The Grimm Conclusion (10 page)

But one day, as the royal carriage rattled over the stony streets of Grimm's largest town, Joringel caught sight of a mother walking with her son. The woman's arms were laden with three sacks of potatoes, while the little boy behind her was struggling with one. “Don't you drop any of those,” she told him.

“Okay, Mommy,” the boy replied. He was teetering this way and that, trying to keep the sack from tumbling from his arms. But then the boy caught sight of the royal carriage. “Ooh, Mommy, look! The queen!” he said. And, because he was a little boy, he pointed at the carriage. Well, as soon as he did, the sack toppled over, and the potatoes went rolling into the street.

“Boy!” the woman bellowed, and, letting her potatoes drop to the ground as well, she spun and slapped her son across the face.

Before he knew what he was doing, Joringel was out of the carriage, leaping over potatoes, and grabbing the woman's arm. The woman turned to him, surprised. Which is when Joringel slapped her across the face, just as she had her son. And then he did it again. And once more.

The boy began to cry. The woman cowered.

“It is a new law,” Joringel announced, “that any adult who harms a child shall be punished by the queen's soldiers threefold.”

Joringel turned to see his sister, standing in the carriage. Her face was stone. “It is so decreed,” was all she said.

Joringel turned back to the mother. He got very close to her face. “Never again,” he said. “Never, ever again.”

As the carriage rattled over the stony streets of Grimm, Joringel could hear the boy wailing. He tried to block it out and stamp down his roaring anger.

Joringel had found his role. While Jorinda dealt with questions of war and taxes, Joringel roamed the streets, followed by a group of the toughest soldiers—both women and men. As they roamed they kept an eye out for adults who were cruel to children. And when they found one they punished that adult bitterly.

And still the soldiers marched over the once-verdant fields, chanting, “Who's the strongest in the land? Jorinda of the iron hand!” So crops no longer grew in the Kingdom of Grimm. As soon as a tender green shoot dared to show itself above the ground, a soldier's boot stamped it into submission.

That year, gritty winter gave way to dusty summer without the pale green promise of spring.

Well? What do you think?

Should Joringel be punishing those parents like that?

And when did this book get so depressing?

And will it keep being this depressing?

I'm sorry. I know that no kid likes reading depressing books. I considered changing this part altogether. I considered not telling you the truth about what happened to these two children. About what they went through. And what it did to them. I considered telling you that Jorinda's reign really was all lollipops and pillow fights. And that Joringel was in charge of organizing huge games of capture the flag.

But I decided that I had to tell you the truth.

Because, you see, in life, every triumph begins with failure.

Don't worry, though. The triumph will come. We're almost there.

Jorinda sat straight up on top of her towering bed. Her sheets were sweaty and twisted. She could not catch her breath.

She shook herself. Just a nightmare. But it was terrible. She had been standing outside her mother's study. The door was locked. And her mother had been trying to get out, banging on the door. Banging. Banging.

BANG.

Jorinda jumped a foot. Shaking away her grogginess, she threw the covers off her great bed, climbed down the tall ladder her servants had constructed for her, and hurried to the chamber door.

She heard someone run by, whispering frantically.

BANG.

She opened the door an inch. A servant, carrying a candelabra, sprinted past, the candles flickering as she went.

BANG.

The floor was shaking.

Jorinda closed the door, locked it, and ran to the window. It was a grand window, for she lived in the royal chambers now. The window looked out over stone walls and down the great road that led to the Castle Grimm.

A pit opened up in Jorinda's stomach.

The road was lit by a thousand torches. And it was teeming. With men on horseback. With shouting peasants. And soldiers. Thousands of soldiers.

BANG
.

Jorinda screamed. Just outside of the window, she saw a face. She fell back into the room.

“Open the window!” the face demanded.

Jorinda shook her head and crawled backward across the floor.

“Jorinda! Open the window!”

She was getting nearer and nearer the door.

BANG
.

The face screamed, “I won't leave you!”

Jorinda stopped crawling. The face was Joringel's. Jorinda leaped to her feet and ran to the window. “What are you doing out there?” she cried.

“They're taking the castle!”

Jorinda struggled with the window latch.

BANG.

