Brave Red, Smart Frog

by Emily Jenkins

  “What of it?”

  “One day, Blunt and I might marry. We might have a son, and we might name him Dingleberry or Boysenberry.”

  “Not Dingleberry or Boysenberry,” said the father. “Brick.”

  “We might name him Dingleberry, Boysenberry, or Brick. And we would love him more than earth and sky.” And so on Amity went, telling the story, and soon her father, too, was in tears.

  “He’ll never grow up to have children of his own,” cried the father.

  “He’ll never grow up to find true love,” cried the mother.

  “We’ll miss him so,” said Amity.

  Ten minutes later, Blunt came downstairs to find all three sitting on the low bench, weeping. The wine still poured from the tap and by now had soaked their legs up to the knees.

  Blunt sloshed through the wine to the nearly empty cask. He turned it off. Then he found a bucket hanging on the wall and went to work tossing wine out the cellar door. When that was done, he dried the floor thoroughly.

  “What’s wrong?” he finally asked.

  “That ax,” sobbed Amity, “it is so desperately sad.”

  “What of it?”

  “One day, you and I might marry. We might have a son, and we might name him Dingleberry, Boysenberry, or Brick.” She told the whole story, weeping all the while, and when she had finished, Blunt stepped over to the ax. He took it off the hook and set it safely on the floor.

  “I love you,” said Blunt to Amity, “but we cannot get married.”

  “Why not?”

  “You and your parents are three of the greatest noodles I ever saw. Wasting all that wine. Ruining your clothes. Making a mess of the cellar and weeping over an ax you can move with no trouble at all. Worrying about a son we haven’t got, and giving him ridiculous names. I can’t live my life among noodles!” cried Blunt.

  “But there are noodles everywhere,” said Amity. “You won’t be free of noodles, whatever you do.”

  “I will go on a journey,” said Blunt. “And if on my travels, I find three greater noodles than you, then all right. I’ll come back and marry into this noodley family.”

  “Well, then, I’ll see you in a week or two,” said Amity.

  “I doubt it,” said Blunt. But he gave her a kiss before he left.

  BLUNT TRAVELED on horseback. He had only been gone a day when he came across an old woman, hobbling along with a sieve held carefully in front of her.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m fetching water from the village well.”

  “You don’t do it like that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “All the water pours through the holes in the sieve,” Blunt explained. “Look, you’ve almost none left. Let me give you a jug.”

  “What a know-it-all you are,” said the old woman. “Look at me. I’m near to eighty years old, and I’ve been fetching water this way since I was born. Take your jug and be off.”

  “Aren’t you thirsty?”

  “Get on away from me,” she said. “Smarty know-it-all.”

  So off Blunt went, bidding her good day and good luck.

  That was one great noodle, and a cranky one, too.

  THAT NIGHT, Blunt stopped at an inn. It was so full of customers that he had to share a room with another fellow. When he awoke, he found that his roommate, an old gentleman with long whiskers, had hung his trousers on the knobs of the dresser. Blunt watched as the man climbed onto a chair and jumped.

  Whoomp! He fell to the floor.

  “Are you all right?” Blunt helped the old man to his feet.

  “Let me alone to put me trousers on,” said the gentleman. Ignoring his bleeding knee, he climbed on the chair again.

  Whoomp! He fell to the floor again.

  “You don’t put your trousers on that way,” said Blunt.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You sit on the chair and put them on one leg at a time, like so.” Blunt demonstrated with his own trousers.

  “What a know-it-all you are,” said the old gentleman. “Look at me. I’m near to eighty years old, and I’ve been putting me trousers on this way since I was born.”

  “But you’re bleeding.”

  “Hmph.”

  “And it takes so long.”

  “Only about an hour. Now get on away from me. Smarty know-it-all.”

  The old gentleman was climbing back on the chair and preparing to jump again when Blunt left the room.

  So that was the second great noodle, and a mean one, too.

