The Sisters Grimm

by Menna Van Praag

  “So,” Bea says, as she follows Dr. Finch into the clearing, “what’s the surprise?”

  “You’re the most impatient girl I’ve ever met.” He steps onto a high square-shaped stone. “Don’t rush me, you’ll ruin everything. Come here.”

  Bea steps forward. She doesn’t want to and, in that moment, has the sudden feeling she should run again, so fast that he’ll never catch her, not in this world or the next. But he’s right, she is impatient, and that’s the least of it. So Bea lets Dr. Finch slip his hands around her waist, lets him pull her close, until there’s not a shimmer of moonlight between them. She hopes this isn’t his idea of a romantic seduction.

  “Look, I don’t mean to be rude but—”

  Dr. Finch leans in. “It won’t take a moment,” he whispers. “It’ll be over before you know it. If you don’t fight, it won’t hurt.”

  “Wait, what the fuck?” She tries to pull back but his hold on her is tight. And then she remembers. “You’re a soldier.”

  Dr. Finch smiles. “I am.”

  His grip tightens, trapping Bea’s breath in her lungs.

  She shakes her head, frantic. “N-no . . .” She kicks at him, twisting away.

  “Don’t fight it.” His voice is gentle, tender. “It’ll be painless, I promise . . .”

  Bea grits her teeth as a wind of fury blows through her.

  She. Will. Slaughter. Him.

  The storm begins to build, rage pulses in her veins as she turns the full force—and then Bea thinks of Vali, of what she took from him, of what she deserves to have taken from her. Suddenly, the storm dies. The fury fades. She doesn’t deserve to kill, she deserves to die. And she doesn’t need the razor blades, this will do. It’s better, more fitting. It’s not right that she should take her own life. She murdered Vali and now this soldier will murder her. Just as it should be. She won’t fight, she won’t fly. Justice will be served. Val will have his revenge.

  “No,” Bea says, her voice already floating away. “I want it to hurt.”

  Dr. Finch frowns down at her. He’s too gentle and it’s too late. Her head is heavy. She doesn’t want him to be the last thing she sees. She closes her eyes and remembers Vali as he’d been, laughing, eating, loving. She sees the view of Everwhere from just beneath the moon.

  It is a soft fall, a drop into sleep.

  And her soldier is true to his word: she feels no pain.

  Scarlet

  I wrote myself a letter, Scarlet thinks, as she watches the split tree burn. The wood cracks, spitting out fiery sparks that scorch holes in the moss. When I was little, I wrote myself a letter about this place.

  “I’ve been here before,” she whispers. “I’ve been here many times before.”

  Her mother stands beside her, watching the flames. “I know.”

  “How do you know?” And what happened to—it burned in the fire.

  “I told you, I’ve been doing my research. There are more girls like you out there than you think.” She smiles. “Well, perhaps not quite like you.”

  “No, that can’t be . . .” Mesmerized by the flames, Scarlet forgets her mother, forgets herself. She has something else to do, she’s sure, but she doesn’t care. She wants to watch the fire till it burns out, till it’s only embers and ash.

  “Scarlet, we’ve got to go. I don’t . . .”

  Her mother is talking, but she can’t hear the words. As Scarlet stares the flames seem to be shaping themselves into an image, a blazing image of four girls sitting in a glade. One is making plants grow, one is juggling balls of fog, one is levitating leaves, and one—she is setting fire to sticks. Her sisters.

  “. . . we’re not safe here,” Ruby is saying. “We’ve got to—”

  A twig snaps and both women turn. A man steps out from behind the tree. He smiles and lifts his hand in a half wave.

  “Oh, it’s okay.” Scarlet exhales. “It’s not—he’s Walt, my . . . electrician.”

  Her mother stares at him. “No. He’s not, he’s—”

  Walt’s nod cuts her off. “A soldier. That’s right, my dear. Your soldier. Though, I’m afraid, not in the chivalrous sense.”

  Scarlet stares, speechless.

  “You thought I spent so long on that dishwasher because I fancied you?” His features seem suddenly sharper, no longer soft and indistinct. The spluttering flame has flared into an inferno. “I will say, though, it was delightful getting to know you—as pleasurable as preparing a meal before you taste it. You must agree?”

