In a Glass Grimmly (3 page)

“Well, it isn’t really . . .” said the princess, and she began to close the door again, when, from the dining room, the king bellowed, “Invite him to dinner!”

The princess scowled.

The frog’s heart swelled as he saw the stunning hall, the servants lined up against the walls, the glorious dining table, and the king—the king!—seated at its head. The king was very polite to him and offered him a chair. But the frog was too short to get up into it. “Pick him up,” the king commanded his daughter.

The frog’s heart began to flutter. She was going to touch him! He pictured her delicate fingers, lifting him into the air. He sighed in anticipation.

Abruptly, he was dangling from one foot, and, just as abruptly, dropped onto the hard wood of a chair. He looked up. The princess was grimacing. “I need to wash my hands now, Daddy,” she said.

Humiliation swept over the frog.

“Really,” said the frog, “I am quite clean. It’s those dreadful salamanders who give us well-dwellers a bad name.”

But the princess was already washing her hands in a bowl brought over by a servant. The frog sat awkwardly on his chair for a while. He certainly couldn’t reach the table—he couldn’t even see if there was food on it to eat. Presently, the king noticed this. “Honey, lift your friend up onto the table so he can have his soup.” (The salad course had been finished, you see, and the soup had been brought out.)

The frog found himself suddenly lifted and plopped down on the table, and he flushed to see the princess anxiously calling for the washing bowl again. He brought his face over the steaming saucer of soup and smelled it. “Luxuriant,” he said to the king. “What is it?”

The princess let out a guffaw. The king began to turn red.

Terror took hold of the frog. What had he said? The princess was laughing loudly and cruelly now. He couldn’t think of what he had done wrong. He looked imploringly at the beautiful girl.

“It’s frog’s leg soup!” she cried, laughing and pointing. Servants stifled their laughter behind their hands. The king, though, was deeply embarrassed.

“Take this away!” he cried. Presently, other food was brought, though the frog had entirely lost his appetite. A few times he tried to engage the table in conversation, but each time the princess snickered or insulted him. By the end of dinner, he was on the verge of tears. His dreams of a new life with the sky-eyed princess were dead.

“I am tired,” he said. “Perhaps I should go.”

“Perhaps you should,” the princess agreed.

But the king said, “Take him with you upstairs. He can sleep on a pillow in your room; certainly you won’t make him walk—hop—all the way home in the dark. A weasel might get him.”

“I wouldn’t care!” the princess announced. “And I’m not touching him again!” A few of the servants chortled, and the frog wished that he had never made his stupid wish. But wishes cannot be unwished, no matter how one wishes it. A wish is a powerful thing. It had the frog in its grip. And it was not about to let him go.

Finally, the king convinced his daughter (through threats and imprecations) to take the poor frog upstairs. She did this as quickly as she could, holding him by a single leg and bouncing him as she climbed the long, winding staircases. He was afraid he might come to pieces. (Though then they could use me in the soup, he thought bitterly.) As he watched the little girl, he marveled at her lack of feeling, and also at her beautiful, deep blue eyes. If only she would like me, he thought. If only . . .

They reached her room, and she dropped him to the floor and went into her washroom to prepare for bed. When she emerged, she found him huddled in a damp corner, trying in vain to pretend he was at home, at the bottom of his loathed well. At least it was better than this, he thought.

She approached him, and he shivered with fear. But her face had changed. It was softer. Maybe even sympathetic. Hope blossomed in his little chest.

Gently, she reached down and took him under his belly. He shivered.

She lifted him up, so he was near her face. He stared at her rose-lips, and into her cerulean eyes.

And she kissed him.

Right?

That’s what happens now, doesn’t it?

Of course not. What sense would that make?

As anyone who’s read the Brothers Grimm would know, this is actually when she throws him against a wall with all of her might in an attempt to kill him.

And only
then
, after the attempted
murder
, does he reveal himself as an enchanted prince. And then they get married. And live happily ever after.

Which is clearly idiotic. Why would they live happily ever after if she’s just tried to kill him?

And why would being smashed against a wall turn him back into a prince?

And who said he was a prince in the first place?

At this point, I ought to make something clear. There are three versions of this story:

There is the kiddie version, where they kiss. Obviously false.

There is the Grimm version, where she throws him against the wall, and then they get married. Which is, if you ask me, even more ridiculous than the kiddie version.

