Fairy Tales Are Awesome Sampler

G

�

nce Upon a Time there was

an academy to train Princesses

for battle, a Troll stuck at the

bottom of the middle school social ladder, a

W itch too polite to be considered wicked, a

Hamster princess who couldn’t wait for her curse to come, and a Brother and Sister who kept falling into the wrong story.

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airy are WESOME

Tales

� Table of Contents �Pennyroyal Academy

by M. A. Larson• Page 1 •

Life of Zarf: The Trouble with Weasels

by Rob Harrell • Page 17 •

Castle Hangnail by Ursula Vernon

• Page 25 •

Hamster Princess: Harriet the Invincible

by Ursula Vernon • Page 33 •

A Tale Dark and Grimm by Adam Gidwitz

• Page 41 •

[PENNYROYAL COVER PAGE]

[Pennyroyal Academy Ch. 1]

� Table of Contents �

The realm is on the brink of war and a school for training to fi ght witches and

dragons opens to all. Does Cadet Evie have what Pennyroyal Academy is looking for?

When Evie enlists at Pennyroyal Academy, she’s met with multiple challenges—dealing with the harsh training regimen of her fairy drillsargent and navigating new friends and enemies, to name a few. With the threat of witches growing nearer, Evie discovers that this war is much more personal than she could ever have imagined.

M. A. L A R S O N

• 2 • • 3 •

Pennyroyal Academy

If I ’m still in this forest by nightfall, I’ll never leave it again.

The girl’s eyes darted through the misty pines. The air

was wet, though it wasn’t exactly raining. Everywhere

she turned she found dull gray shadows, and her mind

put monsters in all of them. The only sound was her own

frantic breath. No birdsong. No tumbling water. Nothing.

A leafy tendril snaked up from the undergrowth and

began to slither around her ankle. She tore her leg free

and raced into the mist, her bare feet crackling through

a carpet of dead leaves and fallen needles. Towering trees

swayed overhead like mossy giants, and the small patches

1

• 2 • • 3 •

Pennyroyal Academy

of sky she could see were black with clouds. Night was

coming. And so were the things that lurked in the fog.

As she hurdled over a rotting stump, a heart-sized

dragon scale necklace bounced against her chest. A

matted drape of spiders’ webs covered her body, her only

protection against the elements. The rest of her was streaked

with mud. She had been lost in this forest for three days.

Had seen and heard things that still didn’t seem real—a

weathered thighbone so thick and long it could only have

belonged to a giant; the deafening thunder of thrumming

wings and the shadow of an enormous dragonfly passing

above the canopy. Three days lost and she knew, one way

or another, there would not be a fourth—

CRACK! The girl jumped at the sound, then heard the

popping crackle of splitting wood somewhere above. She

wheeled just in time to see the hairy branch of a beech tree

swooping down. It slammed into her, knocking her over

the edge of a hill. She tumbled through moldy black sludge

to the bottom, where she collided with a pine trunk. She

eased herself up, rolling her shoulder to be sure her arm

wasn’t broken.

• 4 •

Fairy Tales are awesome

• 5 •

Pennyroyal Academy

The first day, the day she had left home, she had taken a

savage beating from the trees. Her father had always warned

her to stay out of enchanted forests, but she was still taken

aback by the trees’ ferocity. She had slowly begun to learn

their moods and patterns, and before long was able to antic-

ipate their attacks. She tried to avoid beeches especially, as

they seemed the most malicious.

Today it wasn’t the trees that frightened her. The sun and

moon and stars had all gone, along with chirping birds and

skittering goblins. In their place, the clouds and mist, and

the distinct feeling that something else was out there.

But what?

She listened, silent and still, though all she heard was wind

shivering through leaves. As she stood, her emerald-green

eyes narrowed. There, faintly visible through the dusk, was a

distant pinpoint of light. The window of a cottage.

She had always been cautious, much more so than her sis-

ter, but once she saw that light, she ran for it. The cottage was

small, its timbers frayed and soggy. This was the first shelter

she had seen since leaving home, and yet something inside

her screamed to turn back and run and then run some more.

• 4 •


• 5 •

Pennyroyal Academy

Would I rather be out here when the sun is gone, or inside?

She ignored her instincts and edged to the window,

grabbing hold of the sill. Clumps of rot crumbled off in her

hands. She wiped them away, then leaned in again.

Firelight washed across her face, and her stomach

roared. At the far side of the room, a thick, brown liquid

bubbled over the rim of a cauldron, sizzling on the em-

bers. She couldn’t see anything else, but that was enough.

Her hunger drove her to the door, but as she clutched the

handle, panic swarmed up through the soles of her feet

like a million wasps.

Something’s not right here—

A wolf’s lonesome howl echoed down from the moun-

tains, and she knew she had no choice. She gave the door

a hard shove, but it didn’t budge. She threw her shoulder

into it and finally it barked open.

