Waking Rose: A Fairy Tale Retold (55 page)

For a moment, as he watched the flames coming closer, he felt an overwhelming urge to surrender, to lie still and wait for the release of death. To struggle onwards was more agony, and he was so weakened by the pulsing of his leg that he didn’t dare touch a single toe on it, let alone move it.

What use was his life at this point, anyway? If Rose was saved, she would wake in the capable hands of a good man. Paul probably deserved her more than Fish did. Rose would grieve for him, certainly, but she could find a new life with the earnest pre-med student.

Fish felt a tremor of the kiss he had given her on his bleeding lips, his parting gift, which she probably hadn’t even been aware of. There seemed to be a finality to the gesture, a sacrifice. A soothing voice told him that even if he were to escape now, it would only complicate things for himself, for Rose, and for others. It would be far easier to give up now.
Surely even God wouldn’t require any further struggle from you...

At last the fire was reaching the twisted knots that bound him to the ladder. Now or never. With a final prayer and a pre-emptive sob, he gnashed his teeth together, knotted the muscles in his good foot, and wriggled his toes downward, jostling his shattered ankle unbearably as he did so. In the throes of agony, he managed to loop the extra rope that tied him to the ladder around his big toe, squeezed the rest of his toes around the line, and began to exert a steady, strong pull. Simultaneously, he worked himself backwards with what he could muster of his elbows, until the rope was stretched taut. His breath was rapid and caught in moans as he struggled to stay on top of the pain that coursed through his bad foot and up his leg to his spine. The gasoline-soaked hemp lit and began to burn, the flames traveling down the twine eagerly. But as it burned ahead, the cords behind began to disintegrate.

Gasping again and blinking back tears, he continued to pull, seeing the blacked rope untwist itself and curl up, layer after layer, until only a thin strand remained. He gave a final sharp tug, and the rope snapped in two and he inched himself away from the flaming ladder as fast as he could manage, backing himself into the one corner of the barn where nothing was yet burning. He quickly pounded the ground with his feet, stomping on the bit of flame that remained on the end of the rope with his bare skin. After a moment, he realized it was out, and in a mixture of agony and exhaustion that blended so completely he nearly succumbed to unconsciousness.

But his adrenaline wouldn’t allow him to go under, and for a long moment he lay curled on his side, weeping and trying to catch a hold of his breath.

At last he looked around, gauging his situation again. The hay in the loft was in flames now, and he knew the beams of the barn would take a bit longer to catch, but they would follow soon. The roof would catch on fire first, and pieces would start raining down on him. On the ground, the bales in front of the barn door were on fire, a curtain of flames. It was unbearably hot, and once the wood caught fire, the place would be hotter than a bread oven.

The metal machinery beside him wouldn’t necessarily catch fire, and perhaps, if the bales burned down, the path to the door would be free. But the front of his clothes were soaked with gasoline, and if he tried to crawl over a smoking mass of hay, he would surely go up in flames.

Once again he writhed and tossed against his bonds, trying to push them aside to get his hand or elbow free. It was hopeless. No matter what he did, it seemed he would remain like this, a man in an impotent cocoon, bound to himself until he tumbled helplessly into a burning hell. The muscles in his back were starting to cramp, pinched tight in the circles of rope. Even pulling himself into a sitting position was nearly impossible.

Once again, he thought of Rose, who had been bound in her own cocoon for longer than he had been, and he weakly lifted his head.

Near him, he could make out the blades of a plow.

He wrenched himself forward and twisted over. Now with an effort, he writhed and bent to try to sit up. Several times he tried to throw himself forward and fell down on his back, but at last, his lower back and thighs squeezed painfully tight, he managed it. Then he inched himself backwards to the plow blades until one of the ropes was against a blade. He then began sawing the rope.

For all of its toughness, the rope was old, and in a moment, it broke in two. He was free. With relief, he yanked his hands out of his back pockets and began to pull bunches of rope from his shoulders and legs, but didn’t have the time or the inclination to actually untie any knots. He just wanted his arms and legs back so that he could move. The barn was starting to break up around him.

Keeping his head down, he half-crawled, half-crept to the door and tumbled through the surrounding flames, the still-attached ropes dragging after him from his chest and ankles. His gasoline-soaked clothes caught on fire as he passed through, but he didn’t care. He threw himself against the door and the next moment, he was out on the ground in cool clear darkness, rolling himself on the grass, suffocating the remaining flames.

There was a moment of sweet freedom, where he breathed and cleared his lungs, just before the pent-up pain of his ankle and bruises started to tumble down upon him. But all was abruptly stopped as two hands seized his shoulders.

“What’s this?”

The face of Dr. Prosser was thrust into his, now wilder.

“He’s still alive?” Dr. Murray’s shocked voice came towards him as she hurried over.

“Damn you,” Dr. Prosser whispered, looking into his eyes. “Damn you.”

He struggled, but she struggled against him more fiercely and with more desperation.

“Damn you!” Dr. Prosser crushed him to the ground, yelling and grabbing at the ropes.

He flailed and fought at her hands which seemed to come down upon him from every side now, pulling at the ropes on his chest and feet and wrapping and tightening them around him again. There was a nightmare fast closing in on him now—it was really all pointless. There was no God, not one that could save him, only a far-off God who wanted him to die for some reason. He resisted and thrashed with what little strength he had left, but it was worthless, useless. In the end, he was bound hand and foot again, torn and breathless and bleeding.

“Help me. Throw him back in,” Dr. Prosser panted.

“No, don’t!” Dr. Murray gasped.

“Shut up and pick him up!” Dr. Prosser screamed.

