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The door to the cellar strained against its hinges, making the heavy iron chain across its surface rattle in the quiet forest glade. But, as always, the door held. "You can't keep me down here forever, child..." the voice hissed with malevolence.
"I can" the Fairy Princess Magweed responded as she always did. "I will."
"Why don't you ask your big strong parents for help, dearie?" the voice chuckled. "Surely they must be worried about you... your lack of sleep. Why don't you tell them what keeps you up at night?"
Maggie set her chin and didn't answer. They both knew why: to talk about the thing in the cellar would give it shape. To name it would be even worse. "You can't hurt anyone anymore. You're nothing but a bad dream."
The thing in the cellar clucked its tongue. "If you insist, child... I can wait. So tell me... how shall we pass the time tonight, my precious? Shall I tell you another of my stories? Did I ever finish telling you about the Fairy Princess Bluebottle?" it asked, slurping drool at the memory.
Maggie shuddered.
"Egads!" a small voice sounded from behind her. "Are all your dreams this ghastly?"
The princess whirled around in the moonlit cottage clearing to find a tiny figure emerging from the edge of the forest. He wore green and red stripped hose, a white tunic, and a green and white stripped hat ending in a jaunty jingle bell. "Zebulon?" Magweed recognized the little elf with surprise.
"Shhhh-shhhh-shhhhhh!" the elfin messenger responded, wincing and holding up his hands. "Ix-nay on the ames-nay!" He noted her blank look. "Er... don't use my name. You know... in Pig Latin."
"Oh" Maggie replied. The only pigs she knew were the boar family of the enchanted forest... and they spoke English. "Um... why not?"
"I could get in a whole lot of trouble with the Queene for talking to you..." the elf admitted. "Even in a dream. Especially considering why I'm here..."
There was a loud thump against the cellar door, but the chains held again. "Is there someone out there with you?" the voice growled. "He smell delicious."
"Is that what I think that is?" Zebulon asked with sick fascination, tip-toeing closer to the locked door.
"It's nothing, and it will continue to stay that way" the little girl answered with determination.
"Right. Okay." The elf took a deep breath and got on with the point. "Normally, I wouldn't go out of my way to court Her Majesty's wrath and all, being the most loyal of subjects, but... well... old allegiances die hard and all of that. You know I'm an elf, right?"
She nodded.
"And you know I'm not a muckity-muck High Elf, with their pretty boy looks, excessively tall statures and oh-so-shiny hair and all... I swear, those vapid ego-maniacs must spend half their waking hours doing archery, and the other half washing and combing out their tresses. Can't have split ends, oh no! How would that look framing their perfectly symmetrical pointy ears! "Woo-hoo! Look at me! I can reach the sink without a step ladder! I'm the centerpiece of epic fantasy literature!..." He paused as he noted the look of puzzled concern on the Princess's face. "But, ah... perhaps I digress. What I mean to say is that, I'm a different kind of elf. I'm a workshop elf."
"Workshop?"
"Santa's workshop" He confirmed. "And that's why I'm here..."
The wind swept over the rocky peak, alternating between a soft whistle and a hollow sigh. The sun shone brightly through the crisp mountain air, casting everything in a stark contrast at this height far above the tree line. Below, the valley was in full color as autumn hung on, spreading through the oaks and aspens which shimmered in the blowing winds. In the distance, the glittering coast spread across the land with tall-ships dotting the horizon. But between here and there laid a great, sweeping plain... and nestled in the tall grass so far, far away sat an unsuspecting jackalope nibbling on some clover.
Even with the impressive antlers, it wasn't even a speck to most eyes. But Griffins did not possess "most" eyes. Griffins were as sharp of sight as they were of beak and talon. Their eyes were the homing systems of the most impressive air to surface attack missiles in the Mythlands arsenal. They were the ultimate aerial predators, able to swoop down from unbelievable cliff heights like this one to strike like feathered and furred lightning before the unwary, unfortunate subject of their relentless concentration even realized they were...
"Cripes, this is high!" a voice squeaked in his ear.
"GAH!" Griffin cried, scrabbling with his paws and talons to find purchase as he nearly leapt out of his skin and fell off his rocky perch. His wings hugged the rock outcropping as his limbs wrapped around it for safety, and he blinked his eyes at the two figures looking over the edge next to him. "M... Maggie? Zebulon?!" he gasped. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm sorry to come in without knocking" his sister apologized hurriedly. "Zebulon said it was important, and we needed your help."
He turned his beaked face towards the elf, who was still looking over the side and whistling.
"Hmmm?" the elf asked, finding himself the center of attention. "Oh! Right... Well, we needed to move the dream on to the North Pole in order to get on with things, and since the Princess's dream is locked to one place..."
She coughed forcefully, making the little man jump guiltily. "Er... right, sorry about that. Forget I mentioned anything about the cellar and the horrible..."
Magweed stepped in front of the elf to cut him off, and took Griffin's feathered head in her hands. "I needed your help" she informed him simply.
He blinked as he processed this. "Right" he agreed, pulling himself back up on the ledge with the two of them. "Absolutely. Um... for what?"
"Saving Christmas" the elf replied with a shrug. "What else?"
to be continued
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 [The Scene: Daniel Craig unbuttons Dancer’s dress with strong, gentle hands, and slowly slips the silken garment to the floor…]
Dancer: Oh, James…
Cinderbelle: Ahem.
Dancer, turning round guiltily: Ah, Sean, I can explain everything…
Cinderbelle, looking behind her: Sean? Sean who?
