Rampion

By Erin Staley

The man had been walking a long time before he felt the crunch of stones beneath his heels. It took only a few steps for the welts to split open, oozing a trail of bloody half-prints as he walked. The sun had turned the blood on his face to a thick crust, so that with each wince, he could feel it crack. He couldn’t swing his arms anymore. Instead, they hung, stiff as branches, at his sides, and each step struggled to move past the opposite foot. Heat had caused his skin to slough off like a crude exoskeleton. He had peeled off layers of it himself, writhing in the grains of sand that gritted together in the open wounds, leaving him smelling of rot and ammonia. And the pain in his eyes was constant. Or rather, where his eyes used to be. They had been gouged out, plucked like eggs from their nest, and now there were only two empty voids of space. 

A strange whistling rang in his ears, followed by the whisper of a breeze as it threw dust up around his legs. He shuddered and listened. The vultures whined overhead—they had been for a while now. He would feed them soon enough, he thought. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to walk at all. He already felt like a corpse—stiff and still. Every movement he made seemed like nothing to someone watching from a distance. 

He heard the whistling again. It had a melody to it this time, a lilting that masked itself in the buzzing heat, so that he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been paying attention. He shuffled closer until the stones thinned and he felt something soft. Not sand, but damp earth that sunk under his weight. Soil. Something rough and feathery brushed against his leg. He bent at the waist, feeling around, before a voice called out, stopping him. 

“Where have you come from?” The voice asked, and the man could not answer, only let out a low rasp in response. He heard a thud, an echo, and soft footsteps, before feeling the brush of skin against his wrist. He hissed in pain, and the woman, for her voice sounded like a woman’s, pulled back. 

“You’ve been in the sun too long.” It was stated, not asked. “I have water and shelter, but you’ll have to let me lead you inside.”

The man assented by reaching out a hand. He felt the brush of skin against the tips of his fingers. He imagined how horrendous he must look—his face disfigured, skin flaking off in clumps—but she made no comment on his appearance. Instead, she spoke firmly, telling him where to step, where to duck, or where to turn, as she led him along a soft dirt path. The ground was cooler here, so he thought there must be shade of some kind blocking out the sun. That, or night had fallen. When he was wandering, he recognized night only as he began to shiver. 

They reached the woman’s hut, and she told him to crouch as they entered, waiting until he was low enough before squeezing the tip of his finger and pulling him inside. The ground here was still dirt, he could tell from the way clumps of it shifted beneath his heels, but it was solid and cold. It was a welcome relief on his blistered feet that had been burned open by the hot sand. There was an odd smell in the hut, like meat that hadn’t been cured properly, and the man grimaced. The smell of his wounds made worse by the small space, he thought. He wanted to ask for water, but it hurt to move his lips, and even if he could open his mouth, he could only speak in rasps. 

The woman spoke again. She sounded more confident now, more at ease. He could hear the clink of dishes, a small thud as she placed something on the floor, and the splash of water.

Water. He would have jumped for joy if he could. 

“I know you must be thirsty,” she said. Cool porcelain pressed against his bottom lip, and he opened his mouth to let the water slip back into his throat. “There’s a creek out back I bathe in. I can take you there if you want.”

The man nodded with a flick of his chin. He would get better here, he thought, with her. Even if he didn’t know her name yet, nor she his, there was something gentle in her touch, in her voice. He trusted she would take care of him. He had very few other choices. He didn’t know where he was anymore, and even if he did, he could never find his way back home without his eyes. But he missed his parents. His home. He thought of the cherry trees that had been planted in the courtyard only a few summers ago, how their branches had drooped as their petals floated down onto the cobblestone. They had seemed like bloody teardrops as the sky turned grey, a mourning for the absence of sun. 

He thought of the purple flowers that sprouted under the girl’s windowsill—the one he’d been cast from. They’re beautiful. Like your voice, he’d told her once. When I see them, I can hear you sing. He would never see her again, he knew, which was for the best. She would be dead by now or taken by the witch who had stolen his eyes, along with her infant children. She had lived a pathetic life before him—isolated. He would have shown her civilization, saved her from her sorry existence in that tower, and taught her how to be a proper woman. One who could have lived in a palace, or the servant’s quarters if she proved too difficult to tame. He mourned more for himself now. It was her fault, after all, that he suffered. If she had warned him about the witch, he could have left her there, and she would have been alone, but safe, and he would have married a girl his parents had chosen and been perfectly content within his city and its gold hewn walls. 

