The Grimm Conclusion

by Adam Gidwitz

  Joringel turned away, frantically trying to catch his breath. The darkness closed in on him. He could not breathe. The demon led him on. Joringel scoured the shadowy cocoons avidly, desperately. He peered into the darkness as if seeking some great secret, some respite from the eternal pain.

  But that wasn’t what he was looking for.

  He was looking for Jorinda.

  Plutonic Gardens

  Once upon a time, a little boy followed a hunched, bony, bald-headed demon through the gloom of Hell.

  They had emerged from among the shadowy eggs, and the darkness had lifted a little. Now, the road they followed was broad and flat. They came to a gate, with a small guardhouse and a white barrier across the road. Next to the barrier was a sign that read WELCOME TO PLUTONIC GARDENS.

  The demon punched some buttons on a keypad, and the barrier lifted. Joringel followed the demon down the road and past a field. But it was unlike any field Joringel had ever seen. It had short grass and random pits of sand and tiny flags waving from thin poles. It was weird. They then passed the strangest lake Joringel had ever seen. The water was an unnatural blue, and its edges were neat and clean and squared off. A sign read NO RUNNING, NO EATING, NO HORSEPLAY, NO DIVING. Horses were not allowed to play in the lake? Joringel was very confused.

  On either side of the road stood houses, each virtually identical. Before each house stood a sculpture of a strange looking bird, with one leg and a black beak and a body that was painted entirely pink. From time to time, they passed street signs, which read things like DEADLY NIGHTSHADE DRIVE and HEMLOCK COURT and POISON IVY PLACE.

  “Where are we?” Joringel whispered.

  “It’s a new development,” the demon grumbled, rolling his eyes. “Tacky, if you ask me.” The demon turned onto a flat path and led Joringel up to the door of a small, low-slung black house.

  Joringel turned to the demon. “This is where the Devil lives?”

  “It’s his grandmother’s, actually. On his father’s side. He used to live with the other one, but they had a falling out about seven generations ago. Something about someone wearing her clothing . . .”

  “Oh.” Joringel smiled. “Right.”

  “Anyway,” continued the demon, standing under the eaves of the jet-black ranch-style home. “I think it’s kind of nice he lives with his grandmother. You’d think he’d want something grander, given that he’s the Prince of Darkness and all. But he’s a simple soul. With simple tastes.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, causing eternal, excruciating, unbearable suffering.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “And that’s about it. Well,” said the demon, “he’s all yours!” And he went hurrying down the path away from the house.

  Joringel turned stiffly to the little black door. He wiped the sweat from his palms on his pants and gauged the situation.

  On the door was a knocker. It looked like the bronzed head of a baby. Joringel looked closer. It was the bronzed head of a baby. Joringel turned around and tried not to throw up.

  Joringel staggered down the front steps of the house. He decided to circle around to the nearest window, to get the lay of the land. Joringel tiptoed up and peered through the pane. He was looking at a living room. Sort of like a normal living room. There was a simple, modern-looking table. It was carved from bone. This disturbed Joringel. But not nearly so much as the red rug that the table sat on. The rug was tongues. Stitched together, human tongues.

  Suddenly, a rather large elderly woman tottered into view. She had pale, reddish skin, thick black lipstick, and a huge cone of orange hair. It looked, in fact, like she had painted a beehive orange and placed it on top of her head. The old woman slowly, with great effort, bent her ample form to pick up a pillow that was lying on the rug and put it back on the couch. Both the pillow and the couch were made of scalps.

  Joringel ducked away from the window and went back to the front door. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and did his best to dry his perspiring palms. Then he reached out, grabbed the bronzed head of the baby, and rapped it against the door.

  “Hold on a minute!” It was the old woman’s voice. He heard her mumbling as she made her way to the door. “A visitor? Who would visit? Maybe Lukey lost his keys? He’s always forgetting something—”

  The door swung open, revealing the old woman.

