Princess in a Coma
“Milkwort!”
“Coming, father.”
Prince Milkwort minced his way down the tower steps, like a flamingo
descending an escalator.
The King looked his last remaining son up and down. What a sorry piece
of work he was.
“What were you doing up there? I’ve been looking all over the castle
for you.”
“Reading.”
“Give me that!” The King flicked it open. “The Pursuit of Poetry?
Get a life, son.”
“Yes, father.”
The King tossed the poetry primer over his shoulder and it flew over
the battlement and fluttered down into the moat. “Now, I’ve seen an ad in Kings and
Castles magazine- there’s some princess in some piddling little kingdom
up north, who has gone and got herself k.o.’ed by a hag. Apparently, she’s in
some cave, inside a glass case, guarded by a dragon. I want you to take
yourself up there and do the necessary.”
“The necessary, father?”
“Do I have to draw a picture, Milkwort?”
“You want me to rescue her?”
“Her father says if you can bring her round, you can have her,” said
the King. “She may not be much, but at least you’ll be off me hands- and not
mooning around this palace for the rest of your born. Off you go!”
Groundsel the groom was polishing one of the new four wheel drives,
when Prince Milkwort turned up, looking melancholic and pensive.
“Fancy a spin, sir?”
“No. Saddle two horses, Groundsel.”
“Horses?
You don’t want to be riding horses, Your Highness- not when you’ve got one of
these beauties sitting in your courtyard. Look at those lines…” Groundsel ran
his shammy along the bonnet trim. “Pwar! I could shag it, I could, sir…she humps motorway like a squadie on a three-day pass!”
“They don’t
allow cars where we are going, Groundsel.”
“You don’t understand. This isn’t just any car, Your Royal Highness.
You are looking at a four point five litre, four-wheel drive, all-weather,
off-road Buckster, with twin exhausts- we?”
“We are going to Faraway. Saddle the horses,” said the Prince.
“But that’s in the north, sir. We don’t want to go up there. It’s all
wet and horrible- we’ll get her mudguards dirty and-”
“-Groundsel- the horses!”
“Please, Your Highness: she’d be ideal. Go on: just sit in her, smell
that leather. I’ll take you for a test drive.”
“Oh, very well.”
Out on the motorway, with the quad radio blaring and Groundsel,
grinning over at him every time he changed up and they felt a new surge of
power, the Prince had to admit that they could be up north and back in a day,
if they drove. But the use of cars for damsel-rescuing was strictly forbidden.
“I’ll pull off at the next exit and open her up on the way back!”
yelled Groundsel, above the rock music and engine noise.
“I thought you had!” shouted the Prince.
“No!” laughed Groundsel. “This is just cruise!”
By noon the next day, the Prince and his groom had ridden just ten
miles in the pouring rain, and when they stopped to brew up, they could still
see the castle they had left, four hours earlier, down in the valley below.
“I reckon we should pitch the tent here for the night, Your Royal
Highness.”
“Pitch the tent? We’ve only just got started!” said the Prince.
“Well, we’re not going to get far in this lot are we, sir?”
Ten minutes later, they were inside the tent, having a brew.
“There you go, sir: no milk, two sugars and a dollop of marmalade,
just the way you like it.”
“Thank you, Groundsel. I wish this blasted rain would stop.”
“We’re nice and snug in here though…why don’t you drink your tea and
grab forty winks, sir? I’ll stand guard.”
“Groundsel, I’ve been doing some thinking. You’re not married, are
you?”
“Me, sir? You must be joking! You don’t buy the whole ice cream van,
when you only fancy a quick lick, do you, sir?”
“Bit cynical, isn’t it, Groundsel?”
“Don’t get me wrong, Your Royal Highness- I love women, I just don’t
want a whole one, if you catch my drift!”
“Your drift is making me seasick, Groundsel. This damsel in distress…”
“The Princess in a coma?”
“What if you were me, Groundsel- would you marry her?”
The groom added a nip of contraband Trolldonian whisky to his tea and
offered the hip flask to the Prince. Prince Milkwort shook his head.
Groundsel lounged back in his sleeping bag. “Now, if I were you…what would I
do? If I were a prince…”
“Yes, Groundsel: if you were a prince,” said Milkwort.
“Well, I could have me pick, couldn’t I, sir…I mean, they’d all be up
for it, I mean: pull a prince? I’d have ‘em lining up! Pwar! Prince
Groundsel. Haha. I can just see meself now. I’d have a big flash car, a nice
little penthouse, for entertaining- oh, and I’d have me portrait done! Ah,
but what’s the use of dreaming, sir? Hey? I’m never going to be a prince-
Dame Chance shook the cup, tossed the dice and I got a pair of ones. ‘Course,
your lot all got double sixes…no, life’s a lottery, my liege, and no mistake-
you’re a fruit salad and I’m a bread pudding, and there’s an end to it.”