  BLUNT RODE ALL DAY, and as night fell, he came to a pond just outside a small town where he hoped to spend the night. There was a crowd of men and women around the pond, each holding a rake.

  “What are you doing?” asked Blunt.

  “What does it look like we’re doing?” one of the men answered. “The moon has fallen into the pond, and we’re trying to get her out.”

  “But it’s not in the pond.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “The moon is in the sky like always,” explained Blunt. “What you see in the pond is only her reflection.”

  “What a know-it-all you are,” said the man. “What makes you think you understand more than all us people?” And with that, he ran at Blunt, waving his rake. “Get on away from here,” he cried. “Smarty know-it-all.”

  Several of the others followed, waving their rakes and yelling.

  Blunt and his horse ran away as fast as they could.

  So that was a whole number of great noodles, and violent ones, too.

  SEEING THE MOON so full above him reminded Blunt of Amity. The two of them used to stroll in the evenings by the light of that same moon.

  Maybe she was looking at it now and thinking of him?

  There were indeed so many great noodles in the world, thought Blunt. Those he’d met on this journey were cranky. They were mean and violent.

  Blunt felt quite lucky, suddenly, to have found a future wife so tenderhearted as Amity, noodle though she was.

  He loved her, and so he went home.

  “You’ve only been gone three days,” said Amity, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Did you find three great noodles?”

  “Many more than three great noodles,” said Blunt.

  “I told you so,” said she.

  “What a know-it-all you are,” he said. “Shall we get married, then?”

  “We should, indeed,” said she.

  And that is what they did, and, to be sure, it worked out very well.

  There were once two children, a boy and a girl, whose mother died. They lived in a little brick house with a smoking chimney, and their names were Hansel and Gretel. After their mother’s death, they were mournful and sometimes lonely, but they did not turn bitter. They found joy in one another’s company, the warm taste of chocolate, the sweet sharpness of peppermint, and the sour brightness of lemon drops.

  Their father was a woodcutter, and he was so sad at losing his wife that he could not be consoled by the sweetness of candy nor the smiles of children. He became stupid with grief, even stupider than other stupid, grieving people. He felt the world was cruel, and he was far too unhappy to make dinner, cut wood, do his accounts, or even think like a reasonable person.

  One day, he found a woman who would do all those things for him. He married her as quickly as possible.

  This stepmother, she cut wood and sold wood, made dinner, did the accounts, and even thought like a reasonable person, none of which was easy.

  Why did she marry him when she did all the work and he did nothing? Well, she was no longer young, and the woodcutter was exceedingly handsome, to most people’s way of thinking. Good looks can make people giddy sometimes.

  Anyway, the stepmother’s days were ha
rd and long, much harder and longer than she ever thought they’d be. Quite quickly she saw that feeding two hungry children every day — especially two with a taste for chocolate, peppermint, and lemon drops — feeding them was not a reasonable thing for a hardworking woman to do.

  Nearby, there was a forest; a strange and frozen forest you may have heard about before. The animals who lived there were very, very hungry, and the weather so cold, it would kill a person in a few days, if the animals didn’t get him first.

  The stepmother told the father a plan she had devised. She proposed to lose the children in the frozen forest.

  Their father, in the stupid way of people lost in their own grief, did not argue. He was grateful for all her hard work. He was afraid she would leave him.

  Hansel and Gretel overheard the conversation, and, that evening, Hansel gathered two pocketsful of the bright yellow pebbles that lined the cottage path.

  When the stepmother took the children into the frozen forest on the premise of fresh air and exercise, Hansel dropped the pebbles as they walked on the snowy path.

  The stepmother turned right, then left. Crossed a frozen stream on a fallen tree. Turned left, then right.

  When she left them in the depth of the winter forest, running away on long legs so fast the children couldn’t possibly catch her, Hansel and Gretel held hands and followed the bright yellow pebbles home.

  Their father welcomed them with a feeble smile.

  Their stepmother did not.

