The Other Story

Leah R Cutter

Copyright 2011 by Leah R Cutter

This version published by Knotted Road Press

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The Other Story

Once upon a time in the kingdom of Illumignot lived the handsome King Franklin and the clever Queen Isabella. They loved each other dearly and their rule was both just and wise. Every morning they took time for each other, sharing golden morning tea in the sunroom of their quarters, holding hands and speaking their deepest secrets, wishes and dreams while looking out over the beautiful valley of their kingdom.

The wish they spoke of most often was simply this: to have a child they could call their own.

There were heirs aplenty that they could choose from. They both had siblings with children to spare. Their dear niece Deirdre with her fine red hair and wisdom beyond her years was one, their nephew Arthur who was both bookish and worldly was another. Their lives and adventures are other stories. The king and queen still wished for a child of their own, knew their desire was selfish, and yet, dreamed anyway.

Finally, after over a decade, Queen Isabella got pregnant. King Franklin rubbed her feet every day and told her she looked beautiful, even after she'd been crying. Fortunately, the pregnancy wasn't difficult, and after nine months of the entire kingdom holding its breath, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy: Prince Kyle.

That night, the entire kingdom celebrated. Servants sat beside Lords and toasted each other, the palace dogs and their guards raced and drank deeply, every family cheered and played, into the wee hours of the morning.

When the celebration ended, all slept, mindless of their duties, knowing they'd be forgiven. The kingdom had an heir and the people had a prince.

That was when the Blue Fairy came and stole all their shadows.

* * *

The next day dawned bright and clear. Pierce, the head gardener for the palace, woke slowly. His head ached and his mouth tasted as though he'd been eating last year's roots. Like the rest of the kingdom he'd celebrated the arrival of Prince Kyle with too much mead and not enough meat. His apprentices still snored on their cots in the main room beyond the curtain. He stretched, expecting his joints to ache like a winter storm was coming but strangely enough, they didn't. He felt lighter, almost like a tree without roots.

He shivered even though the blankets were still tucked around him and warm: nothing good could come of such boundlessness.

Still, Pierce rose and went about his morning ablutions as usual, only bellowing for his lazy apprentices to wake when he'd finished dressing. The mad scramble to get food from the servants' kitchen and tea the right sweetness followed. Pierce grumbled about how long it took, though when he thought about it later, noticed that his three apprentices had dashed about more quickly than usual, as well as with less grace.

While the apprentices went about cleaning their quarters, their clothes, and debating the day's assignments, Pierce went out to the roses, intending to prune a few as well as make a bouquet for the queen's lunch. He reached out for a magnificent white one, clippers in hand, when he looked down.

The rose cast a shadow, as tall as Pierce, along the fine, white stone path.

Pierce's shadow was missing.

He squinted up at the sun, making sure the angle was right. But no shadow fell from his body. He stuck the point of his clippers into the back of his hand, hard enough to draw a drop of bright red blood.

As far as Pierce could tell, he still lived. But where had his shadow gone? He bellowed for Timothy, his apprentice.

"Did you cut yourself again?" Timothy asked as he came running up, eyeing the wound on the back of Pierce's hand.

"Look!" Pierce shouted, pointing one shaking hand at the bush before him, his eyes on the ground.

Timothy looked from the rose to Pierce. "Is there something wrong with the flowers?" he asked.

"Down, you idiot," Pierce growled.

"I don't see anything," Timothy said after a moment. He gave an audible gulp of air after glancing at the bushes and the trees. "I don't see anything." He held out his own trembling hand. "What does it mean?" He didn't cast a shadow either. It didn't make Pierce feel any better.

"Nothing good," Pierce grumbled. "We must tell the king."

* * *

"What does it mean?" King Franklin asked his advisors, one by one. They'd all stepped into the bright morning light, casting about for a shadow that never appeared. They'd held books, pillows, fans before them, which all cast the proper dark shape on the floor, the sun shining through their bodies like glass. Messengers, tied to their horses since they were suddenly too light to sit properly, came from all parts of the kingdom with the same story: everyone's shadow was gone.

"What does it matter?" replied Owen, the youngest of the king's advisors. "There's no need for a shadow, is there? Don't you all feel lighter, freer, better than before?"

As one, the advisors and king nodded. They all felt it, how they were closer to the hawk than the lowly stallion. Familiar aches from old wounds hurt less. The sky drew their attention instead of the ground.

"It doesn't mean anything good," warned Bryon, one of the oldest advisors. "Shadows are there for a purpose. You'll see."

It was about a week before Bryon's words proved true.

The kingdom of Illumignot wasn't tiny, but it wasn't large either. It had known famine and plague, though in the recent years there had been wealth and food aplenty. There were many people, babies born often and grandparents dying. Still, the first deaths didn't occur right away.

Peter the gravedigger sat in his hut, finishing his lunch and waiting out the last of the afternoon shower. It had been a slow week since the birth of the prince. The grass across the graves shined bright green, glistening and peaceful. It was one of the reasons why Peter worked in a graveyard: it was almost always quiet. He liked to walk among the graves and think about the latest news, or contemplate the deeper meanings of things. He'd just about finished that morning's burial when the tower bells had rung noon and the rain had started. As the next burial wasn't until tomorrow, he knew he had time to nap before he finished closing up the one and started opening the next as well as eat his lunch.

As the rain slowed to merely drops blown from the trees, Peter gathered up his shovel and headed toward the slash of brown cut across the bright green, whistling an old tune he'd learned in childhood.

Peter slowed and stopped whistling when he saw something had disturbed the grave. As he drew closer he realized that someone sat on top of the dirt, just their head and shoulders rising above the ground.

When Peter drew closer still he recognized Old Farmer John. Whose body was supposed to be under the dirt, not sitting on top of it.

Peter shivered, afraid. He'd seen magic and ghosts before: this was different, a fresh body no longer in its coffin, breaking the order of things. Still, there was nothing for it and he marched ahead. "Afternoon," Peter said politely. He didn't want to talk with the body, but there were worse things.

Old Farmer John merely nodded at him.

"I went to a lot of work to bury you this morning," Peter said. "And now I'm going to have to do it again."

Old Farmer John shrugged, as if it were no concern of his.

"I didn't mean anything of it. Burying you. You're dead, you know," Peter pointed out.

Nodding, Old Farmer John said, "I know. Couldn't sleep." He waved toward the ground. "Kept waking up. Couldn't stay down." He cocked his head to the side. "Could you bury me deeper?"

"Sure," Peter said easily. He knew he'd done a proper job digging the old man's grave. He had a stick for measuring the depth and he'd squared off the bottom just where it had said. Still, Old Farmer John, while not a friend, had made a reasonable enough request. "Why don't you go lay down over there and I'll re-dig your grave for you?" Peter figured he could wrestle the empty coffin himself.

Old Farmer John climbed nimbly out of the hole, moving more quickly than Peter thought a dead body could. The dirt streamed off the farmer, not clinging to his overly pale skin or the good suit of clothes he'd been buried in. Suspicious, Peter dug quick as he could to the coffin.

Inside, the putrefying body of Old Farmer John still lay. The thing above the grave was some kind of ghost or spirit. "You know," Peter said, poking his head above the ground. "Your body's still here."

Old Farmer John nodded. "And I should be wrapped around it, sleeping peacefully through the ages, until the final bell tolls. But I can't."

Peter pulled himself out of the grave. "I need some help," he explained. "To lift up the coffin, then dig deeper."