A Strange Surprise

She wipes her muddy hands on her capris. The brown streaks match the patches on her knees. The old jeans, baggy and held up only by a thick cowboy belt her dad got her a while ago, have long been dedicated only to garden work. She tilts her head back in the sunshine, enjoying the smell of wet dirt and growing tomato plants and blooming lilies just across the garden fence. She picks up her bucket of weeds, squelches her barefoot way across the garden, and empties her bucket in the chicken pen. They all come running, a whole flock of Mrs. Bennets, and pick delightedly though the present she’s brought. She clucks back and laughs at them, then puts her bucket away in the garden shed. The hose is her next destination. She sits down in the chair, taking her phone out of her back pocket and lying on the little table so she doesn’t warp it by sitting on it like her mom did hers. She turns the water on and washes her feet. The dirt under her nails is more resistant, but who cares. She shuts the water off and stands up— and freezes.

She hadn’t heard them coming, but there are two men there, muscles bulging underneath grey suits and capped by fedoras, with masks covering most of their faces. Both are taller than her. She grabs for her phone, but one of them predicts her move and grabs it first, stuffing it into his pocket. 

She means to ask who they are and what they want, too, but the words desert her. Of all times. 

They both lunge forwards. She turns, but one grabs her shoulders, the other her right wrist. She screams, and the one holding her shoulders pulls her against his chest and covers her mouth with his big hands. Her left hand goes automatically to the pocket where she keeps her knife, but the other one snags it too. Her hands are tied together, in front of her, with rope. For a moment she is intrigued. These kidnappers have class, at least. Then they push her around to the front of the house where a white car that she doesn’t recognize is idling. She gets shoved into the backseat. She tries to scream now, but the back seat is split by a console and she catches it with her lungs on entry. The door slams behind her. She twists her legs in front of her and tries to open the door with her tied hands, but it’s locked. The men both calmly buckle their seatbelts and pull out of the driveway. 

“Where are you taking me?” Ah. She could speak now. That’s nice.

They don’t respond. That’s not nice.

“Who are you? What do you want with me?”

Still no answer. Fine. There is a benefit to sitting on one side instead of in the middle; here she has a bit of privacy. She worms her fingers into her left pocket, then changes her mind. The rope isn’t tight, and she begins to work on the knots. 

They are not driving quickly; just a few kilometres over speed limit, like everyone does; even her, sometimes. She can see the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and something rings a bell. She tries to think of anyone who might have a grudge against her, but that department doesn’t have any member with this strong of a grievance, at least to her knowledge. And definitely not someone who looks like a 1920’s gangster.

They slow down beside the road, pointing at something in the ditch that she can’t see. They are in the middle of nowhere. The door to her right clicks, and the two men unbuckle their seatbelts. Before they can open their doors, she bursts out of her own. The rope is left behind on her seat and she dashes down the road. The car starts up again. She needs to go where they can’t follow. She jumps the ditch and plows into the wheat field.

There is only one problem. She isn’t fast. Very not fast, actually. She doesn’t look back, but she can hear heavy steps behind her. She tries to run faster. There is a row of brush ahead. She jumps into it and lands ankle-deep in a drainage creek. Thankfully, this one is mud, not clay, otherwise she would’ve landed on her her rear. She sloshes across and keeps going, sticking to the bank. 

The following footsteps are gone. Either they just got immensely quieter, or… she dares to turn around. There is no one there. She crawls out of the brush and peeks at the road. The car is gone, and there is no one to be seen. She wants to go back to the road and re-trace her way home, but they could come driving past again. She looks around. There is smoke rising from a patch of woods farther on. She decides to check it out. 

Sandwiched between a few trees is a ramshackle cabin that looks as though it has never been sturdy. The smoke is coming from a hole in the roof. There is a woman sitting in the doorway, bundled up in patterned layers despite the heat. A rose and gold scarf conceals the lower half of her face, and an olive green one drapes backward from her forehead. She gets up, slowly, and heaves a sigh, then motions for her to come in. She follows, completely bewildered. She didn’t think there were still witches around— which this person certainly seems to be. She wonders if this witch is just an herbal healer or if she is the type who consorts with demons. In case it is the latter, she prays silently and prepares to use the name of Jesus in her defence. 

Inside, everything is smoky. The hole in the roof is not fulfilling its office completely. The witch goes to a trunk and takes out something wrapped in cloth, then motions for her to take a seat. She sits down on the only available place— an unmade bed, or rather, a low wooden table with a rumpled blanket spread out on it. The witch hands her the long object, then turns away to hunch over the caldron by the fire. 

She takes the cloth off the object and discovers a rapier. She’s never used one of these before; just the clunky wooden swords her bothers make for fun. “What is this for?” she asks. The witch doesn’t respond, and she looks down at the blade again. The there is a terrific crash and shriek. She looks up to see a cloud of steam erupt from the extinguished fire, engulfing the witch and the fallen caldron. She makes for the door. 

The steam tastes sweet, she discovers, licking the drops from her lips. It is still billowing out of the door, but the amount is less. Where is the witch? She enters the cabin again. It is still foggy, but there is no doubt. The witch is gone.

She heads back outside and sits down, crosslegged in a spot where the sun leaks through the trees. Had she hit her head, maybe, while washing her feet? What is going on? 

