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are
airy Tales
WESOME
nce Upon a Time
there was an academy to train Princesses for battle, a Troll stuck at the bottom of the middle school social ladder, a Witch too polite to be considered wicked, a Hamster princess who couldn’t wait for her curse to come, and a Brother and Sister who kept falling into the wrong story.
Table of Contents Pennyroyal Academy by M. A. Larson • Page 1 •
Life of Zarf: The Trouble with Weasels by Rob Harrell • Page 17 •
Castle Hangnail by Ursula Vernon • Page 25 •
Hamster Princess: Harriet the Invincible by Ursula Vernon • Page 33 •
A
Tale Dark and Grimm by Adam Gidwitz • Page 41 •
M. A. L A R SON The realm is on the brink of war and a school for training to fight witches and dragons opens to all. Does Cadet Evie have what Pennyroyal Academy is looking for? When Evie enlists at Pennyroyal Academy, she’s met with multiple challenges—dealing with the harsh training regimen of her fairy drillsargent and navigating new friends and enemies, to name a few. With the threat of witches growing nearer, Evie discovers that this war is much more personal than she could ever have imagined.
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If I’m still in this forest by nightfall, I’ll never leave it again. The girl’s eyes darted through the misty pines. The air was wet, though it wasn’t exactly raining. Everywhere she turned she found dull gray shadows, and her mind put monsters in all of them. The only sound was her own frantic breath. No birdsong. No tumbling water. Nothing. A leafy tendril snaked up from the undergrowth and began to slither around her ankle. She tore her leg free and raced into the mist, her bare feet crackling through a carpet of dead leaves and fallen needles. Towering trees swayed overhead like mossy giants, and the small patches •
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of sky she could see were black with clouds. Night was coming. And so were the things that lurked in the fog. As she hurdled over a rotting stump, a heart-sized dragon scale necklace bounced against her chest. A matted drape of spiders’ webs covered her body, her only protection against the elements. The rest of her was streaked with mud. She had been lost in this forest for three days. Had seen and heard things that still didn’t seem real—a weathered thighbone so thick and long it could only have belonged to a giant; the deafening thunder of thrumming wings and the shadow of an enormous dragonfly passing above the canopy. Three days lost and she knew, one way or another, there would not be a fourth— CRACK! The girl jumped at the sound, then heard the popping crackle of splitting wood somewhere above. She wheeled just in time to see the hairy branch of a beech tree swooping down. It slammed into her, knocking her over the edge of a hill. She tumbled through moldy black sludge to the bottom, where she collided with a pine trunk. She eased herself up, rolling her shoulder to be sure her arm wasn’t broken. •
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The first day, the day she had left home, she had taken a savage beating from the trees. Her father had always warned her to stay out of enchanted forests, but she was still taken aback by the trees’ ferocity. She had slowly begun to learn their moods and patterns, and before long was able to anticipate their attacks. She tried to avoid beeches especially, as they seemed the most malicious. Today it wasn’t the trees that frightened her. The sun and moon and stars had all gone, along with chirping birds and skittering goblins. In their place, the clouds and mist, and the distinct feeling that something else was out there. But what? She listened, silent and still, though all she heard was wind shivering through leaves. As she stood, her emerald-green eyes narrowed. There, faintly visible through the dusk, was a distant pinpoint of light. The window of a cottage. She had always been cautious, much more so than her sister, but once she saw that light, she ran for it. The cottage was small, its timbers frayed and soggy. This was the first shelter she had seen since leaving home, and yet something inside her screamed to turn back and run and then run some more. •
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Would I rather be out here when the sun is gone, or inside? She ignored her instincts and edged to the window, grabbing hold of the sill. Clumps of rot crumbled off in her hands. She wiped them away, then leaned in again. Firelight washed across her face, and her stomach roared. At the far side of the room, a thick, brown liquid bubbled over the rim of a cauldron, sizzling on the embers. She couldn’t see anything else, but that was enough. Her hunger drove her to the door, but as she clutched the handle, panic swarmed up through the soles of her feet like a million wasps. Something’s not right here— A wolf’s lonesome howl echoed down from the mountains, and she knew she had no choice. She gave the door a hard shove, but it didn’t budge. She threw her shoulder into it and finally it barked open. “Hello?” she said with a small, shaking voice. There was no answer, only the soft pop of the fire. The floorboards screamed as she stepped inside and shouldered the door shut with a resonant thud. The cottage was warm and tidy. Beneath the lone •
