Rosie & The Forest King (8 of 9)
A Song of Songs
HE’S IN THERE SOMEWHERE, Rosie thought.
The wolf landed, its jaws snapping.
But it blinked at her.
It blinked!
The wolf spun and chomped down on the bony arm of the hag, who screeched—a sound that echoed through the cold, crumbling castle.
The hag’s claws slashed faster than Rosie thought possible. Fur and matted blood flew around the room, but the giant black wolf now had the hag by the throat, shaking her violently, trying to snap her neck.
But the hag was immensely strong. She tore open the wolf’s jaws and flung the beast across the room.
It landed with a whimper.
And then it got worse.
Karl burst through the door, his double-bladed silver axe already in motion. With one swing, he opened a gash along the wolf’s flank, sending the animal into a fleeing panic.
The wolf bolted from the room, blood trailing behind him, Karl in pursuit.
The hag straightened herself. She tried to speak—to sing—but only a wet gurgle came from her torn throat.
Rosie, muted by the hag’s spell, struggled to free herself from the vines binding her arms. She couldn’t clap, couldn’t gesture. Couldn’t speak or sing.
The hag clutched her ruined neck and wheezed out a broken rhyme Rosie couldn’t understand. Whatever it was, it worked—her wounds began to close.
“Ach, ach… aggh. That blasted wolf!” she hissed. She sang again—harsh, guttural notes that knit her flesh together. “Do you know how long I’ve been fighting that creature?”
Rosie shook her head, tears already welling.
“Two hundred years, my pretty.”
Her eyes widened.
“Yes. We’ve both outlived our usefulness, I suppose. He doesn’t age—sustained by magic. But I made sure he suffered. It’s been great fun. He’s tried to save so many girls, but every time he does, a little more of him disappears.”
Rosie cried silently, tears trailing down her cheeks, her wrists twisting against the vines.
“But Karl got him good this time. He won’t survive.”
The hag’s voice was stronger now. Her neck nearly whole.
She rummaged through Rosie’s backpack and basket.
“Ach, pumpkin!” she spat. “I hate pumpkin. I’m going to punish my sisters for that.”
She tore open the front pocket of the backpack, pulling free a small leatherbound charmbook.
“What’s this? Your little book of rhymes?” The hag’s lips curled. “You pitiful creature. Magic in a book! I’m going to feed so well on your soul. What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? I had to silence you, little bird—no tweeting just now.”
She flipped open the front page and squinted.
“Who is Mary?”
Rosie tried to shrug, but the vines held her tight.
“My sisters raised you, sixteen years and not a minute more. I can’t be bothered with the work, you see. In exchange, they’ll get a taste of you—just like all the others. And now, with the wolf gone and the king’s son dead, there’s no one left to claim the throne. No one even remembers it. And we will live here forever, feeding on the young.”
She snapped the book shut with a sharp clap and tossed it aside..
“But first, I need something stronger than rhymes to bind you.”
She glared once more at Rosie’s mute, tear-streaked face, then swept out of the room, muttering to herself.
Her steps faded into the stone above.
The hag had gone up the tower stairs.
Rosie twisted her wrists slowly, feeling one of the knots loosen—just barely. The vines were alive, pulsing faintly with the hag’s magic, but the further away the hag walked, the slacker they became.
Come on, come on.
She writhed her fingers toward her hip, where a jagged bone button on her coat stuck out like a tooth. She pressed her wrist against it, sawing lightly.
The wolf’s still alive. He has to be. He blinked at me. He knew.
One vine slipped free. Her right hand.
She gasped—not from sound, but from hope.
The hag had dropped the charmbook on the floor. Someone in there had to break the silence! But what could it be? Try as she might, Rosie could not reach the book.
Frustrated, she dropped her hand, banging it on her knee.
Slap.
Rosie’s eyes went wide.
She could make noise.
Singing was most powerful, whistling less so, humming about the same. But what about percussion? Were there rhymes that lent themselves to percussive sounds? Surely not any that would also untangle her from these vines—but first things first.
Was there any rhyme?
Pat-a-cake.
She didn’t need food right now, but it was something at least.
She dropped her hand in a rhythm on her lap.
