The World's Worst Fairy Godmother

  He went into the cave. Zitzel could hear a lot of scraping and thumping and muttering. After a few minutes Zozmagog emerged, covered with dust and carrying a thick, leatherbound book. It looked very old. Plunking himself down beneath a huge oak tree, he opened the book and began to flip through its pages.

  “Not that. Not that. Not that. Ah, here it is! Oh, wonderful! Perfect, you might say. We’ll make this and slip it into that basket the kid will be taking to her grandmother. She’ll never be able to resist it.”

  “But what is it?” asked Zitzel.

  Zozmagog smiled, and now he did look like a merry prankster. “A crab apple. Now, get me these things: Two dead toads, a pickled lizard’s tongue, a gallon of vinegar, a stack of—”

  The list went on and on. When it ended, Zitzel rubbed his hands together gleefully. “This is going to be fun!”

  Then he scampered off to the secret place where imps keep their supplies. Zozmagog went back into the cave to gloat.

  “One more prank,” he sneered. “One more prank and that fairy godmother is done for good.”

  Then he laughed the laugh of the nasty.

  While Zozmagog was in his cave, contemplating his revenge, Maybelle was rushing about gathering the ingredients she needed for her apple. Some of the things she had on hand already: the first sunbeam of a spring day, which she had been saving in a bottle for just such an occasion; the song of a meadowlark, a beautiful trill that she had caught in a handkerchief two summers earlier; the smell of bread just coming out of the oven, something that she carried with her always.

  But the look of moonlight on still water, which was very hard to keep, she had to go out and fetch fresh. As she traveled she also managed to get a bit of a mother’s smile, a gurgle from a baby that had just discovered its toes, and the laughter from a family picnic on a summer evening. She caught the sound of church bells, the whisper of wind on the grass, the smell of laundry just brought in from hanging in the fresh air. She gathered the feel of a mother’s lap, the safety of a father’s embrace, and something that hung in the air between two very old people who were sitting in rockers on their front porch.

  When she was ready with all these things and more, Maybelle flew to a cloud and began her conjuration.

  At the same time, far below her, Zozmagog began to work on his apple. Deep in his cave, he poured together his ingredients and chanted:

  Handfuls of hatred,

  Gallons of Greed

  One Rotten Apple

  Will do my bad deed!

  Up on her cloud, Maybelle delicately stirred together her ingredients, mixing them with sunshine and singing:

  Handfuls of giving

  Sent from above

  This perfect apple

  Will fill her with love.

  She stirred and mixed and sang and fixed and finally she held up the apple, red and sparkling in the sunshine.

  “There!” she cried triumphantly. “A perfect apple to do my good deed!”

  “There!” cried Zozmagog, holding up his apple at the very same moment. “A rotten apple to do my bad deed!”

  Then both of them began to laugh, Maybelle on her cloud and Zozmagog in his cave, one making a sound like wind chimes, the other a sound like stones grinding in the dark.

  Clutching their apples, they hurried off to do their work.

  Chapter Seven

  Into the Woods

  Susan didn’t really want to take a basket of fruit to her grandmother. But she knew that good girls always did as their mothers asked. So on Saturday morning she took the basket her mother gave her and headed toward the forest.

  “Now remember,” said Mrs. Pfenstermacher, “don’t talk to strangers while you’re in the woods!” She paused, then added, “Unless you meet a little pudgy woman. Her you can talk to.”

  “Yes mother darling,” said Susan, slightly puzzled by this odd pronouncement.

  She kissed her mother and headed for the woods. On the way she saw Heidi and Maria playing with their dolls. She thought it might be nice to stop for a while, but they never wanted to play with her. Besides, she told herself, perfect girls didn’t stop to play when they had a job to do.

  When she reached the edge of the forest, she paused for a minute, wondering if there really were imps lurking inside, as the old woodcutter had said.

  “Probably not,” she decided. “Everyone knows he’s not a very truthful old man.”

  Tightening her grip on her basket, she skipped into the forest singing, “I’m perfect, so perfect, I’m as perfect as a perfect thing can be.”

