The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 2

by Ken Brosky

  “But I never feel good after I eat the porridge.”

  The woman leaned over, smiling. The loose skin on her cheeks wrinkled. “That’s because you’re not supposed to. The porridge keeps you working hard until bedtime. And that. Is all. I care about.”

  The boy dipped the porcelain bowl in the stuff, looked down at it, then turned and flung it in the woman’s face! I silently cheered, feeling myself follow him toward the doorway as he ran into the hall.

  But then the woman was following him, slipping past me in the blink of an eye. She walked slowly and yet her body seemed to carry her forward at an impossible speed. She caught up to the boy halfway down the dark hallway, grabbing him by the bib of his overalls and dragging him screaming back into the kitchen.

  “You will eat!” the woman yelled. Warm porridge dripped down her face. Oat flakes had slipped into her wrinkles, lodging there and drying on her leathery skin.

  “No!” the boy cried out, scrambling to wrench his hand free. But it was no use. The woman pulled the boy around the table to the third vat and lifted him off his feet. He kicked wildly, connecting one bare toe with the woman’s right armpit. She grunted, then released him.

  Right into the porridge. I tried to reach out to save him, but I was helpless to keep him from slipping under. After a moment, he emerged to take a deep breath. He grabbed the edge, trying to pull himself out. The hideous woman very calmly placed a hand on his head, dunking him in the porridge again.

  “Now eat,” she said when he surfaced. “Eat, or I promise you I’ll make this even more unpleasant.”

  The boy, crying, opened his mouth, letting the porridge slip in.

  Then he looked right at me.

  Chapter 8

  When I woke, Briar was staring at me from the back, nibbling on another marshmallow. His left ear was flopped over but the right ear was sticking straight up.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “You were mumbling something about porridge.”

  Seth stirred from the passenger’s seat. The sun was up, warming up the car a bit. I checked my phone and, seeing it was already ten in the morning, gave Seth a slap on the arm.

  “Who now?” he asked, opening his eyes a few times. “Huh?”

  “It’s already ten,” I said. “We need to get back on the road. The longer I’m gone, the more lies I’m going to have to tell my parents.”

  Seth licked his lips. He sat up, letting his seat back tilt forward. “I need a soda. And a doughnut. You want anything?”

  I looked in my purse, fumbling in the corners and pulling out a wrinkled dollar bill. “This is all I have left.”

  “Give it to me,” he said.

  I handed over the dollar. He got out of the car, hurrying across the now mostly empty truck parking lot and into the big gas station.

  “What about porridge now?” Briar asked.

  I shook my head, running my tongue around inside my mouth. It tasted horrible. I should have asked for a bottle of water.

  “Alice?”

  “Right. Well. There’s definitely a Corrupted stepmother in the orphanage. And there are definitely kids there, too. Human kids. One of them tried to escape. But she didn’t kill him. She wanted to put him to work, whatever that means.”

  “Could you move? On your own?”

  “I felt … I felt like I did, once.”

  “Anything else?” The rabbit set the bag of marshmallows on the floor. “Think carefully. Any details at all?”

  I closed my eyes. “Iron bars on the windows. A big kitchen with three vats. They were cooking porridge in the middle of the night. Maybe they were going to serve it in the morning.”

  “Or maybe they were going to serve it at night.”

  I turned and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  Briar shrugged. “If she was talking about putting the boy back to work, then it’s entirely possible this Corrupted has other children working in the middle of the night as well.”

  “Gosh, I didn’t even think about that.”

  Briar sat up straight, adjusting his vest. “That, young lady, is why I’m invaluable.”

  “OK, OK. Don’t get your head in a knot, fur brain.”

  Briar’s fur bristled. “I say!”

  The driver’s door opened and Seth plopped himself in the seat. He had a bottle of soda, a chocolate iced doughnut and a cup of ice water for me.

  “Hey, thanks!” I said. “How’d you know I wanted water?”

  “I smelled your breath,” he muttered, starting the car.

