Fairly Wicked Tales

by Hal Bodner

  “It hurts …”

  “No pain, dear sister, no gain.” Ash Maid reassured her, grinning all the while. “Have faith. The prince will definitely fall for you in that dress.”

  “Will I look thin? Will I look lithe?”

  “As light as a jungle cat and as thin as a peacock’s neck. And twice as pretty!” Ash Maid said. She made sure to embrace Cordelia as tightly as she could, rejoicing at the pained moan that escaped her lips.

  By the first week of September Stepmother was straining to keep her eyes open even after a good night’s sleep. Her speech slurred, her breathing heavy, and the readiness in her posture was long since gone. Ash Maid watched with joy as her stepmother struggled to swallow her poisoned broth, the spoon in her hands shaking, her once long and dexterous fingers now nearly impotent.

  Dolores, who was the favorite by far, found her mother’s fatigue debilitating. Without her mother to direct and pamper her she was lost in the midst of preparations for the ball. Ash Maid found her in a state of near-hysteria, as Dolores tried to find an appropriate evening dress. She said:

  “What is the matter, sister?”

  “You mean what isn’t the matter!” Dolores squealed. “I cannot pick a proper dress for the ball and mother is hardly any good anymore.”

  “I can help you pick a proper dress, sister.”

  “You? Help me pick a dress? You don’t know the first thing about being proper!”

  “I do not,” Ash Maid said very politely, the venom in her voice deftly concealed. “but I have spoken with the cobbler’s wife and I know the palace maids and they know what colors and dresses the prince likes on a woman.”

  “Then get on with it. Show me.”

  So Ash Maid put on a show, picking and choosing the gowns and making Dolores pose before the mirror again and again, delighting in her misery. But for all her dresses (which otherwise fit Dolores perfectly) she would make an excuse:

  “This one is too short. This one shows too much of your elbows. This one’s the wrong color. This one’s too frilled.” She went on and on and on, until finally, as Dolores was on the verge of tears, she said: “This one’s just right!”

  Ash Maid held out the long purple gown to Dolores, which was the longest and most garish. She urged her to put the dress on.

  “I cannot fill this. I’m going to be dragging the hem in the mud the entire night.” Dolores moaned.

  “I have just the thing for you,” Ash Maid told her, and from her room she brought the shoes she’d had the cobbler’s apprentice make. She watched as Dolores struggled to put them on, wincing as she tried to fit her tender feet even as the jagged copper bit into her flesh.

  “They hurt my feet …”

  “That’s because you haven’t broken them in yet. But look!” Ash Maid said, making Dolores glance at her reflection in the mirror. “Look how much taller you seem now. The prince likes tall women.”

  “Is that so?” Dolores asked, the glint in her eyes outshining the agony on her features.

  “I know so.”

  Ash Maid embraced Dolores, leaning down on her to make sure her feet would be driven into the jagged edges, delighting at the horrified expression on her stepsister’s face.

  And so Ash Maid watched the days pass joyfully by, with her stepsisters trapped inside her instruments of torture and Stepmother rendered helpless and useless. She kept up the façade of service, pretending to still care for the house and their meals, to divert any unnecessary attention.

  When the time came, at last, for the Prince’s ball, Ash Maid watched her sisters proudly strut around the house, posing as future queens. Cordelia looked like a court jester with lips coated in layers of lipstick to hide the suffocated purple of their hue. She marveled at Dolores who maintained her composure even though her skin had long since turned pale and her eyes were wide with constant agony.

  Ash Maid helped her stepmother dress for the ball as she swerved and swayed and bobbed like a ragdoll in her arms, her hair disheveled.

  “Oh, sweet mother,” Ash Maid said. “Your hair is a mess. Here, let me help you.”

  With the hairpin she’d taken from the cobbler’s apprentice (that she’d dipped in the venom for the final time), Ash Maid tied the stepmother’s hair in a bundle and drove it in. She saw the old woman jump as the serrated edge grazed her scalp.

