A Grimm Legacy (Grimm Tales) (2 page)

"I didn’t know her at this age.” Her mother’s voice sounded slightly awed. She waved her hand taking in the whole of the photograph and rubbed the glass. “You would have loved her. Very soft spoken and kind, but opinionated and immovable as steel when provoked, especially if it came to her family. “

“We obviously weren’t that similar, “Andi said grimly.” I don’t think you’ve ever called me soft spoken.”

She took back the photo, setting it gently on the floor next to the trunk before she continued to dig.

Raising herself out of the trunk, Andi clutched a stack of faded, tattered books to her chest. She shuffled through them, uninterested in the clothing patterns, sewing tips and knitting stitches. Tucked inside the cover of the last one, she found a slim volume, the leather cover faded beyond recognition and an opened envelope.
It was addressed to her grandmother in an unfamiliar, precise calligraphy. The stamp was bright blue with the word INDIA running down the side as well as a picture of the country.

“Did Grandma know anyone from India?” Andi asked, glancing at the return address. It wasn’t written in English, Hindi she supposed.

“Not that I know of,” her mom said, clearly distracted as she continued digging through the box. Andi checked the envelope: empty.

She picked up the small leather bound book and opened it to the title page: Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Andi smiled. If nothing else, this was worth the trip to the dusty attic. It would be perfect to study up on her part. She slipped it into her back pocket to examine more closely later.

A stack of folded skirts and dresses landed in Andi's lap. "Make yourself useful, please."

A pair of knitting needles tumbled out of the folds of a skirt. Seeing them, a forgotten piece of memory surfaced; the cadenced click of yarn being worked, the faint smell of a floral powder. Her mom interrupted Andi’s thoughts. "Anything?"

She shook her head, "The clothes are really neat, but they won’t do for a Cinderella costume. They look like they're from the 1950's."

“No retro fairy tales?” her mom teased.

“Nope. We’re doing an old version—very grim in the hacking of limbs and absence of fairy godmothers,” Andi said enthusiastically.

“Wait.” Her mom’s voice was muffled from being head and shoulders in the trunk. Straightening up, her arms full, she set a pair of shoes on the floor and unfurled yards of light blue fabric. A hooded cloak emerged as her mom straightened the bundle. As it drifted down Andi saw it flowed light as silk, but was much softer and sleeker. The material caught the dusty light and a ripple effect like water washed down it. Her mom flipped it over. The backside was a slightly darker blue with a plush, velvet finish.

"This," Andi reached her hand toward the cloak, her excitement at having found something useful growing, "is perfect. It looks like it was made for the part. Know where it comes from?" A tiny spark leapt from the cloak and stung her hand. She pulled back and rubbed it on her jeans as the pain receded.

"I don't recognize the cloak or the shoes at all. Maybe they’re things from before she married?” Her mom fingered the fabric; “I don’t know if I want you taking these to school Andi, they’re awfully old.”

“Mom!” Andi said, wishing her mother could be less of a kill-joy sometimes.

“Come on, we might as well see if they fit before I make up my mind,” her mom sighed as she wove her way back toward the ladder.

Grabbing the shoes, Andi followed, already envisioning the finished costume in her mind.

"When do you need these by?" her mom asked as Andi unlaced her running shoes in a chair at the table, glad to be back in the warmth of the kitchen.

Andi glanced out the big bay window as the orange sun slid behind the mountains; another sparrow appeared on the ledge as she turned to face her mom.

"I’m not sure." Andi pulled off her socks and wiggled the lint off her toes. She picked up one of the shoes and examined it. A light slip on dress shoe with a small heel, it was made out of silk. It glinted a strange color, metallic, like a tarnished mirror. The most remarkable thing was the beadwork on the toe of each slipper, fingering its way around the heel. The beads shone tiny, translucent, and their sheer number astonishing in the delicate scrolls twining over the shoe.

Andi slid her feet into the shoes. "They fit."

