The Doomsday Book of Fairy Tales

by Emily Brewes

  “Holy shit, Jesse! What’s the matter with you?” Olivia tried to get in close to see what damage I’d done, but I shoved her away.

  “The fuck do you care? It’s fine. Let’s go!”

  We walked for a good twenty minutes before she tried talking to me again. I’d been leading, though I didn’t know exactly where we were going, and Olivia’d been hanging back. Letting me cool off.

  “Is this about the story?” she ventured.

  I shook my head and swiped at the few tears that had jumped out of my eyes as I blinked. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

  Another ways was traversed with only the crunch of boots over rough ground as accompaniment. Then suddenly she caught up with me and pulled me into a hug. Her arms pinned mine to my sides. The strength of her embrace shoved air from my lungs. When she’d finished, she held me at arm’s length and looked me dead in the eye.

  “I’m sorry I ruined your story, Jesse.”

  I shrugged and shook my head. “It wasn’t you. I’m just out of it. I don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m doing it. I thought I knew when Doggo was with me, but since he … he’s not … What am I for? What good am I?”

  “Nothing. Like the rest of us.”

  She took up the lead on the trail, calling back, “Hurry up! We’ve got a two-hour walk and an hour to do it in.”

  DEAR DIARY

  SITTING IN MY OLD ROOM, looking out over a backyard I’d known the first fifteen years of my life, I marked how much had changed. It had become an alien landscape. Even though Olivia’d cut back much of what was overgrown, there were two sturdy trees taken root where the pig pen used to be. The deck where Abraham died had been rebuilt. With all the differences in textures and colours, it may as well have been Barsoom.

  My cough had come back. Or maybe it was a different one — a surface cough. I’m no doctor. Olivia had me bundled by the fireplace most of the day, but as she’d gone out, I’d taken this sojourn up the stairs. Took the best part of an hour to get there. Apart from the cough, nothing in my body seemed to work. Joints ached and I was tired all the time.

  I’d been eating better than I had for the last three decades and change. Olivia brought home meat or fish most days, and she had an entire cellar of dried foods and preserves. Thank goodness one of us watched what Mum had been doing all those hours in a steamy kitchen.

  Can’t say I’d much of an appetite to speak of, though.

  I could not stop thinking about Doggo. Having grieved before, for Dad, for Olivia, and then for Mum, I was struck by how stubbornly he stayed in my mind. I’d turn and fully expect to see him, little furry comma all curled up with his nose burrowed under a cushion. But there was nothing there.

  No Doggo. Just an empty space where he ought to be.

  I’d tried to talk to Olivia about him, but she wasn’t much help. As a listener, she was Dad’s daughter. Instead of offering sympathy, or saying nothing at all, she tried to solve the problem of my sorrow by thinking up advice.

  “How old was he, anyway?”

  I shrugged. “Dunno. He was grown, I guess.”

  “Any grey around his muzzle? Some dogs go grey.”

  “Could’ve been. He had grey in his colouring all over, with black and brown and white.”

  She thought about that as she set another split log on the fire. A spray of sparks spun up the chimney. “Well, he could’ve been old and that’s why he passed.”

  “That doesn’t make me miss him any less.”

  “But if he was old, there’s nothing you could do about that. It was just his time.”

  I lay down with my face to the back of the couch. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  Since I couldn’t see her, I could only guess, but I figured she stood up from a crouch, dusted bits of bark and ash from her hands, and glared at the back of my head. In defence, I pulled the blanket up and over — the only proven shield against sister-glaring.

  “You’re such a raw nerve, you know? Just like Dad said. A tooth that wants to be pulled.”

  “He’s one to talk,” I scoffed from my upholstered stronghold. “What’s that even supposed to mean, anyway?”

  When she didn’t say anything, I peeled the blanket back and rolled over to look. The fire was just catching the new log. A blaze of heat surged from the hearth, but I was the only one to feel it. Olivia had pulled a ninja disappearing act and was gone.

