Charles, Prince of Kentland and heir to the throne stirred in his sleep. Slowly, his eyes opened and he stared up at the dark blue canopy of his expansive wrought iron four-poster. There was no appearance of sleep in his dark brown eyes; a look instead that bordered on fear and awe shone from them.
Stretching his arms over his head, he whispered, “The dream again. What does it mean?”
Impatiently, he threw back his coverlet and lunged out of bed. His feet hit the floor with a soft thump. Standing erect as he stared across the room, one would have noted that, even in his night-shirt, he showed promise of being a strapping man once he had reached full maturity. While not imposing in height, his shoulders were broad and strong. His jaw was on the square side. Any wider and it would have looked disproportionately large on his frame. His hair, which was tousled, was a shade lighter than his eyes and had a great deal of wave in it.
Striding to the window, he threw open the casement and leaned out into the dawn. He frowned in concentration and was thereby surprised when a robust voice hailed him from behind.
“What ho, Charles! Out of bed so early? You'll make a king yet!”
The speaker laughed as if at a joke as the prince turned around, a hint of a laugh showing in his own face.
“And good-morning to you too, Father!”
The King rolled across the floor, his old shipboard walk having never departed from him. He had been second in line for the throne as a young man and had never expected to be king, so he had taken up the Navy...but that is another story.
The King clapped a hand on his son's shoulder and they both looked out at the dawn.
“Father...” Charles hesitated.
“Eh? Speak up, lad.”
Charles glanced at his father's cheerful, curious face. Wondering why he felt so very awkward, he looked back to the lightening sky.
“It happened again.”
The King looked a bit startled; “Again? And it's not even your birthday!”
Charles turned, his chin up. “I know. That is why it is doubly unsettling. I rather have gotten used to it once a year, on the morning of my birthday since it has happened for the last five years, but now? What does it mean, Father? Who is she? Why does she come to me?”
The King attempted to laugh breezily, but did not quite pull it off. “It's just a dream, Charles...just a dream.”
Charles took a turn about the room, “I'm not so sure about that...And there was something new in it this time.”
In spite of himself, the King looked interested.
“You know how in the past she has just looked up, as if I had entered the room, and simply smiles as though pleased to see me...”
The King nodded, having heard this before.
“But this time she extended her hands to me.”
And Charles held out his own in imitation. At first the King started to laugh, but suddenly he interrupted himself.
“Palms up? Like that? Are you sure??”
Charles nodded, “And her expression was nearly pleading.”
The King shook his head, “It's just a dream. Come, get dressed and we will have an early breakfast and go scare a few hares.”
The rabbit hunt was fairly unsuccessful, leaving Charles plenty of time for thinking about his strange dream. The more he considered it, the less sure he was that it was “just a dream”. He shook his head, startling a rabbit from it's invisibility stance and then promptly missed the shot. The King looked over at his son.
“You are distracted. We might as well go home. I have state business at 1:30 to attend to anyway,” and he sighed. He really would rather be sailing the seas.
By the end of a grand lunch, Charles had succeeded in putting all thoughts of his dream behind him and gave himself over to an invigorating afternoon of swordplay with his instructor and certain of his fellows.
As he went to bed that evening, he allowed himself a fleeting thought of the beautiful girl who had in the past made a yearly visit to his dreams...a vision of radient beauty, golden hair streaming down her back...clear, gentle blue eyes, and a rosebud pink mouth. He smiled briefly and dismissed her from his thoughts. Soon he slept and upon awakening the next morning having had no remembered dreams, he felt himself free of whatever had gripped him the day before. Little did he realize, it was just the beginning.
Within the month, it became apparent to him that the persistent dream was not going away. If anything, it was getting more frequent. The girl's face, while still seeming pleased to see him (as he imagined it), began to develop a look of panic and urgency that haunted him into the hours of broad daylight. The eloquent pleading of her eyes intruded into his studies and disturbed his thoughts in his leisure time.
After three months, with the occurrence of his dream being nearly nightly, he requested an audience with his father the King and the King's advisers.
When the men had all gathered about in the big, semi-circular audience chamber, the prince stepped forward and addressed them:
“My lord the King, Nobles and Gentlemen, you have been requested to attend this rather peculiar meeting because I am in dire distress.”
The men shot covert glances amongst themselves and a few eyes got wide and an eyebrow here, there, and yon amongst them twisted or shot upwards.
Quite aware of the stir he was causing, but not caring any longer, Charles continued, “As you would scarecly be aware of, since the morning of my fifteenth birthday, I have had a dream—the same dream—once a year, occurring precisely on my birthday. For five years it was so, with no change to the dream itself. The subject of the dream, you may desire to know. Here therefore, the dream.
“A room, hung about with tapestries, such as were the fashion roughly a century ago, is the setting. Seated on a carved wooden chair, a throne perhaps, sits a fair...nay, a beautiful, maiden in the purest white. No crown does she wear, but only a cascade of golden hair.”
A few knowing smiles passed about the room; the prince was in love, of course!
“This lady looks up, as if I had just entered...and appears much pleased to see me. There it always ended on my birthdays. Always, that is, until roughly three months ago, two months after my last birthday.”
A few backs stiffened in their chairs and a few chins were lifted higher.
“Since then, the dream has become almost nightly [here the King straightened; Charles had not told him this!] and has progressively gotten longer until now the maid has risen and stretches forth her hands to me, form and gesture begging me to come to her.”
Charles paused, watching as the men looked at one another, some looking sympathetic, some contemptuous, some amused, some confused.
“I beg you, therefore, O advisers and my father the king, help me determine what it means!”