Her shaking fingers fumbled with the heavy lead. Finally, she unstuck it and threw the window open. “Come in!” she cried. “Hurry!”

But Joringel shook his head. “No,” he said. “You come out.”

“What?”

“They're inside the castle already. There's fighting in the corridors. We can't get out that way.”

“Then how can we get out?”

Joringel pointed down the castle walls. “Hold on to the stones, climb from window to window, and we can get to the Kingswood out back.”

Jorinda looked down. It was a straight drop. “You're crazy!”

“Come on!”

“Aren't you scared?”

Joringel almost smiled. He nodded. But he held his hand out to his sister.

So she took it and pulled herself up onto the windowsill.

BANG.

The whole castle shook. Jorinda screamed and grabbed hold of the swinging shutters. “What's happening?” she panted, refusing to look down.

“They're breaking down the gates to let the rest of the army inside.”

BANG—CRRRACK.

“They're through?” Jorinda asked, still holding on to the window for dear life.

A mighty roar erupted below them. The horses and soldiers and torch-wielding peasants surged forward.

“They're through,” Joringel replied. “Come on! Let's go!”

And so Jorinda and Joringel, brother and sister, queen and self-appointed protector of the children of Grimm, climbed down the walls of the castle, dropped to the ground behind a green hedge, and ran with every ounce of strength they had deep, deep into the forest.

O
nce upon a time, two children collapsed to the ground under a great oak tree.

Jorinda and Joringel gasped at the dark air like drowning men, their lungs aching. Torches wove through the wood like great, frantic fireflies. They were still a distance off. But they were getting closer.

“We've got to keep moving,” Jorinda heaved.

Joringel shook his head
no
and gulped the night into his lungs.

Jorinda, watching the torches, said, “Do you think it was the prince?”

Joringel, still sucking air, nodded.

The cries of the men were getting louder. And louder.

Jorinda pulled herself to her feet. “It's time—”

The words died away on her lips. Standing in the darkness at the edge of the clearing was a shadow. Even in silhouette, Jorinda could see that it was tall and lean and muscular.

And that it had a horn.

The creature stepped forward, and the moonlight shimmered on it. Despite herself, despite everything, Jorinda smiled. It was much larger than it had been. Its shoulders were broader, its haunches thicker. And the horn rising from its forehead was over a foot long.

“Is that . . . ?” Joringel stammered.

“Yes.” His sister grinned. “That's a unicorn.”

As if in response, the unicorn trotted forward and pressed its soft muzzle into Jorinda's neck. She felt a pang of bitter joy. It had been a year since she had seen her friend. A dark and bloody year.

In the deep forest, the torches were spreading out, fanning through the trees, moving in their direction. They could hear a voice barking orders.

The unicorn was nudging Jorinda's hand as if he wanted something. “I don't have any food for you,” she whispered. The unicorn ducked his head, so that her arm was over his neck. She tried to push him away, saying, “We have to go! We have to—”

Suddenly, the unicorn knelt and pushed his body against Jorinda's, so that she was thrown over his back. She grabbed his mane.

Joringel laughed nervously. “I think he wants to give you a ride!”

“I think he does. Come on!” And she took her brother's hand and yanked him up behind her on the warm, wide back.

Without any warning, the unicorn sprang into the darkness, away from the approaching torches. His hooves pounded through the gloom, and Jorinda held tightly on to his mane, and Joringel wrapped his arms around her, and their legs squeezed the little unicorn's pulsing black flanks.

The wind whipped Jorinda's hair into Joringel's face, the branches slapped the children and snapped behind them, and the forest flew by in a blur.

The ride was half dream, half nightmare. Soon there were no torches. They passed out of the Kingswood. Far, far from any wood that either child had ever visited. But still, the unicorn rode on, now racing nothing but the moon.

At dawn, as the mist huddled in the trees like gray-clad monks, the unicorn slowed. The children gratefully, wearily, slid off his back.

Nearby, a brook burbled out of the fog, tumbled over stones, and disappeared into the fog again. The children fell to their stomachs and drank from its frigid, clear current.

Joringel sat back on his haunches. His mouth hurt from the cold, but the water tasted pure and good, liked melted snow. “Where are we?” he asked.

