Suddenly They Heard Footsteps

by Dan Yashinsky

  I hate them all!

  Finally she saw something far ahead. In the middle of the forest, in the middle of the night, there was a scary sight—a campfire blazing bright, and there in the circle of the firelight, twelve men. There were three teenagers, wearing sandals, shorts and T-shirts; they held primroses, daffodils and cowslips. Next to them in the circle were three men in their late twenties wearing straw hats and holding sheaves of wheat. Then there were three middle-aged men wearing jackets and holding bright red apples and bunches of purple grapes. Then there were three old men with long white beards. They weren’t holding anything, just looking at the fire.

  The oldest of the old men looked up and said, “We heard your song through the woods. Why have you come here?”

  She barged her way into the circle and stood by the fire. “I want gold,” she said, “just like you gave my neighbour.”

  The old man said, “First, answer my question. What do you think of the twelve months of the year?”

  “I hate them all!” hissed the rich woman. “Spring makes me sneeze, summer’s too dusty, fall has too many dead leaves, and in winter my feet are always cold. I hate all four seasons! Now where’s my gold?”

  The twelve men didn’t offer her their flowers, wheat, apples and grapes. But the oldest man said, “Here’s a chest. I give it to you on one condition. Do not open it until you get all the way home.”

  She grabbed it and turned away without a word of thanks. Away she hurried through the forest clutching her chest. When she was halfway home, she stopped. “If I take this home they’ll all want some and there won’t be any left for me,” she said to herself. “I’ll keep it all for myself!” And she threw the chest down and opened the lid. The chest was full of white snow. She was furious. She kicked the chest over, and the snow poured out and began to swirl around her and turned into an icy blizzard. When they sent the search party out the next day, they found her frozen in the middle of the woods.

  What happened to her two kids? They moved across the street to live with the neighbour woman, the one who had once been so poor. And because their new brothers and sisters treated them with kindness and respect, they quit being such brats and were happy with their new mother. As for the woman, if anybody came to her door hungry, poor or cold, she always welcomed them in. She would listen to their story, tell them her story, and offer a nice hot bowl of soup and a loaf of fresh bread. Her children grew up to do the same, and they never forgot their mother’s favourite lullaby:

  Summer, autumn, winter, spring

  Turning ’round their blessings bring.

  STRANGE VOICES

  This story is a retelling of “The White Snake” by the brothers Grimm. I’ve always been fascinated by the motif of the hero gaining the power to understand the language of the animals. Great knowledge can be won, but equally great and unpredictable consequences released.

  ONCE THERE WAS A KING who knew things nobody else did. People wondered where he got his mysterious wisdom, but if they ever asked him, he would give a little smile and say, “Oh, a little bird whispered it in my ear.” And he wasn’t lying, as it turned out.

  Every night his trusted servant brought the king a covered dish, and then everybody had to leave the room while the king ate.

  One night the servant was so curious about what was in the dish that he carried it to his own room, locked the door, and lifted the lid. There on the dish he saw a white snake, cooked and coiled. He reached out, took a little piece, and put it in his mouth. He ate it. Just at that moment, his ears tingled and—

  He heard voices new and strange

  Chirping out of human range.

  The voices were coming from the windowsill. When he looked, he saw there were some sparrows eating seeds. They were talking. “Would you like another seed?” “Oh, no thanks. I’m full.” He understood every word they chirped! The white snake had given him the power to understand the language of the animals. Now he knew the secret of the king’s great wisdom.

  Unfortunately, that very day the queen came running to the king with terrible news. “Somebody stole my most precious ring!” she said. “I left it in my bedroom and now I can’t find it.”

  “How could this be?” cried the king. “The only people who go into your room are you, me and the trusted servant. The trusted servant… Guards! Bring me the servant immediately!”

  The guards ran out and arrested the young man. They brought him in chains before the king, who said, “I thought I could trust you, and now look what you did! You stole the queen’s most precious ring!”

