Why I Let My Hair Grow Out by Maryrose Wood

Author:Maryrose Wood
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2010-03-31T04:00:00+00:00

twelve

red carpet at the grammys does not begin to approximate the star-struck madness, the fan-boy hysteria, the photo-op-ready theatrics (even though cameras were a long way from being invented) that surrounded Cúchulainn’s arrival at the dun.

First, the limo, I mean chariot, which was being pulled by two enormous and heavily muscled horses. One black, one white. Both of them were breathing fire. I’m not kidding.

Next, the swans. A dozen of them, tethered to the chariot and flying and squawking overhead in great klieg-light-style circles. The noise was tremendous, as were the droppings.

Second to last, the heads. The severed human heads. There were seven of them, tied to the sides of the chariot and bouncing along like so many fuzzy dice dangling from the rearview mirror of my dad’s Subaru.

And last but not least, the man himself. Cúchulainn. Not entirely what you’d expect from the rock-star buildup, frankly. Medium-sized, dark-haired, and kind of a skinny guy. More chess-team champion than football-hero material.

But that’s before you factor in all the Industrial Light and Magic. This guy was oozing special effects. A funnel of smoke was rising from the top of his head like a tornado. Flashes of light seemed to shoot out from his forehead every time he turned his head. His eyes were glowing fiery red; overall I’d say he seemed pretty worked up.

“You!” he bellowed. “With the hair!”

The crowd fell silent. They put me down and stood there shuffling their feet, like they got caught stealing a cookie.

“Good timing,” I said, smoothing my rumpled dress. “You must be Cúchulainn, right? I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Morganne. The news of your return fills the people with—excitement.” He looked at the mob sternly, and they hung their heads.

“Yup, Morganne, that’s me,” I said, though I still wasn’t entirely sure that it was.

“Then I ask you, Morganne, to tell us true.” His voice rose, loud enough to carry over the assembled crowd. “Are you willing to wed the king?”

I didn’t want to offend anybody. This group was high-strung, and they were still carrying torches. “It’s a tough question,” I said, diplomatically. “He’s a great king and all. But truthfully—no.” Some people murmured unhappily at this. “I’m just not ready for that type of relationship,” I explained. The rumblings of the crowd got louder, angrier.

Cúchulainn raised his fists in the air and bellowed. “Then the maiden of fire and gold is not she!”

The crowd went nuts.

“Her,” I was thinking. Shouldn’t that be, “The maiden of fire and gold is not her”? But maybe grammar hadn’t been invented yet. Come to think if it, we probably weren’t really speaking English either. A person could get a headache trying to figure this out.

“Listen!” Cúchulainn silenced the crowd with a hand. “I have slain the seven troll-like brothers of the great witch of the hills! And a foul-smelling lot they were! And why did I slay them, you ask?”

Did this guy need a reason to lop off heads? I doubted it, but the rhetorical question sure helped him work the crowd.

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