Her mother raised an eyebrow as she handed her the cloak. With a theatrical swirl, Andi let it settle on her shoulders, silky side out. “Well?” Andi raised her arms and spun. “What’d you think?”

“It actually looks pretty good. Pull the hood up,” her mom said.

Andi reached past her ears, grasping the slick fabric and snapping her wrists. The hood settled onto her head, shrouding her face in shadow. Her mother gasped, the sound echoing in the silent kitchen. The shock on her mother’s face was all Andi caught before the kitchen vanished before her eyes.

“You fly often?”

Fredrick Avery scrunched his toes, thick wool socks bunched in his boots. His feet tingled as blood struggled to circulate back into his feet--but his toes stayed unforgivingly cold. He tugged his ski hat more firmly on his head and jammed his hands in his pockets. Glancing at his dad, he hoped they were done standing around in the chilly fall air.

The helium balloon that Fredrick’s dad released to test the wind had become a tiny speck in the sky. He watched by the tailgate of their aging blue truck, disregarded the
numbing effect of the weather.

They were the same height, but Fredrick’s lean frame more like a runners and his dad a linebacker. With his light brown hair cut military short, and his wide green eyes set in a pale freckled face, he contrasted sharply with his dad's sun-browned complexion.

“Time?” Fredrick’s dad asked without turning.

Freeing his hand from the warmth of his pocket Fredrick glanced at his watch. “Three minutes, forty-one seconds.”

His dad clapped his gloved hands together, reaching for the tailgate of the truck. It careened down with a familiar clang. “Perfect conditions, gentle breezes all the way up to 10,000 feet. Get our crew out of the truck and get the basket down.”

The hot-air balloon basket was triangular shaped and woven out of incredibly sturdy wicker. The dried plant material’s green cast on this basket looked different from the usual tans and browns on a basket.

Their passengers, also their crew, crawled out of the warmth of the truck into the clearing. They unfolded their stiff limbs and looked around the isolated area. A ring of looming loblolly pines, an overly frequent sight in east Texas, formed a protective circle around the parked truck.

Today, they would be taking the Lambdin family up, a mom, dad and a boy about 8 years old. They all looked slightly rumpled, like most people did before their morning coffee. All  except the boy, Samuel, whose excitement obviously overrode his sleepiness. The boy’s attitude had a reluctant smile tugging at Fredrick, it reminded him his two younger brothers. He bet Damien and Alex weren’t even awake yet.

“Grab a pair of gloves.” Fredrick kept his head down, speaking mostly to his shoes. He’d have preferred a job that didn’t involve talking to strangers. “We’ve gotta get the basket down.”

A familiar look passed between Mr. and Mrs. Lambdin. They were from Minnesota and he could tell the dreaded, “Isn’t-his-southern-accent-darling?” comment that was on the tip of their tongues.

“Won’t it be too heavy?” Mrs. Lambdin asked. Fredrick shook his head, still avoiding her gaze.

“
Ready? Lift!” Fredrick’s dad grunted as he took the weight of the basket and they all staggered forward several yards, clearing the truck. The helium tanks clanked together in their canvas sleeves as the basket bumped gently on the wet grass before tilting on to its side.

The process was repeated and the small group hauled the canvas bag containing the hot-air balloon to the front of the wicker basket. Fredrick busied himself unbuckling straps, hoping no one would talk to him.

Mr. Lambdin sidled up next to him and tugged at the D-rings that held the ties in place. “You seem pretty good at this. Do you fly often?”

No such luck then.

If Mrs. Lambdin appeared at home on the cover of
Vogue
, Mr. Lambdin could easily be the cover for
Field and Stream
. His get up reminded Fredrick of Elmer Fudd, straight out of the Bugs Bunny cartoon, his brother’s watched, complete with the earflaps tied up on his hunter's cap.

Fredrick nodded an affirmative to his question. Seeing the expectant look on Mr. Lambdin’s face he added, “Almost every weekend for the last eleven years.”

