by Kate Forsyth
‘We have some children here from the workhouse,’ Dortchen said. ‘I know they’d love a story.’
‘Poor mites, they’re worn out from overwork. Won’t you tell them a lovely old tale to make them feel better?’ Old Marie said.
‘Please,’ one of the children said, settling down cross-legged on the floor.
‘I haven’t heard a story since my ma died,’ another piped up.
‘It’s been ever so long since I’ve heard one,’ another said.
The old woman hesitated, looking towards the sound of their voices.
‘We love old stories,’ Dortchen said gently. ‘If you tell me a story, I’ll write it down and then we’ll put it in a book, to be preserved forever.’
‘A story of mine, put into a book?’
‘Yes, I promise.’ Dortchen hoped she would not be wrong. Surely Jakob and Wilhelm would find a publisher for their book, even in these troubled times?
Old Marie reached into her pocket and drew out a small bag of sugarplums, which she pressed into the old woman’s hands. ‘A gift for you,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t tell anyone.’
The woman squeezed the bag in her hand and heard the tinsel paper crackle. Her face lit up; she took out a sugarplum and popped it in her mouth, chewing quickly. Her whole face changed. ‘I have not eaten a sugarplum since I was a child,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you.’
All the children were leaning forward, their eyes fixed imploringly on the bag of sugarplums. Old Marie smiled and pulled out another, which seemed to vanish among the dirty little hands in seconds.
‘Well, then, maybe for the little ones,’ Frau Creuzer said. Dortchen quietly opened up the small writing desk she had borrowed from Herr Schmerfeld and unscrewed the inkpot. As she dipped in one of the quills, the old woman began to speak.
GIRL IN ASHES
October 1810
‘There’s a story I always loved that my grandmother used to tell me,’ Frau Creuzer said in a wavering voice. ‘It was about a girl who was dressed in rags and had to work in the ashes, while her two stepsisters had everything that had once been hers.’
‘It sounds wonderful.’ Dortchen wrote swiftly, copying down what the old woman said. Frau Creuzer spoke so slowly, and stopped so many times, trying to remember what happened, that Dortchen was able to keep up quite well. On one or two occasions she had to look to Old Marie for help, unable to understand what the old woman had said, for her speech was greatly marred by her lack of teeth. Old Marie quickly translated for her, in a low voice.
‘The poor child had to do the most difficult work,’ the old woman said. ‘She had to get up before sunrise, carry water, make the fire, cook and wash. To add to her misery, her stepsisters ridiculed her and then scattered peas and lentils into the ashes, and she had to spend the whole day sorting them out again. At night, when she was tired, there was no bed for her to sleep in, and she had to lie down next to the hearth. Because she was always dirty with ashes and dust, they gave her the name Aschenputtel.’
Dortchen wondered how to spell ‘Aschenputtel’. It meant to wallow in ashes, she realised, and felt sorry for the girl in the story.
Aschenputtel’s stepsisters were invited to go to a ball, but Aschenputtel had to stay home and do the chores. ‘I know just how she felt,’ Dortchen whispered to Old Marie, who smiled in sympathy but put her finger to her lips. The children were all listening intently, their eyes fixed on the old woman’s wrinkled face.
Pigeons came and helped Aschenputtel sort the bad lentils from the good in a basin, but the stepsisters tore down their pigeon-roost when they realised Aschenputtel had watched the ball from its roof.
‘They’re so mean,’ one girl cried.
‘They were,’ Frau Creuzer said, ‘and they only got meaner.’
The next time the stepsisters went to the ball, they ordered Aschenputtel to sort out the bad seeds from the good in a sackful of seeds. Once again the pigeons came to help.
‘The bad ones go into your crop, the good ones go into the pot,’ the old woman chanted. ‘Peck, peck, peck, peck, it went as fast as if twelve hands were at work. When they were finished, the pigeons said, “Aschenputtel, would you like to go dancing at the ball?”
‘“Oh, my goodness,” she said, “how could I go in these dirty clothes?”