“Hello?” she said with a small, shaking voice. There was

no answer, only the soft pop of the fire. The floorboards

screamed as she stepped inside and shouldered the door

shut with a resonant thud.

The cottage was warm and tidy. Beneath the lone

• 6 • • 7 •

Pennyroyal AcademyFairy Tales are awesome

window sat a wooden table, where waterflies buzzed

around a pile of blackish-red slop. Next to that were a

rusted hand-crank machine and several neat stacks of

multicolored candies. A chill ran down her arms.

In the corner, beyond the hearth, next to the open door

of a small bedchamber, stood a large cage, oranged with

rust and age. It was just the right size to hold a person. Next

to it, a small pile of children’s shoes spilled across the floor.

She turned to run, but the door that had just been so

solidly stuck now hung open. And outside, footsteps

crackled through the leaves.

She looked for another way out, but it was too late, so

she dove under the table and hugged her legs to her chest.

A thick drip of red slid through the slats of the table and

plopped on the floor at her feet.

Oh please oh please oh please . . .

A pair of muddy riding boots clomped across the floor-

boards, shoved along by an old woman draped in layer

upon layer of decaying black robes. The door slammed

shut behind them, though no one was there to slam it.

The girl’s blood ran cold. She was trapped.

• 6 • • 7 •


The old woman, hunched and bent like a river, shoved

her prisoner into the cage and rattled the latch home.

He was around the girl’s same age, and wore a dark gray

leather doublet embroidered in burgundy. His dark hair

was in knots from countless hours on horseback, and his

arms were bound behind his back. The cage was too small

for him to stand, so he threw his shoulder into the door.

The frail metal clanged, but held fast.

His captor went to the cauldron to stir her bubbling

broth, which hissed against the flames like a chorus of

angry snakes. “Now then, what have I done with my jars?”

Her voice was full of contradictions, soft and sweet, but

with a knife-edge of menace. “It’s been so long since I had a

heart to put in them. Eh-heh-heh-heh-heh . . .” She leaned her

ladle against the stone gently, like a kindly grandmother

might, then shuffled into the bedchamber.

Now! Now! NOW!

But the girl sat frozen in place, watching as the boy

strained and writhed against his bonds. He leaned back to

give the door a solid kick, and that’s when he saw her.

“Hey!” he hissed, jerking his head toward the latch. Tears

• 8 • • 9 •


welled in her eyes, and she suddenly felt as though she

might faint. “I know you’re scared, but open this cage and you’ll

leave here alive. I swear it.”

She pulled her legs tighter, clinging to them like the last

jagged stone before a waterfall. But as her tears fell and her

heart thumped in her chest, she noticed something in his

eyes that calmed her. He wasn’t afraid. When he said he

could keep her alive, he believed it.

Somehow, before her own fear could stop her, she

began to scoot forward. Each creak of the floorboards

made her want to scream and run for the door, but she

kept her eyes fixed on his and crept closer and closer to the

cage.

“Hurry!” he whispered.

Her trembling fingers reached for the latch. She tried

to work it free as gently as she could, but the metal had

become violently angry over the ages. It screamed open.

“What’s this?”

The girl wheeled and fell back against the cage. She

had never seen a witch before, but there could be little

doubt that that was what stood before her now. The witch

• 8 • • 9 •


didn’t move, just stared at her with milky yellow eyes and

a wide, toothless grin. Her skin was the color of a worm

after three days’ rain, and it drooped from her bones like a

melted candle.

“Open the latch!” shouted the boy, slamming his shoul-

der against the door.

But the witch’s gaze paralyzed the girl. The hag’s eyes

bored straight into her own, slicing through her brain and

down her throat. The girl gasped for air as the witch stared

deeper, deeper, straight for her heart. She was choking

on hate, anguish, fear . . . the feeling that she had already

seen the sun for the last time without even realizing it. The

witch was inside her—

“RUN!” shouted the boy as the cage door finally crashed

open.

The girl snapped free of the witch’s gaze. All that

choking awfulness slid out of her throat and she could

breathe once more. The dragon scale whipped round to

her back as she sprinted for the door. She threw it open

and burst out into the night. The blackness of the woods

and the swirling fog made it seem like the witch was

• 10 • • 11 •


everywhere at once. Even in the open forest, the girl was

trapped.

“Over here!” The boy stood next to a massive white

horse that glowed in the moonlight like a ghost.

“What? On that?”

“These are her woods! We’ll never make it on foot!”

She grimaced, but knew she would have to trust him.

As she raced to the horse, the flickering firelight inside

the cottage was suddenly extinguished. Smoky blackness,

darker than the night, wafted from the door.

“Eh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh . . .” The cackle was

no longer that of a feeble old lady. It had morphed into

something elemental and terrifying.

