he said. ‘Oh.’

  ‘You betcha. We’re the goddamn heroes. Okay, maybe we gotta throw our weight about from time to time, punch out a few guys who don’t show us no respect, but deep down we’re the best. In a land torn apart by anarchy and oppression, we are the law.’

  ‘Oh joy,’ muttered Rumpelstiltskin, without enthusiasm. ‘What I always wanted to be when I grew up.’

  ‘Somewhere,’ muttered the queen, a shoe in each hand, ‘near here.’

  Around their ankles, the mud of the swamp seethed and gurgled like a casserole neglected in a hot oven. Wisps of thick grey fog wound in and out of the skeletons of dead trees. In the distance, swamp gas occasionally flared into torches of lurid orange flame. Overhead, some kind of huge, slow-moving bird wheeled and circled, watching them with a more than passing interest.

  ‘Somewhere near here,’ the queen repeated. ‘Usually, of course, he comes to see me.’