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If you enjoy a story of magic, folklore and dark creatures from the Wild Hunt—but with a fairy tale twist—then Gilded, by Marissa Meyer, is the book for you. This YA novel, the first in a duology, came out in 2021, but it was new to me, and I’m glad I read it. Serilda, our heroine, is a girl with very unusual eyes, who is “gifted” with the art of storytelling by a god. She’s also a liar, who is only accepted by a delightful gang of small children who live in a nearby village. She lives with her father, a miller, and although her mother was lost to the Wild Hunt many years before, Serilda and her dad are pretty happy. Enter the Erlking and his hideous pack of beings from a dark court of cruelty. In a seemingly successful attempt to avoid the Wild Hunt, Serilda tells him she can spin gold from straw, and that’s when things really get going. Yep, this book is a “Rumpelstiltskin” retelling. When we meet Gild, the ghost of a prince killed by the Erlking, we find Serilda’s love interest who also spins gold from straw for her. What happens afterwards is a dark but engrossing twist on the famous fairy tale. The bad guys are really bad. But Serilda is a plucky heroine who never quite gives up. She learns and grows and begins to accept that she has a supernatural gift of her own, and that her stories have more power than she knows. Gilded is filled with good supporting characters and has a very well-built world. This book is a dark fantasy story that nonetheless is not depressing. It’s an exciting, magical read that I think most fairy tale and fantasy fans will enjoy. You can buy Gilded here. Kate Wolford is editor-in-chief of The Fairy Tale Magazine. And check out our FLASH FICTION & POETRY Writing Contest currently going on GRAND PRIZE $100 PLUS Publication in an upcoming digital issue PLUS Publication on this website PLUS Publication in our printed yearbook DETAILS HERE

As fans of The Fairy Tale Magazine know, we’re always looking for help to keep FTM growing and thriving—and to keep costs down. Now I’m asking if there’s anyone out there who would volunteer a few hours a month to help with bookkeeping for FTM. We are quite small and the bookkeeping required would only be keeping track of sales and donations, as well as expenses—none of these are diverse or tricky. (I simply do not have the time for it.) I would also need help filing quarterly taxes, which are extremely basic. We are a nonprofit but not a 501c3, which means the tax obligation and time burden are very low. We cannot pay for this position, but every issue of the magazine, every print copy of any book we publish, all club memberships, etc., would be free to the volunteer who takes the job. You’d also be named business manager. This job is perfect for a retiree or student with bookkeeping/accounting experience. I would expect a commitment of five to 10 hours per month. I hope we can find someone to fill this role. It’s an essential one, and we are eager to find the right volunteer to work with. If you’re interested, send me a resume at katewolford1@gmail.com. The position will remain open until we find the right candidate. Hoping for the best, Kate Wolford Founder and Publisher And check out our FLASH FICTION & POETRY Writing Contest currently going on GRAND PRIZE $100 PLUS Publication in an upcoming digital issue PLUS Publication on this website PLUS Publication in our printed yearbook DETAILS HERE

Editor’s note: The presence of nature spirits and a natural cure will grab your attention, as will the ending that will leave you pondering the protagonist’s future in today's Throwback Thursday story. Living on the edge of a bustling village, made so by a crossroad for travelers, lived a wise woman. She always offered her services for a fair fee, and it was because of this transient population that few bothered to give a thought to the life story of an old woman, let alone specifics such as her age or occupation. Until one day, when a boy of around 11 or 13 did notice, in the way that children do. He asked around about her in an innocent manner, but none could give an answer. He thought to ask the wise woman directly, but when he mentioned it to his ma, he felt his ear being clipped by the back of her hand, and so he thought better of it. Instead, he began to follow the wise old woman around like a shadow as she went about her business—in the village at first, and then, growing bolder, he began to follow her on gatherings within the woods. On this particular day the village was full of activity as preparations unfolded, revealing the scene that would burgeon into the Summer Solstice Festival that evening. Seeing the hustle and bustle, Ash gave a good-natured grin, his spirits high as he made his way towards the home of Hylde. He almost missed her leaving and quickened his step, as the old woman set a good pace. Into the mountains she went, a bird on her shoulder and her gathering bag swinging against her thigh. He followed along until midmorning, when the old woman disappeared behind a boulder. Ash searched for a way to find her while the sun rose; then, discovering a crevice hidden behind a large rock, he edged his way through, emerging into a sparsely covered area with a lake at its centre. The lake itself was a wonder, with luminescent lime green shining from its surface. Ash spotted Hylde making her way to the other side of the lake, gathering peach blooms as she went. Judging the distance and the light cover, Ash moved towards the lake. Kneeling at the water’s edge he skimmed his hand across the surface, able to see now how algae made the lake glisten. He turned his hand this way and that, examining it before having his attention was diverted to the sound of a violin playing. Ash looked up. A shadow had begun to fall across him, and the sun was obscured from its path. But Ash no longer noticed, nor did he hear the pleas from Hylde, who had stopped gathering blooms and had begun hurrying to reach the boy, stumbling on the smooth rocks in her haste, skirts giving hindrance in the bustling motion. Flying ahead, the small feathered companion of Hylde darted quickly to the dreaded water spirit Nokken, who, intent on the