The girl swung onto the horse’s back. Beneath the

smooth white needles of hair she could feel sweat and

muscle and knew the boy was right: this was their only

chance of escape. She reached down and grabbed the

rope binding his arms, hauling him facedown across the

horse’s backside. Black smoke billowed from the door,

and the cackling reverberated through the forest like it

was coming from the fog itself.

• 10 • • 11 •


“Let’s go!” grunted the boy, but the girl was transfixed

by the figure floating out of the cottage. The witch’s body

had distorted into something monstrous, long-limbed and

inhuman. Her tattered robes billowed smoke. The skin

around her mouth began to crack and split as her smile

grew ever wider.

“Take the reins and go!”

The girl wrenched her eyes away. Straps of leather tack

dangled from the horse’s head and neck. She didn’t know

what any of it was, so she gripped the mane instead. With

her other arm twisted behind her, she clutched the rope

around the boy’s hands.

“Ride,” she whispered, and they lunged away into the

night. Every muscle in her body clamped down as she

felt the horse’s power beneath her. Her fingers clutched

the mane so tightly, the knuckles had already gone

white. As the horse sailed across uneven ground, each

stride threatened to break her grip.

“I can’t do it!” she screamed over the thunder of hooves.

“I can’t!”

“Please . . .” was all the boy could muster. His midsection

• 12 • • 13 •


slammed repeatedly against the horse, forcing the air from

his lungs. He couldn’t draw breath.

The girl closed her eyes and ground her teeth. I will not

let go. The horse or the rope may slip free, but on my father I will not

let go. She glanced back, and what she saw made her gasp.

The witch, a billowing, spectral fiend, swooped through

the trees like an enormous owl. Waves of frigid air swept

up from behind as her bony fingers reached forward.

The horse leapt a fallen tree. The landing nearly ripped

the mane from the girl’s fingers. Her legs, pinned tightly

around the horse’s shoulders, felt frail and insignificant. Her

entire body hurt, but the truly ferocious pain was in the fin-

gers holding the boy’s binding. It sawed deeper into her raw

skin with each stride. I can’t hold on . . . It’s all coming loose . . .

“Water . . .” he croaked.

She scanned the darkness until something in the

distance caught her eye. The pale reflection of moonlight

on water. A river.

She jerked the mane, steering the horse toward it.

The boy’s weight pulled the rope to the final joints of her

fingers. She was going to lose him.

• 12 • • 13 •


Suddenly, she released the mane and grabbed the

boy’s vest just as the rope slipped from her fingers. Now

her legs, locked around the horse’s neck, were the only

thing keeping them both alive. She lay twisted along

the horse’s back, and the headlong gallop was driving

the leather saddle into her side. The boy was barely on the

horse, and she had no way of knowing if he was alive or

dead.

The bristles of the horse’s coat scraped farther down

her legs. Lower . . . lower . . . nearly to the ankles. Behind

them, a wall of pure terror rose up. The witch was enor-

mous, wraithlike, her arms extending from a cloak of

swirling smoke.

Then, in an instant, the girl lost all sense of gravity. Her

body soared through the air. The boy was gone. The horse

was gone. And in the next moment, her lungs filled with

icy water. With shocking clarity, she realized she had made

it to the river. As she began to panic for breath, she found

the rippling moonlight beneath her. She righted herself

and kicked toward it until her head popped into the crisp

night air, and she coughed until her lungs were dry.

• 14 • • 15 •


The witch had gone, hiding no doubt in the fog at the

shoreline. On the opposite bank, where the air was clear

and stars painted the sky, the white horse staggered out of

the water.

She swam toward the bank until finally her feet touched

the rough, slimy stones of the river bottom, then pulled

herself ashore like some ancient creature, sobbing and

gasping for breath.

I made it. A miracle’s happened and I’m still alive.

Her legs buckled and she dropped to the pebbly shore.

She forced herself onto her back, filling her lungs with

the night until her panic began to recede. As she lay

there, astonished to be alive, a strange thought crossed

her mind. This night sky, a pale swipe of purple-white

across a black field of untold numbers of stars, was the

single most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Crickets

chirped rhythmically from the trees. The choking mold

stench was gone. Somehow, she really was alive.

“Here . . .” came a weak voice from farther down the

gurgling river. She sat up. The horse stood at the waterline

nuzzling a dark figure. It was the boy, arms still bound

• 14 • • 15 •


behind him, lying facedown in the sand, his legs dangling

in the current. She went to him, but her fingers were too

stiff and sore to grip the crude knot. She tried pulling

on the rope, and it suddenly crumbled away like it was a

thousand years old.

The boy, battered and weak, pushed himself over, too

dazed to drag his legs free of the water. His teeth chattered,

his whole body shuddering in the steady night breeze.

“You must be . . . f-frozen solid . . .”

The girl, barefoot, sodden to the bone, and wearing

only a thin covering of spiderwebs, said nothing.

“What . . . what’s your n-name?”

Her eyes fell to the rocks. “I don’t have one.”

