by Adam Gidwitz
That’s not safe . . . I muttered. Yeah. He didn’t care.
I looked to see how Sammy’s target was faring, when I noticed Jeff. Jeff was a round boy with round glasses. He was in the arts and crafts area. I found that puzzling. Jeff was usually getting into trouble. What kind of trouble could you get into in the arts and crafts area? His back was to me. Suddenly, he turned around. Jeff had been gluing cotton balls to his face.
“I’m Santa Claus!” he shouted.
A few children cheered. I put my head in my hands. Jeff began to sing “Jingle Bells.”
I walked to the rug at the center of the room. I sat down. I figured I would just watch the ensuing carnage. Sammy was chasing the poor kid around, waving the block over his head and screaming bloody murder. George had moved on to the groin grab in his Michael Jackson routine. Jeff was singing “Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg . . .”
Suddenly, I noticed that a few children had come to sit beside me on the rug. Bless these children. In every classroom, there are always three or four nice kids, who will help the teacher out, no matter how hopeless and unprepared that teacher might be. These four kids tucked their little legs into criss-cross-applesauce and gazed up at me, waiting for some kind of instruction.
I decided that I would let Sammy murder his classmate. I would let George moonwalk backward off a table. I would let Jeff develop a skin condition from the not-at-all skin-safe purple paste he was using on his face. Forget everyone else. I decided that I would just tell these four nice kids a story. And so I did. I said,
Once upon a time . . .
And then, the most amazing thing happened. Sammy suddenly stopped swinging his block. He looked at me.
Up on the table, George froze. And looked.
And over in the arts and crafts, Jeff—
Well, Jeff kept gluing cotton balls to his face.
I went on.
. . . an old king lay on his deathbed. He was Hansel and Gretel’s grandfather. But he didn’t know that. Because Hansel and Gretel hadn’t been born yet . . .
As I told the story, I stopped to make jokes and to warn the second graders when something frightening was about to happen. Which was pretty often. Slowly, Sammy dropped his block, and started moving closer and closer to the rug. George sat down on the edge of the table and then moved down to the floor. And Jeff—kept gluing things to his face.
I told the children about a man called Faithful Johannes, and about a young king and a golden princess, and their two little children, Hansel and Gretel. And then I told them about how, to save Johannes’s life, the young king cut off Hansel’s and Gretel’s heads.
My students’ mouths hung open. As did Jorinda’s and Joringel’s.
Then the school bell rang, and the kids all ran and got their coats and book bags and headed to the door. “Bye, Adam!” they cried. “See you tomorrow!” Sammy gave me a high five. I had no idea what I’d done to deserve a high five, except, perhaps, fail to intervene in his attempt at murder.
Once all the kids were gone, I took a deep breath, closed the classroom door, and turned to Jorinda and Joringel.
Well, I said. You probably have some questions.
“Yes,” Jorinda nodded. “Do you have anything to eat?”
So I guided them to the rug, handed them two threadbare pillows, and offered them apple juice and animal crackers. Because that is the only food in the world a teacher is ever granted access to. But the children ate them hungrily.
At last, with crumbs speckling his mouth and half a cup of apple juice spilled down the front of his shirt, Joringel said, “Your voice . . . we’ve been hearing it in our heads.”
Yeah, I’m sorry about that.
Jorinda shook herself like she had water in her ear. I apologized again.
“I have a question,” said Joringel.
“I have a lot of questions,” Jorinda added.
Okay. Go ahead.
“Well, what’s that?” Joringel pointed at an old computer monitor that sat in the corner of the room.
Right. That would take me a really long time to explain.
“Oh.”
Next question.
Jorinda asked, “Where are we?”
Well, right now it looks like we’re in a classroom in Brooklyn, New York.
Jorinda blinked at me. “I have no idea what that means.”
That’s okay. Because, while it looks like we’re in Brooklyn, we are actually in the Märchenwald.
Jorinda and Joringel both stared at me blankly.
You don’t know what that means either, do you?
They shook their heads.
Well, Märchen means “story,” or “fairy tale.” And Wald means “forest.” This is the Forest of Story.
Both children stared at me like I was a talking banana.
I tried again.
The Märchenwald is where all the stories in the world are. Every story is told, and actually happens, here. When you fainted in that field, I was in the middle of telling a story from your world. And that story was happening elsewhere in this forest. Somewhere far away, other tales are being told and lived. All here. In the Märchenwald.
“What you’re saying,” Jorinda informed me, “doesn’t make any sense.”
Joringel said, “We saw a story you just told. The one about the two kids getting their heads cut off.”
Yes. Hansel and Gretel.
“Right, well, we saw it happen.”
Wow. That was probably upsetting.
“It was.”
Well, don’t worry. They come back to life.
“WHAT?”
“Um, how?”
I reached up to the shelf that sat beside my teacher’s chair and pulled a slim blue book down from it. I held the book in my lap, looking at the cover. Jorinda and Joringel got to their knees and peered over my shoulder.
