For days, weeks, months afterward, I waited in the sullen silence that accompanies exceeding pain, hungering for another glimpse, wanting the sound of their music to find me, eager for the taste of their fruit upon my lips, desiring only to dance within their circle once more. But I never spied the goblin merchants again. Instead, I began to wither, the way Lizzie had warned me poor Jeannie had after returning from the woods without her young man. And as I withered, Lizzie seemed to grow brighter, as if she held a warm fire within her.
In all the months that passed, I had only one brief period of hope, which came when spring returned to us and I recalled the peach stone I had brought home from the goblin revels. I had placed it in a drawer and, upon remembering it, I quickly took it out to set it on a wall that faced south, and soaked it with my tears, hoping it would take root, or grow a green shoot after I planted it in the garden. No shoot ever came, though I dreamed of melons and trees full of ripe apples; and sometimes, as I came to see if the peach kernel was growing, I would be deluded by visions of ripe berry bushes, the way a thirsty traveler in the desert will see water where no water flows.
No more did I sweep the house, no more did I tend to the fowl or cows. No more did I join Lizzie and her mother to knead cakes of wheat, no more did I gather honey. Instead, I sat in the nook by the chimney and nursed my sorrow. And never did I fetch water from the brook, for going there reminded me too much of what I could no longer see, hear, touch, taste.
“Poor Laura,” Lizzie said one day in late spring, while I was at my worst. I had stopped eating, because no food set before me tasted of life, and even when I tried to eat for the sake of Lizzie and her parents, I could not take more than two bites before my stomach turned and revolted. “Poor Laura,” said Lizzie, coming to sit beside me. She lifted my cold hand from my lap and held it between her burning palms. “I cannot stand to see you suffering like this, sister. Tonight I will put a penny in my purse and go to the goblin merchants for you.”
I was too feeble in mind and in body to say anything to stop her, and could only watch as she slid the coin into her purse and went on her daily mission to fetch water from the brook.
What occurred down there, in the glen near the flowing water, beneath the newly leafed trees and the shadows they cast upon the ground beneath them, I could only imagine from my own experiences. But Lizzie was a smart girl, and always prepared to get what she wanted without giving herself over in return. So later, when she returned at moonrise, and spilled into our room, slathered in the juice of goblin fruit from top to bottom, I could not believe the words she sang out to me.
“Laura, oh Laura, did you miss me? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, hug me, kiss me, suck my juices, squeezed from goblin fruits for you. But I did not let them touch me, only you. Only you. Come, Laura. Eat me, drink me, love me. Make much of me. For you I have braved the glen and had to do with goblin merchant men.”
With a start I leaped from my chair, already concerned that Lizzie had tasted fruit that would destroy her. I clutched at her, and kissed her, and held her to me, as we once did with great passion. Tears sprang from my eyes, burning as they fell from me. And as the juice from the goblin fruit smeared upon my sister’s body filled my mouth, I felt my youth and vigor being restored to me, and tore at my robe, and then at Lizzie’s, and we tumbled toward our bed like two awkward dancers, parting the curtains as we fell onto the pillows, and then began to touch each other as we were meant to.
Life out of death. That long night, after we had made love as we used to, I slept with the peace I once knew in life. The shades of gray that had colored me for months began to fade, and in the morning when I awoke, it was as if from a nightmare that I returned to the world, where color and scent and the feeling of Lizzie’s skin as I stroked her bare, cream-colored shoulder had returned as well.
When Lizzie rose from sleep as my touch lingered, she yawned, then smiled, and quickly slipped out of bed to dress herself. “Honey, then butter, then the chickens, then the house,” she murmured, grinning to herself as she sat in a chair and laced her bodice.
“And after the house,” I said, sitting up on one elbow, “the brook. And after the brook, here again, beneath these curtains, where I wish we could stay forever.”
