The Queen's Poison

6. Alive

I must have dozed and not realized it. I can feel the life coming back to my extremities. The strength ever so gradually returning to my limbs.

Summoning all the strength at my disposal I stretch a fraction of an inch and inhale and exhale deeply. This exhausts me so I cannot move again. Not even to open my eyes. But it’s just a matter of time.

I realize that what woke me wasn’t a few branches breaking from the wind outside. From the sound of it a rainstorm is on the way.

They are footsteps crunching through the grass and sticks outside my coffin. Too heavy to be those of one of my gnomes.

“What is this?” It is the deep voice of a man.

More footsteps from more than one person. Another voice calls out, “Sire, it’s about to storm. We have managed to find a hut to shelter in.”

“Come here, Hans. Look at what I’ve found.”

I can hear them gather around to look at me.

“Poor creature. So young. So fair. If her corpse is so lovely only think of how beautiful the maiden herself must have been when alive.” The voice of the man who first found me trails off into a melancholy sigh.

“She can’t have been dead for long.”

During this time, I manage somehow to twist my mouth into a grimace and open my eyes. Then I can see him looking down on me. Blurred as his face is I like it.

“There are holes in the lid. Do you suppose…? I remember a tale of a poor widow’s son who found a princess trapped in a glass coffin who awakened after he raised the lid.”

“Sire, you aren’t going to…”

“Help me with the lid.”

Several men surround my coffin and make a great deal of noise opening it.

“There’s still color in her lips. But her skin is ghostly white. Whiter than snow.” He grabs my wrist to check for a pulse. It hurts though I know it’s good for my blood flow and will help me come back faster.

He shakes his head. “I can’t make out anything.” Droplets of rain start coming down. He presses my eyes shut with unusual gentleness considering he thinks I’m dead. As his companions beg him to seek shelter, he demands they help him put the lid back down.

“She’s dead. It’s still a pity to leave her remains here in the woods exposed to the elements and wild beasts.” He says this as they all walk off.

A noisy downpour with blasts of thunder. Flashes of lightning I can make out from behind my eyelids. Soon it ends.

I struggle to move once again. I discover I can move the fingers of the forearm he lifted and held. Ever so slightly and painfully.

I start taking deeper breaths. Once more I open my eyes and blink three times.

After the third time I rest. My eyes remain closed—for now. It may be my imagination, but my heartbeat seems louder and firmer. Closer to the living world I hope to enter. Soon. Soon.

I open my eyes again. Daylight can be seen through the canopy of foliage over my transparent coffin’s lid. The temperature is strangely comfortable inside this box. How did my friends know what would happen to me ahead of time?

Noisy footsteps without. Seven faces look down upon me. Not gnomes but men.

Six are huntsman including the leader who discovered me. The other man is dressed like a priest and holds a parchment in his hand.

“Amazing,” says the priest. “No signs of decay, pale though she is. Are you sure the poor maid is dead?”

They draw away to confer. I can move my fingers a little now, but they remain buried under the light linen pall the gnomes threw over me. I manage to turn my head ever so slightly and twist my mouth into a sort of smile.

“Jacob, you have worked as a physician. Look her over.”

They remove the lid once more. Unfortunately, Jacob’s hands have grown thick and calloused. As he searches for my sluggish pulse the men discuss my situation which he must find distracting.

“Why would anyone leave a living maiden in a coffin in the woods?”

“Why would anyone leave a corpse in a glass coffin above ground?”

“We can’t leave the remains of this poor woman to be torn by wild beasts, pecked apart by vultures or left to rot like carrion,” says the Leader.

“No, we should give her a decent Christian burial, my lord. I heartily agree. I will read the last rites and prayer for the dead as you lower this casket into its final resting place.”

Jacob notes my open eyes and grimace. I manage to exhale loudly. “Sire, this is just a corpse after all. The maiden’s soul is—I hope—in Heaven. If not, perhaps the prayers of this Father will bring her a speedier release from Purgatory. The mouth’s upturned corners are a sure sign of decay. As are the gasses escaping. It’s midsummer and in another day this corpse shall rot.”

