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BUTTERCUP'S BABY
S. MORGENSTERN'S GLORIOUS EXAMINATION OF COURAGE MATCHED AGAINST THE DEATH OF THE HEART
ABRIDGED BY WILLIAM GOLDMAN

One

Fezzik Dies

1. Fezzik

FEZZIK CHASED the madman up the mountain, the madman who carried the most precious thing, for Fezzik, ever to be on earth, the kid herself, Buttercup's Baby.

"Chased" was perhaps the wrong word. "Lumbered after" might have been more accurate. However you wanted to put it, the news was not good, because Fezzik, try as he might, was falling farther and farther behind. There were two reasons. The first: size. They were fifteen thousand feet in the air, the rise was sheer, and Fezzik had terrible trouble finding footholds that might make him secure. His huge clumpy feet would touch here or there, seeking sanctuary, but it took too much time.

And the madman used that time to his advantage, increasing his lead, occasionally glancing down with his skinless face, to see how much farther Fezzik had fallen behind. Even to Fezzik, his plan was clear: get to the crest, run across the plateau, start down the far side, leave Fezzik helpless, still trying for the ascent.

The second reason for Fezzik's lack of success was this: fear. Or, to be more specific, fears. Being the biggest and strongest, no one realized he also had feelings. Just because he could uproot trees, people didn't want to know that the little squirmy bugs that lived in the roots spooked him. Just because he had defeated the wrestling champions of seventy-three countries, people didn't believe that his mother had to keep candles burning all night long when he was (comparatively speaking) little. Of course, the idea of public speaking was beyond thought. But Fezzik would rather have spent the rest of his years in constant speechmaking than face what was staring at him now. The possibility of

With nothing but rocks to crush his body at the end.

True, he had climbed the Cliffs of Insanity, but that was different. He'd had a rope to hold on to so he knew which way to go, and he'd had Vizzini insulting him, which always made the time pass more pleasantly.

If only the madman possessed some other baggage, Fezzik would have stopped and crept back down to safety. If only it was all the silver in Persia or a pill that you only took once and you weren't a giant anymore.

Easy to stop the chase then.

But this was Waverly, his blessing, and though he knew in his great heart he would lose this pursuit, knew he would somehow slip, Fezzik lumbered on.

He glanced up. She was rolled in the blanket she had been kidnapped in—and how long ago was that now? Fezzik chose not to remember because the kidnapping had been his fault. He had allowed it somehow—it had happened on his watch. Fezzik blinked back quick tears of remorse. Her body was still. The madman probably gave her some potion. To make her easier to carry.

Above him, the madman stopped, pushed, kicked out—

—and giant rocks were coming down toward him.

Fezzik did his best to get out of their way, but he was too slow. The rocks grazed his feet, knocking them loose from their holds, and now he, Fezzik the Turk, was swinging high in space, holding on by just the strength of a few fingers.

The madman cried out with delight, then climbed on, rounded a mountain corner, was gone.

Fezzik hung in space. So very afraid.

The winds picked at his body.

His left hand began to cramp so Fezzik took it out of the hold, reached a yard up to a better one.

He hung there, thinking, and what he thought was not how very afraid he was but that he had just gone up three entire feet, using only his hands. Could he do that again? He reached up another yard, found another hold. This is all very interesting, he told himself. I actually went up without using my feet. I went up faster than before, without using my feet.

Hmmm.

And then suddenly he was moving. Just using his hands to reach, grab, then the next, reach, grab, and never mind using all fours, just use the upper twos—

—and then he was moving fast.

Fezzik flew up the mountain now. Somewhere on the other side was the madman, probably taking his time, feeling sure that Fezzik was gone. Fezzik increased his speed, up to the crest, then to the plateau, racing across it with enormous strides, and when the madman got there with the babe, Fezzik was waiting.

"I would like the child," Fezzik said softly.

"Of course you would." The madman had no mouth. The sound came from somewhere inside his skinless face. He still held Waverly's body.

Fezzik took a step nearer.

"I can breathe fire," the madman said.

Fezzik knew that it was true. But he was unafraid.

Another step closer.

"I can change shape," the madman said, louder now, and Fezzik knew that it was true. But he also knew this: fear had entered the heart of his enemy.

"These are my final words," Fezzik said. "When I tell you to give me the child, you will give me the child."

"I will use all my magic on you!"

"You can try," Fezzik said softly. "But even though you have no face, I can see how frightened you are. You are frightened that I will hurt you." He paused. "And I will." He paused again. "Badly."

The fear inside the madman was pulsing now.

Fezzik's great hands reached toward the blanket. "Give me the child," he said, and the madman started to do that very thing, but then, instead, he flipped his hands so that Waverly rolled out of her blanket, spun high into the mountain air—

—the momentum carried her over the edge where the two men were standing, and as she spun, her eyes fluttered open, and she looked around wildly, saw Fezzik, reached out toward him as she fell from sight, said the word she alone called him: "Shade."

Fezzik had no choice. He dove into space after her, gave up his life for the child....

***

Well, what do you think?

It's exciting, I'll give Morgenstern that. A 'grabber,' as TV guys say. But this is a novel, you have time to develop plot and character, no one's changing the channel here. So I'm not nuts about it. I also don't like calling Chapter 1 'Fezzik Dies.'

Do you believe that Morgenstern's really going to kill Fezzik? I sure don't, not for a New York minute. Forget that he's my favorite. But think what he did for Buttercup and Westley: he let himself get set on fire, just before the castle storming; he found the four white horses they all rode to freedom on; and don't think for a minute Inigo would have made it down through the Zoo of Death without Fezzik right there with him, so in a way, he saved Westley.

And, I'm sorry, you don't knock off someone like that. It's wrong. Just to get your story off with a bang.

In other words, I disapprove of this opening. There are, in fact, a number of things I'm not happy with in this chapter. But you know the reasons I have to go along.

And I'm also not sure I should be including this next section about Inigo. I had a big fight with my publisher, Peter Gethers. He's against putting it in, finds it confusing. Before I give my reasons, I think you better have a chance to see for yourself what we're arguing about.

2. Inigo

INIGO WAS IN Despair.

Hard to find on the map (this was after maps) not because cartographers didn't know of its existence, but because when they visited to measure its precise dimensions, they became so depressed they began to drink and question everything, most notably why would anyone want to be something as stupid as a cartographer? It required constant travel, no one ever knew your name, and, most of all, since wars were always changing boundaries, why bother? There grew up, then, a gentleman's agreement among mapmakers of the period to keep the place as secret as possible, lest tourists flock there and die. (Should you insist on paying a visit, it's closer to the Baltic states than most places.)

Everything about Despair was depressing. Nothing grew in the ground and what fell from the skies did not provoke much happy conversation. The entire country was damp and dank, and why the locals all did not flee was not only a good question, it was the only question. Locals talked about nothing else. "Why don't we move?" husbands would say each day to wives, and wives would answer, "God, I don't know, let's," and children would jump and shout, "Hooray hooray, we're out of here," but then nothing would happen. Bindibus live in more hideous conditions but they don't travel a lot either. There was a certain comfort in knowing that no matter how bad things were, they couldn't get worse. "We have endured everything," the locals would tell themselves. "Whereas if we pick up and go, say, to Paris, we would get gout and be insulted by Parisians all day."

Inigo, however, had a warm spot for the place. For it was here, years and years ago, that he had won his first fencing championship. He had arrived shortly before the tournament was to begin, and he had come with a heavy heart. Tears always behind his eyes. He could not shake his mood, because of what had just happened to him in Italy, on his first visit there. A journey he had begun with such hopes....

BY THE TIME he turned twenty, Inigo Montoya of Arabella, Spain, had spent his last eight years wandering the world. He had not yet begun the hunt for the six-fingered man who had killed his beloved father, Domingo. He was not ready and would not be until the great swordmaker, Yeste, pronounced him so. Yeste, his father's dearest friend, would never send him out if there were flaws. Flaws would not only bring death but, far worse, humiliation.

Inigo knew one thing and that only: when he finally found his tormenter, when he was at last able to face him and say, "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die," there could be no question in his mind of defeat. The six-fingered man was a master. And so, preparing for such a master, Inigo had wandered the world. Getting stronger as he grew, learning from whoever could teach him mysteries that needed solving. Lately, he had begun to specialize. His talents were past phenomenal, but still not good enough to get the blessing of Yeste.

He had recently been to Iceland, to spend months with Ardnock, the great frozen terrain expert. Inigo had already mastered fighting from below and from above, fighting from trees, from rocks, in rapids. But what if the six-fingered man was from the far north, and they battled on frost, or freshly watered ice? And what if Inigo, helpless and slipping, lost his balance, lost the battle, lost everything?

After Iceland, he spent half a year on the equator, studying with Atumba, the master of heat, because what if the six-fingered man came from a steaming country, and what if they battled in the heat of the hottest day, temperature at 150, and what if the grip of his sword went wet for a moment in his hand?

