Grimm and Grimmer Volume Two Read online

  She walked faster, no longer caring if her pedicure was getting wrecked or her hands scratched. Again, she thought she heard a giggle, almost out of range of her hearing, and - what was that? On the ground to her right? A candy wrapper turning somersaults in the mild spring breeze. She reached for it, just as a gust twirled it around and around out of her reach, following it until she found herself off of the path. Hans had offered her a sucker, wrapped in cellophane, and she had turned him down. That must be his! Suddenly, nothing seemed more important than touching that elusive gold, yet each time she was close enough to snatch it up with her fingertips, it skipped out of reach. She kept reaching for the dancing paper until she finally pinched it in mid-air. Yes, she was sure that this was his candy paper. Gold and empty. What did this mean? Was it a sign? A clue? An enticement? Was he doing this on purpose with diabolic intent? Stop it! she ordered herself, her emotions tumbling like the candy wrapper had. Disoriented, she turned around in a full circle and found herself hemmed in by the undergrowth . . . Where was that path? Where was he? Where was she?

  'Hans! Come back! Come back!' her voice caught on a dry patch at the back of her throat, and she coughed. She heard an echo cough - hers or . . . his? Had she swallowed a bug? She coughed again. It feels like it’s crawling up my tongue. She coughed hard, and spit on the ground. Why had she agreed to cover for Ali this weekend? This was the worst idea ever! She should have worked an additional shift as a barista instead to make extra money for the water ski trip at the river with her friends during Spring Break. What if something had happened to her, and she lost him? Couldn’t find him? What if she had to report him lost? Missing? What was he wearing? The blue pants and . . . what colour was his jacket anyway? Thoughts jumbled in her mind as her pulse raced, and she felt a jolt of adrenaline shoot through her. Keep moving ahead! He must be right ahead! And when she caught him, she would grab his skinny little arm and march him right back to the house. What had started as a little game she hadn’t planned on was escalating more quickly than her headache. She would tell his mother and make sure she grounded him for a week, or whatever you did to four-year olds that wouldn’t end you up on the six o’clock news!

  A mass of clouds darkened the woods like a light switch being flipped off. Suddenly, it was dark, really dark. Where were the rays now? Had the sun set already? She twisted her wrist to look at her watch, and couldn’t read the time in the deepening twilight. She patted her pocket for her phone to check the time. If all else failed, she could call 9-1-1. Damn. She had left her phone back in the kitchen. One thing was for sure now. When she caught him, she was personally going to give him the spanking he deserved even though up to this day she would have said that she was against corporal punishment. Spoiled child! Moving through the shadows, she tripped against a tree stump and ripped the small rhinestone out of her toenail. 'Owwww!' she brushed the dirt from her palm and then picked a thin, jagged spike of bark from her sandal where it had punctured a small hole in the arch of her foot.

  'Hans! Answer me! Where are you? Hans!' She listened but only heard the soughing of the trees above. Where was he? More important, where was she?

  She looked up and saw patches of indigo sky peeking through the tree tops. The clouds parted, and she saw a half moon and a star. Almost automatically, she began chanting, Starlight, starbright . . . my wish tonight is . . . my wish tonight is that . . . Her own sob interrupted the nursery rhyme, and she slumped down on the trail . . . that I wasn’t lost. Deep down, she had always had a fear of abandonment, something she imagined originated from her childhood and the fact that her mother had vanished from her life when she was in the second grade and her father had remarried a woman who had children of her own, a woman who had closed her eyes to the needs of her step-child. In fact, Gretchen had spent hundreds of dollars discussing abandonment issues with her therapist, but never had she imagined this terrible, tangible, physical experience of being lost, feeling blinded, being misled. She had been ignored, maybe, and often felt invisible, but she hadn’t actually been physically lost. Not like this. She didn’t know where she was, and she realized that neither did anyone else. Except maybe the boy’s mother, but even she probably wouldn’t think to have the woods searched. The leaves suddenly rustled around her, and she felt a chill creep down her back.

  She stood back up and looked up at the star again. It twinkled down on her, a big bright star. The North Star? Wasn’t that the one sailors followed when they were lost at sea? She didn’t know why she felt a glimmer of hope when she looked at it, but she was going to follow it, follow it to freedom. Freedom for her would be getting the hell out of this wooded area! She carefully moved her feet, one in front of the other, through the darkness, in the direction of the twinkling light.

  Through the twilight ahead, she saw the silhouette of a shack, and she moved toward it, careful not to trip on anything in her path. Maybe the little boy was hiding in it, scared and lost, too. After all, he was just a young, small child, and she was the real adult, right? Her heart softened for a minute, and she saw a glint on the ground, another shiny cellophane wrapper. Hang on, she told herself. You’re on the right path. It’ll be okay. She thought she heard a high-pitched giggle and felt relief flood through her.

  'It’s not funny!' she called out. 'Hans! Come out right now!' She suddenly felt much better and arranged her face into what she hoped was that adult, you-better-not-mess-with-me look that had always worked on her as a child. She was ready to grab him by the collar, and then once she got them back to the chalet, she would decide the best punishment for him. Or recommend one to his mother. Another thing … she was never babysitting for anyone ever again!