boy, continued to play his tune. Hylde’s bird dashed and darted in front of the water monster, but to no avail, as he was sent sprawling through the air by a gust of wind escaping from the Nokken, who was annoyed by the interference. Hylde’s screams penetrated the air. Meanwhile, Ash had risen from his place beside the lake, walking slowly, entranced by the violin into the luminescent water. From Hylde’s vantage point, she saw the two, boy and monster, moving ever closer to one another, and she searched frantically about herself for something to use against the Nokken; there was nothing. In desperation she called out: “Nykr! Nykr!” she bellowed. “Leave the boy alone. He knew not to enter the waters. It was a mistake,” she screamed, desperate. “You know the price, Huldra. You should not have bought him here. How long have you been sneaking here? Too long, but still the same as when I saw you last. Your husband remains uncured, I see. Annoying choice, a bird really. Huldra, couldn’t you have transformed him into something a little grander to keep his life unspent?” “Nykr. The boy wandered here by accident, a shadow he has been to me. I thought I had lost him today,” she said. “I am hungry, Huldra. I may have spared your husband’s life when last we met, but this boy is nothing, he is not one of us.” Hylde remembered back to a time when she was known as Huldra the forest spirit. Her marriage to a human was to have been the start of a new life, but it had been short lived when they had happened upon the Nokken, Nykr. Hylde’s now-recovered bird swooped again and again at the Nokken who fended the bird off, swinging bow and instrument about. The pause in music broke the trance Ash had been under long enough for him to run to shore. Falling to the ground with exhaustion, he lost consciousness. In an instant, Nokken submerged, his prey lost to the Huldra. Hylde quickly went about stripping the wet clothes from the boy and laid the blooms she had gathered at several points along his limp body. As the color drained from the flowers, the blue tinge that had spread across Ash’s skin abated, and his natural color returned. When his eyes opened, they looked directly into the blue eyes of Hylde, which were bordered by the creases of age. “It's your lucky day Ash, for on any other day, before or after Summer Solstice, these blooms would be near useless for gathering—one of the shortest windows for gathering I know of, and I know many.” “The blooms have many uses,” she continued, “but most especially, they draw the poison of the lake's algae from the blood streams of unsuspecting adventurers, such as yourself. Mind you, most will not know this, even if they make it back to shore.” She shook her head sadly. “Unlike you, of course, most will spend time being digested in the belly of the Nokken, but those that do find the shore again will usually be drawn into a deep sleep and be eaten slowly alive by the creepy crawlies.” Hylde had said her piece, and before Ash could reply, she motioned for him to follow her. And he did, as all shadows do. Ellie A. Goss lives and works nestled between the Tarkine Forest and Cradle Mt National Park. She is published in books, ezines, magazines and anthologies across genres. She likes forests and old buildings and strangely trains. Image by Theodor Kittelsen And check out our FLASH FICTION & POETRY Writing Contest currently going on GRAND PRIZE $100 PLUS Publication in an upcoming digital issue PLUS Publication on this website PLUS Publication in our printed yearbook DETAILS HERE

Weep, Woman, Weep tells the compelling story of a young woman named Mercy who believes she has been “built for tears”. Growing up in a semi-rural small town on the banks of the Rio Grande river in New Mexico, Mercy has witnessed suffering of women who have been “claimed” by La Llorona, the legendary ghost who once drowned her own daughters and now looks to drag new victims into a watery grave. Mercy and her best friend Sherry dream of escape, and it is only after years of fear and setbacks that Mercy discovers a way to cultivate new growth from the collected tears of her pain. In DeBlassie’s hands, La Llorona is both a terrifying legend and a metaphor for generational trauma. The Weeping Woman haunts puddles and waterways, but she is also a mythic presence that keeps women frightened and subservient. To combat La Llorona, Mercy must learn to listen to the land, cultivating a garden and learning to balance her independence with the joys of true romance. She must understand her mother’s pain without succumbing to it, and her journey to find and harness her own powers is poignant and inspiring. This story blurs the line between the mythic and the ordinary, locating magic in seeds, soil, flowers, music, and kindness. I loved Mercy’s voice which narrates the novella. Mercy is honest in describing the beauties and horrors of the world around her and she wields a humorous control over own revelations, reminding the reader that this “is {her} story, and {she’ll} tell it the way {she} wants”. The themes of DeBlassie’s novel are also beautifully explored in her books Everyday Enchantment, a series of essays and vignettes that helps readers to see, learn from, and create magic, and Practically Pagan: An Alternative Guide To Magical Living, which is an instructional personal narrative about reclaiming identity and practicing sustainable routines that lead to a life of enchantment. Maria DeBlassie expertly explores loneliness and helps her readers transform the broken into the beautiful. Weep, Woman, Weep is aptly described as “a Gothic fairy tale about ancestral hauntings”, and it teaches readers that “we are the seeds we plant, not the histories forced upon us”. The magic and hope Weep, Woman, Weep offers will stay with readers long after they finish the final page. You can find the book here. Kelly Jarvis is the Special Projects Writer and Contributing Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine. Her work has appeared in Eternal Haunted Summer, Blue Heron Review, Forget-Me-Not Press, Mermaids Monthly, The Chamber Magazine, and Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers. She teaches at Central Connecticut State University.