Now, having just turned twenty, he was in Italy, to see Piccoli, the tiny ancient, the acknowledged king of the mind. (Piccoli was from the most famous line of great Italian teachers—another branch was centered in Venice and taught singing to every famous Italian tenor whose name ends in a vowel.) Inigo knew he would not be able to think when his death battle came. His mind had to be a spring day, and his movements had to come on their own, his spins and twists and thrusts all had to leap unbidden.

Piccoli lived in a small stone house, in the employ of Count Cardinale, the strange and secret man who controlled most of the country. Piccoli had heard of Inigo because although Yeste was the greatest and most famous maker of swords, there were rumors that when he was confronted with a task that was too much even for him, he would go to the town of Arabella, high in the hills above Toledo, to the hovel of one Domingo Montoya, a widower who lived with a young son.

It was there that the six-fingered sword had been forged.

Could it truly be the wonder of his world? Piccoli had heard of it for a decade, yearned to see it dance before he died. The greatest weapon since Excalibur and where was it now? Gone with the child Montoya from the house of Yeste. And where was that child?

Piccoli had spent his entire long life training his mind, so that he had the ability to sit for a day in the middle of a mad battle and know nothing of the screams and slaughter going on around him. When he was in his mind, he was as if dead. And every morning at dawn he would go into his mind and stay there 'til noon. No power could disturb him.

He had gone into his mind at dawn, one day, there to stay 'til the sun was highest—but on this one morning, at eight o'clock, a strangeness.

He was in his mind as he always was at six and at seven and at half-past seven, and at quarter 'til eight, and ten 'til, and five and four and three—

—and then Piccoli was pierced by something so dazzling even he had to open his eyes—

—to see a young man approaching, tall, blade-thin, muscular, spring-legged, who was handsome enough but would have been more than that, save for the two scars that paralleled his cheeks—

—who held such glory in his hands, the sun was dancing there.

Piccoli could not breathe as the young man approached. "I want to see Mr. Piccoli, please."

"I wish to see your sword."

Piccoli trembled as he took it in his tiny hands. "What could you possibly want from me?" He could not take his eyes off the weapon. "You have the world here."

Inigo told him.

"You want me to teach you to control your mind?" Piccoli asked.

Inigo nodded. "I have come from very far."

"A waste, I fear. You are young. The young have not the patience. They are stupid. They think their bodies will save them."

"Let me learn."

"Pointless. Go wage your battle without me."

"I beg you."

Piccoli sighed. "All right. Let me show you how stupid you are. Answer my queries: what on all the earth do you want more than anything?"

"Why, to kill the six-fingered man, of course."

And with that Piccoli started screaming: "Wrong, wrong! Listen—see what I say." His voice grew soft, seductive. "The six-fingered man has his sword in his hand—he thrusts—see what I say, Montoya, watch the sword. He has thrust the sword toward your father, now the sword is entering your father's heart, Domingo's heart is shredded and you are ten and standing there, you are helpless, do you remember that moment? I command you, remember that moment! "

Inigo could not stop his sudden tears.

"Now you are watching him fall. Look—look at him—watch Domingo die—"

Inigo began sobbing out of all control.

"Tell me what you feel—"

Inigo was barely able to speak the word: "Pain..."

"Yes, right, of course, pain, killing pain. That's what you should want more than anything, an end to your pain."

"...yes..."

"That pain is with you, every moment every day?"

"...yes..."

"If you think of ending your pain, you will kill the six-fingered man. But if you only think revenge, he will kill you, because he has already taken the thing on earth you treasured most, and he will know that, and when you battle he will say things, he will taunt you, he will talk about your pathetic father and he will laugh at your love for a failure like Domingo, and you will scream in rage and your revenge will take control and you will attack blindly—and then he will cut you to pieces."

Inigo saw it all, and it was true. He saw himself charging and heard himself screaming and then he felt the six-fingered man's sword as it entered his body, drove through his heart. "Please, do not let me lose to him," he finally managed to say.

Piccoli looked at the shattered young man before him. He gently returned the six-fingered sword. "Go dry your tears, Montoya," he said at last. "We start your training in the morning..."

IT WAS SAVAGE work. Inigo had never imagined it would be anything less, but Piccoli was merciless beyond human reckoning. For eight years Inigo had sprinted two hours each day, to make his legs muscular and strong. Now, with Piccoli he could not sprint at all. For eight years he had squeezed apple-size rocks two hours a day, so his wrists might deliver the death blow from any and all positions. Now, rock squeezing was banned. For eight years he had never skipped and dodged less than two hours a day so his legs would be quick. Now, no skipping, no dodging.

Inigo's body, so lash-strong, so whippet-quick, the body he had shaped for lethal combat, the body that was the envy of most men. That body? Piccoli hated it. "Your body is your enemy while you are with me," Piccoli explained. "We must weaken it for now. It is the only way you can grow your mind. As long as you think you can fight your way out of trouble, you will never be able to fight your way out of trouble."

For eight years Inigo had gotten by on four hours' sleep. Now, that was all he did. Sleep. Doze. Rest. Snooze. He catnapped under orders, siestaed constantly. It seemed to him he was grabbing forty winks every time eighty winks had gone by. And while resting, he had to think about his mind.

Weeks passed. He was sleeping twelve hours a day at first, then fifteen. Piccoli's goal was a fat twenty, and Inigo knew the torture would never stop until his goal was reached. He did nothing but lie there and think about his mind.

His only job was to think about his mind. Get acquainted with it, learn its ways.

His sole exercise was fifteen minutes each day while the sun went down. Piccoli would send him outside, the sword in hand. And nod. Just once. And Inigo would flash in the dying light, the sword alive, and his body would leap and duck and the shadows moved like ghosts. Piccoli was very old, but once he had seen Bastia and this was Bastia again, alive again on earth.

One more nod from the tiny ancient head and back to rest. To bed. To lie there and think about his mind.

And it went that way until the day Piccoli had to go to the village for provisions. Inigo was alone in the stone house, and then there were soft footsteps approaching, and a soft voice, enquiring for the owner, and then Inigo was alone no longer. He looked toward the figure framed in the doorway, stood. And spoke these most remarkable and unexpected words:

"I cannot marry you."

She looked at him. "Have we met, sire?"

"In my dreams."

"And we decided not to marry? What strange dreams from such a young fellow."

"No younger than you."

"You work for Piccoli?"

Inigo shook his head. "Mostly I sleep for Piccoli. Come closer?"

"I have no choice."

"You work in the castle?"

"I have lived there all my life. My mother too."

"Inigo Montoya of Spain. You...?" He waited for her name. He knew it would be a wondrous name, a name he would remember forever.

"Giulietta, sire."

"Do you think me strange, Giulietta?"

"I'd be pretty dopey if I didn't," Giulietta said. Before adding, "sire."

"Do you feel your heart at this moment? I feel mine."

"I'd be pretty dopey if I didn't," Giulietta said. Her black eyes studied his face so closely before she said, "I think you better tell me of your dreams."

Inigo began. He told of the slaughter and his scars, and how, when he had healed he had begun his quest. And how wandering through the world, town to city to village, alone, always that, sometimes he made up companions since there were none really for company.

And when he was perhaps thirteen, there was a someone always waiting for him at the end of the day. As he grew up and older, she grew older, too, the girl, and she would be there, always there, and they would eat scraps together for dinner and sleep in haylofts in each other's arms, and her black eyes were so kind when they looked at him. "As your eyes are kind now, as you look at me, and her black hair tumbled down as I can see yours now, tumbling down, and you have kept me blessed company all these years, Giulietta, and I love you and I will forever, but I cannot, and I hope you understand, because my quest comes first, above all else, even with what I see in your eyes, I cannot marry you."

She was so obviously touched. Inigo knew that. Inigo saw that he had moved her deeply. He waited for her reply.

Finally Giulietta said, "Do you tell that story often? I'll bet the village girls go nuts over you." She turned toward the door then. "Go try it on them." And she was gone.

The next morning before he went into his mind, she was back. "Let me get this thing straight, Inigo—we had scraps for dinner? I'm in your fantasy and the best you can come up with is scraps?" She turned toward the door then. "You have no chance of winning my heart."

Inigo went back into his mind.

The next noon she poked him awake. "Let me get this straight, Inigo—we slept in haylofts? You couldn't even come up with a clean room at an inn? Do you know how scratchy haylofts are?" She turned toward the door then. "You have less chance of winning my heart today than you had yesterday."

Inigo went back into his mind.

The next dusk she stood in the doorway. It was just before his fifteen minutes of movement, and she said, "How do I know you're going to find this six-fingered man? And how do I know you can beat him? What if I took some kind of weird pity on you and waited and then he won?"

"That is my nightmare. That is why I study."

She pointed at his sword. "Are you any good with that thing?"

