The Enchanted Slope

Disclaimer: Nothing is ours, for the eleventy-umpty time!

A/N: And here we are! The sixth book of A Series of Queer Events! As you might know from reading the note at the end of Book 5, this story will be trying its damnedest to parody Disney movies. There will be frozen landscapes, stranded maidens, and a few new characters, as well as reprises of some characters that didn't appear last story!

A warning: this chapter is a little slow, and takes some pains to describe the status of various new characters, as well as some old friends. I promise, it gets better as it goes along.

{and thanks to our two new reviewers, Emily Ebriection—I really hope I spelled that right!—and Clockwerk Hydra. It's people like you that motivate all writers to do what they do and do it well:)}

Chapter 1, There Goes the Chapter With It's Words Like Always—

Lucille Tench opened her eyes to the usual sounds of pans clanging and Mother Blackwoodshire caterwauling away from the bottom of the stairs, "Lucy! Get up and tend to the stock!"

Lucy shook herself to assemble her thoughts and slid out of her brass bed. Going to the closet, Lucy began her system of attiring herself. One tartan frock, a pair of stockings for the legs, and a work apron of starch fabric were flung off the racks and draped across Lucy in one minute and forty-five seconds precisely. Next, boots of cracked leather were slipped onto her feet, and Lucy tramped and champed her way out into the narrow stairwell that led down the tower of the Blackwoodshire estate, to the terrace on the third floor.

Mother Blackwoodshire was waiting, still wearing her paisley dressing gown, and with her cropped auburn hair in a rat's nest, "You're twenty seconds overdue, Lucy." she said tersely, pursing her lips together.

"I'm sorry, Mother!" said Lucy apologetic, "I misplaced my right bootlace and had to fetch another one from the drawer."

"Be that as it may," Mother Blackwoodshire continued, "Go into the yard and tend to the horses!"

"Yes, Mother." Lucy sighed.

It had been this way for Lucy every day for all of her sixteen years. Mother Blackwoodshire would holler her out of her slumber, she would head into the back and feed the animals, make breakfast for her parents, and then tend to the full brunt of chores. These chores had a variety: there was the laundry, scrubbing the floors, polishing the furniture, churning butter into being—and then shaping it into bricks, and tending to the house whenever her parents were away at the palace, having been invited to yet another of the Snicket's grand balls or dinners.

Lucy opened the service door and stepped out into the pasture-yard, which was a shock of green and dusky gold, sharply contrasting with the distant skyline of Dirty Bastard on the horizon.

As she rubbed the horses down and dished them their morning supply of oats, Lucy thought, as she did every morning, of what her real parents must have been like. She had never known them—just that they had been good friends with Lord and Lady Blackwoodshire, and entrusted their infant child to them in their will. All the Blackwoodshires would say on being questioned as to how her parents died, was: "Oh, they were swallowed by a falcon on a mountaineering expedition, child. Don't think too much about them."

But Lucy did still think about her parents: George and Laura Tench, explorers and zoologists. There was a whole plaque in their name at the front of the gorilla exhibit in the Dirty Bastard Zoo. Lucy had been there only once, on an outing with the Blackwoodshires, but had not spent much time at the plaque, due to the overwhelming amount of press reporters, who had wanted all the latest news on the Lord and Lady's opinions on politics in the Snicketian court.

The animals now fed, Lucy went over to the gate and opened it, stepping out into Havindash Lane. A cyclist pedaled past her, a satchel of newspapers on his shoulder. This was the village of Cattelbury. The last rural spot before the traveler reached the capital: Dirty Bastard.

Lucy sighed. This was home—she had never known any other place.

BELLE {from Beauty and the Beast}

Lucy: Little town, it's a quiet village.

Every day like the one before.

Little town full of little people, walking up to say—

Village Tinker: HOWDY DOO!

Village Telephone Operator: HOWDY DOO!

Village Wench: HOWDY DOO!

Village Fatass: HOWDY DOO!

Village Idiot: HOWDY DOO!

