Hello all! This story is one of my favorite original Grimms fairy tales. I
love it so much, so I hope that I can do it justice, and at the end of this
story, you will love it as much as I do. That being said, this story might
have some very unpleasant aspects to those with weaker stomachs. This is,
after all, based on an original Grimms fairy tale, and it's not any of the
fluff that Disney turned some of their stories into. So, to those of you
who can stand it, I now present The Man in The Bearskin Cloak! *Trumpets
sound* here it is.
Prelude
Johnny
To every story there is a beginning and an end. Most of them are pleasant, starting out with a good home, loving parents, adorable siblings, and some sort of fairy godparent. This is not one of those stories. My Father was a raging alcoholic, everything I did was an offense, no matter how innocent a deed it was. My two older brothers Loken, and Redalpho, were not much better. They were twins, and two years my senior. They used their superiority over me every chance they got. I was always no better than a male Cinderella, only I got beaten like she never had, because I was a boy, and supposedly made of stronger stuff than a wimpy girl. I was strong indeed, but getting beaten isn't fun, or pleasant no matter what sex you are.
My mother though, was like an angel. Why she ever married my father I'll never know. I remember her only faintly. She died when I was 4. Still innocent in my youth. She was able to rescue me from my fathers clutches most of the time. He felt that 2 sons were enough, and any more after that were no better than dogs. She had taken me, and loved me like a parent should. She taught me many virtues, and taught me how to read and write and use my brain rather than rely on brawn like my pig-headed brothers. She loved them too, to be sure, but they were cruel to her, even when small. Already following fathers' footsteps. They never learned the art of the mind, of all of the wonders of reading, and thinking for oneself. They were malleable to my father, and he molded them like a master sculptor with a blob of clay. They were fierce. I was gentle and kind, and I loved my mother very much.
We found solace in each other's company. We shared thoughts and dreams, and I shared my fears. The dreams of a 4 year old aren't big, or not supposed to be, but I told my mother that I wanted to be a soldier. To help the land, and all of the families in our country. To protect the little people as I couldn't protect myself. To perhaps be remembered in time to come, or put in stories later on. A hero in my time. Big dreams certainly, but mother encouraged them. She told me I could do anything I wanted to. She thought my dream a noble one, and when she died I stuck to it like glue.
I never got to say goodbye to her. She died of mysterious causes in the night, and I suppose I believed it then. I learned better later. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Where was I? Oh, yes, taking beatings from my brothers. Why did I just sit there and take that treatment you ask? The answer is very simple really; as much as I sometimes disliked my brothers I never hated them. I feared them sure, cursed them always, but I loved them all the same. After all, they were family, and if they didn't feel the same brotherly love towards me well, what could I do? I refused to beat them, though I could have easily. I think deep down they knew this, and it was probably what fueled their fire even more, trying to provoke me. I wouldn't sink to their level though.
My father too. I was malnourished, and ill-treated. But I didn't complain, and I never raised a hand against them...then that is. I had been practicing secretly in the forest at the side of our house with wooden swords of my own making, and staffs, and arrows, and my own fists. Anything I could make out of wood, I made, and any skill, or tricks I could learn from books and manuscripts I learned. I was very single minded I suppose, working in such a way, but it occupied my mind and hands, and kept my dream clearly in focus.
My days went thus for 14 years, ever since mother died, till the day I was 18. That birthday (ignored as always) was the happiest, and the saddest at the time. That was the day my father died, also of 'mysterious causes.' I had no doubt that my brothers had done it. They were named sole benefactors of my fathers' estate, and everything he owned went to them in equal shares. It was quite a lot, but I wasn't included. I was sad that my father had died, because I had loved him, even through all of his harsh ways. I was happy also though, for it meant that I could leave his house and join the army. Finally. It was a turning point of my life, one of the beginnings of many happy days. Our country wasn't at war, and I saw the army simply as an opportunity to help the innocent, and extract the kings' justice. I packed my bag; only one was needed to house all of my belongings. My brothers didn't let me take any food with me. They said that it was all theirs, and I would be a thief if I touched any of it. They did grant me one small silver coin. Enough for a loaf of bread, a mug of water, and perhaps a bed if the inn was especially cheap. I was happy enough to leave, even on such poor treatment. I remember that day vividly. My small pack on my back, a staff in my hands, and a silver coin in my pocket. Never was I more satisfied up to then. Staring out of the doorway at the landscape before me. Breathing in the air of morning, crisp and sweet. I took a very deep breath and started walking.
