Once Upon a Time: New Fairy Tales Paperback (38 page)

In all the months that passed, I had only one brief period of hope,

which came when spring returned to us and I recalled the peach

stone I had brought home from the goblin revels. I had placed it in

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• Christopher Barzak •

a drawer and, upon remembering it, I quickly took it out to set it on a wall that faced south, and soaked it with my tears, hoping it would take root, or grow a green shoot after I planted it in the garden.

No shoot ever came, though I dreamed of melons and trees full of

ripe apples; and sometimes, as I came to see if the peach kernel was growing, I would be deluded by visions of ripe berry bushes, the way a thirsty traveler in the desert will see water where no water flows.

No more did I sweep the house, no more did I tend to the fowl or

cows. No more did I join Lizzie and her mother to knead cakes of

wheat, no more did I gather honey. Instead, I sat in the nook by the chimney and nursed my sorrow. And never did I fetch water from

the brook, for going there reminded me too much of what I could no

longer see, hear, touch, taste.

“Poor Laura,” Lizzie said one day in late spring, while I was at my

worst. I had stopped eating, because no food set before me tasted of life, and even when I tried to eat for the sake of Lizzie and her parents, I could not take more than two bites before my stomach turned and

revolted. “Poor Laura,” said Lizzie, coming to sit beside me. She lifted my cold hand from my lap and held it between her burning palms. “I

cannot stand to see you suffering like this, sister. Tonight I will put a penny in my purse and go to the goblin merchants for you.”

I was too feeble in mind and in body to say anything to stop her,

and could only watch as she slid the coin into her purse and went on her daily mission to fetch water from the brook.

What occurred down there, in the glen near the flowing water,

beneath the newly leafed trees and the shadows they cast upon

the ground beneath them, I could only imagine from my own

experiences. But Lizzie was a smart girl, and always prepared to get what she wanted without giving herself over in return. So later, when she returned at moonrise, and spilled into our room, slathered in the juice of goblin fruit from top to bottom, I could not believe the words she sang out to me.

“Laura, oh Laura, did you miss me? Come and kiss me. Never

mind my bruises, hug me, kiss me, suck my juices, squeezed from

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• Eat Me, Drink Me, Love Me •

goblin fruits for you. But I did not let them touch me, only you. Only you. Come, Laura. Eat me, drink me, love me. Make much of me. For

you I have braved the glen and had to do with goblin merchant men.”

With a start I leaped from my chair, already concerned that Lizzie

had tasted fruit that would destroy her. I clutched at her, and kissed her, and held her to me, as we once did with great passion. Tears

sprang from my eyes, burning as they fell from me. And as the

juice from the goblin fruit smeared upon my sister’s body filled my

mouth, I felt my youth and vigor being restored to me, and tore at my robe, and then at Lizzie’s, and we tumbled toward our bed like two

awkward dancers, parting the curtains as we fell onto the pillows,

and then began to touch each other as we were meant to.

Life out of death. That long night, after we had made love as we

used to, I slept with the peace I once knew in life. The shades of gray that had colored me for months began to fade, and in the morning

when I awoke, it was as if from a nightmare that I returned to the

world, where color and scent and the feeling of Lizzie’s skin as I

stroked her bare, cream-colored shoulder had returned as well.

When Lizzie rose from sleep as my touch lingered, she yawned,

then smiled, and quickly slipped out of bed to dress herself. “Honey, then butter, then the chickens, then the house,” she murmured,

grinning to herself as she sat in a chair and laced her bodice.

“And after the house,” I said, sitting up on one elbow, “the brook.

And after the brook, here again, beneath these curtains, where I wish we could stay forever.”

Lizzie’s grin turned sour the moment I said those words, though.

She lifted her face to me and said, “Laura, it was for you that I did that. It was to save you. But it cannot be more. It cannot be what you are thinking. It cannot go on like that between us forever. I will be married one day. I will have children. So, too, will you, if you know what’s best for you. But clearly you do not, or we would never have

found ourselves in this predicament to begin with.”

And at that she rose from her chair and left me there, alone.

v

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• Christopher Barzak •

It was like a curse she threw upon me with those last statements, for as the days and months began to grind beneath my feet, it all came

to be true. Lizzie married a young man from a farm just down the

way, past the glen; and some time later, after I fully realized we would not be together as I wished, I married too. He was a sweet man, a

blacksmith with a sharp black beard and kind blue eyes, and with

him I had two children, a boy and a girl to match Lizzie’s pair. He was not long for this world, though. A spark flew up one day and blinded him in one eye, and soon the skin there turned an awful red, and

then began to fester. The doctor said there was nothing to be done

but to help ease him out of this world with the least amount of pain possible, which we did.

Lizzie helped me during that trying time. She came daily with

bread and milk and honey, and cleaned my house for me, to save me

the work while I tended to my husband. His passing was slow at first, and then he ran toward his end very quickly.

The house and his hearth were sold afterward. I went to live again

in the house where Lizzie’s parents had once raised us. They were

gone by then, too, and Lizzie said it would be better if my children and I were closer, so she could look in on me more often.

She’d bring her own children with her, to play with my Tom and

Lily, and we would sew together and try not to speak of the past.

Only the present, only daily items and routines would be topics. Any hint of love long past, of passion hidden for the sake of others, and Lizzie would gather up her things and leave.