Check out Kate's fabulous finds that you can enjoy, too! This week's pick: Baba Yaga is My Copilot! We have a Zazzle store, and every penny we earn from it goes to FTM. I’m proud of our wide array for merchandise, and I’m especially proud to be showing off a favorite new T-shirt today! Our “Baba Yaga Is My CoPilot” T-shirt is a collaboration between me and Amanda Bergloff, or Art Director and Managing Editor. I came up with the words and Amanda did the art, and I think the results are great. The T-shirt is fully customizable for all sizes, ages and genders, so don’t let the picture here fool you. There are tons of choices. I buy giant long-sleeved men’s T’s on Zazzle and wear them year-round in the house. I’ll be wearing my purchase of this T at our Zoom meeting for Fairy Godparents Club members. It’s at 7 p.m., EST tonight. That’s when we’ll have our night of celebration for all of the achievements of our members—whatever it is you’d like to share, share it! And I’ll be proudly sharing the Baba Yaga T. I’ll also be giving one short-sleeved T away! (If you aren’t a member of the Fairy Godparents Club yet, it’s not too late—you can even join today. Find out how to join here.) If you don’t like this T-shirt (but how could you not?), we’ve got tons of other cool merchandise at our store, so check it out! Yours in Enchantment, Kate And check out our FLASH FICTION & POETRY Writing Contest currently going on GRAND PRIZE $100 PLUS Publication in an upcoming digital issue PLUS Publication on this website PLUS Publication in our printed yearbook DETAILS HERE

Lies We Sing to the Sea by Sarah Underwood tells the story of a young oracle named Leto. The novel opens with a reference to the scene from The Odyssey when Penelope’s twelve maids are tragically executed as collateral damage to help Odysseus reclaim Ithaca as he returns home from his journey on the sea. Now, generations later, Poseidon casts a ring of scales around the necks of twelve girls who must be sacrificed for Ithaca every spring. This year, Leto and eleven other unlucky girls are to be hanged and deposited into the ocean prevent their land from being destroyed by the god of the sea. Although nothing can save Leto from her fate, she magically survives her ordeal and finds herself transformed on a secret island where she meets a being named Melantho who teaches her to command the power of water and explains that the curse of Ithaca can only be stopped by the death of its prince. Although this book is marketed in the tradition of Madeline Miller’s Circe, it is quite different from retellings of mythology which alter readers’ perceptions by giving voice to characters often unexplored by ancient poets. Underwood is not attempting to retell a mythic tale, but she is asking her readers to consider a key unexplored act of gendered violence from The Odyssey and to contemplate the outcome of that violence generations later. Beneath the coming of age plot and the sapphic romance aimed at her young adult audience, Underwood explores themes about loss and grief and offers a commentary on how sins against women can reverberate through the ages. Audiences will be drawn in by the characters who are all trying to navigate circumstances thrust upon them by the barbaric actions of Odysseus and the men from The Odyssey. Underwood does manage to spin an engaging story that casts light on the silenced women of The Odyssey, but her book falls short of transforming the content of her source material. Her characters (Leto, Selene, Hekate) are not the characters readers may know from their own study of Greek mythology, they are simply girls who share names with famous women and goddesses. Her plot also lacks convincing details about the daily life and customs in Ancient Greece. Nevertheless, Underwood provides an interesting story with a heart-breaking quality that will force readers to think about intergenerational trauma and its lasting effects. Lies We Sing to the Sea is a gripping tale for those who love mythology and Young Adult fantasy fiction. You can find the book here. Thank you to NetGalley for a free copy of the book in exchange for a fair review. Kelly Jarvis is the Special Projects Writer and Contributing Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine. Her work has appeared in Eternal Haunted Summer, Blue Heron Review, Forget-Me-Not Press, Mermaids Monthly, The Chamber Magazine, and Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers. She teaches at Central Connecticut State University. And check out our FLASH FICTION & POETRY Writing Contest currently going on GRAND PRIZE $100 PLUS Publication in an upcoming digital issue PLUS Publication on this website PLUS Publication in our printed yearbook DETAILS HERE

Her Dark Enchantments tells the story of Myravelle Sinner, the healer of the King’s Sleepy Woods Company, who uses her dark magic to wake soldiers infected with a cursed sleep by draining the life forces of her canvases (men chosen to bond their will with her power). Myravelle’s newest canvas, Byzarien Dumont, a man physically and emotionally scarred by his own past, performs his duties reluctantly, though over time, he, like all the canvases before him, falls under Myravelle’s seductive spell. Myravelle is a complex character both hated and feared for her power. She grew up in an isolated tower in Eglantyne Castle, watching her enslaved mother spin gold for the King. Now, Myravelle’s magic has become something to be coveted and controlled, and as she discovers her lineage and comes to terms with her own difficult past, she wears her grief “like heavy chainmail.” Her power and pain earn her the labels “Spider”, “Witch”, “Wicked Fairy”, and “Mistress of All Evil”, but though she ultimately seeks dark revenge, her story elicits sympathy as readers discover she is far more than the labels that are applied to her. This book was a delightful romance which tells the origin story of Sleeping Beauty’s villain. I enjoyed the detailed presentation of the beautiful but dangerous fairy world which features creatures like water fairies, flame fairies, and plant fairies working in delicate balance with nature. I also loved the consistent return to the act of spinning and the mantra of “draft, pinch, spin, park, and repeat.” Fans of fairy tales will find much to love as they meet a classic villain and consider her actions in the context of her own painful experiences. If you enjoy “Sleeping Beauty” and “Rumpelstiltskin”, give Her Dark Enchantments a try! You can order the book here. Thank you to NetGalley for a free copy of the book in exchange for a fair review. Kelly Jarvis is the Special Projects Writer and Contributing Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine. Her work has appeared in Eternal Haunted Summer, Blue Heron Review, Forget-Me-Not Press, Mermaids Monthly, The Chamber Magazine, and Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers. She teaches at Central Connecticut State University. And check out our FLASH FICTION & POETRY Writing Contest currently going on GRAND PRIZE $100 PLUS Publication in an upcoming digital issue PLUS Publication on this website PLUS Publication in our printed yearbook DETAILS HERE