I arrived at the recruitment camps some days later. Half starved, and wild for some water. I hadn't gauged the distance very well, and had used my silver piece that first night. Not having taken a water bottle with me, or anything else of value for a traveler I was nearly fainting with thirst. I suppose the first impression that the recruits had of me was of a gentle, frail man. Probably couldn't lift a sword, thought they. But after a good meal, and some water, and lots of rest I was more fit than I ever was in my father's house.
The first time on the practice field my partner looked like he was scared to fight me because he was afraid he would knock me over with the first blow. This proved not to be the case and I soon had him staring up at me from his position on the ground. One of the advantages of teaching yourself how to fight was that you didn't learn the traditional moves but made up ones of your own. None of my moves had fancy names to go with them, they just were, and I'm willing to bet there were pretty impressive looking. My days hacking at trees, and leaves, and bushes had certainly paid off, and not many of the men there could beat me in any form of fighting except hand to hand combat. I soon earned the respect of my commanding officer, and it all went up hill from there. I made many friends, none of them close so that even now I don't remember their names, but they were friendly and we all got on well together. We laughed about our duties, and looked at them lightheartedly, like we hadn't a care in the world. That was, until the barbarians from the north attacked.
There are many stories about the people from the north, none of them good. They were people, or things, that the people of our country feared more than any others. For the most part we were a practical country, holding the forms of magic, and sorcery with disbelief, and disdain. The people from the north were different. They used the forbidden arts of magic, and it was said that some of their creatures could even steal your soul. They had to win it first, but they used the trickiest of ways to do it. They made it so that you couldn't resist their impossible wagers, and then when you failed they would suck the soul out of your body and give it to the devil. (A/N that really is in the original story, and I'm sorry if any of you don't approve.) Some people didn't believe in them, or if they did, they believed that they had nothing to do with our small lives, and that if we didn't bother them, they wouldn't bother us. Obviously that didn't happen.
They broke over our borders as if they were no more than toothpicks to their vicious wills. Everyone in the army was soon dispatched to go out and stop them. Many people deserted then, fearing the north more than the consequence of death that waited for them when they were found. Those of us brave enough to go, went soon and without ceremony.
We had a big army, but even we doubted that our greater mass of numbers could tackle their greater mass. Their people were HUGE! Well, most of them, some of them were short and spindly and evil looking. We learned to fear them more than the giants. The little people could sneak around to your back when you were distracted and stick a knife in it. Obviously these people had no code of honor. We learned to be just as ruthless, but it was a thankless task. I, at least, felt dirty using the tricks of the enemy against them. It was like going against my own grain, going against the virtues that my dear mother had spent so long teaching me. I resolved to let the rest of the army resort to trickery. I was as honest in war as I was in everything else, and I was soon established as a very formidable opponent. I suppose that in all of my hours of dreaming about being a soldier I never realized that I would have to kill anything. Enemy or not, people or not, it was a horrible thing to do, but I believed in helping my country, and helping the people who couldn't help themselves. So fiercely did I believe in this that nothing could deter me from beating any opponent I came across.
The war lasted three years. In that time I grew stronger, and better at fighting. The creatures learned to regard me with fear, and they usually stayed clear of me if they could. I grew used to killing the creatures, though I never enjoyed it. By the end of the war we were all exhausted, but we had kept our lands safe, and the creatures finally decided that our small land wasn't worth all of the effort. They retreated and our land was left in peace. Some of it was also left in ruin, and all of the years spent fighting had drained the army's resources. They didn't have any payment for the true and faithful soldiers like myself. They gave each of us a few silver coins apiece. That was it. We were sent on our way, and I was released from the army. They said it was because of all of my hard work, I know it was because I had begun to make them nervous with my tireless fighting skills. But they respected me, and I them.
The day I left the army was a very sad one. The only happy time in my life thus far had been the times with my mother, and the ones spent in the jovial company of my fellow soldiers. Now those days were gone, and I was starting my life from scratch. I used up my little silver coins soon enough, and though it made my insides scream with indignation I made my way back to my brothers' household.
