Two nearly-identical men stand outside a small hut. They wave goodbye to the smiling monk disappearing down the road.
Robbing: Are you sure this is a good idea?
BraveHeart: [grimacing] No. But I can’t think of any other way to find the Treasure I need to win back my lady-love’s heart…
R. [sighing] …and the years my treachery stole for you. Very well, let us be at it.
Robbing reaches up to knock on the door of the hut. They both fidget nervously, uncertain what kind of reception to expect. Nothing, however, could have prepared them for what happens next.
The bottom falls out. Literally. The ground in front of the door opens up and swallows the two of them. Then seals up behind them. The birds, which had paused at their screams, resume their idle chatter. Leaving no sign they had ever been there.
The Dungeon
The brothers awake to find themselves chained spread-eagle against a stone wall, a few feet from each other.
The room is dark and dank, poorly ventilated but surprisingly clean. A small wooden door is set in the opposite wall.
Incongruously, a slow but cheerful whistle approaches from outside.
R. Is that…
B. I’m afraid so!
They both wince and close their eyes.
A slender, dark- haired woman enters the room. Only the slight bend of her back and wrinkles around her eyes betray her great age, as she moves with the vigor of a much younger woman. She is carrying a steaming bowl of soup and a wooden spoon.
The whistling stops and her face lights up as she sees the prisoners.
“Welcome home, boys!”
Their voices carefully neutral, both men open their eyes and force smiles. “Hello, Mother.”
She cackles with glee, betraying only a hint of madness.
Mother: Oh, when I heard we had visitors I hoped it might be you. It has been so long! And how are your brothers?
Robbing and BraveHeart look at each other. Robbing shrugs and gestures with his eyes towards Mother. BraveHeart sighs and speaks, again in that carefully neutral voice.
B: They are fine, Mother. They send their love.
She giggles joyfully, then sets down the bowl and moves a stepladder between the bound men. Without waiting for permission, or any sign of compliance, she retrieves the bowl, mounts the step, and begins spooning stew into each of the men in turn.
The stew is… not unpleasant. Each individual ingredient is fine and wholesome. But something is off. It is as if the chef were trying too hard. If she had simply stopped at meat and potatoes seasoned with salt and pepper it would have been delightful. But she kept adding spices and exotic vegetables in odd proportions until it became nearly unpalatable.
It is as if she has some strange compulsion to ruin her own work despite — or because of — her best efforts.
It is as if she has some strange compulsion to ruin her own work despite — or because of — her best efforts.
Missing Father
She wasn’t always this bad. Well, okay, maybe she was.
But it definitely got worse, or at least more obvious, after Father was killed. When he was here, he could soak up some of her overbearing attention. When was away on his overlord’s wars , we boys could sometimes distract her by pretending Father had asked her to do or send something for him.
It wasn’t anything to be proud of, but it preserved our sanity. Or at least a semblance of it.
It wasn’t anything to be proud of, but it preserved our sanity. Or at least a semblance of it.
When Father was killed overseas– his body never recovered — Mother lost it. She refused to face reality, and compensated by trying to violently baby-coddle her sons, who were already teenagers or grown men.
Eventually we ganged up to exile her here, to our summer estate near the city. We had been taking turns sending her letters, making vague promises to visit.
Which we had never done. Until now.
Go Figure
Mother has left. The room is dark. We are asleep — sort of — when awakened by a noise.
R. Did you hear that?
B. I’m not sure, I…
R. There it is again!
A soft scratching sound, like a large rodent
We hold our breath, straining to listen. There is a creaking noise, a slight lessening of the gloom in one direction. We sense more than hear a figure approaching. Is it a monster come to eat us?
No. We catch a scent of unwashed human. We hear a key clicking in our locks. Our unseen savior wisely unlocks our feet first. Though asleep from misuse, they help bear our weight as our hands are unlocked. A rough but gentle hand on each of our backs propels us in the direction we’d heard the sound.
Hands before us, muscles cramping, we find the portal and clamber in. We hear our rescuer close the entryway behind us. The passageway is wide enough for him — the smell and angularity make us sure it’s a “him” — to squish past us.
He pulls what appears to be a glowing stick from somewhere. Not enough light to see anything else, but enough for us to follow. We navigate several sharp turns, a few tight squeezes, and a couple gentle inclines before the dirt and uneven rock give way to wood and polished stone.
Not enough light to see anything else, but enough for us to follow.
Untrapped
The way gets easier, but no brighter. We follow single file up a flight of stairs, until we reach what seems to be a trap door. The figure pauses, and finally speaks.
Figure: “Would you like to be free?”
The voice is hoarse and raspy; perhaps from age, disuse, dissipation, or all three. There is something oddly familiar about it, though.
B: [in a low, soft whisper] Very much, kind sir.
F. Then go. Beyond this door is a garden, with a gate and a trail leading to the main road. As payment for the risk I took in freeing you, all I ask is that you tell no one. You have not really been harmed, have you? Please, go your way in peace.
R: [forcefully] I say! That won’t do at all. We can’t just go away and leave Mother here to trap and force-feed unwary travelers, even if you do eventually release them. It just isn’t right.
At this, the figure drops the glowing stick.
F. Did you say…. Mother? Then, then that would mean… you… you must b…
The figure collapses, as if gripped by a violent seizure. Robbing squeezes past to open the door. BraveHeart kneels down to render what aid he can.
Starlight rushes in. It is not much, but it is enough to confirm what we had already come to suspect.
Radically Happy 
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