  “No,” said the servant bravely, “that is not true. I did not steal the ring. I am innocent!” (He didn’t mention that he had stolen a taste of the king’s secret snake.)

  “Because you have been trustworthy until now,” said the king, “I will give you twenty-four hours to prove your innocence. If you cannot bring the ring back in that time, your head will be chopped off.”

  Well, the servant hadn’t taken the ring; but he had no idea where to look for it. They undid the handcuffs, and the servant walked out into the palace garden. Just as he passed the pool, his ears tingled and—

  He heard voices new and strange

  Gabbling out of human range.

  There by the palace lily pond were two geese. They were talking. “Oi,” said the grey one, “my stomach is killing me!”

  “Why?” asked the other.

  “I don’t know. I must have eaten something I shouldn’t have. Something fell off the queen’s windowsill and I gobbled it up without looking.”

  “Ach, you silly goose!” said his companion. “Never eat something you haven’t seen before!”

  When the servant heard these words, he walked over to the pond and grabbed the grey goose by the neck. He took it to the cook in the royal kitchen and said, “I think this would make a nice feast for the king and queen.”

  When they killed the goose and took out the guts, there was the queen’s ring. The servant cleaned the goose guts off and took it to the king. “You see,” he said, “I am no thief. Here’s the queen’s ring.”

  The king knew he’d been wrong to accuse his trusted servant of theft, and he said, “To make up for my unjust accusation, ask me for anything you want and I’ll give it to you.”

  The young man didn’t hesitate. “I would like only three things,” he said. “My freedom, a horse and enough money to travel with.”

  The king and queen gave him his freedom, and a purse of money, and bade him go into the stables to find himself a horse. As he was walking past the fine stallions and mares, his ears tingled and—

  He heard a voice new and strange

  Neighing out of human range.

  “Choose me!” a mare murmured, looking sideways at him as he walked past. So he did. He led the horse out of the stables, said goodbye to the king and queen, and rode off to seek his fortune.

  He got on his horse and rode away

  He rode all night and most of the day

  Until he came to a road that ran alongside a river. As he rode past some reeds, his ears tingled and—

  He heard voices new and strange

  Gulping out of human range.

  There the young man saw three fish, stranded in the reeds. They were gasping and gulping, and crying for help. “Please, help us!” they called. “We’re stuck in these reeds and we cannot get free!”

  He listened, sitting in the saddle, until his horse murmured, “Go help them. They’ll die if you don’t.”

  So he jumped down and walked over to the fish. He bent down, picked them out of the reeds, and carried them back to the river. As they splashed down into the water, one of them looked back and said, “Thank you. One day we’ll help you too.” Then they swam happily away.

  He got on his horse and rode away

  He rode all night and most of the day until his ears began to tingle and—

  He heard voices new and strange

  Peeping out of human range.

  The so
unds were coming from the road beneath his horse’s hooves. A line of ants was trying to cross the road, just where he was riding. One stood in front of him and peeped, “Please stop, human rider. Can’t you see you’re crushing my people?”

  The young man looked down at the ant and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t even see your people.”

  “That’s the problem,” said the king of the ants, for that’s who it was. “You humans never pay attention to the little people of the world. Just because we’re so small doesn’t mean we’re not people!”

  The young man sat there staring down at the ants until his horse murmured, “We’ll go the long way around. That way we won’t hurt any more ants.” So he pulled on the reins and they left the road. As they rode away, he heard the king of the ants call out, “Thank you, human! One day we will help you!”

  He rode and he rode, until he came to a great tree. There was a raven’s nest in the tree, and as he rode by his ears tingled and—

  He heard voices new and strange

  Cawing out of human range.

  Three baby ravens were calling for help. “Get out of the nest,” cawed their father. “We’re tired of feeding you,” screeched the mother. And they tossed the three nestlings out of the nest onto the ground below. “Please help us,” said the little ones. “We’re too young to find food for ourselves!”