Editor’s note: Today's Throwback Thursday poem is rich in detail, and the storytelling will fire your imagination.... Enjoy! You must remember that I smiled daily through sleep-stained eyes, accepted jewels from your hand, each gem a weight on my neck, a cruel pressure that stopped up my throat and caged my voice but nonetheless let it rest. When one night of marriage flipped into two, then three, then four, it was as though the whole palace seized and sighed, and servants began to look me in the eye and heed my requests. My sister commanded an army of couriers: sent them to the Maghreb, to the Mamluks, to el-Andalus, to the Chola dynasty, to warring Seljuqs and Jalayirids, and oh the stories they brought back: calligraphy on lamb-skin parchment, papyrus, even paper from farther east. Before, I had enough stories in me – some from books, some from mouths – to number as many as ants drawn to honey. Within weeks, I had enough stories to compete with stars in the sky, enough to keep me alive, but still one was missing: the story to buy my freedom. An emissary from the clever Kabyles laid one manuscript at my feet: spooling threads of Maghrebi calligraphy almost overflowing and spilling onto the rugs, threatening to dye tassels with its rich blue ink written in lilting Tifinagh script: twenty tales, and one a key. The peasant man switches places with a caliph (my mind catalogues the motif, coming up with 31 similar tales immediately) who enjoys his loquacious inebriation and dresses up the peasant in his clothes, making him caliph for a day. The peasant thinks himself caliph, makes advances to the slave girls, caresses them with words and callused hands until one agrees to come to his bed: but first, a meal, one she peppers with banj, and the sleep that comes for him is swift, his memories muddled. Swallowed by sleep, the peasant wakes in his own bed: was he a caliph dreaming of being a peasant, or a peasant dreaming of being caliph? Two more nights the caliph tricks him; two more nights the slave girl drugs him. Eventually the caliph reveals the ruse, rewarding the peasant with wealth for life. No more is written of the slave girl. She disappears from the story. The court chemist finds me banj, laces it with poppy milk and other gifts from loyal diplomats. Loyal to me, I should specify. I know how much you love your tea before story-time. You’ve loved it for months now …how many months? Ah. Good question, but the main question now is: Should you disappear? Or should I? Jeana Jorgensen earned her PhD in folklore from Indiana University. She researches gender and sexuality in fairy tales and fairy-tale retellings, folk narrative more generally, body art, dance, and feminist/queer theory. Her poetry has appeared at Strange Horizons, Quatrain. Fish, Liminality, Glittership, and other venues. Image of Scheherazade by Virginia Sterett. And check out our SHOP PAGE with our all new DIGITAL DOWNLOADS HERE

You may have already read Lessons in Chemistry. It was a bestseller last year, and is already slated to be an Apple TV+ series later this year. But I came late to the party with this book, and only discovered it about a week ago, but I’m very glad I did. In Elizabeth Zott, our main character, we find a scientific genius who is also extremely pretty and is probably on the autism spectrum. This may make her seem like a Mary Sue, that dreaded avatar for naive and self-regarding first-time novelists, but she isn’t. Everyone suffers, and so does Elizabeth Zott, but she is written with clarity, asperity and heart. She’s not interested in fitting in, and she won’t go along to get along. In reading Elizabeth’s story, we see her grow, develop, overcome real hardship, experience love, and problem solve through chemistry. If you want a more thorough summary and analysis, here you go. She also manages to build a true family by the end of her story. I’m more interested in explaining why this novel is being reviewed on a fairy tale site. Here’s why: Elizabeth may be brilliant and beautiful, but she’s a Cinderella character. She’s had a hard upbringing and comes across countless obstacles (usually in the form of dunderheaded Mid-century men) during the book. Indeed, if you are leery of books that are critical of misogyny in both men and women, this isn’t for you. Stephanie Golloway wrote about resiliency in Cinderella stories recently, and it’s a good read! I mention this because Elizabeth Stott is resilient. That’s a big reason why I consider her a Cinderella figure. Elizabeth gets knocked down pretty hard, but, eventually, she climbs back up, no matter what. And because the pace of the book is sprightly, readers do not find themselves wallowing with the story even when tragedies happen. It’s ultimately a hopeful tale. I should also add that there is a fairy godmother figure in the story and there is a “supernatural” character too, so she has help and friendship. Throughout the book, there is always someone who will try to help Elizabeth, even if they don’t always come at the perfect time and can show up in surprising ways. The book also has great supporting characters in the form of a brilliant and quirky daughter, a downtrodden babysitter and some other improbable friends. And Six Thirty is a Very Good Dog. If you read the book, you’ll see what I mean. About the only thing I want to add here is a content warning: Assault and abuse happen in this book. Both are handled with sensitivity and the author does not dwell on them. Garmus is also pretty hard on religion, so if that will really upset you, you’ve been warned. Garmus has written a highly entertaining, absorbing, enchanting and touching novel in Lessons in Chemistry, and for once, I can strongly recommend a popular novel that is not overhyped. Enjoy! You can buy Lessons in Chemistry HERE Kate Wolford is editor-in-chief of The Fairy Tale Magazine. And check out our SHOP PAGE with our all new DIGITAL DOWNLOADS HERE