Inigo went outside and danced with the six-fingered sword in the dying light. He tried hard to be particularly dazzling and ended with a special flourish taught him years before by MacPherson in Scotland. It involved a spin and a sword toss and ended with a bow.

"Impressive stuff, Inigo, I admit it," she said when he was done. "But what happens after you find this guy and run him through? How are you going to earn a living? Doing stunts like that? What do you expect me to do, play the tambourine and gather the crowd? You have so little chance of winning my heart, there is no point to our ever seeing each other again. Good-by."

Watching her leave there was no question: Inigo's heart was aching....

SHE DID NOT return 'til the night of the Ball. Inigo could not help but hear the music pouring out of the castle down through the night. Musicians had been practicing for days. Suddenly Giulietta was there, beckoning. "It's so beautiful," she whispered. "I thought you might want to see. I can sneak you in, but you must do exactly what I say—it will go badly if we are found out."

They raced through the long shadows, paused only briefly outside the kitchen—then she nodded and they were inside and she pointed left to show that was their way, then right, and he followed 'til the ballroom itself stood before them.

It was a sight beyond his conceiving. A room of such size, such elegance, with flowers to fill a forest and musicians playing softly. Inigo stared—and kept staring—until he heard a gasp and Giulietta whispered, "Oh, no, the Count is here. I must go, get behind the door."

Inigo slipped behind the door, wondering how horrible the punishment was for sneaking into a castle, for peering in rooms only the mighty should behold. He closed his eyes and made a silent prayer that the Count would never see him.

He opened his eyes to nightmare: the Count was staring at him. An old, old man. Dressed in such magnificence. With a look of such disdain. And a voice of shattering power.

"You," he began, his rage already building, "are a thief!"

"I have never stolen—" Inigo started to say.

"Who are you?"

Inigo could not get the words out. "Ummmm ... Montoya. Inigo Montoya of Arabella, Spain."

"A Spaniard? In my house? I shall have to fumigate!" And then the Count came close. "How did you get in here?"

"Someone brought me. But I will never reveal her name. Punish me, do anything you will with me, but her name will always be a secret from you." Then he gasped as Giulietta stood in a distant doorway. He gestured for her to run, but the Count's turn was too fast and he saw. "Do nothing to her," Inigo cried out. "She has lived here all her life as did her mother before her."

"Her mother was my wife," the Count roared, loudest of all. "You pathetic excuse for a money-grubbing fool, you disgrace to the face of the world." And with a shriek of disgust he turned and was gone.

Giulietta was beside Inigo then, so excited. "Daddy likes you," she said.

THEY DANCED THROUGH the night. They held each other as lovers do. Inigo, with all of his study of movement, swirled like a light-footed dream and Giulietta had been trained since childhood for such things, and the musicians had played for fat dukes and grotesque merchants but now, looking at this dark couple hardly touching ground, they realized their music had to match the dancers.

Even today, all the servants in the Castle Cardinale remember the sound of that music.

Of course, before the spinning and the holding, there were a few minor points that needed a bit of ironing out.

"Daddy likes you," Giulietta said, watching as her father stormed away.

"Time out," Inigo said. "If you're his daughter, that makes you a Countess. And if you are a Countess that makes you a liar, because you said you were a servant. And if you're a liar, I cannot trust you, because there is no excuse for lying, especially when you knew of my dreams and my love. And so I must say farewell." He started to go.

"One thing?" This from Giulietta.

"More lies?"

"You judge. Yes, I am a Countess. Yes, I lied. It is not all that easy being me. I do not expect sympathy but you must hear my side. I am one of the richest women on earth. In the eyes of many men, one of the more attractive. I am also, please believe me, and I know it sounds arrogant, but I am also wise and tender and kind. I did not dress as a servant girl to fool you. I always dress as a servant girl. To try and find truth. Every eligible noble for a thousand miles has come to the castle. To ask my father for my hand. They say they want my happiness, but they only want my money. And all I want is love."

Inigo said nothing.

She took a step so she was closer. Then another so she was beside him. Then she whispered quickly, "When you came here with your dream, you won my heart. But I had to wait. To think. And now I have thought." She gestured for the musicians to play even more beautifully. "This is our party. We are the only guests. I did all this to please you, and if you do not kiss my mouth, Inigo Montoya of Spain, I will more than likely die."

How could he not obey her?

They danced through the night. Ohhh, how they danced. Inigo and Giulietta. And they embraced. And he kissed her mouth and her tumbling hair. And Inigo felt, for the first time since the dying, such happiness. It had fled from him, happiness, and when you spend years without, you forget that no blessing compares....

***

Guess what? It stops there. Bang, the little riff on happiness, end of section.

I call this the 'Unexplained Inigo Fragment.' And what Peter objected to, as well as the fact that he finds it confusing, is simply this: nothing happens.

He's right, in a strictly narrative way. But I feel that here, for the first time, Morgenstern shows us the human side of Inigo so we know he's more than just this Spanish Revenge Machine. (Frankly, I wish I had known this part existed before I read The Princess Bride.) I don't think I could have cared any more deeply than I did, but my God, what poor Inigo gave up to honor his father! Think about it. We all have fantasies, right?

You think before I met and married her I carried about this vision of Helen, my genius shrink wife? Of course not. But here Inigo has made this perfect creature for his own heart—and he finds her. And she loves him back.

And they part.

That's an assumption of mine, I know. But since we are told Inigo had a heavy heart when he reached Despair (and he came there from Italy), I have to go that way.

I included this section here for a very simple reason: I think it's Morgenstern at his best. I ran it by King, of course, and he felt I had to include it, since Morgenstern did. He also put me in touch with this professor cousin he has at Florin University—the son of the lady who runs the great restaurant. And this cousin, a Morgenstern expert, feels that the confusion on my part is my fault. That if I'd done sufficient scholarly preparation, I would understand Morgenstern's symbolism, and would therefore know that plenty happens here. Namely, according to this cousin anyway, it is here that Inigo first learns that Humperdinck has set a plan in motion to kidnap Westley and Buttercup's first child, right after it's born. And then Inigo has to race back to One Tree and stop that from happening. King's cousin says this Unexplained Inigo Fragment isn't a fragment at all, but a completed part of the whole of the novel.

I don't get any of that; if you do, great. And while you're at it, decide if you think I was right or not, including it. If you disagree, that's OK. All I know is my heart was pure....

3. Buttercup and Westley

THE FOUR GREAT horses seemed almost to fly toward Florin Channel.

"It appears to me as if we're doomed, then," Buttercup said.

Westley looked at her. "Doomed, madam?"

"To be together. Until one of us dies."

"I've done that already, and I haven't the slightest intention of ever doing it again," Westley said.

Buttercup looked at him. "Don't we sort of have to sometime?"

"Not if we promise to outlive each other, and I make that promise now."

Buttercup looked at him. "Oh my Westley, so do I."

From behind them suddenly, closer than they had imagined, they could hear the roar of Humperdinck: "Stop them! Cut them off!" They were, admittedly, startled, but there was no reason for worry: they were on the fastest horses in the kingdom, and the lead was already theirs.

However, this was before Inigo's wound reopened, and Westley relapsed again, and Fezzik took the wrong turn, and Buttercup's horse threw a shoe. And the night behind them was filled with the crescendoing sound of pursuit....

***

You see what he's done here?

This half page above is, of course, the ending of The Princess Bride, and this will only take a sec, but I'd like to draw attention to what he's doing in the sequel: playing with time. Look, I snitched in my explanation that Waverly was going to get kidnapped, forget that. Morgenstern tells you the same in the very opening pages with Fezzik on the mountain.

OK, so the kidnapping's already happened. Then in the Unexplained Inigo Fragment, he tells us that the kidnapping's about to happen (at least according to King's cousin he does). Now here, he goes back to before Buttercup and Westley have even safely gotten away from Humperdinck.

I think it's interesting, but some of you may find it confusing. Willy, my grandchild, did. I was reading it out loud to him (and how great a feeling was that, sports fans) when he said, 'Wait a sec,' so I did. And he said, 'How can Inigo hear about the kidnapping and the next sentence practically, it's Princess Bride all over again?' I ex- plained it was the way Morgenstern chose to tell this particular story. Then he said this: 'Can you do that?'

I sure hope so.

***

HOWEVER, THIS WAS before Inigo's wound reopened,—me again, and no, that was not a typo, I just thought it would make the transition easier if I repeated the last paragraph, go right on now—and Westley relapsed again, and Fezzik took the wrong turn, and Buttercup's horse threw a shoe. And the night behind them was filled with the crescendoing sound of pursuit....

Fezzik's mistake came first. He was in the lead, a position he tried to avoid whenever possible, but here he had no choice, since Inigo was losing strength with each stride and the lovers, well, they just sopped back and forth to each other about Eternity.

