THE ETERNAL QUEEN

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Status: Self-Published on Amazon.com & Smashwords.com
Length: 75,000 words
Genres: Fractured fairy tale, magical realism, literary undertones

Eternal Queen Anastasia has been kidnapped from her own Rebirth Ceremony – not that the seven Royal Lords will let anyone know. Though they, themselves, soon start dropping like flies, as rumors spread on the suspicious whispers of the people. Mrs. Deedly and Mrs. Dummley – who are absolutely not sisters – just want to find what their long, unwieldy scarf has snagged during their walk through Lower Rung. It's a boot, attached to a foot, attached to a dying man in the cemetery. At the same time, Bogart Bugly of Rainbow Tower has found himself a young, injured, gem of a girl, and he's going to make gold on this one. In the Palace, the newly promoted Lord Septimus has his own ideas about the future of the city and its Queen.

Mystery, murder, and mayhem all abound in The Eternal Queen, which follows a young girl named Red, a mischievous rogue named Wolf, and the determined new Lord who calls himself Hunter. As Red opens her eyes to a world she can't quite understand, she must come to terms with the Queen, the city, and the precarious relationship the two have shared for centuries.

SAMPLE CHAPTERS: 1-3

ONE 

Despite commonly held assumptions, Mrs. Deedly and Mrs. Dummley are not sisters. This particular rumor they blame on the baker’s wife. Really the two have nothing in common besides a certain lack of height and an unrivaled love of the cross stitch. Mrs. Dummley only moved in with Mrs. Deedly because, with the death of both of their husbands, the paying of individual rents was simply unacceptable. They were also looking forward to a mutual alliance meant to get back at the baker's wife. Living together seemed a cementing step towards teamwork, so they pushed their differences aside.

On this brisk morning they were well into one of their biannual walks around Lower Rung. It’s an affair they started forty years ago and were adamant to maintain. Together they walk side-by-side knitting a long and unwieldy scarf that billows out behind them like a train. By now, residents of Lower Rung know what the scarf is and, more importantly, who are attached to one end. They try their best not to step on it and treat it much like they would a poisonous snake. ‘Out of sight, safe from harm,’ does not apply for those who trifle with Mrs. Deedly and Mrs. Dummley. And not many do.

For thirty-nine years they have made sure part of their walk winds through Lower Rung Cemetery and past the baker's wife’s grave. They take special pride in walking by with their heads held high and their noses in the air. ‘Serves her right,’ they both think, ‘for starting such horrible rumors.’

It is inevitable the train of yarn occasionally hits some snags. Suddenly the two will find themselves tugged to an unpleasant stop. What they first try is wiggling the scarf up and down in a wave fashion. They find this usually works - but not for the reason they think. The residents, terrified of the scarf and the women attached to it, are even more terrified of what would happen should the two be forced to backtrack and spy the multitude of people who had neglected to help them.

For this particular snag the wave was not working. Neither was the tugging, or heavenward fist shaking and cursing. Finally, very disgruntled, the two made a hundred and eighty degree turn and began walking back until they found the problem - their knitting utensils shining dangerously in the sunlight. What they found was that a piece of their knitting had snagged a boot. What they also discovered was that attached to the boot was a foot. The foot was of course attached to a leg, the leg to a torso, and so on, and so forth. For the first time in nearly forty years the two women, who were not sisters, were fairly certain they were staring at a dead body. It was a young man, his face smeared with dirt and blood, as were a large portion of his clothing and visible body. He made no movements when Mrs. Deedly kicked his boot, but the two heard a soft sort of moan.

“Not dead then,” said Mrs. Deedly.

“Doesn't appear so,” answered Mrs. Dummley.

“Hmmm,” both women frowned.

“It's hardly our responsibility-” started Mrs. Deedly.

“I feel it's our obligation-” started Mrs. Dummley, simultaneously.

“Hmmm,” their frowns deepened.

“We’ll have to cut our walk short,” warned Mrs. Deedly.

“Hardly. You know we'll swing by again on our way back,” answered Mrs. Dummley.

“Well, alright then. We'll pick him up on our way back.”

With that they made sure there were no more visible snags before starting another one hundred and eighty degree turn to continue their walk.

TWO

Mrs. Deedly tried to hide her disappointment when they returned and gave the man another hard nudge and heard his answering moan. He was still alive. Now they had the task of figuring out how to get him to their house.

Lower Rung of City Eternia was full of dirty slum dwellers and housing complexes staggered hither thither along the border of the city walls and up to the dividing line of Lower Rung and Merchant Line. Like any self-respecting slum it had a code of honor and ethics that it adhered to - most of the time. Mrs. Deedly and Mrs. Dummley had carefully crafted their reputations as widows to the point of being treated with uneasy respect. But even for them, dragging what appeared to be a dead body through the streets would invite the curious to investigate the who, the what and the how - all questions the two had no care to answer. Why, just the thought of the common vultures of Lower Rung descending upon their house sent waves of disgruntled shivers down their spines.

“Hmm,” both women frowned.