I knocked upon the door and my brother Loken answered the door.
"Who are you? What do you want?" he demanded.
"Don't you recognize your own brother? I've come home from the war, hoping to perhaps start my life in your company." I didn't sound very sure of myself, and my brother grinned at me.
"Hey Redalpho get over here! Look who's come back from the war. In dirty clothes and begging, he's a sorry sight ain't he brother?"
"He's no brother of mine Loken. You're letting all the warm air out. Close the door and let this beggar get on begging. He'll find no alms here." And with that the door was slammed in my face. But not before I got one last look of Lokens face grinning like a baboon.
Ashamed, and angry at this unjust treatment I began walking again. But not before I left on their doorstep a very smelly pile of manure. I'm ashamed that I sank to that petty level, but I was mad. And I would have laughed if I had seen the expression on Redalpho's face when he went outside for a walk and stepped ankle deep in the warm smelly mess of dung. Just desserts for one so horrible, but I didn't see this, only continued on my way to another village, where perhaps some kind family would give house to a stranger. I could help them with some things I was sure, but the people of the towns proved hard-faced and grim-mouthed. "We have hardly enough for ourselves," They would murmur, "We don't have enough for you too." Doors would slam, and all the while the weather was getting colder and colder.
Finally, days later, exhausted, and hungry, and thirsty, I sat down underneath a great oak tree, not noticing as I did so the little green man who stayed just out of sight. That, my friends, was the beginning of all of my problems, and also the reason for my future happiness, for every cloud has a silver lining. Sometimes that happiness has a long wait before it manifests itself though. And mine was a very, very long time to wait. Seven years. But I'm getting ahead of myself once again. And there are more sides to this story than just my own.
Sabina
Back then I lived in a small house, shared with my father and two sisters. Both of my sisters were older than I was. My mother died in childbirth, while having me. I'm sure my sisters loved me, but my mother had been such a wonderful woman that they saw me as her murderer. They shunned me, and made fun of me, and were always cruel. My father used to tell me that children were cruel, and that they would grow out of it, but you don't grow out of that. You can't. And my sisters never did, to my grief, and, eventually, even to theirs.
Times were hard for a farmer then. With all of the warring in the north our crops got taken by the army to feed their soldiers. They didn't have money to pay, and my father didn't have the heart to charge them.
"After all," he would say, "They are keeping us safe, and the least we can do is provide nourishment without asking for a great price." My father was very loving. My sisters scoffed at this though. What about our house they would say? What about our pearls and fine things? What about our dowries when we are married? We shall never get married if we can't assure our husbands of our wealth. They were so selfish, and they never saw the good in people like my father did. I inherited that trait, and I was understanding. I was gifted with a needle, and so I embroidered, and made fine gowns for the ladies of the village nearby. I paid for seeds for planting in spring, and I paid for my sisters' fine things, and the food on our tables. I never took anything for myself but gave willingly. I figured it was my payment for murdering our loving mother. My father looked on me with sadness when he saw me selling another of my treasured works, but he said nothing, for he knew that without the money we would starve. I knew, however, that soon the market for such things would dwindle, and we would be left in poverty.
Then the unexpected happened and the war ended. Quite suddenly it seemed, and there were no more soldiers to pick our fields dry. However, the abuse of so much rough handling had ruined most of our plants, and the harvest was poor. We had barely enough to sell for new cloth for me, and we had to use most of the food for ourselves, though it was still not enough. We all grew thin. But the market for my embroidery had not ceased entirely, so I continued to sew, and the market continued to dwindle as households had began to have more than 1 work of mine for their walls or their closets, or floors. Soon the only house without a piece of my artwork was my own.
We had to move soon, from our lovely home, into a small, three-bedroom cottage. My sisters had to share a room with me, and they weren't happy about that. Not at all. The other bedroom was for father, and the third was for my workshop/our storage room/guest room/anything we needed. It was cramped, but my father and I made the best of it. My sisters had to sell all of their finery, and all of the silver, and everything that would fetch a price. They were hard times, and I didn't know how much longer we would last.