Jorinda wiped her sleeve across her face. “I don't know.”

The unicorn shook himself and came and nuzzled up to Jorinda. She held his head. And then something sharp poked at the back of her mind.

She grimaced.

And she pushed the unicorn away.

He looked confused, staring at her with his wide, white eyes.

“Go!” Jorinda suddenly shouted. “Go home!”

The unicorn pawed the earth, as if to play their old game again.

“No!” Jorinda bellowed. “Leave! It's not safe!”

“Um, Jorinda? What are you doing?”

Jorinda was standing now, and shouting. “You have a family! You have a home! Go to them! Go now! GO!”

The little unicorn danced back and forth, pawing the earth in agitation. Still, Jorinda shouted at him, pushing his head away from her. At last, the little beast turned mournfully and disappeared into the mist.

“What did you do that for?” Joringel demanded. “Now we're lost!”

Jorinda did not look at him. She gazed into the fog that had swallowed the unicorn. “We've been lost,” Jorinda said. “We've been lost for a long, long time.”

She lay down by the riverbank. “I need to sleep.”

Joringel stared at his sister. She pulled a fallen branch, thick with leaves, over her, but the fog didn't care. It crawled in through the thousand green gaps and wrapped Jorinda in a cold, wet quilt of gray. Joringel, too confused and exhausted to fight, leaned his back against a nearby tree and slid wearily to the ground.

In a moment, both children were asleep.

The morning was barely a morning. The mist was paler, as if somewhere, far, far above, a dim fire burned. The children stood, stretched, and shivered. Jorinda rubbed her thin arms up and down.

“Where are we?” Joringel asked, yawning through chattering teeth.

“I dunno,” his sister replied. “But I'm hungry.”

“I can't believe you told that unicorn to go away.”

Jorinda shrugged. Hard. “It's not safe to be around me,” she said. “Something bad happens to everyone and everything that comes near me.”

Joringel looked at his hands and did not answer.

They decided to follow the stream. As they pushed farther and farther ahead, the mist began to lift. The forest looked familiar. Joringel, who had been walking ahead of his sister, came to a sharp stop.

“No,” he murmured.

Jorinda walked up behind him. “What?”

Joringel was shaking his head. “No, no, no . . .”

“What is it?” she demanded.

He pointed. “The hunting lodge.”

Jorinda looked. After a stunned moment, she said, “We didn't . . . ?”

“We didn't go anywhere,” Joringel completed her thought. “We're still in the Kingswood.”

Jorinda was squinting hard at the lodge. She started walking forward. Joringel tried to grab her, but she pulled her arm away.

“What are you doing?” he hissed. “Jorinda! They'll see you!”

“It looks like they repainted it,” she said. “It used to be brown. Now it's green.”

“Why do we care?” Joringel whispered. “They could paint it pink and yellow and call it Candy Land Hou—”

“LOOK!” Jorinda exclaimed. She was staring in the direction of the castle.

Joringel looked. One whole wing of the castle was missing.

“They destroyed it . . . ?” Joringel said. But there was no sign of fire, nor any rubble. Standing in its place was a garden. A full garden, in bloom. It looked as if that wing of the castle had never been built.

“What—?” Joringel stammered, “I . . . I don't understand . . .”

Jorinda started for the door to the kitchens.

All was quiet. Someone was cleaning up from the breakfast service. Nothing looked particularly out of order. Which was strange. Because last night there had been an invasion.

A kitchen maid bustled by, laden with dirty plates. “Excuse me!” she barked. Jorinda and Joringel stared as she went by.

“She didn't bow,” Jorinda murmured.

“Or have us killed,” Joringel added.

Cautiously, incredulously, they made their way from the kitchens up the back stairs, into the royal corridor. The décor was completely different than it had been, and everything looked newer, fresher.

They passed the chapel. Inside, a woman bent her head before the altar. Jorinda put an arm out and brought them both to a stop.

“She's wearing a crown,” Jorinda whispered.

“Who is she?” her brother replied.

Even from the back, Jorinda was sure she didn't know. The children proceeded even more cautiously than before.

They passed many more doorways. The rooms looked strange. Finally, they came to the grand bedroom, where Jorinda had slept ever since she'd become queen. Both children stopped and peered from behind the doorjamb.

