The Asylum for Fairy Tale Creatures

The journey to the asylum was long and lasted days. The prisoners rocked this way and that in the dark, knocking against the bars. A single oil lamp hanging from the ceiling shook and failed to penetrate the dark. The red-hooded girl’s thoughts wandered back to her village, where they locked her into the stables; she screamed to be let free and was ignored As the sun sent beams through the cracks in the wood she was visited by the village magistrate, a balding and very short fat man who was also the village butcher and smelt of pork.

“You must confess, child. We sent the huntsmen to the cottage. There was no wolf—they only found the remains of your grandma,” he said. “Was it madness or witchcraft, girl? Confess. If you wish to save your soul, confess.”

“It was a wolf, yet it spoke, it spoke,”

A brown cow with an udder dragging and dripping milk along the floor, chewed straw to cud oblivious to events of the barn. It was a rank creature that would fetch only a sum of beans at market. Flies flirted with its hide, and in the warmth the stench was strong enough to choke upon. Leaning back against the wooden wall the Huntsman, head to toe in the skins of his prey, stroked his crossbow as if it was a pet. He spoke with the gruffness of a thousand dead animals.

“Wolf don't skin its prey, wolf don't wear disguise, wolf don't speak ".

The magistrate nodded in agreement and wiped the sweat from his brow at the same time.

"I'm not sure what has happened to you young lady, but I have to think about the good of the village. I sent word to get you help"

The girl could not move. She had been bound by rope against part of the fence that kept the cow wandering the barn. Her long dark hair messily covered her face.

"I want my mother, I need to tell her what I saw."

The magistrate stood to his full four foot height, "that's impossible I'm afraid. Your actions were the last straw"

The girl pulled at her ropes, which bit into her wrist.

"I want my mother," this time more forcibly

The magistrate sighed and moved to leave. The huntsman opened the barn door. Light poured in.

"Your mother has gone. She threw herself into the river. We found her this morning. She had filled her pockets with rocks,"

The barn door closed with a bang.

The girl was left with only misery for company until after one day and night he stable doors were opened again and she was dragged into the sunlight. The jeering crowd of villagers, ,screaming murder, parted and a huge black carriage waited, drawn by an equally black mare that snorted at her approach. In the carriage seat, a leather-clad driver held the reins. The driver’s body was covered head to toe in black leather: boots, long coat, gloves and a three-cornered tricorne hat. His face was obscured by a crimson velvet mask that had no features at all.

A lumbering guard opened the back of the carriage to which there were bars on the windows and the door. He walked with a huge sway, creating his own shadow. He wore a dirty white smock apron. He was huge, his head the size of a shaved boar and just as bald. As the girl was passed to the guard she saw his eyes, ears and mouth were completely sewn closed with metal pins. The crowd parted and fell silent as the guard thudded past, the girl in his massive arms. He placed the girl in the carriage, chaining her by the wrists to a small cell, of which there were four. The door was closed and locked. All the girl could do was sob. As the journey began she rocked this way and that in the dark, knocking against the bars. As the journey continued exhaustion gripped her and squeezed; however, every time her eyes rolled the carriage lunged and exhaustion’s hold loosened.

“You were asleep,” said a tiny yet shrill voice from the dark.

The girl did not reply. Her entire body ached from the motion of the carriage. Each jolt felt like another bruise.

“You spoke, you know. You said ‘wolf’. Have you ever seen a wolf?”

“Once,” the girl replied.

Thumbeana lifted herself up towards the bars. In the dim candlelight, Red could see stitched fingers poking through.

“What was it like?” Thumbeana whispered.

“Big. And it spoke.” Her voice was shaking.

“What kind of wolf does that?” Thumbeana wanted to know.

“The big and bad kind.”

“My name is Thumbeana. What’s yours?”

The girl didn’t reply and Thumbeana smiled from her bars expectantly.

“How about you?” Thumbeana turned to the other cell. There came from it a tiny rattle as a small teddy bear climbed from its own chains that were too large to hold it.

“I was called Thread Bear.” The bear looked solemn as it spoke. “At least that’s what she called me.”