  She carefully groped her way up the steps of the shack, sure that she heard his small, nasally voice inside. Through the shadows on the porch, she felt for the door, which creaked open slowly at her touch. 'Hans?' She asked and stepped inside, a strong gust of wind nudging her with leaves whipping around her ankles. Then the door slammed shut behind her, and she was in the pitch black room, a room so dark that she couldn’t tell up from down. Groping through the inky blackness, her heart beating so hard she could feel it singing in her ears, she fingered the rough-hewn door and felt a hairy, legged creature moving onto her hand, stinging her. She screamed and automatically flung it away from herself as far as she could. A spider!

  'Hans!' She screamed his name over and over again until she was hoarse, hunched down in front of the door. Panic had replaced her resolve, setting in entirely too soon, she thought, as she prayed to be rescued. She felt fiery pain on the palm of her hand as her headache ramped up a notch accompanying by the familiar odor of rotten eggs. Her right pupil dilated, and she clutched the doorframe, afraid to move.

  Half a mile away, four-year old Hans sat on his front porch and unwrapped another lollipop and waited patiently. Stars twinkled in the sky above as he dropped the paper on the ground. Where was the nice lady? Wasn’t the babysitter supposed to take care of him and not the other way around especially since he always left a path of candy wrappers to follow back? Why did it always end this way? All he wanted to do was to play! They rarely came back more than once, and one of them had disappeared completely. Oh well! he thought, and he counted forward in a soft lisp, 'Nineteen, twenty!' He was proud that he could count that high. 'Ready or not, here I come!' he chanted with an endearing look of anticipation on his face. He looked down again at the trinket, a small compass, that he held on his dirty, sweaty little palm, and then he bounded back into the dark, dark woods.

  The End

  Stewart Hotston

  Stewart started writing in a fit of romance. He wanted to give his new wife something that was inspired by her and would belong to both of them. That was more than a decade ago. Now he writes for her and his children, his friends and himself. Having once, long ago, been a proper physicist and now working with complex derivatives he tends to write speculatively, preferring to think about big issues and how they impact ordinary people - in other words he l
oves the grand old spirit of science fiction whether it's long or short pieces.

  The story:

  Satire, at its best, presents the chilling and outrageous in the foggy warmth of sardonic laughter. The stories collected by the Grimms were stories people told one another and spoke of society, hierarchy, power, survival, death and morality. Some were stories told by the powerful to the poor, others were clearly told by the poor to the powerful. All were warnings of the consequences of transgression. Rumpelstiltskin seemed ripe for updating - here is a story that talks of the indifference of the powerful, their casual cruelty and places alongside that in delicious juxtaposition the cruelty of the stranger, the abuse of freedom, the price we choose to pay for what we want and of how necessity can force us to find a way when all seems lost. Those themes seem timeless to me and the story hides, with old fashioned characters, magic and royalty, fascinating insights into the horrors of being at the mercy of others.

  Rumpeltrollskin

  by Stewart Hotston

  There was once a single mother who lived on a council estate with her handsome son. She was an honest woman who worked hard at a local shoe shop. In the evenings she would watch talent shows and dream of happiness.

  It came about one day that, as she was fitting a real leather heel with a fine lacquer on the toe cap finished with elegant broguing, she looked up and saw a Queen of Business and Television waiting to try out her wares. She was embarrassed to appear in front of this celebrity in such humble circumstances and thought to herself of how to appear of some consequence in her eyes.

  'I watch you all the time,' she said, but saw nothing except contempt in her expression. She fit the shoe, tied the Queen’s laces and tried again, 'my son is a wonder, he can turn any idea into gold.'

  The Queen liked gold, especially the green variety, and said to her, 'You have seen my work and know what I do. Bring your son to me and I will give him such harebrained schemes as to make even the best businessmen in the country weep. If he is so very clever I will happily put him to the test.'

  When the opportunity arose, the son went to see the Queen. The Queen wanted little to do with him but remembered the boast that he would make more gold and set her advisors to look after the boy. Before sending him to his task the Queen said, 'I shall provide you with your tasks immediately, you will have today to prepare and tomorrow my advisors and I will come to see what you have made of the materials in front of you. If you fail we will film your pathetic attempts and show them to the world and you’ll wish you were dead.' She did not believe anyone could turn foolishness into worth.

  The advisors put the son into an office with computers, televisions and a library of books. On the desk at which he was to work his miracle they left a pile of paperwork and on top of those files were the ideas he was to turn into something profitable. 'We expect you to have read the ideas and develop business plans for each of them.' With this they clapped their hands, told him to get started and left him alone.

  He sat there for many hours, reading the ideas and wondering how to keep his dignity and avoid being shown a fool in front of the whole world. He knew nothing about television and less about business – he did not even have a suit and tie to call his own.

  ***

  He searched the internet, read a guide for idiots and even asked questions on forums for people who watched the show. The more he read the less he realised he knew until at last he sat, head in his hands, and wished he had never been born.

