So off he went and she waited and waited for him to come back again.
Then, one day in the market, a small boy pressed a scrap of paper into her hand.
It was a note from Joseph. ‘Great news! I have my promotion. Soon I’ll be home again.’
Goldenhair ran all the way home. ‘Mother! Father! Joseph’s an officer now. Soon he’ll be home and we can be married.’
Her parents still hummed and ha-ed – though they’d had no better offers for her since Count Rinaldo met his grisly end. So when an old woman who came to the door selling lavender whispered to her, ‘He’s coming for you tonight. Be ready,’ she said nothing to her parents, only waited at her window till at last she saw a figure riding out of the darkness.
Down she went and climbed up behind him and off they went, like the wind. He spoke not one word till she asked him, ‘Where are we going?’
‘To hell!’ answered Count Rinaldo. ‘There, will you, nil you, you shall be my bride!’
‘Never!’ she screamed. ‘Let me down! Let me go!’
The horse only galloped faster. Too fast for her even to think of jumping off, to end up nothing but a mess of blood and broken bones.
‘Joseph! Where are you? Help me!’ In despair she cried out her true lover’s name.
Joseph, who’d been letting his horse amble towards the village while he slumbered in the saddle, dreaming of how it would be next day when he came to claim his bride, heard her cry from far off.
He spurred his horse to the top of the next hill and saw his love seated behind Count Rinaldo, her golden hair trailing in the wind.
Down the hill he rode to meet them, knowing he’d have but one chance to rescue Goldenhair, since no mortal horse could outpace Count Rinaldo’s.
‘Jump!’ he cried. ‘Trust me! I’ll catch you.’
She would have jumped then, but Count Rinaldo caught her hair fast in his hand.
Then, Joseph drew his sword and with one blow sliced the hair clean through.
Count Rinaldo rode on, straight back to hell, with nothing but a handful of long golden hair by way of a souvenir, while its previous owner nestled safely in her true love’s arms.
Goldenhair was Goldenhair no longer, since it never grew back quite the same.
In fact she looked quite ordinary.
Do you think that bothered Joseph? Not one bit!
The Werewolf’s Bride
Spain
Don Antonio rode into town with a feather in his cap and money in his pocket. A fine young fellow, he was, in his scarlet coat and embroidered waistcoat. When word got around that he was in search of a wife, what a kerfuffle that caused!
True, he was a little on the stout side, but that only went to show that he liked to live well. A wife of his would never have to scrimp and save to buy a fine shawl, or a new lace mantilla to wear to church on Sundays.
Girls of all shapes and sizes set their caps at him, fair, dark and redhead, but Don Antonio only had eyes for Dona Ines. A widow, he was told, – so young, so sad, – and so beautiful!
And she seemed quite taken with him. He was already dreaming of wedding bells when he heard that she’d left town with another gentleman even stouter than he was – not to say downright fat – and old enough to be her father.
Don Antonio was broken-hearted.
A few days later she was back again. Alone.
‘You don’t seriously think I preferred him over you?’ she said. ‘We just went on a little sight-seeing trip, that’s all.’
All went well for a while after that. He’d made up his mind to pop the question. Then she was off again, with another gentleman, even fatter than the last.
Don Antonio was devastated.
He did what he’d always done when he was unhappy. He ate more. He ate until the buttons on his waistcoat threatened to pop.
Then she came back again. Alone again and all smiles.
‘You’ve put on weight,’ she said, patting his tummy.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was pining for you.’
‘Don’t be sorry. I like it. Did you really think I’d abandoned you? That man was a lawyer. I was hoping he’d help me claim my inheritance. Mine is a sad story, you see. When my husband died, he left all he owned to me, on condition I married his best friend. But I don’t love this man! I could never love him. And he doesn’t love me. All he wants is my money.’
‘Marry me!’ cried Don Antonio. ‘Forget the money! I have more than enough for both of us.’
‘You don’t know this man,’ sighed Dona Ines. ‘He’d never let me rest if I hurt his pride so. I’d spend the rest of my life expecting a dagger in the back, or poison in my food. Perhaps, my darling, if you were to go to him, reason with him, man to man…’
‘I will!’ declared Don Antonio.
‘And if he won’t see reason,’ added Dona Ines, ‘you must challenge him.’
‘To a duel?’
‘A duel to the death! Then I’ll be rid of him, once and for all, and my husband’s money will be mine… I mean ours!’
‘What if I lose?’
‘You won’t lose.’
Don Antonio wished he could be as sure of that as she seemed to be. He’d never fought a duel in his life. On the other hand, if this fellow was as grasping as she said, there was a good chance he’d be able to buy him off.
Next morning, leaving the town in her carriage, he was in high hopes that by evening they’d be setting a date for the wedding. As the day wore on and the roads became rougher and the countryside wilder, he began to have his doubts. As the sun set, ‘Is it much further?’ he said.
‘Not far now,’ she answered.