  After that they lived together as they had done before, but the woodcutting was still hard, and the dinners were sparse. The accounts were still tricky, and since the father was still stupid with grief over his previous wife, the stepmother became even more reasonable than she had been before.

  This time, when she took the children into the forest, she did not discuss it with anyone beforehand. Hansel had no time to gather bright yellow pebbles. All he had to mark the way home was a heel of bread in his pocket. This he crumbled and dropped as the three of them walked the twisted, icy paths. “Don’t worry, Gretel,” he whispered. “The crumbs will guide our way home.”

  “We don’t need them,” said Gretel.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to go back to that house again,” she said. “Nobody there loves me enough to save me from this frozen forest.”

  “I love you enough,” said Hansel.

  “You will be in the forest with me,” Gretel said. “And so that means I’ll be home already.”

  Still Hansel dropped his crumbs, intending to find his way out. If they did not go home to their father and stepmother, then at least they would search out somewhere warm to sleep the night.

  When their stepmother left them in the depth of the forest, again running away on long legs so fast the children couldn’t possibly catch her, Hansel and Gretel held hands and looked for the bread crumbs to lead them out.

  They were not there.

  After all, the animals who lived in that forest were very, very hungry. Those crumbs had been snatched up by ravens almost as soon as Hansel had dropped them.

  As night fell, Hansel and Gretel wandered the twisted paths of ice and snow. Luck was not with them. Yellow eyes looked at them from bare trees and bushes. Eyes of wolves and foxes who were starving for meat. Eyes of vultures, ravens, and owls who were starving likewise. Eyes of bears.

  At last, the shivering children saw a warm glow through the dark. They followed the light. Soon the iced path became a walkway of what looked like bright yellow pebbles, and they stepped into a clearing marked off with a neat wooden fence.

  Inside the fence, no starving animals lurked. It was warm. The smell of gingerbread filled the air. At the center of the clearing stood a sugar house.

  The walkway wasn’t made of yellow pebbles but of lemon drops, sour and bright. The bricks were made of gingerbread cake, and the mortar, chocolate. Smoke rose from the chimney. The doorway of the house was rimmed round with sweet, sharp peppermints, and the windows with black licorice. The snow that capped the roof and windows was not snow but frosting, smelling of vanilla.

  It was the most beautiful home they had ever seen.

  Hansel and Gretel were so hungry they began to eat at once, but they had only just filled their mouths when they heard a voice.

  Nibble, nibble,

  Little, little;

  Thin, too thin,

  You must come in.

  With chocolate smearing their faces and gingerbread on their tongues, Hansel and Gretel looked up to see an old woman, blind as could be, standing in the open doorway. She repeated:

  Nibble, nibble,

  Little, little;

  Thin, too thin,

  You must come in.

  The children went in. They never should have. But who can blame them? They were stupid with cold and hunger and loneliness. They did not even wonder how the woman knew they were thin when she was blind; and they did not wonder why she wasn’t angry that they had eaten her sugar house.

  The woman fed them candied nuts and pancakes with syrup, hot chocolate and pumpkin pie. “How did you come to wander here?” she asked.

  They told her of their useless father and their terrifyingly reasonable stepmother. She made kind noises and asked them their names. When they asked hers, she replied, “You can call me Old Mother.”

  They were glad enough to do so. Who wouldn’t want an Old Mother and a sugar house, when nobody loved them enough at home?

  They went to sleep under thick blankets, but when Gretel woke in the morning, Hansel was not beside her.

  She threw off the covers and ran downstairs.

  There was Old Mother, stirring a pot of steaming chocolate on the stove. And there was Hansel, trapped in a large cage that now hung from the kitchen ceiling.

  “I’m fattening him up,” said Old Mother. “Don’t cry. You didn’t imagine I fed you for nothing, did you? Fed you from the kindness of my heart?”

  Gretel had thought exactly that. Of course she had. “Why did you feed us, then?”