Which meant Fezzik, the ideal friend, the loyal follower, the lover of rhymes, perhaps not the most brilliant of fellows but certainly the most devoted bringer-up of any rears you might mention, found himself facing the most hateful, the most insidious bewilderment ever conceived of by the mind of man—

—a fork in the road.

"It's not actually a road (toad)," he reassured himself. "It's more a path (wrath), nothing to cause fret (sweat)." They were on their way to Florin Channel where the great pirate ship Revenge was waiting to scoop them up and head them all toward happiness. So relax, Fezzik, he told himself, treat the escapade as a lark (hark), a memory that would in the future bring warm smiles. After all, it was not even remotely a large fork.

It was, if you will, petite (sweet). A mere jog in the lane (pain).

Fezzik almost made himself believe that. Then reality took

hold—

—because it was still a fork—

—something that required thought, wisdom, a plan—

—and he knew he could screw up something like that anytime.

***

Me here, and no, this is not an interruption, just a note to explain I have gone to a lot of extra work to make this perfect, as you know, and I didn't want anyone writing in to point out that 'screw up' was anachronistic. It isn't. It's an ancient Turkish wrestling expression, a shorter version of 'corkscrew up,' a hold that brings pain of such magnitude that death soon follows. To 'corkscrew down,' of course, has been illegal for centuries. Everywhere.

***

THE FORK CAME closer.

They were surrounded by trees everywhere, always thickening, and the Brutes behind were clearly gaining, and even though the fork was indeed wee, it had to be there for a reason, and that reason Fezzik believed was that one way led to the Channel and the waiting Revenge while the other led elsewhere. And since the sea was their only profitable destination, elsewhere, no matter where else it elsed, was the same as doom.

Fezzik turned quickly to ask Inigo his opinion—but Inigo was bleeding so terribly now, the bouncing of the stallion not being helpful when you have recently been slit inside.

Fezzik instinctively reached back, grabbed his weakening comrade, pulled him onto his horse to see what he might do to save him—

—and while he was reaching, the fork was on them and Fezzik wasn't even watching as his horse took the left turning—which turned out to be, alas, toward Elsewhere.

"Hi," Fezzik said, once he had Inigo in front of him. "Are you excited? I'm as excited as can be." Inigo was too weak for reply. Fezzik studied Inigo's wound, pushed one of Inigo's hands deeper into it, hoping to somehow help stop the bleeding. It was clearly up to him to save Inigo now, and to do that he'd have to get him to a good Blood Clogger. Surely the Revenge would employ such a fellow.

From Inigo this: a groan.

"I agree completely," Fezzik said, wondering how the trees could become so much thicker so very quickly. It was amazing. They were almost like a wall now in front of them. "I'm also sure that just past this last wall of trees is Florin Channel and all our dreams will come true."

From Inigo the same, only less of it. Then his fingers managed to clutch Fezzik's great hand. "I go to face my father now ... but Rugen is dead ... so it was not a useless life ... beloved friend ... tell me I did not fail...."

He was losing Inigo now, and as he held the wounded fencer in his arms, Fezzik knew few things but one of them was this: wherever the bottom of the pit was located, surely he was there now.

"Mr. Giant?" he heard then.

Fezzik wondered who Buttercup was talking to, until he realized that they had never actually been introduced. Oh, he had rendered her unconscious, kidnapped her, almost killed her, so you couldn't say they were unacquainted, but none of it was truly a formal how-do-you-do.

"Fezzik, Princess."

"Mr. Fezzik," she cried out louder than necessary, but it was because at that moment her horse threw a shoe.

"Just Fezzik is fine, I'll know you mean me," he told her, watching her face in the moonlight. Never had he seen an equal. No one had. Except at the moment, she was not at her best—since not only was her horse behaving erratically, there was such pain behind her eyes. "What is wrong, Highness? Tell me so that I might help."

"My Westley has stopped breathing."

Wrong as usual, Fezzik realized, the pit is bottomless. He instinctively reached back, grabbed his breathless leader, pulled him onto his horse to see what he might do to save him—

—and while he was doing the reaching, his overburdened horse stopped. Had to. For there was now a wall of trees blocking any progress—

—and Inigo would not stop bleeding—

—and Westley would not start breathing—

—and Buttercup would not stop staring at him, her face lit with the hope that of all the creatures left stomping the earth, he, Fezzik, was the only one that could save her beloved and thereby stop her heart from shredding.

Fezzik at this heroic moment knew what he wanted most to do: suck his thumb forever. But since that was out of the question, he did the next best thing. He made a poem.

Fezzik's in trouble, bubble bubble,
His brain is just not in the pink.
His mind is rubble, rub-a-dub double,
Because everyone needs him to think.

Great work, no question, considering he was carrying two almost corpses on his stopped horse while the Princess was weeping, hoping for a miracle. Hmm. Fezzik went for a different rhyme scheme, hopeful it would jog something useful.

Great-armed Fezzik, blocked by trees,
Forget that she is crying.
Though lost (and that it's all your fault)
Forget that two are dying.
Mighty Fezzik, strong of brawn
Who most around think brainless,
All you have to do is spawn
A plan that will be painless.
Fezzik the fearless, Fezzik the wise,
Fezzik the wonder of the age,
Fezzik who—

The "who" is lost to time now.

Because it was at that moment of poetic inspiration that Prince Humperdinck's razor-sharp, metal-tipped arrow ripped through Fezzik's clothing on its way to his great heart....

ONCE HE REALIZED they had taken the left turning, Prince Humperdinck knew they were his. He turned to Yellin, the Chief Enforcer of Florin, a finger to his lips. Yellin raised a hand and the fifty trailing members of the Brute Squad slowed.

The moon's perfect yellow dusted the thickening trees. Humperdinck could not help but stare at their beauty. Only the trees of Florin could interrupt, however briefly, a blood hunt. Was there any place on earth with such trees, Humperdinck wondered? No; resoundingly no. They ranked among the treasures of the universe.

During the Prince's contemplative moment, Yellin gestured for the Brute Squad to get into their attack groups: the knifers here, the stranglers there, the crushers in between.

The Prince rounded the last small turning—and there in front of him, so beautifully framed by the perfect trees, was the death tableau. His weeping runaway bride, the two still men on the buckling horse, held there in the arms of the giant. "Damn," he told himself. "If only I'd brought the Royal Sketcher." Well, he would just have to hold this in memory.

In the Prince's world, the world of scourge and pain, there was still great controversy who to initially attack. Should the nearest be selected? Or should it be the leader? Clearly Westley was that, but at the moment, a frail one at best. And the other still man must have had power, since he had killed Rugen—not the easiest task. It was standard to leave the women for last, they were not expert at blood; they also whimpered and looked to the Heavens for escape—always good for chuckles around future campfires.

Leaving the giant.

The Prince unsheathed his bow, selected his sharpest metal tip, made the insertion. He was a great archer, but at night, with moonlight and shadow, he was a good deal more. He had not missed a night kill in ever so long.

An inhale for balance.

A final smile to the trees.

Then the pull back, the release, and the arrow was on its straight way. The Prince held his breath until he saw the arrow rip the cloth of the giant, at the heart site.

The giant cried out loud in shock and fell backward off his horse.

As he fell, Yellin led the Brute charge and the Battle of the Trees, brief though it was, was on—the fifty Brutes at full cry charging the three men lying sprawled on the ground, the lone woman trying to somehow hold them all in her arms....

As her attackers came eyeball close, Buttercup had this thought: if she had to die, what better way existed than with her true love in her arms and the beauty of her beloved Florinese trees covering her with their branches? Even as a child, nothing pleased her more than the glorious trees at the bottom of her farm, and when her chores for the day were done, that is where she went to wander so happily. What peace they gave. And they would continue to give that peace to her fellow Florinese forever and—

***

Time out. Can you believe that last paragraph? Buttercup's about to die and she thinks of foliage? Horrible, horrible. So do not hold your breath waiting for the stupid Battle of the Trees. I went nuts when I first read this. I'm like you probably, zooming happily along, and Morgenstern was clearly a master of narrative, but right now I bet you are wondering this: what happened?

My God, Fezzik shot in the heart, the two other guys drifting away, Buttercup trying to hold it all together while these FIFTY ARMED BRUTES come charging in—we all want to know what happened, right?

Here is what you are not reading: sixty-five pages on Florinese trees, their history and importance. (Morgenstern had already started, if you noticed—-just when he realizes he's got them, Prince Humperdinck does an entire dumb paragraph about trees.) Even his Florinese publishers begged him to cut it. So I don't care what grief those Morgenstern whizzes at Columbia give me, if ever anything needed getting rid of, it was this.

Want to know why he put it in?

It actually has to do with The Princess Bride. Or rather, its success in Florin. Morgenstern was suddenly flush so he went right out and bought this country house that was off by itself and abutted this huge government-owned forest preserve. He was, indeed, master of all he surveyed.

However...