A buzz developed in the room as the men started discussing it and arguing with one another. Charles let himself down on his own princely stool and eavesdropped.
It soon became apparent that there were two main lines of thought, with variations. The first being that Charles was subconsciously considering that he must soon start searching for a bride, as each Prince of Kentland was encouraged to do upon reaching the age of one and twenty. “The Power of Suggestion” they called it—though they could not exactly explain the dream from previous years.
The second line of thought was that the Prince was, begging his lordship's pardon, dealing with a form of mental anxiety and that a doctor should examine him for some sort of head trauma. The poor prince laughed in their faces over that explanation.
“No, no, my Lords! I have had no head trauma, of that you may be certain! And as for the “power of suggestion”, I hardly think that fits my plight either as anxiety over any future nuptials has never crossed my breast. No. I-I...”
He lapsed into silence, for it suddenly dawned on him that there was no other alternative than for him to go forth and find the maiden—which plan, he knew would sound trebly ridiculous if he voiced it.
Suddenly, a wavering voice was heard in the still room.
“My Lords...may I dare to speak before you?”
All eyes turned toward an ancient servant who stood with an oily cloth in his withered hand. He seemed rather unstable on his feet and Charles, who did not recall seeing this particular old man before, being smote with a sense of pity, sprang from his seat and carrying the stool set it near the man.
“Here, old one, have a seat, I beg of you.”
The old man's watery gray eyes took in the prince appreciatively and as though settling something within himself he nodded his head, a smile upon his lips.
“I thank-you, m'lord,” he answered softly. Settling himself comfortably upon the stool, his back suddenly straightened and he looked nearly regal. His eyes turned toward the prince.
“My Lord,” he began, “did I overhear correctly that you have been dreaming a dream about a lovely creature of golden hair and azure eyes?”
Charles inclined his head.
“Ah,” said the old man, a dreamy expression crossing his face, “so she speaks...”
“Whatever are you talking about?” demanded an adviser, irritably.
“Hush!” Charles gestured impatiently, never taking his eyes off the wizened old man.
“Many, many years ago it was now,” he started again, “a king and queen wished for a daughter. They already had a son, but they wished for a daughter in addition. When in time a daughter was born to them, they threw a wondrous party to celebrate her christening...such a party the small lad, her brother, had never seen before. Not only where their nobles from realms all about, but the fairy folk were there.”
A ripple of disgust rounded the room. Fairy-folk indeed!
The old man remarked aside to Charles, “Men these days do not believe the fairies exist. They do though...you'll see.”
Charles wondered what that “you'll see” really implied, but did not interrupt to ask, for the old man was speaking again, stronger now.
“Yes, my lords, the fairy folk were there...all but Envy, for the green-eye brute had not been invited. As was customary, each of the fairy folk came prepared to bless the new princess and bless her they did: beauty, grace, chastity, compassion, love. It was at this point that Envy, extremely irate at the neglect she felt herself to have received, arrived, uninvited. She stormed into the audience hall and stood there, an imposing figure in the greenest green dress I-the little prince had ever seen. He had been charmed by all the others, but this one petrified him. Terrified as he was, he could not move from the station he had taken up beside his rosy little sister.
Envy literally kicked up dust throughout the entire room, leaving human and fairy alike coughing. At the height of this chaos of coughing and sneezing, she loomed over the baby and shrieked, 'Blessings I have none for this child! But a curse! A curse of death!'
A gasp of horror could be heard around the room as the coughing suddenly ceased all together. Gathering herself up til she towered over the children, for the little prince had finally moved and that was to throw his short arms over the cradle protectively as the baby screamed in fear, Envy pronounced her curse: 'All the beauty, grace, chastity, compassion, and love you will ever have will be wasted on you—WASTED! For you shall die in the height of your beauty at the pricking of your finger upon a spindle!'
She laughed, oh so evilly. The little prince joined his sister in screams of fear and terror and the din must have affect Envy's already rankled feelings more so, for she suddenly reached down and plucked the boy off his feet and shook him: 'And you, you little screaming bundle of energy—YOU shall be an old, old man until she dies!'
Tossing him from her, the prince fell against the wall and at the gasps and cries from those around him, as well as other things, the prince knew that it was so—he was an old man.”
Charles leaned in and touched the old man on the shoulder and gasped quietly, “You?”
The watery gray eyes blinked up at him and a sort of smile crept along his face, “You are astute, young man. But let me finish my tale.
“The horror of that day was only mitigated by the last of the fairies...whom had yet to bless the baby. She stood slowly and faced Envy calmly and without the least trace of fear. Gesturing towards the entrance, she ordered softly, but in such a tone that it rang, 'Begone. You have done enough harm here.'
“To the wonder of all, Envy seemed to shrink and she left straight-way in silence.
“Turning to the cradle, Mercy knelt down and touched the princess gently upon the cheek. Instantly, the cries ceased. Mercy extended her hand to the now-aged prince and in that position, one hand upon the cradle and the other holding the hand of the prince, she spoke: 'I fear, my good King and Queen, that I cannot reverse Envy's evil, but I can soften it. For starters, come the day that the princess pricks her finger upon a spindle, she shall not die, but rather sleep until woken by a prince worthy of her. As for the prince, he shall remain an old man until the day that his sister is woken—then he shall regain his right form at the age he should be relative to her own.'
“The prince, in his form as an old man watched as his sister grew from a rosy baby to the most beautiful, gracious, compassionate, and loved girl...and as his parents did their utmost to foil the plot of cruel Envy. The prince, with his matured mind, did not dispute this, for he, like his parents was not quite sure that sweet Mercy's blessing countermanded Envy's curse. To see his sister live was utmost in his mind and the aches of his own body were naught when set against the sweetness of his sister.