Lucy: {pointing at Mr. Runciman, the baker} There goes the baker, with his tray like always! The same old bread and rolls to sell.

Every morning just the same since the morning that I came, to this poor and simple town!

Mr. Runciman: {speaking} Good morning, Lucille!

Lucy: Good day, Mr. Runciman!

Mr. Runciman: Where are you headed?

Lucy: I have to go to the scrap yard to find toner. Lord Blackwoodshire's car is running down again.

Mr. Runciman: Oh, that's too bad.

Lucy: {happily} Oh, it is!

{Mr. Runciman stares at Lucy blankly, not quite comprehending}

Well, I'd better be going!

{she moves down the lane and into the village square}

Village Sluts: {singing} Look, there she goes! That girl is strange, no question. Plain and dizzy, can't you tell?

Village Gypsy: Never part of any crowd—

Village Barkeep: Her head's up on some cloud—

Villagers: No denying she's a creepy one, that Lu!

Village Matron: Good day!

Village Tobacco-Man: How is your family?

{to Village Florist}

Good day!

Village Florist: How is your wife?

{the village chatter continues as Lucy pirouettes through the square}

Lucy: There must be more than this simple life!

{Lucy strolls into the scrap-yard, where the salvage man: Mr. Hapenny, is looking out at the sky}

Mr. Hapenny: {speaking} Ah, Lucy!

Lucy: Good morning, Mr. Hapenny. I'm here about toner.

Mr. Hapenny: Oh, is the Lord Blackwoodshire's car running down, again?

Lucy: I'm afraid so.

Mr. Hapenny: Well, I'll see if I can find anything.

{he hops up from his stool}

Wait here, if you please.

{he goes off, Belle spins like a ballerina, humming. outside the scrap-yard, a group of poachers fix their eyes on her}

Village Poachers: {singing} Look, there she is! That girl is so peculiar—

Village Sluts: Such a dreamy, far-off look!

Poachers: Her neck craned in a nook!

Villagers: What a puzzle to the rest of us, this Lu!

{there is a sound of clanging metal, and Mr. Hapenny returns, holding a hunk of old scrap}

Mr. Hapenny: {speaking} This will have to for now, Lucy. I'll try and send for something newer from Dirty Bastard, but at the moment, that should suffice.

Lucy: Oh, thank you, Mr. Hapenny! I'd better get back home, at once! I have my chores to do!

{Mr. Hapenny waves Lucy off, out into the lane}

Dumpy Woman: {singing} It's no wonder that her name is Lucy! Her eyes shine like a thousand lights!

Barber: But beyond that fine facade, I'm afraid she's not the same. No, she's quite different from the rest of us!

Villagers: She's nothing like the rest of us! Yes, quite different from the rest of us, this Lu!

All: 'Cause she really is a funny girl—she really is a funny girl—she really is a weirdo girl, that Lu!

{Lucy hurries off toward the Blackwoodshire estate, the toner under her arm}


"Pass over some of that cord. The brambles, there."

"That limb, there. It'll make a ripping helm."

"Pass me one of those thistles. I need the thorns for nails."

It was almost done, now. The boat which the four children had worked for a day and a half—with nothing to eat but stray elder berries and water from the Swervy Stream—was nearly complete.

Violet, her hair tied back in her old, silk ribbon, let out a shaky sigh, before steadying herself on one of the tatted saplings that grew in the waterside thicket, "This is good, guys. We just need an oar, to propel us—"

Violet's brother, Klaus—though he'd rather you called him Chubs—junior to her by just about two years, scrambled over to a pile of discarded scrap wood, and held up a tree branch about as tall as he was, and very sturdy.

"That's perfect, Chubs!" Violet smiled, her first real smile in ages, "Let me just whittle it down, a bit."

From the collection of supplies that they had gathered, Violet withdrew a brass spoke, a piece of the elevator that had lifted the two Baudelaire, and two Quagmire children out of the catacombs of Dr. Montgomery Montgomery, who had incidentally been the Quags' father.