  I took a sip, then stopped when a thought hit me. “Wait, what did you do with my dollar?”

  “Doughnut tax,” he said simply. His phone rang. He pulled it out and examined the screen, groaning. “Hello,” he said. “Yup. I’m … driving with Alice, actually. We went to a show in Minneapolis. You wouldn’t have liked it. No, seriously. You really wouldn’t have liked it. What? OK. OK.” He handed the phone to me.

  “Hello?” I said, knowing full well who it was.

  “What is going on?” Trish asked. “Why am I all of a sudden not invited on a super awesome road trip?”

  I winced. “It wasn’t awesome. It was an awful band. I just went along with Seth because he didn’t want to go alone.”

  “Right. Are you aware he didn’t even tell me about it?”

  I glanced at him. He shook his head vigorously. “Uh … yeah. He feels bad. He just didn’t think you would want to come.”

  “I’m so mad right now.” She didn’t have to tell me—I could hear it in her voice.

  “Trish … I feel awful.” There was no response. “Trish? Trish?” I looked at the phone. The call was ended.

  “Let her stew for a day or two,” Seth said, grabbing his phone. “She’ll be fine soon enough. Trust me on this—I’ve been on her bad side often enough.”

  Yeah. But not me. Trish and I were always cool. And now for the first time we weren’t. And I’d lied to her, too.

  We drove home listening to music. Briar entertained us with stories about his creator, the freed slave who lived in New York City. It was amazing to hear, and more than a little depressing, too. The man—Eugene Washington—had never been schooled. He’d had to learn to fend for himself as best he could, and pick up what he could whenever it was possible. It wasn’t possible very often. He’d been chosen to be the hero during the Civil War, although Briar wasn’t exactly sure how he’d been chosen. It all seemed to revolve around finding the fountain pen.

  Eugene spent the Civil War in the South, running from slave masters while he delivered messages to Union sympathizers. He found the pen at some point, and then, just as the war was ending … he found the magic piece of paper.

  “Where?” Seth asked. “I thought the Brothers Grimm lived in Germany.”

  “They did,” Briar said with wide eyes. He grabbed our seat backs with his paws, clearly excited. “But the man he stole it from was a Hessian mercenary … from Germany. The mercenary traveled to America to fight in the war, selling himself to the highest bidder.”

  “Did he know what he had?” I asked.

  “It’s doubtful. Eugene found it tucked inside the Hessian’s old copy of Grimms’ Fairy Tales. It was one of a hundred or so books the mercenary had shipped over. He kept those books with him always, and when Eugene bumped into him, the Hessian attempted to enslave Eugene and give him over to a Confederate general. But Eugene knew a trick or two with the pen, and managed to give the Hessian the slip. And then, to make sure he wasn’t followed, he took a dozen of the Hessian’s books and hid them all over the countryside. The Hessian wanted his books back more than he wanted a new slave.”

  “But Eugene kept the copy of Grimms’ Fairy Tales.”

  “Indeed,” said Briar. “And when he found the page, he must have written something on it. Perhaps it was a shopping list.” He laughed, slapping his knee. “Hoo-boy! Could you imagine that? The food must have just appeared! Well, he was wise enough to put two and two together. And he
came up with an idea.”

  “Create a rabbit,” Seth said, pulling into the right lane. The highway dipped into a low valley filled with pine trees that ran right up to the highway.

  “Indeed,” said Briar. “Create a fantastic rabbit, to be more precise.”

  Seth grunted. “He probably should have created some kind of super robot or something. No offense, dude, but you’re kinda wimpy.”

  “I have wits,” Briar said. “And as for the wimpy remark … well, I have my moments.”

  “He did knock over a Corrupted last night,” I admitted. “It was pretty cool.”

  “I’m only kidding,” Seth said. He held out a hand. “Come here. Let me give you a good scratch behind the ears.”

  Briar’s whiskers twitched. Then he leaned forward to accept the scratch.

