by Jane Yolen
FATHER OF EIGHTEEN ELVES
Iceland
On a farm one summer it happened that everybody was out in the fields except the mistress herself, who stayed at home to mind the house, with her son, who was three or four years old. This boy had grown and thriven well up to this time; he was talking already, was intelligent, and seemed a most promising child. Now, as the woman had various chores to do besides minding her child, she had to turn her back on him for a little while and go down to a stream near the house to wash some churns. She left him in the doorway, and there is nothing to tell until she came back after a brief while. As soon as she spoke to him, he shrieked and howled in a more vicious and ugly way than she ever expected, for up till then he had been a very placid child, affectionate and likeable, but now all she got was squalling and shrieks. This went on for some time; the child never spoke one word, but was so terribly willful and moody that the woman did not know what to do about the change in him; moveover, he stopped growing, and began to look quite like an imbecile.
The mother was very upset over it all, and she decides to go and see a neighbor of hers who was thought to be a wise woman and to know a great deal, and she tells her her troubles. The neighbor questions her closely, asking how long it is since the child began to be so unmanageable, and how she thought the change had begun. The mother tells her just what had happened.
When this wise neighbor had heard the whole story, she says, “Don’t you think, my dear, that the child is a changeling? It’s my opinion that he was exchanged while you left him alone in the doorway.”
“I don’t know,” says the mother. “Can’t you teach me some way to get at the truth?”
“So I can,” says the other. “You must leave the child by himself some time, and arrange for something really extraordinary to happen in front of him, and then he will say something when he sees there is no one nearby. But you must listen secretly to know what he says, and if the boy’s words seem at all odd or suspicious, whip him unmercifully until something happens.”
With this, they broke off their talk, and the mother thanked her neighbor for her good advice, and went home.
As soon as she gets back, she sets down a tiny pot in the middle of the kitchen floor; then she takes several broom handles and ties them end to end until the top end is poking right up the kitchen chimney, and to the bottom end she ties the porridge stirring-stick, and this she sets upright in the little pot. As soon as she had rigged up this contraption in the kitchen, she fetched the child in and left him alone there; then she left the room, but stood listening outside, where she could peep in through the crack of the door.
She had not been long gone when she sees the child start waddling round and round the pot with the porridge stick in it and studying it carefully; and in the end the child says, “I’m old enough now, as my whiskers show, and I’m a father with eighteen children of my own in Elfland, and yet never in my life have I seen so long a pole in so small a pot!”
At that, the woman runs back in with a good birch, seizes the changeling, and beats him long and unmercifully, and then he howls most horribly.
When she had been whipping him for some while, she sees a woman who was a stranger to her coming into the kitchen with a little boy in her arms, and a sweet pretty child he is.
This stranger gives the child a loving look, and says to the mother, “We don’t act fairly by one another; I cuddle your child, but you beat my husband.”
Saying this, she puts down this child, the housewife’s own son, and leaves him there; but she takes her old man off with her, and the two of them disappear. But the boy grew up with his own mother, and turned out a fine man.
THE FLY
Vietnam
Everyone in the village knew the usurer, a rich and smart man. Having accumulated a fortune over the years, he settled down to a life of leisure in his big house surrounded by an immense garden and guarded by a pack of ferocious dogs. But still unsatisfied with what he had acquired, the man went on making money by lending it to people all over the county at exorbitant rates. The usurer reigned supreme in the area, for numerous were those who were in debt to him.
One day, the rich man set out for the house of one of his peasants. Despite repeated reminders, the poor laborer just could not manage to pay off his longstanding debt. Working himself to a shadow, the peasant barely succeeded in making ends meet. The moneylender was therefore determined that if he could not get his money back this time, he would proceed to confiscate some of his debtor’s most valuable belongings. But the rich man found no one at the peasant’s house but a small boy of eight or nine playing alone in the dirt yard.
“Child, are your parents home?” the rich man asked.
“No, sir,” the boy replied, then went on playing with his sticks and stones, paying no attention whatever to the man.
“Then, where are they?” the rich man asked, somewhat irritated, but the little boy went on playing and did not answer.
When the rich man repeated his query, the boy looked up and answered, with deliberate slowness, “Well, sir, my father has gone to cut living trees and plant dead ones and my mother is at the marketplace selling the wind and buying the moon.”
“What? What in heaven are you talking about?” the rich man commanded. “Quick, tell me where they are, or you will see what this stick can do to you!” The bamboo walking stick in the big man’s hand looked indeed menacing.
After repeated, questioning, however, the boy only gave the same reply. Exasperated, the rich man told him, “All right, little devil, listen to me! I came here today to take the money your parents owe me. But if you tell me where they really are and what they are doing, I will forget all about the debt. Is that clear to you?”
“Oh, sir, why are you joking with a poor little boy? Do you expect me to believe what you are saying?” For the first time the boy looked interested.
“Well, there is heaven and there is earth to witness my promise,” the rich man said, pointing up to the sky and down to the ground.