As they reached the creek, the woman helped strip him of his clothes. He cared little for modesty anymore, so he didn’t hesitate when she reached for the waist of his pants, but he hissed in pain whenever she grazed skin. The water was cold as they waded in, and it was difficult to tread. His muscles were weak, worn down by the days in the sun, so the pair of them moved slowly until the water came up to his chest. The woman used a cloth that she had brought to wipe the dried blood from his face and chest. She pressed gently, but the burns flamed at her touch. He kept his silence through the pain, not wanting to show her how much it hurt, and let her clean him. Yet despite the discomfort, he felt lighter as thick crusts of blood and pus came loose and drifted off along the surface. 

The woman hummed while she worked. The lull of it pulled at him and he tilted his head, listening. It reminded him of his mother’s weaving—the smooth whir of the loom and the sudden shift of the shuttle as it was pushed into place. It was comfortable and familiar. As if it had been sung to him before.  

“What—" He coughed and cleared his throat. “What song is that?” 

The woman’s hand paused against his shoulder. “My mother used to sing it to me when I was young. I never knew the name.” 

Where is your mother now? He wanted to ask, but his throat burned from his first question. 

The woman stopped humming and went back to her work. 

He was there nearly two weeks before he was able to walk to the creek by himself. He woke when he heard the birds, rising from the makeshift cot the woman had erected for him on the floor of the hut, and shimmying past the table where she prepared their food and through the door. The hut had two rooms—the main living space and a small bedroom where the woman slept. There was an awning around the side where the chamber pot was stored, but the man preferred the privacy of the creek, although he had often felt something eyeing him, but he chalked it up to the animals in the woods around them getting used to his presence there. 

He had grown accustomed to the darkness now and had gained more confidence in his steps and movements. He moved lithely through the water, avoiding the rocks and snags of low-hanging branches he had bumped and scraped against just a week prior. As he swam, he felt the brush of soft, soggy leaves against his ankles. Broken limbs of trees that had snapped and fallen into the creek during some storm or other were laden on the sandy floor. He used these to kick off from, propelling himself further through the water. He was doing this when he felt something wiry brush against his leg. He felt around for it, thinking it might be seaweed or another type of aquatic plant that had been hidden away by the branch. It curled around his leg, seemingly by itself, tightening to the shape of his calf. He stretched out his toes, trying to reach further down to determine what it was, and landed on something stiff, but soft. The surface was pockmarked with tiny bumps—maybe an animal the fish had begun to chew apart. His toes dragged across the surface, hitting a small ridge just below two indents, and further down, a mouth. 

The man yanked his foot up, but the hair had coiled itself around his leg and was beginning to pull him down. He planted his other foot against the skull, using it for momentum while trying to pry his leg from the wiry grip. Water flooded his mouth and he spat and screamed as he was pulled under. The air fled his lungs and rose to the surface, leaving him trapped. He kicked harder, pumping his legs and flailing his arms. The creek wasn’t that deep, he knew. If he could only swim a little higher, he would be able to breathe again. 

He smashed his heel against the skull, tearing open the scabs on his foot. He did it again and again until he smashed through, feeling the hardness of the skull give way to the softness of the brains beneath it. His heel pressed into it as it molded around his foot and he recoiled, but at last the hair loosened and he was able to reach the surface.

With arms stretched out in front of him, he ran back, tumbling into thorn bushes and low-hanging branches as he went. He fell twice, tripping over twigs or roots that jutted up from the earth. As he fell the second time, he heard the voice of the woman trailing out of the hut. She was singing. 

He paused, hands sinking into the ground as he listened, startled. The woman’s voice was bright as she sang, mimicking the bird songs that were carried in through the window each morning. It was that same lilting tune she’d hummed to him the first day in the creek. He had recognized it then but thought nothing of it. He had been too preoccupied with the throbbing burns that had snaked their way around his body and the welts that had swollen along his feet and legs. But he knew it now, could almost sing the words along with her—he had heard it so many times those days in the tower. 

Did she know it was him? She must, he thought. He was one of the few faces she knew, and the only one to have shown her any interest. Maybe not when he had come to her, covered with burns. He would have been unrecognizable. But his voice, his touch, she would have known. 