“What if we swapped places?” said Milkwort.
“Swapped places? You’re having a laugh, sir! Me be you?”
“I assure you I am deadly serious, Groundsel,” said the Prince. “On
the Milkwort scale of seriousness, I have reached critical mass. Groundsel, I
am so serious, you could ressurrect my dead seriousness, kill it again, train
it to haunt, exorcise it, have it fossilised and exhibit it at the Avalonian
Museum of Ancient Relics. I want to change places with you!”
“Are you sure about this, sir?”
“Groundsel- just think of what I’m offering you: instant royalty! No
more worrying about paying bills, no more queuing for things, no more…having
your credit refused, no more brushing your own teeth….no more pulling your
own flush- Groundsel- you’d have instant celebrity! Just imagine not being a
civillian!”
“I’ll do it!” cried Groundsel, springing out of his sleeping bag and
banging his head on the tent pole. Suddenly, he felt his face and stared at
Milkwort. “But what about the King? We don’t look anything like each other-
how can we swap places?”
“Leave all that to me,” said Milkwort. “I’ve thought it all through.
Oh, you won’t regret this, Groundsel- you’ll make a much better prince than
I. You’re every inch a prince!”
Groundsel grinned and showed the Prince his profile.
“Look at that haughty jawline. Stick that nose up higher. Excellent.
Those supercillious eyes. Show me your hands, Groundsel,” said the Prince.
“Hmm, just as I thought: never done a day’s work in your life- you’re
perfect!”
“So, what exactly would I have to do, Your Royal Highness?”
“Well, you can stop calling me ‘Your Royal Highness’ for a start, Your
Royal Highness,” smiled His Royal Highness.
The unlikely pair had been waiting in the cave for days, though it
seemed like weeks, for a Prince to show up.
“So, what were you before you got involved in all this malarky?” asked
the old dragon, dealing the cards again.
“Exotic dancer,” said Miss Stiltskin, blowing one of her wet nails.
“Where was that then?” The dragon dumped a nine and then picked up
another one. “Drat!”
“Bluffer,” said Miss Stiltskin.
“Fertillia was it?”
“’Sright.” Onyx Stiltskin picked up the nine, for a straight nine,
ten, jack, and discarded the five of spades. Now she just needed a four or a
seven to complete her other run. “A nightclub in Whopper. Your turn.”
“Yeah, I’m thinking. Don’t hear of many exotic Goblin dancers.”
“What’s that s’posed to mean?”
“Nothing, babe. Just saying, that’s all,” said the dragon.
“Yeah, well, don’t,” said Onyx. “I’m bored with cards...”
The dragon laid down a seven and picked up another one! This time he
disguised his disappointment, and smiled.
The Goblin card shark picked up the seven and laid her cards on the
table. “Gin.”
“Do you ever lose?” said the dragon.
“Only when I’m hustling,” said Onyx.
The beautiful Miss Stiltskin wandered over to the entrance, folded her
slender arms and gazed out over the scorched wasteland.
“Don’t get spotted,” said the dragon. “I reckon he’s bottled it.”
“Story of my life,” said Onyx. “Twenty-three years old and never met a
decent one yet.”
“Your luck’ll change, babe,” said the old dragon.
“You worked this kinda scam many?”
“Not up here. Used to operate over in Harvesta.”
“How did it play out?”
The old dragon grinned and lit a butt of cigar on his smouldering
tongue. “One time, this mark showed up and smelt it straight off.”
“What did you do?”
“I incinerated the sucker.”
“You didn’t!” cried Onyx.
“Just kiddin’. I only singed him. Any sign?”
“Nope. This is so boring.”
“The stakes are high though,” said the dragon, waddling over to join
her. “How much they tell you about this Prince?”
“Nada. You?”
“Only that he’s from Dryadia and that he likes poetry.”
“Great,” said Onyx. “Trust me to wind up with a lousy poet prince.”
“He’s probably a nice guy…once you get to know him.”
“I like the physical type, thanks- not some little pipsqueak, who
doesn’t know his doh-ray-me from his ABC.”
“Hey, sister, you’ve really been around. But it sounds to me like
you’re getting cold feet,” said the dragon.
“Don’t worry about my end- just make sure you don’t barbecue this
creep. I don’t want any mess-ups.”
“Why don’t you climb back in that sleep tank, sister?” said the
dragon. “You’re making me nervous.”