And then there is the true version. What actually happened. Which is this:

The princess took the frog by one leg, swung him around her head, and hurled him as hard as she could at the wall of her room. But as she swung him, she held on too tight, and his little leg came off.

So the frog flew across the room and slammed into the wall. The princess found herself holding a single frog leg in her hand, screamed, and threw it out the window. Where it was eaten by a weasel.

As you might have suspected, our poor frog did not regain the form of a prince, because he had never been a prince. He was a frog. A frog in love with a beautiful, cruel princess.

Which means that being thrown against a wall hurts. In all sorts of ways.

The frog lay crumpled in a heap at the base of the wall. He was bleeding from the place where his leg had been (for when you prick frogs, they do indeed bleed), while the princess stared at him with a disgusting air of satisfaction.

With all the dignity he had left to him, the little frog hobbled out of her room, down the great stairs, and out into the night, trailing froggy blood after him as he went.

The End

Okay, Okay. I hear you.

You’re saying, “That wasn’t very horrible!”

Well, maybe it wasn’t very horrible for you. You’re not the one who had his heart broken, his leg torn off (and eaten by a weasel), and who got hurled against a stone wall.

But you’re right. As far as fairy tales go, it wasn’t very horrible.

Don’t worry.

Things get worse.

CHAPTER TWO

The Wonderful Mother

O
nce upon a time there was a little girl who had the most wonderful mother you could possibly imagine.

Go ahead. Try to imagine the most wonderful mother you can.

Have you?

All right. Not good enough. Not even close.

First of all, this little girl’s mother was a queen. Was the mother you were thinking of a queen? If not, she’s already not good enough. And we’ve barely begun.

Second of all, the little girl’s mother was beautiful. I mean, really beautiful. Stunningly gorgeous. Her golden hair was as long and thick as you please, and hung all the way down to the curve of her back. She was tall, like a statue. And slender, like a willow wand. Her lips were rich and red like an unbloomed rose. And her eyes—well, her eyes—her eyes were a cerulean blue so clear and shining that you could stare into them for hours and never think to blink.

Of course, this mother was also wonderful in a number of other ways.

Her clothes, for example, were the absolute pinnacle of style. And her hair was just perfect—oh, wait, did I already mention her hair? Anyway, it’s worth mentioning twice.

As you can see, she really was the most wonderful mother imaginable.

And her daughter knew it. How could she not?

One cold winter day, this wonderful mother sat before the looking glass in her room, and her little girl, whose name was Jill, sat beside her and watched her mother’s expert hands apply red to her fine lips and pale cheeks. Jill’s feet were soaking in a tub of ice water. “Beautiful women have the softest feet,” her mother told her. Jill nodded fiercely and tried not to shiver so loudly that her mother could hear.

Suddenly, from the street below, they heard the cry of a poor beggar, braving the cold in search of food. “Bread!” he cried. “Bread for a freezing old man!” The queen rolled her eyes at Jill. Little Jill smiled at her mother and, once the queen had gone back to her makeup, practiced rolling her eyes as well.

But the beggar cried out again, “Bread! Please! Can anyone spare some bread?” He must have been right below their window, for his voice bounced around the snowy eaves, through the open window, and directly into the room. Jill’s mother raised her eyebrows at Jill, and then dipped her finger in a pot of rouge. The little girl practiced raising her eyebrows.

“Bread! Bread for a freezing, starving man!” the beggar cried.

“Putrid, too,” the queen said. “I can practically smell him from here.” Jill giggled. Her mother added, “Don’t make me smile, child. I’ll ruin the rouge.”

“BREAD!” the beggar screamed.

“Heavens!” The queen looked at Jill in the mirror. Her eyes traveled down to the tub of ice water. Suddenly, the queen spun around, yanked the tub out from under Jill’s feet, and went to the window. She stole a mischievous look over her shoulder at Jill. Jill stared, uncomprehending. Then her mother dumped the entire tub of water out of the window.

“Oh Lord!” the beggar cried. “Who did that? Oh, it’s cold! It’s cold!”

Jill’s mother fell back into the room. Her face was contorted with hysterical, silent laughter. She looked at Jill through heaving laughs, her eyes wide, her eyebrows raised. Jill stared at her. She thought she ought to laugh, too. So she tried. Her mother began laughing harder now, the makeup on her face cracking into little caverns, her eyes wide as moons, staring at her little girl. Jill watched her mother laugh and laugh and laugh, as the beggar cried for a warm blanket in the street below.

