Once upon a time, fairy tales were horrible.
Not boring horrible. Not so-cute-you-want-to-jump-out-the-window horrible.
Horrible like they define it in the dictionary:
Horrible (adj.)—causing feelings of horror, dread, unbearable sadness, and nausea; also tending to produce nightmares, whimpering for one’s parents, and bed-wetting.
I know, I know. You’re thinking: “Fairy tales? Horrible? Please.” I get that.
If you’ve been raised on the drivel that passes for fairy tales these days, you’re not going to believe a word that I’m saying.
First of all, you’re probably used to hearing the same boring fairy tales over and over and over again. “Today, children, we’re going to read a Cinderella story from China! Today, children, we’re going to read a Cinderella story from Madagascar! Today, children, we’re going to read a Cinderella story from the Moon! Today, children—”
Second of all, those fairy tales that you hear over and over and over again aren’t even the real fairy tales. Has your teacher ever said to you, “Today, children, we’re going to read a Cinderella story where the stepsisters cut off their toes and their heels with a butcher’s knife! And then they get their eyes pecked out by birds! Ready? Is everyone sitting crisscross-applesauce?”
No? She’s never said that?
I didn’t think so.
But that’s what the real fairy tales are like: strange, bloody, and horrible.
Two hundred years ago, in Germany, the Brothers Grimm first wrote down that version of Cinderella in which the stepsisters slice off pieces of their feet and get their eyes pecked out. In England, a man named Joseph Jacobs collected tales like Jack the Giant Killer, which is about a boy named Jack who goes around murdering giants in the most gruesome and grotesque ways imaginable. And there was this guy called Hans Christian Andersen, who lived in Denmark and wrote fairy tales filled with sadness and humiliation and loneliness. Even Mother Goose’s rhymes could get pretty dark—after all, Jack and Jill go up a hill, and then Jack falls down and breaks his head open.
Yes, fairy tales were horrible. In the original sense of the word.
But even these horrible fairy tales and nursery rhymes aren’t true. They’re just stories. Right?
Not exactly.
You see, buried in these rhymes and tales are true stories, of true children, who fought through the darkest times, and came out the other end—stronger, braver, and, usually, completely covered in blood.
This book is the tale of two such children: a boy named Jack, and a girl named Jill. Yes, they do fall down a hill at one point. And yes, Jack does break his head wide open.
But there is more than that. There is a beanstalk. There are giants. There might even be a mermaid or two.
Their story is terrifying. It is revolting. It is horrible.
It is the most horrible fairy tale I have ever heard.
Also, it is beautiful. Not sweet. Not cute. Beautiful—like the gray and golden ashes in a fireplace. Or like the deep russet of a drying stain of blood.
And, best of all, it is true.
Now, let me just say that if you happen to be the kind of person who actually likes cute and sweet fairy tales, or the kind of person who thinks children should not read about decapitation and dismemberment, or, finally, if you’re the kind of person who, upon hearing about two children wading through a pool of blood and vomit, runs out of the room screaming, you don’t need to worry. This book is for you. There is no decapitation, dismemberment, people without clothing, or pools of blood and vomit anywhere in this book.
At least, not anywhere in the first few pages.
“Wait!” you’re probably asking. “What was that about people without clothing?”
Nothing! Moving right along!