  She gaped at Joringel. “Who are you?”

  “Hi,” said Joringel, smiling as innocently as he could. “I’m Joringel. I’m here to see the Devil.”

  The devil-woman squinted at him. “You want to see Lukey? I should have known. No one ever comes to see me anymore. There was a time! So many men, you wouldn’t believe. There was a time when men would line up around the block to ask me to the movies, take me on Coke dates, take me into the backseats of their cars. They worshipped me!”

  Joringel didn’t know what movies or a Coke date or a car was. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot and looked down the lane to see if anyone was coming.

  “Now? Nobody,” the old woman went on. “I guess it’s because I’m old. No one cares about an old woman. An ugly old woman. BEWARE!” she shouted suddenly.

  Joringel jumped a foot.

  “BEWARE! One day you, too, will be old and ugly! And your grandson won’t come home for lunch ever! Ever! BEWARE!

  Joringel dug in his pocket. “I brought you something,” he said.

  “For who? For me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe you. Nobody brings me anything anymore. There was a time! So many men, you wouldn’t believe—”

  “Look,” said Joringel. And he held the little monkey in his hand.

  “Ooh!” the old woman exclaimed. “Ooh, it’s adorable! What an adorably cute little monkey!”

  And then her eyes rolled back in her head, and she went stiff as a board, and she fell over backward.

  Joringel stepped inside and closed the door to the Devil’s house.

  When the Devil’s grandmother came to, Joringel was crouching over her.

  “When is your grandson coming home?”

  “Who knows?” she moaned, rubbing her head. Then she said, “Why am I lying on the floor?”

  “You fell down,” said Joringel. He helped her up.

  “Well?” the Devil’s grandmother asked. “Are you staying for dinner?”

  “Will the Devil be here?”

  “We should be so lucky.”

  Joringel didn’t know what that meant.

  “And do you know I made brisket! Of babies! He loves baby brisket! So he probably won’t come home until it’s cold and dried out! He could at least call.”

  Joringel tried to make sense of what she was saying. “Okay, so he’s supposed to come home for dinner?”

  “Supposed to? Supposed to. Let me tell you—”

  “I’m going to go hide,” Joringel interrupted her. “When he does come home, you will tell him that I’m your guest, and that I’ll be having dinner with you.”

  “I didn’t make enough brisket!”

  “That’s okay,” Joringel assured her. “I won’t actually eat any.”

  “Your mother will be upset.”

  Joringel ignored her. “When you’ve told him about me, call me and I’ll come out. Tell him he must be nice to me. No damning me to torment or anything like that. Understand? Now, where should I hide?”

  The old woman showed Joringel a narrow staircase that led to an attic. Joringel climbed the dusty stairs and found himself in a crawl space between the downstairs ceiling and the roof. It was littered with some of the most outlandish, grotesque objects he had ever seen. There was a head with a crown still attached, a stuffed little boy with a lollipop all the way up his nose, and a pile of kidneys, still warm. He tried not to look. He also tried not to think of Jorinda. And he tried not to thin
k about the fact that he was about to meet the Devil. In his own house. He listened for the front door.

  Soon, he heard it open and heard the Devil cry, “Grandmother, I’m home!”

  Joringel waited. He did not breathe. Muffled voices rose up the narrow stair. And then, after a minute, the grandmother cried, “All right! It’s okay! Come on down!”

  Joringel approached the dusty stairs. His heart was beating so hard he could hear it. He peered down to the foot of the staircase.

  The Devil was waiting for him.

  * * *

  The Devil was a tall man, with reddish skin, a pointed beard, spectacles that sat on the end of his nose, and a thousand strands of shining, golden hair. He was peering at Joringel through his little glasses.

  “See? I told you he was strange looking,” his grandmother whispered so loudly that the neighbors could hear it. “Not the most handsome, if you want my opinion.”