The Princess Bride is one of my favorite novels. The Princess Bride is one of my favorite movies. So, when I learned there was an Unofficial Princess Bride Cookbook released in celebration of the movie’s 35th anniversary in 2022, I knew I had to read it, and it was no surprise that I loved every page! The introduction, which presents The Princess Bride as a story about stories, argues that food is a “great people-uniter”, recognizing the power of foodways to bring families and cultures together. Divided into sections like Drinks and Cocktails (Boooooooze!), Soups and Stews (Are you just ladling around with me or what?), Appetizers and Accompaniments (Do you always begin meals this way?), Main Courses (Prepare to dine!), and Cakes, Pies and Tarts (I’ll eat you both apart! I’ll bake you both together!), this book is designed to make the reader smile. The recipes, which are all accompanied by beautiful full color photos, include “Mostly Dead Corpse Reviver”, “Fezzik’s Restorative Stew”, “Pre-torture Nourishment”, and “Buttercup’s Perfect (Chicken) Breasts.” The author also proposes complete party menus for a “Feast of Insanity” and a “Storming the Castle Banquet”. Every page is full of mouthwatering nostalgia. In addition to the recipes, the book proposes a drinking game for watching the film, encouraging readers to take a sip every time Westley says “as you wish” or Fezzik rhymes a word. There are also tidbits of information about the book and movie scattered throughout the pages. Although I didn’t try any of the recipes, I absolutely loved this book and would recommend it to all fans of The Princess Bride. This hardcover volume would make a lovely gift for anyone who enjoys the story, and it may even inspire some Princess Bride Costume parties complete with the perfect snacks and drinks. Have fun storming the kitchens! You can find the book here. Thank you to NetGalley for a free copy of the book in exchange for a fair review. Kelly Jarvis is the Special Projects Writer and Contributing Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine. Her work has appeared in Eternal Haunted Summer, Blue Heron Review, Forget-Me-Not Press, Mermaids Monthly, The Chamber Magazine, and Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers. She teaches at Central Connecticut State University. And check out our SHOP PAGE with our all new DIGITAL DOWNLOADS HERE

Editor's note: Today's Throwback Thursday is a fantastic article on "Hansel and Gretel" that will make you think of this fairy tale in new ways. Enjoy! "Hansel and Gretel" probably has done more to harm the reputation of stepmothers than any other fairy tale -- except, of course "Cinderella." But in many early versions, the mother figure wasn't a step at all. She was plain, old mom. Once people began to see fairy tales as children's stories, the stepmother label became more common. But let's not forget that the father in this story is a weak man who knows he shouldn't give into his wife but does anyway. Oh, it's a bad tale for parents, "Hansel and Gretel" is. Some other points to ponder: The mother figure and the witch are likely meant to be the same woman. The witch is burned at the end of the story and the mother is dead at the end as well. More telling is that both the "mother" and the witch call Hansel "lazybones." In a story where words are not wasted, these seems like it is probably not an accident. Next, it seems that Hansel and Gretel are meant to be "regular" children with the charm and shortcomings of real children. Gretel is a classic crybaby for much of the story and Hansel is a solidly dependable big brother figure. Yet, after the witch imprisons them, Gretel ..., well, she cries some more, but after four weeks, she has grown a lot and it is through her initiative that she and her brother break free. Also, note that when the witch first encounters Hansel and Gretel literally eating her out of house and home, she asks them who they are and they seem to blame it on The Heavenly Child. Wouldn't that have been a Baby Jesus reference? It's a weird little scene. Oh, notice the birds. They show up in important places in the story. That little bit about the mouse at the end of story seems to have been a convention of the time that sometimes showed up in these stories. Finally, the "gingerbread" house, you will note, is made of bread and cake in this version. Next to a great forest there lived a poor woodcutter with his wife and his two children. The boy's name was Hansel and the girl's name was Gretel. He had but little to eat, and once, when a great famine came to the land, he could no longer provide even their daily bread. One evening as he was lying in bed worrying about his problems, he sighed and said to his wife, "What is to become of us? How can we feed our children when we have nothing for ourselves?" "Man, do you know what?" answered the woman. "Early tomorrow morning we will take the two children out into the thickest part of the woods, make a fire for them, and give each of them a little piece of bread, then leave them by themselves and go off to our work. They will not find their way back home, and we will be rid of them." "No, woman," said the man. "I will not do that. How could I bring myself to abandon my own children alone in the woods? Wild animals would soon come and tear them to pieces." "Oh, you fool," she said, "then all four of us will starve. All you can do is to plane the boards for our coffins." And she gave him no peace until he agreed. "But I do feel sorry for the poor children," said the man. The two children had not been able to fall asleep because of their hunger, and they heard what the stepmother had said to the father. Gretel cried bitter tears and said to Hansel, "It is over with us!" "Be quiet, Gretel," said Hansel, "and don't worry. I know what to do." And as soon as the adults had fallen asleep, he got up, pulled on his jacket, opened the lower door, and crept outside. The moon was shining brightly, and the white pebbles in front of the house were glistening like silver coins. Hansel bent over and filled his jacket pockets with them, as many as would fit. Then he went back into the house and said, "Don't worry, Gretel. Sleep well. God will not forsake us." Then he went back to bed. At daybreak, even before sunrise, the woman came and woke the two children. "Get up, you lazybones. We are going into the woods to fetch wood." Then she gave each one a little piece of bread, saying, "Here is something for midday. Don't eat it any sooner, for you'll not get any more." Gretel put the bread under her apron, because Hansel's pockets were full of stones. Then all together they set forth into the woods. After