“Little bear, you are so sad, so cute—let me tell you my story.” Thumbeana giggled.

Thread Bear nodded excitedly and listened as Thumbeana told her story. From her misery the girl listened also. When Thumbeana had finished the Thread Bear told its own tale. The girl listened also and when the bear’s tale was done, she told her own. The journey went on, only stopping when the girl was fed and watered and her chamber pot was slopped and changed. The girl worried to herself that she would forget what sunlight felt like and her eyes would adjust to darkness forever, ever after.

“Where are they taking us?” the red-hooded girl asked.

“When the doll-maker died I heard of a place,” Thumbeana volunteered. “An asylum where they put insanity.”

“Are we insanity?” the bear asked.

Before they could reply the carriage came to the end of its journey.

She put her ear to the wood in hope of hearing the outside world. Thumbeana shrank back to the shadow of her cell. The Thread Bear broke the silence with its soft cotton voice.

“We are here,” it said.

The carriage door was opened and light poured in, making the girl wince. The accompanying guard from the journey unlocked each cell and guided the three prisoners outside. The girl was glad to stretch as she stood and the cool air felt exhilarating, but this was nothing compared to the anxiety that gnawed at her stomach like a trapped rat. Her eyes adjusted to the light and with tangible and overwhelming horror she saw the asylum.

The girl, Thumbeana and the Thread Bear stood on a gravel courtyard. Surrounding them were high grey stone walls and towers that went so high, they hid their spires among the clouds. A thousand barred or shuttered windows looked out to the world. There was a coldness radiating from it, a stern, harsh coldness. A thick black gate closed behind them as another horse and carriage left to seek out those whose minds had broken. It was the first time she had seen her travel company fully. Thread Bear was a =normal-looking toy bear that every child is given and it stood no taller than her own knee. It looked at the girl through button eyes and she could tell the bear was as scared as she was. It shook with visible nervousness and looked this way and that. Thumbeana, however, was skipping in circles and hopscotching excitedly. Her mismatch grin grinned from mismatched ear to mismatched ear. Her dress was as much a patchwork as her flesh. Thumbeana was literally a rag doll of corpses.

The guard fed the great black horse a sugar cube, for which it showed its gratitude by emptying its stomach and creating a steaming pile of manure on the ground. The guard chuckled to itself as Thread Bear was nearly buried. The driver sniggered from his seat and leant over, patting the creature.

“Hello there and welcome,” said a voice.

The three turned to see a tall nurse striding across the gravel towards them. The girl noted that with each step the nurse made no sound.

She was dressed in the whitest of uniforms. There was a bright red cross on her apron that contrasted like blood drops on snow. She held her hands together gentle touching each of her own fingers against the other in slow deliberate movements. Her face held impossibly wide eyes and a grin that was frozen from cheek to cheek. Behind her a lumbering guard stood watching through eyes sewn shut.

“Welcome to the asylum for fairy tale creatures. I am Mother May I” “Why is she grinning?” Thumbeana asked the bear.

Mother May I overheard.

“To smile in the face of insanity is to stay sane, my dear,” she replied.

Thread Bear stared for a moment and held Thumbeana by the hand.

“Why is he sewn?” the bear asked, pointing at the guard’s features.

The mother explained, “All our guards have their eyes and ears and mouths sewn tightly closed. To see no mania, to hear no lunacy and to speak no madness. Now come, let me show you your new home. No fear, please—we are here, after all, to cure you.”

The nurse nodded to the guard; in turn the guard grunted, ushering the three along. They passed a wall that looked down to the vast asylum. From the vantage point they could see a labyrinth of walls and buildings, some crumbling with roofs of broken black tiles. While others were stone prisons with monolith walls and barred windows. There were towers and chimneys with smoke lazily rising from them. Above the sky was a clear blue in contrast to the dark black hues of the buildings. Ravens flew in circles. The asylum was a magic porridge pot of lunacy, continually spilling and growing, a hell splitting into the land itself. The girl wondered how long it would be until there was no fairy tale kingdom at all. She spotted the long road they must have travelled, stretching off into the forever ever. As it reached the asylum, however, it was met by the tangled forest of thorns. If one could even escape from here, there would be the thorns waiting for them. Only death grew in that forest and by normal means there was no way through. Red Hood watched far below as the thorns slithered apart allowing a carriage to leave.