  “Pretty as a flower, mother.” Ash Maid whispered in her ear.

  As soon as they had gone, Ash Maid set her own plan in motion:

  She went to Cordelia’s room and used her cosmetics, then visited Dolores’ room and picked her finest dress. From her stepmother’s bedroom, she stole her set of pearls.

  By the time Ash Maid was done she didn’t just look like a woman of royal bearing; she was exactly the woman the Prince would desire.

  She made her way to the palace at a steady, certain gait. When she was there, she demanded entrance like a woman of great bearing. The guard, stunned by her beauty and accustomed to being ordered about by royalty, let her in immediately.

  As Ash Maid reached the palace proper, she studied the gathered crowd of women locked in subtle combat. The small crowd of noblemen and officers walking among them seemed too uneasy, knowing their role here was auxiliary, their purpose merely to pick at the scraps the Prince would leave behind after choosing his bride.

  Ash Maid caught a glance of Cordelia standing with her back against the wall, bug-eyed and out of breath. Stepmother stood beside her; a silent, pale thing that seemed barely alive and breathing. An officer of the royal army, his suit a-jangle with medals and references to his honor and skill in the field of battle, was busy trying to hold Dolores up on her feet, unaware of the blood she trailed behind her with every step.

  She made her way through the crowd and saw the prince on his throne. She gave him the secret, sultry kind of smile the palace maids would give him, when they wanted his attention. The Prince responded as expected, asking for a dance.

  What happened next was not magical to Ash Maid. If anything, the way the prince took her hand so delicately in his and kissed it seemed ordinary, planned out, expertly choreographed three years ahead of time.

  He held her by her waist, led her to the center of the ball, and they danced to every step without fail.

  “Who are you?” the prince asked, and Ash Maid told him her name. As expected, it sounded magical to him.

  And so it went that they danced and they courted and Ash Maid was promised to be wed to him that night. Halfway through the celebrations, Cordelia let out a long gasp and spat blood before collapsing on the floor. The royal physician rushed to the scene, but he found Cordelia to have perished. Her insides had been crushed by the corset. Splinters from her ribcage pierced her lungs. Dolores fell to her knees a moment later, her feet long since torn and cut by the jagged edges inside her shoes. Dolores’s shoes were removed and the physician exclaimed that she suffered from severe infection, progressed beyond treatment. Maiming was the only possible way to save her life. It did not happen right away, of course. As per Ash Maid’s request (who had not yet become Queen but her word was already law), Dolores was treated until the day of the wedding, when the operation was to take place.

  Also per Ash Maid’s request, she was present during the operation. The elation she felt at the sight of the bone-saw cutting through the diseased flesh and separating the bone was indescribable, nearly divine.

  But what of the stepmother? You will ask. For her, Ash Maid had a special little torture planned. For her poor stepmother had long since been rendered helpless by the subtle venom of the apothecary. She watched, helplessly, as her youngest daughter died and her favorite was maimed. Ash Maid decreed that her Stepmother would receive the best possible care the realm could offer. Stepmother would live to a ripe old age, her heart filled with misery.

  Ash Maid made sure of this herself. She healed her stepmother of her affliction and had the royal physician himself care for her, to restore her strength and send her home with her lame daugh
ter, there to live out their days together; destroyed by the girl they’d abused her entire life.

  Ash Maid, of course, lived happily ever after.

  About the Author

  Konstantine Paradias is a jeweler by profession and a writer by choice. His short stories have been published in Third FlatIron’s Lost Worlds anthology, Unidentified Funny Objects! 2 and the Battle Royal Slambook by Haikasoru. People tell him he has a writing problem but he can stop like, whenever he wants, man. His short story, “How You Ruined Everything” has been included in Tangent Online’s 2013 recommended SF reading list and his short story “The Grim” has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

  Gingerbread

  What happened after “Hansel and Gretel”

  Hal Bodner

  She basted the baby with a ladle of cider. A little of the amber liquid trickled down the side of the infant’s body and missed the pan she’d placed underneath to catch the drippings. The cider sizzled on the coals and the air filled with the tangy scent of burnt apples mingling with another smell, redolent of plump partridge set to grill.