Lizzie’s grin turned sour the moment I said those words, though. She lifted her face to me and said, “Laura, it was for you that I did that. It was to save you. But it cannot be more. It cannot be what you are thinking. It cannot go on like that between us forever. I will be married one day. I will have children. So, too, will you, if you know what’s best for you. But clearly you do not, or we would never have found ourselves in this predicament to begin with.”
And at that she rose from her chair and left me there, alone.
It was like a curse she threw upon me with those last statements, for as the days and months began to grind beneath my feet, it all came to be true. Lizzie married a young man from a farm just down the way, past the glen; and some time later, after I fully realized we would not be together as I wished, I married too. He was a sweet man, a blacksmith with a sharp black beard and kind blue eyes, and with him I had two children, a boy and a girl to match Lizzie’s pair. He was not long for this world, though. A spark flew up one day and blinded him in one eye, and soon the skin there turned an awful red, and then began to fester. The doctor said there was nothing to be done but to help ease him out of this world with the least amount of pain possible, which we did.
Lizzie helped me during that trying time. She came daily with bread and milk and honey, and cleaned my house for me, to save me the work while I tended to my husband. His passing was slow at first, and then he ran toward his end very quickly.
The house and his hearth were sold afterward. I went to live again in the house where Lizzie’s parents had once raised us. They were gone by then, too, and Lizzie said it would be better if my children and I were closer, so she could look in on me more often.
She’d bring her own children with her, to play with my Tom and Lily, and we would sew together and try not to speak of the past. Only the present, only daily items and routines would be topics. Any hint of love long past, of passion hidden for the sake of others, and Lizzie would gather up her things and leave.
Sometimes she’d bring her children over and ask me to look after them when she needed to go into town for something. It was during those times that I would tell them the story of the goblin glen, about how my sister had stood in deadly peril to do me good, to save me from an awful fate. The children would listen, rapt and eager to hear the parts about the goblins, and about the fruits, and the music, and the dancing. And afterward they’d run off to play under the shadows of the weeping willow at the bottom of the garden, where once I tried to plant a peach stone out of desperation.
After they were off on their own, I would weep, silently, for having lied to them. The entire tale I told was true, yet none of it was honest. But the stories one tells children always mean: Life will be happy, my dear ones, even though you will struggle within the world’s fierce embrace.
When they grow older, I decided long ago—as the days, months, and years come to pass—I will tell them a different story. A story with a good moral of its own to benefit them when they are ready. I will tell them everything they need to know about this world to find or make their happy endings. And if the world cannot provide them with the love they require for happiness, I will tell them to leave it, to join another if one is ever offered. I will tell them to not go back up the path to what they already know. Eat, drink, love without caution. Within this world’s fierce embrace, they need not struggle so.
Christopher Barzak is the author of the Crawford Fantasy Award-winning novel, One for Sorrow, which is currently being made into the feature film Jamie Marks is Dead. His second book,The Love We Share Without Knowing, was a finalist for the Nebula and Tiptree Awards. His short fiction has appeared in a variety of venues, including Asimov’s Science Fiction, Realms of Fantasy, Lady Church
ill’s Rosebud Wristlet, and several “year’s best” anthologies. His most recent books are Birds and Birthdays, a collection of surrealist fantasy stories, and Before and Afterlives, a collection of supernatural fantasies. He grew up in rural Ohio, has lived in California and Michigan, and has taught English in suburban and rural communities outside of Tokyo, Japan. Currently he teaches at Youngstown State University.
“The Mirror Tells All” was inspired during a lecture at a fairy tale conference I attended in which “Snow White” was described as a story about mother-daughter competition. My immediately reaction was, yes, but what if it isn’t? The voice of a young woman flitted through my mind, a young woman with a different interpretation. That is the beauty of fairy tales—they can be read in any number of ways, and the meanings that can be culled from them are as relevant now as they were when the stories were first written. For me, “Little Snow White” is a story of triumph in the face of those who would, by envy or other means, try to stifle a young woman’s spirit.