  She hadn’t gone far when she stopped to look around. “What a glorious morning!” she cried. “What a divine day. It’s almost as perfect as I am.”

  Suddenly a pudgy little woman appeared on the path ahead of her. Looking over her shoulder, the woman said something that sounded like, “All right, all right, you don’t have to push!”

  Susan blinked, and for a moment she thought about running away. Then she remembered what her mother had said. Putting on a big smile, she stepped forward and asked politely, “Are you the pudgy little woman my mother told me about?”

  “I suppose so,” she said. Then she smiled, a wonderful smile, that made Susan feel warm inside. “Actually, I’m your fairy godmother. My name is Maybelle.”

  The warm feeling vanished. Susan burst into laughter. “That’s ridiculous! How could I have someone like you for a fairy godmother?”

  Maybelle glanced behind her. Then she spread her hands, shrugged, and said, “Heaven works in mysterious ways.”

  Susan looked at Maybelle more closely.

  She was a pleasant-looking little woman, though not very carefully put together, what with her apron being so rumpled and the cloudy wisps of hair escaping all around the braid at the top of her head. Also, her slip was showing. Obviously she was crazy.

  I’d better humor her, thought Susan, remembering a story her father had told her about a crazy villager. Out loud she said, “You poor dear. Why don’t you sit down and rest?”

  Looking bewildered, Maybelle sat on the log that Susan gestured toward.

  “Now,” said Susan, sounding very solemn. “Tell me all about it. How did they start?”

  “How did what start?” asked Maybelle.

  “Why, the terrible troubles that have brought you to this sorry state?”

  Maybelle blinked. “What do you know about my troubles?”

  “Nothing, except that it’s obvious you have them. When did they begin?”

  Maybelle scrinched her face into its thinking position. “Well,” she said at last, “I guess it was about a hundred and fifty years ago.”

  “Oh, my!” gasped Susan. “This is worse than I thought!”

  Maybelle nodded. “It is pretty bad when you think about it. It’s been a long time.”

  “And what do you suppose caused these troubles?” asked Susan, her voice serious and sympathetic. She was sitting next to Maybelle now, thinking it would be nice if she could make the little woman sane again. She wondered if that was why her mother had sent her into the woods, so that she could work a miracle.

  Maybelle shook her head. “I don’t know.” Then, to Susan’s alarm, she sighed heavily and lay down, resting her head in Susan’s lap.

  “You know,” Maybelle said, settling in comfortably. “It’s almost as if someone was out to get me.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Susan, remembering an old man who used to wander around their town saying the same thing.

  “For heaven’s sake,” muttered Edna Prim. Making sure she was invisible, she stepped forward and poked Maybelle in the side.

  Maybelle jumped and looked around, but didn’t get the message. Edna poked Maybelle again, then knelt by her ear and whispered, “Put the apple in the basket!”

  Maybelle blinked. “I almost forgot!”

  “Forgot what?” asked Susan.

  “Uh… uh… I almost forgot that I’m not here to talk about my troubles. I’m here to talk about yours.” br />
  As she spoke, Maybelle jumped up and put her hand in her apron pocket, where the perfect apple was waiting.

  “How can we talk about my troubles?” asked Susan primly. “I don’t have any.”

  “You mean you’re completely happy?”

  “Perfectly!” said Susan, somewhat sharply.

  “And there’s nothing that bothers you?”

  “Not a thing!”

  “So everything is just the way you like it?”

  “Of course it is!”

  “That’s wonderful,” said Maybelle softly. “I’m glad things are going so well for you.”

  “It’s not fair,” said Susan, her voice grumpy now. She crossed her arms and looked in the other direction.

  Maybelle took advantage of the moment to slip the magic apple into Susan’s basket. It sparkled enticingly. “What’s not fair?” she asked gently.

  “I work very hard at being good.”

  Maybelle smiled. “That’s nice, dear, but it’s not unfair.”

  “NOBODY LIKES ME!” shouted Susan.

  “Ah. Now, that is not fair.”