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window sat a wooden table, where waterflies buzzed around a pile of blackish-red slop. Next to that were a rusted hand-crank machine and several neat stacks of multicolored candies. A chill ran down her arms. In the corner, beyond the hearth, next to the open door of a small bedchamber, stood a large cage, oranged with rust and age. It was just the right size to hold a person. Next to it, a small pile of children’s shoes spilled across the floor. She turned to run, but the door that had just been so solidly stuck now hung open. And outside, footsteps crackled through the leaves. She looked for another way out, but it was too late, so she dove under the table and hugged her legs to her chest. A thick drip of red slid through the slats of the table and plopped on the floor at her feet. Oh please oh please oh please . . . A pair of muddy riding boots clomped across the floorboards, shoved along by an old woman draped in layer upon layer of decaying black robes. The door slammed shut behind them, though no one was there to slam it. The girl’s blood ran cold. She was trapped. •
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The old woman, hunched and bent like a river, shoved her prisoner into the cage and rattled the latch home. He was around the girl’s same age, and wore a dark gray leather doublet embroidered in burgundy. His dark hair was in knots from countless hours on horseback, and his arms were bound behind his back. The cage was too small for him to stand, so he threw his shoulder into the door. The frail metal clanged, but held fast. His captor went to the cauldron to stir her bubbling broth, which hissed against the flames like a chorus of angry snakes. “Now then, what have I done with my jars?” Her voice was full of contradictions, soft and sweet, but with a knife-edge of menace. “It’s been so long since I had a heart to put in them. Eh-heh-heh-heh-heh . . .” She leaned her ladle against the stone gently, like a kindly grandmother might, then shuffled into the bedchamber. Now! Now! NOW! But the girl sat frozen in place, watching as the boy strained and writhed against his bonds. He leaned back to give the door a solid kick, and that’s when he saw her. “Hey!” he hissed, jerking his head toward the latch. Tears •
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welled in her eyes, and she suddenly felt as though she might faint. “I know you’re scared, but open this cage and you’ll leave here alive. I swear it.” She pulled her legs tighter, clinging to them like the last jagged stone before a waterfall. But as her tears fell and her heart thumped in her chest, she noticed something in his eyes that calmed her. He wasn’t afraid. When he said he could keep her alive, he believed it. Somehow, before her own fear could stop her, she began to scoot forward. Each creak of the floorboards made her want to scream and run for the door, but she kept her eyes fixed on his and crept closer and closer to the cage. “Hurry!” he whispered. Her trembling fingers reached for the latch. She tried to work it free as gently as she could, but the metal had become violently angry over the ages. It screamed open. “What’s this?” The girl wheeled and fell back against the cage. She had never seen a witch before, but there could be little doubt that that was what stood before her now. The witch •
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didn’t move, just stared at her with milky yellow eyes and a wide, toothless grin. Her skin was the color of a worm after three days’ rain, and it drooped from her bones like a melted candle. “Open the latch!” shouted the boy, slamming his shoulder against the door. But the witch’s gaze paralyzed the girl. The hag’s eyes bored straight into her own, slicing through her brain and down her throat. The girl gasped for air as the witch stared deeper, deeper, straight for her heart. She was choking on hate, anguish, fear . . . the feeling that she had already seen the sun for the last time without even realizing it. The witch was inside her— “RUN!” shouted the boy as the cage door finally crashed open. The girl snapped free of the witch’s gaze. All that choking awfulness slid out of her throat and she could breathe once more. The dragon scale whipped round to her back as she sprinted for the door. She threw it open and burst out into the night. The blackness of the woods and the swirling fog made it seem like the witch was •
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everywhere at once. Even in the open forest, the girl was trapped. “Over here!” The boy stood next to a massive white horse that glowed in the moonlight like a ghost. “What? On that?” “These are her woods! We’ll never make it on foot!” She grimaced, but knew she would have to trust him. As she raced to the horse, the flickering firelight inside the cottage was suddenly extinguished. Smoky blackness, darker than the night, wafted from the door. “Eh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh . . .” The cackle was no longer that of a feeble old lady. It had morphed into something elemental and terrifying. The girl swung onto the horse’s back. Beneath the smooth white needles of hair she could feel sweat and muscle and knew the boy was right: this was their only chance of escape. She reached down and grabbed the rope binding his arms, hauling him facedown across the horse’s backside. Black smoke billowed from the door, and the cackling reverberated through the forest like it was coming from the fog itself. •