Something rustles the brush beside her. She jumps to her feet, hand instinctively tightening around the rapier’s hilt. A man walks out of the trees, or a boy, rather, about her height, but skinnier. He is wearing loose-fitting black clothing, a black mask, of course, and holds his own rapier. He walks toward her, raising his weapon. She raises hers, but he knocks the blade aside and thrusts forward. She jumps back. He swings again. She parries, but he catches her blade and makes a half-circle, leaving his blade on top, and free to thrust again. She is forced back again. The third time, her rapier flies from her grip. Her attacker advances, and she backs farther away. Then the ground changes under her feet— no longer weeds and dirt, but rough and scratchy, like—

A sack scoops her up. She shrieks, thinking for sure that now she will get skewered through, but the only sound outside is fading footsteps. Is he planning coming back and cutting her down when she gets tired? She wiggles furiously into an upright position, but no blow comes. Above the rustling of the bag, are those… footsteps? They’re fading. Had he just wanted to trap her? Now he is gone. 

She pulls the pocket knife out of her jeans and sends up a little thank you to God for not letting her take it out before. Now that she still has it, she can cut her way out. She knows it is a bad idea, that she will probably fall, but it seems to be the only way out of the sack. She pokes the blade through the fabric and starts sawing away at the fibres. The blade really needs to be sharpened. She’ll have to get her brother to do that when she gets home… home. It seems so far away, that so much has happened. How can she get back home? 

The slit in the sack grows larger and larger, stretching as her body leans toward the lowest point. Finally there is a great tear, and she tumbles out onto the ground below. She is thankful again that she was not high up: only about a foot or so. She stands up, dusts off her rear, and looks around. The boy is nowhere to be seen. This is so strange.

Marching up ahead catches her attention. It is a strange sound. She has never seen an army march up close before, but it definitely isn’t a marching band in the Christmas parade. The steps are all out of sync, but not plodding, either. It is almost like stomping. She doesn’t realize she has moved until she is crouching behind a bush as close as she dares to get to the noise. 

Dwarves. That is the name that pops into her head when she sees the company. Dwarves? Yet there they are, about twenty or so, between three and four feet tall, stocky and dressed in thick brown furs and heavy boots. They are all wearing helmets with bushy hair and beards sticking out every hole. They march past, not even glancing her way, and she does not try to speak to them. She is rather frightened. But they pass, not one saying a word, staring straight forwards and marching along. Then they are gone. 

She sits back, flummoxed, only to sit down on a foot. “Oh. I’m sorry!” is her automatic response as she scrambles to her feet. A delicate laugh precedes the glimpse of her face. A very pretty face, if rather pale, at least what she can see of it between the scarves. 

“It is all right, mellon,” the woman says in a lilting tone. This is the only person so far who does not look familiar. 

“You will talk,” she says, incredulously. It is rather a relief to hear another voice.

“Yes, but only because it is necessary.”

“And may I ask why that is? Do you know what is going on?”

“What I know I will not tell you, but I will tell you what I think, if you desire to hear it.”

“I do.”

“I think that you are very incorrectly dressed.”

“I was rather kidnapped, and these clothes seem perfectly fine to be traipsing around in the woods with, begging your pardon.”

The woman laughs again. “Do you think you will be in the woods forever? I will tell you one thing I know, after all. There is a chest behind that tree.”

She turns in the direction the woman is pointing, then looks back. There is a poof of smoke, and the woman is gone. She shrugs, still confused but adjusting, and walks to the tree. Sure enough, there is a trunk there, and it is unlocked. She lifts the lid and is surprised to find a mirror on the inside of the lid. In the trunk itself, though, is a folded beige bundle. She lifts it out to find a version of Aurora’s peasant dress, not just a cheap cosplay version, but a cute, comfortable dress. She looks around for the woman but she is nowhere to be seen. 

The fabric is stretchy, so she pulls it on and takes her clothes off underneath— a very useful skill learned from the time she had to share a room with her younger sister. The sleeves are loose and three-quarter length, cinching beneath her elbow, and the skirts flare lovelily beneath her knees. She takes the corset out of the trunk and puts it on as well. Very conveniently, it comes with a zipper that, with some manipulation, she is able to do herself. But at the bottom of the chest is not only a pair of shoes, but a selection of cosmetics she knows quite well— her own. She wonders if this is some prank or a cruel kidnapping procedure, but she decides that if she is going down, she will go down looking fabulous. She braids a crown in her hair, leaving the rest of her golden-brown tresses to hang loose past her elbows, the wipes her face and applies mascara and just a touch of lipstick. She does feel fabulous and is ready to face whatever will happen. Hopefully whatever it is will not tear her dress.

She folds up her old clothes and tucks them into the trunk, only keeping her knife, which she tucks into her pockets— the dress has pockets!!!— and shuts the trunk. She looks around. The sun is setting, so she goes toward it. Watching the sunset is one of the highlights of her day. No matter what has happened, the sun will still set, right? There is a verse about that in the Bible somewhere. She walks on, impressed by the comfort of the pair of flats. She reaches the edge of the trees and leans against one, not really wanting to go out into full sight. The sky is full of vivid streaks of orange, fuchsia, and teal. 

A branch breaks behind her. She whirls.

“Surprise!”

Out of the trees come people, lots of people, but with their masks around their throats and helmets in their hands. Now she see why all the people she encountered looked so familiar— they were her family members and friends! Her parents com forwards, holding a cake with twenty candles on it, and she leans forward and blows out the candles. They put the cake down on a table that someone sets up, and she squeezes them both into a hug. 

“Thank you so much,” she says, a tear of happiness escaping from one eye. It’s a good thing her mascara is waterproof. “This was the best birthday ever.”