The Grimm Conclusion

by Adam Gidwitz

“When? Child, didn’t they tell you?”

  “No,” Jorinda said, narrowing her eyes. “When am I to be married?”

  “In half an hour!”

  The wedding was a hurried affair. The courtiers all stood for the duration of the ceremony, and the bishop read from his Bible so quickly that Jorinda couldn’t understand what she was vowing and swearing and assenting to. The prince’s knees were knocking together through the whole ritual. Jorinda didn’t know what was going on.

  But at the end of the ceremony, the handsome and clever prince bent over, kissed Jorinda on the cheek, and said, “Good-bye. And good luck.” And then he was swept from the room.

  “Where is he going?” Jorinda demanded.

  The senior courtier approached her. “He’s fleeing the kingdom, of course. If there are assassins about, it isn’t safe for him to stay here.”

  Jorinda cocked her head. “But I’m staying?”

  “Someone has to sit on the throne!” the courtier exclaimed. And then he dashed from the room after the prince.

  And so it was that Jorinda became the queen of the Kingdom of Grimm.

  Let me say right now that none of the tales of the Brothers Grimm tell of this period in the kingdom’s history. Go through that musty old book that sits in the corner of your library. You won’t read about a single kingdom ruled by a little girl.

  But ruled by her it was.

  Now, you might expect, with a little girl on the throne, that instead of having to pay taxes, people would be given lollipops, and that instead of an army, the kingdom would just have a bunch of pillow fights and hair-braiding sessions.

  You might expect that. But then, you would expect wrong.

  The stories do not talk of the reign of Queen Jorinda because she was a tyrant. A tyrant, in case you’re unfamiliar with the word, is a terrible and cruel leader who doesn’t respect any laws but his or her own. It comes from the same word as Tyrannosaurus. Which should tell you something.

  So Queen Ashputtle was a tyrant. A tyrant no taller than a man’s belly button, it is true. But a tyrant nonetheless.

  Why, you are asking, was Jorinda a tyrant?

  Allow me to explain.

  For the first few weeks of Jorinda’s rule, everything was all right. She was given a tour of the palace, she was schooled in the ways of governance, she met with representatives of the kingdom’s allies and enemies, and everyone thought she managed herself rather well.

  But inside, she was not doing so well at all. Something was sloshing away inside of Jorinda. Every time someone bowed to her, she felt it, churning in her achy stomach. Every time a subject waved and smiled, it stabbed at the bottom of her mind. Every time a visiting dignitary told her how brave or impressive she was, it twined itself around her lungs and took her breath away.

  Worst of all was at night. At night, thoughts of her mother’s closed study door, and of a great iron stew pot, and of her brother standing and watching her ride away rose before her whenever she closed her eyes.

  Don’t feel it, Jorinda told herself. Smother it down, choke it back, stamp it out.

  So whenever someone bowed to her, she frowned and pushed her feelings down. And whenever a subject waved and smiled, she jerked her head away so as not to see, not to feel. And whenever anyone complimented her at all, she sneered at herself, and at them, and fought, fought, fought the pain within.

  Well, feelings become words, and words become deeds, and over time, Jorinda was not only sneering at compliments, but also at complaints. She was not only jerking her head away to avoid seeing smiles, but also to avoid seeing tears. She frowned not just at those who bowed to her. She frowned at everyone.

  She had her courtiers bring her a dozen mattresses, and then a dozen more. She slept on twenty-five of them, teetering forty feet in the air. But no matter how many mattresses she slept on, she tossed and turned in agony.

  Jorinda was fighting something on the inside. And whatever is inside does not stay inside for long.

  * * *

  As the little girl monarch became colder and crueler, rumors began to swirl, sweeping through the kingdom like a winter dust storm.

  Queen Jorinda is not what she appears to be, they said. Not a sweet girl at all, but a monster! A usurper! A tyrant! She killed the king and his huntsman! How? Magic! Sorcery! A deal with the Devil!

  But the prince would return, they whispered. He had fled, fearing the little girl and her unholy assassins. He would return, with an army at his back, and depose the little tyrant and retake his place on the throne!

  Well, the rumor was poppycock, of course. Jorinda hadn’t killed the king and his huntsman. The unicorns had. But rumors tend to take on a life of their own.

  Have you ever heard of a “self-fulfilling prophecy”? That’s like when someone says you’ll fail a test, so you get so nervous you can’t study, and then you actually do fail the test. The prophecy makes itself come true.

  Well, rumors can be like that as well.

  For Jorinda heard the rumors about the prince (he was actually the king now, or the king-in-hiding, or something like that—but I’m just going to keep calling him the prince, because I get confused easily). She had heard the rumors that he was trying to raise an army out in the wilderness, or perhaps allying himself with some neighboring king, who would then march upon Grimm and conquer it. It was just a rumor, but she believed it. Perhaps the prince did think that she had killed his father. And if he wanted to take his revenge, he would certainly have help. For who would fear a kingdom ruled by a little girl? He and some ally would try to conquer the kingdom, depose Jorinda, and then dispose of her. She was certain of it.

