Anna and the Ogre

Dusk, and he is hungry. 

Anna stumbles into the vast, cavernous kitchen, staggering under the weight of the two wooden pails she carries. Water sloshes from them onto the broad flagstones and runs in rivulets along the floor. Setting one down, she hefts the other between her tiny arms and, clambering onto a stool, reaches up to tip its contents into the iron cauldron which hangs above the open fire. Steam spurts up, hissing like a viper. Anna jumps, startled. That part always startles her. Gathering her strength, Anna heaves the second pail up and over the side of the cauldron, its sable surface etched with evil runes. 

She hurries across the floor and reaches up on tip-toes to the great oak table that stands in the centre of the kitchen, illuminated by the flickering torchlight. Stretching her arm out across its worm-eaten surface, she grasps the ivory handle of the chopping knife. It is more like a sword in her tiny hand. She glances at the ingredients that are arrayed nearby, ready for the soup she is about to prepare, and shudders. But he is hungry, and he demands to be fed.

Anna wrinkles her nose in disgust as she picks up the first ingredient. Between her fingers, the centipede twists and turns, its many legs writhing in the air. Gingerly, she carries it back across to the cauldron and tosses it into the bubbling waters. 

What next? 

Ah yes. The toad legs.

Carefully, methodically, she severs them from the bodies with her knife, laying each one out on the table surface until she has six. These will need seasoning. She drops the legs in the pot and then scatters in a handful of soil for flavour.

The flames are hot. Anna brushes away the beads of sweat that have started up on her forehead and wipes her hand on her hessian apron. It is coarse and rough to the touch, unlike the silk dresses she is used to. In her palace, she would wear the finest fabrics - taffeta, velvet and damask. Her father would dress her in rich purples and luxuriant golds befitting the princess of the kingdom.

Now she labours night and day in the ogre’s castle, a prisoner. Through dark magics, the ogre had spirited Anna and her mother, the queen, away beyond the borders of her father’s realm. While Anna toils in the bowels of the fortress, her mother is locked in the tallest tower, bound by powerful spells which have turned her heart to ice. Sometimes, Anna will peep out of the narrow castle windows, looking towards the far horizon in the secret hope that she will see her father, the king, gallop forth to their rescue. Quietly, she dreams of the day that she will ride in splendour beside her parents into her kingdom once again. She longs for the day that her father will take her in his arms, embrace her, and seat her in glory on her silver chair beside the golden thrones. But she knows in the meantime that it is enough to survive.

So - into the pot she flings the boiled slugs she has buttered, followed by the fried bat wings. The water seethes and crackles. The odour is strong and distinct. 

Somewhere from the depths of the castle, she hears a rumble like distant thunder. He is growing impatient.

Quickly, swallowing her disgust, Anna gathers up the remaining ingredients, scooping them into her arms and dropping them into the cauldron.

Rat tails, steamed. Frog spawn, poached. Roaches, roasted. Into the soup they go.

She grabs the wooden ladel and stirs the swirling mixture with both hands. Eyeballs bob up out of the broth, seeming to fix Anna with their lifeless glare.

Now comes the part she hates.

Anna lifts the ladle up to her pale lips and sniffs - once, twice. The smell seeps into her nostrils, at once putrid and vile. Now she has to taste it. If she does not, she can’t be sure that it will be cooked just as he likes it. And if it is not cooked just as he likes it, she will face his rage. She takes a deep breath, screws shut her eyes, then takes a sip. She feels the cooked bile sliding down her throat, hot and pungent. She gags.

It’ll do, she thinks.

Now, she takes the carved bowl that sits on the table and ladles the thick soup into it. As a final touch, she adds some shavings of wasp’s nest. 

The distant rumblings grow louder. The ogre is near anger now. Quickly, she takes the bowl and a hunk of mouldy bread and hurries back across the cavern, her tiny footsteps echoing on the flagstones. She darts up the flight of stone stairs and fumbles at the latch of the kitchen door, before passing into the darkness of the passageway beyond.

***

From where he sits, slumped on his sofa, Steve glances up to see Anna enter the living room, carrying his evening meal on a tray. He grunts as she lays the tray down on his lap. Minestrone soup, piping hot. She does not linger. As she scurries back out the room, he turns back to the television and continues to flick through the channels. 

There’s never anything of much interest on. Still, this is where Steve finds he spends most of his time, eyes fixed on the box. His wife avoids him, keeping out of sight upstairs for most of the day. The relationship had quickly gone stale. Perhaps she regrets leaving Robert. Perhaps she’s simply bored. Steve doesn’t really give the matter much thought. 

He doesn’t talk to his step-daughter much. Anna was always timid, quiet, withdrawn. In a world of her own. As long as she makes use of herself about the house, and keeps out of his way, he doesn’t really care. 

Steve tears off a chunk of bread roll, dunks it in his soup, and chews it over, sticky crumbs catching in his thick beard. He flicks to the next channel. He takes a spoonful of the soup in his mouth and swallows. Far too peppery. The spiciness of the soup stings his mouth. He swears. 

“Anna! Get in here now!”

Irritated, he breaks off another hunk of bread and stuffs it into his face. 

“Anna!” he repeats impatiently through a mouth full of food, raising his voice louder this time. Suddenly, he feels the back of his throat tighten. He gags, his eyes beginning to bulge. The tray clatters onto the carpet and soup splatters on the sofa as he lurches forward, desperately trying to cough up the bread that has lodged at the back of his throat. Now he is on his hands and knees, face crimson and breath short. He tries to shout but no sound comes. His head spinning, the room darkens around him to nothingness. 

***

Anna sits folded in her mother’s arms, eyes wet with tears. She has sobbed and sobbed, startled and afraid of what she saw when, the sound of the ogre’s roars echoing in her ears, she rushed into his chambers. But breaking through her fear like sun rays through cloud, she realises she feels hope - hope that the day is nearer now when she will see her kingdom once again, and when she and the queen will be reunited with her father, the wise and good king.

When that day will come, she cannot say. For now, it is enough that her mother is safe. It is enough that the spell is broken, and that the ice has melted. She turns her teary face upwards towards her mother and says, almost voicelessly:

“I love you, Mum.”

Softly, her mother whispers back: “I love you, Anna.”