the groundskeeper - 4. the green dress of lady dodsley

by nanette nanao

illustrations by danny delacroix

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

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click here to begin the groundskeeper

click here to begin the 14th princess

time passed. marthe passed away. this event shocked me as no other before or since. "the first death is the most final." did some wise and ancient philosopher say that or did i just write it now? it just "popped into my head" as i sit here. no doubt the last - one's own - will be even more final. charles and berthe had been kinder to me than marthe had, and after being taken up by mademoiselle i had spent more time with charmian, but marthe's sudden - sudden to me - demise had an effect not only on my feelings but perhaps on my fate. "good god, what are you blubbering about?" these were the first more or less harsh words i can remember mademoiselle uttering to me. "stay away from me, please, until you can compose yourself in a more civilized manner." and so i did - compose myself in a more civilized manner, before returning myself to mademoiselle's company. and how long did it take me to do so? ten minutes? an hour? a day? did this little event i am describing even happen? my old acquaintance the philosopher the baron de b------- (of whom more later - perhaps - if i continue this memoir) spent long hours boring myself and others on the subject of the porous and self-regenerating (was that his phrase - self-regenerating?) nature of memory. i had quite forgotten his lectures until now - when the circumstances - the winter sun through the window of the comte de f----'s chateau - the green dress of the englishwoman lady dodsley - suddenly spring back into my brain as framed as any painting - yes, lady dodsley - of all those who - or should i say, whose pictures - come back to me from that time, somehow i think you are the most likely to still be alive somewhere - even if you are over a hundred years old - for what could happen to you - you who seemed above even boredom - who had a dozen or so houses in the somnolent english countryside to escape to if need be - what could mere time do to you? and your green dress - and your white hat! even if by some chance - and no one is entirely immune to chance - you perished a week or a day after i saw you last - surely the dress and the hat are preserved in one of the aforementioned country houses - immune to dust and time and fashion - with a younger version of yourself - one perhaps actually titled "lady dodsley" - at this very moment contemplating it with a smile and and an upraised eyebrow as her freckle faced maid holds it up to the sunlight streaming through the casement as outside in the bracing british air the current lord dodsley bounds and bounces over the hills in quest of poor reynard… but of the baron de b---'s lectures themselves - except that he delivered them - and the phrase "self-regenerating", what remains? "self-regenerating." indeed. are these memoirs only "self-regenerating"? in my memory it seems that mademoiselle never was quite the same to me after that, but, really, how likely was that? would i have taken up enough space in her mind that her attitude had any room for change? i may have actually spent more time in the drawing room with mademoiselle and charmian and aristide and polyceute , and less in the kitchen with marthe gone. or i might not have. my ability to talk to animals, and mademoiselle's amusement at my ability, certainly continued after marthe's death. so perhaps poor marthe's passing, which just (almost) brought a tear to me eye after all these years, really had no effect on my existence after all. where was i? *** "yes, where is she?" nanette said aloud, and stopped pecking at her typewriter. lulu, her regular day guard and new best friend, turned from the window. "problem?" lulu asked. "maybe." "want me to look at it?" "if you want." lulu took the freshly pecked page over to the window - through which a pale winter light shone - and nanette went over to the bed and lay down with a yawn. "well, what do you think?" "i'm still reading it." "take your time." "it could be shorter. not so many words." "i told you - it's supposed to be like that. like proust." lulu came over and sat on the bed beside nanette. "you could just write something like - 'the cat died. i was sad. i cried. the old lady told me to stop sniveling. so i did. but maybe she didn't really care.' - see. like james patterson would do it." "but it's not supposed to be like james patterson. it's supposed to be like proust." nanette sat up and stretched a little bit. "the books on the top shelf over there - there're proust." "i know, you told me. i tried a few pages." "and?" "it wasn't my style. i like james patterson better." nanette sighed and took the page out of lulu's hand. "besides, we have to get a certain amount of words. so proust is good that way." lulu got up and went back over to the window. "you're doing o k with the words. i'll talk to zelda tonight, see if i can find out more about the other girls are doing." "thank you. i appreciate it." lulu braced herself against the windowsill. "want to go out?" "there's nobody out there?" "sari's out there with minette. but it looks like they are heading back in." "all right." "if it's too cold we can come back in." "you know i do everything you tell me." "we don't have to -" "just kidding. sure, let's go." to be continued

