The Grimm Conclusion (2 page)

BANG!

The stepfather slammed the lid of the chest down.

Right on the back of Joringel's neck.

And the little boy's head fell off into the apples.

For a moment, there was no sound in the kitchen at all, and the only movement was the dust dancing in the slants of light from the window. The stepfather stood stock-still over the chest. The boy's small, headless body lay on the floor. Blood pooled under his severed neck. His head, of course, was in the chest of apples.

And then his stepfather said, “Oh no! His mother will be furious with me!”

Wait, he just
killed
the kid, and he's worried his wife will be
ticked off?

You think?

The stepfather gathered up the little boy's body and carried it to a chair that sat near the front of the house. Then he went to the kitchen, opened the chest, retrieved Joringel's head, and took it over to his body. He placed the head on the severed neck, and then tied it on with a white handkerchief. Finally, he put a fine red apple in the little boy's hand.

Joringel sat in the chair, eyes wide and staring, facing the front door.

The stepfather surveyed his handiwork, nodded once, and went back to the kitchen to clean up.

Is everyone okay out there?

I will remind you that, just because this is a fairy tale, that does
not
mean that it is appropriate for little children. Little children should not be hearing stories about decapitation and infanticide. In fact, anyone who's young enough not to know the words
decapitation
and
infanticide
should probably put this book down right now.

Okay? Did you do it?

No, I didn't think you would.

A little while later, Jorinda went looking for her brother. She found him sitting in the chair by the front door, his head tilting slightly off to one side, his eyes wide, an apple in his hand, and a handkerchief around his neck. The handkerchief was red.

“Little Brother, Little Brother! What a lovely apple you have!” she exclaimed. “Will you share it with me?”

But her brother just stared at her, deathly still.

Jorinda began to feel frightened. She went into the kitchen to find her stepfather scrubbing the floor. “Father, Father!” she said. “I think there's something the matter with Little Brother! His eyes are wide and staring, his face is pale, and when I asked him to share his apple with me, he didn't say anything at all!”

The stepfather shook his head. “Oh, he's just being rude. Go back in there and ask him to share it with you again. If he still doesn't reply, slap him in the face.”

Oh, yes—he said that.

So the little girl went back into the front room and said, “Brother, Brother, will you share your apple with me?”

And he said . . .

Nothing. Because he was dead.

So the little girl took a deep breath, looked ruefully toward the kitchen, cocked her hand back, and slapped her brother in the face.

And his head fell off.

“OH, MY GOD, I KILLED MY BROTHER!” the little girl screamed.

Her stepfather burst from the kitchen, saw the boy's head lying on the floor, and bellowed, “What have you done, you wicked child?” He glanced at the closed door of the study and hissed, “Your mother will be furious with you!”

Jorinda was hyperventilating.

The man took her by the arms and whispered, “There, there, my dear. Don't cry. Come in the kitchen.” And then he added, “I'll help you hide the body.”

So the stepfather dragged the little boy's body into the kitchen, and Jorinda carried her beloved brother's head after him. And then the stepfather took out a big knife, and he carved the meat from Joringel's bones.

And he threw it into their largest stew pot.

At this point, I imagine that every adult reading this book aloud has just slammed it shut and said, “Never mind. Forget it. We're done here.”

And half the kids are probably screaming for their mothers. And the other half are screaming at the adult to keep reading because this is, well, completely awesome.

Let me say that I agree with all parties involved. Adults, you really should not read any further. Kids who want your moms, you should probably go get them. Kids who think this is awesome, you have never been more right.

What did I tell you about fairy tales? Did I lie?

Once the father was done carving the meat from the boy's bones and putting it into the stew pot, he said, “Now open the icebox.”

The icebox was a deep hole, just behind the kitchen, where perishables were kept. It was cool and damp, and became icy in winter. Hence the name.

Jorinda, still hyperventilating, opened the icebox, and the stepfather lowered the stew pot into it.

“This'll keep for a good long while,” he said. And then he turned to the little girl and stuck a thick finger in her face. “If you ever mention this to anyone, you'll be hanged. But first, I'll make you eat this stew.”

Finally, the man led his stepdaughter back into the kitchen, where he took the boy's bones, tied them up in a kerchief, and handed them to Jorinda. “Go,” he said. “Bury these under the juniper tree.”

So Jorinda went into the garden, stood under the juniper tree, and buried her brother's bones.

As she scooped the last handful of black soil onto the makeshift little grave, a tear ran down her cheek, and she thought, You said you'd never leave me.

Okay! I'm sorry!

I know, I know.

This is bad. This is, maybe, the worst thing that you have ever read, in any book, ever.

I am sorry for that.

But let me say this: While I do like messed-up stories, and I do like stories where grim, bloody, horrible things happen, I do
not
like stories with sad endings.

I hate them, in fact.

So lots of grim, bloody, horrible things will keep happening in this book, but everything will turn out okay in the end. I promise you.

Of course, before things get better, they'll probably get worse.

Ready?

Then buckle up, and let's do this thing.

B
efore I even
say
“Once upon a time,” I've got to tell you something.

“Ashputtle,” which is the title of this chapter, is the Grimm brothers' name for “Cinderella.”