So on they went and on again until at last, with the full moon shining overhead, they came to a house standing alone at the edge of a forest.
‘It looks empty,’ he said, hesitating. ‘Are you sure he’s at home?’
‘Of course he is. He’s expecting us. Have courage, my darling. Do this for me.’
‘I will!’ he said. ‘You know I’d do anything for you.’
He let her take him by the hand and lead him up to the great front door. She pushed it and it opened at her touch.
‘This way,’ she said.
She led him through deserted corridors, finding her way in the almost pitch dark. Where were the servants, he wondered? Why were there no fires, no lights? Then, they were standing in a big, empty room. There, at least, there was a fire burning, whose flickering flames only made the shadows seem darker.
‘Are you there, my darling?’ whispered Dona Ines.
A soft, answering growl came out of the darkness.
‘Patience, my darling. Patience!’ She turned to Don Antonio. ‘I have not been honest with you,’ she said, ‘and I am truly sorry, but when I tell you how it is, perhaps you will understand. I am not a widow. I married young and for love. It wasn’t until the next full moon that I discovered that my husband was – is – a werewolf. He would have eaten me on the spot. Instead we came to an agreement. If I would bring him fresh, human meat – the plumper the better – at each full moon, then he would spare my life. So this is goodbye, Don Antonio.’ Gently she kissed him on the lips. ‘And thank you. Well,’ she said, smiling, as she closed the door behind her, ‘you did say you would do anything for me.’
The Hidden Hand
United States
Things were winding down after the Hallowe’en party, but Polly wasn’t in a mood to go home yet and Cathy was her best friend, so she stayed on too. It was Tom’s house, so he wasn’t going anywhere. And Josh… well, Josh was always the last to leave any party.
They sat there, polishing off the last of the drinks, telling each other ghost stories, till they’d pretty much run out of those.
Then Tom said, ‘Did you know that if you walk over a fresh grave on Hallowe’en night, the dead man inside will reach up and drag you under?’
Josh grinned. ‘That dead man’s got to be six feet down,’ he said. ‘His arms would have to
be elastic.’
‘I’m just telling you what I heard,’ said Tom. ‘You want to prove to us it’s not true, you go ahead try it.’
‘Maybe not tonight,’ said Josh.
‘I wouldn’t do it,’ said Cathy. ‘Not if you paid me a million dollars.’
‘I’d do it for nothing,’ said Polly. ‘Just to prove to you it’s all hogwash. I’ll go down to the graveyard right now. And to prove I really have stepped on a grave, I’ll take this kitchen knife,‘ she said, ‘and stick it in the earth right up to the handle. You can go find it in the morning.’
Off she went, down to the graveyard, and stepped, first one foot, then the other, onto the first fresh grave she came to. She bent down and stuck in the knife as hard and deep as she could.
She tried to stand up again and found she couldn’t. There was something holding her down.
The others heard her scream. At first, they thought she was fooling. But the screaming went on and on. ‘Help me! He’s got me! I can’t move! Help me, please!’
‘I don’t think she’s fooling,’ said Cathy.
‘Me neither,’ said Josh. ‘What do you think we should do?’
‘Maybe,’ said Tom, ‘we should go and help her?’
Then the screaming stopped.
‘You think we should phone the police?’ said Cathy.
‘What’ll we tell them?’ said Josh. ‘We think a dead man’s got Polly? Dragged her down into his grave?’
‘Maybe we should take a look first,’ said Tom. ‘How about if we all go together and take a peek over the graveyard wall.’
So that’s what they did.
Peeping, one, two, three, over the graveyard wall they saw Polly, crouched on a newly covered grave, trembling and sobbing.
Tom pulled out the knife.
Josh helped her up.
Cathy found the tear Polly had made in her party dress when she stuck the knife into that newly covered grave.
She’d only pinned herself down when she stuck the knife in the ground − right through her dress!
River of Death
Morocco
Before there were angels in heaven or men and women walking the earth, in the time before time began, the djinni were born out of liquid fire. Mostly, these days, they live in the wild, lonely places and keep themselves to themselves. But just now and again they’re apt to turn troublesome, maybe out of sheer boredom. Or perhaps to remind the rest of the world that they’re still there.
So it was that the djinni who lived on the mountain above Azemour took it into his head one day to cut off the city’s water supply by rolling a great boulder in front of the cave mouth where the river had its source. He said that if forty wise men could be found, brave enough to give their lives for the sake of the city, then the waters would flow again.
The sultan summoned his council of wise men – who happened to number exactly forty − and they all agreed that forty lives would be a small price to pay for the life of the city.
Then the excuses started coming.
‘I would give my life gladly − but my daughter’s getting married next month.’
‘My wife is sick.’
‘My son’s causing problems – typical teenager!’
‘There’s a debt I must repay…’
‘I have an epic poem to finish. How can I deprive the world of my masterpiece?’
‘There is an eclipse of the sun I must observe or all my research will have been for nothing.’
