Once Upon a Time: The Villains
Read Once Upon a Time: The Villains Online
Authors: Shea Berkley
Once Upon a Time…The Villains
Hidden Faery Tales
By Shea Berkley
Published by Foreword Literary, PO Box 258, La Honda, CA, 94020
Copyright Sherri Buerkle © 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
Cover by Laura Cummings
Table of Contents
A Tale of Revenge – Rumpelstiltskin
A Tale of Selfishness – Hansel and Grethel
A Tale of Rebellion – Jack and the Beanstalk
A Tale of Vanity – Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
A Tale of Haughtiness – King Thrush-Beard
Hag
A Tale of Ugliness
I have always been who I am. From the beginning, I was unlovable, born to wear the name “hag.” Though I came into this world with a heart-shaped face, it soon broadened too wide to be endearing. My nose grew too big for my face, and my mouth too thin and nearly lipless. My hair, though flaxen — a color many a maiden went to bed dreaming of possessing — grew fine and hung limp down the sides of my face. When I deemed to pull it back in an effort of looking tidy, I emerged from my dressing table as if I had suddenly grown bald, which is a sight far worse than that of thin, limp, unattractive hair. My only redeeming physical qualities were my enormous, exotic-shaped eyes tinted a startling shade of violet, and my skin. It was unbelievably smooth and the color of whipped honey.
When I was young, my stalwart father, so strong and noble, so pure of heart and honest in his dealings with others, would look deeply into my eyes, stroke my face and marvel at my chubby arms and legs. “How beautiful. Eyes and a complexion to rival any lord’s daughter,” he’d say. And then a frown would appear. “It is too bad the faeries cursed her looks. She will come to naught with that beak riding her countenance.” For even as an infant, my nose never appeared button-like or adorably nubbish.
My mother, so beautiful as to make angels weep in jealousy, would pull me from his embrace and scold him gently, all the while smiling at me. “Ugly in the cradle, pretty at the table. Our little one will surprise us yet. God didn’t grant her so sweet a complexion to see it go to waste.” Her optimism was a godsend in my youth.
Oh, how wrong Mother was…and how prophetic Father turned out to be.
By my sixth year, my skin creased like an apple left to rot on the shelf. My once beautiful complexion suddenly produced unsightly brown spots — not cute freckles, but large moleish spots — that overtook the honeyed creaminess that was once my parents’ pride and joy…and their hope of a better future for me.
It is plausible a man may take a second look at an unattractive woman if she has exotic shaped eyes and skin as remarkable as I had. But no man will look twice at a woman with a pair of violet eyes in a face nightmares conjure, no matter how remarkable the eyes.
My last excursion into public happened not soon after the disappointing setback to my skin. My father, a successful merchant, was away, and to pass through the boredom of his absence, mother took me to market. We left our fortified manor house with its impressive tower that soared to the sky and took to the forest road. Holding my hand, Mother whispered about the delights we both hoped to see that day. Would the confectioner have our favorite sweets? Would the puppet master perform his famous rendition of the king and his jester? Would the man with the dark skin be there with a cartload of trinkets from faraway places? We both liked him best of all. He didn’t seem to care that I wasn’t the prettiest girl in the village. He was mysterious, unique for our village. Many didn’t trust him, but Mother and I found him more interesting than anyone we’d ever met.
And there he was, in the middle of the square, hawking his wares better than any around him. The villagers’ curiosity always overcame their sense of caution, and it wasn’t surprising to see his cart surrounded by customers. Many were those who only looked, but some — and he knew exactly who those were — had the intent to buy. These people were given his utmost attention. I was too young to know, but my mother was one of his most prized clients. I could have had two heads and coughed fire and he would have smiled and called me sweet.
I hid behind Mother’s skirts the closer we came to the cart. Since the further demise of my looks, I had developed a keen sense of shame, seeing what others had which I did not, and didn’t want to embarrass Mother by the stares I would inevitably draw my way. Talk of the recent calamity to strike my appearance had circulated through the village, and it was with a less than subtle series of movements that the men and women of the village spied my wrinkled skin.
“How awful for you, Honora,” one woman said with illegitimate concern. “Is she in much pain?”
“None at all, thank you.” Mother was gracious to a fault. “She is, as always, a delight.”
The woman made a sour face as if she did not believe my mother and tried to view my face more fully. “I’m sure she is.”
I gave her no concern, for my attention had been diverted toward a boy. I could just make out what he held in his hand. It was a wondrous thing. A horse. A small, intricately-carved white horse. I’d never seen anything so beautiful. The pleasure I received from looking at it eclipsed everything else in my life.
I wanted one just like it, but when I stole a glance at the cart, there was nothing so enchanting hiding upon it. I returned my attention to the miniature carving. It was as if my eyes were glued to that horse. I can’t explain, even now, why it was
that
horse,
that
object and none other. I wanted it. I
needed
it. I would surely die if I couldn’t have it. I could feel my heart race; my blood course through my veins. My head felt light, my stomach all fluttery as I watched that boy slip “my” horse into the side pocket of his tunic.
Mother, not willing to let unkindness disrupt her way of life, pulled me forward and addressed the vendor. “Do you have any oddities to share with us?”
That boy, the one who had my horse, nudged his friend and giggled, “Ain’t her girl odd enough?”
Mother heard him. How could she not? I heard him as if he had yelled his hate into my own ear. I glanced up. Mother stared straight ahead. Her beautiful face didn’t show so much as a twinge of acknowledgement. She waited, like a perfectly created marble statue, for the dark-skinned man to show us his wares. I, in turn, pressed closer to her. If I could just stay right there, nothing could ever touch me, nothing hurt me, nothing would ever upset me while I was in the presence of my mother’s love. It was a precious shield, a bubble I could always retreat within. I pressed into that imaginary bubble surrounding her, felt her warmth seep through her clothes and encompass me. Her hands caressed my shoulders, loosening the knots I didn’t even know were there as we waited for his reply.