“Very well. Let it be laid to rest beforehand.” He leans over me. “Rest in peace, poor child. If you are looking down from Heaven, may it bring comfort to your soul to see how we honor your remains.”

He turns to the other five. “The ground is a little softer beyond this grove. The spades that we borrowed at that farmhouse should do the trick.”

“We already dug a large hole while you were running for the priest.”

“Excellent. Here are two tree limbs that should serve as poles. We will carry the bier as a litter.” Grabbing the righthand end at the front, he orders his five companions to take their positions.

I struggle to move. They take off my lid, realizing how heavy it is, and take it to the burial hole first. I’m next. Off to my own burial.

My heart beats faster than ever. Even coarse handed Jacob could feel my pulse now, if he would take it. Will I be able to show that I’m alive in time?

One of the hunters has been looking nervous. He takes one of the ends at the back. Where my head is.

“Ever heard of the undead?” he says under his breath to the man in front.

“Superstitious nonsense. Ask the priest. He’ll tell you.”

“I don’t like the idea of her coming back.” He mutters something about stakes through the heart or fire as good preventative measures. I think of something.

“Almost there. Be careful, men. This ground is very uneven,” says the leader.

I rap against the coffin with the elbow of my good arm. Twice. The glass is thick causing my feeble bumps to echo like a drum.

I turn my head to the side and find myself looking straight into the eyes of the nervous huntsman. He screams. Someone else’s foot catches on a fallen branch or stump and my coffin drops to the ground.

The upper half of my body flies up and I vomit. With most of the poison gone, I can move once more.

Once they realize what’s happening, all seven men stare in silence.

“Please don’t bury me! I’m alive. Not dead,” I start to sob.

I vomit a little more. “Water please. I need to flush the rest of—the poison out.” The leader hands me his full flask. As I drink, he bids his men fetch more from a nearby spring.

He looks upon me in shame and dismay. Then falls to his knees. “Forgive me, fair maiden. I almost had my men bury you alive.”

I’m still weak. When I can speak again, I say, “I forgive you. You were trying to show respect to a dead girl. But I’m alive.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Please give me food. It’s been at least three days since I was poisoned.”

He orders his men to carry me back—in my coffin turned litter—to the inn. The priest comes along. It’s agreed he can take my confession and give me extreme unction in a pinch. I must look like I’m at death’s door. Perhaps I still am.

That evening he offers me the eucharist and I give my first confession in over three years.

It takes a long time. I break down crying as I tell of the wickedness of my family. How my own mother wants me dead.

He talks to me about how God looks upon the heart of each individual and judges us for our own deeds. How faith can cancel out the curse of a vile family heritage and replace it with a holy new one.

It’s after nightfall. I join all seven men for supper. A light soup with heart rye bread.

Timidly, I tell the leader, “Is it much of a journey to the capital? I want to find a party to head there.”

He smiles. “It just so happens my men and I are going there. Now that we are through hunting.”

I realize he is not that old despite his commanding voice. Twenty-four or five. With kind eyes and a handsome face.

“M-may I please join you?”

“Of course. If you trust us not to bury you.” I join him in laughing but must sound nervous. “Sorry. Just thankful my servant tripped so we could help you instead of burying you.” He shudders.

“I might have died if you hadn’t come. I’m not angry. I’m happy to be around people again.”

“You were living by yourself in the forest? How long?”

“Not by myself. I spent three years with seven little men. Or creatures who looked like men.” Everyone but the priest stares. Including the host’s goodwife who is serving more soup and ale. “It’s a long story.”

“You will have to share it as we travel. So, what is your business at the capital, child?”

“Political asylum. The queen of Grimm tried to poison me.” I struggle in vain not to cry.

Two or three of the huntsmen whistle in amazement.

The leader’s face grows dark with anger. But not at me. “Dry your tears. You shall receive asylum. I, Hildebrand, king of Furstenwald, swear to protect you against your enemies.”

This is King Hildebrand before me. I gaze upon him in silent awe and admiration. Then after thanking him shyly but profusely, I yawn.

He tells me he’s paying for the room where I can rest for the next few days while they find a pony and some extra supplies for our journey.

It looks as if all shall end well after all.