The real Mother Goose

“She needs a firm hand.” The voice made Mother shudder and she glared at George, who moved his own horse up beside the King.

King Cole’s lips pressed into a thin line as he surveyed the scene, the two redheaded youths huddled together on the ground, Mother standing defiant, her packed back still slung over her shoulder.

“Your husband is dead,” the King said low enough just for hear ears, his eyes soft for a moment. ”Accept it.”

“Never.”

Mother’s jaw tightened in defiance.

“I am making an official decree!” The King’s voice boomed over the field. “Father Goose is dead!”

Mother’s heart leapt to her throat, but she didn’t move, didn’t speak, refusing to look at George in the eye, although he tried to catch it, his fat, rosy lips stretched into a wide smile.

“Men, take these slaves back for punishment,” the King ordered, and the knight closest to them lifted Jack under the arm, shoving him toward another. Another threw Jill over his shoulder. She squealed and protested, but there was no resisting all of them. “Mother, you will be punished as well.”

She had known, of course. She waited.

“The King’s property is not your own to do with as you wish,” George reminded her, trying to catch her attention again, but she refused to face him.

“You will be given to George,” the King said with a sharp nod. His face twisted in distaste as he looked between them. “Perhaps he can keep you in line.”

“I’ll kill myself first,” Mother said through clenched teeth, glancing behind her, wondering if she could make it past the dispersing knights through the portal in time.

The King sighed. “Men, take her.”

Three of them descended, and it took all of their strength to subdue her. Mother found herself, hair disheveled, shirt ripped, breeches torn, but arms now tied as they situated her in front of the knight she had run into coming out of the portal, his strong arm keeping her in place. She noted with satisfaction that two of them had cuts on their faces from the heels of her boots.

“I’m closing the portal!” The King announced. “It’s brought enough mischief.”

“Nooo!” Mother wailed as the King called his magician forward. The man, hooded in black, dismounted and stood in front of the enormous rock, holding up two very wrinkled, old hands as if in prayer. His words were unintelligible, but Mother knew exactly what he was doing-taking away her hope, her possibility of freedom.

“It is done, your majesty.” The old man mounted again, with the help of one of the King’s men. Another knight moved forward on the King’s command to test it, and indeed, his chest hit solid rock on his attempt to move through the portal.

“No,” Mother whispered, choking back tears as the knight, his body pressed tight behind hers, nickered to his horse and pulled on the reins.

“Take good care not to harm her too much.” George leered at them, looking up in his saddle. “That’s my job.”

Mother had visions of killing him in his sleep as they began the ride back toward the King’s estate. Her horses were tied and led along behind them, and Mother strained to look past, glimpsing one last view of the portal, where even if Artan wasn’t dead-she couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t-he would never be able to come through again. Her shoulders slumped at the thought and, defeated, she let her tears come silently, her hair falling in her face to hide them.

She heard George talking to the King, a ways ahead. He spoke loudly, and knew it was for her benefit. “She’s looking more compliant already, your majesty.” Mother shuddered, gripping the pommel in front of her until her knuckles turned white, not sure she could endure any more of him. And this ride back to the King’s estate would be nothing compared to what was waiting for her afterward. The thought of George touching her, even looking at her, made her breath catch and her stomach churn. She couldn’t possibly allow it. For Artan’s sake alone, she couldn’t.

She acted almost without thinking. The knight holding her had sensed her defeat and let go, focusing on easing his horse back down the hill and into the forest. It was here, at the long stretch of woods, that she plunged to what surely could have been her death, flipping herself head first toward the ground. Stunned, breathless, she found herself still alive, neck not broken, looking up at the belly of the horse as it stepped over her, and she struggled to her feet.

They came after her. Of course they did, on horseback, much faster than she could run, but she did have a slight head start. She zigged and zagged, moving

between trees, heading toward denser parts, knowing she could fit through smaller spaces than any horse. She flew like the wind, and when she was finally out of their sight-just for a moment-she hid beneath a hollow log, covering herself with brush and leaves and dirt, willing her breath away, praying they would go.