Isadora wound some old twine around the makeshift oar, to make a grip, and held it up straight-wise. It was a little bit taller then the thirteen-year-old girl. Isadora's triplet, Duncan, cracked his knuckles, a grin crossing his face, "Good—very good."

He had resigned to speaking in short bursts recently, due to the shotgun wound to the chest that he had received whilst in the catacombs. The wound had since closed, remarkably fast, actually, but the pain still crept back from time to time.

"Are we setting out?" Duncan continued, eying the rushing stream suspiciously, "The current looks terribly fierce."

Violet shrugged, taking Duncan's hand reassuringly, "We have no choice, Duncan. Sunny's up in those mountains." she nodded up to the looming peaks of the Dandruff Mountains, which rose menacingly several miles beyond the Dark Forest, where the children were currently, "And so is Alice."

Alice was the Quags' mother, whom the kids had recently come in contact with. She had last been reported as swimming up a body of water, with a current that flowed downward. Nevertheless, these were the two people that the Baudes and Quags were searching for. Little Sunny, and Alice.

Important people to each set of siblings.

"I think we should be all set." Violet smoothed out her skirt, which had seen much better days.

"What about Mr. Poe?" Isadora suddenly remembered the fat banker who had been traveling with them, "And that round guy: Xibaldo?"

"They've probably moved on, already." Violet didn't sound too happy about leaving them behind herself, "Besides, there's no room for them in the boat."

She was right. The narrow canoe seemed barely capable of holding the four of them.

"Who wants to row?" asked Chubs, looking around at each of them,

"I'll do it." Isadora offered.

"Do you know anything about rowing, love?"

"A little." Isadora shrugged, "I know you have to pull the oar through the water, and try not to flip the boat over."

"It's called 'capsizing', dear." Chubs amended.


"Well, unless anyone else has experience—" Violet eyed the two boys in their party, "I guess not. Isadora: you do the honors."

The boat was pushed into the water, where the current swept it up, and immediately tried to pull it downstream.

"Row, Isadora!" Duncan urged, swaying as they all scrambled into the boat.

"I'm on it!" the oar was sifted through the white-water. Isadora was a little shaky at first, though she soon found it easy enough to maintain her footing.

What a rush this was!

The wind blew in her face, her hair whipping along behind her like a mantle. The boat soon began moving so effortlessly, that Isadora's rowing became a mere incentive, rather than the cause, of their swift progress.

The forest was a blur of greens and browns, and at each bend in the stream, a new bit of scenery appeared. This was glorious, rowing against the current! A never ending battle against the force of the water, and the single oar clutched in Isadora's hand.

She couldn't resist it; Isadora laughed out loud.

JUST AROUND THE RIVER-BEND {from 'Pocahontas'}

Isadora: What I love most about streams is you can't step in the same stream twice.

Duncan: {speaking} Sister, why are you singing?

Isadora: {singing} The water's always changing, always flowing!

But people, I guess, can't live like that. We all must pay a price.

To be safe we lose our chance of ever knowing—


Chubs: {speaking} Is there such a thing as a 'stream-bed'?

Isadora: {singing, ignoring him} WAITING JUST AROUND THE STREAM-BED!

I look once more, just around the stream-bed!

Beyond the shore—where the gulls fly free!

{the boat coasts around a bend and into a flock of wild eagles that, according to the books, apparently live in and around the mountains}

Violet: {speaking} Shield your eyes! These birds will gauge them out if you get the chance!

{she proceeds to follow her own instructions. the boys do the same, screaming all the while. Isadora, though, continues to stare straight ahead of her, as the forest is left behind, and rocky plateaus take their place. the mountains continue to rise up before them as the eagles clear away}

Isadora: {singing} Don't know what for! What I dream the day might send—


For me—

Coming for me—

{salmon begin to lap up out of the water, leaping in time with the stokes of Isadora's oar}

I feel right there, beyond those rocks.

Or right behind these icy-falls.