Sometimes she’d bring her children over and ask me to look after

them when she needed to go into town for something. It was during

those times that I would tell them the story of the goblin glen, about how my sister had stood in deadly peril to do me good, to save me

from an awful fate. The children would listen, rapt and eager to hear the parts about the goblins, and about the fruits, and the music, and the dancing. And afterward they’d run off to play under the shadows

of the weeping willow at the bottom of the garden, where once I tried to plant a peach stone out of desperation.

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• Eat Me, Drink Me, Love Me •

After they were off on their own, I would weep, silently, for having lied to them. The entire tale I told was true, yet none of it was honest.

But the stories one tells children always mean: Life will be happy, my dear ones, even though you will struggle within the world’s fierce

embrace.

When they grow older, I decided long ago—as the days, months,

and years come to pass—I will tell them a different story. A story

with a good moral of its own to benefit them when they are ready. I

will tell them everything they need to know about this world to find or make their happy endings. And if the world cannot provide them

with the love they require for happiness, I will tell them to leave it, to join another if one is ever offered. I will tell them to not go back up the path to what they already know. Eat, drink, love without caution.

Within this world’s fierce embrace, they need not struggle so.

••

Christopher Barzak
is the author of the Crawford Fantasy Award-winning novel,
One for Sorrow,
which is currently being made into the feature film
Jamie Marks is Dead
. His second book,
The Love We Share
Without Knowing
, was a finalist for the Nebula and Tiptree Awards.

His short fiction has appeared in a variety of venues, including

Asimov’s Science Fiction
,
Realms of Fantasy
,
Lady Churchill’s Rosebud
Wristlet
, and several “year’s best” anthologies
His most recent books are
Birds and Birthdays
, a collection of surrealist fantasy stories, and
Before and Afterlives
, a collection of supernatural fantasies. He grew up in rural Ohio, has lived in California and Michigan, and has taught English in suburban and rural communities outside of Tokyo,

Japan. Currently he teaches at Youngstown State University.

••

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•

“The Mirror Tells All” was inspired during a lecture at a

fairy tale conference I attended in which “Snow White”

was described as a story about mother-daughter competition. My

immediately reaction was,
yes, but what if it isn’t?
The voice of a young woman flitted through my mind, a young woman with a

different interpretation. That is the beauty of fairy tales—they can be read in any number of ways, and the meanings that can be culled

from them are as relevant now as they were when the stories were

first written. For me, “Little Snow White” is a story of triumph in the face of those who would, by envy or other means, try to stifle a young woman’s spirit.

Erzebet Yellowboy

•

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•

Listen. Here’s the story you wouldn’t let me tell.

I know, I know. You’re dying. Leave you to it. Let you rest in

peace. You’ll have all the peace you need, in a day or two. That’s what the doctor told me, anyway. Did he tell you that? No? Oh well. I’m

sure he’ll get around to it eventually.

I read somewhere the other day that this story is about competition.

Daughters growing up, mothers growing old, that sort of thing. I

don’t buy it. There was never any of that stuff between us. No, this is a story about love, not competition. Maybe if you’d pried your face

away from that mirror . . . Nah. You didn’t. So that’s where this story begins.

I tried to break that thing once, did you know? I saw you go into

the bathroom and I seized the moment. I threw your silver hairbrush

at that mirror with all the power in my scrawny little arm. I hurled it so hard! Nothing. Not a scratch. The damned hairbrush bounced

off like it’d hit rubber.
Boing.
Nearly came back to smack me in the eye. I thought about taking a hammer to it, but by then you’d locked up all of Dad’s tools in the shed out back, and I couldn’t find the key.

So. The story. There was this woman who couldn’t stop looking

at herself in the mirror. That’s you, that is. Thought I’d better spell it out. This woman had everything a woman could ever want: a loving

husband, more money in the bank than she could ever spend, more

clothes in the closet than she could ever wear, a fantastic stone house

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• The Mirror Tells All •

with a turret—a turret! Who has that these days? She did. She had it all, and then some. I should point out that it wasn’t like this woman had all of this stuff and then still felt unfulfilled. No, it wasn’t like that at all, not as far as anyone could tell. It was just that she couldn’t stop looking at herself in the mirror.

The first time I saw her (that’s you, got that?) staring into the

mirror I thought nothing of it. I must have been seven; school had

started and I’d just been let off the bus. That was a great bus, the driver was always cracking jokes and he really liked kids so it was

kind of like our own mini-party twice a day. I opened the front door and the house was quiet. I remember the silence because it was so

unusual. This woman used to have the radio on all the time, couldn’t get enough of it. It was nice, I liked the house full of sound. And

when it wasn’t, I got a little afraid that something bad had happened.

I went up to my room to dump my backpack. God, that was a

horrible thing, all purple and gold with glitter. Guess it suited me at the time. So anyway, I put it on my bed and then crept out into the

hall. Your bedroom door was open. When I first saw you in front of

the mirror I was relieved. Everything was okay, I remember thinking.

You were there. It was just that for some reason you didn’t have the radio on. Well, what did I know? I was just a kid. I figured maybe

there’d been nothing good playing. Come to think of it, I don’t even know where that mirror came from. I don’t think it was there the day before. Did Dad buy it for you? Did you order it out of a catalog?