No Escape
The baker’s eyes narrowed as he examined the stranger in the flickering candle-light. It was almost five o’clock, closing time, and this man would be the last customer of the day. He had an average build and height, but wore a hooded cloak which cast a shadow across his face. He also wore an eye-patch over his left eye, which made the baker nervous.
“Your change, sir.”
The baker slid three coins across the counter, his eyes still locked on the stranger.
The other man nodded, and took the loaf in one hand. With the other, he slid the coins into his pouch. “Thank you," he muttered, and left the counter without another word. The baker pursed his lips, and watched as the stranger walked back out, into the cold evening air.
Outside, the man buttoned his coat, and tucked the bread beneath his cloak. He walked in the shadows, avoiding the gaslights where possible, and increasing his stride where not. As he walked, he held his belt, and felt the weight of his money pouch. It had lost half its burden since he had set out three weeks ago. Since he had escaped.
Soon, the man left the glow of Main Street, and turned onto a side road, where suddenly, he came to a halt. A poster sketch of his homely face was pasted to the wall like a theatre playbill. Below it, in large, bold letters: WANTED.
Beneath that, larger still: REWARD.
The man cursed and wrapped his cloak tightly around his body. He pulled his scarf up to shield his face, and glanced back down the street. Thankfully, the area was deserted.
He turned from the wall and continued walking, his heart now thumping hard in his chest. On every corner, another of the damned posters advertised for his capture. Eventually, he stopped, and with a final tug at his scarf to check it was secure, he began to run.
When he reached the forest, the sun had disappeared from the sky and only a sliver of moonlight broke through the clouds above. The cottage sat in darkness, shielded by the trees, and made ugly by the black scorch marks covering its bricks. The man climbed across the burnt timber and through the broken frame which had once held the front door.
Once inside, he removed his eye-patch and looked down the hallway. Vandals had long-since stripped it of anything that they could sell, leaving only the stone walls intact. Even the straw roof was gone.
The man exhaled, and saw his breath fogging in the night air. He shivered involuntarily.
At the end of the hallway, one room was more intact than the others. He stood in its doorway, and examined the scene. The charred remains of a wardrobe lay on the floor, but here at least, the roof was intact. Still, something was out of place.
Had the blanket been moved?
He shook his head, but could not dismiss the thought. After a moment, he bit his lip and walked inside. He placed the bread, and a lump of cheese onto the stone fireplace and looked around. The room was empty, but it was no longer safe.
Even if nobody had come, he thought, the posters in town ensured that he would soon be recognised. He would leave at first light then, and hope that if he ran far enough, he could leave the posters behind.
With that thought, the man lay down and pulled the blanket over his shoulders. He closed his eyes, and soon fell into a troubled sleep.
Several hours later, he awoke with a start, and sat upright on the floor. The room was still dark, and his clothes felt cold and clammy against his skin. He held his breath and listened. Was it just the rustle of leaves? No.
“Who’s there?” he called.
The man rose, shivering, to his feet, and glanced around the room. It was empty, but still, he felt a presence, as if somebody was watching him.
“Show yourself!” he roared, his voice quivering as he took a knife from his belt. It was her. It had to be. His heart began pounding in his chest once more.
Suddenly, he heard a woman’s voice, close, laughing.
“My dear, you must know a knife would be useless against me.”
The man turned, and found himself staring at a squat figure, dressed in a lavender robe with an oversized purple ribbon clasp. He jumped back, waving the knife towards her.
“Ah-ah-ah!” the woman chided, and with a flick of her wrist, a thin silver wand appeared in her hand. He dropped the knife and turned towards the doorway, but as he did, a stream of starlight burst from the wand. It circled the fallen wardrobe, and threw it across his path.
He spun to face her once more.
“Please, no!”
The man’s back pressed hard against the wardrobe, his hands and fingers clasping against its rotten frame.
“Please! Don’t take me back!”
“Now, now. You’ve had your fun,” she said with a maternal scowl, “but it’s naughty to stay out when it’s time to come in.”
She crossed her arms resolutely and nodded, now standing less than a yard away. The man sank trembling to the ground, his eyes wide and filled with tears.
“No! You don't have to do this, please!”
The woman shook her head and smiled as she flicked her wand once more.
Starlight enveloped him, and as it did, the skin tightened across his face. A prickling sensation swept through his body, and he whimpered in pain. The woman said nothing, but watched as her spell began to take hold. He grew smaller and smaller, his skin harder and greener, and his eyes began to turn from light blue to dark gold.
The man writhed in agony until a final, pitiful word escaped his lips.
“Please.”
Within seconds, he had disappeared inside his clothes. He was soon smaller than a wriggling baby but still, the woman waited. Eventually, the movement stopped, and a lizard’s head peaked through the neck of his shirt.
She smiled, satisfied that she had completed her work, then turned away.
I really must be more careful with magic in future, the woman thought as she began to disappear. Two slippers and a footman failing to change back at midnight – what would the other Godmothers think?
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