But the boy only laughed. “Sir, heaven and earth cannot talk and therefore cannot testify. I want some living thing to be our witness.”
Catching sight of a fly alighting on a bamboo pole nearby, and laughing inside because he was fooling the boy, the rich man proposed, “There is a fly. He can be our witness. Now, hurry and tell me what you mean when you say that your father is out cutting living trees and planting dead ones, while your mother is at the market selling the wind and buying the moon.”
Looking at the fly on the pole, the boy said, “A fly is a good enough witness for me. Well, here it is, sir. My father has simply gone to cut down bamboos and make a fence with them for a man near the river. And my mother … oh, sir, you’ll keep your promise, won’t you? You will free my parents of all their debts? You really mean it?”
“Yes, yes, I do solemnly swear in front of this fly here.” The rich man urged the boy to go on.
“Well, my mother, she has gone to the market to sell fans so she can buy oil for our lamps. Isn’t that what you would call selling the wind to buy the moon?”
Shaking his head, the rich man had to admit inwardly that the boy was a clever one. However, he thought, the little genius still had much to learn, believing as he did that a fly could be a witness for anybody. Bidding the boy goodbye, the man told him that he would soon return to make good his promise.
A few days had passed when the moneylender returned. This time he found the poor peasant couple at home, for it was late in the evening. A nasty scene ensued, the rich man claiming his money and the poor peasant apologizing and begging for another delay. Their argument awakened the little boy, who ran to his father and told him, “Father, Father, you don’t have to pay your debt. This gentleman here has promised me that he would forget all about the money you owe him.”
“Nonsense!’ The rich man shook his walking stick at both father and son. “Nonsense! Are you going to stand there and listen to a child’s inventions? I never spo
ke a word to this boy. Now, tell me, are you going to pay or are you not?”
The whole affair ended by being brought before the mandarin who governed the county. Not knowing what to believe, all the poor peasant and his wife could do was to bring their son with them when they went to court. The little boy’s insistence about the rich man’s promise was their only encouragement.
The mandarin began by asking the boy to relate exactly what had happened between himself and the moneylender. Happily, the boy hastened to tell about the explanations he gave the rich man in exchange for the debt.
“Well,” the mandarin said to the boy, “if this man here has indeed made such a promise, we have only your word for it. How do we know that you have not invented the whole story yourself? In a case such as this, you need a witness to confirm it, and you have none.” The boy remained calm and declared that naturally there was a witness to their conversation.
“Who is that, child?” the mandarin asked.
“A fly, Your Honor.”
“A fly? What do you mean, a fly? Watch out, young man, fantasies are not to be tolerated in this place!” The mandarin’s benevolent face suddenly became stern.
“Yes, Your Honor, a fly. A fly which was alighting on this gentleman’s nose!” The boy leaped from his seat.
“Insolent little devil, that’s a pack of lies!” The rich man roared indignantly, his face like a ripe tomato. “The fly was not on my nose; he was on the housepole …” But he stopped dead. It was, however, too late.
The majestic mandarin himself could not help bursting out laughing. Then the audience burst out laughing. The boy’s parents too, although timidly, laughed. And the boy, and the rich man himself, also laughed. With one hand on his stomach, the mandarin waved the other hand toward the rich man:
“Now, now, that’s all settled. You have indeed made your promises, dear sir, to the child. Housepole or no housepole, your conversation did happen after all! The court says you must keep your promise.”
And still chuckling, he dismissed all parties.
THE TWO PICKPOCKETS
England
There was a provincial pickpocket who was very successful at his work, and he thought he’d go up to London and see what he could do there. So he went up to London, and he was even more successful.
One day he was busy in Oxford Street when he suddenly found that his own pocketbook had been taken. He looked round and saw a very attractive blond girl walking away. He was sure that she was the one who had picked his pocket, so he followed her and got his pocketbook back from her. He was so much taken by her cleverness in robbing him that he suggested that they should go into partnership together. And so they did, and succeeded brilliantly.
At length the provincial pickpocket thought, “We’re the best pickpockets in London. If we married we could breed up a race of the best pickpockets in the world.” So he asked the girl, and she was quite agreeable, and they were married, and in due time a beautiful little baby boy was born to them. But the poor little fellow was deformed. His right arm was bent to his chest, and the little fist tightly clenched. And nothing they could do would straighten it.
The poor parents were much distressed. “He’ll never make a pickpocket,” they said, “with a paralyzed right arm.” They took him at once to the doctor, but the doctor said he was too young, they must wait. But they didn’t want to wait; they took him to one doctor after another, and at last—because they were very rich by this time—to the best child specialist they could hear of.
The specialist took out his gold watch, and felt the pulse on the little paralyzed arm. “The flow of blood seems normal,” he said. “What a bright little fellow he is for his age! He’s focusing his eyes on my watch.” He took the chain out of his waistcoat, and swung the watch to and fro, and the baby’s eyes followed it. Then the little bent arm straightened out towards the watch, the little clenched fingers opened to take it, and down dropped the midwife’s gold wedding ring.