He had been misinformed. This lumber company had title and not long after he moved in, guess what, they began sawing down all these trees. Morgenstern went nuts. (He really did. His entire correspondence with the lumber company is right there in the Morgenstern Museum, just to the left off Florin Square.)

He couldn't make them stop and in a year or two, his house was all naked and alone and kind of dumb-looking, so he sold it (at a loss, which just killed him) and moved back into town.

But from then on, he became the country's best-known tree savior. (He had his eye on another country place, it turns out, similarly secluded, and he wouldn't buy it until he felt he was safe from the lumber interests.)

So what he did here in Buttercup's Baby was carefully build this huge suspense moment confident that his readers would have to read his tree essay in order to find out who lived and died.

Briefly now, in terms of narrative, this is what you found out: (A) Fezzik survived Humperdinck's metal-tipped arrow because of Miracle Max's holocaust cloak, which Fezzik kept tucked inside his tunic, and the folds of it blunted the arrow's impact, saving his life. (B) The pirates from the ship Revenge were hiding in the trees so when the Brutes were about to slaughter our quartet, they rained down on them like a rage from Heaven and took care of them all in just a couple of minutes, and when Humperdinck and Yellin saw this, they both fled. Then, (C) the pirates, headed by Pierre—their number one guy and next in line to become the Dread Pirate Roberts—took the four and scooted out to the Revenge with them, hoping everyone would be alive when they all got there.

Time back in.

***

AS SOON AS the four were safely aboard, Pierre signaled for the anchor raising and the great pirate ship Revenge slipped through the waters of Florin Channel toward open sea. A snap of his fingers brought the Blood Clogger, who set to work on Inigo while Pierre himself, chief medico and second in command, turned his attention to Westley, or as he was known on the ship, the Dread Pirate Roberts. Fezzik and Buttercup stood close by. Buttercup could not stop trembling so she reached out, tried to hold Fezzik's hand, realized the size discrepency, held his thumb instead.

The Clogger ripped off Inigo's shirt, examined the bleeding man. There were minor sword wounds near each shoulder, but they were nothing. The stomach drew his attention. "A three-sided Florinese dagger," he said to Pierre, then turned to Fezzik. "When?"

"A few hours ago," Fezzik answered. "While we were storming the castle."

"I can clog him," the Clogger said. "But he will have little use for this." He indicated the six-fingered sword still clutched in Inigo's right hand. "Not for a very long time." And with that he scurried off, returned in a moment with flour and tomato puree, mixed them expertly, began filling the wound. He looked at Pierre then, nodded in the direction of Westley. "Want me to work on him?"

"This is not a matter of blood. Listen." He pounded on Westley's chest, listened to the awful empty sound. "His life has been sucked away."

"It happened yesterday," Fezzik said carefully, trying not to upset Buttercup any more. "If you were in town you probably heard his death scream."

"That was him?" Pierre cried out. "They did that to my master? Where was this?"

"At the bottom of the Zoo of Death." Fezzik indicated Inigo. "We found him there."

Pierre studied Westley a moment longer before he sagged. "He must have been tortured beyond human endurance." He shook his head. "If only I'd been with you. I would have known what to do. I would have rushed him to Miracle Max."

Fezzik started bouncing up and down. "But that's what we did. We went straight there. For a resurrection pill."

Energy began to flow back into Pierre's body. "If Max worked on him, then we have hope."

"We have more than hope," Buttercup said. "There is true love."

"Princess," Pierre said, "you work your side of the street and I'll work mine." He looked at Fezzik, thinking. Then this question: "Did Max tell you how dead he was?"

"'Sort of.' But then he slipped to 'mostly.'"

Pierre nodded. "'Mostly' is not ideal, but I can work around that. Was it a new resurrection pill, not an old one Max had hanging around?"

"Made fresh—I had to gather the holocaust mud," Fezzik said.

Pierre was getting excited now. His eyes blazed at Fezzik. "Last and most important question: did Valerie have time to do the chocolate coating?"

"She let me lick the pot," Fezzik said, happy because he knew he was giving the right answer. "It was duh-licious."

***

Little cut here. (I already said in the introduction that they went to One Tree Island to get their health back so there's not a lot of nail-biting tension in the air concerning Westley's survival at this point.)

What you're not going to read is a six-page sequence in which Pierre—and we all care desperately about spending time with him, right?—does all these wondrous modern Florinese medical things to help Westley. None of which work, natch, because at this point in his life, Morgenstern had a hate on for doctors because he had developed gas (and I'm sorry if this is disgusting to you but I promised King I would research the hell out of it, and I did a lot of legwork before I found that Morgenstern's entire medical record is on view in the Museum, but not everyone can see the personal stuff like this, you have to have some kind of scholarly interest to read it, and even then you can't take it out of the place). I forget where this sentence began, sorry, but anyway, he had gas, couldn't shake it, and gave Pierre this sequence to get his own back. (When nothing worked, by the way, Fezzik picked Westley up and hung him by the feet over the side till his lungs filled with seawater, a famous cure in Turkey—not for death but rather gout, which Fezzik's father suffered from. Westley coughed like crazy but it got him talking again.)

***

INIGO WAS STILL unconscious but had stopped bleeding when Westley finally opened his eyes. Middle of the night. Buttercup lay alongside him on the deck while Fezzik watched over them all. Pierre approached, knelt, spoke softly. "I have the worst of all news."

" 'Worst' does not exist," Westley whispered. He studied Buttercup's face. "We are together."

Pierre took a breath, then said it. "You must leave the ship. And you must do so this night."

Before Buttercup could voice her outrage, Westley put a finger to her lips. "Of course. I understand. Humperdinck is after us."

"His entire armada. We can outrun them for a while, but sooner or later, as long as you are here..."

"We are not in the best of shape for travel," Buttercup said. "Give us a few days. My husband is the most powerful man for a thousand miles. No place on earth is safe from him."

"Not possible. Much as I would like to. The crew would panic, as well they should, and I cannot have them losing faith in me."

Westley nodded. Then he was silent. Then he said Fezzik's name. Fezzik waited. "Do you remember the climb up the Cliffs of Insanity?"

"I don't want to go back there," Fezzik said. "I'm afraid of heights."

"Fezzik," Westley said patiently. "I don't want to live there either. Just answer me this. You were carrying three people when you did it, and please think before you answer me: were you tired? "

Fezzik waited 'til he was sure he had it right. Then he said, "No."

"Why weren't you? Our lives depend on this, so please take your time."

Fezzik didn't need time. "My arms," he said quietly.

Westley looked at him only a moment more. Then he turned to Pierre. "We will need chains and a small boat." He paused. "Go quickly now. You must get us close to One Tree Island by dawn."

THE REVENGE MADE spectacular time, full sail and a favoring wind, and soon they were sailing through a remote part of Florin Sea. Before dawn, the small boat was lowered and the four, all heavily chained to Fezzik now, got in. Neither Westley nor Inigo was capable of much movement. Fezzik took the oars, Westley nodded, and Fezzik began to row.

From the bridge, Pierre said, "I pray to see you again."

"Do," Westley told him.

Buttercup cradled him in her lap. "That was so sweet of him," she said. "He did not seem a man of great religious conviction."

"This will be his first prayer. And it could not be for a more needy group."

"Why do you say that?" Buttercup asked.

"Let us just hold each other," Westley said. "While we can."

"That's fairly ominous of you, don't you think?"

Fezzik listened. Terrified. But he had so many questions he did not know where to begin. So he just rowed. And every so often he smiled down at Inigo. Who every so often was able to smile back.

They were silent then, the four. For what seemed a very long time. The night could not have been prettier. The weather balmy. The waves all but nonexistent. A sweet caressing wind.

Ahhhhhh.

Fezzik rowed on, getting into a fine rhythm, his great arms enjoying the outing. He rowed harder for a moment and, of course, the tiny boat went faster. Then back to normal pace and, of course, the tiny boat slowed. Fezzik enjoyed doing that—it got rid of the monotony; harder, faster, normal, slower, harder, faster, normal. Faster.

Hmm, Fezzik thought, I wonder why that happened?

He rowed harder again and this time the vessel seemed close to flight, and it was then that Fezzik pulled the oars entirely out of the water—

—and the boat careened on faster than before.

Much faster than before. And then in the distance, but approaching quickly, came the roar. And Fezzik said, "Oh, Westley, I did something wrong, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to zoom like this. I was just sort of breaking the monotony, faster slower, that kind of thing, and I never meant for this to happen."

"It is not you," Westley replied, keeping his voice as steady as he could so as not to make things worse for his comrades. "The whirlpool has us now."

Inigo blinked awake on the word. "Fezzik ... row around it."

"We can't do that," Westley said then.

Buttercup spoke all their thoughts then. "Westley, my hero and savior, what's the deal here?"

"I'll be very brief. Humperdinck's armada is after us. We need to disappear and mend. One Tree Island, from all I've heard, may well be the best spot on earth for us."

