Even Grimmer Tales (4 page)

In a time of terrible famine, a woodcutter and his wife decide they must abandon their children in a forest. The first time they try this disposal method, clever Hansel leaves a trail of white pebbles and he and Gretel find their way home. But the next time their parents attempt the cost-cutting exercise, Hansel can't find any pebbles and birds eat the trail of crumbs he tries to leave instead. Lost and starving, the hungry children find a house of gingerbread and sweets, and begin to eat it. The owner, a witch with a taste for young flesh, captures them, and makes Gretel a household slave while fattening Hansel in an iron cage for the cooking pot. But the intrepid children manage to trick the witch into herself falling into the oven so that they can escape. One hopes this time they were rewarded when they reached home yet again …

I always give them a good time.

That seems to me important.

I want it to be better

than the life they had with parents.

If things had not been bad at home

they'd never have been here with me.

Used to wonder …

Now I understand so much

that never made real sense before.

Different people.

Different values.

Different tastes …

So very true.

Once you come to realise

it's just a matter of what people say,

that really ‘right' and ‘wrong' are only words

and have such varied meanings …

Well, many aspects that once bothered me

now seem quite ordinary.

No, Gretel, if you've finished dusting,

now you can sweep the floor.

It's very bad, the way some parents

treat their offspring.

There's animals that care far better

for their young than many humans do.

But then,

let's face it, we're all animals.

Just different breeds of living species,

that's the truth of it.

I know that there are people

who won't eat the flesh of animals.

A special virtue?

Yet vegetarianism takes so many forms.

I've made it quite a field of expertise.

There's ovo, lacto, and there's veganism;

there's some who are fruitarians,

or even pescetarians … it shows you

that it takes all sorts to make a world.

Can't really understand just why

the family dog or cat in some societies

is held as quite forbidden fodder

while others see these as a tasty treat.

You're following my reasoning?

The whole thing's cultural. Depends entirely

on the way that you've been reared.

I think a lot about these things. I've had

the time to contemplate the strangeness

of it all.

Taboo! It's curious –

the way what in one age

or one society seems normal,

part of daily life,

in others may be frowned on …

We make the rules,

and then pretend that they're god-given.

What presumption!

The floor's swept? Mop it next,

and then you can make lunch for Hansel.

For me the most important thing

is to keep others happy.

Sheer misery – some children's lives.

The happiness I bring them

is worth the price they pay.

I won't pretend it's altruistic,

but here at least they get a time of pleasure

that they've never known before.

Warriors in ancient races

took advantage of the enemies

they'd slaughtered –

scavenged bodies

for new strength.

Today the Korowai are remnants of the many

through the ages who have known

that flesh brings strength – no matter what

its source – especially when it comes

from those who have proved weaker.

(That's not what I'm about!)

Eat more meat?
So advertisers trumpet,

And dieticians tell us frequently:

Red meat is good for us – it's iron for the blood.

Then what about straight need?

Consider history: sieges where,

in desperation and starvation,

to survive one fed from any source.

The faint of heart, or those too squeamish,

raise hands to lips in horror at the thought.

We realists say one does what one has to.

Plane wrecks.

Survivors of Flight 571

managed to obliterate taboos

and emulate those on the raft of the Medusa

or at the Siege of Leningrad.

They ate what was available.

They had to.

Had to? An interesting thought.

We all have different needs,

and different ways of meeting them.

Anthropophagy –

quite a word. It sounds more scientific

than a term like ‘cannibal'.

We all know well, what science can explain

is more acceptable than grosser concepts …

No more apologies.

There are good precedents for how I live.

And how I satisfy my needs.

I'm not the first to see the logic of these arguments.

In times gone by I read how Swift,

yes Jonathan himself,

the one we think of when we mention Gulliver,

created a solution to Ireland's over-population crisis.

Quite logical –

just think of all those surplus children!

I could have cheered – until they pointed out to me

that he was known for irony. A pity, that!

Perhaps you have no stomach for considerations

of this sort … a bad pun, I'll admit! But note –

the flesh should be a tender young one's,

nothing old or stringy.

In my experience, considerable by now,

a certain change sets in

at twelve or so. For after that they have

a different flavour.

Not quite tainted, but a whiff

of something less appealing.

You'd be the first to send it back, complain,

if restaurants served you tough old steak.

Those children whom I care for are given

many pleasures. Sweets and treats galore.

It's not a house of gingerbread – that sort of myth

no-one would ever credit – but they enjoy

a happy life with me before their time is up.

Their freedom may be limited; sometimes

a child's mind doesn't know that it's

well-off, and till they realise the dangers

of the outside world, they need to be confined.

But most of them are greedy little people

and I have learned through years just what has

most appeal. To them, I mean, not only me.

So, Gretel, lots of milk and cheese for Hansel's lunch,

and then this plate of cream cakes for dessert.

Just take it to the garden hut where he is waiting.