So! I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter of my story. Comments are well appreciated, and constructive criticism, and friendly advice. I hope to keep you entertained through the remainder of this story, and so if there are any suggestions that you would like to make please do. I will try to include them if it doesn't hurt the original plot, or my own imaginings. Till next time! And don't forget to review!
Prelude
Johnny
To every story there is a beginning and an end. Most of them are pleasant, starting out with a good home, loving parents, adorable siblings, and some sort of fairy godparent. This is not one of those stories. My Father was a raging alcoholic, everything I did was an offense, no matter how innocent a deed it was. My two older brothers Loken, and Redalpho, were not much better. They were twins, and two years my senior. They used their superiority over me every chance they got. I was always no better than a male Cinderella, only I got beaten like she never had, because I was a boy, and supposedly made of stronger stuff than a wimpy girl. I was strong indeed, but getting beaten isn't fun, or pleasant no matter what sex you are.
My mother though, was like an angel. Why she ever married my father I'll never know. I remember her only faintly. She died when I was 4. Still innocent in my youth. She was able to rescue me from my fathers clutches most of the time. He felt that 2 sons were enough, and any more after that were no better than dogs. She had taken me, and loved me like a parent should. She taught me many virtues, and taught me how to read and write and use my brain rather than rely on brawn like my pig-headed brothers. She loved them too, to be sure, but they were cruel to her, even when small. Already following fathers' footsteps. They never learned the art of the mind, of all of the wonders of reading, and thinking for oneself. They were malleable to my father, and he molded them like a master sculptor with a blob of clay. They were fierce. I was gentle and kind, and I loved my mother very much.
We found solace in each other's company. We shared thoughts and dreams, and I shared my fears. The dreams of a 4 year old aren't big, or not supposed to be, but I told my mother that I wanted to be a soldier. To help the land, and all of the families in our country. To protect the little people as I couldn't protect myself. To perhaps be remembered in time to come, or put in stories later on. A hero in my time. Big dreams certainly, but mother encouraged them. She told me I could do anything I wanted to. She thought my dream a noble one, and when she died I stuck to it like glue.
I never got to say goodbye to her. She died of mysterious causes in the night, and I suppose I believed it then. I learned better later. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Where was I? Oh, yes, taking beatings from my brothers. Why did I just sit there and take that treatment you ask? The answer is very simple really; as much as I sometimes disliked my brothers I never hated them. I feared them sure, cursed them always, but I loved them all the same. After all, they were family, and if they didn't feel the same brotherly love towards me well, what could I do? I refused to beat them, though I could have easily. I think deep down they knew this, and it was probably what fueled their fire even more, trying to provoke me. I wouldn't sink to their level though.
My father too. I was malnourished, and ill-treated. But I didn't complain, and I never raised a hand against them...then that is. I had been practicing secretly in the forest at the side of our house with wooden swords of my own making, and staffs, and arrows, and my own fists. Anything I could make out of wood, I made, and any skill, or tricks I could learn from books and manuscripts I learned. I was very single minded I suppose, working in such a way, but it occupied my mind and hands, and kept my dream clearly in focus.
My days went thus for 14 years, ever since mother died, till the day I was 18. That birthday (ignored as always) was the happiest, and the saddest at the time. That was the day my father died, also of 'mysterious causes.' I had no doubt that my brothers had done it. They were named sole benefactors of my fathers' estate, and everything he owned went to them in equal shares. It was quite a lot, but I wasn't included. I was sad that my father had died, because I had loved him, even through all of his harsh ways. I was happy also though, for it meant that I could leave his house and join the army. Finally. It was a turning point of my life, one of the beginnings of many happy days. Our country wasn't at war, and I saw the army simply as an opportunity to help the innocent, and extract the kings' justice. I packed my bag; only one was needed to house all of my belongings. My brothers didn't let me take any food with me. They said that it was all theirs, and I would be a thief if I touched any of it. They did grant me one small silver coin. Enough for a loaf of bread, a mug of water, and perhaps a bed if the inn was especially cheap. I was happy enough to leave, even on such poor treatment. I remember that day vividly. My small pack on my back, a staff in my hands, and a silver coin in my pocket. Never was I more satisfied up to then. Staring out of the doorway at the landscape before me. Breathing in the air of morning, crisp and sweet. I took a very deep breath and started walking.