He had suspected too, of course, by the softness of her voice, the grip of her small palms, but his ignorance could be excused. Besides his recent blindness at the hands of her witch of a mother, he had courted many women. As a prince, it was expected. How could he be blamed for not knowing one of many? 

The witch. That must be whose body lay at the bottom of the creek, whose hair had acted of its own accord in a feeble attempt to force him into the same fate. He felt a surge of pride. One more enemy defeated at his hands, he thought. It didn’t matter that she was dead. She had most likely fallen in out of her own foolishness and drowned. A fitting end for one who had caused him so much grief. 

He had to tell Rapunzel. She was free and could go anywhere she wanted. Few women would take him as he was now, disfigured and scarred, but she had cared for him for weeks, nursing him back to health. She must still love him. He was a prince, after all. And the children—what had become of the children? Perhaps the witch had disposed of them. No matter. Once they returned home and wed, they would have more children who would be protected under the status of their birth. There would be no question of illegitimacy. 

Determined, he rose from the ground and stalked towards her voice which quieted as he approached. “There is no need for your silence now,” he said. “I know it is you.”

There was a pause before she said quietly, “You do?”

“Why did you hide yourself from me?” he asked, stretching out his hands. She acquiesced and placed her palms in his. They were smooth and uncalloused, just as he remembered. 

“I wanted to wait to show you,” she answered, her voice rising with excitement. “Until you were better, so that you could share in my happiness.”

The prince smirked. 

“Come,” she said, dropping one of his hands and using the other to lead him into her room.

A foul smell enveloped him as they entered, and he gagged. He let go of her hand, moving to cover his mouth and nose with the crook of his elbow. He felt her step away and he turned, confused. 

“What are you doing?” He asked, listening for her steps. 

He heard a low squelch followed by a ripping sound. Rapunzel grunted and let out a pained cry. She started chuckling then, a low, giddy laugh that sent a frenzied pain into his chest.

The prince shot out his arms, searching for the door. His hand landed on the cool metal knob, turning it, only to realize that he had been locked in. 

“Rapunzel?” He asked, his voice strained and worried.

Her arms wrapped around him from behind with her elbows pressed against his neck. His mouth gaped open like a drowning fish. Hands grabbed at his face before she pressed her palms against the freshly closed wounds of his eye sockets, tearing them open. He screamed as she pushed the new eyes into place. Bloody tears streamed down his cheeks as he cried, which only worsened the pain. 

She placed her hands on his face, still covered with blood and tissue, and turned his head to face the bed. There, he could make out two small, blurry figures resting against the wall. He blinked, his sight adjusting through the sharp agony. 

“I wanted to wait to show them to you until you could see,” she said. “Until you could see what we did.” She reached out, feeling for his hand. Her hand was warm and wet as it pressed against his. He turned to face her.

Her face and fingers were painted with blood. It poured down her cheeks and dribbled over onto her shoulders which held up her thin rags. There were dark stains covering them, and the seam over her waist was torn, as though it had been scratched open with a sharp nail. When he managed to drag his gaze back to her face, he spun and vomited on the dirt floor. Where had once been dazzling blue was now two gaping red holes. The skin around the socket had been shredded by her nails, but she didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she stood there grinning at him. 

The room spun around him, and he gasped for breath. The air was stiflingly thin. 

“Aren’t they beautiful?” She asked. “I’ve never seen children before, but I can’t imagine there are any as beautiful as ours.” 

The beating of his heart was audible in the silence of the room. It thumped heavily against his chest, faster than the wings of a hummingbird. 

“Mother will never bother us again,” she said, her voice fading. “And we will be so happy here together.”

His knees buckled.

“So happy.”

Rapunzel waited for the thump of the body and the last rasp of air before moving her prince. She gripped him beneath his shoulders and dragged him around the bed. His heels dug up dirt and flung dust around the room. She coughed but did not worry. It would be an easy mess to clean. 

Squatting, she hauled her prince onto the bed, arranging him so that he sat side-by-side with their children. He was heavy, but she had become strong from pulling her mother up the tower all those years. Then him, once he had found her. 

It was your voice, he’d told her, that led me to you. She sung to him now, that sweet lullaby she had known since she was an infant. 

She didn’t need to see him to love him, but it had hurt her to watch him suffer the loss of his sight. So, she gave him hers. She would give him anything. And she could give him anything now that they were together. 

“We’ll be a family now,” she hummed, feeling along the cool faces of her children and the still-warm face of her prince. 

She continued to sing.