“Gloria, for such is her name, was never told about the day of her christening...and was therefore never informed that Eugene, the old servant who doted on her, was actually her own brother. He occasionally desired to tell her, but refrained for fear of upsetting her and causing her compassionate heart to grieve unduly.
“The day of beautiful Gloria's seventeenth birthday arrived and with it came a fulfillment of both curse and blessing. Never had she been so beautiful, so graceful, so pure in heart, so sweet and caring...or so loved. As the preparations for her birthday party were being completed prior to the afternoon festivities, Gloria danced about the upper halls, enjoying the feeling of being young, loved, and beautiful. She stumbled upon an old woman set up in her mother's sitting room with a mysterious contraption. It had a wheel that spun round and round upon which the old woman was working a length of sheep's wool. Fascinated, Gloria drew nearer and nearer. Reaching out a curious hand, she pricked her finger on the whirling spindle.
“It appeared that Envy, still smarting from her public humiliation, was tired of waiting for things to happen of their own accord and therefore set the trap for Gloria. Eugene found his sister laying still as death on the floor when he was sent up to bring her down for the grand dinner. I-He was so shaken that he too fell down as if dead.
“Mercy had been invited to the feast and was soon on hand, giving instructions.
“Gloria was laid out in state upon her bed.
“The palace was set to order.
“Quite unexpectedly and quietly, the entire household drifted into a deep sleep around the princess.
“I-Eugene alone was left awake and aware. Mercy turned toward him, 'It is up to you, O Prince', she stated softly, 'to spread the word amongst kings and kingdoms of the story of the sleeping princess who may only be woken by a prince worthy of her love. Go forth in peace.'
“Thus she left him and as he stood there, an immense hedge of thorns began to grow...they grew and grew until the palace was completely hidden behind them. The thorns themselves were a foot long and sharp as rapiers.
“Over the following century, Eugene wandered as an old man, never aging beyond the infirmity placed upon him, telling his story. At the end of a few decades, he began to be laughed at as insane.
“Your prince, O you advisers, has guessed me aright. I am his royal highness Prince Eugene and the Princess Gloria is my most lovely sister. Your prince has dreamed of my sister calling to him...to her he must go.”
A dead silence reigned. The King broke it, awkwardly.
“This is all highly...unsettling.”
“The truth often is, your Majesty,” the old Eugene responded, dryly. “Will you let Charles go in search of my sister?”
The King looked from the apparent wizened age of the man standing beside his stalwart son and his heart quailed. Charles had a gleam in his eye that, as his father knew, meant that his heart was set upon it. He admitted to himself that were he in Charles' shoes, he probably would feel the same way.
“Pray,” the King requested, “do give a little thought to your actions.”
Charles acquiesced to his father's request and withdrew. He spent the night pacing, getting very little sleep when he did try, as he considered. He realised how outrageous Eugene's story was...he realised what a fool he would appear if the nature of his journey were found out...but go he must. He knew without a doubt that if he did not go, he would forever be haunted by the beauteous Gloria with her pleadingly outstretched hands...yea, and the wizened form of Eugene. Even if the fair maid would not be his bride, he could not, in good conscience leave them in the state they were in.
He threw back his head and laughed almost hysterically. “I wonder if the advisers are right and I am insane??” he gasped when he was able to catch his breath.
Finally, he slept fitfully, only to awake with Gloria's outstretched hands reaching for him.
****
“Father, I am going.”
“I knew you would, Charles,” replied the King gently. “I cannot say that I blame you, though, indeed it seems fantastical.”
The prince ran a strong hand through his brown thatch, leaving it at an odd, rather outrageous angle. “I cannot help but think that myself—until I think of my dream...and Eugene.”
“Yes,” the King agreed, “there is Eugene. I find him very compelling.”
Just then, Eugene, who was to act as the prince's guide, entered. He bowed low and when he straightened, Charles noted with something akin to shock that the old man was less stooped and, if possible, less wrinkled than the previous day. His gray eyes also appeared less watery. He was extremely eager to be off, it was clear, but he did not rush the prince as he made his preparations for the journey.
When they set off two days later, in addition to Charles and Eugene, there was one of the prince's especial friends, a young squire by the name of Rowen. Rowen thought it all a big joke and was, as he put it, “just going along for the fun”. It was clear as the feckless across his nose that Rowen did not believe a word of the old man's story, but that he didn't mind dashing off to the ends of the earth in search of adventure.
They traveled steadily for two weeks, headed for a grim looking mountain range that increasingly loomed higher as they neared them. Rowen whistled in admiration, being a mountain born lad himself, he could appreciate the grandeur and danger of the steep crags perhaps better than the others.
“Charles, those mountains are going to be treacherous,” he informed the prince with an air of unconcern.
“Aye,” Eugene replied, “if one had to go over them.”
Both young men looked at him curiously.
Eugene, who had progressively been looking a hint younger as each day passed, grinned back at them with an air of mysteriousness. Finally, he laughed as their expressions got more bewildered and he gestured toward the base of the eastern-most peak.
“That is where we are headed.”
Two days later, the mountain throwing afternoon shadow over them, the travelers saw it—a fifty foot high hedge of wicked thorns, twelve inches long and sharp as a rapier. All along the hedge there were the remains of valiant men, left where they had met their deaths on the thorns.
Rowen gasped, his eyes wide. This at any rate was real. Real and extremely deadly.
Eugene sat his horse sadly, drooping lower than he had at any point on the journey. It seemed to age him more than when Charles had first set eyes on him to be so near and yet so disastrously far from his home.