‘“Just go to the little tree on your mother’s grave, shake it, and wish yourself some beautiful clothes. But come back before midnight.”
‘So Aschenputtel went and shook the little tree, and said, “Shake yourself, shake yourself, little tree. Throw some nice clothing down to me.”
‘She had scarcely spoken these words when a splendid silver dress fell down before her. With it were pearls, silk stockings with silver decorations, silver slippers and everything else she needed. Aschenputtel carried it all home. After she had washed herself and put on the clothing, she was as beautiful as a rose washed in dew.’
Dortchen could see the glittering silver dress and slippers in her mind’s eye, and she imagined dancing in the arms of the prince under a thousand shining lanterns, till the clock struck the twelve notes of midnight. Her hand slowed as she imagined a prince with dark, curly hair and a thin, hungry face. Frau Creuzer was still talking, however, and she had to write quickly to catch up.
The same thing happened the next night, the old woman said, though this time the little tree on Aschenputtel’s mother’s grave shook down a golden dress and golden slippers. Again she danced all night in the prince’s arms. But she did not know that he had commanded his servants to cover the steps with pitch to stop her from running away at midnight again. When she tried to escape, one of her golden slippers caught fast in the pitch and was lost.
The prince decided to find his lost love by searching for the girl whose foot fitted the tiny slipper. When he came to Aschenputtel’s house, her stepmother gave her daughters a knife and told them to cut off parts of their feet so that they could wear the slipper and win the prince’s hand. The eldest sister cut off her heel, but the pigeons called out and warned the prince.
‘Rook di goo, rook di goo! There’s blood in the shoe. The shoe is too tight, this bride is not right!’ the old woman said, holding her hands up near her mouth to mimic a bird’s beak.
The children all laughed.
The second stepsister cut off her toes to fit the slipper, but once again the pigeons revealed her trick to the prince.
‘The prince looked down and saw that her white stockings were stained with blood,’ the old woman continued. ‘The prince took her back to her mother and said, “She is not the right bride either. Is there not another daughter here in this house?”
‘“No,” said the mother. “There is only a dirty cinder girl here. She is sitting down there in the ashes. The slipper would never fit her.” But the prince insisted and so they called Aschenputtel, and when she heard that the prince was there, she quickly washed her hands and face. She stepped into the best room and bowed.
‘The prince handed her the golden slipper, saying, “Try it on. If it fits you, you shall be my wife.” She pulled the heavy shoe from her left foot, then put her foot into the slipper, pushing ever so slightly. It fitted as if it had been poured over her foot. As she straightened herself up, she looked into the prince’s face and he recognised her as the beautiful princess. He cried out, “This is the right bride!”
‘The stepmother and the two proud sisters turned pale with horror. The prince escorted Aschenputtel away. He helped her into his carriage, and as they rode through the gate, the pigeons called out, “Rook di goo, rook di goo! No blood’s in the shoe, the shoe’s not too tight, this bride is right!”’
The old woman dropped her hands and turned her blind eyes towards them, smiling toothlessly. The children clapped, as did the old ladies lying in beds nearby.
‘Oh, what a lovely story,’ Dortchen cried, scribbling down the last few lines. ‘Wilhelm will love it.’
‘Do you know any more?’ Old Marie asked.
The old
woman peered anxiously towards the door.
‘No one’s there,’ Dortchen reassured her. ‘No one’s listening except us.’
The old woman allowed herself to be persuaded to tell another story, about a golden bird and three brothers. Both Old Marie and Dortchen were familiar with this tale, though the toothless old woman told it a little differently. Dortchen wrote down her version faithfully; by now her fingers were covered in ink and her hands ached.
The warden’s wife came bustling in before the end of the story, and would have interrupted if Old Marie had not held her finger to her mouth warningly. The old woman must have heard her, though, for she began to gabble the story. Soon her words were incomprehensible.
‘I told you she was useless,’ the warden’s wife said.
‘She was not at all useless,’ Dortchen cried. ‘She told us a most beautiful story. Two beautiful stories. Herr Grimm will be so pleased.’