Castle Hangnail

Castle Hangnail

Middle school is tough. Especially for a troll.

It’s not easy being Zarf. As a troll, he’s stuck at the bottom of the middle school hierarchy, way below the prince and knights (populars), ogres and giants (jocks), and even the lowly minstrels (band geeks). Plus, trolls aren’t exactly known for their brain power or cool demeanor. But when the king disappears, it’s up to Zarf and his friends to find him and save the kingdom.

• 19 •

Life of Zarf: The Trouble with WeaselsFAIRY TALES ARE AWESOME

• 18 •

• 1 •

Introductionsare in order

Zarf.

That’s the name they gave me.

Not a majestic name, by any means. You don’t

hear about many kings or leaders named “Zarf

the All-Powerful” or “Zarf the Merciless.” Not a

melodic name, either. Sort of falls out of your mouth

in one big lump and just lays there.

• 19 •

Life of Zarf: The Trouble with WeaselsFairy Tales are awesome

• 18 •

It’s also a really easy name to mock, seeing as how

it rhymes with “barf.” But I’m doing with it what I

can. It’s a family name, after all.

I am a troll. I know the term “troll” has become

a popular insult these days, but I mean it literally. I

come from a long line of Eastern Prairie Trolls. My

grandfather (also named Zarf) is the one you’ve

probably heard the most about, what with the

“billy goats gruff” business. That story got a lot of

traction in the papers and the anti-troll literature.

He’s still living that whole thing down.


• 2 0 • • 21 •


And before you ask, yes, my family does live under a

bridge. My folks claim they rent the place because it’s in

a good school district and the price is right, but I’m not a

complete idiot—my dad and Gramps still get their kicks

scaring the stuffing out of unsuspecting bridge-goers

from time to time.


• 2 0 • • 21 •


We live in the village of Cotswin in the king-

dom of Notswin, and I can assure you that

nothing exciting has happened around here since

Goldie Locks was in short pants. And that was a

LOOONG time ago. Old Lady Locks has been the

lunch lady at my school since time began, slop-

ping out porridge to generation after generation of

Cotswinians. And her hair is a lot more blue than

it is gold these days. Anyways, Cotswin is a fairly

• 2 •

Kingdomcome


• 2 2 • • 23 •


quiet place where kids my age are free to perish from acute

boredom, and often do.

Sure, there’s your occasional small dragon attack or

croquet match, but mostly the days just drag out like the

last few minutes of algebra class. That is, until the last

couple of weeks, I should say.

I attend Cotswin Middle School for the Criminally

Insane. Okay, I added that last part, but it’s not far from the


• 2 2 • • 23 •


truth. Good old Cotswin—Home of the Prancing Knights.

(Trust me, no one is happy about that mascot name.

Petitions have been filed.)

School is tough. In a lot of ways. Trolls aren’t exactly

known for their book smarts. I’m doing my best to over-

come my heritage, but it ain’t easy. I was doing a word

problem the other day in class and actually caught myself

grunting. Grunting! So embarrassing. Fortunately it was

kind of a quiet grunt. More like a gruntlet.

This is one of the reasons it’s important to surround

yourself with a quality crew . . .

• 24 •• 24 •

B Y Ursu la Vernon

• 24 •

There’s a new Wicked Witch in town . . . a wicked GOOD witch.

When Molly shows up on Castle Hangnail’s doorstep to fi ll the vacancy for a Wicked Witch, the castle’s minions are confused—she’s twelve years old, barely fi ve feet tall, and quite polite. While she’s nothing at all like the tall, demand-ing sorceresses they’re used to, Molly seems up to the tasks set out by the Board of Magic. But it turns out Molly is hiding quite a few secrets, including one that could mean the end of Castle Hangnail.

• 27 •

Castle Hangnail

• 26 •

Castle Hangnail

Chapter

I t was a

marvelously dark and dour

twilight at the castle. Clouds the color

1

of bruises lay across the hills. Rooks and ravens

f lapped into the battlements and were met by

bats leaving for the evening.

True, there were only three ravens, but

there were plenty of bats, so the over-

all impression was of a small

• 26 •

• 27 •

Castle Hangnail

• 26 •

Castle Hangnail

• 26 •

cloud of winged smoke hanging over the highest tower.

The castle guardian was pleased.

Sadly, Castle Hangnail was not surrounded by jagged

mountains, which would have been ideal, but you couldn’t

have everything. The grassy hills around the castle were

doing their best impression of a blasted moor. The guard-

ian tried not to notice the dandelions growing on the

hillside. They were much too cheerful. He would go and

have a word with the gardener tomorrow.

It was a good Evil castle, he thought fi ercely. Anyone

would be proud to have it! Even with the dandelions and

the aging ravens and the unreliable plumbing. Castle

Hangnail had history. Dark and terrible deeds had been

done there. Probably.