  Scarlet opens her mouth. Before she can answer, Walt is behind her, his hands at her throat. She gasps for breath, for words, for sense. But he is too fast, too strong, and she can do nothing to stop him.

  Ruby screams. “Scarlet! Scarlet, kill him!”

  Where is her fire? Why are her hands so cold?

  “I’m afraid she’s not got the strength to toast a marshmallow right now.” Walt smirks. “Let alone me.”

  For one eternal second Ruby is rooted to the spot, watching her daughter’s eyes wide with fear as she twists and thrashes and kicks. Then she lunges for Scarlet. But Walt steps back, gliding away as if the ground were ice instead of moss and stone, and Ruby falls at his feet, cracking her wrist against a rock. Pain tears up Ruby’s arm as she looks up to see her daughter’s face begin to pale.

  “This’ll teach you”—Walt presses his mouth to Scarlet’s ear—“That angels can be demons in disguise.”

  And vice versa, Scarlet thinks as she starts to fade. Her mother, Ezekiel, neither as she’d imagined them to be. She fights him, flailing in his grip. But Walt holds tight.

  Then Scarlet is still.

  Slowly, Walt slides her to the ground. Her limp hands flop out, arms spread wide, as Walt sets her head down gently, a pool of red curls on a patch of white moss. He gazes at her, stroking a thumb along her cheek.

  “Death is such a beautiful moment; I don’t know why you all fight it so hard.” He looks at Ruby. “You celebrate birth and mourn death. It’s all backwards. One of the many reasons your world is so—”

  In response, Ruby screams. A scream of helpless agony and frantic longing, of fury and despair, of blood and ice. Walt smiles, as if the sound is sweet to him. For Ruby, it knits the air, stitching every space between mother and daughter, connecting them by invisible threads, so all at once she’s at Scarlet’s side.

  But Scarlet is still, silent, stone.

  Walt looks on as Ruby brings her hands together. Warmth becomes heat as she lays them on her daughter’s chest. To bring comfort on a cold day, to heal a graze, to cure a cancer that’s crept in. With everything she has, Ruby wills life into Scarlet. But her daughter doesn’t move. Not a millimetre, not a molecule.

  “Whatever you’re trying to do,” Walt says. “I don’t think it’s working.”

  She looks at him. “Will you take me instead?”

  Walt laughs. “And what use would you be to me? I can live for half a year on her light—yours will give me no more than a month.” He shrugs. “But I’ll take you both, why not?”

  “Fine,” Ruby says, since she no longer wants to live.

  In a split second, Walt has shifted to her side, hands at her throat. As the breath starts to leave her body, Ruby surrenders. It is a relief not to fight for life anymore, not to run, not to—and then Ruby sees it, or thinks she does: the slightest twitch of Scarlet’s finger, a spark flickering and spluttering, trying to ignite. Her mother focuses, summoning all the breath, all the life she has left, into her daughter.

  Scarlet is still.

  Ruby closes her eyes.

  Walt grins.

  Then, all at once, a sudden spike of lightning flares from Scarlet’s immobile hand, arcing into the air, curving back to Walt: a flash of fire straight into the centre of his chest.

  And he’s gone. Incinerated, as if she’d detonated a bomb in his heart.

  Leaving only a pile of ashes on the white moss and a vivid scar on Scarlet’s hand, snaking from the tip of her little fin
ger to her thumb.

  Ruby sinks to her knees, fresh breath flooding her lungs, her body curling like a comma over her prone daughter. Ruby puts her palm to Scarlet’s cheek, the heat from her hand warming her daughter’s skin.

  “Oh, thank God,” Ruby whispers, as Scarlet opens her eyes. “Thank God.”

  Goldie

  “It’s too soon. I’m not ready.”

  “You are.” Leo pushes his palms against the trunk and, in a single swift movement, he springs from sitting to standing. “You have to be. Anyway, the more you kill, the stronger you’ll become. Then you might stand a chance against him.”

  “What? But—”

  Then he’s a few metres from me, feet on moss and stone.

  “Can’t we stay here?”

  Leo touches the burning red mark on his neck—the imprint from my ivy rope. I feel the bareness of my own exposed neck. “We’ve done all we can. Now you need to go out and hunt.”

