The Grimm Prequels Book 5: (Prequels 19-24)

by Cameron Jace

“Argh,” John swayed his bottle sideways. “Don’t shit me, pirate. Not giving up is for fairy tale stories you tell little children so they grow up thinking this is a fair world we live in.”

  “Then what keeps you so patient, Captain?”

  “I want you to tell me,” John challenged his sailor. “Think deeper. Think about me. Think about who I am.”

  “You’re the greatest man on the seas.”

  “I said don’t shit me, sailor.” Furious, John broke the bottle onto the ship floor. “Tell it to my face. Tell me what kind of man I am.”

  The soldier looked down, regretful he’d opened up the subject.

  “Tell me!” John roared.

  “I’m afraid if I tell you to your face, you’d kill me, Captain,” the sailor said.

  “I will kill you anyway,” John stepped closer. “At least you’d have spat it out of your chest before you die.”

  The sailor began shivering.

  “Tell me!”

  “All right. You’re the cruelest, maniacal, and unjust bastard I’ve ever met. I’ve never seen such evil like you. I’ve never seen a pirate kill so many men without blinking. I think you’ve got no heart. I think you’re a beast. A straight descendant of apes.”

  “What else?” John smirked and stepped closer, a few inches from the sailor’s face.

  “I’ve heard stories about you.”

  “What stories?”

  “You’re either a descendant of King Henry VIII or Bluebeard himself, men who raped and killed their wives for pleasure.”

  “What else?” John pressed, his voice louder, every other sailor on the ship surrounding them now, watching the situation unfold.

  “I heard that it’s like a curse, descending from generation to generation in your family. That not one male descendant has ever treated his many wives in a better way.”

  “What else?”

  “That some of you even killed their own son and daughters.”

  “What else!” A lightning strike in the sky.

  “That you enjoy revenge like men enjoy their children. That you’d wait for years and years to live for the moment when you can crush your enemies. You’d wait years and years, just to look in their eyes and indulge in that look of defeat.”

  One last step closer now, John asked. “And what do you see in my eyes, sailor?”

  The sailor, knowing those were his last words, took his time to answer. He wanted to say the right words. He wanted to see Long John Silver in pain, because he knew how words can hurt. He said, “I see a weak man, pretending he is cruel and ruthless, only to hide the pain of waiting so long to take his revenge.”

  John let out a sigh, and instead of raising his voice again, he calmed down, his shoulders eased with defeat. The other sailors were speechless, realizing the poor sailor was right. Long John Silver, a terrible man, was in so much pain, disguised behind his tough demeanor.

  “Is he talking about Moby Dick?” one of the sailors asked John. “Are you feeling defeated because you’ve never caught Moby Dick.”

  “No, that’s not it,” John said feebly, swaying a little to his drunkenness.

  “Then it must be the fact that we failed in finding the island were Jim Hawkins lived,” another sailor suggested.

  John said nothing. His body off balance, swaying with the tides of the sea, his hands loose, and his beard smeared with bear grease. He’d lowered his head so much that his chin touched his chest, like a man with no purpose.

  “Thirteen years of snow,” he mumbled.

  Then one sailor realized something and stepped out of the shadows, nearer to John. “I think I may have an idea about what it means,” he told the others. “I think I now understand.”

  “What do you understand?” the sailors inquired.

  “I think he is talking about the boy, Jim Hawkins.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I’m not exactly sure, but I think the island where the boy lives is full of snow.”

  “So?” the sailors scoffed.

  “That’s why we can’t see it with all the ice and snowy places we come across,” the sailor said. “The island is protected by some magic that makes it hide beneath the snow.”

  “For thirteen years?”

  “To my knowledge,” the sailor said. “If we catch Jim Hawkins this year, the boy who’ll lead us to the treasure will be thirteen-years-old.”

  Again, as Keeper of the keys, I’d advise you stop here — though I doubt you will. What’s coming is unimaginable, not that it’s violent or drenched in blood. But what’s coming is the sort of evil I have never seen. The sort of evil that doesn’t make evil a point of view like I’ve always believed. It shows some kind of evil that is made of pure darkness. You’d be naive if you thought such people don’t exist. I know I was.

  Prior to this diary, I’d always believed that evil was mostly a reckless decision made under the short-thinking and reasoning at a certain moment. For example, you accidentally step on a man’s foot, he thinks you meant it, he gets mad, and kills you. That’s not what’s coming. This this the kind of evil were the person committing it slept every night of his life, for so many years, planning and dreaming of this moment. So conscious and aware of what he is about to do.

  This is the kind of evil where the evil man had years on hand to change his mind. He could wake up one day and stare at a beautiful flock of birds in the sky, wondering why he would still want to commit this evil. Every minute of those years, he, or she, had the chance to change their heart and let go, but they didn’t.

  This is evil as black as crows dipped in black seas of oil under a veil of a blackened sky that had been born to sunless god.

  Here it goes…

  Two years away from her husband, watching her children grow into amazing young people, the mother had given up on her suspicions about John. Now she anticipated his return so much.

  Though it was the same day her son was turning thirteen years of age, she didn’t want to relive the horror and doubt all over again, because she’d always been wrong. In fact, she believed this will be the best memory of the number thirteen in her life.