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“Let’s go!” grunted the boy, but the girl was transfixed by the figure floating out of the cottage. The witch’s body had distorted into something monstrous, long-limbed and inhuman. Her tattered robes billowed smoke. The skin around her mouth began to crack and split as her smile grew ever wider. “Take the reins and go!” The girl wrenched her eyes away. Straps of leather tack dangled from the horse’s head and neck. She didn’t know what any of it was, so she gripped the mane instead. With her other arm twisted behind her, she clutched the rope around the boy’s hands. “Ride,” she whispered, and they lunged away into the night. Every muscle in her body clamped down as she felt the horse’s power beneath her. Her fingers clutched the mane so tightly, the knuckles had already gone white. As the horse sailed across uneven ground, each stride threatened to break her grip. “I can’t do it!” she screamed over the thunder of hooves. “I can’t!” “Please . . .” was all the boy could muster. His midsection •
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slammed repeatedly against the horse, forcing the air from his lungs. He couldn’t draw breath. The girl closed her eyes and ground her teeth. I will not let go. The horse or the rope may slip free, but on my father I will not let go. She glanced back, and what she saw made her gasp. The witch, a billowing, spectral fiend, swooped through the trees like an enormous owl. Waves of frigid air swept up from behind as her bony fingers reached forward. The horse leapt a fallen tree. The landing nearly ripped the mane from the girl’s fingers. Her legs, pinned tightly around the horse’s shoulders, felt frail and insignificant. Her entire body hurt, but the truly ferocious pain was in the fingers holding the boy’s binding. It sawed deeper into her raw skin with each stride. I can’t hold on . . . It’s all coming loose . . . “Water . . .” he croaked. She scanned the darkness until something in the distance caught her eye. The pale reflection of moonlight on water. A river. She jerked the mane, steering the horse toward it. The boy’s weight pulled the rope to the final joints of her fingers. She was going to lose him. •
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Suddenly, she released the mane and grabbed the boy’s vest just as the rope slipped from her fingers. Now her legs, locked around the horse’s neck, were the only thing keeping them both alive. She lay twisted along the horse’s back, and the headlong gallop was driving the leather saddle into her side. The boy was barely on the horse, and she had no way of knowing if he was alive or dead. The bristles of the horse’s coat scraped farther down her legs. Lower . . . lower . . . nearly to the ankles. Behind them, a wall of pure terror rose up. The witch was enormous, wraithlike, her arms extending from a cloak of swirling smoke. Then, in an instant, the girl lost all sense of gravity. Her body soared through the air. The boy was gone. The horse was gone. And in the next moment, her lungs filled with icy water. With shocking clarity, she realized she had made it to the river. As she began to panic for breath, she found the rippling moonlight beneath her. She righted herself and kicked toward it until her head popped into the crisp night air, and she coughed until her lungs were dry. •
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The witch had gone, hiding no doubt in the fog at the shoreline. On the opposite bank, where the air was clear and stars painted the sky, the white horse staggered out of the water. She swam toward the bank until finally her feet touched the rough, slimy stones of the river bottom, then pulled herself ashore like some ancient creature, sobbing and gasping for breath. I made it. A miracle’s happened and I’m still alive. Her legs buckled and she dropped to the pebbly shore. She forced herself onto her back, filling her lungs with the night until her panic began to recede. As she lay there, astonished to be alive, a strange thought crossed her mind. This night sky, a pale swipe of purple-white across a black field of untold numbers of stars, was the single most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Crickets chirped rhythmically from the trees. The choking mold stench was gone. Somehow, she really was alive. “Here . . .” came a weak voice from farther down the gurgling river. She sat up. The horse stood at the waterline nuzzling a dark figure. It was the boy, arms still bound •
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behind him, lying facedown in the sand, his legs dangling in the current. She went to him, but her fingers were too stiff and sore to grip the crude knot. She tried pulling on the rope, and it suddenly crumbled away like it was a thousand years old. The boy, battered and weak, pushed himself over, too dazed to drag his legs free of the water. His teeth chattered, his whole body shuddering in the steady night breeze. “You must be . . . f-frozen solid . . .” The girl, barefoot, sodden to the bone, and wearing only a thin covering of spiderwebs, said nothing. “What . . . what’s your n-name?” Her eyes fell to the rocks. “I don’t have one.”