Charles slowly, slowly raised his head, calmly surveying the expanse of the hedge. His eyes were wide, but his breathing was even and unhurried.
“Eugene,” he asked, “where was the gate?”
As though he had been jarred violently, Eugene sat up straighter and scrutinized the area minutely. At last he lifted his left hand and pointed, “Over yonder...I think.”
Charles rode toward the spot with the other two riding close behind him. Rowen gripped his friend's arm as they came to a halt.
“Charles! Don't be a fool! If these hundred or more could not make it in, how do you think you will?”
Eugene answered, “Because he has already seen her.” Suddenly, he looked startled, “I wonder why I hadn't thought of this before? If Charles has been dreaming of her...Gloria has probably been dreaming of him!” He seemed excited by the idea and spurred his horse forward toward the thorny hedge.
The horse screamed as Eugene plowed straight into the thickest part of the hedge and it fell dead beneath his rider. Without taking time to fully consider what he was doing, Charles dashed after Eugene and grabbed him by the collar of his tunic, “What are you doing?” he demanded.
As he was fixing to turn about, Rowan yelped, “It's closed in behind you!”
Stealing a glance over his shoulder, Charles saw that it was true, the hedge had essentially swallowed himself and Eugene. He struck out with his sword as the vine began to twine about them. Rising in his stirrups he smote the thorns which seemed to be wielded as rapiers by unseen hands. Eugene hunkered underneath Charles' brave steed and with each halting forward step the animal took, he moved with it.
Meanwhile, Rowan sat open mouthed, panting a prayer for deliverance, watching as gradually sight the horse and rider became obliterated.
A crash resounded throughout the dell and suddenly, the vines came crashing down, delievering up their dead—Charles had reached through to the other side. Flinging himself off his horse he turned to face the cascade of wilting vine. It seemed to shrink away from him...becoming smaller and smaller til at last there was not even an evidence of it left on the landscape. Rowen cautiously pushed toward him over the ground that just a short while before had been the ground of death.
Eugene, meanwhile, lay as one dead.
“I will stay with him,” Rowen responded to Charles' gaze of pity upon the white head. “Go on and find your princess.”
Dropping to his knees beside the old man's prostrate form, he gently began rearranging the man into a more comfortable position.
Charles turned about and headed straight for the castle gates. One of them stood slightly ajar and through this he slipped, silently. Even the air, he noted felt asleep. There was no buzzing of flies or other insects, no breeze, nothing. Not even any smell...
He strode past some very large guards who would have been rather imposing if they had not been relaxed in sleep against the broad pillars behind them. The armour was most definitely from a previous century...the story was true.
Hurrying onward, now more eagerly, Charles entered the living apartments of the royal family. The King and Queen were comfortably seated in their daughter's room, side by side on a settle next to the fireplace, with half burned logs in it. Beyond them was a be-tapestried bed and on the bed...Gloria.
Only Gloria in the flesh, asleep, and more beautiful than even his dreams betokened. Gasping down at her, Charles barely dared touch her. Finally, he gently reached down and shook her shoulder.
Behind him, he heard a gasping laugh which was half a sob, “I forgot to mention, you have to kiss her!”
Charles looked over his shoulder at the broken, wizened form of Eugene, supported on the arm of the recklessly freckled Rowan.
“Oh,” he said and felt as ridiculous as it sounded. “Oh.”
Eugene leaned forward eagerly as Charles hesitatingly leaned down and touched the still, white princess' lips with his own. Rowan thought it barely classified as a kiss. Suddenly, he had other things to think about as Eugene collapsed as a man shot.
Gloria's eyelids fluttered and a breeze sprang up. The logs in the fireplace roared as they rekindled. The King and Queen shifted on the settle and sat slowly upright, observing the scene before them with a delight that they could not quite understand yet.
Charles felt strangely like passing out, but clung to the wooden post of the bed and kept his feet. His eyes were immovably fixed upon the princess' face. Her feet wiggled and a little hint of a giggle burst from her as she flung her arms outward in a fashion most associated with an early morning stretch after a good night's sleep. Suddenly, her eyes flew open and the expression in them was one of sheer pleasure and delight as she saw Charles.
“You did come!” she cried delightedly in a sweet toned voice. Sitting up, she held both hands out to him and Charles, overcome, could not keep his feet any longer. He took the hands and nearly fell on top of her as he took a seat beside her.
“How? How do we know one another?” he asked, though he knew the answer.
“I dreamed of you,” she responded, then her face clouded slightly, “I suppose I still am dreaming.”
“No...you are not.”
The voice was unfamiliar, and Charles turned his head to see who it was. Rowan was backed against the wall, his eyes nearly protruding from his head. Standing upright, gray eyes bright and clear, stood a young man of no more than twenty-two.
Suddenly, the Queen gasped, “Eugene???”
Gloria whispered, “But Eugene is old...”
Eugene sprang across the room to the Queen, kissed her roundly upon one cheek and then the other, saluted his father similarly, and then bounded to his sister's side.
“No, not old...just cursed. As were you, my love. Look at me. Tell me if you cannot seen the Eugene you remember in the boy's body.”
Charles said, “I can. The eyes are the same...and so is the voice now that I think of it. Just younger.”
Gloria, her hand in Charles', leaned forward slightly, “You are my brother?”
Eugene laughed, “Exactly!”
Charles declared emphatically, “And what a brother! If it weren't for him, Gloria, I do not think I should be here...and you would still sleep.”
Gloria reached out a tender hand to the young man in front of her, “I am so glad...”
****
Rowen fell ill on the return to Kentland with the wedding party and refused, to his dying day, to admit that any of the events that had transpired had been anything but a wild dream in his fever. Not even the beauty of Gloria and the familiar, though unfamiliar ring of Eugene's voice could budge him from that closely held belief.