  Last night, she’d asked God for a sign, just a small one, to make her feel safer and on the right path.

  It came this morning, sooner than she’d ever thought. The sun shone through the grey clouds, piercing through every grim darkness hovering above. Even the snowman was going to melt to her light of hope today.

  “Mother,” her son chirped outside. “Did you see the sun. It’s beautiful!”

  “So beautiful, Jack.” She chuckled.

  “I can’t wait for father to come and enjoy it with us,” her daughter followed.

  “I missed him so much, Jill.”

  She watched them climb up their favorite hill, wondering how long it would stand the scorching sun outside. Would the snow really melt to this lovely sun? Maybe the thirteen years of snow were a sign of optimism. Thirteen years after her Jack had been born, the sun would melt this evil expanse of white all around them.

  She could even see a rainbow in the distance. It bowed from side to side. But with the other side, she saw men in the distance, trudging in the snow, closer to the house.

  A mother’s senses are never wrong. If she’d questioned the looming menace around her children all of her life, this time she didn’t. She was sure. Those men had come to bring pain.

  She hardly breathed, squinting, wanting to get a closer look. What were those men doing here? Where was John?

  She hurried out of the house, her rifle on her side, aiming at them, protecting herself.

  Only to realize they weren’t coming for her.

  They’d come for the children.

  Jack and Jill had rolled in their playful silliness down the hill, and she wished she could ask them to climb it up again and escape.

  But her voice wouldn’t come out. Only flickers of images in her mind, trying to connect what was really happening for the last thirteen years.

 
; “Look!” Jack pointed at the men, running toward them. “Mother, we have visitors.”

  She wanted to scream. Stay away, Jack. I can feel it. They’re here to harm you. But her voice still wouldn’t come out. Deep in her mind, she thought she had realized what had been going on all along, but didn’t want to admit it.

  “I’m coming after you, Jack,” Jill chirped.

  Closer, the mother wondered why those men were so short and stocky. Short evil men approaching?

  Then an ominous voice whispered in her ear. It was John. The one she’d known from the past. The dark one who hurt her too many nights.

  “How do you feel now?” he asked.

  “What’s going on?” She dropped the rifle, her body shivering.

  “What should have happened thirteen years ago.” John’s eerie words made her shudder and freeze, she could hardly move.

  “What should have happened thirteen years ago?”

  “I should have punished you,” John said. “I should have punished you bad for being with another man and giving me a child who wasn’t mine.”

  “But you said you’ve changed. I saw how you were with the children. You loved them. They loved you.”

  “What can I say?” he said with a smug look on his face. “Other than a brilliant cook and cruel pirate, I’m a good actor.”

  She felt an invisible wind plaster her against the walls of the porch. She fought not to fall down. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’ve never been more serious,” John said. “When you betrayed me, I told myself just kill the whore you had for a wife. I told myself bury the children like every man you’ve robbed and killed.” He shook his shoulders with disdain. “But I realized it wouldn’t have satisfied me. You’ve dug a hole into my essence, one that left me with a blackened void. You didn’t give me a son. You cheated on me. And you embarrassed me in front of my pirates. Whatever I did to you then would not have quenched my thirst for revenge nearly enough.

  The mother blinked, trying to comprehend how this kind of evil ever existed on the face of the Earth. She let out a shriek, connecting a few more dots. “The man outside the house. He gave you this idea.”

  John laughed, smirking. “The Piper himself. He chose me to work for him, and showed me what evil really was.”

  “He advised you to fake being a good father for so long?” She still couldn’t get it. “How did you even live with yourself.”

  “Playing a good father wasn’t really bad,” John said. “But you know why I tolerated it?”

  “Why?”

  “Because the more I played, the more you fell in love with idea of a happy family, fell in love with your children.”

  “That’s why you always reminded me to love them? I never understood why.”

  “Why? You asking me why?” The veins on his neck protruded.

  “Yes, why? Why would you wait so long for revenge?”

  “Two reasons.” He violently held her face in his hands and stared at her. “To see this kind of terror in your eyes.”

  “What?”

  “Imagine I’d just avenged myself back then. Imagine I had killed you back then. None of that was satisfactory, but this, the pain I see in your eyes, this is beautiful.”

  “You’re a horrible man.” Her words could not describe what she wanted to say. Was there a darker word than horrible?”

  “Patience my dear, it’s my strongest sin,” he said. “I waited for you the way I waited for the whale. And how beautiful it is. Such a moment of so much joy to me, to see you in so much pain, betrayed, fooled beyond imagination, crying yourself to death, just like you did to me when you gave me a son that wasn’t mine.”

  “Forget about me.” She tried to free herself from his grip but couldn’t. “What will happen to the children?”

  “You mean your son?” He let go of her, laughing in loud staccatos. “The one who was never my son?”

  “What will you do to him?” She pounded his chest but was too weak now.

  John turned around and pointed at the approaching men. She could see they had captured both her children. And to her horror, she now realized why they’d looked so short from the distance.

  They weren’t men. They were Goblins.

  “Oh my God!” she shrieked.