Finally, after her fit of laughter had subsided, the queen went into her wardrobe. Jill walked over to the window. The beggar was still crying for a warm blanket. The little girl stuck her head over the sill and gazed downward. A bent, bearded man rubbed his arms up and down and begged, begged for someone to help him. Jill wondered if she could give him her shawl, or if her mother would disapprove. Probably she would disapprove.

Suddenly, the wind banged the window frames against the castle walls, rattling the glass.

The queen, from the depths of the wardrobe, cried out, “What did you break now?” Even though Jill had never broken anything of her mother’s in her life.

“Nothing, Mommy!” Jill called back.

“If it’s my looking glass,” her mother cried, “I will never forgive you!”

Jill reached out to draw the windows closed. She looked down one last time at the beggar. Then, as she was pulling the windows in, her gaze happened to travel across the wintry square. At the opposite side, standing in the shadow of the church, were three huddled figures. They were watching Jill. Watching her with eyes that were so pale they seemed to have no color at all. Jill shivered and withdrew into the room.

Her mother was standing there, staring at her, dresses draped over her shoulders and arms and around her neck. “What’s broken?” the queen snapped. “What’s broken? Don’t lie to me! Is it my looking glass? I must know!”

“Nothing! Nothing, Mommy, I promise!” And Jill ran to her wonderful mother and threw her arms around her and held her tightly.

What’s that? You don’t think she’s so wonderful?

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

“Announcing the entrance of the world-famous Holbein Cornelius Anderson! Merchant-Adventurer and Clothier to Kings!” So read the guard. Then he stood aside, and a man, dressed in the brightest fabrics Jill had ever seen, made his way to the center of the room. He smiled from a smooth baby face, and his eyes were a blue so pale they were almost white.

It was the queen’s half birthday, a holiday that the kingdom celebrated with more fervor than any other excepting the queen’s actual birthday, which was a holiday so holy that even the churches were shut. “Your Majesty,” the brightly clad man said with a low bow, “I am Holbein Cornelius Anderson, Merchant-Adventurer and Clothier to Kings! I have just returned from a smashingly successful trip to the East, where I made kimonos for sultans and turbans for empresses!”

The queen didn’t know what a sultan or a kimono was. Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t like it when people used words she didn’t understand.

“But now I have returned!” Anderson went on, “And I bring with me the greatest treasure I have ever seen! And I find, lo and behold, that I return just in time for the queen’s half birthday! Fate has led me to your feet, with this treasure of treasures!”

There was a pause. The king and the queen and Jill and all the courtiers in the room were silent. So was Holbein Cornelius Anderson. He looked up, right into the queen’s cerulean eyes.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I bring you the finest silk, for the finest gown, in the whole entire world.”

Silence again. He smiled. The queen raised an eyebrow.

“Well,” she demanded impatiently, “where is it?”

“I can’t show it to you here!” Anderson cried, surprised. “Your Majesty, this is the finest silk in all the world! The emperor of Japan offered me a thousand camels for it! The sultan of Arabia offered me every single buffalo he owned! The great kahn, in China, offered not to cut off my head if I gave it to him! I refused them all! I wanted to save it for you, Your Majesty! Now, having traveled all these millions of miles home, I will show it to no one but you!”

“Very well,” the queen announced. “Everyone leave at once! I will examine this silk alone!”

Her husband, the king, gave her a plaintive look, but she just raised an icy eyebrow at him. He, the courtiers, the guards, and the servants, all left the room. Jill was last to leave. As she was about to close the door behind her, the old merchant said, “Wait.”

Jill paused and looked back.

“Princess, would you mind staying a moment?” the merchant asked. The queen raised her eyebrows at him. He ignored her. “Come in, come in, and close the door behind you,” he said with a smile. Then, turning to the queen, he said, “I am sorry, Your Majesty. But you are far taller than I remembered. You see, the great queens and empresses of the East are all very small—some no taller than my knee! I knew you were taller than that, but I thought you were, perhaps, the size of the beautiful princess here. I am afraid I haven’t enough silk for a dress that will fit your statuesque majesty.” He looked down at the floor as if he were ashamed.

“You’re going to make a dress for my
daughter
?” the queen exclaimed. “On
my
half birthday?”

