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The horse has asked to let the record show: She didn’t mean to kill the prince.
But the prince didn’t understand the difference between reign and rein. A king reigns, meaning he is in charge of his kingdom. A horse has reins, straps that are used to direct it. But the prince assumed that because he would reign, he also had free rein with the reins. Fortunately, the prince at least understood the difference between rein, reign, and rain, otherwise he might have thought he could command the weather, too.
The horse neighed in an annoyed tone, nudging the dead prince with her long nose. She had only aimed for that low-hanging branch to try to knock some sense into him. Instead, she had knocked him clean off and clean out.
But look! His chest moved up and down. He was still breathing. Shaking her mane in relief, and refusing to stick around while we talked about the difference between mane, main, and Maine, the horse trotted away.
The prince lay in the middle of a vast forest. On one side was a castle with a very tall tower. There was a lot of activity at that castle—soldiers running here and there, calling out a name, searching for someone. A soldier shouted that a horse was missing from the stables, too.
Hmmm.
On the other side of the forest was a castle where no one moved at all during the day. It was as though the entire castle wanted to avoid the harsh light of the sun and only came out after sunset, like creatures of the night.
Hmmmmm.
In between the two castles were a few small villages. There was the occasional cottage in the woods just awaiting a granddaughter, or a clever tailor, or a boy made out of baked goods.
There were also wolves and bears going about, minding their own business, unaware that very soon they would be descended upon by monsters. Or little girls. In this book, they might be the same thing.
With a groan, the prince sat up. He rubbed his head. If he knew the difference, he’d know that he now had neither rein nor reign. He was alone, in the middle of a forest. And piercing the sky, just a few yards from where he sat, was a lone tower.
The prince hated towers.
They were ugly. They made your legs burn and your breath catch in your chest if you had to huff all the way to the top of them. They were very difficult to keep clean, what with all the stones and dusty stairs and little animals taking up residence in them. And, until very recently, he had been held prisoner in one.
That last reason is probably a better reason than the others to hate towers.
His first impulse was to burn the tower down. (There are much more reasonable ways of dealing with towers! First, find out what the zoning ordinances are for the kingdom. Are towers allowed? What are the height restrictions? What is the tower being used for? Is it a commercial tower in a residential district? Or a residential tower in an area zoned for retail? Are all of its licenses current and valid? After doing the research, write a letter to the local kingdom council insisting they open up an inquiry to look into whether or not the tower is legal. After waiting several months with no reply, write another letter. This time, say you will be consulting a lawyer. Then you’ll need to find a lawyer who specializes in tower law, and … You know what, on second thought, the prince is probably onto something with his burning idea.)
But before he could even gather up enough tinder for a campfire, much less a towerfire, he heard the most beautiful voice. The prince hurried to the edge of the trees.
The ground around the tower was cleared in a circle. The tower loomed high in the sky, three or four stories tall, unlike this book, which is ten stories tall. Rough gray stones ascended to the sky. There was no door, not even a window until the top of the tower. That window was open, and from it the voice rang out like a doorbell. Some people have voices like church bells, but this one was less regal and more “come on answer the door come on come on.”
The prince understood her urgency. He himself had called out countless times from his tower, and no one ever answered anymore. Well, today, he would be her answer. He was about to shout up to her when another figure came out of the forest only a few steps away from him. The woman didn’t notice him. She wore a long black dress, and her dark hair was pinned into a no-nonsense bun. Her skin was paler than chalk, and she carried a burlap sack filled with something … wriggling.
“A witch!” the prince hissed.
“Rapunzel!” the witch cried. “Rapunzel!” She waited a few moments, then shouted in a much witchier tone, “RAPUNZEL!”
“What?” came the sweet reply. The prince squinted, longing to catch a glimpse of Rapunzel, but she remained hidden.
“Rapunzel,” the witch shouted, “let down your fair hair!”
From the window slid a length of hair, golden and shining in the sun. The prince was too far away to see clearly, but it was thicker than his arm, as thick as his thigh, even. What glorious hair! The hair reached all the way from the window to the ground.
The witch, still holding the squirming bag, walked forward through the clearing. The prince shifted, and a traitorous twig snapped! Once he was king, he would have that twig found and burned at the stake.
He managed to retreat behind a tree just before the witch turned and caught sight of him. But it was too late for the witch. That poor maiden, trapped in a tower with no door! The prince had figured it all out. The witch must climb the hair-rope up and down. Though what dark purpose the squirming bag held, the prince could only imagine. (He chose not to imagine it. Witches are very scary! I don’t blame the prince for deciding not to think too much about it. Though if he were truly princely, he would have charged out of the forest and demanded she release her prey. Let’s not be too hard on him, though. He’s just been knocked unconscious by a grouchy horse, and apparently has been locked up in a tower for a very long time. Maybe he’ll get princelier as the book goes on.)
The prince retreated farther into the woods to wait. After a few minutes, he heard the witch stomping by. She was muttering to herself.
“… late for my own wedding now, thanks to the creepy little monster. That tower isn’t high enough for something so vile.”
The prince gasped. He knew that vile was like evil spelled another way. He couldn’t believe the witch would talk that way about the maiden in the tower! It wasn’t fair! Though doubtless the maiden was fair! But the pretty kind of fair, not the equality kind of fair, nor the pale kind of fair (like the witch), nor the cotton-candy-and-bad-rides kind of fair!
Goodness, I’m the narrator and even I’m getting confused. Let’s move on.
The prince, heeding my suggestion, tiptoed out of the cover of the trees. There was no sign of the witch. There was also no way up the tower now that the maiden’s fair hair was gone. The prince considered his options. He could call out to her, but what if
a stranger’s voice frightened her? She had no doubt been trapped in that tower a long time. He decided on a much sneakier plan.
He cleared his throat. “Rapunzel!” he croaked in his best witch voice. “Rapunzel?”
“What?” came the annoyed reply.
“Let down your fair hair!”