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Castle Hangnail
Middle school is tough. Especially for a troll. It’s not easy being Zarf. As a troll, he’s stuck at the bottom of the middle school hierarchy, way below the prince and knights (populars), ogres and giants (jocks), and even the lowly minstrels (band geeks). Plus, trolls aren’t exactly known for their brain power or cool demeanor. But when the king disappears, it’s up to Zarf and his friends to find him and save the kingdom.
FAIRY TALES A RE AWESOME •
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I ntroductions are in order
Z
arf. That’s the name they gave me.
Not a majestic name, by any means. You don’t
hear about many kings or leaders named “Zarf the All-Powerful” or “Zarf the Merciless.” Not a melodic name, either. Sort of falls out of your mouth in one big lump and just lays there.
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Life of Zarf: The Trouble with Weasels
It’s also a really easy name to mock, seeing as how it rhymes with “barf.” But I’m doing with it what I can. It’s a family name, after all. I am a troll. I know the term “troll” has become a popular insult these days, but I mean it literally. I come from a long line of Eastern Prairie Trolls. My grandfather (also named Zarf) is the one you’ve probably heard the most about, what with the “billy goats gruff” business. That story got a lot of traction in the papers and the anti-troll literature. He’s still living that whole thing down.
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And before you ask, yes, my family does live under a bridge. My folks claim they rent the place because it’s in a good school district and the price is right, but I’m not a complete idiot—my dad and Gramps still get their kicks scaring the stuffing out of unsuspecting bridge-goers from time to time.
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Life of Zarf: The Trouble with Weasels •
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Kingdom c ome
W
e live in the village of Cotswin in the kingdom of Notswin, and I can assure you that
nothing exciting has happened around here since Goldie Locks was in short pants. And that was a LOOONG time ago. Old Lady Locks has been the lunch lady at my school since time began, slopping out porridge to generation after generation of Cotswinians. And her hair is a lot more blue than it is gold these days. Anyways, Cotswin is a fairly
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quiet place where kids my age are free to perish from acute boredom, and often do.
Sure, there’s your occasional small dragon attack or croquet match, but mostly the days just drag out like the last few minutes of algebra class. That is, until the last couple of weeks, I should say.
I attend Cotswin Middle School for the Criminally Insane. Okay, I added that last part, but it’s not far from the •
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truth. Good old Cotswin—Home of the Prancing Knights. (Trust me, no one is happy about that mascot name. Petitions have been filed.)
School is tough. In a lot of ways. Trolls aren’t exactly known for their book smarts. I’m doing my best to overcome my heritage, but it ain’t easy. I was doing a word problem the other day in class and actually caught myself grunting. Grunting! So embarrassing. Fortunately it was kind of a quiet grunt. More like a gruntlet. This is one of the reasons it’s important to surround yourself with a quality crew . . . •
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BY
U r s u l a Ve r n o n
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There’s a new Wicked Witch in town . . . a wicked GOOD witch. When Molly shows up on Castle Hangnail’s doorstep to fill the vacancy for a Wicked Witch, the castle’s minions are confused—she’s twelve years old, barely five feet tall, and quite polite. While she’s nothing at all like the tall, demanding sorceresses they’re used to, Molly seems up to the tasks set out by the Board of Magic. But it turns out Molly is hiding quite a few secrets, including one that could mean the end of Castle Hangnail.