I arrived at the recruitment camps some days later. Half starved, and wild for some water. I hadn't gauged the distance very well, and had used my silver piece that first night. Not having taken a water bottle with me, or anything else of value for a traveler I was nearly fainting with thirst. I suppose the first impression that the recruits had of me was of a gentle, frail man. Probably couldn't lift a sword, thought they. But after a good meal, and some water, and lots of rest I was more fit than I ever was in my father's house.
The first time on the practice field my partner looked like he was scared to fight me because he was afraid he would knock me over with the first blow. This proved not to be the case and I soon had him staring up at me from his position on the ground. One of the advantages of teaching yourself how to fight was that you didn't learn the traditional moves but made up ones of your own. None of my moves had fancy names to go with them, they just were, and I'm willing to bet there were pretty impressive looking. My days hacking at trees, and leaves, and bushes had certainly paid off, and not many of the men there could beat me in any form of fighting except hand to hand combat. I soon earned the respect of my commanding officer, and it all went up hill from there. I made many friends, none of them close so that even now I don't remember their names, but they were friendly and we all got on well together. We laughed about our duties, and looked at them lightheartedly, like we hadn't a care in the world. That was, until the barbarians from the north attacked.
There are many stories about the people from the north, none of them good. They were people, or things, that the people of our country feared more than any others. For the most part we were a practical country, holding the forms of magic, and sorcery with disbelief, and disdain. The people from the north were different. They used the forbidden arts of magic, and it was said that some of their creatures could even steal your soul. They had to win it first, but they used the trickiest of ways to do it. They made it so that you couldn't resist their impossible wagers, and then when you failed they would suck the soul out of your body and give it to the devil. (A/N that really is in the original story, and I'm sorry if any of you don't approve.) Some people didn't believe in them, or if they did, they believed that they had nothing to do with our small lives, and that if we didn't bother them, they wouldn't bother us. Obviously that didn't happen.
They broke over our borders as if they were no more than toothpicks to their vicious wills. Everyone in the army was soon dispatched to go out and stop them. Many people deserted then, fearing the north more than the consequence of death that waited for them when they were found. Those of us brave enough to go, went soon and without ceremony.
We had a big army, but even we doubted that our greater mass of numbers could tackle their greater mass. Their people were HUGE! Well, most of them, some of them were short and spindly and evil looking. We learned to fear them more than the giants. The little people could sneak around to your back when you were distracted and stick a knife in it. Obviously these people had no code of honor. We learned to be just as ruthless, but it was a thankless task. I, at least, felt dirty using the tricks of the enemy against them. It was like going against my own grain, going against the virtues that my dear mother had spent so long teaching me. I resolved to let the rest of the army resort to trickery. I was as honest in war as I was in everything else, and I was soon established as a very formidable opponent. I suppose that in all of my hours of dreaming about being a soldier I never realized that I would have to kill anything. Enemy or not, people or not, it was a horrible thing to do, but I believed in helping my country, and helping the people who couldn't help themselves. So fiercely did I believe in this that nothing could deter me from beating any opponent I came across.
The war lasted three years. In that time I grew stronger, and better at fighting. The creatures learned to regard me with fear, and they usually stayed clear of me if they could. I grew used to killing the creatures, though I never enjoyed it. By the end of the war we were all exhausted, but we had kept our lands safe, and the creatures finally decided that our small land wasn't worth all of the effort. They retreated and our land was left in peace. Some of it was also left in ruin, and all of the years spent fighting had drained the army's resources. They didn't have any payment for the true and faithful soldiers like myself. They gave each of us a few silver coins apiece. That was it. We were sent on our way, and I was released from the army. They said it was because of all of my hard work, I know it was because I had begun to make them nervous with my tireless fighting skills. But they respected me, and I them.
The day I left the army was a very sad one. The only happy time in my life thus far had been the times with my mother, and the ones spent in the jovial company of my fellow soldiers. Now those days were gone, and I was starting my life from scratch. I used up my little silver coins soon enough, and though it made my insides scream with indignation I made my way back to my brothers' household.
I knocked upon the door and my brother Loken answered the door.
"Who are you? What do you want?" he demanded.