“Dear Deedly, I have a troubling idea.”

“I don't like your use of ‘troubling,’” muttered Mrs. Deedly.

Mrs. Dummley paid her ill humor no mind.

“Naturally, on our walks back we wind up our scarf and push it along in the shape of a gigantic ball.”

What the two did with their biannual scarves was only half known. It’s only the fall scarf that’s cut up, washed, and individually stitched into a basket of scarves sold at the Fall Fair. It’s unclear what becomes of the spring scarf.

“I suppose we could instead wrap the scarf around the man and make a longer cylinder out of it. We'll still be able to push it along rather well, I think.”

“I suppose. The bloodstains will be hard to wash out.”

“Yes, they will be.”

“You're certain we can't just-”

“Absolutely not! To knowingly leave a man to die, why, it's what the baker's wife would have done.”

Mrs. Deedly thought about that, and when her features took on the appearance that she had eaten something sour and bitter at the same time Mrs. Dummley knew she agreed.

“Let's get started then.”




The two women rolled the man, now snugly tucked inside a cocoon of yarn, along the road. They were happy to find that despite a few odd looks here and there, things were proceeding according to plan. The blood that seeped through the yarn was quickly muddied by the dust and grime from the dirt and cobblestone roads, and helped the two old women avoid any suspicious looks sent their way. Any more than usual that is.

However, the width of their yarn creation was considerably longer than normal, and so took up more space along the road. They had little hope of avoiding Bugly's cart.

“'Ey. Watch it!” Bugly growled.

“Quit your complaining!” Mrs. Deedly hissed out in return.

“'Eh! What'd you say?”

Bugly descended from his cart with all of his six feet of height and muscle. It was almost unanimously agreed, in whispered conversation and tea-time gossip, that Bogart Bugly was the vainest of all Lower Rung residents, some speculated all of City Eternia. He kept up a rigorous exercise regime of bar fights, alleyway brawls, and slave hunting - though Bugly preached that his Rainbow Gals were always willing employees.

‘I won’t take no bad mouthing of my gals!' Bugly could be heard announcing at the beginning and end of all of his fights.

“You heard what I said, Bogart Bugly!”

“Maybe I did. But maybe I was giving you the chance to double think it.” Bugly reached down one of his giant hands to rest on Mrs. Deedly's head.

“Unhand me!” Mrs. Deedly seethed, whipping her knitting utensils into her hand, rotating them to be more efficient weapons should she choose. Mrs. Dummley hastily took up her companion's cause.

“You're well aware we meant no offense.”

“He's making it awfully hard for us to continue to be polite.”

“Yes. Very hard.”

“Hmm,” both women deeply frowned at Bugly. The man’s face, beneath his tailored beard and mustache, grew a deep red.

Bugly would have started something then and there, with all of Old Boot Street straining to be inconspicuous in their spying and gossiping, had the occupant of his cart not shifted and groaned. Bugly collected himself, sniffing disdainfully down at the two spinsters.

“My new gal is in need of help. You aren't worth my time.” Bugly adjusted the slumped figure, moving small limbs and propping the girl up more comfortably.

“Ruining another young girl's life with your sick trade?”

“She's my new gal, and what you’re insinuating don’t do her justice. Right gal, Papa Bugly loves you.”

The girl gave a dazed sigh.

Mrs. Deedly bristled, shaking in fury much like a cat.

“Hardly love! A drugged stupor as always!”

Bugly gave the two women a dark look before clambering back up his cart and continuing along the road. Mrs. Deedly and Mrs. Dummley watched as he went by, casting pitying glances at the bedraggled little thing in the back of the cart. The girl's eye was glazed over and she was covered in dust and light bruises. Draped over her right eye was a dirty bandage, its condition hinting at a serious wound. The growing curves of her body highlighted her recent promotion into womanhood.

Mrs. Deedly gave one last ‘tsk’ of disapproval before signaling to Mrs. Dummley that it was time to get their own battered burdensome care.

THREE

Henry Gregarious was a nervous man by nature. His father had been a nervous man, and from stories told, he had discerned his grandfather had been one as well. His neighbors openly criticized his jumpiness and few of the women encouraged their husbands to invite him over for dinner conversations. Henry was prone to creating spills and ruining the point of pointless conversations. So it had been with a discontented grumble that people accepted that he had been one the three selected to bear witness to the rebirth of Queen Anastasia.

“Bu-bu-bu-but, I couldn't possib-possibly accept such a generous offer,” Henry had stuttered to the Royal Guard handing him the proclamation.

“Should I return to Lord Sextus with your refusal?”

When the guard had turned to leave, a horrified Henry had quickly grabbed the man's arm. Just as quickly the guard shook him off, turning to look at him with a dangerous stare. Henry had nearly fainted, wringing his hands together with absolute terror at his impulsiveness.

“N-n-no, no please. Forgive m-m-me. I humbly accept.”