I'll bring the key, unlock the door for you.

We need to make sure that he's been well-fed …

A very impoverished fisherman one day catches a large flounder, but puts it back in the sea when it pleads that it is really an enchanted prince. In their miserable hovel that night, his wife Ilsabill is furious that he has asked for nothing in return. Always ready to seize an opportunity, she orders him back to the fish to claim a better cottage. Her subservient husband goes, unwillingly. For a short time she is satisfied, then the domineering woman sends him to demand, in turn, a manor house, and after that a palace. He's not happy – but he obeys. The fish is amazingly patient – it must have been
very
grateful! Or sympathetic? As each request is met, the wife's requirements become more excessive; she insists on becoming first of all king, then emperor, and finally pope. For fear of her, the fisherman yields and presents each order in turn, but she is never satisfied. At last she demands to be like god, and to be able to make the sun rise and set. This time when her hen-pecked husband returns from the sea, he finds that they are once more living in the hovel. Did he dare say I told you so?

“She wears the pants, of course!”

So limited in understanding,

anyone who could say that!

My smile, a twisted grin.

It's easy to accept that many men

find women who are strong a threat.

Masculinity's an obligation, after all!

What's always been to me much more intriguing

is while so many men may fit the stereotype,

sometimes the ones who seem most macho

are very likely to be needy, looking, searching,

wanting something quite outside the norm.

I learned that early on.

The ones who lick their lips, and grow excited,

as soon as they see pictures of a woman with a whip –

The ones whose needs are so particular they find it hard

to gain their satisfaction in the marriage bed,

but seek a woman who will understand …

In short, someone like me, with skills

(I learned when young how marketable)

and courage to pursue my avocation.

I'm known for that. I did quite well.

Such men will pay for the discreet indulgence

of their less usual desires. They like to feel

a woman in control, to get the punishment

deserved. Perhaps relief for men who call the shots,

whose daily lives put them in high positions.

Responsibility's a burden. Bliss to let go?

And they have money. No problem to afford me.

I don't come cheap. My reputation's known.

No longer any need to advertise. Word gets around.

The days of magazines that offer special services

like mine are over. Now I pick and choose.

Just as I choose the methods that I'll use,

the little toys that are my tools of trade – they really

should be tax deductible – now that I think about it,

I have some politicians in my clientele … perhaps

I need to put some pressure on to bring about

a slight amendment to tax laws. I'll think about it.

I find I can get anything I want.

Except I've also learned that sometimes one can push

too hard. A lesson early in the days before I got to be

where I am now. Back when I still worked in a house.

No, not a common brothel. This was exclusive –

an establishment. Not obvious, of course.

Maison … the madam's term. Great title, really.

Maison des plaiseurs exotique
. Gave just a hint

of what one might expect. She was a mistress

to be feared, and not by clients only. We too

felt awe and fear. Her look could kill.

But once I thought I knew enough, my planning

started. Why not be independent? I knew

that I was good at what I did. Well … expert …

Come to think of it, ‘good' may not be the word.

My own house – that was what I wanted.

I chose the man with care. He had a lot to lose,

was easy to control. The first few bites for money

showed me that it could be done. I promised

special treats; a quick look in my drawers

showed him it would be worth the extra.

Some things he'd never seen before; the pain

they offered was a new experience. He said

he'd never known such pleasure. Each time

he came, I upped the ante. Soon I had enough

to set myself up comfortably, in small rooms.

But then I thought, why not a large apartment?

He started to become uneasy when my demands

increased. I had to use some extra powers

of persuasion to make him see that

it was better to obey commands. But then

a man who's gagged and bound is scarcely

able to refuse the orders of his mistress.

For by that time I'd found a place,

quite perfect, on the riverfront. Expensive,

but it would be worth it. A good address,

and very private.

The money I had put away

was very safely hidden. I've never trusted banks,

and as for stocks and shares! We all know

just how chancy they can be. My income was assured,

because he knew I had the power to withdraw

the satisfactions that he craved.

He jibbed, however, when I found the house.

Top suburb, and at last the time was right.

With that last payment from him

I'd get exactly what I wanted.

Miscalculation.

She called me in. The worm had turned: the bastard

had told her the story. No point in protestations.

She'd even found the money; ‘house profits',

she said crisply. I didn't dare to argue.

She sat me down, before she threw me out,

said she was re-naming me. “I'm calling you

a name you've earned.” Her voice was almost kind.

“You should be Ilsabill.” I guess I looked confused.

She handed me a children's story book, and sent me off.

I read her dog-eared book, and understood. The story

of a fisherman, his wife, and how a dominating woman

lets greed take her too far. A very moral tale!

Oh yes, I'm working still, but there were

months in grubby little joints. The men were pigs.

I had to start again, and work my way back up.

All that's behind me now.

I have my special talents, and I know their uses.

There'll always be more men who need a woman

who's prepared to wear the pants! And wield a whip!