by Chloe Mayer
It lumbered from the exit over to the wooden stairs that had been built into the verge. Once up on the path it turned left and began to walk, heading away from the village.
Ah! No time to have my lunch now; I had to follow the monster.
I squished my sandwich down into my pocket and slithered down the verge. But before I was even at the bottom, a train was roaring its way around the bend. Annoyed, I began doing impatient little jumps as I waited for the carriages to whizz by. The wind of it slicked my hair back and fluttered through my shirt, as a blur of heads looked down on me from just a couple of feet away. I didn’t see the skeleton crew. Then it was gone just as suddenly as it came and the hunt was back on.
I flew across the tracks and clambered up the steps as fast as I could. I couldn’t see the Troll, so I began to run in the direction it had taken. I was breathless from the steep climb and the excitement. I was stalking my prey, I thought, like the wolf tracked Red Riding Hood through the forest – always keeping sight of her through the trees.
Except I couldn’t see the Troll at the moment. Hopefully I wouldn’t lose it. I had no way of knowing whether it had turned off into the straggly forest to my right. For now, the path was still following the line of the train tracks, but further ahead it would veer away and leave the railway behind.
Just as I rounded the bend that took the path in its new direction I saw I’d caught up with the Troll, which was only a short way ahead of me now. I darted into the cover of the woods to my right. There were just some overgrown fields to the left now, and the path was gently sloping down towards the countryside. I wasn’t even sure where it led. I had never been this far away from the village by myself before.
I stood still for a moment to think. Where was it going? How far should I follow it? As long as I stayed on the path I would be able to find my way back to the railway bridge, but I didn’t really know where I was any more.
Then I remembered its dirty nest under the bridge and how it had tried to catch me, chasing me through the dark with its nightmarish roar. And the other time, when I had seen it trying to smell me out in the witching hour, and the third time, when it nearly caught me for its cooking pot.
No. I needed to find out where it was going. Besides, I was a wolf.
‘The hunter becomes the hunted,’ I muttered.
I went on tracking it but kept to the safety of the ever-thickening forest. The fields on the other side of the path were falling away, melting into scrubland, which melted into forest. The path was narrower now and overgrown.
How long was it going to keep walking? I was getting tired and it was very hot. My stomach was growling at me, and I remembered my sandwich. The raspberry jam had bled through the bread but it was delicious. I’d had enough of tracking the Troll and was about to turn towards home when it did something interesting: it headed into the forest.
What was this?
I hurried to catch up and realised that it hadn’t turned at a random point, but was following a narrow trail, which snaked its way through the woods.
I felt a bit sick; something was happening now. I tried to keep myself hidden – if it turned to see me on the trail, which was only wide enough to allow single file, I would be done for and I knew it would easily catch me amongst the trees.
Once again, the ground was sloping downwards and I suddenly realised where we were and where it was going. It had come to the so-called Densford River, which wasn’t really a river at all, but a small stream. We were further up than the place Daddy used to take me to swim on hot days.
I hid behind a tree to allow the distance between us to build up.
It shuffled along, its tatty boots stumbling through the matted floor of leaves, and I thought it was going to make its way down to the water. But instead, it ducked behind a large tree.
It was facing the tree and its claws were flat against the trunk.
What on earth was it doing now?
It looked strange. It looked like … me. I realised my position almost exactly mirrored the Troll’s. Every so often, it would cautiously peer around the trunk to see what was in front of it.
It’s looking for something, I thought. No. Wait. It’s looking at something. And it doesn’t want to be seen. It’s hiding!
What was it hiding from?
I couldn’t see.
After a few minutes, the Troll slowly sank down to a crouching squat. In its new position it seemed to feel braver, and it shifted slightly to the left-hand side, so that while most of its body remained in the shelter of the tree, its head and shoulders were bent outwards.
I craned my neck to look, but I still couldn’t see what it was staring at. I couldn’t even see the stream from where I was, although I guessed the Troll was probably looking down at it.
I backed off into the forest. I tried not to make any noise, but I wasn’t too worried about rustling leaves or breaking twigs as I walked; I was still some way away from the monster. And the woods were far from silent, with the breeze and the birds.
When I felt I was a safe distance away, I circled back. I wanted to approach from a different direction. I wanted to place myself further forward, to see what the Troll was looking at.
I wasn’t frightened. Anything that frightened the evil Troll must surely be safe for me. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Mr Finlay taught us that phrase at school.
I looped back eventually, and when I felt I was getting closer, I slowed down so I could approach carefully. But something was wrong. I couldn’t see the Troll ahead of me.
I glanced around to see if it had decided to walk back the way it had come, and I gasped. I had come too far; I was now in front of the Troll. I could see its hairy head still poking out from behind its tree.
I wasn’t directly in front of it, otherwise it would have spotted me. I was to its right, while it was still staring to the left. I quickly backed up, and hid again.
I leaned back against the smooth tree trunk. The bark was hung with silver strips, ready to be peeled away like onion-skin. The tender new bark underneath was pinkish. Knots in the wood looked like eyes, and I knew they were looking down on me in disapproval.