He had bowed lowly to the guard, who in turn had shoved the invitation into Henry's hands as he stood. The poor fellow had stumbled into his coat rack and knocked the whole thing to the ground. Alone that night, he had thought long and hard about what such an honor could actually do for him. It was a very large responsibility, since he would be representing the entire Merchant Line community. But when - like all of his nights for the past three years - he dreamed of looking into Mary Contrary's eyes and not seeing polite dismissal but instead adoration, he realized that his selection was perhaps a sign.

Henry Gregarious had allowed himself to hope.

Now he sat in the palace dungeon with a stomach full of ulcers and his skin starting to molt from worry and the damp. The first day the three witnesses had been placed in the cell, there had been a communal sense of confusion and injustice. After all, the three of them had been innocently watching the ceremony – ‘Under guard the entire time,' Henry had pleadingly reminded them while being dragged along – and it was quite obvious they had had nothing to do with the sabotage.

In the beginning, his nice, new coat had kept back much of the cold. It was a complimentary sage green with gold trim and it had brought out the shine of his eye, or so Madame Longstem had said. Flushed by such a generous compliment he had nearly popped off all of the buttons when slipping out of the garment. He had bought it without even trying to haggle a better price. His trousers had been stuffed inside his best pair of boots, which had been doing a steady job of keeping the moisture and cold from his feet, that is, before they had been taken from him.

When three days had gone by with no sign that they would soon be released, the companionship of the three men had disintegrated. George Blue, the witness representing Lower Rung, was considerably more underdressed than Henry and Priest Micah Sherry. The Priest had immediately pointed out, when being suddenly accosted and threatened with violence by Blue, that when they do eventually get out of the cell and are let back into society he could very easily hire men to repay Blue's kindness in elaborate, unusual, and surely chilling ways. Blue, taking a while to work around what the Priest had said, had grumbled lowly in his throat,

“There’s hardly a guarantee we'll get out. An' I'm freezing.”

“Yes, well, just in case, why not take Gregarious's items. They'll keep you just as warm without future possible threat.”

Henry, who had shrunk back against the wall during the entire exchange, had somehow tuned out the argument between the two men and had been running figures through his head. The probability of death while sitting in the cell was heading towards sixty percent based on continued captivity in damp conditions with minimal food and fresh water intake. The probability of death by public execution was rising towards a dangerous twelve percent based on how the sabotage of the Rebirth Ceremony was being handled by the Royal Lords. Making his total percentage of death seventy-eight percent, since he had to adjust for unknown factors.

When Blue then grabbed Henry by the shoulders and demanded his jacket and boots, Henry had been caught off guard.

“G-g-good fellow, what d-d-do you mean?”

“I'm freezing and I don’t feel like freezing anymore.”

Henry had cast a pleading look at Priest Sherry, who had looked away, disgusted.

So here he was, sitting curled up, cold, damp, and, as he kept reminding himself, dying, when the guards opened up the cell door and ordered the three of them to stand and prepare themselves to meet with the Royal Lords. Being marched through the grand halls of the palace, Henry couldn’t relax enough to appreciate the beauty. Instead, he was continually wringing his hands together, fretfully tutting as he watched Blue and the Priest be led in one direction while the guards marching him stopped in front of a deep purple door.

“Bringing one Henry Gregarious, alchemist, to see Lord Tertius.”

“Acknowledged,” intoned the guards by the door. They allowed Henry's party to move forward.

The room was grand in both stature and décor. Henry was led to a chair sitting in front of a man with dark, pulled back hair, and a tight frown on his face. Henry would have known right away it was a Royal Lord from the elaborate suit, silver circlet, and overt use of deep purple in his dress. Only Royal Lords were allowed the privilege of excessive use of the deepest purple. He knew it was Lord Tertius because all the people of City Eternia knew the seven Royal Lords. Their statues and pictures were strategically placed throughout the entire kingdom. It would have been an impressive feat indeed to not recognize each Lord on sight.

“Alchemist Gregarious, I must apologize for the way we have treated you and your fellow witnesses. Of course, I hope you can understand our actions at the time were influenced by a deep confusion and fear stemming from the attempted disruption at the Rebirth Ceremony. We had to consider everyone a potential suspect. We have fully planned to give you three a generous offer of forgiveness, but I'm afraid there's something I need to ask of you.”

Henry gulped, trying to let a lot of the tension in his shoulders disappear now that he knew he was no longer in any immediate danger of dying.

“W-w-what could you n-n-need of me?” He laughed nervously, regretting the action immediately.

Lord Tertius smiled, then looked beyond him. Henry turned in his chair, more than startled to find another man standing there dressed in the same elaborate attire as Lord Tertius, including the purple accents. But he was not a Lord that Henry recognized.

“Alchemist, I would like to introduce you to the new Lord Septimus. I'm afraid the former Lord died in the chaos.”

“Oh, d-d-dear,” murmured Henry. “Is the new Queen alright?”

“Alchemist Gregarious, it is certainly a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I hear, because of your, if you don't mind me saying, disposition, you are quite the master of emotion manipulative potions?”

“Well, yes...”

The new Lord Septimus smiled indulgently at Henry, who found he could not be comforted.

“Excellent.”

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