The bear had climbed on Thumbeana’s shoulder.

“I’ve never seen so much world.,” it gasped.

“Oh, yes, we have many patients here of all types and species,” Mother May I chirped. “Now come along, let’s see inside.”

Into the asylum the three went: the girl in the red hood, the false child and the possessed bear…

Hickory dickory dock, there was madness around the clock. See the old lady who lived in a shoe, she had so many children; she knew what to do, she sharpened her axe and put them in sacks, then dropped them in a river. She sits rocking here in her cell, calling their names over and over and over again. Atishoo, Atishoo they all fall down and down and down. Three blind mice, Three blind mice, driven mad with lice, they cut off the toes of the farmer’s wife, chased the farmer with a carving knife, here they come to take your life, three blind mice. They squeaked in their cage, gnawing for a way out and farmers’ wives to torment. Jack and Jill buried people on the hill, they said—Jill’s idea, let us put the heads in pails of water. Old Mother Hubbard kept eyeballs in a cupboard in a jar. A jar? Yes, of course a jar. Jack is nimble, Jack is ever quick and Jack chased people with a sharpened stick. Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet, and ate spiders all day. The Pied Piper, who preferred human prey to rats, with his pipe taken away he sings and claps. Snow White stood in the corner, mumbling to the seven dwarves in her head, her head, her head and her head. Hey diddle diddle the cat and the fiddle the cow cried at the moon, the little dog laughed to see such fun that the dish smashed itself with a spoon. Georgie Porgie pudding and pie, kissed the girls and made them cry, when the boys came out to play he happily made them die for the day.

Tell me a story or I’ll cut off your ears, they said. Burn down the house on Drury Lane, four and twenty blackbirds to peck out your eyes. I’ll huff and puff and I blow your house down, the last thing you hear is my bark. So many, so many small things singing and dancing, waiting in the dark.

“Ah, you are awake,” said the voice from nowhere.

The girl opened her eyes. She found herself shackled by her arms and legs, lying on what felt like a metal table. She shook and fought, but her panic and shakes were for naught. The girl could move neither hair nor head.

“Red Riding Hood, that is what you called yourself—do you remember why?” the voice asked.

The only light was a buzzing, flickering bare bulb. It swung on a bare wire that disappeared into the dark. The voice belonged to a man and was distantly familiar. It was muffled.

“Do you remember that name?”

“Yes,” the girl replied.

“Why? Why did you choose that name?”

“Because of the red from Grandma, and…”

“And?”

“And the wolf.”

“No, not the wolf. There was no wolf, was there?” The voice sounded irritated.

“That’s not true,” the girl pleaded. “I saw it. I saw what it did.”

“Think, girl. I have been treating you for once upon a time ; events may seem muddled to you. But remember back. You are very stubborn. Your delusion is very, very strong. You need to realise that there was no wolf and then I can release you. Your delusion will be gone. You will be free.”

The girl sobbed an angry, frustrated sob. Had fate not given her enough suffering? Losing a father to waste, a grandma to death and a mother taken by uncontrollable sadness, was this not enough? The girl’s memory did not reveal the secrets of the room or what treatment she had received. The voice was familiar and, oh, how tempting its offer. But every instinct in her body was telling her not to trust it.

“I went into the woods, to Grandma’s house.”

“Yes?”

“I remember the cottage, so quiet, so dark.”

“And?”

“I crept in gently and found Grandma in bed.”

“Is that when you took her life?” The voice dripped with anticipation.

The girl took a deep breath and screamed at the top of her lungs: “It was a wolf and it wasn’t a wolf all at once.”

“How disappointing.” And from out of the shadow stepped the voice. It wore a gas mask and peered at the girl through glass sphere eyes. The mask nodded to something beyond the girl. Her head was caught between two gloved hands. Her head was strapped to the table and a bit was tied to her mouth. A humming noise filled the air and the hairs on her head and arms tickled. Someone applied wet rags to either temple that were so cold she shuddered as each was applied.

