Chapter 8

Biting The Hand

The Great Queen Faerie stood up then.

She looked a Bar and wondered when,

The sly young man would make his move.

She glanced down at the puffy groove,

Marking Bar’s right handed wrist,

Tissue still all scarred and twissed,

As if it were a weeping wound.

She did not dwell upon the sight,

But gauged his strength and magic’s might.

“My dear young Bar” she calmly crooned,

Addressing him as a buffoon,

“You may leave us as you want,

But your brother, hurt and gaunt,

Is now under my protection,

And despite your bald objection,

He must wake and state his side,

Of this story you confide.”

Bar bowed his head and smugly smiled,

And raised it up, and looked beguiled,

By the beautiful Perlameen,

The loveliest flower he’d ever seen.

Then turning slowly to the Queen,

His lip a snarl, his eyebrows mean,

He stared at her and pondered her,

Every line of gaze, a dagger.

It happened quick, It happened fast,

The smoke, the flames, the booming blast,

That shook the cottage and the lands,

When scheming fireballs left Bar’s hands.

 Not one, not two, not five or six,

But ten of them smote stone and bricks.

Windows shattered, walls collapsed,

Sharp pieces crashing on the laps,

Of Blacksmith, girls, and the Queen.

Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!Ha! Ha! Ha!

The jailer gloated at what he saw:

A mound of rubble, piled up double,

On the floor, as heavy trouble,

To girls, and Queen, and smith bequeathed,

Hidden somewhere underneath.

“You foolish  Queen! Did you mean

To think my magic you could shield?

I have the Giant’s power to wield!

Not even you can conquer that!”

Bar closed his mouth and then he sat,

Back to chair with creaky seat,

His gown still crisp, his hair still neat.

As he sat, he looked and looked,

Amid the rubble’s crooks and nooks,

Searching the spaces in between,

For any sign of the Faerie Queen.

It seemed that he had crushed them all.

How could the Queen so easy fall?

He stood up for a closer view,

Just as a soft and glowy hue,

gently, gently, pulsing blue,

Began to grow from the debris,

Ba-bum, ba-bee, ba-bum, ba-bee,

Until the wreckage of the room,

Was lit up brighter than the moon.

That was when the counter stroke,

Of the Queen let loose and broke,

Disintegrating the debris,

Into the air, while rose up she,

Shielded in a magic bubble,

Hovering above the rubble,

With the others safe and supple,

Live with anger at this tupple.

“So is this all that you can do?”

The Queen derided Bar in blue.

Her biting words and mocking look,

Cut deep the jailer and he shook,

In wrath that made him blink and twitch,

And curse the Queen a faerie witch.

In truth the lovely Faerie Queen,

Was stunned and shocked by what she’d seen,

Her heart beat wild with wicked worry,

Blue blood coursing rage and fury,

Afraid that Bar possessed the power,

To win him out, this dour hour.

Quick within her grew the fear,

That her demise was standing near,

But if so, she would not run,

‘I stand my ground and bow to none’,

She thought, and took her deepest breath,

Full prepared to meet her death.

Straining hard to seem not weak,

She waited wild for Bar to speak,

But not another word he said,

For now his fingers touched his head,

And in his brain he cast a spell,

Which in his heart he knew quite well,

He should not dare to cast out here,

Deep within the faeries’ lair.

Vicious, vicious from his mind

Out came a magic, worst in kind,

The kind that could not be repealed,

The kind that cuts through any shield,

The kind that kills its target field.

Ready to wield, raising his arm,

The grand Queen’s face in full alarm,

The Giant’s jailer loosed his harm.

No one knows what would have happened,

If vicious spell had reached its end.

It might have spurred a massacre,

Of Blacksmith, pixies, girls and her,

It might have been repelled and sent,

Straight back at Bar, with rips and rent,

But we will never know, my friend,

Because before black spell could send,

A roaring mace of snow and ice,

Whirring, turning, spikes that slice,

Fast flew through air, up gaining loft,

And struck Bar’s hand, and cut it off.

Bar screamed and fell, and clutched a stump,

Behind him Gar fell over, slumped.

Before the Blacksmith, or the Queen,

Or the girls, or pixie beans,

Could intercept the fallen jailer,

He stood up fast, and looking paler,

Snatched up his hand from down below,

Where it had fallen, after blow.

With hair mussed, and white as death,

He mumbled, mumbled, in his breath,

And in a blink he disappeared,

While leaving bed gown blue and seared,

In pile up steaming from the floor,

Without a trace of him there more.

Shocked from silence by the scene,

Poepilandia said: “Where’s Perlameen?”

Copyright 2013. PATG LLC. All rights reserved.