morning when the beautiful girls with cow’s tails came out of nowhere. Groggy, he had trouble understanding where they’d come from or resisting them when they, giggling, dragged him toward the crack in the wall behind the stove.
There had been a few women in the Pickled Rat the night before, but he would have remembered these, surely? He was starting to notice girls in a manner that made his breathing go strange, and a few of the village beauties were haunting his head in a way that made him feel a little giddy, and guilty. These, now, seemed a few years older than him. Their golden tresses framed bright, mischievous eyes and swirled above colorful rustic costumes he hadn’t seen since the cold weather came, long vests of red or blue stretched over tight blouses of white, short dark skirts with floral or checkered patterns that swished above graceful legs. (Were there no stockings? Weren’t these young ladies cold? What did he see swishing back there, not quite in sight?)
“Um,” he said, “I . . . well, it’s just . . . perhaps . . . so . . .”
“Shh,” said one girl, two fingers landing on his lips for a moment like a butterfly seeking nectar. “Don’t spoil it by talking.” She instantly seemed the wisest person that had ever lived. Innocence could not help but think these tight-fitting, short-skirted versions of the village costumes were more fetching than those he’d seen previously. He could not help grinning as the fingertips left his lips. He could not help thinking it was a foolish grin. The thought didn’t wipe the grin away. Hands were starting to touch him in interesting ways, retreating suddenly with redoubled laughter, returning with mock shyness.
But always they moved toward the wall.
Now the Very Wise Girl’s fingers were back, this time with a bit of bread between them. He hadn’t seen where it had come from. She pushed it into his mouth and pressed her lips against his ear. “A little morsel,” she purred, “before dessert.” Innocence ate, even as some internal voice warned him this all might be too good to be true. The bread tasted like flatbread at first but then became sweet, like one of those potato pancakes all rolled up with sugar or jam; what were they called, lefse? He felt like he was falling. In love? Down a well? Were the sensations similar?
Now he realized the warning voice wasn’t internal at all, it was Freidar, with Nan beside him, and the first was armed with a sword and the second with a book and, oddly enough, a small fragment of steel.
The girls were yanking him now and shrieking in a way that wasn’t laughter, and he saw that they had cow’s tails. He remembered from Peersdatter and Jorgensdatter’s Eventyr that this was worrisome.
“Um—” He tried resisting, but something in the sweetness of the bread was making him drowsy. And he still felt enrapt by the girls’ beauty. It was as if his whole boyish existence, all his pride and learning and struggles, had at last been granted meaning. And the meaning was simply to please girls in every way he could.
“Shut up,” said Very Wise Girl, who now sounded Very Cross. “You’re ours now, fair and square. They can’t save you.”
It was cold water on a fire. He blinked and understood his danger. He struggled, but his body was drugged and weak. Yet Innocence thought for a moment that she was wrong, for Freidar and Nan looked menacing and gigantic. Suddenly the moment passed, as he realized that the stove looked gigantic too, and the chairs and tables, and the vast wooden cliff of the wall.
It was he and the girls who were now mouse-sized, and the crack behind the stove assumed the proportions of a cavern entrance as they dragged him into the dark.
They were underground, moving through blackness; they were tiny, scuffling through a tunnel fit for rats. But that was not the whole story. The world felt strange. The deeper down they traveled, the more squeezed Innocence felt. There was a
There had been a few women in the Pickled Rat the night before, but he would have remembered these, surely? He was starting to notice girls in a manner that made his breathing go strange, and a few of the village beauties were haunting his head in a way that made him feel a little giddy, and guilty. These, now, seemed a few years older than him. Their golden tresses framed bright, mischievous eyes and swirled above colorful rustic costumes he hadn’t seen since the cold weather came, long vests of red or blue stretched over tight blouses of white, short dark skirts with floral or checkered patterns that swished above graceful legs. (Were there no stockings? Weren’t these young ladies cold? What did he see swishing back there, not quite in sight?)
“Um,” he said, “I . . . well, it’s just . . . perhaps . . . so . . .”
“Shh,” said one girl, two fingers landing on his lips for a moment like a butterfly seeking nectar. “Don’t spoil it by talking.” She instantly seemed the wisest person that had ever lived. Innocence could not help but think these tight-fitting, short-skirted versions of the village costumes were more fetching than those he’d seen previously. He could not help grinning as the fingertips left his lips. He could not help thinking it was a foolish grin. The thought didn’t wipe the grin away. Hands were starting to touch him in interesting ways, retreating suddenly with redoubled laughter, returning with mock shyness.
But always they moved toward the wall.
Now the Very Wise Girl’s fingers were back, this time with a bit of bread between them. He hadn’t seen where it had come from. She pushed it into his mouth and pressed her lips against his ear. “A little morsel,” she purred, “before dessert.” Innocence ate, even as some internal voice warned him this all might be too good to be true. The bread tasted like flatbread at first but then became sweet, like one of those potato pancakes all rolled up with sugar or jam; what were they called, lefse? He felt like he was falling. In love? Down a well? Were the sensations similar?
Now he realized the warning voice wasn’t internal at all, it was Freidar, with Nan beside him, and the first was armed with a sword and the second with a book and, oddly enough, a small fragment of steel.
The girls were yanking him now and shrieking in a way that wasn’t laughter, and he saw that they had cow’s tails. He remembered from Peersdatter and Jorgensdatter’s Eventyr that this was worrisome.
“Um—” He tried resisting, but something in the sweetness of the bread was making him drowsy. And he still felt enrapt by the girls’ beauty. It was as if his whole boyish existence, all his pride and learning and struggles, had at last been granted meaning. And the meaning was simply to please girls in every way he could.
“Shut up,” said Very Wise Girl, who now sounded Very Cross. “You’re ours now, fair and square. They can’t save you.”
It was cold water on a fire. He blinked and understood his danger. He struggled, but his body was drugged and weak. Yet Innocence thought for a moment that she was wrong, for Freidar and Nan looked menacing and gigantic. Suddenly the moment passed, as he realized that the stove looked gigantic too, and the chairs and tables, and the vast wooden cliff of the wall.
It was he and the girls who were now mouse-sized, and the crack behind the stove assumed the proportions of a cavern entrance as they dragged him into the dark.
They were underground, moving through blackness; they were tiny, scuffling through a tunnel fit for rats. But that was not the whole story. The world felt strange. The deeper down they traveled, the more squeezed Innocence felt. There was a
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