  The Devil pursed his lips. “And this is . . . your guest?” He looked incredulous.

  “Oh yes, dear, and you must be nice to him. He’s having dinner with us. It’s brisket. But he’s not having any. His mother will be very upset.”

  “I’m sure she will be,” the Devil said. He approached Joringel. He bent down until their faces were right next to each other. Joringel could feel the heat radiating off the Devil’s skin. “How, exactly, do you know my grandmother?”

  Joringel smiled. “Old friends.” A line of sweat slid down his face.

  “Old friends from where?” The Devil’s voice was rich and dark and haughty.

  “We used to go to the movies,” Joringel replied.

  The Devil did not know what to say to that.

  “Time for dinner!” the grandmother announced. She led the way into the kitchen. The Devil gestured for Joringel to go first. His red eyes tracked the boy’s every move.

  Three places were set at the table. Joringel saw the cutlery was made of human bones and teeth. He did not touch it.

  The grandmother cut a big slab of brisket for the Devil, and then took a tiny sliver for herself. “Are you sure you won’t have some?” she asked Joringel. “We could spare a little.”

  “No!” Joringel exclaimed. “I mean—no thank you.”

  The Devil was already eating hungrily.

  “I have a question,” said Joringel.

  The Devil raised his eyebrows.

  “Does everyone get the same punishment here in Hell? Those eggs for everyone?”

  The Devil sat back contentedly. He was always happy to discuss his favorite subject: Torture. “That’s what you see, is it? Not pits of fire? How interesting. Well, everyone’s different. Cocoons of Solitude, I call them. Lovely little invention, if I do say so myself. But no, the cocoons are just for your run-of-the-mill sinner. Those people I don’t particularly care for, but I don’t hate either. There are a few people I really, really hate. And they get a special treatment.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, take this one girl who died recently,” said the Devil.

  Joringel sat straight up in his chair.

  “She comes from a family that I have hated for seven generations, ever since one of them snuck into Hell and made a fool out of me.”

  Joringel’s mind raced. Could he mean Jorinda? Was she—were they—related to Hansel and Gretel?

  “She, too, gets a Cocoon of Solitude. But hers is worse than the rest.”

  “How . . . worse?”

  The Devil smiled. “She gets to see the people she has loved. She can speak to them, too. She calls to them. But they never come to her. Some do not hear her. Others do—and ignore her. She will never understand why. She will be utterly neglected, utterly lonely—in the presence of those she loves.”

  Joringel’s stomach twisted so hard he nearly cried out in pain.

  The Devil’s grandmother yawned. “Well, I’m bored.” She got up from the table and began to clear the plates.

  Joringel watched her as she turned her back on them. Then, with a trembling hand, he dug into his pocket.

  “I wanted to show you something,” he said. He withdrew his hand from his pocket and opened it.

  The Devil looked from the corner of his eye. “Ah,” he said. “Nice monkey.”

  “Cute, isn’t it?” said Joringel.

  The grandmother looked over her shoulder from the sink. Blood poured from the faucet. “Oh, it’s so cute!”

  “Yes,” said Joringel. He turned to the Devil. “Wouldn’t you say that it’s cute?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the Devil. “I would say that.”

  “Say what?” asked Joringel.

  The Devil frowned. “I would say that it’s cute.”

  “You would say that what’s cute?” Joringel asked. His hand was shaking noticeably.

  “I would say that that monkey is cute,” said the Devil, squinting suspiciously at the little boy.

  It’s not going to work, Joringel thought. What was I thinking? It’s a stupid plan. It’s not going to work.

  The grandmother hobbled over from the sink, as crimson blood poured fluently into the basin. “Yes,” she agreed, “it really is a cute ivory monkey.” And then she stood up and started blinking rapidly. “Hey!” she cried, pointing at Joringel. “Who are you?”

  The Devil looked very surprised.