  I smile. “You’re saying that like you won’t be coming with me.”

  “I won’t.” Leo takes a deep breath. “This is something you have to do alone.”

  “What?” I sit up straight. “No. Why?”

  “Becau—”

  “No, no, no.” I scramble down from the trunk. “No, you can’t leave me here. I can’t, I don’t know how . . .”

  “You can. You do. And you will.” Leo takes my hands. “Trust me.” He gives me a quick kiss, then steps back.

  “No, please,” I beg, as he lets go. “Please, don’t . . .”

  A thick fog starts to roll in, rising in the glade like smoke.

  “I can’t stay,” he says. “Another soldier won’t come near you while I’m here.”

  “But I need longer.” I grab for Leo, clutching his fingertips. “I need to practise, to perfect my—”

  “You don’t have time, and you don’t need it,” Leo says. “You’re far stronger than you think.”

  “No. No, I’m not . . .”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll meet you later. Afterwards. When you’ve found your sisters.”

  “Wait.” I need to touch him again, I need to feel his warmth, his strength. “Wait!”

  But he’s already halfway across the glade.

  “I don’t know where to find them.”

  “You do,” Leo says. “You’ll find them in the same place you always did.”

  “Will you—?” My words are swallowed by the fog.

  “Of course. We’ll face him together. With five, we stand a chance.”

  I nod, wanting to believe him even though I can tell he doesn’t even believe it himself.

  “It’ll only be a moment.”

  “Wait.” I reach for him again.

  But Leo is gone.

  Liyana

  Liyana knows the precise moment Mazmo sees the gathering wave, for she feels his hands—still gripping the back of her skull, fingers twisted into her hair—freeze. Summoning all her strength, Liyana pushes back, lifting her head from the water, knocking Mazmo into the lake.

  He’s quick to right himself, to stand, but Liyana’s faster. He might be a mackerel, but now she’s a shark. With one swift tug, she drags him under. The churning currents gather force, swirling beneath, tying liquid ropes to Mazmo’s feet, tethering him to the riverbed. Now he flails with wild arms and terrified wails. The waves crash down over him, again and again and again.

  Liyana looks on, the violent water soft on her skin, a wet balm that brings as much comfort as rain. When Mazmo finally begins to tire, when his limbs go limp and his eyes close, Liyana pulls herself reluctantly from the lake.

  She stands, sodden, on the bank, watching the waves ebb until the lake is almost still—strangely untouched by falling leaves—except for the twitching body sending out fitful ripples across the water.

  Liyana narrows her eyes. On the surface tiny bubbles begin to break, as if a pan of broth were being brought to a simmer on a hob. With a flick of her fingers, she turns up the heat. The skin of the lake begins to blister, as bigger bubbles rise and pop. The water starts to boil.

  Mazmo’s cries fork like lightning through the air.

  At last, the fog rolls once more over the water—a shroud that brings a pleasing silence.

  In the quiet, Liyana smiles. She will wait for the water to cool a little before she returns for a swim.

  Goldie

  I curse Leo for leaving me. I curse him and I call for him. I wait a long time before I know that he’s not coming back. Not yet, not until I’ve done what I need to do. And I know he’s right, though I wish he wasn’t, though I wish I had longer to practise, to postpone. But I don’t.

  Still, I’ll wait for the fog to roll back. I’ll stay pressed against the fallen trunk until I can see again, at least well enough to walk on. Leo hasn’t told me how to track a soldier, so I know he trusts me to follow my instincts. And though the fog will render me invisible, it’d also render me blind.

  As soon as it lifts, I leave the glade—staying here I feel too much like a lame rabbit cowering in an undefended burrow.

  As I walk my spirits start to lift. I have purpose, aim. Though I try not to think too much on the object or outcome. If I could evade my mission, I would. If I could escape, I would. If I could run home to hide in my bed, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Though I know that Leo is right. Still, I wouldn’t be doing this if I had a choice. But I don’t, so I go on.

  As I walk deeper into the woods I begin to watch, scanning my surroundings more closely, stepping more carefully, avoiding the thwack of branches, the snap of twigs. I try to move through the fog so I’ll leave no mark on the air. I flex my fingers, summoning my strength, readying myself.

