Ivan and Isabelle
A very grim fairytale.
Greetings, mortals. I warn you, this is a particularly dark and bloody story that stretches where even the Grimms dared not tred.
You can turn back now, while you still can.
Or press on into the woods…
When I was young and restless in sleep, I’d crawl from my tiny bed and make my way to my grandmother’s room. I’d snuggle up again her side, the scent of lavender and talcum powder and strong cough sweets heavy in the air. She’d whisper a story in my ear, then carry me back to bed.
This story was told to her by her own grandmother, who came from a wilder country. My grandmother’s grandmother claimed to have heard it from a boy who’d lived in the village over, where the events took place, though even at my young age, I was never quite convinced of that part. Still, there was a realness buried in the tale. A wicked, thrumming heartbeat.
Once, my grandmother told me, there was a house at the edge of a town on the edge of a forest. The community was isolated, yet prosperous, and many fine folks lived there. But the finest of them all were the mayor and his wife, along with their two beautiful children, Ivan and Isabelle.
There was a year between Ivan and Isabelle yet many said they could have been twins, they were so alike. Their hair was the colour of starlight and their curls as tight as a miser’s purse. The mayor and his wife adored them, and bought them fine clothes to wear, and bowed to their every whim.
One would think that such children would grow up spoiled and rotten as a canker, but it was not so. Isabelle and Ivan were well-behaved Christians, who went to church every Sunday and always obeyed their parents.
The mayor saw their obedience and thought it should be rewarded. So one fine morning, having bought a fine acre for a steal and a song, he rode out into the forest and was gone for three days.
When he returned, his wife and children bounded up to the carriage, crying. ‘Oh my dear, my dear, whatever drove you away for so long?’
The mayor only smiled as he climbed down from his horse, and reached into the carriage. From there he produced a basket, and inside, dressed up in crimson ribbon, was a tiny pup, its coat the very colour of snow.
Isabelle named the pup Wisp, for his fur was so fine. He grew up handsome and strong, and the children took him everywhere, even to school, for the pup was so good, and all the boys and girls of the town loved him. Yet Isabelle and Ivan would never let the others touch him, lest their dirty hands sullied his beautiful white fur.
Some years later, when the children were taller and Wisp was full grown, disaster struck the little town. A harsh winter killed all the crops, and no one in the villages about had any money to buy the town’s wares. So the people grew poor and hungry.
The townsfolk went to the mayor and begged him to do something to alleviate their suffering. The mayor threw up his hands at their wailing and weeping and told the people to repent of their sins, for the Lord was clearly punishing them. So the townsfolk went away again, feeling bitter.
At last, the spectre of hunger knocked upon the mayor’s brightly painted door. The children, whose cheeks had been so bonny and bright, began to wane and grow listless. Yet because they were good and obedient children, they did not complain to their parents about their empty plates and aching bones, instead giving what little they had to Wisp, for Isabelle afeared he might die.
One morning the children awoke to their mother’s awful cry; the stable door was open and the mayor’s chestnut mare stolen away. The mayor’s wife made a great ta-do, threatening to ransack every house until she found the culprit, and throw them off the stone bridge into the icy river. But the mayor calmed her, saying, ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.’ For he knew the bitterness of the townsfolk, and feared their retribution.
The theft frightened poor Ivan and Isabelle. They greatly afeared for Wisp, lest some hungry, envious townsfolk come and steal him away. They decided to keep a close watch over him all night long, taking it in turns to guard him with a large wooden stick in hand.
Ivan took the first watch, Wisp laying in his lap while his sister slept. He waited until the darkest part of the night, yet when it was time to wake his sister, he could not, for she looked at such peace, and had for so long been troubled. Instead, he paced about to keep awake, while Wisp trotted by, silent as mist.
‘Come my boy, come my boy.’ he sang. ‘Stay with your master, for the night is long.’
At last, the boy sat down, for his bones were weary, and he had eaten little for many days. His head grew heavy, and he fell into deep slumber.
Dawn came, and Ivan woke with a cry. He sobbed and sobbed, calling for his Wisp. Yet the house stayed silent.