He shuffl ed an empty teacup out of the way. Some-

one had left it on an end table near the door, and he hid

it behind a stuffed crocodile.

The ravens had assured him that the new Master or

Mistress of the castle would arrive tonight.

He hung about the main door, waiting. Would it be an

Evil Wizard? A Dark Sorceress? A Loathsome Hag?


• 2 8 • • 29 •

Castle Hangnail

He hoped it wasn’t the Hag. A certain degree of dust

and cobwebs were expected in an Evil castle, but a really

dedicated Loathsome Hag would have slime dripping off

the walls and dead mice at the dinner table. It got to the

point where you were embarrassed to have

people over.

But an Evil Wizard, now . . . well, there

was a lot to be said for an Evil Wizard. Or a

Witch. A Wicked Witch would be just fine.

Perhaps she’d even have a cat.

The guardian was fond of cats.

Really, though, he wasn’t

picky. Any proper Master would do.

Necromancer. Cursed Beastlord. Even

an ordinary Mad Scientist.

“It’s been so long . . .” he said out loud.

“I was afraid no one would answer the

letters.”

“You’re telling me,” said Edward, clank-

ing. “And all those nasty letters from the

Board! I was starting to worry that I’d


• 2 8 • • 29 •

Castle Hangnail

have to go down to the crypt and see if I could find our old

Master, the ancient Vampire Lord, but I wasn’t sure I’d be

able to get back up again, with my joints.”

“I’ll get you some oil for them tomorrow,” said the

guardian absently.

“Oil won’t help. I’ve rusted solid all through the knees.”

The magical suit of armor sighed. “Well, it wouldn’t have

mattered. We’d need blood to bring him back, and I don’t

think you’ve got much in you.”

“I’ve got plenty of blood,” said the guardian, peering

out the peephole. “I keep it down in the cellar, where it’s

nice and cool. We gave away at least a dozen bottles of O

negative during the blood drive last Christmas.”

A blood drive was not the sort of thing you could imag-

ine an Evil Sorceress allowing, mind you, but you had to

move with the times. That was one of the problems with

raising the old Vampire Lord. He was very old-fashioned.

He’d have been flitting around the town, biting people’s

necks, before you could say “stake.” It was easier just to

leave him quietly dead.

“Did the ravens say anything?” asked Edward.


• 3 0 • • 31 •

Castle Hangnail

The guardian shrugged. “They’re ravens. They mostly

see the tops of people’s heads. They said the Master-or-

Mistress was walking.”

“Hmm.” Edward thought about that.

There was nothing inherently wrong with walking to

your new castle, of course. The last Witch had walked.

The Evil Sorceress before her had ridden in on the back

of a Dark Phoenix, though, and the Wizards all had

dragons. There was nothing like a dragon to really make

an entrance.

“Perhaps the new Master just wants to take in the

scenery,” said the guardian.

“That’s probably it.”

He hoped the scenery would be satisfactory. By dark-

ness it should be all right. By daylight, the land around

Castle Hangnail insisted on being picturesque, and Miss

Handlebram down the road had a white picket fence, but

perhaps the new Master wouldn’t notice.

And the castle had crypts! Proper crypts, not just a wine

cellar with a coffin shoved in the back. Plus a moat. Well, a

mini-moat. Surely that would make up for the picket fence.


• 3 0 • • 31 •

Castle Hangnail

The guardian looked through the peephole again.

“Getting on full dark soon,” said Edward as he leaned

back.

“Perhaps they’ll come at moonrise,” said the guardian.

“Moonrise is perfectly respectable.”

It was actually a few minutes before moonrise when the

someone lifted the door knocker and banged it down, hard.

The guardian wanted to throw the door open. He wanted

to cheer and throw confetti. The Master—or Mistress—

had arrived!

But he had been a castle guardian for centuries, and he

knew what was expected.

He waited for five long seconds, then allowed the door

to creak open. The hinges squealed like a dying rabbit.

He looked out.

He looked up.

He looked left.

He looked right.

Finally he looked down.

Ravens mostly see the tops of people’s heads. It does

not occur to them that some people are shorter than

• 32 •

others, because when you fl y, everyone is shorter than you

are.

A small, determined face looked up at him. It belonged

to a girl wearing black clothes, a black coat, and a silver

necklace with a vulture on it.

She looked to be

about twelve years

old.

“My name is

Molly,” said the

girl. “I’m here to

be your Wicked

Witch.”

• 32 •

Harriet Hamsterbone is not your typical princess.

She fi nds the royal life rather…dull. So when Harriet’s parents tell her of the curse placed on her at birth, she’s ecstatic—it means she’s invincible until she’s twelve! After all, no good curse goes to waste. Thus begins Harriet’s grand life of adventure with her trusty riding quail Mumfrey…until her twelfth birthday arrives and the curse manifests in a most unexpected way.