And now you are worried.

You do not want to hear the story of Cinderella, because you have heard it ten hundred thousand million times, and it makes you want to hit yourself in the head with a sledgehammer.

Good. I'm glad you don't want to hear the story of Cinderella, because I don't want to tell it.

I want to tell you the story of Ashputtle.

“Cinderella” is the name of the cute version of the story, the one that makes little girls want to dress up like pretty princesses.

That story makes me want to hit myself in the head with a sledgehammer, also.

“Ashputtle” is the name of the horrible, bloody, Grimm, awesome version of the story.

It will
not
make little girls want to dress up like pretty princesses. It will make little girls want to run out of the room screaming for their mommies.

It will make little boys want to do that, too.

So if there are any little girls or little boys in the room, please—for their sakes, and for their mommies' sakes . . .

Do not let them hear this story.

Once upon a time, a little girl named Jorinda knelt under a juniper tree and tried not to weep.

She had, as far as she could tell, killed her brother. She was confused, a bit, by how his head had fallen off with just a slap across the face. She hadn't even slapped him very hard. But his head had fallen off nonetheless. No question about it. And now his bones were buried under the juniper tree, and his flesh sat in a stew pot in the icebox out back.

Jorinda, kneeling beneath the tree, tried to choke back the tears that pressed at her eyes, just as her mother had told her to. But it was not easy.

And then, the little girl felt a tickle on her shoulder. She raised her head. There, sitting just beside her ear, was a little bird. It was as red as blood and as white as snow. It cocked its head left and right as it looked at her. Jorinda smiled. It reminded her of her brother.

“Hello,” she said. “What's your name?” It flittered its wings and pecked her twice on the nose, gently. She laughed.

And from that moment on, Jorinda spent every moment of her free time beneath the juniper tree, and the little bird played in the dirt around her feet and chirruped at her and pecked her happily on the nose.

But while Jorinda's friendship with the bird lightened her heart a little bit, her life in the house became worse. Her mother barely seemed to notice that Joringel was gone. She asked about him, absently, one night, and before Jorinda could say a word, her stepfather replied that Joringel had gone off to visit with his uncle in the country. Jorinda's mother tried to remember if Jorinda and Joringel had an uncle living in the country. After a moment, she shrugged her shoulders and went back to her study. Jorinda stared in disbelief.

Jorinda's work around the house became much harder than before. Without her brother to help her, she had twice as many windows to clean, twice as much floor to scrub, twice as much laundry to wash in the cold, cold stream that ran behind their garden. And they began to call her “Ashputtle.”

Why, you might ask, did they call her Ashputtle?

Well, you might think it was because her job was to clean the chimney and fireplace, making her all covered with ashes and cinders.

Which is fifty percent correct. That is one reason she was covered in ashes and cinders. But there is another reason, one that is never mentioned in any of the cute, boring, pretty-princess versions of this story.

You see, the other half of the reason that she was covered in ashes and cinders was that her job was to clean the chamber pots. What, you ask, is a chamber pot? A chamber pot is a bowl that is used like a toilet, but doesn't have a hole or water at the bottom. It's just a pot that you go potty in, if you know what I mean. So, you sit on this little pot, and you do your business. Then you leave your business in the pot. Eventually, someone comes around and pours all your business into a bucket. Then they scrub the pot with water and ashes and cinders, until it's as clean as they can make it, and until they're covered in ashes and cinders and . . . well . . . whatever business you left in the pot.

And
that
is why the girl was called Ashputtle.

Once upon a time, everyone who heard the name “Ashputtle”—or “Cinderella,” for that matter—knew exactly what it meant.

Toilet Cleaner.

Her name was Toilet Cleaner.

By the way, the next time you see a little girl who's excited for Halloween, and she says, “I want to be Cinderella! I want to be Cinderella!” you'll know that what she's actually saying is, “I want to be Toilet Cleaner! I want to be Toilet Cleaner!”

But don't tell her that, because she'll cry.

So Jorinda, whom the stepsisters and stepfather called Ashputtle, scrubbed the floors and cleaned the windows and the fireplace and the chamber pots. And, late at night, she would go out to the little juniper tree, and the bird would come down and flit back and forth between her feet, and the candle in her mother's study would burn yellow and warm, and Jorinda would try not to cry at the lonely, wreck of a life she now led.

And then, one day, everything changed.

For an invitation arrived.

It was an invitation to a ball. Hosted by the prince of the Kingdom of Grimm. He wanted to marry someone. In order to choose this someone, all the girls of the kingdom were invited to the palace for three nights of dancing and socializing and whatever else you do at a ball. The stepsisters were very excited, of course.

Jorinda, on the other hand, was not excited, because she wasn't allowed to go. Her stepfather made her sew her sisters' dresses and help them prepare and tell them how lovely they looked. And they said nice things to her like, “Oh, it's such a shame you can't come with us!” And then they would look at one another and laugh.

But of course, she will get to go, won't she? Someone gives her a beautiful dress and shoes to wear, right?

Who gives them to her?

Her fairy godmother!

And the fairy godmother is plump and wears purple and has little wings, and goes “Bippity boppity boop!”