Stretching his arms over his head, he whispered, “The dream again. What does it mean?”
Impatiently, he threw back his coverlet and lunged out of bed. His feet hit the floor with a soft thump. Standing erect as he stared across the room, one would have noted that, even in his night-shirt, he showed promise of being a strapping man once he had reached full maturity. While not imposing in height, his shoulders were broad and strong. His jaw was on the square side. Any wider and it would have looked disproportionately large on his frame. His hair, which was tousled, was a shade lighter than his eyes and had a great deal of wave in it.
Striding to the window, he threw open the casement and leaned out into the dawn. He frowned in concentration and was thereby surprised when a robust voice hailed him from behind.
“What ho, Charles! Out of bed so early? You'll make a king yet!”
The speaker laughed as if at a joke as the prince turned around, a hint of a laugh showing in his own face.
“And good-morning to you too, Father!”
The King rolled across the floor, his old shipboard walk having never departed from him. He had been second in line for the throne as a young man and had never expected to be king, so he had taken up the Navy...but that is another story.
The King clapped a hand on his son's shoulder and they both looked out at the dawn.
“Father...” Charles hesitated.
“Eh? Speak up, lad.”
Charles glanced at his father's cheerful, curious face. Wondering why he felt so very awkward, he looked back to the lightening sky.
“It happened again.”
The King looked a bit startled; “Again? And it's not even your birthday!”
Charles turned, his chin up. “I know. That is why it is doubly unsettling. I rather have gotten used to it once a year, on the morning of my birthday since it has happened for the last five years, but now? What does it mean, Father? Who is she? Why does she come to me?”
The King attempted to laugh breezily, but did not quite pull it off. “It's just a dream, Charles...just a dream.”
Charles took a turn about the room, “I'm not so sure about that...And there was something new in it this time.”
In spite of himself, the King looked interested.
“You know how in the past she has just looked up, as if I had entered the room, and simply smiles as though pleased to see me...”
The King nodded, having heard this before.
“But this time she extended her hands to me.”
And Charles held out his own in imitation. At first the King started to laugh, but suddenly he interrupted himself.
“Palms up? Like that? Are you sure??”
Charles nodded, “And her expression was nearly pleading.”
The King shook his head, “It's just a dream. Come, get dressed and we will have an early breakfast and go scare a few hares.”
The rabbit hunt was fairly unsuccessful, leaving Charles plenty of time for thinking about his strange dream. The more he considered it, the less sure he was that it was “just a dream”. He shook his head, startling a rabbit from it's invisibility stance and then promptly missed the shot. The King looked over at his son.
“You are distracted. We might as well go home. I have state business at 1:30 to attend to anyway,” and he sighed. He really would rather be sailing the seas.
By the end of a grand lunch, Charles had succeeded in putting all thoughts of his dream behind him and gave himself over to an invigorating afternoon of swordplay with his instructor and certain of his fellows.
As he went to bed that evening, he allowed himself a fleeting thought of the beautiful girl who had in the past made a yearly visit to his dreams...a vision of radient beauty, golden hair streaming down her back...clear, gentle blue eyes, and a rosebud pink mouth. He smiled briefly and dismissed her from his thoughts. Soon he slept and upon awakening the next morning having had no remembered dreams, he felt himself free of whatever had gripped him the day before. Little did he realize, it was just the beginning.
Within the month, it became apparent to him that the persistent dream was not going away. If anything, it was getting more frequent. The girl's face, while still seeming pleased to see him (as he imagined it), began to develop a look of panic and urgency that haunted him into the hours of broad daylight. The eloquent pleading of her eyes intruded into his studies and disturbed his thoughts in his leisure time.
After three months, with the occurrence of his dream being nearly nightly, he requested an audience with his father the King and the King's advisers.
When the men had all gathered about in the big, semi-circular audience chamber, the prince stepped forward and addressed them:
“My lord the King, Nobles and Gentlemen, you have been requested to attend this rather peculiar meeting because I am in dire distress.”
The men shot covert glances amongst themselves and a few eyes got wide and an eyebrow here, there, and yon amongst them twisted or shot upwards.
Quite aware of the stir he was causing, but not caring any longer, Charles continued, “As you would scarecly be aware of, since the morning of my fifteenth birthday, I have had a dream—the same dream—once a year, occurring precisely on my birthday. For five years it was so, with no change to the dream itself. The subject of the dream, you may desire to know. Here therefore, the dream.
“A room, hung about with tapestries, such as were the fashion roughly a century ago, is the setting. Seated on a carved wooden chair, a throne perhaps, sits a fair...nay, a beautiful, maiden in the purest white. No crown does she wear, but only a cascade of golden hair.”
A few knowing smiles passed about the room; the prince was in love, of course!
“This lady looks up, as if I had just entered...and appears much pleased to see me. There it always ended on my birthdays. Always, that is, until roughly three months ago, two months after my last birthday.”
A few backs stiffened in their chairs and a few chins were lifted higher.
“Since then, the dream has become almost nightly [here the King straightened; Charles had not told him this!] and has progressively gotten longer until now the maid has risen and stretches forth her hands to me, form and gesture begging me to come to her.”
Charles paused, watching as the men looked at one another, some looking sympathetic, some contemptuous, some amused, some confused.
“I beg you, therefore, O advisers and my father the king, help me determine what it means!”
A buzz developed in the room as the men started discussing it and arguing with one another. Charles let himself down on his own princely stool and eavesdropped.