they had walked a little way, Hansel began stopping again and again and looking back toward the house. The father said, "Hansel, why are you stopping and looking back? Pay attention now, and don't forget your legs." "Oh, father," said Hansel, "I am looking at my white cat that is sitting on the roof and wants to say good-bye to me." The woman said, "You fool, that isn't your cat. That's the morning sun shining on the chimney." However, Hansel had not been looking at his cat but instead had been dropping the shiny pebbles from his pocket onto the path. When they arrived in the middle of the woods, the father said, "You children gather some wood, and I will make a fire so you won't freeze." Hansel and Gretel gathered together some twigs, a pile as high as a small mountain. The twigs were set afire, and when the flames were burning well, the woman said, "Lie down by the fire and rest. We will go into the woods to cut wood. When we are finished, we will come back and get you." Hansel and Gretel sat by the fire. When midday came each one ate his little piece of bread. Because they could hear the blows of an ax, they thought that the father was nearby. However, it was not an ax. It was a branch that he had tied to a dead tree and that the wind was beating back and forth. After they had sat there a long time, their eyes grew weary and closed, and they fell sound sleep. When they finally awoke, it was dark at night. Gretel began to cry and said, "How will we get out of woods?" Hansel comforted her, "Wait a little until the moon comes up, and then we'll find the way." After the full moon had come up, Hansel took his little sister by the hand. They followed the pebbles that glistened there like newly minted coins, showing them the way. They walked throughout the entire night, and as morning was breaking, they arrived at the father's house. They knocked on the door, and when the woman opened it and saw that it was Hansel and Gretel, she said, "You wicked children, why did you sleep so long in the woods? We thought that you did not want to come back." But the father was overjoyed when he saw his children once more, for he had not wanted to leave them alone. Not long afterward there was once again great need everywhere, and one evening the children heard the mother say to the father, "We have again eaten up everything. We have only a half loaf of bread, and then the song will be over. We must get rid of the children. We will take them deeper into the woods, so they will not find their way out. Otherwise there will be no help for us." The man was very disheartened, and he thought, "It would be better to share the last bit with the children." But the woman would not listen to him, scolded him, and criticized him. He who says A must also say B, and because he had given in the first time, he had to do so the second time as well. The children were still awake and had overheard the conversation. When the adults were asleep, Hansel got up again and wanted to gather pebbles as he had done before, but the woman had locked the door, and Hansel could not get out. But he comforted his little sister and said, "Don't cry, Gretel. Sleep well. God will help us." Early the next morning the woman came and got the children from their beds. They received their little pieces of bread, even less than the last time. On the way to the woods, Hansel crumbled his piece in his pocket, then often stood still, and threw crumbs onto the ground. "Hansel, why are you always stopping and looking around?" said his father. "Keep walking straight ahead." "I can see my pigeon sitting on the roof. It wants to say good-bye to me." "Fool," said the woman, "that isn't your pigeon. That's the morning sun shining on the chimney." But little by little Hansel dropped all the crumbs onto the path. The woman took them deeper into the woods than they had ever been in their whole lifetime. Once again a large fire was made, and the mother said, "Sit here, children. If you get tired you can sleep a little. We are going into the woods to cut wood. We will come and get you in the evening when we are finished." When it was midday Gretel shared her bread with Hansel, who had scattered his piece along the path. Then they fell asleep, and evening passed, but no one came to get the poor children. It was dark at night when they awoke, and Hansel comforted Gretel and said, "Wait, when the moon comes up I will be able to see the crumbs of bread that I scattered, and they will show us the way back home." When the moon appeared they got up, but they could not find any crumbs, for the many thousands of birds that fly about in the woods and in the fields had pecked them up. Hansel said to Gretel, "We will find our way," but they did not find it. They walked through the entire night and the next day from morning until evening, but they did not find their way out of the woods. They were terribly hungry, for they had eaten only a few small berries that were growing on the ground. And because they were so tired that their legs would no longer carry them, they lay down under a tree and fell asleep. It was already the third morning since they had left the father's house. They started walking again, but managed only to go deeper and deeper into the woods. If help did not come soon, they would perish. At midday they saw a little snow-white bird sitting on a branch. It sang so beautifully that they stopped to listen. When it was finished it stretched its wings and flew in front of them. They followed it until they came to a little house. The bird sat on the roof, and when they came closer, they saw that the little house was built entirely from bread with a roof made of cake, and the windows were made of clear sugar. "Let's help ourselves to a good meal," said Hansel. "I'll eat a piece of the roof, and Gretel, you eat from the window. That will be sweet." Hansel reached up and broke off a little of the roof to see how it tasted, while Gretel stood next to the windowpanes and was nibbling at them. Then a gentle voice called out from inside: Nibble, nibble, little mouse, Who is nibbling at my house? The children answered: The wind, the wind, The heavenly child. They continued to eat, without being distracted. Hansel, who very much like the taste of the roof, tore down another large piece, and Gretel poked out an entire round windowpane. Suddenly the door opened, and a woman, as old as the hills and leaning on a crutch, came creeping out. Hansel and Gretel were so frightened that they dropped what they were holding in their hands. But the old woman shook her head and said, "Oh, you dear children, who