Then Shew heard the sound of approaching huntsmen. The butterfly froze in its place.
“Don’t worry,” Shew told it. “I think I know what to do,” she pulled a fistful of Rapunzel plants out, remembering when Cerené told her they would come to life again if planted back in the earth. She got off her unicorn and started planting the vicious plants everywhere, creating a shield against the huntsmen when they arrived.
“We’re going to rip off your toes!” One of the plants screamed at Shew.
“Can’t you just be grateful and shut up?” Shew complained, making sure not to walk near them. The plants were dark by nature and knew no manners.
“What good is it being grateful?” Another Rapunzel yelled at her, trying to eat her foot. “We’re from hell!”
“Nice to meet you,” Shew mumbled, having planted plenty of them already. “Now do your job well and bite all those huntsmen and unicorns’ feet or legs or whatever it is that you do.” She jumped back on her unicorn and rode away, following the butterfly to the cottage.
She could hear the huntsmen’s unicorns tumble and moan behind her as she sped farther into the forest. This should keep them away from her for a while.
Deeper beyond the trees, the Black Forest became much darker. Thick and curvy Juniper trees moved over her head, almost blocking all light from the sky, except a tiny moonbeam sneaking through.
“Hey!” Shew shouted, waving at the moon behind the trees. “Are you really a girl? Could you help me? I know you might have something to do with the Lost Seven.”
The moon didn’t reply, nor smile.
“Of course,” Shew mumbled, riding along. “Who am I to get an answer from you? Only Cerené does.”
Deeper and deeper into the forest, Shew saw large golden fireflies, giving way with their glowing light. Then the butterfly stopped again. Shew pulled her unicorn to a halt.
“What is it now?” Shew asked. “Are you lost?”
The butterfly wasn’t lost. It was dying. Shew watched it dim and harden into a black piece of ashen glass then drop like a stone.
She watched it, speechless, as the world around her in the forest seemed to squeeze her with its darkness. She got off her unicorn and patted it for assurance.
“It’s going to be alright,” she whispered.
Looking beyond the wavering dark, Shew saw pairs of red oval eyes staring back at her. She pretended she hadn’t seen them. She was only worried how she’d find the cottage now.
The light from the fireflies turned out to be helpful. Shew walked carefully over the mushy ground underneath her, stepping over stones for safety. There were hissing sounds all around her, and she wondered if they were animals or ghosts. She drew out her fangs in hopes to scare whatever meant her harm.
“Happy birthday to me,” she muttered.
Shew’s voice made her feel a bit safer. Foolishly, she decided to sing a birthday song to herself, pulling her unicorn along. She rested the leaf of caterpillars on a thick branch filled with other caterpillars and cocoons. It seemed like a safe place.
“You’re much safer here,” she told them. “The huntsmen could find me and kill me any moment.”
She came across a small lake filled with frogs. They jumped out on the lake’s edge, croaking. She suspected they liked her birthday song, but listening carefully, she learned they were singing with her.
“Loki is right to hate your croaking,” Shew mumbled but didn’t mind their company.
As she rode deeper and deeper into the forest, she began feeling safer. She hadn’t found the cottage, and assumed the huntsmen had lost their way after whatever evil the Rapunzel plants bestowed on them. She still marked some trees on her way as she hummed her little birthday song.
Eventually, she came upon a spot in the forest rich with enough moonlight as if someone had drilled a hole of white light through the thickness of the trees above.
Then … everything froze to the sound of a pair of clapping hands.
Shew turned around and saw the red eyes had disappeared. The tree branches had stretched back as far as possible, and the fireflies hid in their shade.
Before Shew could catch her breath or question anything, a silhouette of a boy appeared under the light of the moon. It was if he were the center stage of the evening in the forest. He walked confidently toward her, slowly like a panther watching his prey. Then he stopped and leaned his shoulder against a tree, clapping again.
“One more time, please,” Loki said, waving his hands theatrically in the air. He looked like Loki but smelled like a monster; a cute, arrogant, and wicked one. He had his hood pulled back, his beautifully deceiving platinum blonde hair dangling down his shoulders, “sing it one more time, but with feeling,” he smirked.
35
A Wit of Swords