  “Yes?” John made fun of her. “Are you talking to me? Because I’m the only one making rules now.”

  “You’re taking them to the Goblin Market in Sorrow.” She sank to her knees. “You’re going to sell your own children?”

  “Not for money, dear.” John pulled her face up and looked into her teary eyes. “But for this look in your eyes. I’m not even going to kill you. That’d be merciful to you.”

  Silence crept all over the snow, and the sun, which had promised a brighter future pulled back into some dark cavern up in the sky, ashamed and embarrassed at how evil some humans were. A grey shade hovered all over the island.

  “Please don’t sell my children. Please take me.” She bent down to kiss John’s feet.

  He pushed her away so hard she fell on her side, sobbing herself to death in the snow.

  “I’ll will enjoy your pain for the rest of your life, trying to find them,” John said. “I will enjoy you suffering everyday looking for them, wondering what happened to them. If they’re alive or dead. If they’ve been hurt and whom they’ve been sold to.”

  “Please no,” she cried.

  “I will make sure you they are sold for cheap,” he said. “So they’ll end up in the worst and dirtiest hands of buyers. At such a young age, terrible things will happen to them.”

  “Please. Please. Please.” She could not do anything but plead and beg, though she knew it was all in vain. Such evil as John’s was beyond her, and she didn’t know what to do.

  She watched the Goblins take them away, though Jack looked like he was planning to escape. She saw him nod at his sister, then toward the hill. The mother wondered if he’d make it. She wished he could.

  “I’ll leave you to rot here, dear wife,” John told her and followed the Goblins.

  “Wait!” She held out a hand. “Wait.”

  “What now?” John scoffed without looking back. “I will not change my mind. I’m enjoying this too much.

  “Why thirteen years?” she asked. “Why did you have to wait thirteen years?”

  “Oh, that?” John roared with laughter again. “This I will not answer, but one of those ugly midgets might.” John permitted them to talk and the mother impatiently wanted to hear the answer.

  An ugly goblin trotted back to her and said with the dirties grin on his miserable face, “We don’t sell kids in the Goblin Market until they’re thirteen-years-old.”

  “What?” She was shocked. “Why? Because buyers wouldn’t be interested in slaves under thirteen-years-old.”

  “No, mam,” the Goblin mocked her. “Because we have standards.”

  End of Diary

  MY NOTES

  Written by the Beast

  Thirteen Years of Snow is the darkest prequel I’ve read so far. I’ve mentioned before how Captain Ahab sends shivers down my spine. Now I understand why.

  I’m glad it ended with such a farce comment from the Goblins, ‘We have standards!’

  It eased up the tension a bit.

  I am still unable to fully comprehend the story. Does revenge really live with you that long? Is it worth it?

  I was also surprised that Hans Christian Andersen had written about this tale before. It’s a short tale called The Snow Child. One which is always dismissed and overlooked in favor of a better-known Russian fairy tale by the same name. Or maybe every other author stirred away from the dark themes it conveyed…

  And little did I know that slavery started at thirteen-years-old. I’m not sure if it’s a fact. I feel for Jack and his sister and want to know more about them.

  For now, on to the next prequel.

  Grimm Prequel #23

  SUN, MOON, & SORROW

  as told by Lady
Shallot

  Dear diary,

  I am a woman made of the thin threads that are the fabric of an almost transparent soul. Weak and single threads, you might think. But you’re wrong. Never underestimate the power of a thread that binds. A million threads are in me, strong enough to wrap around your sword of vengeance and hold you forever in place.

  My threads can weave suns. Can weave moons. Trees and hills, and with a little magic, the tides of a river. Slowly but surely, staring at my mirror, I can build a world. Even a life sometimes.

  You’d come to me, wishing for a new place; one where you could build your dreams or escape your past. You’d come and visit me in my highest of towers; climbing up it for seven days and nights, and when you found me, you’d understand that there is almost nothing I can’t create.

  As long as I have my supply of the red fleece I use with my magic.

  It’d be nice story if I could tell you of the origins of the fleece, but it will expose my secrets.

  Still, with all my magic, you’d sense my loneliness; trapped in the room at the top of a tower, accompanied by my only friend: my reflection in the mirror.

  You’d ask yourself why I’m like that. How can it be, despite possessing God-like powers, that I’ve not created a better universe for myself.

  I’d say it’s not an easy question to answer. It’s hard to point out where in my life I ended up this way. I’ve lived a terribly long time.

  But here is a story you may like. A story I decided to write while bored of creating suns and moons. A story I remembered when holding the red ball of thread in my hand.

  I think I was seven when it started…

  As a child, I lived on Astolat, an isolated island, one of many in the Seven Seas. On the back of a whale, of course. Except legend had it that our whale had died long ago, floating upon the sea with nowhere to go.

  The few islanders, a little more than three hundred I believed, were partially thankful for the dead whale. It meant we’d never flip over one day.

  But it also meant we in Astolat had no purpose to live for.

  You see, each whale was supposed to flip over or guide the islanders to their destiny at some point in life. With a dead whale, we were doomed without a fate, without a hope, bound for the unknown, and so our lives were bland.