THE SEVENTH FATHER OF THE HOUSE
Norway
There was once a man who was traveling. He came, at last, to a beautiful big farm. It had a manor house so fine that it could easily have been a small castle.
“This will be a good place to rest,” he said to himself as he went in through the gate. An old man, with grey hair and beard, was chopping wood nearby.
“Good evening, father,” said the traveler. “Can you put me up for the night?”
“I’m not the father of the house,” said the old one. “Go into the kitchen and talk to my father.”
The traveler went into the kitchen. There he found a man who was even older, down on his knees in front of the hearth, blowing on the fire.
“Good evening, father. Can you put me up for the night?” said the traveler.
“I’m not the father of the house,” said the old fellow. “But go in and talk to my father. He’s sitting by the table in the parlor.”
So the traveler went into the parlor and talked to the man who was sitting by the table. He was much older than both the others, and he sat, shivering and shaking, his teeth chattering, reading from a big book almost like a little child.
“Good evening, father. Will you put me up for the night?” said the man.
“I’m not the father of the house, but talk to my father who’s sitting on the settle,” said the old man who sat by the table, shivering and shaking, his teeth chattering.
So the traveler went over to the one who was sitting on the settle, and he was busy trying to smoke a pipe of tobacco. But he was so huddled up and his hands shook so that he could hardly hold on to the pipe.
“Good evening, father,” said the traveler again. “Can you put me up for the night?”
“I’m not the father of the house,” replied the huddled-up old fellow. “But talk to my father who’s lying in the bed.”
The traveler went over to the bed, and there lay an old, old man in whom there was no sign of life but a pair of big eyes.
“Good evening, father. Can you put me up for the night?” said the traveler.
“I’m not the father of the house, but talk to my father who’s lying in the cradle,” said the man with the big eyes.
Well, the traveler went over to the cradle. There lay an ancient fellow, so shriveled up that he was no bigger than a baby. And there was no way of telling there was life in him except for a rattle in his throat now and then.
“Good evening, father. Can you put me up for the night?” said the man.
It took a long time before he got an answer, and even longer before the fellow finished it. He said—he like all the others—that he was not the father of the house. “But talk to my father. He’s hanging in the horn on the wall.”
The traveler stared up along the walls, and at last he caught sight of the horn, too. But when he tried to see the one who was lying in it, there was nothing to be seen but a little ash-white form that had the likeness of a human face.
Then he was so frightened that he cried aloud, “GOOD EVENING, FATHER! WILL YOU PUT ME UP FOR THE NIGHT?”
There was a squeaking sound up in the horn like a tiny titmouse, and it was all he could do to make out that the sound meant “Yes, my child.”
Then in came a table decked with the costliest dishes, and with ale and spirits, too. And when the traveler had eaten and drunk, in came a good bed covered with reindeer hides. And he was very glad that at last he had found the true father of the house.
THE KING’S FAVORITE
China
In ancient times the beautiful woman Mi Tzu-hsia was the favorite of the lord of Wei. Now, according to the law of Wei, anyone who rode in the king’s carriage without permission would be punished by amputation of the foot. When Mi Tzu-hsia’s mother fell ill, someone brought the news to her in the middle of the night. So she took the king’s carriage and went out, and the king only praised her for it. “Such filial devotion!” he said. “For her mother’s sake she risked the punishment of amputation!”
; Another day she was dallying with the lord of Wei in the fruit garden. She took a peach, which she found so sweet that instead of finishing it she handed it to the lord to taste. “How she loves me,” said the lord of Wei, “forgetting the pleasure of her own taste to share with me!”
But when Mi Tzu-hsia’s beauty began to fade, the king’s affection cooled. And when she offended the king, he said, “Didn’t she once take my carriage without permission? And didn’t she once give me a peach that she had already chewed on?”
WAGGING MY TAIL IN THE MUD
China
The hermit poet Chuang Tzu was angling in the River Pu. The king of Ch’u sent two noblemen to invite Chuang to come before him. “We were hoping you would take on certain affairs of state,” they said. Holding his pole steady and without looking at them, Chuang Tzu said, “I hear Ch’u has a sacred tortoise that has been dead three thousand years, and the king has it enshrined in a cushioned box in the ancestral hall. Do you think the tortoise would be happier wagging his tail in the mud than having his shell honored?” “Of course,” replied the two noblemen. “Then begone,” said Chuang Tzu. “I mean to keep wagging mine in the mud.”
WHEN ONE MAN HAS TWO WIVES
Syria
A man had two wives and both loved him, though one was young and the other old. Whenever the man lay down to sleep with his head on the young wife’s knees, she would pluck the white hairs from his head so that he should appear youthful. And whenever he rested his head in the older wife’s lap and slept, she would pluck out the black hairs from his head so that he should be white-haired like herself. And it was not long before the man was bald.