‘Well, then,’ the warden’s wife said, not looking pleased. ‘If you’ve finished … Frau Creuzer has work to do, and so do these worthless brats.’
Packing up her writing tools, Dortchen thanked the old woman as sweetly as she knew how. The old woman grinned at her and secretly popped another sugarplum into her mouth. The sound of her chewing followed Dortchen as the warden’s wife led her to the door.
Dortchen had been dreading their return to Cassel, but with two new stories in her bag, the rickety wheels of the stagecoach could scarcely turn fast enough. As the road climbed away from Marburg, she gazed out the window at the pine-dark hills and wondered if Wilhelm would be pleased.
It was a few days before she could get away, but at last Old Marie asked her to go to the marketplace and wait in the line for bread, as their flour bins were empty. Dortchen did as she was asked, then climbed the stairs to the Grimms’ apartment on her way home. Wilhelm was sitting at the kitchen table, frowning as he copied text from an immensely thick old book onto a fresh piece of paper.
‘Wilhelm,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Is all well?’
He looked up and smiled wearily, rising to his feet. ‘You’re back. Welcome home. How was the wedding?’
‘Beautiful, for a civil service. We all cried.’
‘Of course you did,’ he replied.
‘I went to see the Story Wife of Marburg,’ she said, unable to keep back her smile.
‘You did? Dortchen, bless you. Did she tell you any stories?’
‘Two,’ Dortchen replied. ‘One is the Golden Bird, which I know you know, but another is entirely new. I promise you’ll love it.’ She held out her sheaf of papers.
‘Your timing could not be better,’ Wilhelm said, looking over the first story quickly. ‘We are about to send Clemens our manuscript – he might publish them in a third collection of The Boy’s Wonder Horn. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?’
He reached the end of the story, then turned to the second sheaf of papers. Dortchen watched him anxiously, hoping he would love it as much as she did. He looked up once or twice with glowing eyes, then continued to read. When he reached the end, he cast the papers down on the table and caught her in one arm, kissing her on the mouth. It lasted only a second but was indescribably sweet. Dortchen blushed crimson.
‘I’m sorry!’ he cried. ‘I didn’t mean to … It is just such a wonderful story. Thank you, Dortchen, thank you!’
‘I’m glad you like it,’ she answered shyly, then she went out, shutting the door behind her. In the dark stairwell she leant against the wall, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth, trying to stop the smile that insisted on growing there.
PART FOUR
The Singing Bone
CASSEL
The Kingdom of Westphalia, 1810 – 1811
A shepherd drove his herd across the bridge and saw a little snow-white bone lying in the sand below. Thinking that it would make a good mouthpiece for his horn, he climbed down, picked it up, and carved it. When he blew into it for the first time, to his great astonishment the bone began to sing by itself:
‘Oh, my dear shepherd,
You are blowing on my little bone.
My brothers killed me,
And buried me beneath the bridge,
To get the wild boar
For the daughter of the king.’
‘What a wonderful horn,’ said the shepherd. ‘It sings by itself. I must take it to the king.’ When he brought it before the king, the horn again began to sing its little song. The king understood it well, and had the earth beneath the bridge dug up. Then the whole skeleton of the murdered man came to light.
From ‘The Singing Bone’, a tale told by Dortchen Wild to Wilhelm Grimm on 19th January 1812
THIEF IN THE NIGHT
January 1811
Dortchen woke from a deep sleep with a start.
She lay in her warm bed, listening. There was a muffled crash, then the quail in its cage began to call a warning. She heard her father’s feet hit the floor and the sound of him running. Dortchen got up quickly, putting on her slippers and catching up her shawl. As she went out onto the landing, Old Marie opened her door and came out too, a candle in her hand.
‘Is it burglars?’ she asked in a quavering voice.
‘I don’t know,’ Dortchen replied.
Together they went downstairs. Mia joined them on the way, her strawberry-blonde hair hanging down her back in a tousled plait, a shawl wrapped over her nightgown. Röse peered out of her door, her fair hair as neat as if she had just plaited it. ‘Have you lost your senses?’ she whispered. ‘If some thief is below, do you wish to tempt him to violence? Stay safe in your room, sisters.’