It soon became apparent that there were two main lines of thought, with variations. The first being that Charles was subconsciously considering that he must soon start searching for a bride, as each Prince of Kentland was encouraged to do upon reaching the age of one and twenty. “The Power of Suggestion” they called it—though they could not exactly explain the dream from previous years.
The second line of thought was that the Prince was, begging his lordship's pardon, dealing with a form of mental anxiety and that a doctor should examine him for some sort of head trauma. The poor prince laughed in their faces over that explanation.
“No, no, my Lords! I have had no head trauma, of that you may be certain! And as for the “power of suggestion”, I hardly think that fits my plight either as anxiety over any future nuptials has never crossed my breast. No. I-I...”
He lapsed into silence, for it suddenly dawned on him that there was no other alternative than for him to go forth and find the maiden—which plan, he knew would sound trebly ridiculous if he voiced it.
Suddenly, a wavering voice was heard in the still room.
“My Lords...may I dare to speak before you?”
All eyes turned toward an ancient servant who stood with an oily cloth in his withered hand. He seemed rather unstable on his feet and Charles, who did not recall seeing this particular old man before, being smote with a sense of pity, sprang from his seat and carrying the stool set it near the man.
“Here, old one, have a seat, I beg of you.”
The old man's watery gray eyes took in the prince appreciatively and as though settling something within himself he nodded his head, a smile upon his lips.
“I thank-you, m'lord,” he answered softly. Settling himself comfortably upon the stool, his back suddenly straightened and he looked nearly regal. His eyes turned toward the prince.
“My Lord,” he began, “did I overhear correctly that you have been dreaming a dream about a lovely creature of golden hair and azure eyes?”
Charles inclined his head.
“Ah,” said the old man, a dreamy expression crossing his face, “so she speaks...”
“Whatever are you talking about?” demanded an adviser, irritably.
“Hush!” Charles gestured impatiently, never taking his eyes off the wizened old man.
“Many, many years ago it was now,” he started again, “a king and queen wished for a daughter. They already had a son, but they wished for a daughter in addition. When in time a daughter was born to them, they threw a wondrous party to celebrate her christening...such a party the small lad, her brother, had never seen before. Not only where their nobles from realms all about, but the fairy folk were there.”
A ripple of disgust rounded the room. Fairy-folk indeed!
The old man remarked aside to Charles, “Men these days do not believe the fairies exist. They do though...you'll see.”
Charles wondered what that “you'll see” really implied, but did not interrupt to ask, for the old man was speaking again, stronger now.
“Yes, my lords, the fairy folk were there...all but Envy, for the green-eye brute had not been invited. As was customary, each of the fairy folk came prepared to bless the new princess and bless her they did: beauty, grace, chastity, compassion, love. It was at this point that Envy, extremely irate at the neglect she felt herself to have received, arrived, uninvited. She stormed into the audience hall and stood there, an imposing figure in the greenest green dress I-the little prince had ever seen. He had been charmed by all the others, but this one petrified him. Terrified as he was, he could not move from the station he had taken up beside his rosy little sister.
Envy literally kicked up dust throughout the entire room, leaving human and fairy alike coughing. At the height of this chaos of coughing and sneezing, she loomed over the baby and shrieked, 'Blessings I have none for this child! But a curse! A curse of death!'
A gasp of horror could be heard around the room as the coughing suddenly ceased all together. Gathering herself up til she towered over the children, for the little prince had finally moved and that was to throw his short arms over the cradle protectively as the baby screamed in fear, Envy pronounced her curse: 'All the beauty, grace, chastity, compassion, and love you will ever have will be wasted on you—WASTED! For you shall die in the height of your beauty at the pricking of your finger upon a spindle!'
She laughed, oh so evilly. The little prince joined his sister in screams of fear and terror and the din must have affect Envy's already rankled feelings more so, for she suddenly reached down and plucked the boy off his feet and shook him: 'And you, you little screaming bundle of energy—YOU shall be an old, old man until she dies!'
Tossing him from her, the prince fell against the wall and at the gasps and cries from those around him, as well as other things, the prince knew that it was so—he was an old man.”
Charles leaned in and touched the old man on the shoulder and gasped quietly, “You?”
The watery gray eyes blinked up at him and a sort of smile crept along his face, “You are astute, young man. But let me finish my tale.
“The horror of that day was only mitigated by the last of the fairies...whom had yet to bless the baby. She stood slowly and faced Envy calmly and without the least trace of fear. Gesturing towards the entrance, she ordered softly, but in such a tone that it rang, 'Begone. You have done enough harm here.'
“To the wonder of all, Envy seemed to shrink and she left straight-way in silence.
“Turning to the cradle, Mercy knelt down and touched the princess gently upon the cheek. Instantly, the cries ceased. Mercy extended her hand to the now-aged prince and in that position, one hand upon the cradle and the other holding the hand of the prince, she spoke: 'I fear, my good King and Queen, that I cannot reverse Envy's evil, but I can soften it. For starters, come the day that the princess pricks her finger upon a spindle, she shall not die, but rather sleep until woken by a prince worthy of her. As for the prince, he shall remain an old man until the day that his sister is woken—then he shall regain his right form at the age he should be relative to her own.'
“The prince, in his form as an old man watched as his sister grew from a rosy baby to the most beautiful, gracious, compassionate, and loved girl...and as his parents did their utmost to foil the plot of cruel Envy. The prince, with his matured mind, did not dispute this, for he, like his parents was not quite sure that sweet Mercy's blessing countermanded Envy's curse. To see his sister live was utmost in his mind and the aches of his own body were naught when set against the sweetness of his sister.
