And then he exclaimed, “Whoever’s foot fits in this golden shoe will be my bride!”
One of his servants leaned over to him. “You think only one girl in the whole kingdom wears a size five?”
And the prince said, “Shut up.”
* * *
So the prince went from house to house in his kingdom, trying to find the girl whose foot would fit in the golden shoe. But, lo and behold, none did. Some were too wide, some too narrow, some too long, some too short.
Surprising. But totally true.
At last, the prince arrived at Jorinda’s house, announcing that whoever’s foot fit in the golden shoe would be his bride.
Now, the stepsisters were thrilled. As I said, they were very beautiful—and they knew it. They had beautiful hair, beautiful teeth, beautiful eyes, and tiny, perfect, beautiful feet.
So the elder stepsister flipped her long golden hair and said, “Oh, let me try! Let me try the shoe!” She grabbed the golden shoe from the prince and took it into the kitchen, and her father followed her.
There in the kitchen, the elder stepsister slipped her perfect, delicate little foot into the shoe.
And guess what?
It fit.
Well, almost.
You see, her big toe was just a little bit too big. She couldn’t get it all the way in the shoe. She pushed and pushed and pushed, but it just would not go in.
And then her father took out a knife.
The knife was a large cleaver, the kind made for chopping up meat.
He whispered to his daughter, “Just cut off your toe! When you’re queen, you won’t have to walk anymore!”
So the girl took the cleaver, raised it above her head, and brought it down with all her force on her big toe. Then she shoved her dismembered foot into the shoe, gritted her teeth against the pain, and went back in to see the prince.
Now, I like to picture this part of the story.
This girl wants to marry the prince, right? So she’s got to impress him. Which means she ought to smile. But she has just cut off her toe and shoved her foot into a golden shoe. Which probably hurts a lot. Right?
So, if you would, try to grit your teeth in unbearable pain and smile at the same time.
Done it? Okay? Do you look ridiculous?
I thought so.
That is exactly how the stepsister looked.
Anyway, the girl hobbled out of the kitchen, grit her teeth, smiled, spread her arms wide, and cried, “IT FITS!”
And the prince cried out, “MY TRUE BRIDE!” And he lifted her up, carried her outside, put her on his horse, and rode away with her.
Yes. Really.
But he hadn’t gone very far when they passed the juniper tree. And up in the juniper tree sat that little bird as red as blood and as white as snow. As the prince and the sister rode by, the little bird called out,
Coo, coo!
There’s blood in the shoe!
The foot’s too long,
The foot’s too wide,
This is not the proper bride!
Well, the prince pulled up his horse and stopped and listened.
Because, when birds talk, you should listen.
’Cause it’s weird.
Well, the prince listened. He turned and looked at the stepsister sitting on the back of his horse. He looked from her long golden hair, past her beautiful face, down her beautiful dress, to the golden shoe.
And indeed, he saw blood burbling up out of it.
He thought about it for a minute. And then he said, “Hey! This isn’t the right girl!”
I told you. Clever prince.
So he took the girl home and said, “Do you have any other daughters?” Well, the second sister stepped forward, flipped her long black hair, and said, “Oh, let me try! Let me try the shoe!” So she took the shoe (which I suppose now was filled with blood), and she went to the kitchen, and her father followed her. And she slid her perfect, beautiful little foot into the golden shoe.
And it fit.
Almost.
You see, her heel was just a little bit too big. She pushed and pushed and pushed, but it just would not go in. So her father took out that big old meat cleaver and said, “Cut off a chunk of your heel. When you’re queen, you won’t have to walk anymore!”
So the stepsister took the meat cleaver and chopped off a chunk of her heel. Then she shoved her foot into the shoe, clenched her teeth against the pain, and went out to see the prince. When she saw him, she gritted her teeth, smiled, spread out her arms, and cried, “IT FITS!”
“MY TRUE BRIDE!” the prince exclaimed. And he picked her up, carried her outside, threw her on his horse, and rode away with her.
But, he hadn’t gone very far when he passed the juniper tree with the little bird in its branches. And the bird cried out,
Coo, coo!
There’s blood in the shoe!
The foot’s too long,
The foot’s too wide,
This is not the proper bride!
Well, the prince heard the bird talking to him. And he stopped, and listened.
(Because, again: birds talk, you listen.)
He listened to the bird. He turned back and looked at the sister, sitting on the back of his horse. He looked from her long black hair, past her beautiful face, down her beautiful dress, to the golden shoe. And indeed, he saw blood spurting up out of the shoe in big crimson gouts, staining her dress all red.
He thought about it for a moment. And then he said, “Hey! This isn’t the right girl either!”
You see? He’s a genius.
So the prince turned the horse around, rode back to the house, and said, “Don’t you have another daughter?”