Can I ignore that sound of distant drumming?

For a stable, sturdy family, and a stable, sturdy home, where we needn't worry about what is coming!



{she hits a sharp turn in the stream, and, in negotiating it, flips the boat tail over teakettle into the rapids}

Duncan: {speaking, or spluttering, rather} Isadora! Confound you and your singing!

{at this part of the stream, the water is freezing cold, and tall, gray peaks rise on either bank, snow flecked across their zeniths}

Isadora: Grab onto the boat! We need something to hold onto!

{she pauses}


{Chubs surfaces, gasping and coughing}

Take my hand!

Chubs: I'll be damn near swept away by this current!

{he takes Isadora's hand}

Where's Violet?


Violet! Violet!

Duncan: She's gone. Dear God, she's gone!


Kit Snicket looked up from the suitcase at the sound of that dreaded bell in the entrance hall. Hugo would get the door, she needn't worry about that. This was her home, though she hadn't been here in—well, ever.

This chateau atop Mount Fickle-Nickle was where she had been supposed to stay once she had been exiled from the Snicketian court. Instead, Kit had wandered around the land, living a nomadic life. And then she had met Dewey again. Instinctively, Kit placed her hand over her belly. It had expanded quite a lot in the past months. The baby would be coming any day now. Dewey's baby.

Dammit, where was Dewey? Did he not want to know what had become of her? Olaf would be here soon, though. Was that a consoling thought? Meh. At least, he was entertaining.

Olaf was no stranger to traveling with women. Though, for some reason, he had lobbied that Kit come here, until he had disposed of the Baudelaire and Quagmire children. He wanted their fortunes.

Kit remembered that cold, December day about five months ago, when she had met the five kids, and told them about ZYK. She had woven some tom-fool stories about the Quagmire parents being 'missing in action' though she knew very well, that Montgomery Quagmire had been a stark raving despot. He had probably killed himself years ago. But she had had to feed them false information, so that they could get inside the Hotel Plot Twist. She knew that Dewey would find them, and then they could relay—without fully knowing—what he had said.

But ZYK was not her priority anymore. Olaf had let her join his rather sprawling group of associates, to replace Esme Lowersham, now 'Squalor', who had run off with Dewey last month.

Olaf without a woman—it was impossible to imagine.

Olaf was thoroughly incomplete without a female to grope at, while he was concocting his evil plans.

Now, Hugo appeared in the door of Kit's boudoir, "Madame Snicket." he bowed, looking quite ridiculous, seeing as his humpback made him low enough to the ground already, "Count Olaf is here." Kit noted the distaste in his voice. Unlike his fellow freaks: Collete and Kevin, Hugo did not much like the man who had employed him. Rather, Hugo seemed to prefer his old mistress: the Wicked B*tch of the West, who had saved him from his old master before her: Lemony Snicket, Kit's brother, and the ruler of the land.

"Send him in." she told Hugo, her voice sounding far off.

Hugo nodded and beckoned to a figure who stood a little down the musty corridor. A mere ten seconds later, and Olaf strode into the room, looking like he owned the place, "My love."

He planted a firm kiss against Kit's lips, "Hello, Olaf." Kit mustered up a smile, "Did you—do it?" she couldn't bring herself to say 'kill the children'.

"I as good as! Four out of the five brats are currently starving away in an underground cavern, surrounded with water on all sides! As for the baby Baudelaire—"

"Sunny?" Kit said the name with some bitterness. Sunny had once been Olaf's lover.

"Yes, Sunny. We've got her right here!"

Kit tensed. One of Olaf's old flings, in her house. This was unacceptable, though saying no to Olaf would only anger him.

He continued, "As for the Quagmire's—never fear, we still have a chance at their fortune!"

"Do we?"

"According to old Alice Quagmire—who, by the way, is to meet the same fate as the rest of her family—there's a third Quagmire! A boy. And do you know where he's supposed to be hiding?"