In the room, two children, smaller than Jorinda and Joringel, played at the foot of a bed. And a man with a beard and a crown on his head knelt beside the life-sized statue of a hideously ugly man.

The statue was speaking. Jorinda and Joringel stared, dumbstruck.

“There is a way, king, to rescue me from this rock, if you truly wish it,” the statue said.

Jorinda and Joringel gaped at the talking statue.

“Oh, I do!” the bearded king cried. “I'll do anything! Anything!”

And the statue said . . .

There are no children in the room, right? You're certain? Okay . . .

Jorinda and Joringel stood straight up. They had heard a voice. A loud voice. It seemed to come from . . . everywhere. It had asked if there were children in the room. They looked at each other as if, perhaps, they were losing their minds.

The stone statue was speaking again. They looked back into the royal chamber.

“You must cut off the heads of your children, and smear my statue with their blood. And then, and only then, will I return to life.”

Remember what I told you would happen when Hansel and Gretel finally showed up?

Jorinda and Joringel looked frantically all around them. Who had said that?

From the room, they heard the king say, “You under-stood me always, no matter what. So I will under-stand you.”

The king drew a sword from its place on the wall, walked over to the two adorable children playing at the end of the bed, and swung the sword at their necks.

Jorinda and Joringel fell back into the hall as blood spattered across the floor. They froze. One second passed. Two. Three.

They ran. They flew down the hallway, past the bedrooms, down the stairs, through the kitchens, out the door, and into the Kingswood. They ran and ran and ran, and their little lungs could not get enough air, and they felt as if they were drowning.

They ran without thinking, without seeing, plunging past trees and logs and brambles, until the mist became heavier—so heavy that they could not see at all.

They fell to the ground and held each other, huddling in the cold fog. They could not say a word.

Jorinda and Joringel shivered in the mist for an hour or more. Then, in the distance, they heard the rumble of thunder. They peered into the gray soup overhead, waiting for the rain to follow. Thunder rumbled again, this time closer. The children huddled closer together. A third clap of thunder shook the leaves on the mist-shrouded trees.

“I felt that in my feet.” Joringel swallowed.

Jorinda nodded. “It must be a big storm.”

Another roll of thunder, and another, and another, closer and closer. The great trees shook.

And then, from the mist, emerged a mountain. That was the only way to describe it. A moving mountain of flesh. Pink flesh. The mountain had a ridge like a backbone, and little valleys formed by small arms and legs, and a slope of a wide, flat tail. They could see thin black bones through the pink skin, and in the distended bag of a belly, black organs wound around one another, beating. And at either side of its huge, flat head sat two tiny black eyes.

The children could not move.

Each step the beast took made the whole forest tremble. Trees fell before it like weeds.

Suddenly, it stopped. Its little black eyes swiveled toward Jorinda and Joringel. The children stopped breathing. It cocked his head at the children. The children's hearts stopped beating. It opened his mouth. The children grabbed hold of one another.

Out of the beast's maw roared a column of flame. Jorinda and Joringel fell to the forest floor, eyes closed, holding each other tightly.

We are going to die,
Joringel thought.

His sister, on the other hand, was pretty sure they were already dead.

A wall of fire pressed the children into the earth. They could not breathe, for the flame ate up all the oxygen. The mist above their heads had been replaced with reds and oranges and even one streak of pale aquamarine. Breathing, heartbeat, all vital functions had been shut down.

Dead
, the children thought.
Dead, dead, dead.

Gradually, the flame subsided. The two children did not move for a full minute. Then they looked up. The creature was staring at them from its tiny black eyes. It looked . . . curious.

“GO!” Jorinda screamed. The children leaped up and ran furiously, frantically, away from the beast. As their feet pounded the forest floor, they tried to listen for the thunderous footfall of the monster behind them. They heard nothing. This was good. They ran faster. Still, they did not breathe, nor were their hearts beating. Good: they did not need them.

They ran and ran and ran until they could run no more. Then the two little children collapsed to the ground and wept.

Okay, if you've read
A Tale Dark & Grimm
or
In a Glass Grimmly
, you are probably slightly confused right now.