A pistol shot rang out. Mia and Dortchen jumped and cried out, clutching at each other. With Old Marie huffing behind, they ran down the stairs and into the shop.
Their father stood at the far end of the stillroom, the door into the garden hanging open and letting in a blast of cold air. He held a smoking pistol in his hand and rammed another lead shot into it. Then he ran out into the snowy garden, his nightgown flapping under his frockcoat. A few seconds later they heard the garden gate bang open, then another pistol shot. The spray of sparks from the pistol lit up their father’s face.
‘No!’ Dortchen cried, then bit her lip.
Her father locked the gate again, and stumped towards them. ‘He’s gone, the scoundrel,’ he said. ‘The gate was still locked – he must’ve come over the wall. I saw a shadow slipping away down the alley but must’ve missed him. My powder’s damp, damn it.’
The girls stepped back to allow him back into the stillroom. Herr Wild looked around irritably. There was broken glass all over the floor, and a puddle of some strong-smelling brown liquid. ‘He’s knocked over a bottle of cordial. Get it cleaned up, will you, Marie?’
Old Marie nodded and went in search of a mop. Herr Wild put down the pistol on the benchtop and said, ‘Look, the cupboard has been forced open. That scoundrel knew exactly what he was looking for.’
He went over and looked through the cupboard, its door swinging off one hinge. ‘All the opium’s gone, and the tincture I’d made up. Nothing else. The thief knew exactly what he was looking for and where to find it.’
A terrible thought occurred to Dortchen. Could Ferdinand Grimm be the thief? She had shown him where the opium was kept. She pushed the thought away, upset with herself for thinking such a thing. It had been months since he had asked her for laudanum. Surely he would not have broken into her father’s shop in search of it?
Her father saw her face and his eyes narrowed. ‘What do you know about this, Dortchen?’
‘Nothing, Father,’ she answered.
He took a hasty step towards her. ‘You lie! You think I’m a fool? Did you tell some lover of yours how to get in over the back wall? Did you tell him where the opium was kept?’
‘No, of course not! … How can you think such a thing?’
He rushed forward and seized her by the untidy mass of her braid, dragging on it so hard she stumbled and fell to her k
nees before him. ‘Tell me the truth!’
‘I am telling the truth. Father, stop, you’re hurting me!’
‘I paid a fortune for that opium,’ he said in a chilly voice. ‘It’ll be the devil of a job replacing it. And how am I to pay for it? That opium would have kept us in food for months. Now it’s gone. And you know who took it.’ He shook her so hard she felt as if her hair was being torn out by its roots.
Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘Father, I swear … on the Holy Bible … I know nothing.’
He let her go and she fell to the ground, her nightgown billowing up around her. Hastily she pulled it down, huddling her shawl about her. She was very conscious of her father looking down at her, his eyes glinting.
‘Excuse me, sir, I need to sweep up,’ Old Marie said, standing in the doorway with a mop and duster in her hand.
Herr Wild muttered a low curse and turned away, going to the sideboard. He poured himself a snifter of quince brandy and tossed it back. Dortchen scrambled to her feet and hurried away, feeling sick and shaky.
Mia followed behind her. As they went back into the cold, draughty house, she slipped her hand into Dortchen’s.
‘But I need my drops,’ Frau Wild said. ‘You know they are the only things that help me.’
‘You’ll have to manage without them for a while,’ Herr Wild said.
‘But I can’t … I’m in pain …’
‘There’s nothing I can do about it, Katharina. The blockade means I cannot buy opium from India, which means it must come over the Alps from Turkey, with bandits and rebels and battlefields the whole way. I can make you up a tincture of willowbark and henbane. That’s the best I can do.’
Frau Wild took to her bed and stayed there, keeping Dortchen and Mia busy carrying up trays with broth and hot flannels and healing teas. Röse offered to comfort her mother by reading to her from the psalm book, but Frau Wild put her hand to her head and begged her daughter to desist.
