This
is the story of Prince Doug. You’ve probably read other stories about princes who
are strong and brave and tough and spend
their time fighting dragons, waging war or rescuing damsels.
Doug was not that sort of prince.
At nineteen years old, he was cute and
handsome with great hair and an adorable mole on his cheek, but he had no
talent for fighting or hunting or any of those other “manly” pursuits which
most princes in other stories spend their time doing. He was sensitive and
artistic. He loved to paint, to write poetry, and to play his booblebox (which
is kind of like an accordion, but not really).
Doug’s mother, Queen Eleanor, was proud of
her son and supported him in his less than traditional princely endeavors.
His stepfather, King Rowan, on the other
hand…
Eleanor’s first husband, the late King
Henry, had loved his children very much and hadn’t cared in the least that they
were so unlike the princes and princesses you find in fairy tales. If anything,
he had loved them all the more for their uniqueness and individual-ity. When he
passed away, the law of the land demanded that Eleanor remarry. She hadn’t
wanted to for the very sensible reason that she was not in love with anybody,
but she didn’t have any choice in the matter which is how King Rowan of
Quelfmoor had become King Rowan of Langdale.
And, almost from the moment of his arrival in Langdale Castle,
Rowan had been complaining about his stepchildren.
As the eldest of Queen Eleanor’s three
children, Doug was the Regent; the next in line for the throne of Langdale. His
stepfather thought he should be spending his time preparing himself to become
king. Not painting, composing or boobleboxing.
“A future king,” Rowan would often
complain to his wife, “has certain responsibilities. He should be learning how
to swordfight or shoot an arrow or do that thing with the long stick, you know,
where they’re on horses and they run at each other and…”
“Jousting?” Eleanor suggested.
“Yes! That’s the word! I mean, what kind
of king is he going to be? How is he going to defend this country in wartime? Play
them a jaunty tune on his bobblebook?”
“Booblebox.”
“Whatever!”
“Rowan, Langdale has been at peace of six
centuries.”
“Nevertheless, a good king must always be prepared for war.”
“Well, I think a good king must always be
prepared to make peace.”
And so the argument continued.
Doug, for his part, was fully aware that
his stepfather didn’t think much of him. It was disappointing for the Prince,
but he was mature enough to know that you can’t force people to like you.
Better to just be yourself and hope that they come around in time.
And, of course, to focus on the people who
do like you. Which leads us to…
“Another masterpiece in the making?”
Doug was sitting in the Royal Garden with
his easel painting some flowers when he was interrupted by a girl of eighteen
with potting soil in her hair, dirt on her face, and mud covering almost all of
the shabby clothes she had on. But her smile shone through all that as the
first rays of the sun peek through the clouds at the end of a summer storm.
The Prince blushed a little and smiled
back. “I don’t know if ‘masterpiece’ is the right word. But it’s coming along.”
“Can I see?” Without waiting for an
answer, the girl walked around to the other side of the canvas to see Doug’s
work in progress. “Oh, Doug,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s not quite finished yet.”
“I don’t care. It’s still beautiful. And I
know it will be even beautifuller when it’s done.”
“I’m glad you like it, because…well, um…”
“What?”
“I was going to give it to you. For your
birthday.”
“You were?” she said, excitedly.
“Yeah, but now you’ve gone and spoiled the
surprise, maybe I should forget the whole—”
“No, no, no! I don’t care that it’s not a
surprise. I love it. I’ll cherish it forever.”
“Really?”
And, just like that, Doug knew. How he
knew, he couldn’t tell you. But something about that moment, about the lilt in
her voice when she said how much she loved the painting, the way the afternoon
sun shone on the few parts of her face that weren’t hidden by dirt, about…who
knows what? But he knew what he had to say next.
“You know,” he said, choosing his words
carefully, “birthday presents really should
be surprises. I should probably give you something else for your birthday
and give you this for some other reason. Like Christmas or St. Floggins’ Day
or…as an engagement gift.”
“I don’t care when you give it to me, as
long as I…wait, what did you say?”
“St. Floggins’ Day? I know socks are the
traditional gift, but—”
“No, after that. Did you just say…engagement?
Are you serious?”
“I am. That is…if you would want to—”
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!”
Each “yes’ was punctuated by a kiss on a
different part of Doug’s face.