  The child’s skin was developing a lovely golden hue. The fingers and toes were beginning to crisp, but she’d found some charring couldn’t be avoided. Cookery books could only help so much so she’d been forced to experiment. Babies, she’d discovered, needed to be roasted much like chickens until the juices ran clear, otherwise the under-cooked meat would make a person quite ill. It had taken her awhile but she’d finally mastered the timing of the thing. Roughly half an hour before serving the infant, she’d snip off the blackened hands and feet and sever the tiny toes and fingers for salting. They made lovely snacks on those hot summer days when the forest air grew close and humid and when firing up the oven would make the entire house stifling and hot.

  The younger the child, the more acid she found she needed to use in the mixture. At first, she tried honey but the result was far too sweet and sweetness was the last thing she wanted in a meal after having lived in this house for so long. Plentiful jars of cinnamon and other spices crowded in the cupboard but the prospect of releasing their scent into the air made her shudder; she’d had more than her fill of gingerbread! Savory herbs mixed with wine would probably have been delicious. She might easily pluck the herbs from the garden, but the making of spirits was beyond her ability and frankly, she was uncomfortable at being seen to buy wine in public. People already looked at her strangely on the rare occasions when she journeyed into town; she was embarrassed they might think she drank to excess as well.

  Besides, the nearest marketplace lay several days journey away and she no longer liked to leave her brother alone in the house for that long. Eventually, she’d have to leave him unattended again when supplies ran low. For now, she was slowly working her way through the contents of the rather large pantry. Several months would pass before the dry goods would need to be replenished. Re-filling the larder, on the other hand, posed little problem. She could almost always manage to find meat.

  Before she’d left home, for all the time she’d spent scrubbing and mending, chopping wood and hauling water, she’d never before been really involved with the arts of the kitchen. She’d taken up cooking only as a necessity after they’d come to this house and found, much to her surprise and delight, she had a talent for it. Sadly though, her poor dear brother did not seem to share her passion for the results.

  A small smile danced on her lips at the thought of him in his cage in the other room. How dearly she loved him! Even though he was several years younger than she, he had always taken on the role of his big sister’s protector, keeping her safe from Stepmother’s capricious anger and from Father’s heavy hand. Many a time he’d interfered and distracted Stepmother when she seemed set on scratching or pinching her adopted daughter to the point of drawing blood. Even now, with the events years in the past, she shuddered at the memory of her sweet younger brother, beaten bloody by Father’s birch rods, bravely enduring a punishment which, but for his willingness to take the blame on her behalf, would have been hers.

  If only he weren’t so particular about his food! He did not know how to properly care for himself. If not for her devotion, he would have continued glutting himself until he blew up like a country hog, or alternately starved himself to skeletal thinness.

  He’d been quite plump when she assumed control from the house’s previous owner. The crone had been busy fattening him up and greedy little boy that he’d been, he’d eagerly devoured the gumdrops and honey cakes and other sweets—the only things the old woman allowed him to eat. She herself had been in no danger of gaining weight. Her lot was invariably a meager meal of shriveled vegetables long past their prime, some grisly meat of heaven knew what origin, and dry cheese. Better fare than Stepmother had provided at home, but not by much. The one thing always in plentiful supply, though, were baked goods.

  How the old woman had loved her oven! In the end, of course, it had proven her undoing. But during those early months of their captivity, she and her brother had tasted of cakes and cookies and tarts fit for a prince’s table. Even when she’d grown to despise the pastries and could no longer stand even the sight of the sugary treats of which their captor seemed most fond, there was still the savory bread of which she never tired. And what wondrous bread it had been! Wheat and rye and seed; hearty black bread; rich, rustic brown bread and some rare loaves of such whiteness she would have sworn the witch had added bits of chalk to the batter.