  “Fuck,” I said to the empty house.

  OUR TRIP TO THE HOUSE had taken longer than it should have, thanks to the raging infection I got from the wounds on my shins. I was only walking about half-speed. We had spent several days holed up at a neighbour’s farm, about two kilometres from our old place. Spitting distance! But I was fevered, and strong as she was, Olivia wasn’t prepared to carry or drag me the rest of the way. All of this was made worse still since I kept the infection hidden until its fact was inescapable. Olivia chided me for trying to kill myself and cursed herself for trusting me in the first place.

  I had spent large segments of limited cogency trying to remember the name of the family whose farm it had been. “Legat? Le-, Le-, Le-,” I droned, intrigued by the feeling of making an ell sound with my tongue. “Something starting with Le, right?”

  Olivia grunted, dropping a load of split logs on the living room floor. “How should I know? I was six when we moved away. People weren’t properly introduced to me.”

  “Doesn’t … doesn’t it say on, like, a mailbox or something? Farm people allus … allus make those cutesy signs for the front porch, with the names on?” My ability to think was drifting away from me again, so I had to hold on to hear her answer.

  She came over to feel my forehead and to tuck the blankets more securely around me. I moaned that it was too hot. “You have a fever, dummy. If you’re not covered, you’ll get a chill. Stay put and drink some water.”

  Sudden panic overrode every circuit in my brain.

  “This is how!” I gasped. “This is how I killed Doggo! It’s wrong! I’ve got rabies-B … Please don’t let me die!”

  “Shh! It’s okay. I’m not gonna let you die. We’ve got medicine to make you better, and I know what I’m doing. Unlike some people I could mention.”

  She meant it as a joke, but I didn’t laugh. Humour was too far away to see clearly, and all I could think were soft pink thoughts.

  “Levesque,” she said. As I sank deeper into delirium, I felt her stroke my hair and pat my cheek. “The family’s name was Levesque. There’s a sign by the road.”

  When I came back from my jaunt to the land of Fever Dreams, I was alone. I could hear the sound of wood being split from out in the side yard.

  “Levesque,” I muttered to myself. “That’s their name.”

  Cold Hands and Warm Heart

  In a land that knew only winter lived a boy and a girl. They weren’t related but loved each other as brother and sister. Their families lived in a broad river valley, separated by a broad expanse of well-kept woods.

  The girl’s family burned charcoal, while the boy’s hunted for meat and skins. Even so, in the deepest part of winter, the boy’s family helped harvest wood for the burner. And in the warmer months, when the forest creatures were fatter and moved about more, the girl’s family assisted by setting and clearing snares.

  The pair saw each other nearly every day, though the journey between their houses was several miles. Every day, each would invent some excuse to run an errand or do a chore that required taking the path through the wood, and so they would meet in the middle. Together they ran through the forest, laughing and playing and singing, until their chores ought to be done. Then each would help the other complete the needed task before taking off for home.

  Though they both loved their parents and blood siblings, they loved each other best in all the world. One day, they made vows to one another to never let anyone see them parted. The boy used his knife to cut the tip of his finger.

  “Let me do to you likewise. We’ll mingle ou
r blood so that our bond will be made, and none can tear it asunder.”

  The girl consented but winced when he made the cut. Together they held their fingers over the same spot in the snow and let the blood drop out.

  “There! Our bond is made so that God in heaven cannot break it.” She worried at his blasphemy but smiled all the same. The boy held out his handkerchief so that she might staunch the cut with it. She in turn gave hers to him.

  “Keep the cloth close to your heart,” she said. “And don’t let the blood be washed from it.”

  The boy nodded, then looked to the sky. “Oh my! Look how low the sun hangs. Let us now do our work and return home so that we’ll not be missed.”

  This they did, then bid each other farewell at the roadside as they did each day. The girl took off directly for home, carrying the bundles of kindling she was sent out for. The boy, with his satchel stuffed with edible roots, dawdled along the path. He packed a ball of snow between his hands, then rolled it down the road to see how large he could grow it.