brought you here? Just come in and stay with me. No harm will come to you." She took them by the hand and led them into her house. Then she served them a good meal: milk and pancakes with sugar, apples, and nuts. Afterward she made two nice beds for them, decked in white. Hansel and Gretel went to bed, thinking they were in heaven. But the old woman had only pretended to be friendly. She was a wicked witch who was lying in wait there for children. She had built her house of bread only in order to lure them to her, and if she captured one, she would kill him, cook him, and eat him; and for her that was a day to celebrate. Witches have red eyes and cannot see very far, but they have a sense of smell like animals, and know when humans are approaching. When Hansel and Gretel came near to her, she laughed wickedly and spoke scornfully, "Now I have them. They will not get away from me again." Early the next morning, before they awoke, she got up, went to their beds, and looked at the two of them lying there so peacefully, with their full red cheeks. "They will be a good mouthful," she mumbled to herself. Then she grabbed Hansel with her withered hand and carried him to a little stall, where she locked him behind a cage door. Cry as he might, there was no help for him. Then she shook Gretel and cried, "Get up, lazybones! Fetch water and cook something good for your brother. He is locked outside in the stall and is to be fattened up. When he is fat I am going to eat him." Gretel began to cry, but it was all for nothing. She had to do what the witch demanded. Now Hansel was given the best things to eat every day, but Gretel received nothing but crayfish shells. Every morning the old woman crept out to the stall and shouted, "Hansel, stick out your finger, so I can feel if you are fat yet." But Hansel stuck out a little bone, and the old woman, who had bad eyes and could not see the bone, thought it was Hansel's finger, and she wondered why he didn't get fat. When four weeks had passed and Hansel was still thin, impatience overcame her, and she would wait no longer. "Hey, Gretel!" she shouted to the girl, "Hurry up and fetch some water. Whether Hansel is fat or thin, tomorrow I am going to slaughter him and boil him." Oh, how the poor little sister sobbed as she was forced to carry the water, and how the tears streamed down her cheeks! "Dear God, please help us," she cried. "If only the wild animals had devoured us in the woods, then we would have died together." "Save your slobbering," said the old woman. "It doesn't help you at all." The next morning Gretel had to get up early, hang up the kettle with water, and make a fire. "First we are going to bake," said the old woman. "I have already made a fire in the oven and kneaded the dough." She pushed poor Gretel outside to the oven, from which fiery flames were leaping. "Climb in," said the witch, "and see if it is hot enough to put the bread in yet." And when Gretel was inside, she intended to close the oven, and bake her, and eat her as well. But Gretel saw what she had in mind, so she said, "I don't know how to do that. How can I get inside?" "Stupid goose," said the old woman. The opening is big enough. See, I myself could get in." And she crawled up stuck her head into the oven. Then Gretel gave her a shove, causing her to fall in. Then she closed the iron door and secured it with a bar. The old woman began to howl frightfully. But Gretel ran away, and the godless witch burned up miserably. Gretel ran straight to Hansel, unlocked his stall, and cried, "Hansel, we are saved. The old witch is dead." Then Hansel jumped out, like a bird from its cage when someone opens its door. How happy they were! They threw their arms around each other's necks, jumped with joy, and kissed one another. Because they now had nothing to fear, they went into the witch's house. In every corner were chests of pearls and precious stones. "These are better than pebbles," said Hansel, filling his pockets. Gretel said, "I will take some home with me as well," and she filled her apron full. "But now we must leave," said Hansel, "and get out of these witch-woods." After walking a few hours they arrived at a large body of water. "We cannot get across," said Hansel. "I cannot see a walkway or a bridge." "There are no boats here," answered Gretel, "but there is a white duck swimming. If I ask it, it will help us across." Then she called out: Duckling, duckling, Here stand Gretel and Hansel. Neither a walkway nor a bridge, Take us onto your white back. The duckling came up to them, and Hansel climbed onto it, then asked his little sister to sit down next to him. "No," answered Gretel. "That would be too heavy for the duckling. It should take us across one at a time." That is what the good animal did, and when they were safely on the other side, and had walked on a little while, the woods grew more and more familiar to them, and finally they saw the father's house in the distance. They began to run, rushed inside, and threw their arms around the father's neck. The man had not had even one happy hour since he had left the children in the woods. However, the woman had died. Gretel shook out her apron, scattering pearls and precious stones around the room, and Hansel added to them by throwing one handful after the other from his pockets. Now all their cares were at an end, and they lived happily together. My tale is done, A mouse has run. And whoever catches it can make for himself from it a large, large fur cap. Kate Wolford. is editor-in-chief of The Fairy Tale Magazine. lIlustrations in order of appearance: Unknown Anne Anderson Jennie Harbour Ethel Franklin Betts Jennie Harbour Jessie Wilcox Smith Kay Nielsen Charles Robinson John B. Gruelle H.J. Ford Unknown And check out our SHOP PAGE with our all new DIGITAL DOWNLOADS HERE