"And just what makes it so special?" Buttercup asked, louder now, because the small boat was rocketing now and the roar was growing loud.

"I can't be specific because I've never been there," Westley explained, half shouting, holding tight to the side so as not to be pulled overboard. "No one has ever been there. It is shrouded by mist with just the top of the single tree visible above the clouds. The mist is caused by the whirlpool. The island is surrounded by the whirlpool. And rocks. No boat can sail through—the rocks crush it or the water sucks it down. Now do you see why it is perfect for us? Humperdinck cannot get there and soon he will lose interest in trying to."

"Let me get this straight," Buttercup said. "The entire armada cannot get to the island but we can?"

"That is my belief."

"I don't mean to be pushy about this, but I am not keen on being crushed or drowned. Westley, what in the world do we have that they don't?

"We have Fezzik," Westley replied simply.

"We absolutely do," Fezzik shouted, happy that the answer was so easily forthcoming. "He is right here inside my skin."

"But, my darling, what can Fezzik do?"

"Why, swim us through the whirlpool, of course."

No one answered for a moment because at that moment the tiny boat began to crack from the pressure of the water, and the roar of the whirlpool began to surround them, which meant it was very close. Westley checked Buttercup's chains and Inigo's as well as his own, making certain they were securely locked around Fezzik. The boat had little left it could do. It had brought them close, but now ahead the rocks became visible and Westley shouted through it all, "Save us, Fezzik, save us or we die."

Now Fezzik, as the world knows, had a terrible case of low self-esteem. So he was all for the theory behind Westley's words. Saving people. How wonderful. What in all the world could be better than saving people, especially these three with him now? Nothing. So in theory he should have made ready to dive in.

In practice he just sat in the bottom of the boat and shivered.

"Fezzik, now!" Westley shouted.

Fezzik shivered all the worse.

"He needs a rhyme," Inigo explained to Westley. Then to Fezzik: "Fezzik is no zero?

Fezzik shivered even more.

"Do you want a hint?" Inigo shrieked as the boat began to splinter.

Still the shivering.

"He's a hero," Inigo went on.

Fezzik would have none of it, put his head in his hands.

"What could he be afraid of?" Buttercup cried out.

"Fezzik," Westley shouted into Fezzik's ear. "Are you afraid of the sharks?"

Even worse shivering. And a shake of the head.

Now the whirlpool was starting to spin them.

"Is it the sucking squid?"

Still worse. And another shake of the head.

Now the whirlpool began to pull them down.

"Is it the sea monsters?"

More shivering, more shaking.

And Westley, aware that they had next to no chance of survival the way things were going, cried, "Tell me!"

Fezzik buried his head in his hands.

And then from Westley, the loudest shout of all: "Nothing is worse than sea monsters. What are you so afraid of?"

Fezzik raised his great head and managed to look at them. "Getting water up my nose," he whispered. "I hate it so much." And then he buried his head again.

The boat was shattering by this time. In the final moments they clung to the remnants and Westley said, "I am too weak for the task, Inigo you do it," and Inigo said, "I am a Spaniard—I do not hold another man's nose," and Buttercup, not for the last time, heard herself say, "You men," and then as the whirlpool had them in its power, she took both of her hands and clamped them over Fezzik's nose.

THE WHIRLPOOL KNEW from the first it had them, it had not lost a battle in centuries, not since a soldier coming home from the Crusades caught it at a remarkably calm time, managed to slip almost past, was but a few feet from One Tree's shore before, exhausted, he collapsed backward and the whirlpool made no mistakes this time, just kept him down at the bottom longer than it had ever kept anyone, before releasing its grip, letting him float up toward where the sharks waited.

The sharks were waiting this day, too, excited, four to shred, and they swam just at the outskirts of the whirlpool, watching as the bodies sank. Fezzik made no resistance whatsoever, did nothing 'til he was certain Buttercup's grip was solid. The whirlpool took them under, sped them down, on their way to the bottom and Fezzik let it happen, hoping only that the others could hold their breaths longer than they ever had, and soon he could feel the bottom of the sea. It was not deep here, whirlpools did not love deep water, and Fezzik bunched his giant body and shoved down with his mighty legs, shoved harder than he ever had before. As soon as his body began its upward trajectory, he started with his arms, his great tireless arms, windmilling them with more ferocity than the whirlpool had ever known, and it did what it could—increased its roar, swirled more savagely—but the arms would not stop, nothing could make them stop, and the chains held, and the others were unconscious from the battle, but Fezzik knew, as soon as he surfaced at the far end of the whirlpool, that Inigo had been right with his rhyme, he was definitely not a zero, not this day of days....

They were still chained when they reached the shore of One Tree, and they stayed that way for two days, all of them motionless, near dead from wounds and torture and exhaustion. Then they unchained themselves and, staying close together, began to explore their new home.

***

Me, obviously, and I'm sorry, but you don't want to read ten pages on vegetation. (Morgenstern's tree fixation scores again. His point here is that One Tree being pretty close to Eden is what all of Florin could be if only people didn't chop everything down.) The four get their strength back slowly. Buttercup nurses them and Fezzik takes care of food, cooking and cleaning the fish that was most of their diet. (Buttercup one day has nothing special going on so she makes him a gift for his nose— a clothespin. Well, Fezzik goes nuts, he's so happy. It fits perfectly, he's never without it, etc., etc., and armed with that, Fezzik becomes the scourge of the area, swimming all over, fighting sharks and sucking squids—tastes like chicken, I thought the more squeamish among you would be glad for that bit of info—bringing his catch of the day back for food.) Anyway, this section ends with the moon high, perfect night, very romantic, all that. Inigo and Fezzik are off in their tents dozing, Buttercup and Westley sitting alone by a flickering fire.

***

"YOU KNOW, we've only kissed," Buttercup said, staring at the embers.

"Of course," Westley replied.

Not getting the answer she expected, Buttercup tried again. "We've certainly had more than our share of adventures, no one can deny it. And true love ... to have that, we must be the most blessed of creatures."

"Surely the most blessed," Westley agreed.

"But," Buttercup said then, trying for frivolity, "thus far, the unalloyed fact that shines out is this: we have only kissed."

"What else is there?" Wesley asked. He touched his lips lightly to her cheek, sighed. "Surely there could be nothing more."

This was somewhat disingenuous on his part, because he had been King of the Sea for several years and, well, things happened.

"Silly lad," she told him, smiling. "I have enough knowledge for us both. Of course I should, considering all those classes in lovemaking I took at Royalty School." She had taken the classes, but since Humperdinck had instructed her professors to teach her nothing whatsoever, Buttercup, though she smiled, was terrified.

"I am anxious for your teachings to begin."

She looked at his perfect face. She thought that, more than anything, she wanted this to go as it had in her heart. But what if she failed? What if she was just another case of big-talk, little-do and eventually he would tire of her, leave her? "I know so much it is hard to be sure just where is the best place to begin. If I go too fast, raise your hand."

He waited and when he saw the helplessness in her eyes he realized he had never loved her quite so much or so deeply. "Will you try not to laugh at me?"

"I would never embarrass a beginner such as yourself. It would be cruelty itself to mock your ignorance when I, of course, am totally wise."

"Do we begin standing up or lying down?"

"A very good question, that," Buttercup said quickly, not having the least notion what else to say. "There is great controversy as to which."

"Well perhaps it would be wise to cover both contingencies. Why don't I get a blanket in case lying down carries the day?" The blanket he brought and spread for them was soft, the pillow softer still.

"If we were to lie down," Westley said, lying down, "would we start close together on the blanket or far apart?"

"Again, great controversy," she replied. "You see, one of the problems with knowing so much is one sees both sides of questions."

"You are very patient with me and I appreciate that." He held out a hand for her. "We could do this: we could try lying close together on the blanket and experiment, more or less."

Buttercup took his strong hand. "My professors were all in favor of experimenting."

They were very close on the blanket now. The breeze, seeing this, knowing what they had been through to reach this moment, thought it might be nice to caress them. The stars, seeing this, thought it might be nice if they dimmed for a while. The moon went along with the whole notion, slipping half behind a cloud. Buttercup still held his hand. She wondered for a moment if it would be wise to stop now, tell truths, try again another evening. She was about to suggest that, but then she looked deeply into his eyes. They were the color of the sea before a storm and what she read in them gave her the strength to continue....

***

Want a shocker? Willy liked that scene. I remember when my father read The Princess Bride to me, I hated the kissing stuff. I told him before I read it he might find it a little short on derring-do, so maybe that helped. His only question after was what kind of 'things' happened when Westley was King of the Sea? I answered that if Morgenstern had wanted us to know, he would have told us. (He bought it. Phew.)

Anyway, you will probably not be surprised to learn the obligatory nine months flew by pretty fast and....