“A Tale Dark and Grimm,” Joringel read aloud. “You said that when you were talking in our heads.”
“What is it?” Jorinda asked.
This book has the whole story of Hansel and Gretel.
“Can we hear it?” Joringel asked. “Please?”
Well, maybe a little bit . . . I said. Just so you know that Hansel and Gretel will be okay. Where should I start?
“When they get their heads cut off!” Joringel shouted.
Jorinda looked sick. “How about just after that?”
So I cracked the spine of the book and began to read. After I finished the first chapter, the children wanted to hear the chapter after that. And, since I am unable to resist children who ask me for a story—I acquiesced. But when I finished the second chapter, the children wanted to hear the third. I said no, it had been a long day, and I was tired. But then they made those cute sad faces that kids make when they’re really disappointed. Not the intentional, puppy-dog faces, which are annoying and have no effect on me whatsoever. Those let-down, looking-in-their-laps-and-sighing faces. So I read the third chapter.
By the end of that, we were hungry. And I was kind of enjoying myself. So I ordered pizza. As we waited for it, we read the fourth chapter. When it arrived, Jorinda and Joringel marveled at what was, to them, the greatest culinary invention in history.
After eating, we had plenty of energy, so we plowed through the fifth and sixth chapters. There are only nine chapters in the book, so once we were that close to the end, we decided just to finish it.
After I closed the book, Jorinda and Joringel sat in silence.
“Where was the pink monster?” Jorinda suddenly demanded. “Is that from one of your stories, too?”
Yes. That’s from a different book I wrote. Called In a Glass Grimmly.
The children’s eyes went wide. “Can we hear that?” Jorinda asked.
I’m not sure . . .
“Is it as
bloody as the first one?” Joringel wanted to know.
Maybe worse . . .
“Perfect!” Joringel cried. “We’ve got enough pizza left to last us till morning!”
I have to teach tomorrow morning! I need some sleep.
The children looked down in their laps and sighed.
Fine.
I pulled a thicker yellow book down from the shelf above my teacher chair.
Ready?
The children pulled themselves up next to me and nodded. And I began.
We read chapter after chapter after chapter, as the Brooklyn streets outside the classroom window became darker and quieter and the sounds of traffic died away. Soon, all that could be heard from the deserted roads was the occasional wail of a siren, or the hissing groan of a garbage truck. My eyelids drooped—but every time I paused in my reading, the children poked me with their small, sharp fingers. I batted their hands away, scowled at them, and read on. At last, we came to that great pink monster, the Eidechse von Feuer, der Menschenfleischefressende. Also known as Eddie. I read:
“They were staring at a small mountain that sat beside the winding lava river. The mountain was made not of rock, nor of magma, but of pink, fleshy skin. The mountain had a ridge like a backbone, and little valleys formed by small arms and legs, and a slope of a wide, flat tail. There was no head. But its body rose and fell with breath. They could see thin black bones through the pink skin, and in the distended bag of a belly, black organs wound around one another, pulsing.”
“That’s it! That’s what we saw!” Joringel cried.
“It’s gonna kill them,” murmured Jorinda.
“They . . . they won’t die, right, Adam?” Joringel asked me.
Instead of answering, I kept reading. I read to them about the frog translating Eddie’s roars, and Eddie asking questions like, “Am I smelly? Very smelly? Is smelly good, or is smelly bad?” And then I told about how he helped the children escape the goblins by emerging from his giant hole and raining fire down upon the goblin soldiers and cities. Jorinda and Joringel cheered.
“He was nice!” Jorinda exclaimed at the end of the chapter.
“I like Eddie,” Joringel agreed.
I smiled. Everyone likes Eddie. He’s the best.
“Is he really?”
Yes. He really is.
“I want to meet him again. I won’t be so scared this time.”
Well, if you want to meet him, you have to learn how to say his name.
“Teach us!”
Sure. Ready?
They nodded.
Repeat after me: I-DECK-SUH VON FOY-ER DARE MEN-CHEN-FLYSH-FRESS-EN-DUH.
The children repeated after me.
Good. Now you’ll be sure to meet him.
“Really?” Jorinda and Joringel asked at once.
I smiled. Maybe.
The children stared off into the distance. I continued reading. We read until the Brooklyn streets grew gray with dawn, and the birdsong was louder than the sirens, and you could smell the guy starting to roast his coffee in his stand on the corner. At last, we finished the book.
The children smiled up at me. “I liked the first one better,” Joringel announced.
I chuckled.
“I have a question,” Jorinda murmured. “Why would you tell your students such a horrible story?”
Hm. That’s a good question. I thought about it for a minute. I think it’s because I like to scare children.
“That’s awful!” Jorinda exclaimed.
No, scaring children is fun. But there’s another reason I’m telling these stories. In addition to enjoying scaring the bejeezus out of children.
The children looked up at me expectantly.
I took a deep breath. I tell these stories because everything that happens in them not only happened to Hansel and Gretel and Jack and Jill. It also all happened to me.