Slap, slap, slap.
Slap, slap, slap.
Slap.
Slap.
Slap.
She did it again, mouthing the words.
Pat-a-Cake.
Pat-a-Cake.
Baker’s Man.
Rosie repeated it, changing it up.
Pat-a-cake.
Pat-a-cake.
Let. Me. Speak.
This time, a slight whisper escaped her throat when she mouthed the words.
A golden spark burst between her palm and her lap.
A third time, and the words made sounds—more than just wind.
One final clap, like thunder:
“Let! Me! Speak!”
The spell cracked open.
Sound returned in a wave—her gasp, her breath, her voice.
And she heard the hag’s footsteps returning from above.
She sang in E♭ minor:
Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
The vines binding her slipped away, shrinking, as if time were reversing itself. Rosie slipped from their grip, grabbed her backpack and basket, and fled the castle.
But she didn’t get far.
A song from the hag raised a thorn barrier in her path.
She spun and faced the hag, who stood some fifty meters away.
The hag grinned wickedly. “Let’s sing.”
The air crackled with magic as Rosie faced her, the thorn wall looming behind. The hag’s voice, now fully restored, dripped with malice as she began her song—a dark chant in a low, guttural C minor, each note twisting the air like smoke. The ground trembled, and the thorns began to writhe, reaching for Rosie.
Oh, little bird, your wings are clipped,
Your voice will fade away,
Two hundred years I’ve carved my path,
And none have lived to stray.
Your soul is mine, your heart I’ll bind,
Your bones will rot in thorn,
Surrender now, or scream in vain,
For you’ll wish you’d never been born!
The thorns surged forward, their tips glinting with venom.
Rosie’s heart pounded. She clutched her backpack—then realized the charmbook was still on the floor where she’d escaped.
She would have to rely on memory.
Wait. No.
It dawned on her—the charmbook was just a primer. A beginner’s guide.
But now? She didn’t need remembered rhymes. She needed her own words.
Not just a twist on the old—but something wholly new.
She took a breath, planted her feet, and sang back in a defiant F major, her melody bright and sharp, cutting through the hag’s oppressive drone.
Mary, Mary, hear my call,
Your garden grows so strong,
With silver bells and cockle shells,
I’ll right this ancient wrong!
Your thorns may rise, your shadows creep,
But I will not be bound,
My voice is free, my heart is fierce—
Your curse will crash to ground!
Golden sparks flared with each note. The thorns hesitated, quivering, caught between two forces.
The hag’s eyes narrowed, her grin twisting into a snarl. She stomped her foot, sending a pulse of dark energy through the earth. Her song rose into a jagged, dissonant wail.
You think your rhymes can break my will?
You’re nothing but a child!
My magic’s old as mountain stone,
My hunger fierce and wild!
Each note you sing, I’ll twist and break—
Your spark will turn to ash.
Bow to me, or bleed for me—
Your soul will feel my lash!
The thorns lunged, curling toward Rosie’s legs.
She leapt back, her voice wavering for a moment. The hag’s song was heavy, oppressive—like chains wrapping around her chest.
But Rosie thought of the wolf. His blink. His fight. And of the girls who came before her. She wouldn’t let the hag win.
She clapped her hands—the rhythm of Pat-a-Cake grounding her—and sang again, her voice soaring into a higher octave, weaving a counter-melody that danced around the hag’s song.
Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake,
Baker’s man,
Bake me a dream so bright!
With every clap,
I’ll break your trap
And shatter your endless night!
Your thorns may sting, your shadows cling,
But I’ll sing ‘til they fall apart,
For every girl you’ve torn away—
I’ll burn your wicked heart!
The sparks from her claps exploded into streams of light, slicing through the thorns. They withered, curling like burning paper.
The hag staggered. Her voice cracked.
The ground shook again—but this time, it was Rosie’s song that fueled the tremor.
The hag’s eyes widened—in fury, and in fear.
No! My reign will never end!
My power’s carved in stone!
You’ll choke on blood, you’ll beg for death,
You’ll die here all alone!
This castle’s mine! This world is mine!
Your light will never last!
I’ll crush your voice, I’ll eat your soul—
Your future’s now my past!