  I can do this, I think. I’ve killed before, I can kill again. And this man—this soldier—deserves it. He’s a killer, a killer of my sisters. At the crack of a twig, I freeze. I’m still for several minutes before I dare to move, slowly, on.

  I hear Leo’s voice. Remember—you’re the hunter. Not the hunted.

  And that’s all it takes to make the shift. I’m stillness and stealth now, silencing my mind, thinking of nothing except seeking my target.

  I see him beside a willow tree, biting his thumbnail as if he’s considering a choice, as if he’s not sure what he’ll do next. I know I have only a second or two before he sees—or senses—me.

  You are predator or prey. You will kill or be killed.

  I focus on the vines of ivy wrapping around the willow tree and snaking along the ground at his feet. I focus on my fingers. I focus on how I made the ivy twist around Leo’s neck like a boa constrictor. I pretend that’s all I’m doing now.

  Slowly, the veins of the ivy leaves begin to swell and pulse, as if flowing with my own blood. With two twitches of my index fingers, the plants on the ground pull free from the soil, slithering up the soldier’s feet, encircling his ankles, tethering him to the earth. He’s so startled that he nearly falls, but he steadies himself in time.

  When he sees me, when our eyes meet, I see that he’s so uncommonly beautiful that I’m startled in turn. He looks at me with such longing, such sorrow. My hands drop to my sides. Without my command, the vines of ivy fall slack and begin to unwind. Suddenly, the soldier lunges for me—there’s delight in his eyes now, desire.

  I fall back, hitting stone instead of moss, scrambling up as he pulls me down again. I kick out at him, but he’s strong, far stronger than I, locking me against his chest with a single arm. I squirm in his grip, but the more I wrestle the harder he squeezes, and I feel my lungs tightening, my strength seeping into the air with each diminishing breath. My head is so heavy my neck bends with the weight of it. My eyes close. Everything, once white, is dark.

  Inside me a light flickers: a trace of love, a flame about to go out. I think of Leo, of Teddy and Liyana. I draw on that final light, pulling on its heat, its power. I curl my fingers into flimsy fists; I call on the ivy beneath my feet. But I don’t have strength enough. Then the light snuffs out and all is black.
>
  In the darkness I am drifting, sinking into the ground and floating into the sky. My soul is returning to the earth, my spirit to the sky.

  Then the darkness is scarred by a flash of red, like a spurt of arterial blood. When it vanishes, I see neither black nor red but nothing at all.

  Breath returns like an electric shock, surging through my chest, reigniting my heart. My eyes snap open to see the soldier: writhing on the ground as ivy sheathes him in tight-leafed bandages, spreading so fast that, in a moment, he’s mummified—only one terrified, startlingly blue eye blinking out at me—and then he is swallowed up into the soil. Gone.

  Bea

  Don’t you dare. No daughter of mine is dying like this.

  Bea hears her father’s voice on the horizon, a faint echo through a dense fog. She ignores him. The echo sharpens, his words scratching the air, searing her skin, burning her flesh into a scream.

  No, she thinks, let me go.

  Silence falls. Darkness. And Bea is floating again.

  Where is your honour? Where is your spirit, your dignity?

  Her father reaches inside her, his fingers in her veins, injecting his own poison: a refined dilution of pure rage.

  Bea opens her eyes.

  She looks at the soldier, her glare unbending. In his shock, Dr. Finch loosens his grip and Bea breaks free.

  Kill him. It is your duty, your destiny. Kill him.

  As the poison pulses through her veins she feels such strength, such power, as she’s never felt before. It beats with her heart, igniting anger that swells into a circling tornado of uncontainable fury, dragging her into its vortex. She battles against its pull, fighting to tear herself free.

  Surrender to it. You’ll be invulnerable. You’ll never feel pain again.

  Finally, Bea succumbs. It’s a relief to stop struggling, to allow the rage to swallow her whole.

  She straightens. Dr. Finch steps back. The falling leaves suspend in the air. The mists dissipate and the fog rolls back. Bea raises both hands, and the largest stone in the clearing lifts into the air, hovering among the leaves. With a flick of her fingers, Bea brings it down on his shoulder, piercing skin, shattering bone. He collapses, one arm clutching the other. His screams would crack the stone, had it been glass.