Well, the stepfather didn’t want to admit it. But the prince insisted, and eventually, Jorinda came out. And as soon as the prince saw her, he knew she was the right one. He gave her the shoe, and she cleaned out all the blood and the chunks of flesh, and then she put it on, right there in front of him. And it fit. Perfectly.
The prince cried out, “MY TRUE BRIDE!” And he picked her up, carried her outside, threw her on his horse, and they rode away together.
And they lived happily ever after.
The End
Well, almost.
You see, as the prince and Jorinda were riding past the juniper tree, the little bird called out again. He called out,
Coo, coo!
No blood in the shoe!
The foot is neither long nor wide,
This one is the proper bride!
And then the little bird flew down and landed on Jorinda’s shoulder. And there he sat.
* * *
Well, the next day there was a great celebration at the castle, for the prince had found his bride. Everyone in the kingdom was invited, and there was much cheering and carousing and carrying on.
Even the two stepsisters came to the celebration (limping, of course). They embraced Jorinda and wept tears of joy and, in voices dripping with sweetness, simpered, “Oh, dear sister, we are so happy for you! So happy! We love you so, so much!”
Well, Jorinda was not sure what to make of this. After all, it was the first nice thing the girls had ever said to her. But, because they were her sisters, she invited them to come up with her on the great balcony that looked out over the throngs of adoring subjects.
She stood on the balcony, holding hands with the prince (who was very handsome and, of course, quite clever), waving at her future subjects, with her stepsisters by her side and the little bird still perched on her shoulder.
I strongly recommend that you close your eyes while you read this next paragraph.
And while she and the prince waved and smiled at their subjects, the little bird flew from Jorinda’s shoulder to the elder stepsister’s shoulder. And there, he leaned over and pecked out the stepsister’s l
eft eye. She screamed, but the cheers of the crowd were too loud, and no one could hear her. So the bird hopped to her other shoulder and pecked out her right eye. Then he hopped onto the younger stepsister’s shoulders and pecked out her eyes, too.
Yes. Really.
That’s what actually happens.
And the last line of the real, Grimm story called “Ashputtle” reads:
And so the stepsisters were punished with blindness to the end of their days for being so wicked and false.
The End
Except, of course, that isn’t the end.
I mean, it is the end of the sisters’ story. They wandered through the world, weeping, weeping, weeping. Nothing could be as terrible to these two sisters as losing their eyes—for their beauty was hidden from them forevermore. And eventually, after many months of wandering, they stumbled into a dark and forbidding forest, where they were eaten by bears.
But Jorinda’s story is not over.
And neither, of course, is Joringel’s.
Oh, no. Far from it.
The Juniper Tree
Once upon a time, a young girl lived in a sumptuous room in the highest turret of a castle, waiting for her wedding to a prince.
She was not entirely sure how she felt about it.
On the one hand, Jorinda was proud. She was going to become the princess of all Grimm. It was strange. It was wonderful. It made her dizzy.
On the other hand, she wasn’t sure about this whole marrying-the-prince thing. He was a man, and, really, she was just a little girl. They didn’t talk to each other often. They didn’t seem to like the same things. And she was pretty sure his father, the king, hated her.
Jorinda spent most of her time in her turret room, playing with the little bird from the juniper tree. He had made a small nest for himself under the eaves of her window, and while he never sang words to her, as he had before, he always kept her company, and chirruped merrily. He almost made her forget about that little grave under the juniper tree and that lonely house. Almost.
She did try to. She pushed those memories way, way down, out of her head, beyond her heart, down into the bottom of her stomach. And, most of the time, she could forget about them. But now and then she would catch a glimpse of a solitary tree on the castle grounds, or a closed door, and she would grow sweaty, and her stomach would slosh and churn as if there were a great deal of water locked inside. She asked the servants to bring her an extra mattress to sleep on. But still she tossed and turned at night.
After a few weeks, Jorinda returned home to have a meal with her family.
When the carriage pulled up, her stepfather greeted her with a vigorous hug. As he held her close, he whispered in her ear, “Come with me to the kitchen, so we can prepare dinner.” He held her at arm’s length and smiled at her. Around his eyes, Jorinda could see grief and fury.
She followed him into the kitchen. And she followed him out the back of the kitchen. Then she watched her stepfather open the icebox and draw out a great stew pot.
Jorinda’s eyes went wide. Her stepfather turned to her. A grin was stretched nearly to his ears. “Hungry?” The little girl shook her head frantically from side to side. But her stepfather said, “Utter a word about this, and you’ll be hanged for certain.” And then he carried the stew pot to the stove and lit the fire.
Not much later, Jorinda’s mother opened the door to her study. Jorinda flung herself into her mother’s arms, and she was about to whisper to her not to eat the stew, when her mother raised her head, sniffing the air. “What is that smell?” she asked, wrinkling up her nose. “What are you cooking in there?”