  So she forced every man and boy above the age of sixteen to join her army. It soon became the largest army in the history of the kingdom. The soldiers spent every morning from dawn until noon marching up and down the dusty roads of Grimm, performing military drills in the fields that they should have been farming, and barking out chants like, “Who is the fiercest in the land? Jorinda of the iron hand!”

  Now, maybe you know it, and maybe you don’t, but outfitting an army of that size costs a fortune. So Jorinda wrung the money out of her poor citizens with crushing taxes. (She spared Malchizedek, though. To him, she kept all her promises. Because it’s best not to cross an ogre. And besides, she kind of liked him.) But the people starved in the dirt lanes as the tax collectors carted off half of all the produce of their fields, their mills, their workshops, their calloused and tired hands.

  Jorinda had one captain whom she trusted above all the others. He was the cousin of the unfortunate Fänger, but he seemed to hold no grudge against the queen for the demise of his kinsman. Indeed, he seemed to feel nothing at all. His name was Herzlos. He had long black hair and deep scars that ran down his face like ancient riverbeds. Captain Herzlos was always happy to whip a shirking soldier or set fire to the house of a subject who would not pay his taxes. Whatever Jorinda’s other captains shrank from, Herzlos would do. And with relish.

  Six months went by, and then six months more. The shadow of the queen hung heavy over the entire kingdom. Soldiers marched in mindless unison, chanting of Jorinda’s iron hand at the tops of their lungs, tramping over the once fertile fields until the crops were stomped into submission and the poor were starving to death in the narrow, dusty streets.

  The age was, indeed, a grim one.

  I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, How, how could Jorinda do all this? She seemed like such a nice girl!

  Well, she was.

  But even nice girls sometimes fight wars with themselves.

  It was about a year after Jorinda had become Queen Jorinda, or Jorinda the Tyrant, that a visitor arrived at the castle’s gates.

  “I’m here to see the queen,” he told the guards.

  They scoffed. “No one sees the queen.”

  The visitor’s mouth was set in a hard
line. He stared up at the guards with dark eyes from under a curly mop of hair. “Send her a message. She will see me. If she doesn’t, you can throw me in prison.”

  The guards smirked at one another. One replied, “We don’t have prisons anymore. Just gallows.”

  “Fine,” said the visitor. “If she doesn’t want to see me after you give her my message, you can send me to the gallows to be hanged until I am dead.”

  More smirking. “All right, then. What’s this message of yours?”

  The visitor spoke very crisply: “If you won’t leave me, I won’t leave you.”

  Five minutes later, Joringel was being led through the dark halls of the Castle Grimm. As he passed grand staircases decked with great tapestries of gray and black, his stomach tossed and churned.

  Choke it back, he thought. Just as he managed to wrestle the sickness in his stomach into submission, the guard led him into the throne room.

  There she was. A little girl, regal and serene, on a great throne, with a towering, ornate crown on her head. Joringel felt something yank at his insides, as if he’d swallowed a fishhook. He looked at his sister.

  Her lips had started to crinkle. Her eyes, he thought, were shining.

  Joringel began to smile. For the first time in a long time.

  Across the room, Jorinda felt something yank at her insides, too.

  She saw her brother, and his lips were crinkling. His eyes shone.

  Jorinda began to smile. For the first time in a long time.

  But at exactly the moment that both children began to smile, their stomachs roared. A wave—a brown, dirty, tidal wave of feelings—crashed over them. They tried to stand firm. They tried to hold on. Jorinda forced the corners of her mouth back down. Joringel blinked hard to quell the tears. Choke it back, they both thought. Smother it. Stamp it out.

  For a moment, neither moved.

  And then, the tidal wave passed, and it took along with it everything they felt—all their happiness, all their sadness, all their anger, all their guilt—and left them as if marooned on a barren peninsula, wrecked by storm.

  They approached one another.

  Jorinda said, “Welcome, brother.”

  And Joringel replied, “Thank you, sister.”

  And they shook hands. Lest the storm rise again.

  * * *

  Joringel moved into a chamber in the castle not far from his sister. He stood beside her in the throne room when she made her decrees, and he went with her on her tours of the kingdom. He was restless, though, as he had little else to do. He had tried to help Herzlos manage the army. He soon gave it up, though. Joringel, it turned out, was a little frightened of Herzlos.

  But one day, as the royal carriage rattled over the stony streets of Grimm’s largest town, Joringel caught sight of a mother walking with her son. The woman’s arms were laden with three sacks of potatoes, while the little boy behind her was struggling with one. “Don’t you drop any of those,” she told him.

  “Okay, Mommy,” the boy replied. He was teetering this way and that, trying to keep the sack from tumbling from his arms. But then the boy caught sight of the royal carriage. “Ooh, Mommy, look! The queen!” he said. And, because he was a little boy, he pointed at the carriage. Well, as soon as he did, the sack toppled over, and the potatoes went rolling into the street.

  “Boy!” the woman bellowed, and, letting her potatoes drop to the ground as well, she spun and slapped her son across the face.

  Before he knew what he was doing, Joringel was out of the carriage, leaping over potatoes, and grabbing the woman’s arm. The woman turned to him, surprised. Which is when Joringel slapped her across the face, just as she had her son. And then he did it again. And once more.

