True Story

TRUE STORY

Apologies to the Brothers Grimm and Walt Disney

CHAPTER I

Hey. Dopey’s the name. Well, that’s what the guys call me. It’s not my real name. My real name is Matthew. Matt for short. Matt Shlumph. Yes, you heard right, that’s Shlumph, as in the sound water makes in your gumboots or wellingtons when you’re walking. So how did I come to be called Dopey? I don’t want to bore you with the details... so I won’t. Suffice it to say I was abandoned as a youngster and adopted into the Dwarf household, located over the seven jewelled hills and beyond the seventh fall where, for some inexplicable reason, the six dwarfs named me Dopey. Okay, if you insist, it was because the head dwarf, Doc, spoke in legalese when they adopted me, referring to me as the first party, my parents as the second party, and the dwarfs as the third party. So naturally I asked, “Is there cake?”

“What?” Doc asked.

“At my first party.”

Anyways, fast forwarding, let me tell you about what happened years later.

We arrived home from work one day to find the front door ajar. The other dwarfs pushed me ahead of them into the house where we located a beautiful stranger sleeping in Doc’s bed.

As I entered Doc’s bedroom I raised my hand behind me, signaling the others to stop. Unfortunately my second and third fingers went straight up the right nostril of one of the dwarfs named Grumpy. While that might sound like a stretch of the truth, not to mention Grumpy’s right nostril, the reality is that Grumpy’s nostrils are similar in size to peas—not single ones, the whole pod.

Anyway, so much for any attempt to awaken our visitor gently. Jolted awake by Grumpy’s loud protestations it took a few moments for her brain to catch up with what was happening as seven little wide eyed men filed into the bedroom. “Oh, hello,” she said in a very appealing soft sing-songy voice.

As one dwarf we all stood open-mouthed, our hearts melting like margarine in a microwave. Eventually, Doc asked, “Whom do we have the pleasure of addressing?”

“My name is Snow White,” she said.

We led Snow White into the living room where Doc introduced each of us in turn. She giggled politely as she shook each of us by the hand but when it came my turn and Doc said, “Last of all this is Dopey,” I noticed that her giggle was more of a “pppffff.”

In my early twenties at the time I was as keen to impress the ladies as a salesperson at a Tupperware party. Of course, I had long been aware that, except for Doc, all of our names sounded daggy. But you know how it is. After a while you get used to it so you tend to accept things as they are. But her reaction to my name was like a slap in the face with a wet fish. A stunned mullet would’ve had nothing on me. It took me back to the time when they first called me Dopey. I had objected then and now I wanted to tell her my real name but I knew that wouldn’t go down well with the other dwarfs so I said nothing.

“Now, then,” Doc said to her, “how did you get here and where did you come from?”

“I don’t remember,” she said. “Perhaps I fell over in the woods and bumped my head.”

“Oh, perhaps I’d better take a look at it.”

“No! It feels fine now. The rest must have done me a world of good.”

“Well, you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you like, isn’t she, Lads?”

The response was instantaneous: “Yes!” “Not ʼalf!” and “Ohhhh, Mama!”

So Snow White was welcomed into our home and I must admit that she made quite a difference around the place. The house no longer had that musty, unpleasant odor of unwashed socks and underwear. You know the smell: like a reunion of dead rats in a ventilator. She even washed our clothes and made our beds, but cook? She couldn’t do that to save herself. All that aside, a continuing source of disquiet to me was the realization that my name was as conducive to attracting members of the opposite sex as a crocodile’s canines would be to a chicken. Of course, some of you might say, “All this fuss over a name. If he doesn’t like his, why doesn’t he change it by deed poll?” Deed poll? Get real! Whoever heard of a deed poll in a fairy story? Tch!

So why didn’t I just up and leave? Go and live somewhere else under my real name? I’ll tell you why. We are the only dwarfs in this story, and I don’t happen to appreciate people talking down to me... or over me for that matter. Or the feeling that their conversation is way over my head, if you get my drift. Actually, I did apply to join the French Foreign Legion but I failed the medical.

“The problem is your eyes, M’sieur,” the doctor said.

“My eyes?”

“Oui. They are too close to the ground.”

Sigh...

At this point let’s take a break so I can gather my thoughts to write down what lies ahead. Go on, go away! Yes, you! Put the scroll down and go and do some exercise or something. Is there enough milk in the refrigerator? Is there bread in the bin? Go buy some, then. Just go!

CHAPTER II

Welcome back. Have a nice break? Not that I’m really interested. We fairy story characters are as shallow as a puddle in a hot desert. We’re not really interested in what happens in the real world.