  As he went, he came across a carriage stopped on the path. Travellers along the road were rare enough, but this was clearly some noble or other. The carriage was fine, its sides decked with carving, but its grand wheels had gotten mired in the wet snow. The driver of the carriage, a stout bearded fellow who was no taller than the boy, took note of his company and waved him over.

  “Boy! Do you come here and help me. This wheel, being well mired, is too great for me to unstick by myself. Take hold, as will I, that together we might lift it clear.”

  The boy examined the situation and shook his head. “I’ll do you better than that, sir. Let me but fell that sapling yonder and cut you a pair of skis. We’ll bind them to your carriage wheels that you might glide across the top of the snow, the better to make your way from the valley.”

  The dwarf clapped his hands and laughed heartily. “Well and good! You’re a fine, smart lad and no mistake. Let us make haste and get done. My lady within grows colder and crosser by the minute.”

  In a short time, the tree was felled and split down its length into two sturdy yet flexible skis. These they endeavoured to lash to the carriage wheels as speedily as they might. They were nearly done when the lady shouted from within.

  “Are we not gone yet? What use have I for a driver who leaves us stuck so long?”

  “Do but patient yourself one moment longer, my lady,” said the boy. “Our fix is nearly done.”

  The lady thrust her head from the carriage door, eyes of red glaring from skin the colour of the snow itself. Her lips and locks were of the same shining black hue, and on her brow sat a crown of diamonds like ice. She caught the boy with her stare, and he gasped at its force.

  “Who dares speak to me so, as though I were some crabbing housewife? Know you not who I am?”

  The boy fell to one knee and bowed his head. “Indeed not, my lady. I’m but a humble know-nothing who has seen aught but the trees of this wood. I beg your forgiveness for my ignorance!”

  The lady reached down and lifted the boy’s chin to peer into his face. Her hand was cold as the air of the wood and stung his skin at her touch. The boy was fair to look on and well fashioned in body. On seeing this, the lady’s manner softened. She ducked her head coyly and smiled sweetly to him.

  “Fret not, my chuck. I’ve forgotten already. Only I wish you would hurry, for I’m quite frozen through.”

  The boy was being drawn in by her spell, yet the handkerchief in his breast pocket whispered to him, “Beware, beware! Remember you your vows!”

  Shaking his head, the boy looked to the low-hung sun. “I will do as I promised, then must hie me home, for the hour grows too late.”

  The lady pursed her lips. She’d committed to taking the boy to her palace in the mountains and would not be turned aside. “Once you’ve finished, I’ll have you in with me. You’ll warm your hands by the burner, and together we’ll drive you near your home. I could not let you go with not this least reward.”

  Though the handkerchief burned at his breast, the boy consented. After all, he was so late and the way so long, it would be an hour before he reached his home on foot. What harm was there in accepting a ride? To refuse such gratitude was surely uncouth.

  “Very well,” said the boy. He right away bent himself to the task and, with the driver’s help, soon had the second ski fixed. No sooner was this done than the driver was helping bustle him into the carriage to seat himself beside the lady. At her feet was a bronze brazier into which she placed lumps of charcoal and lit them.

  “Were you sitting this whole time without heat, my lady?”

  “Hush, boy, and join me beneath this fur. You must truly be frozen through from your labours.”

  This he did, and they took off down the path of the wood. Through the carriage window, he shortly saw the lit windows of his own home. Yet wrapped in the lady’s fur, close to her body, he’d become colder and colder until his body was frozen solid as a statue. The only part of him that moved still was his heart, warmed by the bloodstained cloth of his vow.

  “Fie, fie!” sighed the cloth in a voice not unlike the girl’s. “Love be damned in the face of bewitchment.”

  On and on they sped. Day became night and night warmed back into day, until at last they reached the lady’s castle in the mountain. It was carved of black granite blocks, mortared by thick frost, and glazed over with ice. In the courtyard were a dozen statues carved of blue-tinged ice. All of them were comely youths, none unlike the boy himself. Some reached out, others stood with heads bowed, their tears frozen rivulets upon their cheeks.