She plucked the cigar butt out of the dragon’s mouth and stubbed it
out under her heel. “Wake me up the minute he shows.”
“You’re supposed to be comatose.”
“I can do comatose.”
The dragon smiled as he watched her strut back to her glass encased
bed. “This Prince is gonna wish he stayed in Dryadia…”
Meanwhile, three hundred miles away, due south, Prince Groundsel and
his groom, Milkwort, were still making heavy weather of it.
“…the port is always passed to the left,” Milkwort was saying, as they
rode along, through the sheeting rain.
“What if someone on the right wants it?” said the new prince he was
grooming- or, is that: the old groom he was princing?
“Then it has to go right round the table.”
“Right round the bleeding table?” laughed Groundsel. “I could die of
thirst!”
“That,” said Milkwort, “is as unlikely as you ever convincing anyone
that you are a prince.”
“I could do it standing on me head.”
“You might have to, if your future father-in-law ever finds out his
daughter’s married to a groom!” said Milkwort. “He’ll have you strung up!”
“I wonder what she looks like.”
“Don’t build your hopes up: her old man had to advertise her in Kings
and Castles, so I don’t suppose she’s any oil painting.”
“Now he tells me,” said Groundsel. “No. I don’t mind what she looks
like really. I can always have a few mistresses- there’s always some knocking
about the court with their tongues hanging out.”
“You don’t exactly come into the category of charming princes, do you,
Groundsel?”
“I’ll go through that court like a dose of salts: no woman over
sixteen or under forty’s safe. There’ll be that many heir apparents, they’ll
have to draw up league tables to sort out who’s up for the throne next,” said
Groundsel.
“I’m beginning to have my doubts about what I’m unleashing on our
friends in the north,” said Milkwort.
“They haven’t invented a word for what I’ll be getting up to, mate!”
“Try to keep a low profile for
the first few years, Groundsel, for pity’s sake.”
“Low profile? I’ll be in bed most of the time- that low enough for
you?”
“Not everyone lives for fast cars and sex, Groundsel,” said Milkwort.
“Why- what else is there?”
Back up north, Miss Stiltskin was lying on her raised bed, with the
glass hood up, flicking through the pages of Hiya Magazine, checking
out the talent, a half-eaten box of chocolates close at hand.
“Look at the biceps on that!” she drooled.
The dragon pinged the ash off his cigar with his claw and tried to get
Radio Serendipity on his transitor.
“The weather’s been bad down in Dryadia,” he muttered, “maybe they got
held up- hey, Onie, maybe they should have called it Wetadia?”
“Yeah, and maybe that drip of a prince pulled over to write another
sonnet and got his nib wet,” said the so-called princess. “Oo! Now, that’s
what I call a real hunk!” She opened the spread and showed the dragon. “What
d’you think?”
“You’re asking me? I just burn ‘em, sis…what is up with this damn
thing?” He shook the radio and it fell apart.
“Yeah, well, I could get the hots for him any time,” purred Onyx.
“You eat any more of those chocolates and I won’t be able to close
that lid!” said the dragon.
“Haha,” said the Goblin babe. “Pass me that car magazine will you- I
wonna pick out my runabout…”
The days wore on like a cheap perfume.
The old dragon was having a good scratch on a blasted oak, when he saw
them coming. He darted back in the cave.
“Showtime!” he shouted. “Put that ciggie out and get the lid down!”
Miss Stiltskin stubbed her cigarette out and shoved the ashtray under
the mattress, but the dragon was already slamming the glass canopy down over
her, so the chamber was still a bit smokey inside. She tried to wave it away.
“The smoke!” she mouthed through the glass.
“That can be the mists of time, babe,” grinned the dragon.
Milkwort was studying the Lonely Dwarf Guide to Faraway.
According to the map, they were on Blasted Heath, so the cave they could see
before them must be the actual dragon’s lair…
“This is definitely the place,” said Milkwort. “So, I’ll leave you to
it. Good luck.”
“Here- hang about!” said Groundsel. “I thought you’d be sticking
around for a bit, just in case…you know.”
“We’ve been over this a thousand times, Groundsel, it’s all been
meticulously planned: you wait for him to come out, stand your ground and
then when he’s least expecting it, chop his head off. Goodbye.” The Prince
turned his horse round and rode away.
“Wait! What if it’s a big one, I might need a hand with him!” cried
Groundsel.
Milkwort raised his hand and waved, but kept on riding. He was free,
free at last, free to write free verse in the free world, freely. And the
feeling filled him with an overwhelming sense of…urgent necessity to go to
the loo.