11. troublemakers

by emily de villaincourt

illustrated by danny delacroix and konrad kraus

click here for previous chapter, here to begin at the beginning

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

the buildings in which the princesses were housed were on top of a hill six miles from the nearest village, known simply as "the village" to the girls and the staff. a bus drove up twice a day from the village, bringing up and taking back the guards and cooks and other staff who chose to live off post and bringing up any mail. the guards who lived off post were assigned turns driving the bus and got a little extra pay for doing so. no "outsiders" ever came up, though there was nothing to prevent them from coming up and gawking at the buildings if they had a mind to. none ever did. miss prue could have gone down to the village, but she never did. the buildings were set about a hundred yards back from the road. at first a guard had always been stationed outside the main building, but after a while miss prue and helga had decided it was a waste of time. during the daylight hours there was almost always somebody outside anyway. at night the front door was locked and there was always someone in the guards room just inside the door. the area around the buildings was always lit at night and the area between the buildings and the road was brightly lit. nobody in the village seemed to be particularly interested or curious or to find the place mysterious. guards and staff members - some of whom had lived in the village all their lives - came and went every day, and told anybody who asked that nothing very exciting was going on. there were not very many men in the village, and especially not very many young men. *** the guards locker room and lounge area was just inside the front door. helga had a desk in a little area partitioned off in a corner of the room. she was sitting at it one morning making out a duty roster when two of the guards - zelda and monika - came in. they walked over to the desk. zelda spoke. "good morning, helga." "good morning." helga looked up, mildly curious. the guards did not have to "report" to her, they just had to be where they were supposed to be at the right time. zelda looked down at the paper helga was writing on. "any changes?" "no. not really. why, did you want some change?" "no. but i got a question." monika sat down on the edge of the desk. "you don't mind if i park my fat ass here, do you?" "be my guest. what is your question?" helga asked zelda. "some of us were hanging out at terry's down in the village last night, and we got to talking - " zelda looked over at monika but monika was just staring at helga . "and -?" helga prompted her. "well, you know how some of us are helping the girls - our girls - with their books that they're writing -?" "yes, i've heard that some of you are," helga answered. "it's not against the rules, " said zelda. "i know, it's says right in the rules that you can. and there's some stuff about the staff not having expertise or something. so?" "how about you?" monika interrupted. "you helping your girl out?" "no, she's pretty bright, she doesn't need any help from me." "but you would if she asked you?" helga shrugged. "maybe. she's not asking me." "and besides," monika eyed helga. "you're pretty busy running the place and all." helga stared back. "i don't run the place. i just help prue out a little." "yeah, right." "do you want to do what i do? just stay up here like i do, and never go down to the village. that's why prue gives me a little extra to do. that's all." "how come you like it up here so much?" zelda asked. "you know why. no men." zelda and monika both laughed. "i'd think you'd want to see a guy once in a while," said zelda. "even if you don't want to fuck them or anything. just for a change of pace, to see someone a little different." "that's not the way i see it. now, did you have anything else to ask me? or were those your questions?" "no," zelda said. "like i said, we had a question about helping the girls." "and that question is - " "well, when we get together - at terry's or wherever - we know - most of us - how our girls are doing and we can exchange information, you know?" "i wouldn't have thought you were all that interested," said helga. "but go on." "what's to prevent us from passing the information on to the girls, so they know how the others are doing?" helga thought a few seconds. "nothing, i suppose." "so it's cool?" "let me think." helga rubbed her eyes. "just - just use some common sense. don't talk about it in the lunch room or the library. don't flaunt it. wait until you are alone with your girls." she looked up. "does that answer your question?" "maybe," zelda answered, with a glance at monika. "there could be more to it," said monika. "what?" "suppose they actually want to help each other? if one of the girls wanted to help another one, they could use us. we could pass information back and forth. would that be o k?" helga stared at monika. "has this actually come up?" "not yet," said monika. "but what if it did? it's kind of a hole in the whole system, if you think about it." "why would they want to help each other?" asked helga. "they are competing against each other. one of them is going to get fed to the lions or whatever." "why?" zelda asked. "the whole system is set up so they can't help each other. so they must think they will if they can. that's what half the rules are about. the ones that aren't about them escaping." helga sighed, and slapped her pencil down on the desk. she looked around. the other guards on the morning shift had all gone to their posts. some of the guards and staff who had been relieved were outside on the bus. "what is this? do i need this? what are you, a couple of fucking troublemakers? who needs this shit?" "hey, don't get pissy on us !" monika answered. "we thought we were doing the right thing coming to you." helga frowned, then laughed. "yeah, you're right. i'm sorry. i shouldn't have snapped at you. it's just - none of this entered my mind before." "maybe we should go to prue," zelda said. "no, no, don't do that - yet. let me think about it. i'll ask her if i think i have to." helga looked down at the desk, then back up at zelda. "let me ask you - how much are any of you actually helping them?" "me?" said zelda. "i'm practically writing it for her." "really?" "yeah, really." helga laughed."why?" zelda shrugged. "it's fun. it's something to do. it beats just sitting up there staring at the wall. but i don't want to lose the job over it." "or go to jail," monika added. "nobody's said anything about jail," said helga. "the worst that could happen is you could lose the job." "if you say so." "how about you?" helga asked monika. "you helping your girl?" "i don't have a regular girl. i do swings. you know that." "yeah, that's right." "but i'll tell you who is. olga - the bible lady. i talk to her some on the bus and she says she's helping her girl, practically doing it for her." "huh." helga rubbed her forehead. "all right - just - for now i'm going to pretend we didn't have this conversation. just be cool and use your common sense, all right? and i'll think about talking to prue about it." "we thought we were doing the right thing asking you," monika repeated. "you were, you were. i shouldn't have got mad. i'm sorry. anything else?" monika looked at zelda. "yeah. there's something else i'm curious about." "what?" "the princess in the tower." "you mean - " "the one that's kept up in the top floor, past prue's apartment. that you need the key from prue to bring stuff to." "and don't have a guard of her own," zelda added. "i guess you could say prue is guarding her," helga said. "she keeps her locked up." "any reason?" monika asked. "why don't you ask prue?" said helga. "she tell you the reason?" "she might have." "is it because she is crazy? or gets violent?" "those are good guesses. like i say, you can ask prue yourself, if you are that interested. she is always available, to all staff." "or maybe she's prue's sweetie pie. and she wants to keep her all to herself." "that's another good guess. or she might be a werewolf, or a vampire, or the octopus queen from outer space. those are good guesses too." "i get the impression miss prue doesn't care too much for menfolk." helga laughed. "no, she doesn't. like me. anything else?" "no," said monika. "that ought to do it. for now." "then have a nice day. and thanks again for coming to me." zelda and monika moved off. a couple of guards who had been relieved came in and changed, then went out to the bus. after a while the bus started down the hill. helga went to the window and watched it disappear. laurene's tale