“So young?” Mr. Lambdin asked, disbelief plain on his face.

“He was six and better than you’d think.” His dad lightly la
id a hand on his shoulder. “We put him to work and now he knows this business inside and out.”

His
dad squeezed his shoulder before moving to attach the balloon to the basket. That simple touch, Fredrick knew, was his dad’s way of showing his gratitude for him taking over as crew chief. They wished his mom still had the strength to do it herself, but they were all pitching in the best they could.

As Fredrick went to pull the fan out of the truck, Samuel was using the inverted basket as a jungle gym, his blue jeans making a rumbling sound as he slid down the wicker.

“Whoa!” Fredrick hurried over and lifted Samuel off the basket. “No sliding! This is going to keep you in the air, don’t tear it up.”

The boy stared at his toes. “Sorry,” he mumbled to his feet.

“It’s okay. It’s just that it’s an old basket; it was my granddad’s.”

What Fredrick didn’t say was that when his father was five years old, his own father had struggled with depression after losing his job. After than, he simply disappeared, taking nothing with him.

Now, fifty years later, this old basket was one of the last connections they had to a man that was likely long dead.

The whirring of the giant gas-powered fan reminded Fredrick that he had work to do. He set off, jogging to the other end of the half inflated balloon where Mr. Lambdin was leaning his weight into the crown line attached to the very top of the balloon.

“Mr. Lambdin, we need everyone on the basket now.”

“Sure,” he agreed easily, handing over the line without taking his eyes off the balloon. “It’s something, isn’t it?”

Fredrick attempted to look at the hot-air balloon from an outsider’s point of view, but could only see the thing that had him away from his bed at an unnaturally early our. Crewing had long ago become more of a job and a chore than a thrill. His dad had never lost his fascination though, which is why Fredrick was freezing in this empty field instead of still in bed.

The balloon slowly rose as if being drawn skyward by some invisible force and Fredrick craned his neck
to take in the now upright hot-air balloon towering several stories above him.

“You ready?” his dad asked. It took Fredrick a second to realize his dad was talking to him.

“For what?” Fredrick asked.

“Want to try your hand at flying?” His dad gave one more blast of the burner, making his passengers jump.

A grin stretched across Fredrick’s face and quickly faded as he glanced apprehensively at the Lambdins. “Really? You want me take them up?”

“How about you just hop in and get the balloon up to equilibrium today,” Fredrick’s dad said.

"Equilibrium?" Mr. Lambdin asked.

"Balanced." Fredrick recognized his dad’s teaching tone as he warmed to his favorite topic. "What we’re looking for is that perfect place where the balloon’s ready to break free of gravity."

Vaulting over the side of the basket, Fredrick switched places with his dad. In his hand gripping the side of the basket, a strange shivering sensation started, making him quickly let go. He rolled his shoulders to try and rid himself of the feeling. Alone in the basket, he checked his instruments, and then gently squeezed the trigger, his stomach clenched with nerves.

The burner responded with a discharge of fire so close to his head he was sure that his hair had begun to smoke. From where he was standing, it was much easier to see why his father still loved this. The raw power in his hands was much better than lugging heavy equipment through soggy grass. The balloon gave a small hop as the air slowly
became warmer and more buoyant.

Clinging to the
outside of the basket, Samuel shared a giddy glance with Fredrick. The air felt different now—charged. The wan warmth coming from the struggling sun was gone and Fredrick shivered as he turned to find a massive thunderhead blocking a third of the sky.

“Where’d that come from?” His dad caught sight of the storm the same time as Fredrick. The sun took on an odd glowing gloom, like the diffused light of an eclipse.

The wind came before anyone had the chance to react. The stillness preceding it was as frightening as the screaming deep in the forest as the torrent of air streamed through the pines. The gale bent vegetation at impossible angles and threw all matter of things into the clearing. Pine cones, needles and branches—even several small birds—tossed about in the open space.