  Joringel held up the monkey. “Remember me?” he asked. He could barely breathe. He felt light-headed. “I brought you this?” The monkey was shaking in his hand like there was an earthquake.

  The Devil’s grandmother glared at the little carving. Then she said, “Right . . . you’re the boy with that cute ivory monkey . . .” Suddenly, her eyes rolled back in her head, her body went stiff as a board, and she fell over.

  “What the Hell!” cried the Devil. “What just happened?”

  Joringel looked frantically back and forth between the Devil and his grandmother. The plan was failing. Utterly failing. “I-I think,” he stammered, “I think she said something that made her fall over.”

  “Yes! I think she did!” cried the Devil, crouching over his grandmother.

  “What was it?” Joringel asked.

  The Devil looked up at Joringel. “You want me to say it?”

  “Say what?” asked Joringel. The Devil could hear his heart beating. Joringel was sure of it.

  “You want me to say what my grandmother just said?”

  “What did your grandmother say?”

  The Devil squinted at the little boy. “You know.”

  “What?”

  “You know!”

  “She said ‘you know’?”

  “No!” cried the Devil. “You know what she said!”

  “What did she say?”

  “You just want me to say it!” cried the Devil.

  “Why would I want you to say ‘it’?”

  “No! You just want me to say ‘cute ivory monkey’!”

  Joringel breathed an enormous sigh of relief.

  The Devil’s eyes rolled back in his head, his body went straight as a board, and—

  He grabbed Joringel by the throat.

  Joringel dropped the monkey.

  * * *

  With one hand, the Devil held on to Joringel. With the other, he scooped up the ivory monkey from the floor.

  Joringel was choking. The skin of his throat was burning. He could not breathe.

  “You thought you could overpower me with this? With this?” The Devil grinned, brandishing the monkey in one hand, while the other was wrapped firmly around Joringel’s neck. “The monkey is cute, I’ll grant you. But it’s a parlor trick, good for old ladies and mortals. Do you know who I am? I am the Prince of Darkness. I am the most powerful force under Heaven. Do not play with me, boy.”

  The Devil took a deep breath. Joringel was choking. The Devil’s
grip tightened. “But I am glad you’re here. Do you know how long I have been waiting for one of you to come back down here and try to fool me? Seven generations! Seven generations since your great-great-great-great-great grandfather dressed up like my maternal grandmother and made a fool out of me! Oh, I have been waiting for you. I have been waiting, little boy.”

  Joringel could barely hear what the Devil was saying. His vision was fading. His skin was burning and blistering under the Devil’s hand.

  “And now I shall punish you. I have a special punishment for you, just as I had for your sister. Do you know what it is?”

  The Devil waited, as if Joringel would try to guess. Joringel could not breathe. Guessing was out of the question.

  “No?” smiled the Devil. “Your punishment, boy, is to watch her suffer. You will get to watch your dear sister suffer for all eternity. And no matter what you do, no matter how good you are, no matter how many times you say ‘please, pretty please with a cherry on top,’ I will never, ever, ever let you out. It will be excruciating pain from now until eternity.”

  Joringel kicked his legs frantically. His lungs were collapsing. He was dying. He was dying, and when he did, he would stay in Hell for ever and ever and ever.

  The Devil’s grandmother sat up.

  “Grandmother,” said the Devil, “say ‘cute ivory monkey’ again.”

  “Cute ivory monkey again,” she repeated.

  The Devil rolled his eyes. “Close enough.”

  “Hey! Who’s that?” she demanded, pointing at Joringel.

  “He came to get his sister out of Hell. His plan has gone rather awry, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, put him down! You don’t strangle little boys! It’s not nice!” She pulled herself slowly to her feet.

  “Grandmother, I’m the Devil. Nice isn’t what I do.”

  Joringel began to slip in and out of consciousness.

  The Devil’s grandmother put her hands on her hips. “Well, you’re in my house, you eat my food, and you follow my rules when you’re here. Put the little boy down!”