Her voice peaked—a screech that shattered nearby stone.
The thorns rallied, forming a cage around Rosie.
But Rosie didn’t falter. She thought of the wolf. Of Karl’s axe. Of the charmbook’s secrets.
She clapped harder, her rhythm relentless, and sang a final verse—her voice ringing like a bell, pure and unbreakable.
Mary, Mary, guide my song
Your garden’s strength is mine!
With every note, I’ll break her hold
And let the sunlight shine!
No more you’ll feed, no more you’ll greed—
Your time is at its end!
This song’s for all you’ve crushed before—
I’ll sing, and you’ll descend!
A blinding wave of golden light erupted from Rosie’s hands, her claps thundering like a storm. The thorns shattered. The hag’s song collapsed into a strangled gasp. The castle groaned, as if waking from a nightmare.
The hag fell to her knees.
Rosie reached into her basket and pulled out the pumpkin pie. She threw it—square into the hag’s face.
Rhyme and meter, pumpkin eater!
Had a slave and couldn’t keep her.
Now I shall put you in a pumpkin shell—
And there I’ll keep you ‘til the end of hell.
From the ground below, thick green vines rose—grabbing arms, legs, head, torso.
The hag struggled, but her mouth was full of pie. She couldn’t sing.
She spat, retched, and drew a breath.
But a giant pumpkin surged up, swallowing her whole and clamping shut.
Rosie reversed the spell, singing it again in a minor key—pulling vine and pumpkin deep beneath the earth.
Moments later, all was still.
Only a tiara remained, resting in the soil.
Rosie walked over and stamped on the orb.
It shattered beneath her foot.
Beneath the ground, the hag—who had lived beyond her natural years—returned to dust.
The air shimmered. Soft voices—girls—surrounded her in a chorus of thanks. Thirteen souls, at peace at last, rose like mist and vanished into the morning light.
KARL HAD BEEN CHASING the same wolf for thirteen years, as had his father before him, and his grandfather before that.
Now, the creature lay at his feet—wounded, panting.
And all Karl could do was cry.
A giant man, kneeling next to an expiring animal.
Crying.
It seemed like the end of all things.
He stood, gripping his axe. If there was one thing you could say about Karl, it was that he wasn’t going to let an animal suffer.
He raised the silver axe over his head and brought the stroke down.
"Noooo!" Rosie screamed behind him. But it was too late.
She fell to her knees as a blinding light and peal of thunder followed.
Karl looked down.
He was astonished to see there were two creatures.
He looked at his axe, then back to the ground.
A large black wolf—and a man.
Both with identical wounds.
Luke’s eyes fluttered open. “Rosie?”
He gasped. It was near the end.
She ran to him, fell to her knees, and sang:
Lavender’s blue,
Dilly dilly,
Lavender’s green,
When you are king,
Dilly dilly,
I’ll be your queen.
Who told you so,
Dilly dilly,
Who told you so?
’Twas my own heart,
Dilly dilly,
That told me so.
The magic flowed from her hands, embracing both bodies—man and wolf—closing wounds, reversing injuries. This was far more powerful than any healing she’d ever done before. She poured out her heart through song.
Luke opened his eyes. Normal eyes. A normal face. A handsome face.
“Rosie,” he said, a weak smile forming. “Roselyn. I think your real name suits you better.”
She leaned down and kissed him, and he held her for a long time.
They were roused from their embrace by a large black wolf, who nosed between them, licking their faces.
“Okay, okay,” Luke said. “Hold on, boy. I gotta ask her something, okay?”
The wolf settled down, laying his head on his paws, looking up at them.
“What do you have to ask me?” Rosie asked, brushing hair from his face.
Luke sang, softly:
If your dilly, dilly heart
Feels a dilly, dilly way,
And if you’ll answer yes,
In a pretty little church,
On a dilly, dilly day,
You’ll be wed in a dilly, dilly dress of—
Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly,
Lavender’s green,
When I am king, dilly dilly…
Please be my queen.
He stopped singing and looked at her—smiling, just a little shyly.
A grin spread across her face, blooming into a radiant smile.
She nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I will.”
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.
I adore the lavender’s blue little tune. How sweet!!