Authors: Pamela Ditchoff
which of these two roads is the
shortest?"
Beauty watches furtively as the image of the west road expands to eliminate the north road.
She places the mirror in her satchel and sets out along the westward path.
Elora arches an ebony eyebrow. "The shortest distance between two points does not always an easy journey make.
She should have stuck with
the best
."
Chapter Six
Let Down Your Hair
Beauty allows no unpleasant thoughts as she walks resolutely down the west road.
She's thinking that tomorrow is May Day and magically, a ray of sun struggles through the Grimm clouds and drops a curtain of light on the road ahead.
Interpreting this as a good portend, Beauty halts, takes Gerda's sun and moon scarf from the satchel and ties it around her neck.
Resuming her stride, she soon realizes she is not alone in her appreciation of the rare weather. The undergrowth lining the road rustles and parts as forest creatures waddle and scamper into the light.
A dozen red squirrels swish their tails, six chipmunks chatter and shimmy, two porcupines scratch their quills against a birch tree, and seven snakes poke their triangular heads out from under rocks.
Beauty wonders if she should keep moving or wait for them to retreat.
She decides to walk on; in their giddy gratitude for sunshine, they seem oblivious to her.
She has walked fifty feet when she sees a stag's head emerge from the trees.
Its bare bone eye sockets are horrific.
Then, a huge hairy paw pushes a pine branch aside and a black bear guides the blind stag onto the road.
The bear's rubbery nose twitches and he turns his thick head in Beauty's direction.
He whispers in the stag's ear, then lumbers toward Beauty.
Fairy tale beauties are not adept at thinking fast in dangerous situations.
Before Beauty can consider the most appropriate course of action, the bear's locomotive breath parts her hair down the middle of her head.
"You've got some nerve, Missy," the bear scolds, glancing nervously over his shoulder.
"Raymond may be blind, but there's nothing wrong with his nose.
A few steps more and he'll be able to smell you.
Then off he'll go on a tear through the woods, breaking off antler points, maybe even a leg!
The scent of a beautiful woman is pungent, as if you don't know."
In typical beauty form, Beauty is more alarmed by the possibility that her presence will cause harm than by the presence of a towering, ticked-off bear.
"I don't understand you, Brother bear . . ." Beauty begins.
"I'm not your brother," the bear snarls.
My name is Bertrand."
"Am I correct in assuming you'd like me to remove myself from this road? Beauty asks."
"It's a public thoroughfare, but any human with a bit of sensitivity, especially a beauty, would choose another path."
Beauty rubs her forehead nervously; she doesn't want another run-in with devious animals.
"Don't tell me you didn't see the sign, or can't you read?
Beauties are notoriously stupid."
"Now, look here, bear.
I'm simply trying to reach Glass Mountain.
I'm looking for the enchantress who changed my prince into a beast, for whom I broke the spell by confessing my love, and I love the beast better than the prince.
I want my beast back," Beauty rants. "I've been able to read since age three, and I did not see a sign of any sort!"
Bertrand pulls in his chin and shuffles backward ten feet.
He tears away the sucker growth on a honeysuckle bush, revealing a sign that reads: MAIMED ANIMAL ZONE.
"That stag is my friend.
His eyes were gouged out because some queen wanted her beautiful stepdaughter murdered and her eyes brought back as proof of the deed.
The girl was so beautiful the servant couldn't bring himself to kill her.
There are dozens more like Raymond around here.
It's a friggin' epidemic," the bear grunts, folding his arms over his barrel chest.
"Not to mention da members of our society widout tongues," a voice rises from the undergrowth preceding a red fox.
"Morning, George," says the bear.
"How's it hangin' Bertrand?" the fox replies.
He sucks his teeth, and a big black wolf slinks onto the road.
"Lenny, my boy!
How are you today?" the bear bellows enthusiastically.
"Fine, Bert.
I'm doin' just fine," the wolf says and rubs his jaw over a dead white rabbit clutched in his left front paw. "Something smells
real
good," he gurgles, snuffling the air in Beauty's direction. His ears flatten, his eyes narrow, and drool drips from his chops. George the fox snickers and twitches his tail wildly.
Beauty is familiar with the wolf's expression.
It's the same as the Beast wore prior to foreplay. She quickly opens the satchel, grabs the tin filled with treats and pries off the lid.
Lenny's ears cock, and his eyes turn round and innocent as a cocker spaniel's. "Cookies!" he yelps, and in seconds has devoured every fruit, nut, and cookie.
He glances guiltily at George.
"Go play in da sun," the fox says.
Lenny bounds onto the road turning somersaults, and Beauty notices three jagged scars on his belly.
"Yeah, Sweetheart, I sees you givin' Lenny's scars da once over.