  Back home, my parents were waiting for me. I’d walked in through the front door talking to Briar, and when I saw them sitting on the couch with the TV turned low, I nearly jumped out of my socks.

  “Oh, hey,” I said. “Why aren’t you golfing?”

  “Where’ve you been,” Dad murmured, watching the football game on TV. Mom nudged him and I knew right there that it wasn’t good. He sat up straighter. “I mean, where have you been, young lady?”

  “With Seth,” I said.

  “We called his parents,” Mom said. “They said you weren’t there last night.”

  I shrugged. I had to choose my words carefully. “We … went out.”

  “Where?” Mom asked. She had her Mom face on: stern, slightly wide-eyed, shoulders square and stiff.

  Nothing came to mind. Not a thing. There was no point telling a bad lie—it would just get me in more trouble at this point. “We went to a concert in Minneapolis.”

  “Where did you sleep?” Mom asked.

  “Seth’s car.”

  Dad raised an eyebrow.

  “Where?!” Mom asked, exasperated.

  “In a truck stop parking lot.”

  OK. Out loud it sounded pretty dangerous, I admit. But if they only knew what I’d been through already …

  Mom simply shook her head. “You should have just told us. You’re eighteen years old, so we’re more than happy to give you some freedom. But you lied to us.”

  “You wouldn’t have let me go!” I exclaimed. Beside me, I felt Invisible Briar bump into me as he slinked his way to the staircase. He reappeared at the top of the stairs, a little too close for comfort—luckily, my parents’ gaze was focused entirely on me.

  “We would have talked about it,” Mom said. She turned to Dad for help.

  Dad tagged in. “You’re grounded for a week. School and the library and nothing else.”

  “What?!”

  Mom nodded. “In the future, tell us where you’re going. We need to know. You could have been in danger and we would never have been able to help.”

  “Understatement of the year!” I shouted, making my way for the stairs.

  I slammed the bedroom door behind me. Briar, visible once again, spun in the desk chair, watching me plop on the bed.

  “Grounded? Might you explain?”

  “Oh, come on,” I muttered into my pillow. “Grounded. Stuck in my room. No leaving under any circumstances.”

  “Hmmm. Well, this will throw a wrench in our plans, no doubt.”

  “A big wrench.” I rolled onto my back. “Gawd, what a disaster.”

  “At least you are, as they say, a social pariah.”

  I chuckled, despite my anger. “I guess if I was more popular, this might be a bigger deal. Arrrgh! But what are we going to do about that orphanage?”

  “The first thing you must do,” Briar said, raising one paw, “is try once again to control your dreams. We must know more about this house. If the windows are barred, then the door is probably locked. We need a way in.”

  I sighed, glancing at my closed bedroom door. “We also need a way out.” I rolled over. “What the heck happened downstairs with you?”

  “What do you mean,” Briar murmured, finding his way onto Facebook to update his status. “Researching,” it read. “P.S. Love marshmallows WOOTZ.”

  “I mean you reappeared at the top of the stairs. If my parents would have glanced up, they’d have seen your furry feet.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said hastily. “Just … I’ve not felt myself lately. My nerves are getting the better of me.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Briar turned and looked at me. He sighed. “My ability to turn invisible is … short-circuiting a bit. It happens when I get stressed out, all right? Can we please focus?”

  “Yes. Fine. Focus.” I stared up at the ceiling. “Focus on the orphanage of doom.”

  That night, following an incredibly awkward “family dinner,” I lay on my bed in the darkness until sleep overtook me. It was a long process, and it didn’t help that I had two bruises from where I’d been pushed around inside the bar. One was on my thigh, and the other was near my shoulder. Both of them wouldn’t stop throbbing, making just lying on the bed uncomfortable.

  Ah, the life of the hero.

  When I finally fell asleep again, I found myself in the mansion hallway. This time, the boy Alex was nowhere to be seen. No one was around, and the hallway looked different. A little brighter. Slightly newer looking wallpaper with dark blue stripes. Small little lights that hung from the ceiling.