  He was disturbed from his despair by an anonymous message on his computer. Hi, you don’t know me but I saw your questions online and wondered why you were so down.

  The boy was beyond hope and, seeing nothing better to do, wrote back, 'I’m going to appear on television to show my business acumen. I’ve been given the worst ideas in the world to turn into gold but I don’t even know how to show that they’re bad ideas!'

  A reply came back on his messenger instantly, what would you give me if I wrote your business plans for you?

  'I’d give you my collection of movie figurines which I’ve kept from my childhood and hoped to give to my own son.' said the boy.

  The mysterious messenger agreed and the son uploaded all the ideas. Before the clubs had closed an email appeared in the boy’s inbox with business plans for each of the ideas. Even the son, ignorant as he was, knew they were miracles of invention and creativity combined with acute insight and experience. The Queen and her advisors came with breakfast, grins criss-crossing their faces in expectation of glorious failure but were astonished as they read the opportunities the son presented to them.

  The Queen was as clever as she was greedy and said to the son, 'You have passed the first test and the viewers will think well of you, but you must now perform for us again.' At this her advisors took the son to another office piled high with paperwork and in each file was a bad idea submitted by a research assistant. 'It could all still go poorly for you, so I advise you to work as you’ve never worked before.' said the Queen before she and her advisors left.

  The boy was lost – he had learnt nothing the night before while the work was done for him and now did not know what he would do. Yet once again his messenger pinged, What will you give me to help you again?

  The boy thought of all his meagre possessions and offered his limited edition basketball shoes. The messenger agreed and worked all night with the rubbish that had been put in front of the son. Before the Queen and her advisors arrived the next morning the boy had received enough ideas to make him wealthy for the rest of his life if he were only to start just one of the businesses.

  The Queen was delighted, even if her botox stopped any emotions from crossing her face. However, she was not satisfied because she knew that for every good idea and thousand bad ones languish on the lips of fools. She once again led the son to an office full of suggestions from members of the public for brilliant products, inventions and businesses. 'For a second day the viewers will think you are brilliant but this is the real test. Think of everything before this as preparation. If you fail today the country will know you for a fraud and a failure' The Queen and her advisors knew that even if the boy failed they would have television they could sell to the world and business ideas which would be glorious in the implementation. They wouldn’t need the boy whatever the result.

  The boy did not even try but instead waited for his online friend to message him.

  Sure enough, the message came, What will you give to me?

  'I have nothing left to give.' said the boy, and he was telling the truth.

  Give me your first child, said the message.

  The boy was horrified, 'What kind of monster are you?' he wrote, 'I will not give a child of mine to some stranger off the internet, no matter what good deed you have done me. In this age I would be a fool to hand over or promise anything like this to someone I don’t know.'

  Then what can you give to me? came the reply.

  The boy racked his brain and realised he was desperate not to fail, 'I will give you whatever you desire.'

  The offer was accepted and the messenger immediately set about spinning the nonsensical drooling of the public into professional genius. When the Queen came back she discovered the boy successful and her future riches assured. She was so delighted she chose him to be her public ambassador. All he had to do was appear beside her and tell the story of how he had come from a sink estate and yet had created some of the most profound business ideas in a decade. The public loved him and everything he stood for and cherished his obvious humility and simplicity in their hearts.

  That season of the show ended and they began to plan for the next one. The son settled into his role and gladly forgot about what he had promised. He found that his celebrity meant beautiful women wanted to be near him and, having never been much for planning ahead, he managed to have a child with one of them. It was then that the messages started.

  You promised me your child. That time has come.

  He wrote back, 'Anything bu
t this, my friend, anything. I will give you my wealth. I will make you a director of any of my companies. I will get you on the show that made my name.'

  No. I will have what you promised. What I desire is the touch of human flesh.

  The boy was so depressed he began leaving mournful and cryptic status updates everywhere and refused to leave the house. When he did speak in public all he could talk about was the sadness of losing a child. No one knew what to think.

  The messenger wrote to him, I will give you three days to consider, if in that time you discover my real name you can keep your child.

  The boy spent the first night searching the internet. He looked through his list of friends, googled all his acquaintances and even checked any forums for people boasting of their business skills but to no avail. No one matched the tone and sheer brilliance of his helper. However, in the time the boy had been working with the Queen he had made many contacts and one of these was a private detective. The son rang and hired him to find out who this person was and where they lived. The private detective was used to keeping the secrets of the rich and famous and did nothing more than raise an eyebrow when he read the correspondence between the boy and the anonymous messenger.

  The following day the boy stalled. He sent the weirdest names he could think of, names that celebrities had chosen for their children, names from other countries that his lips found hard to pronounce and even names with apostrophes and inexplicable spellings. To these the messenger sent a smiley face and said Not even close.

  On the second day the boy tried names from those people who went to public school and worked in the city or in the FTSE 100. He tried Tarquin, Edward, Charles and even Boris but each time the smiley face appeared and the message read, Nope, Nada, Not me.