"Don't you recognize your own brother? I've come home from the war, hoping to perhaps start my life in your company." I didn't sound very sure of myself, and my brother grinned at me.
"Hey Redalpho get over here! Look who's come back from the war. In dirty clothes and begging, he's a sorry sight ain't he brother?"
"He's no brother of mine Loken. You're letting all the warm air out. Close the door and let this beggar get on begging. He'll find no alms here." And with that the door was slammed in my face. But not before I got one last look of Lokens face grinning like a baboon.
Ashamed, and angry at this unjust treatment I began walking again. But not before I left on their doorstep a very smelly pile of manure. I'm ashamed that I sank to that petty level, but I was mad. And I would have laughed if I had seen the expression on Redalpho's face when he went outside for a walk and stepped ankle deep in the warm smelly mess of dung. Just desserts for one so horrible, but I didn't see this, only continued on my way to another village, where perhaps some kind family would give house to a stranger. I could help them with some things I was sure, but the people of the towns proved hard-faced and grim-mouthed. "We have hardly enough for ourselves," They would murmur, "We don't have enough for you too." Doors would slam, and all the while the weather was getting colder and colder.
Finally, days later, exhausted, and hungry, and thirsty, I sat down underneath a great oak tree, not noticing as I did so the little green man who stayed just out of sight. That, my friends, was the beginning of all of my problems, and also the reason for my future happiness, for every cloud has a silver lining. Sometimes that happiness has a long wait before it manifests itself though. And mine was a very, very long time to wait. Seven years. But I'm getting ahead of myself once again. And there are more sides to this story than just my own.
Sabina
Back then I lived in a small house, shared with my father and two sisters. Both of my sisters were older than I was. My mother died in childbirth, while having me. I'm sure my sisters loved me, but my mother had been such a wonderful woman that they saw me as her murderer. They shunned me, and made fun of me, and were always cruel. My father used to tell me that children were cruel, and that they would grow out of it, but you don't grow out of that. You can't. And my sisters never did, to my grief, and, eventually, even to theirs.
Times were hard for a farmer then. With all of the warring in the north our crops got taken by the army to feed their soldiers. They didn't have money to pay, and my father didn't have the heart to charge them.
"After all," he would say, "They are keeping us safe, and the least we can do is provide nourishment without asking for a great price." My father was very loving. My sisters scoffed at this though. What about our house they would say? What about our pearls and fine things? What about our dowries when we are married? We shall never get married if we can't assure our husbands of our wealth. They were so selfish, and they never saw the good in people like my father did. I inherited that trait, and I was understanding. I was gifted with a needle, and so I embroidered, and made fine gowns for the ladies of the village nearby. I paid for seeds for planting in spring, and I paid for my sisters' fine things, and the food on our tables. I never took anything for myself but gave willingly. I figured it was my payment for murdering our loving mother. My father looked on me with sadness when he saw me selling another of my treasured works, but he said nothing, for he knew that without the money we would starve. I knew, however, that soon the market for such things would dwindle, and we would be left in poverty.
Then the unexpected happened and the war ended. Quite suddenly it seemed, and there were no more soldiers to pick our fields dry. However, the abuse of so much rough handling had ruined most of our plants, and the harvest was poor. We had barely enough to sell for new cloth for me, and we had to use most of the food for ourselves, though it was still not enough. We all grew thin. But the market for my embroidery had not ceased entirely, so I continued to sew, and the market continued to dwindle as households had began to have more than 1 work of mine for their walls or their closets, or floors. Soon the only house without a piece of my artwork was my own.
We had to move soon, from our lovely home, into a small, three-bedroom cottage. My sisters had to share a room with me, and they weren't happy about that. Not at all. The other bedroom was for father, and the third was for my workshop/our storage room/guest room/anything we needed. It was cramped, but my father and I made the best of it. My sisters had to sell all of their finery, and all of the silver, and everything that would fetch a price. They were hard times, and I didn't know how much longer we would last.
So! I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter of my story. Comments are well appreciated, and constructive criticism, and friendly advice. I hope to keep you entertained through the remainder of this story, and so if there are any suggestions that you would like to make please do. I will try to include them if it doesn't hurt the original plot, or my own imaginings. Till next time! And don't forget to review!