  “I don’t get it,” Susan said bitterly. “I try to be nice. I try to be sweet. I try to be kind.”

  “Well, you certainly are trying,” agreed Maybelle.

  “But it doesn’t do any good.” Susan’s shoulders slumped. “Maybe I’m no good.” No sooner had the words left her mouth then her eyes shot open and she sat straight up. “That’s ridiculous. I’m perfect!”

  “Is that important?”

  “Certainly. If I’m perfect, people will have to like me.”

  “Well, do people like you?”

  “No!”

  Maybelle smiled. “Does that tell you anything?”

  “Yeah. They don’t know a good thing when they see it!” said Susan, crossing her arms and scowling. “They’re all jealousy anyway. I’m too good for them. But they act is if they’re too good for me! They won’t even play with me!”

  “How can anyone be too good for anyone else?” said Maybelle softly.

  Susan looked surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I’ve been studying you mortals for a long time, dear, and I have to tell you that you’re more complicated than you think. You always seem to put on masks, as if you’re afraid of what you are inside. My advice is to just be yourself and stop worrying about whether or not you’re perfect.”

  “But I am perfect,” replied Susan, a little desperately.

  “You’re a little young for it, aren’t you?”

  “I started early.”

  Maybelle sighed. “You’ve got more inside you than you’re showing, Susan. Why don’t you start to share it?”

  Susan looked offended. “I always share.”

  “You don’t share your laughter,” said Maybelle, grinning slyly. “In fact, I don’t think you can laugh.”

  “Of course I can.

  “Prove it!”

  Susan puckered up her face. “Ha.”

  Maybelle rolled her eyes.

  “Ha-ha?” asked Susan.

  “Pathetic,” said Maybelle sadly.

  “Ha-ha-HA!”

  Maybelle just shook her head.

  “Teach me!” demanded Susan.

  Maybelle sighed. “You don’t need to be taught, silly. The laughter is already there. You just have to let it out.”

  Susan made a face that looked a little like she had just swallowed a frog. Then she rolled her eyes back in her head, as if she was trying to see what was there. “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

  Maybelle giggled. “You sound like a drumroll.”

  Susan folded her hands in her lap and pursed her lips. “I was trying my best. Effort should always be rewarded.”

  “Well, try harder at not trying. That should be an effort for you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Laugh!”

  “Ha?”

  “Laugh!”

  “Hoo?”

  “Laugh!” cried Maybelle. Standing up she flung her arms wide, as if she was conducting a symphony. As she did she stepped backward, tripped over a stump, and tumbled to the ground.

  Susan burst into peals of laughter.

  “Now that’s not funny!” snapped Maybelle.

  “It sure looked funny,” gasped Susan. Quickly she put her hand to her mouth. “But you’re right. It wasn’t nice to laugh at your misfortune. Oh, no!”

  “Well, it wasn’t all that bad,” said Maybelle, getting to her feet. She shook herself and the dirt and leaves clinging to her dress disappeared in a shower of little sparks. Two twigs and a leaf remained stuck in her hair.

  “I know it wasn’t terrible,” said Susan. “But it wasn’t perfect, either. And if I’m not perfect—”

  “People won’t like me,” finished Maybelle. She sighed. “Listen, Susan, the truth of it is, no one is perfect. Good grief, even fairy godmothers can make mistakes. But even though you’re not perfect—”

  “Hey!”

  Maybelle sighed and started again. “Even if you weren’t perfect I would like you just fine.”

  “You would?” cried Susan in astonishment.

  “Of course I would. I do.”

  Susan paused. “I like you, too,” she said at last, as if she was trying out the words to see how they sounded.

  Maybelle looked as surprised as Susan had a moment earlier. “Really?” she asked.

  Susan scrinched up her face as if thinking real hard. “Really!” she said at last. Then, as if she had said too much, she added quickly, “But I should go see my grandmother now.”

  Grabbing her basket, which now had Maybelle’s love apple on top, Susan started down the path.

  “Have a good time,” called Maybelle.

  As she stood and watched Susan go, she was so excited it was all she could do to keep from floating.

