Name: Siobhán Walsh
Age: 18
School: St Colmcille's Community School, Dublin 16
Rule Breaker
There’s a list of rules posted outside the stone tower. The page is warped and fading but all the guards must follow them. Locked as she is inside the creaking tower, the princess isn’t sure exactly what they say, but she imagines they go something like this:
Rule Number One: Do not pity the prisoner.
Rule Number Two: Do not speak to the prisoner.
Rule Number Three: Do not listen when she speaks.
Rule Number Four: Do not bring her any gifts.
Rule Number Five: Do not bring her any reading material.
Rule Number Six: Do not bring any weapons into the tower.
Rule Number Seven: Do not give her your name.
Every time a stammering guard cites the rules for their bad-mannered silence, the princess can’t help but scoff. Honestly, she’s locked in a tower. What could she possibly do?
It’s a bright yet cold afternoon. There’s no clock in the tower, so the princess has no way to discern how much time has passed. Only an ancient calendar, years out of date, hangs on the wall, mocking her. The room is circular and cramped. Nothing gets in or out except her guards and a persistent draft. She’s standing at the window when she hears footsteps creaking up the stairs. The door rasps open like a dying cat. She doesn’t bother turning around, simply continues counting clouds. At the sound of a shaky breath, she turns, her skirts rustling against her bound hands.
The guard in front of her is a gangly little thing, all elbows and knobbly knees. His ears stick out from under his mop of curly hair. His nose is sprinkled with freckles, clearly visible even as he turns crimson.
“Hello,” he squeaks.
Rule Number Two: Do not speak to the prisoner.
Ah. She’s been working on him for weeks now, and it seems her efforts have finally paid off if he’s actually speaking to her. She paints on her prettiest smile.
“May I ask what date it is?”
Rule Number Three: Do not listen when she speaks.
He jumps at the sound of her voice. Perhaps he still expects it to be croaky from disuse, not sweet and lyrical. A siren’s voice, her mother used to say.
“It’s um, January the third,” he stammers.
She doesn’t bother asking the year, merely makes a mental note of the third. It’s a date that she’ll want to remember. A sudden movement catches her eye. Swallowing audibly, the guard retrieves a parcel from his jacket pocket.
Rule Number Four: Do not bring her any gifts.
It’s small, rectangular, and somewhat stained. She hopes that that’s just water . . . The wrapping is lumpy and uneven, with peeling tape lashed on haphazardly.
“A little birdie told me that it’s your birthday.”
His little birdie lied, but he doesn’t need to know that. He flushes even deeper as he hands the clumsily wrapped parcel over and smiles crookedly. There’s a tiny gap between his teeth.
“It’s a book.” he stammers.
Rule Number Five: Do not bring her any reading material.
“Oh you shouldn’t have!” she exclaims. He really, really shouldn’t have. Doesn’t he know that witches get their power from the written word? Evidently someone’s mother didn’t pass down the right old wives’ tales. The guard smiles his happy smile, unaware of the immense power he holds.
“It’s just a book of fairy tales.”
“The very best kind.” she replies.
Surely it can’t be possible for the lad to go any redder, but there he goes anyway. Gods above, she thinks, pull yourself together. The princess sighs then shuffles pathetically on the spot, chin drawn to her chest.
“I don’t suppose I can read it though, not with these.”
She lifts her tightly bound hands. The guard hesitates briefly before withdrawing a dagger from his belt.
Rule Number Six: Do not bring any weapons into the tower.
Oh, this is going to be easy.
He edges over towards her, each hesitant step a thundering drumbeat to the princess’s ears. Surely the other guard will start to wonder what’s taking so long. It takes all of her power not to tap her foot impatiently. Finally, with glacial speed, he is close enough to touch. His too human stench fills her nostrils – sweat and pungent onions – and it’s all she can do not to actually gag. Weeks of one-sided flirting and batting her eyelashes have finally worked. He saws at the rope around her wrists and she wants to scream at him to go faster, to claw at his face, to spit on him. Instead, she smiles.
At last she’s free, and she rotates her groaning wrists. There are angry red marks left and the air stings at them. The guard has slipped the knife back into his belt before she can make a grab for it. Perhaps he’s not as stupid as she’s made him out to be. Her bones crack as she tries to get the life back into her hands. He shifts awkwardly. At least he’s not going to try to sweep her off her feet. It’s almost enough to make her feel bad for what she’s about to do. Almost. She smiles again; it seems to be all she has to do to put him at ease.
“Can I have your name please?” she says, “I’d like to be able to thank you properly.”
It’s very precise wording and for a good reason; she must have the guard’s name in order to fully control him. This, surely, is the real test. If he listened to any of his training, he’ll find a way around her question and twist his words to avoid her trap. Almost disappointingly, he doesn’t.
“Yeah, um, Brian,” he says, tripping over the words. “Brian MacDonagh.” The words spill eagerly out of him like ink onto a blank page.
Rule Number Seven: Do not, under any circumstances, give her your name.
The princess can feel the instant change, the switch in power dynamics. Her body, silent and still for far too long, starts humming, vibrating with strength and energy, awoken by the words swirling around the tower.
“Oh Brian,” she sighs. “You really shouldn’t have done that.”
He frowns now, unsure of the path this conversation is taking, unsure if he’ll like the final destination.
“Brian,” she says, “Take out your knife.”
It’s like that children’s game, what’s it called? Simon Says? The princess never really got to play with other children when she was young. Now, it’s her turn.
“Brian, don’t shout for help.” His eyes widen fearfully as his hands struggle to put away his knife. His mouth stays obediently shut.
“Brian, give me all of your weapons.”
He does so, retrieving a small pistol from his jacket pocket. She picks it up, relishing its weight in her hands.
“Tell me Brian, is it loaded?”
His head jerks, once, twice. Perfect.
She gathers her pitiful belongings from around the room. It doesn’t take long. When she’s finished she stops in front of him. Behind the cloud of fear, his eyes gleam with anger and hatred. When he speaks, his voice is strained and she has to lean in close to hear him.
“I helped you. I took pity on you.”
The princess laughs.
“Oh Brian,” she says, “Rule Number One: Never, ever, pity the prisoner.”