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hapte
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Castle Hangnail
t was a marvelously dark and dour
twilight at the castle. Clouds the color of bruises lay across the hills. Rooks and ravens f lapped into the battlements and were met by bats leaving for the evening. True, there were only three ravens, but there were plenty of bats, so the overall impression was of a small
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cloud of winged smoke hanging over the highest tower. The castle guardian was pleased. Sadly, Castle Hangnail was not surrounded by jagged mountains, which would have been ideal, but you couldn’t have everything. The grassy hills around the castle were doing their best impression of a blasted moor. The guardian tried not to notice the dandelions growing on the hillside. They were much too cheerful. He would go and have a word with the gardener tomorrow. It was a good Evil castle, he thought fiercely. Anyone would be proud to have it! Even with the dandelions and the aging ravens and the unreliable plumbing. Castle Hangnail had history. Dark and terrible deeds had been done there. Probably. He shuffled an empty teacup out of the way. Someone had left it on an end table near the door, and he hid it behind a stuffed crocodile. The ravens had assured him that the new Master or Mistress of the castle would arrive tonight. He hung about the main door, waiting. Would it be an Evil Wizard? A Dark Sorceress? A Loathsome Hag? •
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He hoped it wasn’t the Hag. A certain degree of dust and cobwebs were expected in an Evil castle, but a really dedicated Loathsome Hag would have slime dripping off the walls and dead mice at the dinner table. It got to the point where you were embarrassed to have people over. But an Evil Wizard, now . . . well, there was a lot to be said for an Evil Wizard. Or a Witch. A Wicked Witch would be just fine. Perhaps she’d even have a cat. The guardian was fond of cats. Really, though, he wasn’t picky. Any proper Master would do. Necromancer. Cursed Beastlord. Even an ordinary Mad Scientist. “It’s been so long . . .” he said out loud. “I was afraid no one would answer the letters.” “You’re telling me,” said Edward, clanking. “And all those nasty letters from the Board! I was starting to worry that I’d •
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have to go down to the crypt and see if I could find our old Master, the ancient Vampire Lord, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get back up again, with my joints.” “I’ll get you some oil for them tomorrow,” said the guardian absently. “Oil won’t help. I’ve rusted solid all through the knees.” The magical suit of armor sighed. “Well, it wouldn’t have mattered. We’d need blood to bring him back, and I don’t think you’ve got much in you.” “I’ve got plenty of blood,” said the guardian, peering out the peephole. “I keep it down in the cellar, where it’s nice and cool. We gave away at least a dozen bottles of O negative during the blood drive last Christmas.” A blood drive was not the sort of thing you could imagine an Evil Sorceress allowing, mind you, but you had to move with the times. That was one of the problems with raising the old Vampire Lord. He was very old-fashioned. He’d have been flitting around the town, biting people’s necks, before you could say “stake.” It was easier just to leave him quietly dead. “Did the ravens say anything?” asked Edward. •
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The guardian shrugged. “They’re ravens. They mostly see the tops of people’s heads. They said the Master-orMistress was walking.” “Hmm.” Edward thought about that. There was nothing inherently wrong with walking to your new castle, of course. The last Witch had walked. The Evil Sorceress before her had ridden in on the back of a Dark Phoenix, though, and the Wizards all had dragons. There was nothing like a dragon to really make an entrance. “Perhaps the new Master just wants to take in the scenery,” said the guardian. “That’s probably it.” He hoped the scenery would be satisfactory. By darkness it should be all right. By daylight, the land around Castle Hangnail insisted on being picturesque, and Miss Handlebram down the road had a white picket fence, but perhaps the new Master wouldn’t notice. And the castle had crypts! Proper crypts, not just a wine cellar with a coffin shoved in the back. Plus a moat. Well, a mini-moat. Surely that would make up for the picket fence. •
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Castle Hangnail
The guardian looked through the peephole again. “Getting on full dark soon,” said Edward as he leaned back. “Perhaps they’ll come at moonrise,” said the guardian. “Moonrise is perfectly respectable.” It was actually a few minutes before moonrise when the someone lifted the door knocker and banged it down, hard. The guardian wanted to throw the door open. He wanted to cheer and throw confetti. The Master—or Mistress— had arrived! But he had been a castle guardian for centuries, and he knew what was expected. He waited for five long seconds, then allowed the door to creak open. The hinges squealed like a dying rabbit. He looked out. He looked up. He looked left. He looked right. Finally he looked down. Ravens mostly see the tops of people’s heads. It does not occur to them that some people are shorter than •
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others, because when you fly, everyone is shorter than you are. A small, determined face looked up at him. It belonged to a girl wearing black clothes, a black coat, and a silver necklace with a vulture on it. She looked to be about twelve years old. “My name is Molly,” said the girl. “I’m here to be your Wicked Witch.”
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Harriet Hamsterbone is not your typical princess. She fi nds the royal life rather…dull. So when Harriet’s parents tell her of the curse placed on her at birth, she’s ecstatic—it means she’s invincible until she’s twelve! After all, no good curse goes to waste. Thus begins Harriet’s grand life of adventure with her trusty riding quail Mumfrey…until her twelfth birthday arrives and the curse manifests in a most unexpected way.
O
nce upon a time, in a distant land, there was a beautiful princess named Harriet Hamsterbone,
who, as her name indicated, was a hamster.