  “This is going to be just… lovely!” she whispered to herself.

  Chapter Eight

  The Old Switcheroo

  Farther along the same path Zozmagog sat clutching his magic crab apple, waiting impatiently (which was the only way he ever waited) for Susan.

  Zitzel crouched in a bush on the other side of the path. His job was to create a distraction when Susan finally showed up. He was to do this by being very quiet until she appeared, and then making a sudden movement. The main problem was that Zitzel hated being quiet, and wanted to move all the time.

  “Stop wiggling, you little git!” hissed Zozmagog, after he heard Zitzel shake his bush for the fifteenth time in five minutes.

  “Geez-o-pete, boss,” whined the little imp. “Gimme a break, will ya?”

  Before Zozmagog could answer Susan arrived, swinging her basket and singing, “She likes me, she likes me, she green and yellow likes me. She likes me, she—”

  Zitzel shook the bush he was hiding in so hard that several leaves fell off. Susan stopped in her tracks. “Goodness, what was that?” She put a finger to her cheek and thought. “Oh!” she cried at last. “Perhaps it was a sweet little bunny. I want to see the fluffy thing.”

  Setting her basket on the path, she tiptoed carefully to the bush. At the same time, Zitzel scooted backward into the forest. From the other side of the path, Zozmagog moved swiftly and silently out of the bush where he was hiding. He snatched an apple from the top of Susan’s basket, and replaced it with the magic crab apple. Then he hurried back to his hiding place… completely unaware that the apple he had snatched was Maybelle’s love apple.

  Susan searched all around the bush without finding any sign of a rabbit, or of Zitzel, for that matter.

  “Oh, poobity-pobble,” she said softly. It was one of her favorite curses. She went back to the path to get her basket. When she did, she noticed the apple resting on the very top. It was remarkably beautiful. In fact, it was just about…

  “Perfect!” said Susan. She looked around. No one was watching, at least as far as she could tell. “In fact, it’s so perfect, it’s as if it was made just for me,” she said,
not having any idea how accurate this statement really was.

  “Of course,” she continued, “if it was made for me, then it would be wrong for me not to take it. Besides, Granny would never want me to go hungry. The dear old thing would want me to eat this apple, if I needed it.”

  And with that she took the apple from the top of the basket. Though it already sparkled in a stray ray of sunlight that had made its way through the leaves, she polished it on her dress for good measure.

  Then she took a big bite.

  A strange expression crossed Susan’s face. Her eyes grew very wide, and then narrowed. With an cry of disgust, she flung the apple against the nearest tree so hard that it splattered into mush when it hit.

  “Phooey!” she cried. “Why am I taking a basket to my grandmother anyway? I hate baskets. And I hate grandmothers. And Granny hates me, for that matter, the skinny old bat.” She looked around. “Who designed this stupid forest anyway? It has too many trees! It’s ugly. Uglyuglyugly!”

  With that, Susan stomped off through the woods, cursing at the top of her lungs, stomping on mushrooms, and spitting at baby birds.

  As soon as she was out of sight Zitzel came rolling out from behind a tree. He was laughing so hard he couldn’t stand up.

  “Oh, boss,” he gasped, “that was per… per… perfect!”

  “Not bad, if I do say so myself,” replied Zozmagog. He was still holding the apple he had taken from the basket. “In fact, I think that ought to finish Maybelle Clodnowski’s career for good, Zitzel. At last—victory is ours!” Holding up the apple he had taken from the basket, he said, “Here’s to apples!”

  Then he took a big bite.

  At once he began to choke.

  “Boss!” cried Zitzel. “Boss, are you all right?”

  Zozmagog was bent over double, unable to answer.

  Zitzel began to pound him on the back. Suddenly Zozmagog swallowed the chunk of apple that had been lodged in his throat. As he straightened up his face began to twist itself into shapes and expressions it had not worn in over a century.

  Without even looking at Zitzel, he began to run down the path. Ahead of him he saw Edna, who was just stepping out of the woods after having a conversation with Maybelle.