“Gertrude!”
The girl spun around to see her father,
the Head Gardener, standing a few yards off, gesturing for her to come over to
him.
Gertie turned back to Doug, who now had
large, dirty splotches on his face where she had kissed him. “I have to go.
We’ll meet tonight, okay? In the usual place?” Again, without waiting for an
answer, she hurried over to her father, leaving Doug alone with his dirty face,
his unfinished painting, and some very happy thoughts.
CHAPTER
TWO: The Queen’s Second Husband
The
Kingdom of Langdale was lush, green and prosperous. The earth was fertile, the
landscape abounded in natural splendor and real, honest-to-gosh magic was alive
and well throughout the land.
By rather stark contrast, the neighboring
province of Quelfmoor was squalid, barren and kinda useless. It had no natural
beauty, no rare minerals, and the whole place had a very unpleasant smell.
As a matter of fact, when the people of
Langdale accidentally stepped in…you know, the stuff animals leave behind in
the road? Well, when they stepped in one, they often said, “Dang it! I stepped
in a quelfmoor!”
So, when the period of mourning for King
Henry ended and Queen Eleanor selected Rowan as her second husband, the people
of both kingdoms were more than a
little surprised. After all, Eleanor—being beautiful, wealthy and powerful—had
plenty of suitors to choose from.
So, why did she pick Rowan? Was he the
handsomest suitor? The bravest? The most charming? The most romantic? The
tallest? The most virtuous? The best at Go Fish?
Nope.
She picked him because of jam.
The only remotely redeeming thing about
Quelfmoor were the quelfberries. These lumpy, sticky, gray berries were
inedible when eaten plain, but could be made into a delicious jam. A jam that
Queen Eleanor absolutely adored.
So, the marriage was a mutually beneficial
arrangement. Rowan got to be in charge of a way better country, and Eleanor got
all the quelfberry jam she could eat.
Not the best reason to get married, but
not the worst, either.
When Rowan moved into Langdale Castle, he
brought a few prized possessions, one loyal servant named Crevor (about whom
more later) and his son, Prince Edmond. Edmond was about the same age as Doug,
but that’s pretty much all the two princes had in common.
Edmond was, in Rowan’s mind, everything
that a prince should be. He was also everything Doug was not. He had no
aptitude for arts and/or crafts but was a great fighter, sportsman and
strategist.
Yet, despite their many glaring
differences, Doug and Edmond had become fast friends.
“Great shot, Edmond!”
After saying goodbye to Gertrude, Doug had
washed his face then sought out his stepbrother to share with him the good
news. He found Edmond at the shooting range, arriving just in time to see Edmond
fire three arrows at once and hit three different targets.
“Thanks, Doug,” said Edmond. “Care to try
it?” He held out his bow for Doug to take it.
“Er…I’d better not. If I tried to fire an
arrow at one of those targets, I’d probably miss and kill someone.”
“That’s why you have to practice. If you
keep trying, you’ll get better. I promise.”
“Thanks, Edmond, but I have to tell you
something really important.”
“What is it?”
“Well…I’m engaged!”
Edmond’s eyes went wide with surprise.
“You asked Gertie?”
“I did. Just now, in the flower garden.”
“And she said yes?”
“Well, yeah, I wouldn’t be engaged if she
hadn’t said yes.”
“Right, of course. Doug, this is
wonderful!”
“Thanks. But, listen, don’t tell anyone,
all right? I’m saving the big announcement for dinner tonight. But I just
couldn’t go another minute without telling someone.”
“My lips are sealed, Brother.”
Edmond embraced Doug, who went back inside
to write about his engagement in his journal. Edmond returned to his target
practice.
CHAPTER
THREE: Ash and Sir Sophie
While
we’re waiting for dinner and Doug’s big announcement, let’s take a moment to
meet his younger siblings, shall we?
Ash did not have any friends (apart from
his brother and sister, that is). Most boys his age liked to play outside, run
around and make a lot of noise. Ash preferred sitting his room and reading. He
liked peace and quiet.
One day, while looking for a new book to
read (by the time he was eight he had gone through every single book in the
Castle Library), Ash had found a very old book bound in black leather in the
bedroom of his governess, Imelda. He had blown through almost a hundred pages
before she came in and saw him.
