Happily Ever Not

Once upon a time, in a land that never was, there lived a young maiden….

Cleo throws open the shutters, letting in the new day. The breeze whips through her slightly disheveled hair, long and golden in the morning sun. Rabbits scamper in the underbrush. Two little blue birds dance rings around one another, chirping with love songs, as they grow nearer Cleo’s little cottage in the woods. They land in an evergreen tree, facing Cleo, their sweet song peaking until….

“Oh, shut it, will you!”

Their chirping cuts off abruptly. Both their heads slide towards Cleo, who scowls from the window as she looks up at them.

“What did you say to me?” says the male in an affronted voice.

“You heard me,” Cleo snaps.

Both birds look from her to each other, then take flight in unison. As they do, a fat skunk fights his way up to the ledge Cleo leans on, finally sitting down at her elbow with a huff.

“Cleo.” 

“Barry.” She jerks her chin in the direction of the birds, now no more than pinpricks in the dazzling sky. “What’s with them?”

His tail flicks dismissively. “Newcomers.”

“Figures.”

Cleo turns back into her house, Barry inviting himself along inside. The room is a disaster zone. Dirty cups litter every table, clothes strewn about the furniture. Soot spills from the fireplace like an avalanche onto the ragged wood of the floor.

“Rough night?” Barry asks.

“Yeah,” Cleo says with a sigh. “I ran out.”

“Of what this time?”

“Unicorn dust. I swear, I just got some off Huey last week.”

“Hon, the man’s a jackrabbit. His stuff is meant for…well, you know. It’s twice the strength of what Martin sells. Makes you go through it twice as fast.”

“Martin’s an ass,” Cleo says, rolling her eyes. “If I have to hear one more time about how he saved his den from under the hooves of a crowned prince, I’m going to roast him over a spit for dinner.”

Barry stares at her for moment. “Nice.”

“Yeah, whatever. You’re no saint.”

Cleo pulls a wrinkled, baby-blue gown over her head, snatching a fish skeleton off her knobby-legged dresser. She yanks it through her hair, wincing as it catches in a knot at the back of her head. A couple of bones crack in protest.

She leaves the house with Barry toddling along at her heels, a worn wicker basket dangling from her arm. Animals of all kinds flee before her as she makes her way down to the river. She strips, ducking into the water before she can think twice about the cold. She scrubs furiously in every crack and crevice. 

A herd of deer wanders up for a drink, not noticing her until she stands full up. They freeze as they catch sight of her standing there naked. Their ears flick back and forth nervously, large dark eyes unmoving, jaws working from side to side as they mutter to one another in indignant shock.

“Pervs!” she shouts. They bolt, springing over dead trees and rocks back to the confines of the forest. She smiles widely, making her way back to the bank and Barry, who is cleaning himself meticulously. 

She frowns at him as she dresses.

“Why even bother?” she says. “There’s no getting rid of that stench.”

Barry picks at a claw. “Just like there’s no getting rid of a black heart, baby.” Barry grins up at her, an evil glint in his eye. “And you dream of someone coming to sweep you off your feet. Which of us is the more disillusioned?”

Cleo sticks out her tongue before retorting. “Skank.”

“Princess.”

Cleo gasps. “How dare you!” She picks up a large rock and hurls it toward him. Lazily, he rolls off his rock like a sack of flour, but he needn’t have bothered. Sure, Cleo could hit anything with her bow and arrow. Her specialty was the village idiot, Carl, an old tortoise who made excellent target practice since he was blind in addition to being slow. 

But a throwing arm she had not. 

The rock sails high above them, biting into the trunk of a withered old tree. The tree shudders angrily, pulling one of its branches back in warning.

“Hey!” it shouts in its grating tree-voice, like a bunch of twigs snapping at once. “I’m dying here!”

“Well hurry it up, then,” Cleo says. “I’m in need of some new toothpicks.”

“Why you little - “ The branch whips forward like a striking snake and Cleo is slammed back with the force of it. Her head bounces off the ground and she plunges into blackness.

The sound of hacking metal on wood rouses Cleo from unconsciousness. Her eyes open slowly, a hand flying to her head, which pounds out a harsh rat-tat-tat. She sits up, her other hand pressing down in the dirt.

“Oof, that’s a shiner.”

She peeks out to see Barry giving her a once over from a distance.

“I think I may have broken something," she says in a sweet tone. "Could you come over here and see?”