• 35 •


• 3 4 •

Once upon a time, in a distant land, there was a

beautiful princess named Harriet Hamsterbone,

who, as her name indicated, was a hamster.

• 35 •


• 3 4 •

She was brave and intelligent and excelled in traditional

hamster princess skills, like checkers and fractions.

She was not very good at trailing around the palace

looking ethereal and sighing a lot, which are also tradi-

tional princess skills, but her parents hired deportment

teachers to try and make up for it.

• 37 •


• 36 •

• 37 •


• 36 •

Her deportment teacher tried to make her walk

around with a book on her head to improve her posture.

He was later found in the library with a book stuffed

in his mouth, and Harriet was grounded for a month.

She loved her riding quail Mumfrey, and rode him

all over the countryside.

Riding quail can’t

actually f ly, but

they make excel-

lent steeds for

hamsters. Harriet

and Mumfrey

rode everywhere

pretending to slay

monsters, since

her parents would

not actually let

her go out to slay

real dragons. This

was a source of

great disappoint-

ment for her.

• 37 •

all over the countryside.

FAIRY TALES ARE AWESOME

• 38 • • 39 •



• 38 • • 39 •


Despite being kept away from monsters, Harriet

was generally happy and not as irritating as some prin-

cesses. Yet her mom and dad were often depressed, for

they knew that a dark cloud hung over the princess, and

indeed, the very kingdom.

For when the princess was only twelve days old, on the

day she was to be christened, a dreadful curse had been

placed upon her, and despite their best efforts, the hamster

king and queen had no idea how to break it.

Once upon a time, fairy tales were awesome.

Hansel and Gretel walk out of their own story and into eight other classic fairy tales brimming with menacing foes. Will the two siblings be able to take control of their destinies to create their own happily ever after?

• 43 •

A Tale Dark and Grimm

once upon a time, fairy tales were

awesome.

I know, I know. You don’t believe me. I don’t

blame you. A little while ago, I wouldn’t have

believed it myself. Little girls in red caps

skipping around the forest? Awesome? I don’t

think so.

But then I started to read them. The real,

Grimm ones. Very few little girls in red caps in

those.

Well, there’s one. But she gets eaten.

“Okay,” you’re probably saying, “if fairy tales

are awesome, why are all the ones I’ve heard

so unbelievably, mind-numbingly boring?” You

know how it is with stories. Someone tells a

story. Then somebody repeats it and it changes.

Someone else repeats it, and it changes again.

• 43 •


Then someone’s telling it to their kid and taking out all

the scary, bloody scenes—in other words, the awesome

parts—and the next thing you know the story’s about an

adorable little girl in a red cap, skipping through the forest

to take cookies to her granny. And you’re so bored you’ve

passed out on the fl oor.

The real Grimm stories are not like that.

Take Hansel and Gretel, for example. Two greedy little

children try to eat a witch’s house, so she decides to cook

and eat them instead—which is fair, it seems to me. But

before she can follow through on her (perfectly reason-

able) plan, they lock her in an oven and bake her to death.

Which is pretty cool, you have to admit.

But maybe it’s not awesome.

Except—and here’s the thing—that’s not the real story

of Hansel and Gretel.

You see, there is another story in Grimm’s Fairy Tales.

A story that winds all throughout that moldy, mysteri-

ous tome—like a trail of bread crumbs winding through

a forest. It appears in tales you may never have heard,

like Faithful Johannes and Brother and Sister. And in some


• 4 4 • • 45 •

that you have—Hansel and Gretel, for instance.

It is the story of two children—a girl named Gretel and

a boy named Hansel—traveling through a magical and

terrifying world. It is the story of two children striving,

and failing, and then not failing. It is the story of two

children finding out the meanings of things.

Before I go on, a word of warning: Grimm’s stories—the

ones that weren’t changed for little kids—are violent and

bloody. And what you’re going to hear now, the one true

tale in The Tales of Grimm, is as violent and bloody as you

can imagine.

Really.

So if such things bother you, we should probably stop

right now.

You see, the land of Grimm can be a harrowing place.

But it is worth exploring. For, in life, it is in the darkest

zones one finds the brightest beauty and the most lumi-

nous wisdom.

And, of course, the most blood.


• 4 4 • • 45 •

once upon a time, in a kingdom called Grimm, an

old king lay on his deathbed. He was Hansel and Gretel’s

grandfather—but he didn’t know that, for neither Hansel

nor Gretel had been born yet.

Now hold on a minute.

I know what you’re thinking.

I am well aware that nobody wants to hear a story

that happens before the main characters show up. Sto-

ries like that are boring, because they all end exactly

the same way. With the main characters showing up.

But don’t worry. This story is like no story you’ve

ever heard.


• 4 6 • • 47 •


You see, Hansel and Gretel don’t just show up at

the end of this story.

They show up.

And then they get their heads cut off.

Just thought you’d like to know.