In great sorrow, Ivan awoke his sister and told her what had occurred. He gripped the bedside and lamented his own foolishness, but Isabelle calmed him, saying, ‘He will not have gone far.’
‘But what if the people eat him and turn him into stew?’
Isabelle recalled her mother’s angry promise. ‘We shall find him before they do, and beat them with sticks, and throw them off the stone bridge and into the icy river!’
These words greatly cheered Ivan, and the two children went out into the town. After searching the streets, they saw small footprints, and a few strands of soft white fur. They followed them over the hill and fields towards the edge of the forest, and there they stopped, for their parents had warned them never to enter the forest alone. It was dark and twisting, and full of strange terrors.
But, Ivan reasoned, they were not alone. They were together.
The children wandered into the dark forest. Up and down and left and right they went, twisting and turning like the roots of great trees. After many hours, Isabelle sat upon the ground, for her feet were sore, and she was tired from little food. Ivan sat with her. ‘We must go on, dear sister,’ said he. ‘I shall hold your hand and give your strength.’
The children held hands and went deeper and deeper into the forest, crossing streams and clambering over logs. Their fine clothes tore and their pale hair grew matted with twigs and leaves, but Ivan and Isabelle paid these hardships no mind. All they cared for was finding their Wisp again.
At last, the children wandered into a glade. There, beneath a large oak tree, sat a gnarled cottage, and before its gate stood an old woman.
‘Oh children, little children,’ she called. ‘Come stop with me and have some bread. I have little to spare but will share it with two hungry Christian souls.’
The children looked at the old woman. Her back was bent, her hands were crooked, and her brows were dark and bushy. A skinny black cat weaved around her spindly legs, arching its narrow back.
And the children thought to themselves, she is but playing at kindness, and is naught but a witch.
So they picked up small stones and flung them at the old woman, crying. ‘Be off with you, you wicked witch!’ And they ran far away.
By this time, the sun had moved across the height of the sky and the wind had grown colder. Still, the children followed the little footprints as best they could. The trees grew closer in this part of the forest, and the air smelt foul.
But Ivan and Isabelle stayed close together, granting each other strength.
At long last, the children came across a pretty little cottage with smoke coming out of its chimney, where a beautiful young woman stood in a fine crimson cloak. Her hair was black as coal, her lips as red as berries, and her eyes as light as honey. The beautiful young woman looked upon the children with great sympathy, crying:
‘You poor, poor dears! Come, come inside to have a bite to eat. I am visiting my grandmother, and she will surely love the company.’
But the children made signs, spat at her, then ran again. For crimson is the colour of harlots and they did not consort with her like.
Onwards the children ran, through that twisted forest. Many creatures they spied, foul, ungodly things, and they fled them all, praying in their tiny hearts for Wisp’s pure soul.
At last, at very long last, they came upon a simple wooden hut at the edge of the forest. Standing before it was a woman in white cap and apron, her blue dress homely and modest, sweeping the path to her front gate.
The sight of her gladdened the hearts of the children, for clearly here was a true Christian woman, honest and good. But they hesitated to speak with her, since she was a stranger.
The woman looked up from her busy sweeping. ‘Good day, young master and mistress. Pray forgive my curiosity, but are you the son and daughter of the mayor in the town yonder?’ She pointed towards the trees, back the way they had come.
The children told her this was true, and the woman broke into a smile.
‘Ah young master and mistress, I thought I recognised your good looks. Your father came here some years ago to purchase a pup of mine, best of the litter. Pray, how does he fare?’
The children looked to one another. If their father knew this woman, they considered, she could be no stranger. Surely, they could trust her.
With manly daring, Ivan stepped forwards and told the woman the sorry tale of their family and Wisp, and the wickedness of the town, who used want as an excuse for thievery. The woman was much saddened, wringing her hands in distress and lamenting that such bad fortunate could fall upon such handsome folk.
The children smiled a little to themselves, for it was a long while since they had been remarked upon as handsome.
Feeling emboldened, Isabelle stepped beside her brother and asked the woman if she had seen any sign of their little dog passing by. But woman shook her head, and told her she had not.
‘Though my dears,’ said she. ‘You look so tired and hungry. Come sit by my fireside and eat a spot of stew, to strengthen you along your way.’