"Where?" Kit couldn't fight the nausea in her tone. The Quagmire parents had been alive, after all. Well, they were as good as dead now.

"In these mountains." Olaf spelled each word out as though they were made of priceless gemstone, "I don't know where, though." he straightened up and set to pacing about the room, "We'll need to organize a search party—search party—YES!"

"What is it?"

"Those people you know. The ones that orchestrated the Hewitt murders. They're in the Parliament. Spies, or something—"

"The Blackwoodshires?" Kit cocked an eyebrow, "Olaf, you don't want to mess with the Blackwoodshires. They're very cozy with my brother."

"So? They want to sit their fat assess on the throne of Snicket Land! They've been plotting assassinations since they joined the court! With the help of that Anwhistle woman."

Kit shifted a bit in her seat. Josephine Anwhistle was Lemony's press secretary, and his most trusted adviser. It was no secret that she wanted to get him out of the way, and end the Snicket dynasty.

Olaf went on, intent, "Yes! It's perfect! We'll invite the Blackwoodshires over, and have them search with us. They have plenty of money! All we have to do is ask politely, maybe offer them something in return. This plan is foolproof! Quickly, Kit! Pen some invitations! Hell, invite more people. Whoever you think will be trustworthy enough to help us! We've no time to waste!"

Kit nodded and moved over to her writing desk. She'd pen some invitations, all right. She'd invite the Blackwoodshires over to stay, as well.

And she would also invite someone else.

Dewey Plot Twist would regret the day he ever decided to abandon his lover to the winds!

"This place should do." Dewey set his cloak down on a bench.

"An old cathedral?" Esme looked around at the empty eaves, shuddering at the eeriness of the place

They had found this place in an abandoned village. Of course, plenty of old settlements had been emptied under Jacob Snicket's—the current Snicket's father's—urbanization of the land.

"I think it suits me." Dewey crossed over to the creaky votive stand, "We'll rest here for a few days, and then we'll move out toward—" he paused. For of course, Esme had never told him where she wanted to go and start their 'little family'.

For that was what Esme wanted: family. A stable, quiet life that she could live in peace, without having to worry about being killed or carted away to prison every other day.

But there could be no family. For though Esme had Dewey, she did not have the one person whom she cared for more than anyone else in the whole world.

Carmelita Spats, the girl who had been part of Olaf's group with Esme, when they had been running about the land after the Baudelaire fortune. As Dewey had carried the two of them—Esme and Carmelita, that is—across the Dark Forest, Carmelita had fallen, and it was unsure where she was now. Or if she was even alive for that matter.

"Oh, Dewey—" Esme sighed, "Dewey—"

They needed no words. They just needed each other.

"Esme." Dewey put his arms around her, "Esme, I know things look bad right now, but you have to understand." he looked helpless a that moment. Esme looked at his mask, which covered the right half of his face. Behind the mask, Dewey's face was a mangled mass of scars and deformities, the origins of which Dewey had never told her.

There were still so many secrets between them. They, who had once been arranged to be married—before tragedy had struck. Biggest of all their secrets, must have been the Chamber Pot. The chamber pot was just that: a black reciprocal, commonly used to store human waste. This particular Chamber Pot, however, contained, not feces, but a great secret. A secret that Dewey had never made known to Esme.

She lifted her eyes to look at him, "What? What do I have to understand?"

"That we have to stay in these out of the way places. We need to keep the Chamber Pot safe."

"Dewey, if you want me to help you keep that—thing safe, you are going to have to tell me what's in it."

Dewey sighed, looking at the floor, "I can't tell you that."

Esme didn't ask why not. She just stared at him, a stare that conveyed her disappointment. Why was she treated so offhandedly?

Had no one any respect?

A/N: First chapter! Totaling at around seven pages—not bad, but there could have been more. Hope you liked our two songs—Belle was a pain in the tuckuss to write, due to the difficulties in rhyming and whatnot. Not one of my gifts.

Also, Violet's separated from the others for a reason. Guess what it is.

Update Coming Next Friday!:)