  “I feed you, my luscious children, in order to feed myself,” said Old Mother. “And when the boy is fat and squashy like a sausage, I shall have my supper.”

  “You can’t do this!” Gretel ran to the cage and shook it, looking for a door or a latch — but there was none. “I won’t let her hurt you,” she told Hansel. “I won’t. I’ll get help. I’ll come back and get you out.”

  But Old Mother snatched her arm. She could not see Gretel, but she could smell her the way anyone hungry smells meat. “No one finds this sugar house unless I let them find it,” she said. “And lost in this forest, you’ll die of cold or be eaten alive.”

  Gretel shook her arm hard, trying to release the old woman’s grip, but Hansel’s voice stopped her.

  “Don’t leave me,” he said. “Please, don’t leave me.”

  He was her only true family.

  Gretel did not leave.

  OVER THE COMING WEEKS, Old Mother fattened Hansel for the enormous hot oven that stood in one corner of her kitchen. “I’ll char you like a marshmallow,” she told him, “and eat your soft sweet insides.” She fed him on lemon drops and pound cakes, gingerbreads and hot chocolate, pushing the food through the narrow bars of the cage and repeating:

  Nibble, nibble,

  Little, little;

  Eat, now eat,

  My lovely meat.

  Each day she demanded Hansel let her squeeze his finger. “When your fingers are fat and squashy is when I’ll have you,” she told him. “Chubby boys are hard to come by in this frozen forest.”

  But Hansel was no noodle, and though he did eat all the goodies and grew fat, he had found an old bone on the floor of his cage. It was the bone he poked through for the blind witch to squeeze, and so it seemed to her, day after day, that he remained too thin to make a good meal.

  Old Mother scolded Gretel. She hit her and told her she was worthless. She made Gretel scrub the floors and wash the windows, beat the ca
rpets and cook the meals. Old Mother made her do the dishes, wash the clothes, make the beds, and mend the holes in her stockings.

  Each day, Gretel searched for a way to open Hansel’s cage. But each day, she failed.

  One morning, as they sat in the kitchen eating chocolate cake and clotted cream, Old Mother reached across the table and grabbed Gretel’s hand. She squeezed Gretel’s now-plump fingers, one by one. “If not the one, then the other,” she muttered to herself. “My appetite for meat can wait no more.”

  Then aloud, she said: “Gretel, check the oven to see if it is hot yet. I want to bake that strudel your brother likes so much.”

  But Gretel was no noodle, either. She knew full well what it meant that Old Mother had squeezed her fingers. If she did not think fast, she would soon be charred like a marshmallow herself.

  “Pardon me, Old Mother?”

  “Lean into the oven and feel if it is hot yet,” repeated the witch.

  “I do not understand, Old Mother. Will you show me?”

  “Do like so!” snapped the witch. She marched to the oven, opened the heavy door, and leaned into it. “Feel if it is hot yet, worthless girl.”

  Gretel saw her chance. She threw herself on Old Mother and pushed her into the hot fires of the oven. Then she shut the heavy iron door and bolted it tight. And listened.

  She heard curses.

  Banging.

  Screams.

  And silence.

  Gretel stood and watched the door of the oven, fearing Old Mother might come out of it at any moment.

  She did not.

  Suddenly, the walls of Hansel’s cage opened of their own accord. “She is dead, then,” he said, reaching for his sister’s hand.

  They armed themselves with knives from the kitchen drawers. They filled bags and pockets with peppermints, chocolate, and lemon drops. They pulled bricks of gingerbread from the walls and carried them to feed the hungry animals of the wintery forest. They wrapped themselves in blankets and left the sugar house, empty, with smoke still rising from the chimney.

  CRUEL YELLOW EYES looked at them from the shadows. They fed the wolves and bears on gingerbread. Dark wings flapped overhead, and they fed the ravens likewise. Finally, after many hours, Hansel and Gretel walked out of the woods onto a green hillside. There was a rush of warm air on their faces, and they squinted in the sunshine.