Ivan and Isabelle agreed gladly to the woman’s kind offer, stepping inside her little hut. It was small yet well kept, its hearth warm and inviting, and the smell of cooked meat sent their mouths salivating.
‘What is that bubbling on the fire?’ asked Ivan, peering over the pot.
‘Why, tis rabbit stew,’ said the woman, a gleam in her eye.
Taking down a great ladle, she poured each child a brimming bowl of hearty stew. It tasted heavenly, and soon Ivan and Isabelle were warmed from the depths of their bones. They sucked the end of their spoons clean, and the woman filled their bowls a second time, until their bellies were stuffed to bursting.
Full of new strength, the children thanked the woman for her hospitality, and asked how they ever could repay her.
‘I only require one thing, my dears,’ said the woman. ‘Pray go down to the cellar and fetch the rabbits for me. For my stew pot has run almost dry, and I must keep it filled, lest other weary travellers come visiting.’
Ivan and Isabelle agreed gladly, and hurried to the cellar to fetch the rabbits. But though the children hunted high and low, they could not find them anywhere – not a paw or a cotton tail.
‘Oh dear,’ cried Isabelle. ‘Whatever shall we do? We cannot let this woman grow hungry, after all her kindness to us.’
Ivan comforted his sister. ‘Fret not, Isabelle. We shall not rest until we find meat for the good woman’s stew.’
The children searched and searched the cellar until their fingers ached and their eyes grew tired. Then, at last, Ivan let out a cry.
There, on the floor, was a scrap of fur. It was very soft and fine, finer than the hair of any rabbit either of the children had ever seen. Its length was long, and slightly curled, and its colour was the very white of the first fresh fall of snow.
‘Ah my dears,’ said the woman, climbing down the cellar stairs. ‘I see you have found my little rabbit. You must have loved him very much. For you see, you ate him all up!’
And with a sudden movement, quick one, two, three, she grabbed the children by the scruffs of their necks, and slit their little throats.
In the town, the mayor and his wife spent a sleepless night. Their children often played for hours in the hills and fields, but never for so long, and not after dark.
Sick with worry, they mayor summoned the people of the town and demanded that they help search for Ivan and Isabelle. Yet the townsfolks’ hearts had been hardened by hunger, and they told the mayor to mind for his own children, while they minded for theirs. So the mayor decided to search for them alone.
‘I will come with you,’ said his wife, and she would not take no for an answer.
Down into the dark and twisting forest went man and wife, searching for their beloved Ivan and Isabelle. Little signs they saw of their children’s passing: a footprint, a scrap of clothing, a strand of pale hair. Further and further they wove, left and right, up and down, clambering over logs and crossing streams. The mayor’s wife ruined her best dress, and the mayor’s cloak tore. Still, they pressed on, deeper into the forest.
As they passed the gnarled cottage where the old woman had stood, they found a scrap of Isabelle’s dress upon the ground and knew she must have passed this way. They knocked upon the cottage door loudly, but the old woman did not answer, for the children’s small stones had cut her face, and she was afraid.
The mayor cursed the cottage and its resident, vowing to tear it down brick by brick, stone by stone, timber by timber. Then he and his wife left, and carried on their way, following the trail as best they could.
Now some say that the following winter, a storm ripped through the forest, crushing the cottage and the old woman with it. Others that she grew mad and took it apart herself, brick by brick, stone by stone, timber by timber, then went wandering into the forest, never to be seen again.
The mayor and his wife kept walking. Their soles of their shoes broke, for they were made for fine living, and not traipsing through forests. Their feet and backs ached, and as the signs grew further and farer between, the mayor’s wife complained that the task was fruitless, and that they would never see their children again. But the mayor told her to keep her counsel, and hold onto hope. For they were good Christians, and surely God would reward them.
After some hours, the pair came upon the pretty little cottage, though its chimney no longer smoked. The mayor hammered at the door, demanding if anyone had seen his children, but the beautiful young woman did not reply. For she had fallen for a handsome young wood cutter, and been spirited away the night before. No one knew what became of her.
On and on went the mayor and his wife, on through the forest, where the trees seem to have hands to grasp you, and mouths to whisper. ‘Go back,’ they seemed to say. ‘Go back.’