Miss Stiltskin lifted the lid a little, so that she could whisper to
the dragon.
“What’s the hold up?”
“He’s just sitting there on his horse,” replied the dragon.
“What’s he like?”
“Regular,” shrugged the dragon. “What’s he waiting for?”
“Let me see,” said Miss Stiltskin, slipping out of her encasement and
tip-toeing over to the dragon’s shoulder. “Oo…not bad…doesn’t look much like
a poet to me- he looks like a right goer, that one. Look at the thighs on
him-”
“Get back in the casket,” said the dragon. “There’s something wrong
here …”
She poked the dragon in the rib. “Just make sure he stays in the pink,
Red.”
“The smuck’s riding away!”
“What?”
yelled Onyx, spinning round on her heels and hurrying back to the dragon’s
side. “Go after him!”
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” said the dragon. “I don’t like
surprises.”
“Just do what you gotta do,” said Onyx, giving the dragon a shove.
The dragon shot out of the cave like a four-legged chicken and
scampered across the heath, chasing their investment.
Groundsel heard something scratching along and looked back over his
shoulder to see the huge, red face of the dragon bearing down on him. He
tried to kick his horse into a gallop, but it reared and threw him off, and then
galloped away. Groundsel jumped to his feet and tried to draw his sword, but
was panicking so much that he couldn’t even pull it out of the scabbard. The
dragon roared, Groundsel spun round in terror and the flat of his scabbard
caught the dragon’s jaw a glancing blow.
The old dragon clutched his jaw and feigned mortal agony:
“Oh…he got me,” he groaned. “Oh, oh…” He staggered about, to make it
look really good and then slumped down in the dust and ash. “Oh…I am
dy-ing…now he will free the princess in the cave…I am killed. Oh!” He chose a
comfortable-looking tussock of grass and sank his jaw down on it. “Ah….”
Groundsel grinned and looked at the tip of his scabbard. He practised
the deadly swing round a couple of times, and the huge razor edged broad
sword slid out and swang about dangerously in his hand. One of the wily old
dragon’s eyes opened a bit.
“Maybe, I should run the red terror through and make sure!” cried
Groundsel the Dragonslayer!
The dragon gave one nostril a quick snort.
Groundsel sheathed the sword and legged it. “Maybe not!”
Miss Stiltskin heard footsteps approaching and puckered her lips. She
heard the glass case open and felt the Prince’s warm breath on her face. And
then his full moist lips were pressing down on hers…and then his tongue was
in her mouth – and his hands were all over her!
“Get off me- you dirty-” She stopped herself because she suddenly found
herself eyeball to eyeball with the handsomest prince she had ever seen.
“Hello, darling,” grinned Groundsel.
“Prince Milkwort, I presume?” said Onyx, batting her eyelids.
“At your service,” said Groundsel.
“I thought you were never coming,” she said.
“That’s what they all say,” said Groundsel, climbing in with her.
Six months later the King of Dryadia drove up to the little kingdom of
Faraway, to visit his neighbour, and finalise the arrangements for his son’s
wedding. As he walked through the palace courtyard with the King, he noticed
that a large number of the servants and ladies were pregnant.
“All your son’s doing,” beamed the King of Faraway. “Just as I said
over the phone: the boy’s a stallion. That stunt we pulled with the dragon
certainly solved our repopulation problem after that last plague we had- my
wayward daughter’s off my hands and your last is off yours.”
“Even though I’m seeing it with my own eyes, I still can’t believe
that this is all Milkwort’s doing,” said his father. “I never knew he had it
in him.”
“You must be very proud of him, that’s all I can say! Ah, speaking of
which, here he comes now…Milkwort, my dear boy- look who’s come to see you.”
The King and Groundsel stared at each other for a moment or two.
Finally, Groundsel smiled and said:
“Father…”
The King hesitated for a second and then embraced him. “Milkwort!” he
cried. “You young rascal!”
Everything had worked out exactly as Milkwort had said it would.
“I’ll let you two catch up,” said the King of Faraway, making his way
into the palace.
“Where’s my son?” whispered the King.
“He told me to tell you he’s sorry, but he couldn’t go through with
it. He said you’d understand,” said Groundsel. “And… would rather have a son
like me.”
The King nodded. A tear appeared in the corner of his left eye. He
wiped it away.
“Do you still want me to carry on being Milkwort, Your Majesty?” said
Groundsel.
The King nodded. “Go in…give me a moment.”
Groundsel left him alone in the courtyard.
The King looked up to a morning star, high in the sky, and said:
“Wherever you are, Milkwort…I’ll always love you, my boy.”
And then he turned smartly on his heels and marched into the palace.
The End
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