‘Sorry,’ I whispered to the tree. ‘Sorry.’
‘Well,’ said the tree, ‘at least it didn’t see you.’
I realised how stupid I’d been. I’d been so intent on my task, I hadn’t really paid attention to where I was. I was practically at the stream. Had I just listened, I would have been able to hear the water.
Now that I was more alert, I could hear shouts too. Who was there?
I edged around my tree, and looked down at the river.
Nobody interesting. Just two boys. Older than me by the looks of it. Perhaps eleven, twelve. They had left their clothes and underwear on the banks and were splashing about in the water, which was only a few feet deep.
I turned my attention back to the Troll. I still needed to work out what it was doing here.
I looked at the side profile of its head, at its blotchy red cheeks and its filthy, black beard, and then I looked at the boys in the river. It was watching them.
Right now, they were making a game of trying to push each other under the surface. One of the boys was bigger, so he was winning. He stood up to crow about his victory and the water streamed down his back over his buttocks. His skin was very pale, which combined with his nakedness made him look a bit like a white sculpture of a nymph or an angel.
The second boy leapt out of the stream and jumped at the first. He wrapped his arms around his shoulders and managed to push him backwards. The nymph-looking boy shrieked as he went down, but he was laughing when he came back up.
I was too far away to see their faces clearly, but I didn’t think I knew them. They probably went to the secondary school over in Densford.
The expression on the Troll’s face changed now. Its black, beady eyes were fixed on the boys as they wetly wrestled and played. It wanted to eat them, I could tell.
I thought about running
down to the river, screaming at the boys to escape, but I didn’t because the Troll didn’t make any move to catch them. Maybe it had already eaten that day?
I just watched it, watching them, for a long time.
After a while, they’d had enough and climbed the bank to throw their clothes on and make their way home. When they’d gone, the Troll clambered down and pulled off its filthy rags. Strangely, that made it look more human. Its face and claws were blackened, but its body was white. It didn’t look so very different from the boys, just older, saggier, wrinklier. It carefully picked its way into the stream and sat down, drank some water from cupped claws, then rubbed at its arms like a human would in a bath.
It was funny, really. Those boys had had no idea they were being watched by a monster. But then, the monster had no idea it was being watched by me.
13
Little Gerda’s heart beat with both fear and with longing …
From The Snow Queen
The outside of the apple was very pretty, with a white-and-red cheek, so that anyone who saw it longed for it.
But whoever took a bite from it would surely die.
From Snow White
‘All these apple trees and no apples,’ she said with a nervous laugh. ‘I thought you might like to eat one.’
She passed him the fruit and flushed as he brought it to his mouth and bit into the flesh.
He wiped juice from his lips with the back of his hand. ‘It’s good.’ Then he smiled at her. ‘Thank you.’
He offered the apple back to her, inviting her to taste it. And she took it from him and brought her mouth to where his wet mouth had just been.
This then.
They both knew what it meant, of course they did. She hadn’t planned this when she bought the fruit that morning, but … did she? The apple was always the fruit of knowledge and the fruit of sin – and they both had new knowledge now; she couldn’t pretend they didn’t.
He took her into the little wooden shed that housed seeds, tools and some rusting machinery. He closed the door. It was hot and sticky outside and she was uncomfortably warm because she’d worn the long-sleeved dress that Reggie always said she looked pretty in.
Hans had said it might be cooler and that they should shelter from the burning sun in there while they finished the apple. But when they were inside he laid the apple on a shelf and didn’t touch it again.
The shed was so small, more like a lean-to, so that they were standing very, very close together. They were facing each other. She had been physically closer to strangers than this; when visiting her parents in London a few months ago they’d had to run to a Tube station after hearing the terrifying howl of an air-raid siren. People were packed on the platforms, and eventually lay down as the hours passed and they waited for the all-clear. They lay together on the tiles like rows of sardines. But somehow, just standing a foot or so away from this man, in a small, dark space, felt disturbingly intimate. The sky seemed to darken somewhat, or perhaps it was just that the small windowpane in the shed was smeared with years’ worth of grime and cobwebs. Very little light could penetrate.
There was silence for a beat. Or two.
Something had changed now in the air, and they were both breathing shallowly, quietly, so as not to break the spell. He was facing her, but she had turned her head so she was staring at the door – she might bolt at any minute; she was trying to make a decision. She could tell he was looking at her – he was much braver than she was. Her shallow breathing and abnormally strong heartbeats made her feel faint. Her hands were gripping a shelf behind her.
She felt, rather than saw, him turn his own head slightly away from hers. He must have been looking at a point just over her shoulder. Had the moment passed? Maybe nothing would happen. Her stomach threatened to lurch and she wasn’t sure if it was intense relief or fiery disappointment. Was it possible to feel both at the same time?
But then she felt his fingers lightly touching her right hand. It might have been a mistake – did he know he was touching her? If it was possible for things to become any more still inside that little old wooden shed, they did so. After a hesitation, he slid his fingers along her hand. Still she kept her gaze averted and said nothing. There was no doubt now though, that he knew what he was doing.