“What are you doing?” said Imelda,
nervously. “You shouldn’t be in here. What’s that book?”
She snatched the book away and read the
title:
Magic For Beginners
“This is what you’ve been reading?”
Ash nodded.
“And…what did you think?”
Ash smiled.
“You’d like to learn more about magic?”
Ash nodded.
“Well…I think that can be arranged.”
You see, before getting the job as Royal
Governess, Imelda had been a witch. But witchery didn’t pay very well and the
health benefits weren’t great, so she
became a governess instead.
Now, however, she could be both. And that’s
how she came to take on Ash as an apprentice.
Ash, being very clever and dedicated,
progressed quickly through his studies. Queen Eleanor, obviously, was very
proud of her son’s magical skills. And, just as obviously, King Rowan just
complained about it.
See, most of the people who practiced
magic back then were women, like Imelda. There were a few dudes who did magic,
but they weren’t princes. It was not considered appropriate for a person of
Royal Blood to use magic, let alone a boy.
“Bad enough he’s mute,” Rowan would whine.
“He has to be a boy witch on top of it?”
“First,” replied Eleanor, “the word for
‘boy witch’ is ‘warlock. Second, Ash is not mute.”
“He can’t talk, can he? That’s what mute
means!”
“We don’t know that he can’t talk. Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk.”
“Oh, you mean he’s faking?”
“I didn’t say that. I just think…maybe he
doesn’t have anything to say. Yet.”
“Well, if you ask me…”
“Nobody asked you.”
“…he’s almost as weird as your daughter.”
Ah, yes. Eleanor’s only daughter, Sophie.
Now, most girls would love to be
princesses. Not Sophie. At the ripe old age of six, Sophie had already decided
what she wanted to be when she grew up:
Sophie wanted to be a knight.
“Knights are way better than princesses!” explained Sophie (or Sir Sophie, as she preferred to be
called). “They get to wear helmets, and fight with swords and ride noble steeds
and say ‘charge!’ Princesses don’t
get to do any of that stuff! All princesses get to do is look pretty and wear
uncomfy clothes until they’re old enough to marry some dumb boy.”
So, from then on, Sir Sophie decided that
she would be a knight. She had a sword (made of wood) which she always carried
around, a helmet (a cardboard box with
eyeholes cut in it) which she always wore over her head, and she rode
around the castle on her noble steed, Buster (who was a pig) yelling “Charge!”
Just to be
clear, Sophie was the one who yelled “charge.” Not Buster. Buster was not a
talking pig. Just a regular type pig.
Anyway, you can
guess how enthusiastic Rowan was about Sophie’s ambition.
“No prince wants to marry a girl who rides
a pig and pretends to be a knight!”
“Okay,” said Eleanor, who was getting more
than a little sick of her husband criticizing her children, “in the first
place, Sophie is six, so I think we
can put off worrying about her getting married for a while. Secondly,
pretending to be a knight is teaching her honor, bravery, integrity and
self-confidence. All of which are traits I want to encourage. Also, I think she
looks super cute in her helmet.”
“At least you’ll admit that it’s a little…oh,
you know…not very clean? Unhealthy?”
“Unhygienic?”
“Exactly! The way she rides that pig
everywhere? Can’t be sanitary.”
“Actually, that pig is probably one of the
cleanest animals in the kingdom.”
“How’s that?”
“Captain Randy of the Royal Guard told her
that knights keep their noble steeds clean, so she gives him a bath every
night.”
“Does she really? Fine, but it’s still
weird!”
Ah, yes. That dreaded word. Weird!
Anything that is different from what is expected, from what things are
“supposed” to be, anything that is even slightly outside the agreed upon
societal norms is given that label: Weird.
Doug would rather paint a picture than
shoot an arrow? Weird!
Ash doesn’t talk and studies magic? Weird!
Sir Sophie rides a pig and wields a wooden
sword? Weird!
Eleanor loves all three of them and
wouldn’t change them even if she could? Weird!
And you know what? Rowan’s right. The
whole family are weird. Very weird. Super weird. Where he makes his mistake,
where practically everyone makes their mistake, is in thinking that weird is a
bad thing to be.
Hopefully, by the end of this story, he’ll
see how wrong he is.
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