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She was brave and intelligent and excelled in traditional hamster princess skills, like checkers and fractions.
She was not very good at trailing around the palace looking ethereal and sighing a lot, which are also traditional princess skills, but her parents hired deportment teachers to try and make up for it.
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Hamster Princess: Harriet the Invincible
Her deportment teacher tried to make her walk around with a book on her head to improve her posture. He was later found in the library with a book stuffed in his mouth, and Harriet was grounded for a month. She loved her riding quail Mumfrey, and rode him all over the countryside. Riding quail can’t actually f ly, but they make excellent
steeds
for
hamsters. Harriet and
Mumfrey
rode everywhere pretending to slay monsters,
since
her parents would not actually let her go out to slay real dragons. This was a source of great disappointment for her. •
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Hamster Princess: Harriet the Invincible
Despite being kept away from monsters, Harriet was generally happy and not as irritating as some princesses. Yet her mom and dad were often depressed, for they knew that a dark cloud hung over the princess, and indeed, the very kingdom.
For when the princess was only twelve days old, on the day she was to be christened, a dreadful curse had been placed upon her, and despite their best efforts, the hamster king and queen had no idea how to break it. •
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Once upon a time, fairy tales were awesome. Hansel and Gretel walk out of their own story and into eight other classic fairy tales brimming with menacing foes. Will the two siblings be able to take control of their destinies to create their own happily ever after?
o
nce upon a time, fairy tales were
awesome. I know, I know. You don’t believe me. I don’t blame you. A little while ago, I wouldn’t have believed it myself. Little girls in red caps skipping around the forest? Awesome? I don’t think so. But then I started to read them. The real, Grimm ones. Very few little girls in red caps in those. Well, there’s one. But she gets eaten. “Okay,” you’re probably saying, “if fairy tales are awesome, why are all the ones I’ve heard so unbelievably, mind-numbingly boring?” You know how it is with stories. Someone tells a story. Then somebody repeats it and it changes. Someone else repeats it, and it changes again.
A Tale Dark and Grimm
Then someone’s telling it to their kid and taking out all the scary, bloody scenes—in other words, the awesome parts—and the next thing you know the story’s about an adorable little girl in a red cap, skipping through the forest to take cookies to her granny. And you’re so bored you’ve passed out on the floor. The real Grimm stories are not like that. Take Hansel and Gretel, for example. Two greedy little children try to eat a witch’s house, so she decides to cook and eat them instead—which is fair, it seems to me. But before she can follow through on her (perfectly reasonable) plan, they lock her in an oven and bake her to death. Which is pretty cool, you have to admit. But maybe it’s not awesome. Except—and here’s the thing—that’s not the real story of Hansel and Gretel. You see, there is another story in Grimm’s Fairy Tales. A story that winds all throughout that moldy, mysterious tome—like a trail of bread crumbs winding through a forest. It appears in tales you may never have heard, like Faithful Johannes and Brother and Sister. And in some •
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that you have—Hansel and Gretel, for instance. It is the story of two children—a girl named Gretel and a boy named Hansel—traveling through a magical and terrifying world. It is the story of two children striving, and failing, and then not failing. It is the story of two children finding out the meanings of things. Before I go on, a word of warning: Grimm’s stories—the ones that weren’t changed for little kids—are violent and bloody. And what you’re going to hear now, the one true tale in The Tales of Grimm, is as violent and bloody as you can imagine. Really. So if such things bother you, we should probably stop right now. You see, the land of Grimm can be a harrowing place. But it is worth exploring. For, in life, it is in the darkest zones one finds the brightest beauty and the most luminous wisdom. And, of course, the most blood. •
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nce upon a time, in a kingdom called Grimm, an
old king lay on his deathbed. He was Hansel and Gretel’s grandfather—but he didn’t know that, for neither Hansel nor Gretel had been born yet. Now hold on a minute. I know what you’re thinking. I am well aware that nobody wants to hear a story that happens before the main characters show up. Stories like that are boring, because they all end exactly the same way. With the main characters showing up. But don’t worry. This story is like no story you’ve