“Amazing piece of technology, my machine. I invented it myself,” the mask said proudly. “It harnesses electricity, which seeks out the madness running around inside you. Now, I am not going to lie—this will hurt. But afterwards you may just be all better.”

The hum grew louder and louder as the girl kept fighting against her bonds, until at the crescendo of the noise electricity was released and, although the feeling was almost indescribable, it was not unlike the girl’s soul shattering, as if it were a glass slipper.

The office of Dr Wilhelm Jacob Grimm was a dingy, crowded place. His large wooden desk was surrounded by towers of parchments, each with scribbles and sketches. There were shelves and bookcases on every wall. Each containing a morbid assortment of brains in jars floating in a green haze. There were shrivelled and shrunken limbs and thick leather-skin-bound books. There were skulls of animals and animal people, each of differing shape and size. The corpse of a dried alligator was suspended by string from the ceiling, watching through hollowed eyes. In pride of place, just behind the doctor’s large velvet red chair, was his glass cabinet. Inside, contained by lock and key, were the prizes taken from the asylum’s guests. A pipe confiscated from the Pied Piper, Rapunzel’s hair—curled in a ball, it slithered now and then. A broken glass slipper next to a broken wand. A spinning-wheel needle, three porridge bowls, one big, one small, one just right. Other trinkets, dancing slippers, pieces of string, a tatty toy monkey, a dried rose, a pail for water, a broken eggshell, all so normal, all so sinister.

The Mother May I led the three into the office. She curtsied to the man in the chair and left, still grinning her horrible grin. The bear held on tighter to the girl and even Thumbeana, who could find fascination in a hillside of corpses, looked nervous after her trip through the asylum. She squeezed the girl’s hand. The girl herself had always been taught to face fear. Her grandma had told her that meeting fear with strength no matter how tiny or small would always bring warmth to cold nerves. She swallowed her fear downwards and held it in her stomach. The guard lurched in front of the door. He had to bend forward to fit into the room and grunted with the effort.

The man sitting in the chair put down his quill. He looked up through tiny spectacles. Being old and wrinkled and looking to be held together by his bones as if his skin was a loose fit, he wore a medical smock that was jet black. When he spoke there was a hiss of chloroform from his mouth.

“I am Dr Wilhelm Jacob Grimm,” said he. “I am the head of the asylum and you are here because, whether you agree or not, you are ill and I will cure you.”

The three were silent as the doctor peered at them. His eyes were piercing, as if he was trying to spot the madness attributed to them.

“Now—” the doctor checked his note “—Thumbeana, you and Thread Bear will be taken to the animated objects wing. It is where we keep the haunted toys and unreal children. Your treatment will begin forthwith.”

Before either could protest the guard scooped the two in his huge arms and pulled them away. They dangled over his forearms as he turned to leave. The girl stepped to follow but Dr Grimm tut-tutted and shook a bony finger; she held her ground.

“Do not fret—we will be just fine. I want to be cured. I want to be real,” said Thumbeana. Thread Bear simply waved. With that they were gone.

“So, tell me, the hood—why are you still wearing it?”

The girl hadn’t noticed. It was filthy and red from the house in the wood.

“I don’t know,” she replied.

Grimm picked up his goose-feather quill, dipped it in a pot of ink and made a few notes.

“I think,” he said while still writing, “I think if you still wear the hood, you will believe your wolf was real.”

“He was real,” the girl replied, a little taken aback.

“A wolf pretending to be a man pretending to be a grandma? Unlikely, isn’t it?”

The girl’s knees felt weak; they buckled slightly and she felt her skin pale. Was it possible? Was the truth more horrible than her truth? The words echoed in her head. “All the better to see you with…” Was it from her lips?

“Is something wrong, dear?” Grimm asked.

All the better to hear you with.

All the better to eat you with.

The girl’s head spun and darkness called to her, which she went falling into like a lamb to the jaws of a wolf.

“Oh, dear,” the doctor commented. “Must I turn on my machine again?”