Right?

Right?

Wrong.

What really happened was that, on the day of the ball, after the stepsisters had left, Jorinda went out to the juniper tree. She tried not to cry. She tried to choke back her tears. She did not want to drown in the ocean of sadness, whatever that was. But all of the horrible things that had happened crowded in on her. And a tear fell from her lashes into the dirt.

As the tear fell, Jorinda wished she could go to the ball. She wished she could meet the prince. She wished that he would like her. Like her better than her sisters. She wished that he might marry her and take her away from her stepfather and stepsisters, away from this terrible life, away from this house with her brother's empty bed and her mother's closed door. She wished she could be a princess, and sleep on a stack of mattresses a mile high, and never feel this pain—any pain—ever again.

And just as she wished it, a little red berry, as dark and rich and red as blood, fell from the branches of the tree. Little Jorinda picked it up delicately, between her fingers. She pressed it. It burst. Red juice ran down her palm. But suddenly, it was not juice. It was a dress. A long, flowing, beautiful dress exactly as deep and rich and red as blood.

And then, two shoes clunked down out of the tree after it.

What were the shoes made of?

Go ahead and say it . . .

They were made of . . .

Glass!

Right?

Right?

Wrong again!

Gold. The shoes were made of pure gold.

(Fancy, huh?)

Jorinda cried, “Thank you, tree!” She turned toward the house. But just then, the little bird as red as blood and as white as snow landed upon her shoulder. Jorinda looked at it and smiled. It began to sing, and its song sounded almost like words. Like these words:

Before midnight come right back here,

Or else the dress will disappear!

The little girl smiled and thanked the bird and petted it on its small white head. Then she went inside to change.

Okay, the next part you know. You know she went to the ball. You know her breath was taken away at the beauty of the palace, and all the important guests, and the fine food, and so on and so forth.

You know she danced with the prince, and that he liked her.

Like,
really
liked her.

Like,
like
liked
her.

And you know that they danced all night.

But you also know that, as midnight approached, Jorinda remembered what the bird said—that at midnight the dress would disappear.

Now, I don't know if you've ever been to a ball, with a prince. But in case you ever go, there is one rule you really ought to aware of.

Do not be
naked
.

Not allowed.

Not okay.

So just before midnight, Jorinda broke free from the prince's arms, fled down the steps of the palace, and ran out into the night. And as she ran, the clocks struck twelve, and the dress fell from her shoulders in shreds and tatters.

Well, Jorinda went back to the ball the next night. I guess she went to the juniper tree and got another dress or something. I don't know. Not important.

So she danced with the prince the second night, and he really, really liked her. But she had to run away before midnight again, because, as we discussed,
ball
plus
prince
plus
naked
equals
not okay
.

The third night, Jorinda returned to the ball, and again she danced with the prince.

But—and this is an important plot point, so pay attention now—this prince was a
clever
prince.

He knew she was going to run away. And so he told his servants that, while he danced with this mysterious, constantly-running-away girl, they were to smear the steps of the palace with tar—which is the black sticky stuff we use to make roads.

And when midnight came, Jorinda ran out the doors, down the steps, and one of her shoes stuck to a sticky, tarred step. Now, Jorinda kept going (luckily—because of the whole
ball-prince-naked
thing), but her shoe stayed behind. The prince came out of the palace and picked the shoe up and examined it.

And then he exclaimed, “Whoever's foot fits in this golden shoe will be my bride!”

One of his servants leaned over to him. “You think only one girl in the whole kingdom wears a size five?”

And the prince said, “Shut up.”

So the prince went from house to house in his kingdom, trying to find the girl whose foot would fit in the golden shoe. But, lo and behold, none did. Some were too wide, some too narrow, some too long, some too short.

Surprising. But totally true.

At last, the prince arrived at Jorinda's house, announcing that whoever's foot fit in the golden shoe would be his bride.

Now, the stepsisters were thrilled. As I said, they were very beautiful—and they knew it. They had beautiful hair, beautiful teeth, beautiful eyes, and tiny, perfect, beautiful feet.

So the elder stepsister flipped her long golden hair and said, “Oh, let me try! Let me try the shoe!” She grabbed the golden shoe from the prince and took it into the kitchen, and her father followed her.

There in the kitchen, the elder stepsister slipped her perfect, delicate little foot into the shoe.

And guess what?

It fit.

 

Well, almost.

You see, her big toe was just a little bit too big. She couldn't get it all the way in the shoe. She pushed and pushed and pushed, but it just would not go in.

And then her father took out a knife.

The knife was a large cleaver, the kind made for chopping up meat.

He whispered to his daughter, “Just cut off your toe! When you're queen, you won't have to walk anymore!”

So the girl took the cleaver, raised it above her head, and brought it down with all her force on her big toe. Then she shoved her dismembered foot into the shoe, gritted her teeth against the pain, and went back in to see the prince.

Now, I like to picture this part of the story.

This girl wants to marry the prince, right? So she's got to impress him. Which means she ought to smile. But she has just cut off her
toe
and shoved her foot into a
golden shoe
. Which probably hurts
a lot
. Right?