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You see, Hansel and Gretel don’t just show up at the end of this story. They show up. And then they get their heads cut off. Just thought you’d like to know. The old king knew he was soon to pass from this world, and so he called for his oldest and most faithful servant. The servant’s name was Johannes; but he had served the king’s father, and his father’s father, and his father’s father’s father so loyally that all called him Faithful Johannes. Johannes tottered in on bowed legs, heaving his crooked back step by step and leering with his one good eye. His long nose sniffed at the air. His mouth puckered around two rotten teeth. But, despite his grotesque appearance, when he came within view, the old king smiled and said, “Ah, Johannes!” and drew him near. The king’s voice was weak as he said, “I am soon to die. But before I go, you must promise me two things. First, •
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A Tale Dark and Grimm
promise that you will be as faithful to my young son as you have been to me.” Without hesitation, Johannes promised. The old king went on. “Second, promise that you will show him his entire inheritance—the castle, the treasures, all this fine land—except for one room. Do not show him the room with the portrait of the golden princess. For if he sees the portrait he will fall madly in love with her. And I fear it will cost him his life.” The king gripped Johannes’s hand. “Promise me.” Again Johannes promised. Then the wrinkles of worry left the king’s brow, and he closed his eyes and breathed his last. Soon the prince was crowned as the new king. He was celebrated with parades and toasts and feasts all throughout the kingdom. But, when the revelry finally abated, Johannes sat him down for a talk. First, Johannes described to him all of the responsibilities of the throne. The young king tried not to fall asleep. Then he explained that the old king had asked him to •
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show the young king his entire inheritance—the castle, the treasures, all this fine land. At the word treasures the young king’s face lit up. Not that he was greedy. It was just that he found the idea of treasures exciting. Finally, Johannes tried to explain his own role to the young king. “I have served your father, and your father’s father, and your father’s father’s father before that,” Johannes said. The young king started calculating on his fingers how that was even possible, but before he could get very far, Johannes had moved on. “They call me Faithful Johannes because I have devoted my life to the Kings of Grimm. To helping them. To advising them. To under-standing them.” “Understanding them?” the young king asked. “No. Under-standing them. In the ancient sense of the word. Standing beneath them. Supporting them. Bearing their troubles and their pains on my shoulders.” The young king thought about this. “So you will under-stand me, too?” he asked. “I will.” “No matter what?” •
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“Under any circumstances. That is what being faithful means.” “Well, under-stand that I am tired of this, and would like to see the treasures now.” And the young king stood up. Faithful Johannes shook his head and sighed. They began by exploring every inch of the castle—the treasure crypts, the towers, and every single room. Every single room, that is, save one. One room remained locked, no matter how many times they passed it. Well, the young king was no fool. He noticed this. And so he asked, “Why is it, Johannes, that you show me every room in the palace, but never this room?” Johannes squinted his one good eye and curled up his puckered, two-toothed mouth. Then he said, “Your father asked me not to show you that room, Your Highness. He feared it might cost you your life.” I’m sorry, I need to stop for a moment. I don’t know what you’re thinking right now, but when I first heard this part of the story, I thought, “What, is he crazy?” •
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Maybe you know something about young people, and maybe you don’t. I, having been one myself once upon a time, know a few things about them. One thing I know is that if you don’t want one to do something— for example, go into a room where there’s a portrait of an unbearably beautiful princess—saying “It might cost you your life” is about the worst thing you could possibly say. Because then that’s all that young person will want to do. I mean, why didn’t Johannes say something else? Like, “It’s a broom closet. Why? You want to see a broom closet?” Or, “It’s a fake door, silly. For decoration.” Or even, “It’s the ladies’ bathroom, Your Majesty. Best not go poking your head in there.” Any of those would have been perfectly sufficient, as far as I can tell. But he didn’t say any of those things. If he had, none of the horrible, bloody events to follow would ever have happened. (Well, in that case, I guess I’m glad he told the truth.)