Erzebet Yellowboy
The Mirror Tells All
Erzebet YellowBoy
Listen. Here’s the story you wouldn’t let me tell.
I know, I know. You’re dying. Leave you to it. Let you rest in peace. You’ll have all the peace you need, in a day or two. That’s what the doctor told me, anyway. Did he tell you that? No? Oh well. I’m sure he’ll get around to it eventually.
I read somewhere the other day that this story is about competition. Daughters growing up, mothers growing old, that sort of thing. I don’t buy it. There was never any of that stuff between us. No, this is a story about love, not competition. Maybe if you’d pried your face away from that mirror . . . Nah. You didn’t. So that’s where this story begins.
I tried to break that thing once, did you know? I saw you go into the bathroom and I seized the moment. I threw your silver hairbrush at that mirror with all the power in my scrawny little arm. I hurled it so hard! Nothing. Not a scratch. The damned hairbrush bounced off like it’d hit rubber. Boing. Nearly came back to smack me in the eye. I thought about taking a hammer to it, but by then you’d locked up all of Dad’s tools in the shed out back, and I couldn’t find the key.
So. The story. There was this woman who couldn’t stop looking at herself in the mirror. That’s you, that is. Thought I’d better spell it out. This woman had everything a woman could ever want: a loving husband, more money in the bank than she could ever spend, more clothes in the closet than she could ever wear, a fantastic stone house with a turret—a turret! Who has that these days? She did. She had it all, and then some. I should point out that it wasn’t like this woman had all of this stuff and then still felt unfulfilled. No, it wasn’t like that at all, not as far as anyone could tell. It was just that she couldn’t stop looking at herself in the mirror.
The first time I saw her (that’s you, got that?) staring into the mirror I thought nothing of it. I must have been seven; school had started and I’d just been let off the bus. That was a great bus, the driver was always cracking jokes and he really liked kids so it was kind of like our own mini-party twice a day. I opened the front door and the house was quiet. I remember the silence because it was so unusual. This woman used to have the radio on all the time, couldn’t get enough of it. It was nice, I liked the house full of sound. And when it wasn’t, I got a little afraid that something bad had happened.
I went up to my room to dump my backpack. God, that was a horrible thing, all purple and gold with glitter. Guess it suited me at the time. So anyway, I put it on my bed and then crept out into the hall. Your bedroom door was open. When I first saw you in front of the mirror I was relieved. Everything was okay, I remember thinking. You were there. It was just that for some reason you didn’t have the radio on. Well, what did I know? I was just a kid. I figured maybe there’d been nothing good playing. Come to think of it, I don’t even know where that mirror came from. I don’t think it was there the day before. Did Dad buy it for you? Did you order it out of a catalog? Fingerhut or something? No, that stuff would have been too cheap for you.
When this happened again the next day, I was curious but still didn’t really think much of it. When I realized it was going to happen every day, that’s when I started to worry. I asked Dad about it, but he was already sick by then and he wasn’t really up to pondering the imponderables with me.
I mean honestly, what was it? Did you see a wrinkle? Did you hope to stare it away? Don’t look at me like that. I’m joking. You never had a wrinkle in your life.
So here’s this woman, and for some reason she’s doing this crazy thing. Every day, morning to night, face in that mirror. And there’s this kid who doesn’t understand why suddenly her mom isn’t fixing breakfast, or lunch or supper for that matter, who isn’t putting out clothes for her to wear to school, who isn’t taking her shopping for new clothes when she grows out of the old, who isn’t bitching about a messy room, who isn’t asking about homework, who doesn’t show up to parent-teacher conferences, who isn’t doing a damned thing except standing in her bedroom, in front of a piece of glass on the wall.
You’d think someone would have called Children’s Services, but they didn’t. It was like magic, the way the teachers and even the principal believed me when I said you were busy. They all knew Dad was sick, so they didn’t ask about him. He was sick, but it was you I had to make excuses for.