Dancer, turning back to Daniel only to find he’s vanished: Damn. Just when I was about to Never Say Never Again.
Cinderbelle, nervously: The only Sean I know is that dragon in accounting. Why would he be here? Why shouldn’t eye glitter be counted as a legitimate business expense for a fairy anyhow?
Dancer, suddenly noticing the petite girl with the strap-on wings: A fairy? You’re a fairy?
Cinderbelle, looking down at her slightly-rumpled outfit with the tutu and the rather bent coathanger wand: Yes I am. And if you could just stop imagining passionate men in your dream-reality for a moment I’d like to ask you some questions.
Dancer: Dream? You mean I’m dreaming all this? Including that part where David Duchovny…
Cinderbelle, blushing: The truth wasn’t where you had him looking. And while we’re on the subject of your subconscious, do you think that maybe next time you could possibly include some furnishing other than a bed and a trapeze?
Dancer: Well, I wasn’t expecting a visit from a fairy. Especially one that appears to be dressed in my old Mythlands outfit.
Cinderbelle, grumpily: Like I had a choice. It’s not like your dreaming mind included an awful lot of wardrobe options. Well, plenty of shoes, I’ll admit. But the rest of the clothing available... [she shudders]
Dancer: Hey, if you’re wearing my fairy outfit, what am I wearing? [She looks down] Oh.
Cinderbelle, with a certain malicious satisfaction: Just like that dream where you’re performing on stage and you suddenly remember you’ve forgotten to put your costume on.
Dancer, enthusiastically: Ooh, yes, that’s a good one, isn’t it!
Cinderbelle: What?
Dancer: Well, it’s not as if it’s happening in real life. Except for that one time. And I got an encore.
Cinderbelle, rubbing her forehead: Look, I just came looking for information. That’s all. Help me out here and I’ll leave you to Daniel and Sean.
Dancer, hopefully: And Viggo?
Cinderbelle, desperately pushing on before the mortal gets distracted yet again: I’m just looking for someone, and I thought he might have wandered through your dreams. Although since he’s not over six feet tall and handsome in a dangerous rough kind of way I’m guessing not.
Dancer: You can’t help what happens in your dreams. It’s well known. Even the stuff with burritos and percussion instruments.
Cinderbelle: What stuff with… no, never mind. I don’t want to know what you’re… Is that pile of shoes actually growing?
Dancer: Who were you looking for anyhow? Only I’ve already got Bruce Wayne and pre-Civil War Tony Stark booked for later, then Cagney then…
Cinderbelle: Zebulon. The elf, Zebulon. The soon-to-be dead elf Zebulon.
Dancer: Oooo! Boyfriend-sense tingling!
Cinderbelle, blushing furiously: He is not – and I cannot emphasise this enough without taking full-page advertisements in the national newspapers and paying heralds to proclaim this across the nine worlds – not my boyfriend.
Dancer: Ah. Right.
Cinderbelle: Anything you heard did not happen, and besides somebody had spiked the ambrosia.
Dancer: That happens a lot. Um, so I hear.
Cinderbelle: Santa’s a saint, anyway. I’m pretty sure he could nullify any hasty weddings that involved jumping over brooms and a goblin from marketing stapling just married signs onto people.
Dancer, wincing: Ouch. Um, you’re not looking for Zeb because he’s got you, you know… [She pats her abdomen] in the cabbage patch way?
Cinderbelle: Absolutely not! I just want to find the thieving little wretch and get back what he stole from me!
Dancer: I don’t think it works that way. Once it’s gone, it’s gone, no matter what you might get told by Kevin Walliner in the fifth form. Unless you actually mean alarm clocks or other bedroom items of slight value, in which case generally you can get one of your detective friends to track the guy down and ask for it back.
Cinderbelle: I mean that the slime Zebulon got me tipsy and stole my fairy dust.
Dancer: So that’s what you kids…
Cinderbelle: My fairy dust! My bag of magic stuff that lets me wander through children’s dreams finding out if they’ve been naughty or nice. You are in a lot of trouble on that score, by the way.
Dancer: I was being nice to Craig.
Cinderbelle: Zebulon’s run off with my fairy dust and I need it back. I could get the sack. I could end up being demoted to ribbon-stapler third class. I could be busted to assistant ribbon-stapler third class. You have to help me find the little worm.
Dancer: Why would Zebulon steal your fairy dust? I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can deliver that line without thinking it’s a euphemism.
Cinderbelle: I don’t know why he’d want it and I don’t care. I have to find him and get it back by morning or my wand is history. And then the audit ogres will be looking for Zebulon and his aura is grass.
Dancer: Maybe he’ll call? Although in my experience lots of guys seem to have difficulty in using the phone after they’ve actually pulled their pants back on.
Cinderbelle: You have to help me track him. He’s got to have wandered into the dreams of one of your Lair Legion friends or their hangers-on, so all you have to do is guide me into their dreams so we can pick up his trail then crush him like the stealth-marrying slime he is.
Dancer: So, you want me to take you to rummage through the most intimate private dreams of my closest friends just so you can reunite with the elf who loved you?
Cinderbelle: Yes.
Dancer: Okay.
Back to Vizh… 
Original concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 2007 reserved by Sarah Shepherdson. Other Parodyverse characters copyright © 2007 to their creators. The use of characters and situations reminiscent of other popular works do not constitute a challenge to the copyrights or trademarks of those works. The right of Sarah Shepherdson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. |
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