The Princess Bride

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