This kid, right, after a couple years of this, she’s kind of learned to accept that things will never go back to the way they were. She understands that she can’t invite friends over because then she’d have to explain to them what her mother is doing, and she doesn’t know what her mother is doing so how can she explain it? She realizes that the other kids’ mothers aren’t like this, so she doesn’t go visit them because she can’t stand the sight of their moms in the kitchen, or coming in from work, briefcase in hand, or calling them into the house to wash up before supper.
This goes on for about three years. I know, it’s hard to believe, but it’s true. The kid is around ten years old when finally, she’s worked up the nerve to do something about it. I mean, she wants her mom back, right? It can’t be like it was before the mirror, but it could be something else, something better than having a mom who does nothing but this one stupid thing. Almost anything would be better than that. And then, as if all this isn’t bad enough, Dad dies. You remember that, I’m sure. That makes the kid even more determined.
This kid thinks and thinks about her mom, about all the things her mom used to enjoy, about all of the things they did together before the mirror, even though she can hardly remember some of them because she’d been so young. She thought, Mom liked shoes, but I don’t know what size she wears. Mom liked steak, but I don’t know how to cook one. Mom liked music, but the old radio was gone. And then she remembered how, before the mirror had appeared on the wall, her mother used to sit at her dressing table in the morning doing her hair.
Her mother had liked to do her hair. Now, this little girl had since grown out of purple ponies and glitter, and in fact she was as much of a tomboy by then as a girl could be. She didn’t know anything about how to do hair—she put her own in a ponytail in the morning and then forgot about it. That was doing hair. Then she remembered this old doll she used to have, and how its hair had been braided, and the braids had been laced through with ribbons. Not just any ribbon either. This ribbon had been embroidered with colorful, detailed scenes of animals frolicking, flowers blooming—all sorts of wonderful, tiny things had been sewn into that ribbon. When her mother had given her the doll she’d said, “This is very old. It’s been in our family for a long time, and it was my doll when I was a girl, just like you. It’s your turn to take care of her now, just like I’ve done for all these years.”
The girl remembered this because, at the time, she thought that doll was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. And now she thought, that is what I’ll do. I’ll get my mother a beautiful ribbon to weave through her hair. It’ll g
ive her something to do in front of that mirror.
Problem was, the girl had no money. Oh sure, she was always provided for, but no one thought to give her cash. Why would they? So one day, after school, instead of getting on the bus as she’d done every day, she walked the two miles or so into town. She’d never been into town, but that didn’t stop her. She needed a ribbon, and that was the only place she’d find one.
Yeah, you didn’t know I did that, did you. Well, you wouldn’t.
She knew the way; every kid knew the way. It’s all the girls talked about in class—how their mothers had taken them to the boutiques, to the mall, to wherever it is mothers take their daughters to buy them pretty baubles and bras and whatever else it is that mothers buy. Well, after a lot of walking and searching for just the right shop, she found it. It was three floors of sparkling handbags, row upon row of shoes, a lingerie section in which she could have got lost for days. It was utterly and completely filled with stuff—the kind of stuff you loved, once upon a time.
The girl found the perfect ribbon, embroidered and with the extra bonus of having beads sewn into the seams. And without a second thought, she stole that ribbon, put it in her pocket and walked out.
That night she brought the ribbon to her mother. The room was dark, but for one small lamp lit on the nightstand. Dad’s side of the bed was made up tight, but yours was a mess. I remember that. It made me sad. So this girl brings her mother the ribbon, stands in front of her mother with the thing in her hand and says, “Mother, I brought you something.”
Did you look down? No. Did you respond in any way? No. You just stood there, like a damned statue, saying nothing.
Fine, I thought. I left the ribbon on your dressing table and left the room. Do you know how that felt? Do you? You may as well have ripped my heart out and fed it to the wolves. I almost hated you then.
Don’t wince. What do you expect? Jesus. You can’t be that far gone.
Once Upon a Time: New Fairy Tales Page 26