She pulled open the barn door, and there was a blast of heat. Fish could see nothing but flames. This time there would be no escape. His last hope died, and he felt a curious black calm come over him. All his efforts had only led him to this. What had it all been for? his mind mocked him.

For Rose. Rose, leaning on Paul’s arm, weeping. Rose.

All this for one girl, a girl you’re never going to get anything from?
Freet mocked him one last time.

Yes, he told himself. One life for a life. That was not too much to ask. In fact, it made perfect sense.

He looked up at Dr. Murray, and met her trembling face and vacant eyes. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting Rose live,” he replied.

Once again, he was a victim, a sacrifice, but in the end, perhaps that was all he had been created to be. However, he had to admit, it was a far more active role than he had first supposed.

“Murray, get over here!” He felt arms under his shoulders and knees lifting him up, swinging him back and forth.

Dr. Prosser wheezed. “One... two ...”

God, it’s over. If this is what You meant me to do, I’ve done it...

There was a rush and then an explosion of heat, and a crushing force, and he was being flattened, his leg screaming in pain, and the ropes tightened around him relentlessly, and then suddenly, abruptly, he was surrounded by cold and dark and rushing air again, ending with a shattering crunch, and a plunge into darkness.

Hers

Her hand broke clear of the waters and she felt it twitch. There was light all around her now, and the clarity of the second birth of sight broke down into soft brown dimness.

With a startling realization, she discovered her body once again. She had arms, legs, a neck, a head, a face. Her eyes were burning, and she lifted her lids, blinking, and was momentarily paralyzed by light, real light, coming down at last. Gratitude washed over her.

She could move her face now, and explored with her tongue, touching her teeth and licking her lips, tasting the salt and cool moist skin. Sounds echoed in her ears joyously, and the smell of dust and sweat and medicine came over her like so many rich perfumes. She made out the sun of a single light bulb and massive wooden beams soaring above her. Her body had returned to her, and she raised her hands above her and saw her fingers moving. It was as if they were newly made, freshly restored to her.

Thrilled, she turned her head, twisting her shoulders, feeling her hair—how much longer her hair was now!—sliding over her neck. Her feet moved in symphony with the rest of her, until she was on her stomach and looking across the worn boards of an attic floor at a curious group of people in the middle of the room. None of them were looking at her.

There was Kateri, her black mane hanging over her back, her hands pulled behind her. And Paul, also crouched over, his hands behind him. And several men in black uniforms standing over them, fastening something on their hands. Policemen. Handcuffs. They were arresting Paul and Kateri.

For a moment, she was confused, then swiftly her mind sorted some of the recent happenings of the twilight world with reality, and she understood.

She rose to her feet, swallowed, put a hand to the unfamiliar yet familiar tube in her throat, pressed it closed, and found her voice. She moved forward, easily, to her surprise, strengthening her resolve.

“What are you doing to them?” she demanded, tossing her head to move her hair behind her shoulders. She had not spoken with this force in a long time—in months. But the voice came forward, fierce as Cordelia’s voice had been, commanding. A princess who appeared inconsequential but who could not be conquered.

At her voice, everyone’s head swiveled around and looked at her. Paul, whose face had been grim and quiet, now broke into a huge grin. “Rose, you’re awake!” he cried out.

“Officers, you shouldn’t arrest them,” she said, taking another step forward, barely quivering, and meeting the eyes of the strange men, who didn’t know what to make of her. “They saved my life.”

Rose walked down the steps gingerly, remembering how to walk down steps and feel the process at the same time. More men in black uniforms rushed up the steps at her, but halted when they saw her, a figure in white, head tall, risen as if from the dead. The men she passed became her followers, as Kateri and Paul and their escorts had become.

They turned down one staircase and down another. The staircases widened out, as she remembered them from her dreams. She must have truly walked down them at one point. They were very familiar.

“Do you want to stop and rest, Rose?” Kateri whispered in her ear, but Rose shook her head slightly and kept walking.

At last they reached the grand staircase that Rose had never made it down without being caught by the dark phantom’s grasp. Now she was free, and awake. She put a hand on the ebony banister and walked down, her chin high, her red hair swaying across her back. Behind her, she could feel Paul’s protective presence. At her side, Kateri flanked her. She became aware of a crowd of people at the foot of the steps, all talking, but when they saw her, there was a general hush. As she walked, she recognized nurses and policemen and reporters. And Leroy Robinson, Alex O’Donnell, James Kelly—and a girl she recognized as Donna (!). Donna and Alex were sitting on the ground, handcuffed, and Alex seemed to have survived a terrible fight. James and Leroy lay on blankets on the ground, looking very ill.

She wasn’t disturbed by so many eyes upon her, feeling on stage in a real way. Supposing Cordelia had returned from the dead? It was as if the Bard were penning a new play, as if a master musician had suddenly introduced a new theme.

A collective sigh seemed to embrace the room. There were cries, whispers, and exclamations from the nurses and technicians, who recognized her, and were faintly explaining her circumstances to the rest. She saw some of the larger technicians starting to edge away.

The policemen sensed the mood change and began looking at their prisoners uncertainly. Her friends looked up at her in wonder.

“Paul, you did it,” Alex said softly.

She felt their gaze, but she herself was looking around hesitantly. Something that she had expected to find was missing.

One of the policemen who stood next to him looked at Paul. “So it’s true, what you were saying. You were just trying to buy time to wake this girl up?”

“And he did,” Alex said.

Paul shook his head. “I couldn’t have done it without...” he trailed off, looking at Rose, who was still searching the crowd for someone, she couldn’t remember who. An extra character? A figure out of legend? Had he really been part of the play? Or had that been part of the dream?