  Of course, there had always been the gingerbread. Sheets and sheets of gingerbread. Piles of loaves of gingerbread. Every day brought a new batch from the oven. Very shortly, she grew heartily sick of even the smell of gingerbread for the witch had assigned her a most important task and had made it abundantly clear that failure would bring about dire consequences. It was Gretel’s job, and hers alone, to keep the exterior of the house in good repair.

  Her other duties were onerous as well. Rising from her bed even before the birds awoke, she spent the hours in the early morning darkness hauling pails of water from the well until the huge caldron the witch used to brew her potions and her stews was filled. She stacked cords of wood next to the massive oven so the flames beneath would not die down and send the witch into a rage should her baking be ruined. Then, she tended the small vegetable garden behind the house, weeding and making sure the plants were properly staked. Afterwards, not so much for the witch’s benefit but more for the sake of herself, her brother, and any other captives who might be in temporary residence, she swept and scrubbed for several hours.

  Before they had arrived, the old women seemed not to have cared if the house was filthy inside but Gretel could not stand the ordure. The gobs of fat splattered on the hearth disgusted her, the swarms of flies hovering over shreds of charred skin and cracked bones that the witch had tossed aside made her stomach churn, the over-fed spiders lurking in their webs under the eaves made her shudder. She knew it had been her fastidiousness that had saved their lives for so long. While the witch would never have stooped to cleaning up after herself, she seemed to have found she liked living in better kept surroundings. Besides, her labors kept her thin and thin children held no interest for the witch.

  Thus, the duty of keeping up the outside of the house had been thrust upon her. In the afternoons, Gretel found herself patching the roof with slabs of gingerbread and a bucket of sweet frosting to hold each floury shingle in place. Even as she toiled, the forest birds would descend upon the roof and briskly set to pecking up crumbs, immediately undoing much of the work she’d just finished. Or perhaps a window sill had been set upon by the ants which moved from window to door to window and back again, attracted by the spun-sugar panes of glass. Local chipmunks and squirrels often feasted upon the fence posts, carrying off the peppermint and gum drop decorations. Once, a bear cub invaded the front yard and partially devoured a little garden bench with a gingerbread frame and honey-cake cushions.

  But most of the repairs were made with gingerbread. Underneath th
e spun-sugar, the icing mortar, the candy knobs and lemon drops used for decoration, the chocolate swirl trim, underneath it all was a coating of gingerbread. During the hot days of summer, the spicy baked dough softened and refused to hold its shape. Weeping tears of frustration, Gretel would slap futilely at it, cramming fistfuls of the stuff into holes under the eaves, grimacing at the way the overly-sweet dough clung to her hands and clogged the spaces between her fingers, with the overpowering stench of ginger and cinnamon and nutmeg filling her nostrils and clinging thickly to the back of her throat until she felt she would vomit. For her, the spicy bread symbolized their predicament and she loathed it more than she’d ever before hated anything in her life.

  Once the witch was gone, gingerbread had been the first thing Gretel removed from Hansel’s diet. He’d been plumper than a partridge himself by then, having eaten nothing but candy and cakes for so long. Greedy little boy that he was, he objected strenuously. He’d even, in his outrage at being denied his treats, said some very unkind things to her—especially after she refused to let him out.

  But she couldn’t. She couldn’t possibly free him while he looked like that! Hansel had always been an extraordinarily handsome boy; everyone in their village said so. Were they to try to return to their previous home now, she’d practically have to wheel him through the forest on a cart. No, she’d decided, she’d first have to slim him down a bit, a process he was steadfastly against.

  She next denied him candy and he grew sulky. How he wailed with outrage when she first brewed him a nice, nourishing vegetable soup. He flung the bowl to the ground and demanded something sweet. Adamant, she refused. She appealed to him, telling him how she’d labored in the little garden for his benefit, tending the carrots and potatoes by hand, showing him the blisters. He’d scoffed at her. Certainly, she couldn’t let him starve and yet she could not bring herself to allow him more sugar. One day, while cleaning the oven of the seared remains of the witch, an idea occurred to her—meat.