The old king knew he was soon to pass from this world,

and so he called for his oldest and most faithful servant.

The servant’s name was Johannes; but he had served the

king’s father, and his father’s father, and his father’s

father’s father so loyally that all called him Faithful

Johannes.

Johannes tottered in on bowed legs, heaving his

crooked back step by step and leering with his one good

eye. His long nose sniffed at the air. His mouth puckered

around two rotten teeth. But, despite his grotesque ap-

pearance, when he came within view, the old king smiled

and said, “Ah, Johannes!” and drew him near.

The king’s voice was weak as he said, “I am soon to die.

But before I go, you must promise me two things. First,


• 4 6 • • 47 •


promise that you will be as faithful to my young son as

you have been to me.”

Without hesitation, Johannes promised.

The old king went on. “Second, promise that you will

show him his entire inheritance—the castle, the trea-

sures, all this fine land—except for one room. Do not show

him the room with the portrait of the golden princess. For

if he sees the portrait he will fall madly in love with her.

And I fear it will cost him his life.”

The king gripped Johannes’s hand. “Promise me.”

Again Johannes promised. Then the wrinkles of worry

left the king’s brow, and he closed his eyes and breathed his

last.

Soon the prince was crowned as the new king. He was

celebrated with parades and toasts and feasts all through-

out the kingdom. But, when the revelry finally abated,

Johannes sat him down for a talk.

First, Johannes described to him all of the responsibili-

ties of the throne. The young king tried not to fall asleep.

Then he explained that the old king had asked him to

• 49 •


• 4 8 •

Fairy Tales Are Awesome

show the young king his entire inheritance—the castle,

the treasures, all this fine land. At the word treasures the

young king’s face lit up. Not that he was greedy. It was just

that he found the idea of treasures exciting.

Finally, Johannes tried to explain his own role to the

young king. “I have served your father, and your father’s

father, and your father’s father’s father before that,”

Johannes said. The young king started calculating on his

fingers how that was even possible, but before he could

get very far, Johannes had moved on. “They call me

Faithful Johannes because I have devoted my life to the

Kings of Grimm. To helping them. To advising them. To

under-standing them.”

“Understanding them?” the young king asked.

“No. Under-standing them. In the ancient sense of the

word. Standing beneath them. Supporting them. Bearing

their troubles and their pains on my shoulders.”

The young king thought about this. “So you will

under-stand me, too?” he asked.

“I will.”

“No matter what?”

• 49 •


• 4 8 •

Fairy Tales Are Awesome

“Under any circumstances. That is what being faithful

means.”

“Well, under-stand that I am tired of this, and would like

to see the treasures now.” And the young king stood up.

Faithful Johannes shook his head and sighed.

They began by exploring every inch of the castle—the

treasure crypts, the towers, and every single room. Every

single room, that is, save one. One room remained locked,

no matter how many times they passed it.

Well, the young king was no fool. He noticed this. And

so he asked, “Why is it, Johannes, that you show me every

room in the palace, but never this room?”

Johannes squinted his one good eye and curled up his

puckered, two-toothed mouth. Then he said, “Your father

asked me not to show you that room, Your Highness. He

feared it might cost you your life.”

I’m sorry, I need to stop for a moment. I don’t know what

you’re thinking right now, but when I first heard this

part of the story, I thought, “What, is he crazy?”


• 5 0 • • 51 •


Maybe you know something about young people,

and maybe you don’t. I, having been one myself once

upon a time, know a few things about them. One thing

I know is that if you don’t want one to do something—

for example, go into a room where there’s a portrait of

an unbearably beautiful princess—saying “It might

cost you your life” is about the worst thing you could

possibly say. Because then that’s all that young person

will want to do.

I mean, why didn’t Johannes say something else?

Like, “It’s a broom closet. Why? You want to see a

broom closet?” Or, “It’s a fake door, silly. For decora-

tion.” Or even, “It’s the ladies’ bathroom, Your Maj-

esty. Best not go poking your head in there.”

Any of those would have been perfectly sufficient,

as far as I can tell.

But he didn’t say any of those things. If he had, none

of the horrible, bloody events to follow would ever

have happened.

(Well, in that case, I guess I’m glad he told the truth.)


• 5 0 • • 51 •


“Cost me my life?!” the young king proclaimed with a toss

of his head. “Nonsense!” He insisted he be let into the room.

First he demanded. But Johannes refused. Then he com-

manded. Still Johannes refused. Then he threw himself on

the floor and had a fit, which was very unbecoming for a

young man the king’s age. Finally, Faithful Johannes real-

ized there was little he could do. So, wrinkling his old, mal-

formed face into a wince, he unlocked and opened the door.

The king burst into the room. He found himself star-

ing, face-to-face with the most beautiful portrait of the

most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. Her hair

looked like it was spun from pure gold thread. Her eyes

flashed like the ocean on a sunny day. And yet, around her

lips, there was a hint of sadness, of loneliness.