Was it too late to stop it? Not really. What would he do next? She hadn’t really given him any sort of encouragement. She thought she might be holding her breath. Was she shaking?
His fingers pushed up the long sleeve of her dress and he caressed the softness he found there, stroking the underside of her wrist. She had never noticed how sensitive that area was. The motion gave her goosebumps and it felt almost erotic, but she forced herself to remember it was just his fingers, just a sleeve, just her wrist. Nothing at all.
She was still holding her breath but heard a faint ragged quality affect his breathing. Her head was still averted.
Was it still possible to pretend nothing had happened? Probably – neither had acknowledged that he had touched her. What was he going to do next? What would happen when they had to leave the shed?
He must have turned his face back towards her again, because she could feel his breath moving her hair and against the side of her throat. She seemed suddenly very aware of her own body. But she still hadn’t given him any encouragement. Did his shaky breaths indicate fear – she was certainly frightened – or arousal?
She felt a shifting; he seemed somehow to be directly opposite her now. She might have turned her face further away. She might have closed her eyes. She felt his fingers on her other hand, and it was almost unbearable.
He was leaning over her now, breathing into her neck, and lacing his fingers between hers. She must have moved towards him – how else could he have found her lips? But a second or two after it had started, she realised that they were kissing, softly and rhythmically, and then he pulled her arms up so that they were around his neck and pushed against her with his body so that she was crushed between him and the wall of the hut. But the pressure felt good, and comforting, and she felt weak as though she might cry, and she couldn’t deny this, this was too far, this was too far, and she pulled away from him, stumbled from the shed and ran home without looking back.
14
There she lay; so beautiful that he could not turn his eyes away and he slowly stooped down to kiss her. But as soon as his lips touched her mouth, she opened her eyes and awoke and smiled sweetly at him.
From Briar-Rose (Sleeping Beauty)
Like most woodcutters, Hansel had his own little wooden cabin. It was just off to one side of the glade. So when I went looking for him, and he wasn’t splitting apple trees into logs I would usually find him inside his hut. He’d be sitting on an upturned crate drinking tea from a mug with his flask nearby or he’d be rummaging about on the shelves looking for something.
The first couple of times, I knocked at his front door, and he came outside to greet me. Once, he invited me in, and I sat on the floor chatting to him while he finished his drink. He let me have a sip of his tea, and I gripped the mug tightly in my hands as I drank. I thought of the Red Indians, who share a peace pipe during their powwows, and I knew this was a similar sign of friendship from him to me.
Sometimes we played games together. I taught him hopscotch, and we used thin branches of the apple trees to mark out the grid. Perhaps other adults, like my mother, would think it was strange that a grown-up enjoyed playing children’s games. He wasn’t my father, after all. In some ways, he was better than my father, because I never forgot he was the woodcutter from my stories. He was a mythical creature almost, conjured by magic into Bambury.
One day, we were playing hide-and-seek. It was Hansel’s turn to count and I ran off into the orchard as usual. But this time, I’d decided to make it more difficult, and I carefully circled back so I was in the glade. Hansel was sitting on the chopping block with his hands over his eyes.
‘…. thirty-two … thirty-three … thirty-four …’
When he finished calling out the minute, he shouted, ‘I’m coming! Are you ready?’
I had to bite my tongue. No matter how many times I told him the right thing to shout before he came to find me, he never seemed to remember it correctly. ‘You have to say, “Here I come – ready or not!”’
I couldn’t see Hansel from my hiding spot, but I heard him run into the orchard in the direction I’d first taken. My plan had worked, so I leaned against the back of the cabin to wait.
After a while, I picked up a jagged stone from the ground and turned to idly scratch on the wooden wall of the cabin. The edge of small rock perfectly gouged out a line from the dark wood, and revealed a paler, cleaner strip of wood beneath. I considered carving my name, but then everyone would know who had done it, so I just scratched a small pattern instead.
That was how I found the knot hole. It was at my eye level, and although the hole was small, when I pressed my face against the wall just so, I could see clearly into the cabin. The cabin had two counters running its length, and where I was at the back, I could see straight down the gangway. Things were slightly blurry around the edges, and I had to wait for a second or two to allow my eye to adjust to the dark inside, but I had found a perfect spy hole.
Just then, I heard Hansel crashing through the orchard. ‘I’m coming! Are you ready?’ he was shouting. Infuriating.
I didn’t want him to see what I’d carved on the back of his cabin, and I didn’t want to chance him finding out about my spy hole either, so I slipped around to the side, and allowed him to find me there.
After that, whenever I went to the glade and couldn’t see Hansel, I went behind his cabin to find my little knot in the wood. I’d watch him for a while, before walking around to knock on his door. It made me feel powerful, watching him without him knowing it. I’d become a government spy. Sometimes I radioed back details to HQ about what I’d seen. I had to whisper, otherwise the target might have heard me.