Anyway, back to the story. For starters, it turns out that one of Snow White’s former associates was as dubious as a fox caught in a chicken coop claiming, “It was just a social visit.” We would never have been aware of it but for what occurred that fateful spring morning…

We dwarfs left for work singing, “Heigh ho, heigh ho.” Unbeknownst to us at the time, Snow White had a visitor that day. Who was that visitor? Let’s take a step back in time…

Would you believe that Snow White was actually a princess? Her mum passed away, poor soul, and her dad, the King, re-married. Apparently, he went for looks in marrying Snow White’s new step-mum. She was a beauty, so it is said, and she knew it. Vain as that Greek chappie, Narcissus, each day she would look into her wall mirror and ask, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?”

No, this wasn’t like what you do after you’ve finished applying your make-up—look at yourself in the mirror, ask that question, and then answer yourself seductively with, “You are, you gorgeous thing. Just look at you. You’re irresistible.” The queen actually expected the mirror itself to respond. Well might you ask: isn’t that going a bit far even for a fairy story? How could the mirror possibly be expected to know whether the new Queen was the fairest in the land? Easy. It was a magic mirror, that’s how. It could make an immediate analysis of the bone structure, skin coloring and muscle tone, etcetera, etcetera, of all the maidens in the land and come up with an answer just like that, quick as a wink. True story.

With monotonous regularity the mirror would respond, “You, O Queen, are the fairest in the land.” That was until her stepdaughter, Snow White, grew up. She had blossomed into a beautiful young woman full of life, happiness, and the innocence of youth. And so one day when the Queen asked the mirror the usual question it responded, “O Queen, Snow White is the fairest in the land.”

“Lies! I want the truth!” barked the queen.

“You can’t handle the truth!” responded the mirror.

“You’re a liar!”

“You’re a has been.”

“Traitor!”

“Tart.”

“You swine! Call yourself a magic mirror? My goldfish bowl could do a better job!”

“Fine. Good luck with that. I’ll say no more.”

Seething with jealous rage the queen picked up a small golden casket and raised it as if to smash it into the mirror. Suddenly, a light bulb appeared above her head, an unmistakable sign that she’d had a brainwave. That was affirmed when, immediately, she ceased venting her spleen at the mirror and instead called her huntsman, ordering him to take Snow White deep into the forest and do her in. “Bring back her heart in this golden casket,” she hissed.

Now, the huntsman was a reasonable sort of guy. Killing animals was one thing but he drew the line at killing humans, even ones in fairy stories. So when he had taken Snow White deep into the forest he told her, “Get out of the city, quick.”

“But we’re in the forest,” she replied.

“Begone! And may the Queen never find you.”

“Why not?”

“She wanted me to eliminate you but I just can’t do it.”

“Oooh! Rotten cow! I s’pose I’d best be off, then.”

“Ta-ra, Luv. All the best.”

My research revealed that on that day one of the deer did not return home. I can only conclude that the hunter surreptitiously accomplished his mission, substituting Snow White’s heart with another.

As you have probably worked out, it was at this point in the story that Snow White happened upon the Dwarf homestead. So what went wrong? Why was this a fateful day in spring? Simple. It was springtime, of course. Dummies! Oh, why was it fateful? Let me continue.

It transpired that after some months of cajoling the Queen finally managed to placate the mirror. Incredible though it might seem in fairy stories even mirrors can have feelings. It was one morning after she had applied a new fragrant glass cleaner (in a convenient spray bottle) to the mirror glass that she made the break-through. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?” she asked in her sweetest voice, masking her usual abrasiveness.

“So no luck with the goldfish bowl, then?” the mirror asked, adding, “And let’s be clear: I know I’m on the wall and I don’t need you to keep reminding me, understand?”

“If you say so, Handsome.”

“Are We Clear!?”

“Crystal.”

“And you do realize the futility of any attempt to damage a magic mirror?”

“Sorry about that. Just got a little over-excited.”

“Excellent. And now for the good news: Over the seven jewelled hills, beyond the seventh fall, in the homestead of the Seven Dwarfs dwells Snow White, the fairest one of all!”

Reports indicate that it was all the mirror could do to stop itself from saying, “Nyah nyah nynyah nyah!”

The Queen’s reaction? As confused as a glow-worm in a light-fittings store. “Seven jewelled hills?” she pondered. “What does that mean? For the love of Michael, what’s a jewelled hill? I’ve seen green hills, brown hills, snow covered hills, but jewelled hills? What else did it say? ‘Beyond the seventh fall.’ What sort of fall? Is that like a valley slope, or is it a waterfall? If it’s the latter I had no idea there were so many waterfalls around the place. Perhaps it means once you’ve tripped over seven times, that sort of fall. I don’t know. It’s all a bit mysterious. Now, what else was there? ‘In the homestead of the Seven Dwarfs dwells Snow White, the fairest one of all.’”

At this point winged observers watched with growing unease as the Queen’s countenance began to change. A small black cloud emitting miniature thunderbolts appeared above her head, her face turning a deep scarlet hue as the full import of the words sank its way into the depths of her cranium. Flying into a rage she stormed off down in the direction of the castle cellar. She was heard to say, “Conspiracy! I’ll take care of Snow White myself, once and for all! This time she’ll be gone forever!”

