These are everyone’s fairy tales, and have been for many years. Hundreds in the case of “The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” and thousands in the case of “Rumpelstiltskin.” They are our living heritage, true fairy gold, except these stories do not disappear at sunset. Their day still shines. The best of them are well and flourishing, in schools and libraries, homes and playgrounds, just as much as they are with historians and universities.
They live because they are so strong. They have withstood the years. Countries and rulers have come and gone, revolutions and wars have redrawn the old lines across Europe and beyond, forests have been felled, the wolves have all but vanished . . . and yet still their magic holds. Whoever has walked through a shadowy landscape, listening for the footsteps behind, has traveled with Red Riding Hood through the forest. Those far from home know the exile of the Swan Brothers. And I do not suppose there are many people reading this who have not speculated on the hazards of glass slippers, gingerbread houses, shiny red apples, and the problems of being caught out after midnight when you have been well warned that at the stroke of twelve, with no second chances, the party will be over.
With the help of friends and family, I chose ten stories out of dozens. Here is lovely Rapunzel, free from her tower, although perhaps not so free from her fears; Rumpelstiltskin, because all my life I have been troubled by the injustice with which he was treated; brave, loyal Elsa, who wove the nettles in silence for seven long years; Cinderella, who so much deserved her fairy godmother; and the twelve dancing princesses, who drove the old king to distraction by wearing through their slippers every night. (Which sounds like something he could have made less fuss about, until you do the math: well over four thousand pairs of slippers a year. Satin slippers too!) And, of course, there are still many questions. What did Hansel and Gretel say to their father when they finally made it home? What happened in Hamelin after the children vanished? Why did the Piper’s son steal the pig? And how could Snow White have left those seven kind dwarves? Perhaps she never quite did.
It was exhausting and wonderful to write this book. I walked miles through forests. I watched swans and skies. I read and read. I studied maps and silks and brocades. I visited salt marshes and windmills. And now, here at last is the finished collection, and I hope it works. Because if ever I wrote a book with love, it is this one!
Hilary McKay