Editor’s note: Today's Throwback Thursday tale mixes charming details with some familiar and delightful fairy tale standards, and the result is thoroughly entertaining. Enjoy! The miller’s daughter had been left a ring by her mother which was slightly too big for her finger, so she often took it off and put it on; took it off and put it on. One day she walked by the millpond and heard croaking, high and low, for all the world like a conversation. Nearer she crept and nearer, fingers idly playing, till she saw a knot of toads: one large one surrounded by many smaller ones, for all the world like a king and his court. She laughed, but, laughing, slipped on the soft pond edge and plop! in she went like a toad, and plip! more quietly, in went the ring. She flopped and floundered, floundered and flopped, and made it back to the bank, where the smaller toads with their high-pitched croaking sounded like they were laughing, till the large one, with one deep croak, silenced them. When she sat on the bank, she noticed she had lost a shoe, and it new. Thinking, she took the other one off and put it safe, then waded in and by luck more than judgment found the shoe. Utterly covered in mud, only now did she notice her finger did not shine. Knowing she had trodden the pond bottom thoroughly, she also realised she had probably trodden the ring deep into the mud. And so she flopped and floundered to the bank where she cried and cried, till the tears cleaned her face and restored some of her looks. The smaller toads had all vanished, but the larger one watched her gravely, and eventually it asked, “Whatever is the matter?” “Oh,” she sobbed, “I have lost my mother’s ring that she left me, and I likely never to get it back!” “I should laugh at you as you laughed at us,” said the toad. The miller’s daughter, irked, snapped, “I heard you laughing.” “I did not laugh,” said the toad. “No,” said the miller’s daughter, slowly, “you didn’t.” “If you will promise faithfully to do me a favor when I ask it of you,” said the toad, slowly, “I will find the ring.” “I promise,” replied the miller’s daughter. Plop! in went the toad. For days she did not see him, then there he was in her garden, and at his feet the ring. “Oh, thank you!” she cried, and put it on her finger at once. “I like this garden,” remarked the toad. “It is neat and pretty, with soft, damp soil. And near the pond. May I live here?” “Of course!” cried the miller’s daughter. “Of course!” And so began the friendship between a toad and a miller’s daughter. The would have long conversations about whatever took their fancy, and if the miller’s daughter thought he was strangely educated for a toad, she was smart enough not to press the point. From time to time the smaller toads visited the garden, too, and then the knot of toads would form, and the croaking, high and low. Each night after this happened, deep in the dark hours, the miller’s daughter would hear long, hoarse croaks like sobs. Eventually she went down to the garden despite the night air and the dew and found her friend. “Whatever is the matter?” she asked. “I have a jewel in my head, and it pains me,” replied the toad. Now, the miller’s daughter knew that toads carried jewels in their head, and that alchemists and wizards would pay a pretty penny for toadstones, but she had never heard that it pained the toad before. But then, she had never met such a well-educated toad before, so she took it in her stride. “It must pain you greatly, to cry out so,” she said softly, picking him up and, she thought, noticing a shining beneath the skin on his head. “It does, and it grows worse,” replied the toad. “I need to ask you—will you take it out for me?” “But that would kill you!” she said. “Nevertheless,” he insisted. “I did not cavil when it took me a week and a day to find your ring.” “No more you did,” she said thoughtfully. “Leave the matter with me.” She consulted the witch who lived further down the river about how to remove a toadstone. “Put it on a piece of red cloth,” remarked the witch. “If that doesn’t work at least it will soak the blood when you smash its head.” She walked a long way to consult a cunning man, pretending she was interested in the things he was interested in. “I hear,” she said to him, “that toadstones are sovereign in the curing of fits. Is this true?” “Only if taken from the head of a living toad,” he said. “Here, I’ll show you.” Alas, all of his demonstrations resulted in the death of the toad, and the miller’s daughter’s spirits fell. Still, she pretended she was interested in the cunning man’s medicines, and walked there every week pretending to study with him and reading his books, but she found no way of removing the jewel in her friend’s head without killing him. And soon she noticed that the cunning man had more than a teacher’s interest in her, so she stopped going. When she got home, she went to find the toad in her garden. It was coming on night, and the smaller toads had gathered. “My toad,” she said, “I have read and studied as widely as I can, and I can find no way to remove the jewel that pains you that will not result in your death. I do not wish to kill you. You are a good friend to me. “Are you still of the same mind you were?” The toad nodded. “There is a way, but if you cannot find it in your heart, then it is not to be found,” he said. His words turned and turned themselves in her mind till, suddenly, she had an idea. She picked her friend up carefully, and, hoping against hope, removed the jewel with a kiss. Immediately a young man stood before her, with a ruby in his hand and a grievous head wound. He fell to the floor. The smaller toads, transformed into his friends, and each with rubies in their hands, rushed to surround him, and carried him off. The miller’s daughter rushed to her room in tears, though she knew not why. Some days later, bandaged but alive, he appeared again in the garden, and held out his hand to the miller’s daughter. “My dearest friend,” he began, “many years ago I unwisely employed a dishonest man in my retinue, who stole a ruby necklace from a sorceress and planted it in my possession. She, finding it among my things, cursed me and my true servants to be toads, with a ruby in each of our heads, until such time as someone. knowing nothing about me, would find it in her heart to remove it. “You have proved not only to be wise of counsel but wise of heart, and you have learned not to act without thinking, as once you acted by the millpond. Will you, then, come with me, and be my wife?” “Gladly,” said the miller’s daughter, and in time they came to the young lord’s lands, where he was wonderfully received. They married and become renowned for their kindness and wisdom—and they kept their gardens neat and pretty, with soft, damp soil, for any toads who might be passing by. Jennifer A. McGowan won the Prole pamphlet competition in 2020, and as a result, Prolebooks published her winning pamphlet, Still Lives with Apocalypse. She has been published in several countries, in journals such as The Rialto, Pank, The Connecticut Review, Acumen and Agenda. She is a disabled poet who has also had Long Covid for 15 months at time of writing. She prefers the fifteenth century to the twenty-first, and would move there were it not for her fondness of indoor plumbing. And check out our SHOP PAGE with our all new DIGITAL DOWNLOADS HERE