Tales Of Arilland Part 7

"Oh no," he said. "I look forward to hearing about your sisters. Please, do come back tomorrow."

"Then I will, after I finish my ch.o.r.es. But I should be going now, before it gets dark." She stood and brushed what dirt she could off her skirt. "Good night, Grumble."

"Good night, Sunday."

My sisters and I are the unfortunate product of a woman with as little creativity at naming as her mother before her. Jack Junior was definitely his mother's son in this, for had she thought things through Mama might have realized that the naming of her daughters was as clever in its simplicity as it was d.a.m.ning in its curses. Second born to my mother were the twins, thus securing a female majority in the household that was never again in jeopardy.

Monday was indeed fair of face, but Tuesday was the dancer.

I have patchwork memories of a slip of a young woman, a moth at the flame, a vision of constant movement whose grace the reeds and sunsets envied. The epitome of the Life of the Party, Tuesday garnered invitations from Royal b.a.l.l.s to County Fairs. She was loved by all who knew her, both human and fey. Mama enjoyed the popularity but complained about the cost of keeping her active daughter in shoes, which she often remarked was "more than enough for twelve dancing princesses." It seemed a G.o.dsend to her when an elfin shoemaker gifted Tuesday with a pair of scarlet slippers he swore would never wear out. It turned out to be true, for Tuesday could not dance those shoes to death.

They danced her to death instead.

There was immense sadness in the wake of Tuesday's pa.s.sing, but no one mourned more than Monday. Once a week, Monday would walk the many miles from our ramshackle cottage in the Wood to the cemetery on the hill and place flowers on her twin's grave. Every Tuesday she went, rain or s.h.i.+ne, sleet or snow, despite our parents' wishes. One sickly green morning she went out again, heedless, and on the way home was caught in a storm sent from the bowels of h.e.l.l itself. Tossed in the wind, pelted by walls of rain and battered by fists of ice, Monday got lost in the Wood on the way back and found herself at the doorstep of a well-kept cabin.

Inside the cabin were two princes on hunting holiday one dark and one fair - who had chosen to celebrate the storm as some men choose to celebrate everything. The fair prince began to congratulate himself on his recent success at finding a wife he had given the girl a test and she had pa.s.sed with flying colors, having spun three rooms full of straw into gold for him. The dark one proclaimed the Wife Test a marvelous idea, and determined that his wife would be so delicate that she would not be able to sleep comfortably with a pea under the mattresses. They were well into their cups when Monday arrived, a bedraggled wretch on the doorstep begging asylum.

The next morning, when Monday appeared before them with a rash of fresh bruises from head to toe, the dark prince fell to his knees and asked for her hand in marriage.

We owe our current livelihood to Monday. Her bridegift was a tower at the edge of the Wood that had no door- "No door?" Grumble croaked in dismay.

"None whatsoever," Sunday said. "If it had ever been part of a castle, that part was long gone. The tower only had a window, and very high up. The property belonged to the prince's grandmother. It had been handed down in the female line for generations, but was never used. We were crawling over ourselves like rats in our little cottage, so Papa knocked a door in the tower and built the rest of the house around the base. Unfortunately, it looks nothing like a castle. More like..." She closed her eyes and remembered the years of schooltime ridicule she had borne. "...a shoe."

"A shoe."

The way he said it made Sunday chuckle despite herself. "Between Tuesday's fate and our house, it seems that shoes are a recurring theme in my life."

"And what of your other sisters?"

Sunday folded her book across her stomach and stretched out in a patch of fading sunlight on the moss-covered ground. "Wednesday is the poet. She's been nicking Fairy Joy's absinthe since she was old enough to hold a pen."

"Fairy Joy?"

"Our G.o.dmother." The sun was warm on her weary bones, and the conversation was low and comfortable. Sunday smiled and wished she could stay there forever. "Thursday always had itchy feet. She ran off with a Pirate King when she was about my age, but she still sends us letters and gifts from time to time. Friday is the best of us all, and spends most of her days at the church helping the orphans and the elderly. Sat.u.r.day is the st.u.r.dy, practical one. She goes into the Wood every morning with Papa and Jackie and helps with the cutting."

"And you're ungrateful."

The laugh that burst from Sunday's lips surprised her. It was a curious thing, having one's words thrown back like that. She turned to Grumble and propped her head in one hand. "'Bonny and blithe and good and gay,'" she recited. "Who could live up to that? And even if they could, what sort of tapioca-pudding life would that be? I told Mama I would much prefer an interesting life to a happy one. She called me ungrateful, and so I am."

"And you are a writer, like you sister."

"Well, I'm not quite so melancholy gravy as Wednesday, Our Lady of Perpetual Shadow...but yes, a little in my own way."

"You have a gift for words," said Grumble.

"A curse more like," Sunday sighed. "Mama says I spend too much of my life in little fantasy worlds and not enough time in this one. And speaking of time," the pool of sunlight had long since faded and the night breeze was cool on her skin, "I should be getting back home before I am missed."

"Will you come again tomorrow?" Grumble said as she sat up. "Please?"

"I will try." She ran her fingers through her hair in an effort to dislodge the bits of twigs and gra.s.s that had used her head as a playground.

"And...Sunday?"

"Yes?"

"Would you kiss me before you go?"

It hadn't worked yesterday; it would no doubt fail again today. Sunday felt terrible for her new friend. But his little heart held more hope than most people had in a lifetime, and who was she to belittle that? "Of course," she said, and leaned down to kiss his back. "Good night, Grumble."

"Good night, Sunday."