fenwick - 7. a man not to be trifled with

by minette de montfort

illustrated by danny delacroix and rhoda penmarq

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

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click here to begin fenwick

click here to begin the 14th princess

admiral morwyn was not the only witness to muggleton's bursting through the hedge -for needless to say it was indeed poor muggleton who burst through the hedge - for who else could it have been? - i put it to you - reader, if perchance you exist, we are not here to play tricks on you but to tell a plain tale as plainly as possible - the good old fashioned way, around the hearth, around the campfire, at the old roadside inn as the landlord prods the embers with his blackened poker - blackened by centuries of low smoke and weary travelers tales - all hastening to the same end - oblivion - but to proceed - we will tell our tale - because every tale must be told - no matter how dreary or boring - yes, every tale must be told - and will be told - every song must be sung - down to the last repeated chorus - every dog will have his day - every cat will have his nip - though at night they all are gray - every nip will have his tuck - every tuck will have his friar - every friar will have his fat jolly nun - every fat jolly nun will have her flask of ale at the bar of the old roadside inn where the travelers tell their timeworn tales - their tales that must be told. yes, tales that must be told. but not by muggleton. no, not by muggleton. muggleton was given his chance, his chance to tell his own tale - and a sad enough tale it was, to be sure - and he made - i will not say a complete hash of it, no, not a complete hash, but by god, we have to get on with it, don't we? so we will nor hear from muggleton again - we will hear of him to be sure, for he is part of this sorry tale - that must be told regardless - as all tales must be told - but not from him. on with it, man, on with it. admiral morwyn was not the only witness to muggleton's bursting through the hedge - beckwith, the butler who ruled castle morwyn with an iron hand - or with a rod of steel, or perhaps with a rod of steel in his iron hand - or in his iron fist, i believe that is the correct term - a tale should be told in correct terms - what, i ask you, is the point of telling it otherwise? - beckwith happened to be looking out the window - i should say, a window, as there was more than one window in castle morwyn - it could hardy be called a castle, could it now, if it only had one window - beckwith happened to be looking out of the window of the red room - called the red room for what the saints only knew what reason, as there was nothing particularly red about it though there may well have been in the mists of time - beckwith had happened to glance out the window in a moment of exasperation while berating a particularly incompetent chambermaid - who must have been particularly incompetent or lazy, or both, to distract him in this manner as all the chambermaids, indeed all the servants in castle morwyn were lazy and incompetent if not totally moribund - and in glancing out the window - a window - at that moment - he chanced to see poor muggleton at the very moment he burst through the hedge onto the very ill-kept grounds of the castle. this in itself was remarkable as beckwith, as i may have already given some indication, was not a man to be looking out windows when the day's work was to be done. as the only living creature in the castle with a molecule of sense, except for some dogs, cats, rats, mice and spiders - there were some fearful spiders in castle morwyn, capable of giving the cats and rats a fair challenge - responsible for the supervision and shepherding through the day of a castleful of barely sentient morwyns and lazy and good for nothing servants - beckwith was not a man to be trifled with or to waste his time on trifles. this fellow now - muggleton of course, known to you and me, dear reader, but not yet to beckwith who had never set eyes on him before- and would have remembered him if he had, for he had the memory of a lion or tiger or some great ravenous beast of the time before the prophets - this fellow stumbling across the roots and brambles of the shamefully ill-kept grounds of the castle with leaves and twigs and cockleburrs from the thick hedge - and the hedge, for all it was poorly attended to, somehow remained as thick as a morwyn's skull - something to do with the