The Grimm Conclusion Read Free Page A

“I’ll help you hide the body.”
    So the stepfather dragged the little boy’s body into the kitchen, and Jorinda carried her beloved brother’s head after him. And then the stepfather took out a big knife, and he carved the meat from Joringel’s bones.
    And he threw it into their largest stew pot.
    At this point, I imagine that every adult reading this book aloud has just slammed it shut and said, “Never mind. Forget it. We’re done here.”
    And half the kids are probably screaming for their mothers. And the other half are screaming at the adult to keep reading because this is, well, completely awesome.
    Let me say that I agree with all parties involved. Adults, you really should not read any further. Kids who want your moms, you should probably go get them. Kids who think this is awesome, you have never been more right.
    What did I tell you about fairy tales? Did I lie?
    Once the father was done carving the meat from the boy’s bones and putting it into the stew pot, he said, “Now open the icebox.”
    The icebox was a deep hole, just behind the kitchen, where perishables were kept. It was cool and damp, and became icy in winter. Hence the name.
    Jorinda, still hyperventilating, opened the icebox, and the stepfather lowered the stew pot into it.
    â€œThis’ll keep for a good long while,” he said. And then he turned to the little girl and stuck a thick finger in her face. “If you ever mention this to anyone, you’ll be hanged. But first, I’ll make you eat this stew.”
    Finally, the man led his stepdaughter back into the kitchen, where he took the boy’s bones, tied them up in a kerchief, and handed them to Jorinda. “Go,” he said. “Bury these under the juniper tree.”
    So Jorinda went into the garden, stood under the juniper tree, and buried her brother’s bones.
    As she scooped the last handful of black soil onto the makeshift little grave, a tear ran down her cheek, and she thought, You said you’d never leave me.
    Okay! I’m sorry!
    I know, I know.
    This is bad. This is, maybe, the worst thing that you have ever read, in any book, ever.
    I am sorry for that.
    But let me say this: While I do like messed-up stories, and I do like stories where grim, bloody, horrible things happen, I do
not
like stories with sad endings.
    I hate them, in fact.
    So lots of grim, bloody, horrible things will keep happening in this book, but everything will turn out okay in the end. I promise you.
    Of course, before things get better, they’ll probably get worse.
    Ready?
    Then buckle up, and let’s do this thing.

Ashputtle

B efore I even
say
“Once upon a time,” I’ve got to tell you something.
    â€œAshputtle,” which is the title of this chapter, is the Grimm brothers’ name for “Cinderella.”
    And now you are worried.
    You do not want to hear the story of Cinderella, because you have heard it ten hundred thousand million times, and it makes you want to hit yourself in the head with a sledgehammer.
    Good. I’m glad you don’t want to hear the story of Cinderella, because I don’t want to tell it.
    I want to tell you the story of Ashputtle.
    â€œCinderella” is the name of the cute version of the story, the one that makes little girls want to dress up like pretty princesses.
    That story makes me want to hit myself in the head with a sledgehammer, also.
    â€œAshputtle” is the name of the horrible, bloody, Grimm, awesome version of the story.
    It will
not
make little girls want to dress up like pretty princesses. It will make little girls want to run out of the room screaming for their mommies.
    It will make little boys want to do that, too.
    So if there are any little girls or little boys in the room, please—for their sakes, and for their mommies’ sakes . . .
    Do not let them hear this story.
    Once upon a time, a little girl named Jorinda knelt under