  “Here is your new home,” crowed the lady. “My garden of pretty boys now sees its crowning jewel.”

  The dwarf hauled the boy roughly from the carriage, yet he felt not a bump. His whole body was stiff and numb. He could no more move a muscle than he’d ever been able to fly. His only thought was of his foolishness and of his beloved sister. He feared of never seeing her again.

  As he wept and prayed in the prison of his own mind, the west wind swept into the courtyard and whispered past his ear. “Fear not, child,” it crooned. “I will send for help.”

  So saying, it reached into the pocket over his breast and fetched out the bloodstained cloth. Up and over, tumbling round and round, it was tossed on the breeze, out and far away from the wicked lady’s palace of ice.

  Up and over, round and round, the lace-edged square flew far and away, until it was hung up on a twig in the yard of the girl. She’d gone to meet the boy only to find him missing. She went to his home to ask if he ailed, that she might bring him bone broth to fortify his recovery. She arrived only to find his whole family despairing, for he’d not returned from the wood.

  “Did you see him? Do you know what became of him?” For though the youngsters thought themselves quite clever in their deception, both sets of parents were well aware of their meetings in the woods.

  The girl did a small curtsy, shaking her head. “No, I don’t. We parted when the sun was low, and still I made it home before suppertime, though my house was the farther.”

  “Oh, child! Go thee home and fetch thy father and mother. Perhaps if we all go our ways through the wood, we will find where he has gone.”

  She curtsied again, then was off on her heels, running the shortest path through the wood until she came again to her own door. She burst in and told her parents what had happened, all in a great flood of tear-soaked words.

  “Oh dear,” said Mother.

  “Well, well,” said Father.

  Then the pair soothed their daughter. They banked up the fire and set her by it, cloaked with the best furs and woollen blankets in the house. Then they packed themselves some provisions and bundled up warmly against the cold.

  “Stay here, and we’ll to the boy’s house, there to begin our search. Mind you keep the fire stoked, and do not open the door before our return.”

  The girl leapt up. “But I would come with you! I must help find my beloved b
rother!”

  Her father was firm. “You will remain. What if he has gotten lost and arrives on our front step with nobody home? Stay and keep watch. Should he come, you may let him inside. Only him and no one else.”

  She relented, and they left.

  After the first hour, the girl was sure she heard some scratching at the door. Frost coated the front window so thickly that she could see nothing through it. So she unlatched the door and peered outside. What should she see but a small white flag flying from a twig. No, not a flag — a lace-edged handkerchief! Heedless of the cold, she ran out into the snow to fetch it. Sure enough, it was stained with blood. It was the very one she’d given to the boy, that he’d tucked so well into the pocket by his breast.

  “How has it arrived here?” she inquired.

  In reply, the east wind slithered close to her ear. “My cousin, the west wind, has blown it here. Climb on my back and I will take you to his house that you might ask him whence he came by it.”

  Without her coat, her stockings, or her boots, the girl mounted the east wind’s back. No sooner was this done than they were away, high above the forest treetops. Instantly, the girl felt her skin go painfully numb. She shivered violently yet clung hard as she might to the back of the east wind, and to the bloodstained handkerchief she still held.

  They flew fast and they flew far, until at last they flew over the horizon, to the home of the west wind. He was crouched by his hearth, brewing a cup of tea and having a terrible time of it. Therefore he greeted his guests sharply, “What do you want? Can you not see the trouble I’m at?”

  The east wind replied, “Is that any way to greet your cousin? And see, I’ve brought you a guest.”

  The girl slid from the back of the east wind and went directly to the teapot. There she set about fixing a fine tea. Her hands moved swiftly and surely, until she presented the winds with a brimming cup each. The west wind sipped his cup with caution, only to find it tasted so well he could barely believe it.