Prisoner of the Molepeople

Chapter 14 - Grubby Root Stew

Brunhilda banged on the back of the driver’s seat. “Can't you go any faster?”

But Barry ignored her, bobbing his ancient head to “The Sound of Silence.”

This didn't stop Brunhilda from banging. “We’re late for an appointment. Play something intense.”

The old guy was either deaf or had learned to tune out Brunhilda long ago.

The time was twelve-twenty-eight. I was supposed to have met Duthbert for lunch at twelve. For most of the ride, I was occupied with feeling sorry for myself. Then I noticed the dread in Gunhilda's face. “Do you think he'll whip you or something?"

Gunhilda wiped away a tear. “There's laws against that sort of thing. He's a very good prince.”

“I like him,” added Brunhilda.

I couldn't believe this. "But he's forcing me to marry him! … I think.”

“So?” snapped Brunhilda. “He's a prince. I've always wanted to marry a prince."

“But he's not even human!”

“Well aren't you hard to please?”

I turned back to Gunhilda. “If he's not going to hurt you, then what are you afraid of?”

“Last year,” said Gunhilda, taking time to compose herself, “Duthbert lowered Brunhilda's wage fifty cents, just because she didn't show up to work one day.”

Brunhilda nodded in self-pity.

And I thought mine was a material world.

* * *

The three of us stood at the entrance of the dining hall, but staring at the backside of a pacing Duthbert was even more paralyzing than an underground staircase filled with cobwebs. The clops of the guy's shiny shoes were reverberating through the long dining hall. He'd already undergone another wardrobe change. In addition to velvety pants and a flowing blouse, around his neck was a lacy ruff straight from the Elizabethan era. The flouncy disk of fabric was almost as wide as the moleman was tall.

He turned around, and Gunhilda let out an involuntary yelp.

Duthbert snapped his fingers, and seconds later, Gold Mouth and Horse Face were at his side. They were like genies, materializing out of nowhere. “See that these women are properly punished,” said the prince.

Smiles stretched across the goons’ faces. As they approached us, Horse Face went so far as to crack his knuckles. Though my bodyguards were twice the size of the little goons, they allowed themselves to be shoved through the doors, which, seconds later, were slammed shut, leaving only me and Duthbert in the wide, empty space. Still with no way to defend myself, I recalled my screaming horror as a child when my parents had abandoned me to a scary babysitter.

“It’s good to see you, my dear.” Bowing like a true prince, Duthbert was doing some circular thing with his hand. “Please take your seat.” He even sounded like a prince, not the neurotic tyrant I knew before. Still doing the circle thing, he gestured to a chair.

Wondering when the lecture would come, I took the seat.

Notwithstanding my recent hot dog and funnel cake, the mere sight of the silver lids in front of me made my stomach rumble. I was about to lift one of them when Duthbert’s claws grazed my shoulders. “Hands off!” I shouted. In my mind.

Duthbert walked to the other end of the long table and took his seat. That is, throne. Being looked down upon by someone in a giant chair has a way of communicating one’s inferiority. At least I still had my one true friend in Molemania: food. Again I reached for the closest lid, then stopped, wondering if I was breaching some Molish etiquette. When I looked up, sure enough, Duthbert was frowning at me, so I said, “Um … would you like me to say the blessing?”