endless rains in this godforsaken stretch of country no doubt - plastered all over his unprepossessing person - could beckwith trust one of the footmen or grooms or groundskeepers - all of these designations being somewhat more than whimsical as whether they were called "footmen" or "grooms" or "groundskeepers" they were nothing more than lazy worthless rascals and parasites who could not be trusted to do the simplest things once out of one's sight - to waylay and ask him his business? he could not. with a grim expression - though this description may be more than a bit superfluous as he always had a grim expression - let us say, then, with an even more grim expression than usual - beckwith left the chambermaid to her dirty tray and marched out of the red room and down the cobwebbed corridor to the rotting staircase, down three floors of increasingly dusty stairwell and out the front door - which he opened himself rather than waste precious time attempting to summon one of the layabout lackeys to open it for him - and out into the air. the air! if there was one thing beckwith had in common with the other inhabitants of the castle it was a sincere and abiding aversion to what is laughingly called "fresh" air - as if air that has blown over the whole foul human-infested earth could be said to have anything "fresh" about it by any stretch of the imagination - the air, at once sickeningly warm and yet with something of the cold clamminess of the tomb about it - smacked him in his gray gob like a dead flounder wielded by a champion batsman - but what he could he do, what could anybody do in his situation but carry on, yes, carry on. "you there! " beckwith cried to muggleton, who was making his way across the blasted and littered landscape of the castle grounds with an increasingly bewildered expression - increasingly truly the operative word as bewilderment was the very essence of muggleton's being as well as his face to the world. muggleton appeared not to hear beckwith's salutation. nor even to see him, though he stood plainly in front of the castle gate. "halloa! you there!" beckwith cried again. there was nothing wrong with beckwith's voice, as he regularly exercised it berating the staff and the morwyns. exasperated, beckwith began to move toward the oblivious muggleton. he had not gone three paces when he tripped over an exposed root and landed with a dreadful thump face down in a particularly disgusting mess of some sort. a dead animal, perhaps? something even worse? something that the sun was no longer shining on, as beckwith's head was now effectively shielding it from that entity. in any case, beckwith had at least succeeded in attracting muggleton's attention, and muggleton now came running as quickly as he could - which as the reader may have surmised was not very quickly - and quite heedless of the myriad traps and pitfalls the grounds held - reader, you can guess what happened next. * that's enough for now, thought minette. her left index finger was getting sore from tapping at the old typewriter. not too bad, she thought. minette didn't think she had ever heard of beckett before the contest. but she had been given copies of his books and had started to read them in order. she had not liked "murphy" so much, but liked "watt" better and that was the book she was trying to imitate. she got up, leaving the sheet of paper in the typewriter and went to the window and looked out. sari, minette's regular day guard, was lying on the bed and followed her with her eyes. "are you through?" "yes, for now." sari could not read or write and so, unlike some of the other guards and maids - a few of whom were virtually writing the books - was little help to minette in writing her assigned novel. she felt bad about this, and liked to be helpful by at least listening to minette reading it aloud to her, and being encouraging by laughing in what she thought were the right places. "you want to read it to me?'" "thanks, maybe later." minette stared out the window. the morning was overcast and windy, and looked cold. "you want to go out?'" sari asked her. "is anybody out there?" "no, but this is the time rosalind usually goes out." "fuck rosalind. you have just as much right to go out as she does." "i don't want anybody getting mad at me." "helga even said she didn't want rosalind getting to think she had a special time reserved. if you want to go out, let's go." "um - all right. it looks cold, though. we should bundle up." 8. blind primal desire