He smiled, looked at me without so much as a shudder and gave me a broad wink. “I will be just a moment.” The dark-skinned man always saved some special surprise for my mother.
When he disappeared within the deepest recesses of his cart, the crowds grew thicker, not just to see what he would bring forth, but to stare at me, to grimace at what they saw, and to cross themselves as if that would ward away any chance that they may produce a child like me.
Mother’s fingers grew stiff. The bubble shrank as people pushed in upon us. Whispers of amazement, of horror raced through the crowd. The boy who had my horse bumped me. He didn’t apologize. It was the first of many realizations that when you’re scarred on the outside you suddenly become scarred on the inside, as if your soul is no longer redeemable. As if you aren’t worthy of social graces. Not worthy to walk on the same dirt as others. Not worthy to even live.
The words abomination, changeling, monster slashed through the crowd like rainwater over virgin soil. I had never heard such words. Never thought such words would ever apply to me. But they soaked in, passed beyond the shielding bubble and watered the seeds of doubt which sprang to life within me, never to die. How could I be lovable if I looked so hideous?
Was I truly the monster they called me?
The boy bumped me again, and this time, I slipped my hand within his pocket and pulled out my horse. I clutched it within my palm and hid my hand within the folds of my skirt. He had no clue I’d taken it. He’d go home with the expectation of seeing the horse and find his pocket empty. I smiled.
The crowd grew louder. Mother encircled her arms around my shoulders, hugging my back to her waist. The bubble had shrunk so tiny it was on the verge of collapse. Mother sensed it too. The shield, though strong — as love is the strongest shield a mother can give a child — was overpowered. Hate entered and shook its fist at us. She backed away from the cart, dragging me with her.
The crowd followed.
I looked up at Mother, and the look in her eyes scared me. Worry, despair, fear, they all mingled to produce a sensation that hit my soul with a hot iron, searing the memory to my bones.
She pushed me behind her and screamed at the crowd. “Why do you say such things? She is just a child. She has never harmed any of you.”
“Your wickedness has left an imprint on her,” one man yelled. Others nodded their heads in agreement.
Mother clutched my hand harder. “Nay. Evil does not reside in her. God has given her a beautiful soul.”
“Then why, with every passing day, does her ugliness grow?” a woman railed. “You are a witch, that is why. You’ve placed all your sins onto your child, shaping her into the monster you are so you can remain beautiful.”
Mother gasped and her fingers tightened against mine. “What mother would do such a terrible thing to her own child? I am innocent.”
As Mother and I backed slowly from the village, the crowd — mostly made up of jealous, plain-looking women and wicked men who envied my father’s success — digested an idea and found it pleasing. The boy who had tried to take my horse stooped and picked up a small stone. With a twisted sneer on his lips, he threw the stone at my mother.
She brought her arm up just in time, but the rock cut the smooth skin of her wrist and drew blood. Seeing the red streak stain my mother’s fine clothes infused the crowd with madness. I peeked around my mother’s skirt and saw people bending and stooping, like hens pecking at the grain I fed them every morning. Stones flew through the air, striking my mother. She spun around and grabbed my shoulders. Her face, so beautiful and serene, now twisted with agony as the stones hit her back.
“I will always love you. Now run!” she yelled into my face. “Run as fast as you can. Don’t look back.” She whirled me about and pushed me into the forest, falling to her knees as she did.
Of all things my mother was most proud, it was my obedience. I never questioned her. I simply did as she asked. That day, I acted no differently. I ran. I ran because she bade me do so. I ran until I couldn’t hear the crowd, until the moaning of my mother enduring the sharp bite of stones, again and again, had been replaced by the twittering of the birds nestled high in the forest branches.
For two days I stayed in the forest, hiding within the brambles, eating berries and sipping water from the leaves, my eyes wide and watching, my body shivering from the cold. On the third day, the dark-skinned man found me, huddled under a prickly bush, fast asleep. I didn’t even wake when he picked me up and took me to my father.
But solace was not to be found in my father’s arms. His devotion to my mother had been complete. Their very souls had mingled to the point where one could not live without the other. Though I keenly felt Mother’s absence, at some point, Father ceased to see me and how desperately I needed him. Day after day, he slowly deteriorated into a shadow of the man I had grown to love. Isolating himself in the tower room, all too quickly Father went mad. And mercifully, he soon died. It wasn’t a shock, but inevitable. He couldn’t face the world without the one person who made life bearable.
I was not granted so consumable a soul. I lived.
No one bothered the ugly little girl living in the big manor house hidden deep within the forest. The villagers’ rage had been expended on an innocent, spilling my mother’s blood to atone for their inadequacies. Having done so horrible a deed, they left me alone, I believe, in hopes I would soon die if left to survive on my own. They underestimated my father. His business rolled along like a well-oiled wheel, barely noticing his absence at the reins. A fat bag of money found its way on my doorstep every month, and I stored my wealth away, content to count its shiny allure and dream of the possibilities it could afford me.
The years slipped by, one after the other. The forest road, abandoned after my mother’s death, grew thick with saplings and wide-spreading brambles. I viewed the forest as mine. Whatever entered its boundaries came under my rule. Wild game knew they were safe once they broke free of civilization and entered my domain. No man would dare enter the forest. It was haunted by the soul of the innocent. I encouraged the superstition by staking a scarecrow wearing one of my mother’s white shifts within the trees where hunters were wont to wander. It took only a few sightings before the locals stopped trespassing and stayed in their world.