Chanel Earl
You know this one:
There is a beautiful girl, a child really, who is fair above all that is fair. As scarlet as her sins might have been, but never were, they are as white as literal and metaphorical snow. Her heart bears the promise of peace. She is kind as a shepherd. She is sweet as a freshly picked apple. She is perfect as the first spring day.
There is a jealous witch. No matter how base and wretched she is, no matter how cold and cruel, she is also beautiful. You fear her, and that fear is like love. Her heart beats the drums of war. She is as powerful as the hot desert sun. She is as strong as a peck of pickled peppers. She is as sly as the proverbial snake in the proverbial grass.
The witch wants you to kill the girl. She tells you this because she knows you will obey. And you want to obey because your instincts tell you that to obey is to survive. But when she speaks of the girl, you see fear behind the witch’s eyes and you know that the girl has power too.
You are supposed to bring the girl’s heart to the witch as proof of death, and you feel compelled to obey her, but you are brave. Your courage makes you honest enough to admit that you know what the witch will do. She will eat the girl’s heart. She will devour all the goodness that it has, and it will rot and fester in darkness.
You disobey. Instead of the heart of the girl, you bring her the heart of a boar, and you watch her stuff it into her mouth like a handful of popcorn, like a late summer peach, like the first sip of water at the end of a long journey.
She doesn’t kill you.
You are alive, and so is the girl.
Or this:
There is a girl as perfect and pure as she was on the day she was born.
There is a witch, fading and old and desperate for validation.
The girl escapes from the witch with nothing but her life, and as precious as it is, she can’t live off life alone. So she comes to your cottage in the woods and falls asleep in your bed while you are out working with your brothers and cousins and friends. When you get home all you want is a hot meal and a long sleep, but instead, you find her lying defenseless in your room and decide at once that anyone as beautiful and naive as she needs your protection.
You allow her, a stranger, to take refuge in your home, where you provide for her, guide her, walk beside her. You love her and never want to leave her, but you must, so you instruct her not to go into danger, not to leave the house, not to consort with others, not to accept candy from strangers.
It doesn’t work. While you are away, earning bread by the sweat of your brow, the witch appears. The girl falls to the earth an empty bottle of wine, a glove with no hand.
When you find her you weep. A piece of you dies with her. She is so pale, so fair, so beautiful that you place her in a sepulchre and visit her every day. You pray for a miracle.
You are dead;
The last thing you remember is the apple, which was red. It was also full of promise. Maybe it would make you wise. Maybe it would be sweet above all. Maybe it would contain a seed that would grow into a new tree that would bear fruit that would allow you to feel the love of God.
The woman handed it to you like it was her most precious possession, and when you touched it, you felt a rush of excitement. And you didn’t intend to break any of the rules laid down by your guardians, but you did intend to eat the apple, which fit into your hand so neatly and smelled like caramel-coated candy.
The witch is pleased to have won. She had set out determined to make you as miserable as herself, and now she believes she has done it. She stays on to watch your protectors return and mourn. She is glad there are so many of them. She wants her poisoning of you to make as many people miserable as possible. She sucks in the misery, marrow to her bones. She departs determined to find another victim.
Now you wait. You lay in your tomb without hope, not thinking of miracles like the others, not thinking at all.
Then comes the son of a king. Maybe he is a man. Maybe he is a boy. He could be a healer or a prophet or the very sun come down to earth from the sky. Whatever he is, he sees you and he loves you and his love opens your eyes and restores your soul.
You live again. You are Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. You are the father, mother, and all of the children gathered around the dinner table. You are Christmas morning. You are whole.
Chanel Earl is currently fascinated by the connections and similarities between folktales and scripture. She has published in such venues as Wayfare, Smokelong Quarterly, The Arch-Hive, The Account, and Granfalloon. When she isn’t writing or reading she is often in her garden. To learn more about Chanel, or to read more of her writing, visit chanelearl.com or follow her on Instagram at chanels.stories.