***

"I THINK SUNSET would be a lovely time," Buttercup said. "I think he would like that, opening his eyes to the world at that moment. Yes, sunset it shall be."

She was speaking at breakfast to the others, and they all agreed. In point of fact, since none of them had the least experience with birthing, they could hardly argue. And no one could argue with Buttercup's handling of herself. She had blossomed in the nine months since she and Westley first made love, had dealt with her situation with a serenity remarkable in one so young. True, the first months brought a touch of morning sickness, and, yes, it was discomforting. But all she had to do to banish it was look at Westley and tell herself she was bringing another such as he into the universe. And poof, the sickness was in retreat.

She knew their firstborn would be a boy. She had a dream the first month that it would be so. The dream recurred two more times. And after that she never doubted. And she behaved throughout as if this were the most normal of human conditions. You swelled, certainly, but that didn't stop you from your regular life, which in her case often consisted of helping Fezzik cook, helping Inigo mend his heart, walking and talking with Westley, discussing their future, where they would settle, what they might do with the rest of their lives considering that the most powerful man on earth was out to kill them.

After the meal, she was ready. Westley had made her a special birthing bed, the softest straw and pillows softer still. It faced west, and he built a nearby fire, and he had kettles boiling with pure water. An hour before sunset, when her contractions were but five minutes apart, he carried her to the bed and set her gently down, and sat alongside her, massaging her. She was so happy, as was he, and by the time the sun was starting to set the contractions were but two minutes apart.

Buttercup stared at the sun and smiled, took his hand and whispered to him, "It's what I always wanted most on earth, bringing your son into life at such a time, with you beside me." They were both so happy, and Westley told her, "We are one heartbeat," and she kissed him softly and said, "And will always be."

During this, Inigo was fencing with shadows, excellent practice if you had no proper opponent to play with. Westley, of course, was superb, and they had spent many happy hours slashing away at each other. But now, as sunset ended, Inigo made ready to stop soon and go welcome the baby.

Fezzik usually watched them, or Inigo alone when that was the case. But not this night. He was hiding on the far side of One Tree's one tree, the sky-topper. And he was holding his stomach and trying not to groan and be a bother, but the truth was this: for the strongest man on earth, for a man who earned his living inflicting pain, Fezzik was squeamish. He could handle blood as well as the next fighter, when it came from an opponent. But he had asked Westley and Inigo what was it going to be like, when Buttercup's son was born, and though neither of them were expert, they both indicated there might be some blood as well as other stuff.

Fezzik rolled on the ground as the phrase "other stuff" went through his bean. There was a Turkish word that described such things—byuk. Fezzik held his stomach and thought byuk over and over. He knew, from looking at the stars overhead, that the boy was shortly to arrive.

But, by midnight, they knew something was wrong.

The contractions were but a minute apart as they looked out at the sun's afterglow—but that is where they stayed. At ten they were still as before, and Buttercup would have handled it quietly, as she had the preceding hours—

—but at midnight her back began to spasm. She could withstand that; Westley was beside her, what were spasms? She was settling in for a long visit with them—

—until the pain crept from her back to her hips, found one leg, then both, set them on fire—

—the blaze in her legs was the beginning of her torment.

Her color faded but she was still Buttercup and she was lit by the glow from the flames. She was still, then, something to see.

It was not 'til dawn that they saw what the pain had done to her.

Westley stayed alongside, rubbed her back, massaged her legs, toweled her perspiring face. He was wonderful.

By noon, they knew something was very much wrong.

Fezzik rumbled over, took a look, ran back and hid in his spot, helpless. Inigo grabbed the six-fingered sword and fought with the breezes until he realized the sun was going down again and they were into the second day.

"I don't want you to worry," Buttercup whispered to her beloved.

"Nothing unusual so far," Westley replied. "From all I've heard, thirty hours is perfectly normal."

"Good, I'm glad to know that."

When the next dawn came and she had clearly begun to weaken, she managed to say, "What else have you heard?" and Westley said, "Everyone agrees on this: the longer the labor, the healthier the baby."

"How lucky we shall be to have a healthy son."

By the second sunset, it was only about survival.

Fezzik sobbed behind the tree as Westley counseled with Inigo. They spoke evenly—but terror was starting to circle about them. "I don't know of such things," Inigo said.

"Nor do I."

"I've heard of a cutting that can save the life. You cut the woman somehow."

"And kill my beloved? I would kill whoever tried."

Just then Buttercup cried out and Westley ran to her, dropped beside her. "...I'm sorry to be ... such a bother..."

"What caused the scream?"

Buttercup reached for his hand, held it so tight. "...my spine is on fire..."

Westley smiled. "How lucky we are. Once that happens with the spine, well, that's a clear signal that our son is about to be born."

"The spine is nothing, not when you get used to it. I have had real pain, when I heard Roberts had killed you. That was hard to deal with. I suffered then. But this—" She tried to snap her fingers but her body was not obeying her. "Nothing."

"Inigo and I were just talking about where to go once we are a family. You remember how before I left your father's farm I was thinking of America? That still seems a good notion to me, what do you think?"

She whispered, "America?"

"Yes, across the ocean somewhere, and do you know when I first loved you?"

"...tell me..."

"Well, we were young and you had just berated me terribly, called me a dullard and a fool as you did in those days: 'Farm Boy, why can't you ever do anything right? Farm Boy, you're hopeless, hopeless and dull and you'll never amount to anything.'"

Buttercup managed a smile. "...I was horrible..."

"On your good days you were horrible, but you could be much worse than that, and when the boys started coming around you were at your worst. One evening when they had all gone away and I was in the barn brushing Horse and you came out, humming and silly and said, 'I can have any boy in the village and lah de dah,' and I went to my hovel and I said to myself, 'That's it, you can keep those idiots for all I care, I am gone,' so I packed my belongings and I started out of the farm and I looked up at your window and I thought, 'You will be so sorry for humiliating me because I will come back here someday with all the wealth of Asia, good-by forever.'"

". ..you really left me...?"

"That was the theory. But the reality was this: I turned and took a step toward the gate and I thought, 'What value has all the wealth of Asia without her smile?' And then I took another step and thought, 'But what if that smile comes and you not here to see it?' I just stood by at your window and I realized I had to be there in case your smile happened. Because I was so helpless when it came to you, I was so besotted by your splendor, I was soooooo ecstatic to be near you even though all you did was insult me. I could never leave."

She smiled the sweetest smile she could manage.

Westley gestured for Inigo to come closer. "I think we've rounded the corner," he whispered.

"I can see that," Inigo whispered back.

But they were living on hope and they both knew they were, and Westley held her so gently as her breathing grew increasingly weak. Inigo patted Westley on the shoulder as one comrade does to another, nodded that all was going to be well. And Westley nodded back. But Inigo in his heart knew this: it was soon to be over.

And behind the tree, Fezzik, alone, gasped, because he knew this: he was suddenly not alone anymore. He began to try and fight it, because something was invading him, invading his brain, and the Lord only knew his brain could use a little help, but Fezzik struggled on because when you were invaded, you never knew who was coming along for the ride, a helper or a damager, someone good, or, more terrifying, someone who wished anguish. Fezzik's mother had been invaded the day she met his father, for she was far too shy to approach him and flirt the way Turkish lasses were supposed to do in those days, so she just stood aside while the other village girls swooped him up. And she wanted Fezzik's father, wanted to spend her life with him, she knew that but she was helpless so she scuffed away, leaving the field to the braver girls—but then the invasion came and suddenly Fezzik's mother was brassy, and her temporary new tenant gave her confidence to do wonderful things, so back she went to join the other village flirts, and she outdid them all, with her flaunting smile and the wondrous way her body moved. At least it did that day, and Fezzik's father was smitten with her and even though the invader left that evening, they got married and his mother was so happy and his father only wondered as the years went on, wondered whatever happened to that glorious brazen creature who had won his heart....

Fezzik could feel his power going as the invader took control. His last thought was really a prayer: that please, whoever you are, if you harm the child, kill me first.

And by the fire Westley held Buttercup all the more tightly and said words of optimism, and Inigo always replied in the same tone.

Until that awful fiftieth hour of Buttercup's labor when Inigo could lie no more and said the dreaded words: "We've lost her."

Westley looked at her still face and it was true, and he had done nothing to save her. Not once in all of his life, except when he was in the Machine, had he ever let tears visit, not even when his beloved parents were tortured in front of him, not once, never, never the one time.

Now he fauceted. He fell across her, and Inigo could only watch helplessly. And Westley wondered what was he going to do until he died, because going on alone was not possible. They had battled the Fire Swamp and survived. If he had known how it was going to end, Westley thought at that moment, he would have let them die there. At least that way they would have been together.

And then, from behind them, there came a sound more strange than any they had come across before, a disembodied sound, as if a corpse were talking, and the sound boomed out at them:

"We have the body."

