Read Online Rapunzel, the One With All the Hair by Wendy Mass - Free Book Online

expecting?” he asks.
    I shrug. “Something more exotic, I suppose.”
    â€œExotic like Rapunzel ?” he asks. “ Rapunzel is another word for the herb rampion, you know.”
    I grit my teeth. “Yes, I know. I wish it were not my name.”
    â€œI, too, long for a more dashing name. Alas, Steven was my father’s name, and his father’s before him. It is my son’s name too, but … but …”
    He trails off and starts sobbing again. I rush over and put my arm on his bony shoulder. “There, there,” I say soothingly. “It will be all right.”
    He wipes his runny nose with the back of his wrist. There is a lot of hair on his wrist and it neatly absorbs the rather hefty contents of his nose. Perhaps the hair on his arms is so thick to make up for the lack of hair on his head. He looks up at me with watery eyes and asks, “How can you, of all people, say everything will be all right?”
    He has a point. I consider my answer. “Well, it’s better than saying ‘Keep on crying, I’m sure things will just get worse,’ right?”
    He doesn’t answer for a moment, then breaks into a laugh that borders on hysteria. It’s a cross between the sound of a creaky door hinge and the noise Father makes when he is choking on a piece of bread. Still, it is better than the sobbing. I must admit that seeing someone even more down in the dumps than I have been has buoyed my spirits somewhat.
    â€œWhy don’t we sit down on the rug and get to know each other,” I suggest. “I have many questions.”
    Still “laughing,” he allows me to steer him to the rug, where we both sit cross-legged. The rope from the open trapdoor swings gently next to us. He pulls himself together, wipes one stray tear from his chin, and says, “I received yournote. I am glad my gifts gave you pleasure. You are right that the witch must never know.”
    â€œSo it WAS you?”
    He nods.
    â€œDo you have magic powers, too,” I ask, “like the witch?”
    He shakes his head again, this time a little sadly. “I can apply only the tricks of the trade — a little sleeping powder here, a dab of hair-growing tonic there. That sort of thing.”
    I knew my rapid hair growth was not normal! “But why are you doing those things to me?” I ask. Perhaps he is not the friend I thought he was.
    â€œIt is not I,” he says hurriedly. “I am under orders from the witch — or Mother Gothel, as she insists on being called.” After he says her name, he turns to his right and spits once, then repeats the action on his left.
    I try not to look at the little puddles of spittle now sinking into my rug. “If you hate her so much, then why are you doing her bidding?”
    â€œI have no choice,” he says, his features falling. “I am in debt to her for saving my son’s life. We were in the caves — that is where my race lives, underground — and young Stevie suddenly could not breathe. He was gasping for air, clutching his throat. I called out, ‘Help! Help! Somebody help!’ But no one was around. I carried him above ground, which we are supposed to visit only to gatherfood when the supply of minerals runs low. Our green color allows us to blend in well with the trees and grass, but we are a private race, you see, and prefer to keep to ourselves. When I reached the air, the forest was still, like it is right after a rain. The only person around was this little old lady. When she saw my problem, she mumbled some sort of incantation, sprinkled some dust, and a bug the size of my hand flew out of Stevie’s throat. I mean, this bug, it had fifty legs, antennae the size of my arm, eyes like a —”
    I hold up my hand. “I get the picture. It was big.”
    â€œSO big! Naturally I asked the woman what I could do to repay her. When someone saves your life, or your child’s