  The boy began to cry. The woman cowered.

  “It is a new law,” Joringel announced, “that any adult who harms a child shall be punished by the queen’s soldiers threefold.”

  Joringel turned to see his sister, standing in the carriage. Her face was stone. “It is so decreed,” was all she said.

  Joringel turned back to the mother. He got very close to her face. “Never again,” he said. “Never, ever again.”

  As the carriage rattled over the stony streets of Grimm, Joringel could hear the boy wailing. He tried to block it out and stamp down his roaring anger.

  * * *

  Joringel had found his role. While Jorinda dealt with questions of war and taxes, Joringel roamed the streets, followed by a group of the toughest soldiers—both women and men. As they roamed they kept an eye out for adults who were cruel to children. And when they found one they punished that adult bitterly.

  And still the soldiers marched over the once-verdant fields, chanting, “Who’s the strongest in the land? Jorinda of the iron hand!” So crops no longer grew in the Kingdom of Grimm. As soon as a tender green shoot dared to show itself above the ground, a soldier’s boot stamped it into submission.

  That year, gritty winter gave way to dusty summer without the pale green promise of spring.

  Well? What do you think?

  Should Joringel be punishing those parents like that?

  And when did this book get so depressing?

  And will it keep being this depressing?

  I’m sorry. I know that no kid likes reading depressing books. I considered changing this part altogether. I considered not telling you the truth about what happened to these two children. About what they went through. And what it did to them. I considered telling you that Jorinda’s reign really was all lollipops and pillow fights. And that Joringel was in charge of organizing huge games of capture the flag.

  But I decided that I had to tell you the truth.

  Because, you see, in life, every triumph begins with failure.

  Don’t worry, though. The triumph will come. We’re almost there.

  Jorinda sat straight up on top of her towering bed. Her sheets were sweaty and twisted. She could not catch her breath.

  She shook herself. Just a nightmare. But it was terrible. She had been standing outside her mother’s study. The door was locked. And her mother had been trying to get out, banging on the door. Banging. Banging.

  BANG.

  Jorinda jumped a foot. Shaking away her grogginess, she threw the covers off her great bed, climbed down the tall ladder her servants had constructed for her, and hurried to the chamber door.

  She heard someone run by, whispering frantically.

  BANG.

  She opened the door an inch. A servant, carrying a candelabra, sprinted past, the candles flickering as she went.

  BANG.

  The floor was shaking.

  Jorinda closed the door, locked it, and ran to the window. It was a grand window, for she lived in the royal chambers now. The window looked out over stone walls and down the great road that led to the Castle Grimm.

  A pit opened up in Jorinda’s stomach.

  The road was lit by a thousand torches. And it was teeming. With men on horseback. With shouting peasants. And soldiers. Thousands of soldiers.

  BANG.

  Jorinda screamed. Just outside of the window, she saw a face. She fell back into the room.

  “Open the window!” the face demanded.

  Jorinda shook her head and crawled backward across the floor.

  “Jorinda! Open the window!”

  She was getting nearer and nearer the door.

  BANG.

  The face screamed, “I won’t leave you!”

  Jorinda stopped crawling. The face was Joringel’s. Jorinda leaped to her feet and ran to the window. “What are you doing out there?” she cried.

  “They’re taking the castle!”

  Jorinda struggled with the window latch.

  BANG.

  Her shaking fingers fumbled with the heavy lead. Finally, she unstuck it and threw the window
open. “Come in!” she cried. “Hurry!”

  But Joringel shook his head. “No,” he said. “You come out.”

  “What?”

  “They’re inside the castle already. There’s fighting in the corridors. We can’t get out that way.”

  “Then how can we get out?”

  Joringel pointed down the castle walls. “Hold on to the stones, climb from window to window, and we can get to the Kingswood out back.”

  Jorinda looked down. It was a straight drop. “You’re crazy!”

  “Come on!”

  “Aren’t you scared?”

  Joringel almost smiled. He nodded. But he held his hand out to his sister.

  So she took it and pulled herself up onto the windowsill.

  BANG.

  The whole castle shook. Jorinda screamed and grabbed hold of the swinging shutters. “What’s happening?” she panted, refusing to look down.

  “They’re breaking down the gates to let the rest of the army inside.”

  BANG—CRRRACK.

  “They’re through?” Jorinda asked, still holding on to the window for dear life.

  A mighty roar erupted below them. The horses and soldiers and torch-wielding peasants surged forward.

  “They’re through,” Joringel replied. “Come on! Let’s go!”

  And so Jorinda and Joringel, brother and sister, queen and self-appointed protector of the children of Grimm, climbed down the walls of the castle, dropped to the ground behind a green hedge, and ran with every ounce of strength they had deep, deep into the forest.

  The Märchenwald

  Once upon a time, two children collapsed to the ground under a great oak tree.

  Jorinda and Joringel gasped at the dark air like drowning men, their lungs aching. Torches wove through the wood like great, frantic fireflies. They were still a distance off. But they were getting closer.

  “We’ve got to keep moving,” Jorinda heaved.