"Grumble? Are you here?" Sunday carefully tiptoed around the crumbled pieces of the well in search of her friend. She knew she was earlier than usual, and she didn't know if Grumble went elsewhere or hid under the well water in the heat of the day. The rocks were perspiring more than Sunday was, and she slipped. She threw her arms out in an effort to catch herself the last thing she wanted to do was squash the only friend she had and after tilting about madly for a moment she regained her balance.

There was a deep, rumbling croak to her left. The little scamp was laughing at her!

"Caught that, did you?"

"Yes," he answered, "though I was afraid for a moment you wouldn't."

Sunday sat down on a more level section of ground. "Grace was not my virtue, remember?"

"So true, so true." He hopped closer. "I didn't expect you until later."

"This was the only time I could get away," she told him as she pulled her little book out of her pocket. "I'm supposed to be accompanying Trix to market to sell the cow, which means my ch.o.r.es will no doubt take up the rest of the day."

"Will your brother be all right by himself?"

That wasn't what she was worried about. "He knows exactly where to go, to whom he's supposed to sell the cow, and what price he's to fetch. He'll be fine." Sunday ran her thumb across the pages of the book. "I didn't have time to write anything for you. I'm so sorry."

"I'm sorry too," said Grumble after a moment. "There is something about your stories, your words, your voice. They make me...remember. What it was like to be a man."

She was a terrible friend. How selfish of her to have ever imagined that he asked for her company simply to humor her. "Are you in danger of forgetting?"

"I've already forgotten faces and names," he said forlornly, "my own included. I've forgotten what it's like to get out of bed in the morning. The feel of clothes on my skin. Food. I think I loved food once."

Her heart went out to him.

"When I'm lost in your words," he continued, "I forget that I am a frog. Instead I am just a man, sitting here with his beautiful friend, listening to her tell him about her interesting life. It's a wonderful feeling."

Sunday bit her lip. It was the loveliest thing anyone had ever said to her in her whole entire life.

"I'm afraid you have ruined me, Sunday. I didn't realize how much I longed for the company of others until I had your words. And when they are gone...the nights are darker without them. The silence is loud and bottomless, and I am empty. I miss them, my beloved Sunday. I miss you."

It was no use fighting. The tears came anyway. She was powerless to break his spell, but she could give him what she had. She opened her book to the next blank page and started writing. When she was done, she leaned back and smiled at her friend. "'Sunday was nothing,'" she read aloud, "'until she met Grumble a beautiful man, with the soul of a poet. He was her best friend in the whole wide world, and she loved him with all her heart.'" She closed book gently in her lap. "I wish-"

"Sunday!" Her name was yelled loudly, from far away.

Trix? What was he doing back so soon? He should have been gone another hour or two at least.

"Suuuuun-daaaaaay," Trix called through the woods.

"I'm here!" she called back. "Well," she said to Grumble, "like it or not, you're about to meet some of my family."

"It will be an honor," said the frog.

Trix came cras.h.i.+ng through the brush and stumbled into the clearing. "Cooooooool," he said breathlessly. "A Fairy Well." For all that he was at least two years her senior, Trix both looked and acted as if he had stopped aging at twelve. Sunday grabbed ahold of his scrawny wrist before he could scamper off across the rocks and break his neck.

"The cow," She reminded him. "You took her to market and sold her that quickly?" It was more of a hope than a question.

Trix's wide grin was unsettling. "I am a lucky tradesman," he announced, "and a shrewd one. I happened upon a man in the woods who was on his way to market for just such a cow."

Sunday's heart that had only moments before soared in her chest sank lower and lower with every word that pa.s.sed Trix's lips. No. Please, G.o.d, no.

"So I sold it to him for these." He opened his palm so she could see what was inside it.

Her heart plummeted into her feet. She was going to throw up. "Beans."

"Magic beans," Trix said proudly. "He was only going to give me one, but I bartered my way up to five. After all, what if one doesn't sprout? Smart thinking, eh?" Trix tucked the beans back in his pocket and patted them. "I figure I can plant them under my treehouse and...Sunday? Are you okay?"

Sunday had stopped breathing. She was a dead woman. Trix was her responsibility, and she had let him go off alone and trade their best cow for...for...

"Sunday?" Trix was suddenly worried.

"Mama will kill me," she whispered. "We needed that money, Trixie. How will we eat?"

"You'll see." His voice was filled with childish wonder. "My magic beans will grow, and we will have food forever."

His innocence was as beautiful in its purity as it was frustrating. He didn't understand, and she didn't know how to make him. "Beans take time to grow," Sunday explained. "What will we eat tomorrow? And the next day?"

At least that much seemed to sink in. "I'm sorry, Sunday," he said quietly. "I don't want you to die."

"If I may be so bold."

In her misery, Sunday had completely forgotten about Grumble. He was sitting patiently beside a perfectly round, slime-covered rock.

"Forgive me. Trix, meet my friend Grumble. Grumble, this is my brother Trix."

"Wow," said Trix.

"Charmed," said Grumble.

"Whatcha got there?" Trix sat down unceremoniously beside Grumble and picked up the spherical stone.

"Something I'm hoping will save your sister's life," he said. "A life that's become uncommonly important to me over the last few days."

Frogs must be colorblind after all, Sunday decided. It was a sweet gesture. To Grumble, the ball must have looked like a precious gem, or a fairy trinket, or...

"Gold!" cried Trix.

"What?" Sunday s.n.a.t.c.hed the ball out of her brother's hand. She was so unprepared for the weight of it, she almost dropped it. She sc.r.a.ped at the sc.u.m with her fingernail to the smooth, hard surface beneath. "It is!" She hugged the bauble to her.

And then she remembered that she wasn't a h.o.a.rding kobold.

Sunday held the ball back out to Grumble.