  The young man looked down at the baby birds.

  His mare murmured, “Feed them.”

  “But I don’t have anything to feed them with,” he said. “They eat carrion—dead meat.”

  “Kill me,” said the horse, “and give my body to the baby ravens.”

  “I can’t do that!” cried the young man. “I love you, and you’ve helped me so much.”

  “You must,” said the horse, “and if you do, perhaps something will happen that is meant to happen.”

  So, weeping, he took his sword and killed the horse and fed the meat to the baby ravens. “Thank you,” they cawed. “We will help you one day, too.”

  He walked on

  A long way or a short way

  Only the First Storyteller of the World

  Knows how far he walked.

  But his heart was full of grief for his horse, and he could no longer understand the languages of the animals.

  One day he came to the gates of a great city. A trumpeter blew on a trumpet and made this announcement: “Hear ye, Hear ye! The princess of this city has decided to get married. Whosoever can pass the three impossible tests is eligible to be chosen.”

  “What happens,” asked the young man, “if you try the tests and fail?”

  “Something terrible,” said the trumpeter.

  “May I see the princess before I decide?” asked the young man. And when he beheld the princess, he was amazed at her beauty. Something about her looked familiar, as if they’d met before—her long mane of shining hair, her fine white teeth, the way she moved, her graceful neck. He said, “I’ll try the three impossible tests, because the most impossible thing of all would be to live without her.”

  He’d fallen in love as quickly as a storyteller can say the words “in love.”

  For the first test, the princess led him up to a cliff overlooking the ocean. She took off a gold ring and held it shining and sparkling in front of him. Then she cocked her arm and pitched the ring away over the cliff. He watched it splash into the waves far below. “Bring back my ring,” she said.

  The young man tramped down the trail to the beach. He stared at the waves rolling in, cresting and breaking endlessly on the shore. All of a sudden, three fish poked their heads out of the water. One of them held something in its mouth. The fish swam over and dropped it in his hand. It was the ring. “Thank you,” he called out, but the fish had already vanished under the waves.

  He took the ring and carried it back to the princess. She couldn’t believe he’d found it. For the second test, she led him to the palace. There were ten sacks of millet seeds. She opened the sacks and began to scatter the seeds everywhere on the ground, even under the couch in the royal living room. Then she said, “By tomorrow at dawn, pick up every seed and put it all back into the sacks. If there’s one left, you die.”

  He got down on his hands and knees and started to scoop up the millet. It ran through his fingers like sand. Finally he lay down to rest a bit before he met his terrible fate. He woke up just before dawn to feel a tiny pull on his ear. There was the king of the ants, and lined up on the floor, a million of his little people. The ten sacks were full. “Thank you,” he whispered, but the ants had already turned and marched away.

  The princess was astonished when she beheld the full sacks. Then she said, “Your third test is the most impossible of all. Go to the end of the world and bring back the Apple of Life!”

  Even that, he thought, is not as impossible as losing you! But he didn’t say it out loud. He just stood there wondering which road might lead him to the end of the world. Just then he heard a cawing in the blue sky above. Three black ravens, full-grown now, were circling above him. One had something in its beak. It was an apple. The apple fell into the young man’s hand. “Thank you,” he cried out, but the ravens had already wheeled off through the clouds.

  He turned to the princess and handed her the apple. When she held the Apple of Life, she smiled at the young man who had passed her three impossible tests. She cut the apple in half, and gave him half. They ate it together, and found so much joy together that only the First Storyteller of the World could find words to describe it.

  After they were married, the young man often gazed at his wife. Was she or wasn’t she? The strangest part of the story is that, even though he once knew the language of the animals, sometimes he still found it very hard to understand the language of women. But what he’d learned from the white snake, the sparrows, the geese, the fish, the ants, the ravens, and, of course, the mare—so beautiful, with her flowing mane and gentle voice—was that you have to keep trying. So he did. And whenever his wife saw that he was truly listening, she tossed her magnificent hair and gave a low whinny of delight.

