The following is a sneak peek at Chapter 1 of Snips and Snails, sequel to my fairy story, Sugar, Spice and Everything Nice.
The King’s Decree
Above the blooming sky and wide firmament, where thin-bound air runs free and joyful; above the celestial trails, where giants wander, greeting one another as strangers on an afternoon walk pass by with a singular nod; above even the congregations and cities of such massive beings, who attend to our skirted plains and ragged mountains as heavy-booted lumberjacks attend to their carpet and foot stools; above all these rose a great city, and at its centre a royal palace. Akoron the Mighty, whose eternal reign proceeded unblemished in the hearts of all his subjects, ruled with power colossal, unflinching wisdom, and stalwart joy. The Unrelenting. The Magnanimous. The Hunter. These titles and more had he accrued, and his court was filled with such as he. Akoron mounted his throne early in the week, and all eyes were upon him when he pronounced his royal decree:
“The Grey Stag has been sighted once again upon the Heath, far into the hinterlands. Send word to all Giant Land: The Great Hunt has begun once more! Let all hunters present themselves to the royal Master of the Lists to be registered. We will feast this week-long in the Great Hall and then I shall array my chariot in splendour and lead the hunt. Let it be decreed.”
“It is so!” came the reply, a chant from every voice in the court acknowledging and sealing Akoron’s word in keeping with ancient custom. The crowd erupted in cheers and Akoron raised his great fist and roared with a mighty roar, laughing and rejoicing in his might. For he had waited many seasons for a fresh sighting of the Grey Stag, and longed for the hunt as roots long for rain.
Day after day, the giants feasted in the Great Hall, planning their course and journey, sharpening their spears and trading stories of hunts long past. While they feasted, the jester Buttermilk sang and extolled in brilliant tales the exploits of the king. And as Buttermilk performed, the son of Akoron, Prince Snails, looked on and laughed with a fervent gaze fixed on the silver-tongued fool, whose garb shone with brilliant gems, gaudy colours and flowing cloth.
Now the Prince was one for mischief, having grown up free to roam. Despite his mother’s discipline and father’s love, which were rendered fully to the boy (he being neither codded nor hard done by, but justly weighed and granted every opportunity to display honour), Prince Snails from time to time would lose himself and act with rashness. In this nearest season of his life, his father had warned him not to scorn their entreatments, lest he be held back from the Great Hunt. For a time, this warning held fast in the heart of the young Prince, for he had not as yet partaken in the hunt, save in his imagination as he heard the bards sing in the great halls. But the feast, with all its excitement, proved too much for Snails, who hatched a plot to cause Buttermilk to tumble down and bring the whole house into riotous laughter just as he delivered the highest of the tales of Wintertide on the eve of the Great Hunt. And so it was that Snails sat, goblet in hand, eyes fixed on the low dais erected in the great Hall, while Buttermilk, in full festive costume, round as a world to the eyes of mortals (were we perched there in the glittering chandelier which lit the auburn walls), stepped up to the dais and laid one hand on the low railing. It creaked gently and Snails covered his mouth with his hand to choke back a squeal of delight. Buttermilk left off the railing and raised both hands alongside his face in earnest attention toward the ceiling, then began in low tones to lay the ground of his tale:
“When the abyss breathed forth the blackened mire
And kingly grace had yet to clothe our lord,
The Stag with antlers grey took to the spire
And bent its will upon the rushing fjord.”
Buttermilk lowered his arms and let them rest gently on the rail, and Snails leaned in, ready for his moment. Squeezing the railing while pivoting sharply to his right, Buttermilk flung out his left arm to the crowd in a powerful gesture. With all of his weight pressed upon the railing for a brief moment, the sable wood, which Snails in secret had cut near the base, gave way, and with a hilarious yelp, Buttermilk tumbled off the dais on to a table filled with food and drink. The audience, save one, was stunned and a gasp cascaded through the crowd. Snails could not contain himself, but laughed full and loud, tears pouring down his face. He clutched his side and pounded his fist on the table. Buttermilk was lifted up by those nearby and helped back to his position; someone passed a glass of wine up to him to steady himself, and he drank a strong swig before wiping his mouth and looking around at the crowd. Then, to absorb their anxiety, he winked and stretched a broad smile across his face. The crowd roared out at his courage and many voices called out for the Fool to go on and tell his tale. Through all of this, King Akoron saw his son, though the Prince saw not that he was seen. But being King, Akoron bided his time, and when the festivities for the day had concluded, he ascended to his son’s room in the evening, sat quietly on the edge of his bed, and said in a gentle voice:
“You cannot come to the Hunt, my son.” And when the shocked Snails, face contorting in disbelief, raised his voice to protest, his father merely rose in silence and left the room.
“Father, oh father, please!” cried the bitter prince as Akoron walked down the hall. He moved as a tiger at ease, nor turned his head to heed his wayward child, but passed through a door to the royal chambers. The next morning, a missive came and lay on the end of Snails’ bed, detailing the royal decree, that he must stay and that Buttermilk the Fool was to be his guardian. Snails wept at the this more than the confinement, for in his own way he loved the Jester and his stories, and believed, when he saw the unsmiling face which greeted him that some rift had formed, and he did not possess the tact (or in truth, the strength of will) to repent. So it is for the young, who cannot face their shame. Is it not the same for young and old alike, when pain has sealed the doors to the heart? How then can we make amends?
Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers the first fruits of his poetry and reflections. He grew up in the forests of small-town Ontario, contending against nature in all its beauty and harshness. His training as a literary scholar of Latin and English literature inflects his love of poignant turns of phrase, but it is the influence of his family and their myriad adventures together that infuses his story-telling and poetry with its substance and power. Todd lives and writes in Ottawa with his wife and six children. If you are interested in supporting Todd’s work, please follow the links below to donate or buy his books.
Todd Edward Anderson 