My reporters awaited her return. Instead, they beheld an old and ugly witch carrying a basket of apples. Dressed in a hooded black gown, her long lank grey hair complimented by a few sticking out of her pointed chin, a moldy green hue around her eyes, a crooked nose with a large wart on it, a near lipless, gaping mouth revealing just one tooth, and long razor-sharp nails protruding from long spindly fingers, she was the absolute picture of ugliness.

It did not take long to work out who the old witch was. Yes, it was the Queen, and when she eventually arrived at the Dwarfs’ homestead a flock of angry birds descended on her, pecking at her face and arms and pulling at her hair. Hearing the commotion Snow White came running out. “Leave the old duck alone!” she hollered at the birds.

“Have pity on me,” cried the old witch. “I have this basket of apples but if I eat any more of them I’ll puke. Would you swap this juicy red apple for a slice of bread?”

“Come in,” Snow White said, shutting the door in the faces of two dozen obviously very disturbed birds.

It probably needs to be said at this point that Snow White had not yet developed a very good rapport with the animal kingdom. What seemed as obvious as the pimple on your face to any other forest dweller was as foggy and obscure in her mind as the Loch Ness monster traveling incognito through a thick evening mist.

Anyway, the birds called the animals who pounded on the window calling out, “Watch out Snow White! The old beggar woman is really the Queen!” But Snow White just ignored them. Tch!

What happened next? No sooner was she inside the door than the old witch held up a large red apple for Snow White to eat, her bulging eyes and gaping one toothed grin betraying her eagerness to fulfill her dastardly scheme, so much so that she started salivating; a steady dribble spilling from her bottom lip and forming a small puddle on the floor. “Here, my Dear,” she squawked.

“Oh, no,” said Snow White, “it would be improper of me to accept that apple without first getting you that slice of bread.”

“Oh, it’s all right, my Dear, I’m really not that hungry.”

“But a deal’s a deal so you just wait here and I’ll be back in a tick. Oh, would you like honey on it?”

“No, just plain with a little butter.”

“No butter, sorry. Marg?”

“My name’s not Marj.”

“No, silly. Margarine?”

“Oh. Whatever.”

Snow White headed to the kitchen, skidding briefly on the puddle left by the old witch’s incontinent bottom lip. Returning she said, “Here you are, one margarine spreaded bread slice.”

“And here you are,” said the old witch, handing Snow White the apple.

Yes, you know what happened next. Snow White bit into the apple and the effect of its poison was as immediate as your reaction when the food on your plate moves—by itself.

When we arrived home that evening Snow White was in a coma. Winged reporters related what they had observed at the castle and four-legged ones told what they had seen through our windows. The Queen had obviously got the recipe slightly wrong and instead of killing Snow White she had fallen into a very deep sleep. We tried to wake her up but to no avail. On the face of it the situation seemed as hopeless as a club-footed, one-armed pole-vaulter with tennis elbow. Frankly, she might just as well have been dead. After carefully considering the situation we concluded that there was only one appropriate option to take:

We ordered a crystal glass casket through one of those mail order catalogues—express delivery. When it arrived we contacted the local undertaker, a Frenchman whose business card boasted, “Swiftly and with Style”, and arranged for him to call with his horse drawn hearse so we could transfer the casket onto it. We loaded Snow White onto the hearse, dropping her only twice in the process, and directed the undertaker to go not so swiftly but with as much style as he could muster to the clearing at the forest crossroads, where we unloaded the casket and placed it on a mound we had already prepared and surrounded with flowers. We transferred Snow White into the casket, managing to drop her only once.

Why did we do all that? Why didn’t we keep her indoors where she would be protected from the chilly night temperatures? What can I tell you? It’s a fairy story thing. You see, long ago within fairy story circles a certain precedent was established. You may have heard about it in a story called Sleeping Beauty who nowadays, would you believe, is known as Wide Awake Beauty. It’s a complex matter, but let me try to simplify it so you can understand. Basically, it goes like this: When a beautiful princess has been poisoned and falls into a deep sleep only the kiss of a handsome prince can snap her out of it (yes, I agree, weird... pathetic, even).

Understandably, then, we posted a sign by the roadside a few kilometers away in each direction from the crossroads junction. Each sign read:

COMATOSE PRINCESS THIS WAY ----->

HANDSOME PRINCES

ENCOURAGED TO VIEW

So there we were, day after day, feeding her intravenously and praying that some handsome prince would come along. Then, one day... guess what?

CHAPTER III

Riding upon a majestic white steed came a tall, dark and handsome prince. He raised the casket lid and kissed Snow White. She woke up. They got married and lived happily ever after. The end.

I’d tell you more but my publishing editor limited me to 3,000 words.