  THE DEVIL’S NOODLES

  This story grew out of “Wicked John and the Devil,” in Richard Chase’s Grandfather Tales.

  THIS IS A STORY ABOUT A TIME the devil came to Toronto. It happened in Little Italy, where I used to live, in a café called the Café del Diavolo—the Devil’s Café. The café wasn’t called that because anything bad went on there, but because the owner, a man named Renato, liked to cook his food very piccante—spicy. In Italian cooking, you call it cooking something alla diavola: as hot as the devil. His most famous dish was pasta alla Diavola—which is why the story is called “The Devil’s Noodles.” I was always trying to get him to tell me his secret recipe, but he never would. He’d lean over the counter, white chef’s hat on his head, and whisper, “Hey, Dan, can you keep a secret?”

  I’d nod eagerly, hoping to hear the recipe.

  “Well, so can I!” he’d laugh, turning back to stir the soup.

  Renato was a bit of a diavolino, it’s true. He chainsmoked, drank too much vino rosso (which he called grape juice, kept in an unplugged freezer at the back, and sold without a liquor licence), never paid his taxes, didn’t go to church, and told his neighbours exactly what he thought about them. As if that weren’t enough, he gambled on the horses every day. In fact, if his horse won that day, the price of your meal would be low. If his horse lost, the price went up. The neighbours used to say he was a little pazzo—a little crazy. But for all his sins, the café was like a community centre. Old men came over to drink espresso and talk politics, kids came by after school to get free biscotti. Renato loved children. He and his Filipina wife, Perry, didn’t have kids themselves, although they’d wanted to. If you walked into the café with a bambino, Renato would come out from behind the counter, chef’s hat on and cigarette dangling from his mouth. He’d sweep the baby up in his arms and waltz around the café singing “Volare.” He was also kind to old people, always h
elped out the poor and loved his wife, who was as quiet-spoken as he was voluble.

  One day, something happened. If it hadn’t happened, how could I tell you about it? I was sitting in the café eating some pasta alla diavola and sipping some grape juice when I saw a parade go by on the street outside. There were always little parades on the streets of Little Italy. This one seemed to be in honour of a saint. I saw the kids from the local church march by, and the priest, and a band. Behind them was a big Cadillac filled with soccer players. They were shouting, “Viva Italia!” All of a sudden the crowd pulled back. Right in front of the window where I was sitting, a raggedy old man stumbled onto the sidewalk. His clothes were shabby, his beard unkempt, his hair sticking out every which way from under a broken-down old hat. Not only that, he was in a state of immoderate inebriation. I mean, this old man, he played nine, he’d been drinking too much wine! He was feeling no pain. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying the parade, weaving along and hollering, “Go, angels, go!”

  The crowd was getting mad. Some of the bigger teenagers started to taunt the old fellow. “Hey, vagabondo! Get out of here! We don’t need tramps like you spoiling our parade!” Just as it was starting to get ugly Renato came storming out of the café, white chef’s hat on his head, wooden spoon in his hand and fire in his eyes. “How can you treat an old, homeless man like that!” he yelled at the crowd. “Just because he’s poor doesn’t mean he has no pride!” And he took the old man’s arm and led him into the café. Then he put him at the table next to me and began to serve him a meal fit for a king. He brought him devil’s noodles, salad, bread, chicken, even grape juice from the freezer. For dessert, he served him one of his famous cappuccinos, covered with thick foam and shavings of chocolate.

  The old man began to eat like he hadn’t had a meal for many days. The problem was I was sitting next to him, and it was not a pretty sight. He gobbled and guzzled and slurped and burped. The bread crumbs tumbled down his shirt, and the noodles flapped as he chewed them. I lost my appetite and got up. When I went to pay, I said to Renato, “Why did you let him in? He smells bad!”