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“Cost me my life?!” the young king proclaimed with a toss of his head. “Nonsense!” He insisted he be let into the room. First he demanded. But Johannes refused. Then he commanded. Still Johannes refused. Then he threw himself on the floor and had a fit, which was very unbecoming for a young man the king’s age. Finally, Faithful Johannes realized there was little he could do. So, wrinkling his old, malformed face into a wince, he unlocked and opened the door. The king burst into the room. He found himself staring, face-to-face with the most beautiful portrait of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. Her hair looked like it was spun from pure gold thread. Her eyes flashed like the ocean on a sunny day. And yet, around her lips, there was a hint of sadness, of loneliness. The young king took one look at her and fainted dead away. Later, in his room, he came to. Johannes hovered over his bed. “Who was that radiant creature?” the king asked. “That, Your Majesty, is the golden princess,” Johannes answered. •
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“She’s the most beautiful woman in the world,” the young king said. And Johannes answered, “Yes, she is.” “And yet she looked almost sad. Why is that?” Johannes took a deep breath, and replied, “Because, young king, she is cursed. Every time she has tried to marry, her husband has died; and it is said that a fate worse than death is destined for her children, if ever she should have any. She lives in a black marble palace, topped with a golden roof, all by herself. And, as you can imagine, she is terribly lonely and terribly sad.” The king sat straight up in his bed and grabbed the front of Faithful Johannes’s tunic. And though he stared into the old man’s face, he saw only the princess’s ocean-bright eyes and her lips ringed with sadness. “I must have her,” he said. “I will marry her. I will save her.” “You may not survive,” Johannes said. “I will survive, if you help me. If you are faithful to me, if you under-stand me, you’ll do it.” Johannes feared for the young king’s life. But he had under-stood the young king’s father, and his father’s •
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father, and his father’s father’s father before that. What could he say? Johannes sighed. “I’ll do it.” It was widely known that in all the golden princess’s days of loneliness, the only thing that gave her any modicum of happiness was gold. So Johannes told the king to gather all of the gold in the kingdom and to command his goldsmiths to craft the most exquisite golden objects that the world had ever seen. Which soon was done. Then Johannes disguised himself and the king as merchants and loaded a ship with the golden goods. And they set off for the land of the golden princess. As their ship’s prow split the sea, Johannes tutored the king in his part: “You’re a gold merchant, Your Majesty. The princess has always loved gold, but these days, it is the only thing that gives her any joy. So when I bring her to the ship, charm her not only with your gentle manners and fine looks, but also with the gold. Then, perhaps, she will be yours.” When they landed, the king readied the ship and tended •
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to his merchant costume, while Johannes, carrying a few golden objects in his bag, made his way to the towering ramparts of black marble where the golden princess lived. He entered the courtyard, and there discovered a serving girl retrieving water from a well with a golden bucket. “Pretty maid,” he said, smiling his kind but unhandsome smile, “do you think your lady might be interested in such trifling works of gold as these?” And he produced two of the finest, most exquisite golden statuettes that man’s hand has ever made. The girl was stunned by their beauty. She took them from Johannes and hurried within. Not ten minutes had elapsed before the golden princess herself emerged from the castle, holding the statuettes in her hands. She was as gorgeous as her portrait—more so in fact—and as she greeted Johannes, her golden hair flashed in the light and her ocean-blue eyes danced with pleasure. Still, around her lips there was sadness. “Tell me, old man,” she said, “are these really for sale? I’ve never seen anything so beautiful, so fine.” Faithful Johannes bowed. “But there is more, fair •
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princess, much more. My master’s ship is full of such wonders. And they can be yours, if you will just accompany me down to the harbor.” The princess hesitated for a moment—since her last husband-to-be had died, she had not set foot outside the palace. But the allure of the gold was too strong. She threw a shining traveling cloak over her shoulders and followed Johannes to the boat. The young king, in his disguise as a merchant, greeted her. Her beauty was so stunning, her sadness so apparent and so tender, that he nearly fainted again. But somehow he did not, and she smiled at him and invited him to show her all the treasures he had brought to her fair land. As soon as they had descended below the deck, Johannes hurried to the captain of the ship, and, in whispered tones, instructed him to cast off from shore and set sail for home immediately. Now, my young readers, I know just what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, Hmmm. Stealing a girl. That’s an interesting way of winning her heart. Allow me to warn •
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you now that, under any other circumstances, stealing a girl is about the worst way of winning her heart you could possibly cook up. But, because this happened long ago, in a faraway land, it seems to have worked.
For the golden princess came back up to the deck and saw that her land was far away from her. At first she did indeed protest, and fiercely, too, that she’d been carried away by lowborn merchants. But when one of the “merchants” revealed himself to be a king, and revealed that, in addition, he was madly in love with her, and when, besides, Johannes assured her that, if she really wanted to, she could go home, but she couldn’t take the gold if she did, the princess realized that in fact the young king was just the kind of man she would like to marry after all, and decided that she’d give the whole matrimony thing one last shot. And they all lived happily ever after.
The End
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