The young king took one look at her and fainted dead

away.

Later, in his room, he came to. Johannes hovered over his

bed. “Who was that radiant creature?” the king asked.

“That, Your Majesty, is the golden princess,” Johannes

answered.


• 52 • • 53 •


“She’s the most beautiful woman in the world,” the

young king said.

And Johannes answered, “Yes, she is.”

“And yet she looked almost sad. Why is that?”

Johannes took a deep breath, and replied, “Because,

young king, she is cursed. Every time she has tried to

marry, her husband has died; and it is said that a fate worse

than death is destined for her children, if ever she should

have any. She lives in a black marble palace, topped with a

golden roof, all by herself. And, as you can imagine, she is

terribly lonely and terribly sad.”

The king sat straight up in his bed and grabbed the front

of Faithful Johannes’s tunic. And though he stared into

the old man’s face, he saw only the princess’s ocean-bright

eyes and her lips ringed with sadness. “I must have her,” he

said. “I will marry her. I will save her.”

“You may not survive,” Johannes said.

“I will survive, if you help me. If you are faithful to me,

if you under-stand me, you’ll do it.”

Johannes feared for the young king’s life. But he had

under-stood the young king’s father, and his father’s


• 52 • • 53 •


father, and his father’s father’s father before that. What

could he say?

Johannes sighed. “I’ll do it.”

It was widely known that in all the golden princess’s days

of loneliness, the only thing that gave her any modicum

of happiness was gold. So Johannes told the king to gather

all of the gold in the kingdom and to command his gold-

smiths to craft the most exquisite golden objects that the

world had ever seen. Which soon was done.

Then Johannes disguised himself and the king as mer-

chants and loaded a ship with the golden goods. And they

set off for the land of the golden princess.

As their ship’s prow split the sea, Johannes tutored the

king in his part: “You’re a gold merchant, Your Majesty.

The princess has always loved gold, but these days, it is the

only thing that gives her any joy. So when I bring her to the

ship, charm her not only with your gentle manners and

fine looks, but also with the gold. Then, perhaps, she will

be yours.”

When they landed, the king readied the ship and tended


• 5 4 • • 55 •


to his merchant costume, while Johannes, carrying a few

golden objects in his bag, made his way to the towering

ramparts of black marble where the golden princess lived.

He entered the courtyard, and there discovered a serving

girl retrieving water from a well with a golden bucket.

“Pretty maid,” he said, smiling his kind but unhand-

some smile, “do you think your lady might be interested

in such trifling works of gold as these?” And he produced

two of the finest, most exquisite golden statuettes that

man’s hand has ever made.

The girl was stunned by their beauty. She took them

from Johannes and hurried within. Not ten minutes had

elapsed before the golden princess herself emerged from

the castle, holding the statuettes in her hands. She was

as gorgeous as her portrait—more so in fact—and as she

greeted Johannes, her golden hair flashed in the light and

her ocean-blue eyes danced with pleasure. Still, around

her lips there was sadness.

“Tell me, old man,” she said, “are these really for sale?

I’ve never seen anything so beautiful, so fine.”

Faithful Johannes bowed. “But there is more, fair


• 5 4 • • 55 •


princess, much more. My master’s ship is full of such won-

ders. And they can be yours, if you will just accompany me

down to the harbor.”

The princess hesitated for a moment—since her last

husband-to-be had died, she had not set foot outside the

palace. But the allure of the gold was too strong. She threw

a shining traveling cloak over her shoulders and followed

Johannes to the boat.

The young king, in his disguise as a merchant, greeted

her. Her beauty was so stunning, her sadness so apparent

and so tender, that he nearly fainted again. But somehow

he did not, and she smiled at him and invited him to show

her all the treasures he had brought to her fair land.

As soon as they had descended below the deck,

Johannes hurried to the captain of the ship, and, in

whispered tones, instructed him to cast off from shore

and set sail for home immediately.

Now, my young readers, I know just what you’re

thinking. You’re thinking, Hmmm. Stealing a girl. That’s an

interesting way of winning her heart. Allow me to warn

• 56 •


you now that, under any other circumstances, steal-

ing a girl is about the worst way of winning her heart

you could possibly cook up.

But, because this happened long ago, in a faraway

land, it seems to have worked.

For the golden princess came back up to the deck and saw

that her land was far away from her. At first she did indeed

protest, and fiercely, too, that she’d been carried away by

lowborn merchants. But when one of the “merchants”

revealed himself to be a king, and revealed that, in addi-

tion, he was madly in love with her, and when, besides,

Johannes assured her that, if she really wanted to, she could

go home, but she couldn’t take the gold if she did, the

princess realized that in fact the young king was just the

kind of man she would like to marry after all, and

decided that she’d give the whole matrimony thing one

last shot.

And they all lived happily ever after.

The End

• 56 •


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