Joringel sat up like a bolt. “You got your head cut off by your parents, too?”
You want to see the scar?
Both children’s eyes went wide. I lowered the collar of my shirt. They leaned forward . . .
I’m just kidding. There’s no scar.
They both exhaled.
No, my parents didn’t cut off my head . . . At least, not physically.
The children squinted. “Then how?”
Well, think about it this way. How would you feel if your parents cut off your heads to save some old friend of theirs? And then your head got put back on—but they didn’t know that was going to happen? How would you feel about them, and your relationship with them?
“I’d feel angry,” said Jorinda.
“I’d want to cut their heads off back!” Joringel announced.
“And betrayed,” Jorinda continued.
“I’d put them in a pot of boiling oil . . .” said Joringel.
“I’d feel like they didn’t love me enough,” decided Jorinda.
“. . . with snakes in it! Yeah, snakes!” Joringel cried.
“I’d feel like maybe they cared about their friend more than me,” Jorinda concluded.
“Then, I’d put them in a barrel, and I’d drive nails into it, and I’d roll it down a hill!” bellowed Joringel.
Okay, Joringel, I get it. You’d want revenge.
“Revenge!” he shouted, raising his small fists in the air.
So you’d feel angry, betrayed, like they didn’t love you, like they cared for someone else more than they cared for you, like you wanted revenge . . .
The children nodded.
I hope you’ve never felt that way about your own parents.
Jorinda and Joringel suddenly looked intensely uncomfortable. Joringel discovered something interesting just over my shoulder. Jorinda stared into her lap.
But I know that I have.
They looked at me again.
You see, my parents never cut off my head physically. I paused. But maybe emotionally.
Do you know what I mean?
I could see in the children’s faces that they were wrestling with something, deep inside themselves. Something that churned heavily, bubbling and roiling like a great, filthy sea. After a moment, Jorinda asked, “What did they do to you?”
I sighed. What do parents ever do to kids? Most parents love their children and try to take care of them the best that they can. But parents mess up, all the time.
Joringel was staring away from me as hard as he could. But Jorinda insisted, “What did they do though?”
I bit my lip. Well, I suppose the thing that they did that made me feel most betrayed and angry and not cared for was when they got divorced. It hurt. A lot. So I tell stories about it. Crazy stories with blood and death and talking birds. To help me understand it. To help me feel it.
The room was perfectly silent.
At last, Joringel said, “Why would you want to feel it?”
“Yeah,” Jorinda agreed. “You just need to smother it.”
“Stamp it out.”
“Choke it back.”
I smiled sadly. Does that seem true to you? My gaze traveled between the two children. Does that help you stop feeling the pain?
There was another moment of silence. Of a quivering quiet in the room.
Memories pressed down upon the two children. Closed doors. Chests of apples. Birds and stepsisters and princes on horseback. Their faces flushed. Jorinda’s nostrils trembled. Joringel was holding his reddening eyes open unnaturally wide.
Does it?
And then, the wave came crashing down upon Jorinda and Joringel. I could see it. I could see them bracing themselves against the cold, muddy waters inside them. I could see them buckle. I could see them trying not to drown.
Emotions rise. They churn in your stomach. They grip your windpipe. They make you do things you nev
er thought you would.
The children fought it all valiantly.
Just remember:
There are all sorts of things you can do with a stone besides smothering it.
When you stamp on weeds, they just grow back—and you’re killing everything else in the field.
And oceans are not only for drowning in.
Jorinda and Joringel sat in silence.
After a moment, Jorinda said, “I have no idea what any of that means.”
I grinned. All I’m trying to say is that it’s okay to feel things sometimes. In fact, I think feeling things—even painful things—can be good.
The morning was now bright and busy outside the class-room window. Women in suits and men in uniforms hurried by on the street, eating egg sandwiches or shouting into their phones.
Well, the students are going to show up soon. I had neither prepared for the school day nor even showered. Which, it must be admitted, was kind of typical for me. Still, I was going to feel better if I could wash up in the bathroom before Sammy recommenced his murderous spree and George began dancing on the tables and Jeff started working on his incipient skin condition. I stood up and stretched. I think I ought to take you back home now.
The children nodded sleepily.
I walked them out of the school, back across the field, and to the small stand of trees. They gazed at the cars zooming by and the tall buildings of downtown Brooklyn. Pigeons and sparrows fought in the dirt nearby over a hot-dog bun. Neither child spoke.
Well . . . I said at last. It’s been nice meeting you.
Joringel reached out to shake my hand. I took it, but then pulled him in for a hug.
I turned to Jorinda. She looked like she was trying to work something out. And indeed, she said, “If we’re all in the Märchenwald right now, does that mean we’re all in a story?”
I hesitated. I . . . I don’t think so.
I hugged Jorinda, too. But when she turned away from me, I could tell that she was still thinking about it.
Then the two children took each other’s hand and returned to the misty wood.
* * *
Jorinda and Joringel trudged through the cold fog that speckled their faces with water, wading through creeks and clambering over brambles.