“Gloria, for such is her name, was never told about the day of her christening...and was therefore never informed that Eugene, the old servant who doted on her, was actually her own brother. He occasionally desired to tell her, but refrained for fear of upsetting her and causing her compassionate heart to grieve unduly.
“The day of beautiful Gloria's seventeenth birthday arrived and with it came a fulfillment of both curse and blessing. Never had she been so beautiful, so graceful, so pure in heart, so sweet and caring...or so loved. As the preparations for her birthday party were being completed prior to the afternoon festivities, Gloria danced about the upper halls, enjoying the feeling of being young, loved, and beautiful. She stumbled upon an old woman set up in her mother's sitting room with a mysterious contraption. It had a wheel that spun round and round upon which the old woman was working a length of sheep's wool. Fascinated, Gloria drew nearer and nearer. Reaching out a curious hand, she pricked her finger on the whirling spindle.
“It appeared that Envy, still smarting from her public humiliation, was tired of waiting for things to happen of their own accord and therefore set the trap for Gloria. Eugene found his sister laying still as death on the floor when he was sent up to bring her down for the grand dinner. I-He was so shaken that he too fell down as if dead.
“Mercy had been invited to the feast and was soon on hand, giving instructions.
“Gloria was laid out in state upon her bed.
“The palace was set to order.
“Quite unexpectedly and quietly, the entire household drifted into a deep sleep around the princess.
“I-Eugene alone was left awake and aware. Mercy turned toward him, 'It is up to you, O Prince', she stated softly, 'to spread the word amongst kings and kingdoms of the story of the sleeping princess who may only be woken by a prince worthy of her love. Go forth in peace.'
“Thus she left him and as he stood there, an immense hedge of thorns began to grow...they grew and grew until the palace was completely hidden behind them. The thorns themselves were a foot long and sharp as rapiers.
“Over the following century, Eugene wandered as an old man, never aging beyond the infirmity placed upon him, telling his story. At the end of a few decades, he began to be laughed at as insane.
“Your prince, O you advisers, has guessed me aright. I am his royal highness Prince Eugene and the Princess Gloria is my most lovely sister. Your prince has dreamed of my sister calling to him...to her he must go.”
A dead silence reigned. The King broke it, awkwardly.
“This is all highly...unsettling.”
“The truth often is, your Majesty,” the old Eugene responded, dryly. “Will you let Charles go in search of my sister?”
The King looked from the apparent wizened age of the man standing beside his stalwart son and his heart quailed. Charles had a gleam in his eye that, as his father knew, meant that his heart was set upon it. He admitted to himself that were he in Charles' shoes, he probably would feel the same way.
“Pray,” the King requested, “do give a little thought to your actions.”
Charles acquiesced to his father's request and withdrew. He spent the night pacing, getting very little sleep when he did try, as he considered. He realised how outrageous Eugene's story was...he realised what a fool he would appear if the nature of his journey were found out...but go he must. He knew without a doubt that if he did not go, he would forever be haunted by the beauteous Gloria with her pleadingly outstretched hands...yea, and the wizened form of Eugene. Even if the fair maid would not be his bride, he could not, in good conscience leave them in the state they were in.
He threw back his head and laughed almost hysterically. “I wonder if the advisers are right and I am insane??” he gasped when he was able to catch his breath.
Finally, he slept fitfully, only to awake with Gloria's outstretched hands reaching for him.
****
“Father, I am going.”
“I knew you would, Charles,” replied the King gently. “I cannot say that I blame you, though, indeed it seems fantastical.”
The prince ran a strong hand through his brown thatch, leaving it at an odd, rather outrageous angle. “I cannot help but think that myself—until I think of my dream...and Eugene.”
“Yes,” the King agreed, “there is Eugene. I find him very compelling.”
Just then, Eugene, who was to act as the prince's guide, entered. He bowed low and when he straightened, Charles noted with something akin to shock that the old man was less stooped and, if possible, less wrinkled than the previous day. His gray eyes also appeared less watery. He was extremely eager to be off, it was clear, but he did not rush the prince as he made his preparations for the journey.
When they set off two days later, in addition to Charles and Eugene, there was one of the prince's especial friends, a young squire by the name of Rowen. Rowen thought it all a big joke and was, as he put it, “just going along for the fun”. It was clear as the feckless across his nose that Rowen did not believe a word of the old man's story, but that he didn't mind dashing off to the ends of the earth in search of adventure.
They traveled steadily for two weeks, headed for a grim looking mountain range that increasingly loomed higher as they neared them. Rowen whistled in admiration, being a mountain born lad himself, he could appreciate the grandeur and danger of the steep crags perhaps better than the others.
“Charles, those mountains are going to be treacherous,” he informed the prince with an air of unconcern.
“Aye,” Eugene replied, “if one had to go over them.”
Both young men looked at him curiously.
Eugene, who had progressively been looking a hint younger as each day passed, grinned back at them with an air of mysteriousness. Finally, he laughed as their expressions got more bewildered and he gestured toward the base of the eastern-most peak.
“That is where we are headed.”
Two days later, the mountain throwing afternoon shadow over them, the travelers saw it—a fifty foot high hedge of wicked thorns, twelve inches long and sharp as a rapier. All along the hedge there were the remains of valiant men, left where they had met their deaths on the thorns.
Rowen gasped, his eyes wide. This at any rate was real. Real and extremely deadly.
Eugene sat his horse sadly, drooping lower than he had at any point on the journey. It seemed to age him more than when Charles had first set eyes on him to be so near and yet so disastrously far from his home.
Charles slowly, slowly raised his head, calmly surveying the expanse of the hedge. His eyes were wide, but his breathing was even and unhurried.
“Eugene,” he asked, “where was the gate?”