The stepfather called from the kitchen, “Just a stew, dear!”
“Well,” said Jorinda’s mother, sniffing the air again, “it smells absolutely, positively delicious!” And she pulled away from Jorinda and went over to the dinner table.
Jorinda stared after her, frozen.
The stepfather brought in the stew, and he called to Jorinda to take her place at the table.
The little girl would not touch the hunks of brown meat in her cracked porcelain bowl. Her mother, on the other hand, picked up her fork, stuck a large chunk of meat with it, and then brought it to her lips.
She stopped.
She saw Jorinda staring at her.
She smiled at her daughter.
And then she shoved the piece of meat into her mouth.
She began to chew it.
She stopped chewing it.
She looked at her husband.
“This stew,” she said, with her mouth full, “is delicious!”
I’m sorry, but this is exactly what really happened. You can read it in any collection of Grimm’s stories.
Still, I’m sorry.
Sorry that it is so awesome.
The mother swallowed her first mouthful and then took another, and another, and another.
“Oh, it’s so delicious,” she said as she ate. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted such a delicious stew in my entire life!” And she shoveled the stew into her mouth, faster and faster. Soon, she had finished what was in her bowl. She grabbed the stew pot and slid it in front of her.
“Aren’t either of you eating?” she asked. “This stew is incredible!” And she scooped the stew straight from the pot into her mouth. “I think I’m going to eat every single drop! I think every single drop was made for me and me alone!” And she snatched the bowls from her husband and daughter and ate their stew, too.
At last, when she had finished, she sat back, grinning, with brownish-red sauce all over her face.
“Well,” she said, “that was the best stew I’ve ever had.”
Jorinda stared, her mouth hanging open.
And just then, a bird began to sing outside the window.
It was a little bird, all red, with a white head, sitting in the juniper tree, and it had the most beautiful song. He sang his song again and again. And as he sang, the song began to sound like words. Like these words:
My father, he killed me,
Jorinda cocked her head curiously.
My mother, she ate me,
Jorinda looked around the table. Her mother was enjoying the song.
My sister, Jorinda, buried my bones
’Neath the juniper tree.
Her stepfather seemed distracted by something. He was grimacing.
Kewitt! Kewitt! the bird sang.
What a beautiful bird am I!
The mother clapped her hands. “What a beautiful song! That’s the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard!” She leaped up and ran to the window, just in time to see the bird fly from the juniper tree and over the house.
The bird flew directly to the nearby town. There, the little bird landed on the eave of the goldsmith’s shop. And he sang his song again:
My father, he killed me,
My mother, she ate me,
My sister, Jorinda, buried my bones
’Neath the juniper tree.
Kewitt! Kewitt!
What a beautiful bird am I!
The goldsmith heard the song and rushed to the window. “Bird!” he exclaimed (yes, he was talking to a bird). “Bird! That’s the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard! Sing it again!”
But the bird said, “I never sing twice for free. Give me your finest golden chain, and I’ll sing it again.” (Yes, apparently the bird spoke back.)
So the goldsmith rushed into his house, got the finest golden chain he had—all covered with diamonds and emeralds and rubies—and brought it out to the bird. The bird clasped it in one of its little claws, sang the song again, and flew away.
Next the bird flew to a cobbler’s house. He perched on an eave and sang:
My father, he killed me,
My mother, she ate me,
My sister, Jorinda, buried my bones
&nbs
p; ’Neath the juniper tree.
Kewitt! Kewitt!
What a beautiful bird am I!
The cobbler instantly burst out of his house. “That’s the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard!” he cried. (Okay, he’s talking to a bird, too.) “Bird, will you sing it again?”
But the bird said, “I never sing twice for free. Give me a pair of your prettiest, daintiest shoes, and I’ll sing it again.”
So the cobbler rushed into his house and brought out a pair of tiny red shoes and handed them to the bird, who took them with his other claw. Then he sang his song again and flew away.
Finally, he came to the mill.
Do you know what a mill is? You don’t see them around much anymore, so let me tell you. A mill is where people used to bring their grain to be ground into flour. The grain would be put between two enormous stones. Each stone weighed about as much as a small automobile, and each had a hole in the center that a wooden pole passed through. And men, or donkeys, or oxen, would push the huge stones around and around to grind the grain.
Okay. You needed to know that for the story.
So the bird landed on an eave of the mill and began to sing.
My father, he killed me—
Inside the mill, ten men pushed the giant stone wheels around a great wooden dowel, grinding the grain into flour.
My mother, she ate me—
Two men stopped pushing the millstones and listened.
My sister, Jorinda, buried my bones—
Two more men stopped pushing the millstones. The other six men grunted and groaned under the strain of turning the enormous wheels.
’Neath the juniper tree.