  And a staircase at the end of the hall. I was on the second floor of the giant mansion, floating toward the staircase.

  “No, wait,” I called out. I tried to will myself to turn left or right. I wanted to see in these rooms. I needed to get Briar more information.

  My body drifted closer to the staircase. OK, I thought, there has to be some way to do this. I tried to turn, but all I experienced was the same dreamy, floating feeling I always felt. Something had to trigger it. Some kind of control.

  What would it feel like, I thought, to just reach out and touch the frame of the next open doorway?

  I stopped. I could feel the hard grain of the wooden door frame in my hand, even though I couldn’t see my hand in front of me.

  “Holy crap, I did it!” I said. My voice was still silent, thankfully.

  I let go, feeling myself drifting once again toward the staircase.

  OK. Maybe I’m drifting that way because I’m thinking about going down there, I thought. What if I wanted to look inside one of these rooms? What would I feel? I would feel the old rotten brown carpeting under my feet. I would have to pivot my right leg to turn.

  I stopped, then slowly turned. I could feel the carpet underneath my feet now. I could move my feet, but only if I thought about it first. It was confusing, difficult to get the hang of, but as I reached out for the door again I realized I was succeeding enough to peer inside.

  Bunk beds. Four of them inside the cramped little room. Thin white drapes were pulled back from the window, which had no iron bars. On the floor were a handful of plastic toys: a rocking horse, a box with different shaped holes, a few dolls with their eyelids frozen in a half-open position. All of them looked ancient, covered with dust and grime.

  I moved slowly to the next room, losing my footing twice and feeling myself float like a helium balloon. When I reached the next open doorway, I grabbed the grainy wood again with an invisible hand and set my feet down, thinking about turning my body. The entire process felt disorienting, but as long as I imagined myself performing the actions, I could keep myself from simply floating.

  I reached another room nearer the staircase, this one with six bunk beds, all of them lined up in one row. There were no toys on the floor. Nothing on the walls. I made my way to the window, pushing aside the drapes. There were no bars over it, but outside there was only a one-foot ledge and a fifteen-foot drop to the hard ground below.

  The window was tall, double-paned, framed in old rotting wood with pieces of white paint flaking onto the floor. Outside, I could see a small factory across the street, all three of its tall s
moke stacks billowing smoke. The building was made of old concrete, its second floor lined with old lights that gave off a pale glow. Some of the little square windows were broken.

  I let my feet drift and floated upward. I could see the lock at the top of the lower window pane. I envisioned my hand reaching out, squeezing the little latch …

  … And unlocked it.

  I let go, letting myself float backwards. I drifted out into the hall, down the old staircase. I thought about putting my hand on the smooth wood of the banister and felt it happen even though I was invisible. I squeezed it, giving it a little tug. The rotted carved pillars moved a bit under the pressure.

  At the bottom of the staircase, I found myself in a grand foyer, its walls lined with ancient oil paintings of knights and angels and royalty. The hardwood floor was partially covered by a long red-and-brown Turkish rug.

  I stopped and turned toward the front door, examining it. Briar was right: there weren’t quite a hundred locks, but there were at least half a dozen, and each bolt looked at least an inch thick.

  So they were prepared.

  The sound of a door opening startled me enough that I lost control of my feet. They lifted from the ground, turning me once again into the floating phantasm. I drifted back to the foyer. At the far end, through the hallway, I could see kids slowly pouring out of the open door. The exact same heavy door where I’d heard the screams the night before.

  The kids were all young, all short and thin and wearing either old pajamas decorated with toy trains or overalls and grimy undershirts. They walked toward me—shuffled, really, not able to walk very fast. They looked tired. Exhausted. As the first few got closer, I could see in the dim light of the foyer that their faces were encrusted in dirt. Their eyes looked bloodshot. They looked like little miniature coal miners.

  “What are you doing down there?” I asked.

  One of the children stopped at the base of the stairs. I recognized him immediately. Alex! He turned, looking right at me.