As though he had been jarred violently, Eugene sat up straighter and scrutinized the area minutely. At last he lifted his left hand and pointed, “Over yonder...I think.”
Charles rode toward the spot with the other two riding close behind him. Rowen gripped his friend's arm as they came to a halt.
“Charles! Don't be a fool! If these hundred or more could not make it in, how do you think you will?”
Eugene answered, “Because he has already seen her.” Suddenly, he looked startled, “I wonder why I hadn't thought of this before? If Charles has been dreaming of her...Gloria has probably been dreaming of him!” He seemed excited by the idea and spurred his horse forward toward the thorny hedge.
The horse screamed as Eugene plowed straight into the thickest part of the hedge and it fell dead beneath his rider. Without taking time to fully consider what he was doing, Charles dashed after Eugene and grabbed him by the collar of his tunic, “What are you doing?” he demanded.
As he was fixing to turn about, Rowan yelped, “It's closed in behind you!”
Stealing a glance over his shoulder, Charles saw that it was true, the hedge had essentially swallowed himself and Eugene. He struck out with his sword as the vine began to twine about them. Rising in his stirrups he smote the thorns which seemed to be wielded as rapiers by unseen hands. Eugene hunkered underneath Charles' brave steed and with each halting forward step the animal took, he moved with it.
Meanwhile, Rowan sat open mouthed, panting a prayer for deliverance, watching as gradually sight the horse and rider became obliterated.
A crash resounded throughout the dell and suddenly, the vines came crashing down, delievering up their dead—Charles had reached through to the other side. Flinging himself off his horse he turned to face the cascade of wilting vine. It seemed to shrink away from him...becoming smaller and smaller til at last there was not even an evidence of it left on the landscape. Rowen cautiously pushed toward him over the ground that just a short while before had been the ground of death.
Eugene, meanwhile, lay as one dead.
“I will stay with him,” Rowen responded to Charles' gaze of pity upon the white head. “Go on and find your princess.”
Dropping to his knees beside the old man's prostrate form, he gently began rearranging the man into a more comfortable position.
Charles turned about and headed straight for the castle gates. One of them stood slightly ajar and through this he slipped, silently. Even the air, he noted felt asleep. There was no buzzing of flies or other insects, no breeze, nothing. Not even any smell...
He strode past some very large guards who would have been rather imposing if they had not been relaxed in sleep against the broad pillars behind them. The armour was most definitely from a previous century...the story was true.
Hurrying onward, now more eagerly, Charles entered the living apartments of the royal family. The King and Queen were comfortably seated in their daughter's room, side by side on a settle next to the fireplace, with half burned logs in it. Beyond them was a be-tapestried bed and on the bed...Gloria.
Only Gloria in the flesh, asleep, and more beautiful than even his dreams betokened. Gasping down at her, Charles barely dared touch her. Finally, he gently reached down and shook her shoulder.
Behind him, he heard a gasping laugh which was half a sob, “I forgot to mention, you have to kiss her!”
Charles looked over his shoulder at the broken, wizened form of Eugene, supported on the arm of the recklessly freckled Rowan.
“Oh,” he said and felt as ridiculous as it sounded. “Oh.”
Eugene leaned forward eagerly as Charles hesitatingly leaned down and touched the still, white princess' lips with his own. Rowan thought it barely classified as a kiss. Suddenly, he had other things to think about as Eugene collapsed as a man shot.
Gloria's eyelids fluttered and a breeze sprang up. The logs in the fireplace roared as they rekindled. The King and Queen shifted on the settle and sat slowly upright, observing the scene before them with a delight that they could not quite understand yet.
Charles felt strangely like passing out, but clung to the wooden post of the bed and kept his feet. His eyes were immovably fixed upon the princess' face. Her feet wiggled and a little hint of a giggle burst from her as she flung her arms outward in a fashion most associated with an early morning stretch after a good night's sleep. Suddenly, her eyes flew open and the expression in them was one of sheer pleasure and delight as she saw Charles.
“You did come!” she cried delightedly in a sweet toned voice. Sitting up, she held both hands out to him and Charles, overcome, could not keep his feet any longer. He took the hands and nearly fell on top of her as he took a seat beside her.
“How? How do we know one another?” he asked, though he knew the answer.
“I dreamed of you,” she responded, then her face clouded slightly, “I suppose I still am dreaming.”
“No...you are not.”
The voice was unfamiliar, and Charles turned his head to see who it was. Rowan was backed against the wall, his eyes nearly protruding from his head. Standing upright, gray eyes bright and clear, stood a young man of no more than twenty-two.
Suddenly, the Queen gasped, “Eugene???”
Gloria whispered, “But Eugene is old...”
Eugene sprang across the room to the Queen, kissed her roundly upon one cheek and then the other, saluted his father similarly, and then bounded to his sister's side.
“No, not old...just cursed. As were you, my love. Look at me. Tell me if you cannot seen the Eugene you remember in the boy's body.”
Charles said, “I can. The eyes are the same...and so is the voice now that I think of it. Just younger.”
Gloria, her hand in Charles', leaned forward slightly, “You are my brother?”
Eugene laughed, “Exactly!”
Charles declared emphatically, “And what a brother! If it weren't for him, Gloria, I do not think I should be here...and you would still sleep.”
Gloria reached out a tender hand to the young man in front of her, “I am so glad...”
****
Rowen fell ill on the return to Kentland with the wedding party and refused, to his dying day, to admit that any of the events that had transpired had been anything but a wild dream in his fever. Not even the beauty of Gloria and the familiar, though unfamiliar ring of Eugene's voice could budge him from that closely held belief.