Two a dem's from swallowin' beautiful princesses, and the other from da beautiful miller's daughter. You tink he would pick an ugly dame once in a while, but ugly dames got more sense den to wander in the woods alone, always got some big sheep-shagger husband ready to protect her ugly ass wid his life.
Tink he woulda loint after the foist time, but Lenny ain't too bright, and he does have a taste for beauties."
The fox winks a copper colored eye at Beauty.
"I mean, the goils was not hoit. Lenny can't move after swallowin' a whole beauty, so he's easy to catch.
Dey slit him open and hefted dem wailin' goils out, but did dey have the decency to grease him?
No, dey had to go and put rocks in his belly and sew him up.
Dat is inhumane.
Ask me and I sez, a beautiful goil goes wanderin’ in the forest alone, she's askin' for trouble."
"Amen, brother," Bertrand retorts.
"And ain't dose boar skin shoes you are wearin' and a boar skin satchel you are carryin' in your boar skin-gloved dainty hands?
Sees anybody round here wearin' goil skin apparel?
"I'm sorry for what happened to your friends," Beauty says, "but did the beauties ask to be eaten?
Did they deserve to be hunted for their beauty?
Were they not as much victims as Raymond and Lenny?"
The fox runs his tongue over his teeth.
"Alls I know is dose beauties is off and married to some rich buggers, livin' in a castle, and Raymond dere is blind as a bat and Lenny's bowels is so screwed up he can only digest coids and whey.
Dem cookies and nuts gonna give him da howlin' hoop."
Bertrand appears to relent.
He drops to all fours and shuffles his right paw in the dirt. "There's a cottage up the road; I'll take you there.
Will you stay indoors, at least until the clouds move in, as a gesture of respect for our society?"
*
*
*
The cottage sits far back from the road, obscured by waist-high weeds.
The window glass hangs in shards and the roof is black with soot.
Reaching the doorstep, Beauty looks back at the sunny road and sees Bertrand standing with paws on hips, a troop of various smaller maimed animals behind him.
He gestures impatiently for her to enter.
The door creaks ominously as she pushes it open.
Inside, the single room is bare except for a great black kettle and a pile of burlap sacks in a sunny corner.
It’s filthy; a layer of greasy dirt coats the walls and the planked floor, which is oddly stained. It stinks too, with the acrid scent of stale beer and human sweat. Beauty steps to the window and looks outside. Lenny, George, Raymond, Bertrand and troop are lying on their backs in the sunny road, sprawled and immobile as Spring break sophomores. Beauty yawns, lies down on the pile of sacks and falls asleep.
“Wake up, wake up, pretty bride.
Within this house thou must not hide
For here do evil things betide!”
The voice is feminine, muffled, and Beauty believes she is dreaming.
“Wake, wake, wake for pity sake!”
The voice cries out from beneath the burlap pile, and Beauty scoots sideways.
“Thank goodness. You have been sleeping for seven hours!”
More curious now than afraid, Beauty gathers up one sack, another, and the voice becomes clearer.
“You are in a house of cutthroat cannibal thieves.”
Beauty lifts twelve sacks before reaching the final, lumpy bag. She takes hold of the bottom seam and shakes out a bevy of bones. The dry, pearly bones vibrate and clatter on the wooden floor as the voice sings:
“I was once a beauty like you. Then my best friend’s beloved made me an improper proposal. When I spurned him, derided him for his disloyalty, he told my friend I had invited him to my bed. She brought me here and gave me three glasses of wine. The first white, the second red, the third yellow, which together rendered me paralyzed. Her parting words as she let in the thieves were: A woman as beautiful as you has not right to flirt with men. You are a common whore who deserves to die. The thieves lit a fire under the big, black kettle, cut me to pieces, cooked and ate me. Go now, quickly! Only one hour until the sun sets and the cutthroats will return. Run, run for your life!”
Sprinting down the west road, Beauty’s lungs ache and her tongue feels huge. She wills herself to run as she did when escaping some torture of her sisters.
To her surprise and dismay, she cannot.
Her body seems spongy and leaden.
A sharp pain sears her right side and she sits in the middle of the road to catch her breath.
Pondering, as fairy tale beauties are fond of doing, Beauty concedes that Snow White may not have exaggerated the dangers of Grimm Forest.
What am I to do when darkness falls?
She opens the satchel, drinks three sips of elderberry wine, and decides to consult the mirror.
As she reaches into the bag, an eddy of black smoke forms at her feet.
It whirls, stretches, grows into a human shape, and the smoke dissipates to reveal an old man.
He wears a hooded purple cape over a yellow tunic printed with runic symbols.
A garland of henbane and nightshade crowns his head.
His silver-white beard and mustache hang straight to his belt.