“When is the princess’s half birthday?” the merchant asked innocently. “Or her real birthday, for that matter? I could return then.”

I have a birthday?
Little Jill wondered. She thought only the queen had a birthday. She knew that she hadn’t always been alive, of course, but it had never occurred to her that she—or anyone besides her mother, in fact—had been born on one specific day. It was almost a silly idea, people besides her mother having a birthday.

The queen’s lovely complexion reddened, until Jill thought she might be having a heart attack like that fat lord did two Christmases ago. But her mother merely said, in a tight, clipped voice, “Let me see the silk.”

The merchant nodded affably and placed his broad fabric bag before him. He opened it. He put both hands inside, moved to unfold something, and then, very slowly, drew his hands out of the bag again. He was quite the showman.

His hands were a yard apart. His fingers were pressed tightly together. His eyes ran back and forth over the distance between them. Over nothing.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” he sighed. “The most exquisite silk I have ever seen.”

Jill stole a glance at her mother. The queen was staring, wide-eyed, at the empty space between his hands. Jill turned back to the merchant and mimicked her mother’s facial expression exactly.

“You see it, don’t you?” the merchant went on. “Only the finest eye can see silk this majestic, this perfect. I was nearly stoned to death in the kingdom of the Tartars because the king claimed that I had no silk at all. But then his wife came in and laughed in his face. You see it don’t you? You see the most exquisite piece of silk that has ever been?”

“Oh, yes!” the queen said, and suddenly her voice took on a dreamy languor. “It’s . . . it’s wonderful. Just perfect. I didn’t think there could be a silk so fine.” She glanced at Jill. “Do you see it, child?”

“Oh, yes!” Jill said, echoing her mother’s dreamy tone. “It’s wonderful. It . . . it’s wonderful.” Seeing nothing, she dared say nothing more.

“The colors radiate and shine up and down the thread, do they not?” the merchant asked. “As if a rainbow were running to keep up with the sun.”

“Yes, that’s just how I would describe it!” the queen exclaimed. “Like a rainbow! Or . . . or like autumn leaves, when the colors are changing!” She glanced up at the merchant hesitantly.

“Oh, Your Majesty, you are a poet! Yes, I couldn’t have said it better myself!”

Jill stammered. “It’s like . . . like gold pieces, kissed with the colors of sunset,” she tried.

“Yes! Yes, it is!” the merchant cried, and his smile stretched across his smooth face.

“It is more like autumn leaves, Jill,” said her mother coldly. “Wouldn’t you say, Anderson?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he said, folding his smile away like an apparition of silk. “But the princess has learned good taste from her mother.”

“Lord knows I try,” the queen sighed. Then she said, “There is not enough silk to make a gown for me?”

“Alas, Your Majesty—” the merchant replied. Jill thought she saw his pale eyes flit to hers for a moment, and in that moment there was heat, danger. But then it was gone. “Alas, no. I have just enough thread, I think, to weave a dress for the princess.”

The queen, having seen the silk, did not seem so angry as she had before about not receiving the gift herself. “How long will it take?” she asked.

“If you were to give me use of a loom in the castle, and all the thread I needed, and food and drink and money for expenses, I think I could have the dress done in a month.”

“A month?” the queen exclaimed. She eyed the merchant skeptically. “Make it three weeks.”

“Fine,” the merchant said. “But I’ll have to be up all night, every night.”

“Three weeks it is, then,” the queen announced. “My little girl will wear the dress in the Royal Procession three weeks from today!”

Now, at this point, perhaps you think you know this story. And I’m sure you’ve heard some version of it, mangled and strangled and made almost sweet by years and years of telling it to little children.

But the way you know it is not the way it happened.

The real way is . . . different.

The very next morning, Jill climbed to the castle’s highest turret. There, she found the old merchant already at work. He pumped the loom pedal with his feet as he wove the shuttle up and down, up and down. Jill stared at his hands picking nimbly at the space where the shuttle wove. There was nothing there. Nothing at all on the loom. She was sure of it.

Just then, the merchant looked up. Their eyes met. Again, she felt that heat, that danger. But just for an instant. It passed, and the merchant said, “What do you think of my work, Princess?”

She walked slowly over to the loom. His feet stopped pumping. The shuttle hovered in the air above where the material should have been. She surveyed the nothing.