In the coming few pages, I intend to clear a couple of misunderstandings …
There is a common lie that I am not her mother; that I am just some loony, jealous, and insecure stepmother who deceived a king into marrying her so she can share the throne and become queen. A queen obsessed with her long-gone beauty, being jealous of a young giddy and helpless brat. To be honest – and honesty is not my fairest charm –, I might have been worse. A lot worse. I might have danced with mischievous faeries too near to the dark side of the moon. I might have ushered young butterflies to the deceiving light of fire. I might have slaughtered and slithered, tortured and burned, laced and suffocated, combed and killed, poisoned tongues, ripped out hearts, and ate blood-apples topped with chocolate syrup and fluid milk. But you know what? I am not even half the evil that she is made of. Beautiful evil.
If I were not her mother, why do you think the Brothers Grimm altered the version of the tale between 1812 and 1857? In the first version of the so-called fairy tale, they addressed me as her mother, but fifty-five years later, the two German brothers changed my character to a stepmother. I know you’d call me a liar but why don’t you do yourself a favor and reread the books of history before you stone me to death and spit fire like dragons at the my majesty.
And, oh lord, then came out the Disney version of the tale, and they made a stereotypical puppet out of me; a villain who is evil for the sake of being evil, without soul, needs, or motives.
Did you know that the scene where I transform into that ugly witch was based on Nosferatu, the oldest vampire in German cinema?
I won’t waste my time with that fact right now – you’re not ready for the truth.
At least, the Brothers Grimm claimed that changing my character into a stepmother was to tone down the dark and violent tale. As much as I didn’t like it, I agreed with them. I understand why they altered and forged the Snow White tale. It had to be done for saving the world.
Still, the thought always crossed my mind:
If I swore on Books of Sand and Mirrors of pure enchanting light, would you believe me? Will you at least try to understand why I did what I did?
-- Which is not what you think I did.
Before I tell you about her and what she really is, let me tell you about the last time I met with Jacob Carl Grimm, the teller of the Snow White tale on December 16, 1859, in Steinau, Germany.
It was right before he died in a cottage in the middle of a forest. Even on his dying bed, he surrounded himself with elements of the tale. He spent the last days of his life isolated and alone, dealing with his demons and trying to solve the puzzle.
“Let me help you,” I offered, standing by his bed, stretching out my hand. “I could make you live forever.”
“Who wants to live forever?” He moaned in pain, lying on his back. For a mortal man, his words were kind of insulting. People who lived forever like me would love to believe that short-lived humans envy them, but Jacob didn’t. “And why would you want me to live forever? We’ve not been quite on the same side of the war.”
“Oh. Jacob. I am just afraid that when you die, the truth just dies with you forever.” I sat next to him, watching his face dimming under the candlelight. Even beneath the orange and yellow flicker, his face was expressionless and unreadable, keeping too many secrets from me. “Not that I want all of the truth to be revealed to the world,” I explained. “Just a little of it,” I said, narrowing my index and thumb fingers together while pursing lips teasingly. “I want them to know the part about Snow White. The real part.” I hissed.
Jacob didn’t reply.
“Ah, Jacob,” I sighed, looking at two mirror coins in the palm of my hand and fiddling with them. “Can’t you see what they have done to our tale? Did you hear about that Disney movie they are about to make the future? I saw it in a fortune telling Chrystal ball.”
“No,” Jacob coughed. “But I heard about how in the future they will have the tools to forge the best of tales. I wish I had those when I altered the fairy tales in my books.” Jacob said regretfully, not for he didn’t have the tools but somehow regretting he had altered the tales.
“I’ll be looking awful in that movie. How are they going to portray my beauty?” I said, rolling my eyes then breathing into my nails. “You know what a movie is, right?”
“Not really. I am not into caring about the future.”
“But of course. Why would you care about a future that you have forged its past?” I smirked at him but he didn’t get my message. “It’s a disgrace,” I elaborated. “Even Snow White is portrayed so wrong. What have they done to her? This is nowhere close to who she really is. What she really is. All but being a master of faking her clichéd innocence all the time. They call me the Evil Queen without even knowing my real name for mirror’s sake.”