Inigo whirled, then cried out in the night. And Westley, in despair, was so surprised at Inigo's sound he whirled, and he too cried out in the night.

Something was moving toward them out of the darkness.

They both squinted to make sure. Their eyes did not deceive.

Fezzik was moving toward them out of the darkness.

At least something that looked like Fezzik was coming toward them. But his eyes were bright, and his pace was quick, and his voice—they had neither ever heard a voice like it. So deep, thunderous, and measured. And the accent was something they had also never heard before. Not until they finally reached America. (Or, more accurately, when the ones left alive got there.)

"Fezzik," Inigo said. "This is not the time."

"We have the body," Fezzik said again. "We have a fine strapping child inside. She has been kept waiting far too long."

Now the giant knelt beside the still woman, gestured for Westley to move, put his ear to her, clapped his hands sharply. "You," he said, pointing at Inigo, "bring me soap and water to disinfect my hands."

"Where did he hear that word?" Westley asked.

"I don't know, but I think I better do it," Inigo said, hurrying to the fire.

And now Fezzik pointed to the great sword. "Sterilize it in the fire."

"Why?" Inigo said, bringing Fezzik the soap and towel.

"To make the cut."

"No," Westley said. "I will not let him give you the sword."

And now the voice took on a power more frightening than ever. "This child is a putterer. That is what we call those that linger too long. But this child is more than that—she is in backward. And the umbilical cord is tightening around her throat. Now, if you wish to live your life alone, keep the sword. If you wish a child and wife, do what I tell you."

"Be at your best," Westley said, and he nodded for Inigo to hand the great sword to the giant.

Fezzik marched it to the fire, sizzled the point red, returned to the lady, knelt. "The umbilical cord is very tight now. There is little breath left now. There is little time." And for a moment Fezzik closed his eyes, breathed deep. Then he moved.

And his great hands were so soft, the giant fingers so skilled, and as Westley and Inigo stared, Fezzik's hands did his bidding, and the sword touched Buttercup's skin, and then there was the cut, long but precise, and then there was blood but Fezzik's eyes only blazed more deeply and his fingers waltzed, and he reached inside and gently took her out, took the child out, a girl, Buttercup was wrong, it was a girl, and here at last she came, pink and white like a candy stick—

—here came Waverly....

4. Fezzik Falling

SHE WAS CONSIDERABLY below him at the start, twisting and spinning from momentum and wind. Fezzik had never seen the world like this, from this high, fifteen thousand feet with nothing below to break the fall, nothing, but at the far end rock formations.

He called after her but, of course, she could not hear. He stared after her but, of course, he was not gaining. There are scientific laws explaining that bodies fall at the same speed no matter how different the size. But the makers of the laws had never tried explaining Fezzik, because his feet, so useless at finding holds on sheer mountainsides, were unmatched at flutter-kicking in falling air. He cupped his fingers so his hands were perfect hollow mitts and then he set to work, swinging his arms and fluttering his feet so that if you tried to watch them, you couldn't and then Fezzik strained still more—

—and the distance between them began to close. From a hundred feet to half, then half again and when he was that close Fezzik called out to her, his word—

"Keeeeed!"

She heard and stared up and when he had her eyes Fezzik made her favorite silly face—the one where his tongue touched the tip of his nose—and she saw it, of course, and then, of course, she laughed out loud with joy.

Because now she knew what all this was, just another of their glorious games that always ended so happily....

FROM THE START, they were different. Sometimes when she was very little and dozing and Fezzik was helping Buttercup he would say, "She has to tinkle," and Buttercup would answer, "No, she doesn't, she's just..." and then she would stop before she got to "fine" because Waverly had blinked awake soaking wet, and Buttercup would look at Fezzik in those moments with such a look of wonder.

Or sometimes Waverly and Buttercup would be playing happily, Fezzik watching, always there, watching so close, and Buttercup would say, "Fezzik, why do you look so sad?" and Fezzik would say, "I hate it when she's sick," and that night, a fever would come.

He knew when she was hungry, or tired, he knew why she was smiling. And when crankiness was just around the corner.

Which made him, in Buttercup's mind, the perfect baby-sitter, since how could you improve on a sitter who knew what was going to happen? So Fezzik looked after her constantly and when she dozed he would sit between Waverly and the sun, which was why, when she started to talk, she called him "Shade"—because he was that, her shade in those earliest days.

Later, when she learned games, she had but to blink in his direction and he knew, not that she wanted to play, but which game. Westley agreed with Buttercup that although, yes, theirs was an unusual nurse-child relationship, it was a blessing, since it provided her with time to heal and recover, and better yet, time for them to be together. So Fezzik and Waverly learned from each other and enjoyed each other. Occasional spats, of course, but that comes, as Buttercup explained to him one day, with mothering.

"Can Waverly come play in the whirlpool with me?" Fezzik would ask constantly.

Buttercup would hesitate. "It gets her overtired, Fezzik."

"Please, please, please."

Buttercup would give in, of course, and off they would go, stopping first for the clothespin, then into the water, Waverly sitting securely on his head, his hands gripping her feet, and whoosh. It was truly magical, watching them, as Inigo and her parents did often. Because Fezzik, having conquered the whirlpool, had befriended it. He would kick up to speed, then swim into the whirl and let it carry them around, with Waverly shrieking and Fezzik keeping balance as they rode the water together, their favorite game, which always ended so happily....

FEZZIK WAS CLOSE enough to reach out now, so he did, brought the child into his arms, made another face, took her fears away. "Shade," she said, so happy.

Three thousand feet now.

Next he pulled her close to him.

Two thousand.

He knew as the rocks flew up toward him that he could never save himself. But if he could bundle her next to his body, if he could lie flat in the air and bring her into his arms so his mighty back took the initial assault, there was a good chance she would be shaken, yes, shaken terribly.

But she might live.

He made his body flat against the wind. He pulled her to him with all his sweet strength. "Keed," he whispered finally, "if you ever need shade, think of me."

One final silly face.

One blessed responding laugh.

Fezzik closed his eyes then, thinking only this: thank God I was a giant after all....

***

Willy was quiet when I finished. He gathered up his baseball and his Frisbee, hit the elevator button. Dinnertime coming up and I had to get him home. He didn't speak again 'til we were on the street. 'No way Fezzik dies, I don't care what the chapter's called.'

I nodded. We walked in silence, and you know how Fezzik could tell what was going on with Waverly? Well, I can do that with Willy, at least on my good days, and I knew this great question was coming. 'Grandpa?' he said finally.

Do you think I love that? You remember how much money Westley was going to get when he decided to leave Buttercup after she tormented him once too often about the boys in the village? That's how much. 'Speak into the microphone,' I said, making my hand one.

'Okay—that thing that invaded Fezzik? Here's what I don't get: how did it know to invade him right then? I mean, if it came a day earlier, it would have just had to wait around inside him for twenty-four hours feeling stupid.'

I told him I doubted that question had ever been asked on Planet Earth before.

Jason and Peggy were waiting at the door. 'It was good, Dad,' Willy said. 'It played around with time a lot.'

'We really need another novelist in the family,' Jason said, and I laughed and hugged everybody, started back home. It was a gorgeous spring evening so I let the park win me for a while, just walked in silence, thinking.

First thing that has to be said: Morgenstern hasn't lost a whole lot off his fastball. This is clearly a different piece of work from The Princess Bride, but he was a much older man when he wrote it.

And since maybe this is the end of my involvement, a couple of closing thoughts.

Like Willy, I don't believe Fezzik is going to die here. My money is on Morgenstern saving him. He saved him from Humperdinck's arrow with the holocaust cloak, he'll come up with something.

The Unexplained Inigo Fragment. What was that? Couldn't he have given us a couple of hints at least as to why? Will it all make sense later?

Who was the madman on the mountain? Was he born without skin? How did he get Waverly? Was he the kidnapper or just a member of a gang? And if he was just a member, who was his boss?

And who did invade Fezzik?

A beautiful young couple passed me then. She was pregnant out to here and I wished her a Waverly. And I realized something, and this is it:

We've traveled a long way, you and I, from when Buttercup was only among the twenty most beautiful women on earth (because of her potential), riding Horse and taunting the Farm Boy, and Inigo and Fezzik were brought in to kill her. You've written letters, kept in touch, you'll never know how much I appreciate that. I was on the beach at Malibu once, years back, and I saw this young guy with his arm around his girl and they were both wearing T-shirts that said WESTLEY NEVER DIES.

Loved that.

And you know what? I like these four. Buttercup and Westley, Fezzik and Inigo. They've all suffered, been punished, no silver spoons for this bunch. And I can just feel these terrible forces gathering against them. I just know it's going to get worse for them than it's ever been. Will they all even live? 'Death of the heart,' the subtitle says. Whose death? And even more important maybe, whose heart? Morgenstern has never given them an easy shot at happiness.

This time I sure hope he lets them get there....

Florin City/New York City

April 16, 1998

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