But the mayor and his wife did not listen, for they were proud folk, and did not need to heed warnings.
At last, at very long last, they came to the edge of the forest. The footsteps ended at the door of a little hut, and the mayor cried out for joy, for he knew this to be the house of a kindly widow who had sold him a pup all those years ago. True, he had fleeced her a little, claiming the animal was lame, but surely that was not to be minded now.
The major and his wife ran to the door and the kindly woman met them, hands clasped politely behind her back.
‘Good day, woman,’ said the mayor. ‘You may remember me from years past, when I came seeking a pup.’
‘Why yes,’ the woman said, with a smile. ‘The very colour of snow.’
‘Our journey now is under a far graver circumstance. We are seeking our children, Ivan and Isabelle. Their hair is white and fine, and their faces as beautiful as new morning. Have you seen them hereabouts?’
‘Why, yes, indeed,’ repeated the woman. ‘They are sleeping in my cellar. Poor little ones were so weary after walking.’
The mayor and his wife rejoiced once more, for they had feared never seeing their offspring ever again. They begged the woman if they might not step inside and see their little ones, for they had missed them so.
‘They were so awfully tired,’ said the woman. ‘Come into my house and sit down, and take a little rest first. The stew is almost ready in the pot.’
The mayor and his wife thanked the good woman, and took the stew gladly, for they had not been well fed in recent times, and had walked many miles. The stew was warm and rich, and the meat nourished them down to their very bones.
‘Ahh’ sighed the mayor, once his bowl was empty, and his spoon sucked clean.
‘Truly exquisite,’ said the mayor’s wife, licking her delicate fingers. ‘Tell me, my good woman. What’s your secret?’
The woman smiled a little smile. ‘Tis only rabbit stew, my dears. Come see for yourselves.’
She led them to the cellar. Down the steps they went, one, two, three, a little slow, for their bellies were almost full to bursting. The cellar was rather dark, and the mayor held up a candle to see three things.
A bloody cleaver. A pile of bones. And a twist of pale white hair, the colour of starlight.
The mayor fell to his knees and began to wretch. his wife likewise, straining with the effort. But try as they might, their aching stomachs would not give up their children’s flesh.
‘Poor tasty little rabbits,’ said the woman softly, at the top of the stairs.
With a cry of rage, the mayor and his wife jumped to their feet. The mayor knocked the woman to the ground, and kicked her in the belly, while the mayor’s wife stamped on her head. They beat and they kicked her until she was dead, and threw her down the cellar stairs. Then they locked her inside and left the house, carrying the bones of their children.
It was a long journey through the forest back to their little town, full of twists and turns, and beastly creatures. But the sorrow of the mayor and his wife was so great that no foul fiend could feel it in its withered heart to touch them.
At last, at very long last, the mayor and his wife came back to the edge of their town. The sight of the mayor’s freshly painted door made him sick, and at last he opened his mouth. Out came the meat stew, and the pile of bones fell to the ground, unburied.
Quickly, the mayor and his wife gathered up the bones, and buried them on the edge of the forest, for fear of discovery. But a keen-eyed widow fetching wood for her fire spotted them, and soon word spread throughout the town that the mayor and his wife were monstrous child killers, and had most likely cursed the town with their wicked ways.
So the people, famished with hunger and fat with bitterness, rose up in a great swell. They carried the mayor and his wife out through their bright painted door, lay them down and beat them bloody with sticks. Then they bound them, gagged them and tossed them over the stone bridge into the icy river, where they soon drowned.
That very month the weather turned, and the hunger ended. A new mayor was found, and he tore down the old mayor’s house, brick by brick, stone by stone, timber by timber. He built a new one, fresh and shiny. And the townsfolk forgot their past troubles.
Though some did say that if you wandered in the forest, especially after dark, you might see a small white shape from the corner of your eye. It was good luck to see it, for it guided men and women safely through the forest to their journey’s end. But you should never turn your head to take a closer look, for if you did, two silent children would appear and fill your mouth with bones.
I don’t know what this tale says about me or my grandmother, whispering in the small hours. All I can say is that afterwards, I always slept peacefully.
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