“I’ve known you too long to fall for that, darling,” he says. He nods towards the trees. “Him, on the other hand? It might work.”

Cleo’s eyes shoot forward. A young man, dressed in delicately embroidered leather and impeccably clean clothes beneath his light armor, hacks away at the tree that accosted Cleo. The tree keeps easily brushing him back with a flick of one branch after another, but the moron just keeps flinging himself forward anyhow. Finally, he manages a strong blow at the trunk, his sword biting into the bark.

“Ha ha!” Cleo hears him shout in triumph. “At last, foul demon, I have vanquished thee!” He grasps the sword by the hilt and pulls, again and again, but it is lodged too deep. He grabs it with both hands, jiggling it up and down fruitlessly.

Cleo’s head shakes in mock-pity, mirrored by Barry.

“Pathetic.”

“Even more than Old Carl.”

“Way more.”

Cleo digs a hand into her wicker basket, producing a large brown bottle. She unstoppers it and takes a hearty swig before offering it to Barry, who raises a paw in refusal.

“D’you think,” Barry says, “someone like that and someone like you could ever - ?”

“Ew, no,” Cleo says. 

“I mean, he did try and save you,” Barry considers. “Might be worth a shot.”

“No way.”

Barry stills beside her. “I think it’s worth a shot.” He raises his voice. “Yo! Pretty boy!”

“Shut up!” Cleo tries to smack Barry, but he’s too far away. His shout did the trick and the man turns toward them. As he jogs over, his armor clanks like a dull wind chime.

“My lady!” he says, kneeling down at her feet. “Are you hurt?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Cleo says. “You can run along now.” She waves her hands at him dismissively.

The man’s face droops. “Might I see you home, to make sure you are safe?”

“Dude, I’m not showing you where I live,” Cleo says. “How stupid do you think I am?”

“Oh, I meant no harm,” the man says quickly. “I just - ”

But whatever he just was, Cleo never found out. For at that moment, the gallop of hooves barely preceded the slice at the front of Mr. Do-gooder’s tunic and he was sprawled, dead, upon the grass before Cleo. Both she and Barry look up to find a knight, seated atop a brilliantly white stallion, covered head to toe in shiny, thick armor. 

As he slides the helmet from his head, wavy black locks spill from beneath it to brush the tops of his shoulders. He dismounts and his sly half-grin lights his smoky gray eyes, which immediately lock on Cleo. Words fail her and she sits, mouth gaping open. Barry lets out a little fart, the strong smell of raw onions coating the breeze.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” the knight asks in a deeply seductive voice. “Has a witch laid a spell upon them or is your beauty real?”

Cleo lets out a throaty, most unladylike guffaw. 

Barry slaps a paw to his face.

The knight’s brows furrow, but he extends a hand to Cleo anyway. She takes it, allowing him to pull her to her feet.

“Thank you, kind knight,” Cleo says, choosing her words carefully, allowing her voice to drift into a sing-song pattern she had never heard come from her mouth before. “For saving me, I mean.”

The knight grins at her. “Of course, fair maiden. What is your name?”

“Cleo.”

“Beautiful Cleo,” the knight says, beaming. “My name is Chance. Lewis Augusts Sven Thomas Chance III. My friends just call me Last for short.” 

“You…what?” Cleo asks, her sing-song voice vanishing. “Your name is Last Chance?”

He nods. “Perhaps I’m yours, fair Cleo. May I impose upon your good graces a moment longer and escort you back to your dwellings? I would hate to part with thee.”

Cleo glances back to Barry, whose shrug says quite clearly, “Go ahead, you idiot.” Cleo turns back and nods eagerly to Last, but stumbles as she walks forward, letting out a small cry of pain.

“Are you hurt?” he says in concern.

“Uh….” 

He kneels, carefully examining Cleo’s ankle, which is swelling rapidly. Without asking, he sweeps her into his arms, carrying her toward his horse, who stands munching idly on sweet grass.

“You can ride my horse, m’lady,” Last says, seating her in the saddle. “But I must warn you…he’s a wild one.” He winks and her eyes grow wide. He swings into the saddle behind her, spurring the horse forward.

Barry slumps down on a rock, watching them go, his own grin upon his face.

“And they’ll live happily ever after.” He nods to himself. “I have a good feeling about this.”

A loud SMACK echoes through the woods, followed by a surprised gasp from Cleo.

Barry chuckles. “Oh yeah.”