And so it went on, until only one was left, the philosopher Sidi Rahal. ‘Who can read the mind of a djinni? Perhaps one life will satisfy him after all,’ he said.
He didn’t want to die, any more than the others did. As he walked up to the cave mouth he was just as afraid as they would have been, wondering what hideous death the djinni had in store.
Behind the boulder he could hear the pent-up waters roaring like a monster seeking for a way out.
He’d expected the djinni to be waiting for him, but there seemed to be no one about, apart from a wizened old man leaning on a wooden staff.
‘Are you looking for the djinni?’ he asked.
‘Er, yes,’ said Sidi Rahal.
‘You’ve found him,’ said the old man.
‘You’re the djinni?’
‘That’s me. I take it you’re one of the forty wise men of the council. What happened to the others?’
‘They… er… I’m afraid they were busy,’ said Sidi Rahal.
‘Not so busy they couldn’t spare the time to watch you die,’ observed the djinni.
Sidi Rahal looked back the way he’d come. There were the other thirty-nine wise men, carefully keeping their distance. ‘Can we just get on with it?’ he said.
‘If that’s what you want,’ said the djinni.
‘I’d much rather live,’ said Sidi Rahal.
The djinni smiled. ‘I’m sure you would, little man. But we can’t always have what we want. Look at me. I asked for forty wise men willing to give their lives for the sake of the city. All I got was you. Ah well. Never mind.’
Then, the djinni began to change his shape. He grew taller, broader, stronger, greener. He roared and the sound was like thunder. Lightning flashed all around. He raised his great fist and Sidi Rahal closed his eyes, waiting for the fatal blow to strike.
He heard an ear-splitting crunch but felt nothing.
‘Was that it?’ he wondered. ‘Am I dead?’
Cautiously, he opened his eyes and saw that the boulder holding the river back had been shattered into a thousand pieces, the djinni had vanished and he, Sidi Rahal, was still very much alive.
Not so the thirty-nine wise men who had only seconds to live. They thought they’d found a safe place to stand. It never crossed their minds that the djinni might change the course of the river until they saw the huge wave of water thundering down the mountainside towards them. They turned to flee, but there was nowhere to go, no time even to pray for mercy before, in a swirling, foaming torrent of water, they were all swept away.
So the djinni got his tribute of forty lives – all bar one. Why he’d been allowed to live was something Sidi Rahal would never know for sure. Who can read the mind of a djinni? Perhaps if the others had come willingly, the djinni would have spared them, too.
As it was, he’d asked for forty wise men brave enough to die for their city. All he got were fools and cowards. That, so they say, is why the river still takes its tribute of forty lives every year. A child playing too close to the water’s edge, a young man taking a swim after a night out, a woman reaching after a piece of washing that’s drifting away.
That’s why its local name is the River of Death.
The Cold Lady
Japan
It was quite the worst time of year for a journey, but the old man insisted his business in the city couldn’t wait till spring. So what was a good son to do, but go with him? As it turned out, they were lucky with the weather until they were part way home. Then, the blizzard struck. And what a blizzard! The wind howled in their ears like a thousand devils and the snow was an unbroken white curtain, swirling about them.
Still the young man would have pressed on as long as he could make out the road at his feet, but he could see his father (though he’d never admit it) could hardly put one foot in front of the other. So they took refuge in a cave on a lonely hillside and waited for the storm to blow itself out.
They had no water and nothing to eat. Worst of all, there was no way of getting a fire going. All they could do was huddle together for warmth.
At last, the old man stopped shivering and fell asleep. The young man, too, must have slept, because when he opened his eyes again, he saw that the storm had passed over. It was bright moonlight outside and there was someone moving about inside the cave. He saw a woman, dressed all in white. Her hair, too, was white as snow.
But her face in the moonlight was the face of a young girl.
The closer she came, the colder he felt, till he was colder t
han he’d ever been in his life before. She bent over his father, breathing a deathly cold over the old man as he slept. He saw the old man’s last breath leave him, drawn up into the cold lady’s mouth.
Then she turned towards him, the son. Strangely, he wasn’t afraid, only faintly surprised. ‘Is this it?’ he wondered. ‘Is this death? The end of all my hopes and dreams?’
‘Such a pretty boy!’ the cold lady murmured. ‘So young! Too young to die yet.’
She was about to move away when she saw that his eyes were open, watching her.
‘Swear to me,’ she said, ‘that you will never speak of me or of this night. Not to mother nor brother, nor sister, nor sweetheart, nor wedded wife, nor child, nor friend, nor foe, nor to any living creature that walks or crawls on land or swims in the sea or flies in the sky.’
‘I swear,’ he said. Then fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Next morning, he was found by some shepherds who were out searching for sheep lost in the storm. It took him some days after that to recover his strength and arrange for his father’s funeral.
By the time he got home, he found his mother had taken on a new servant girl, Yuki.
‘I think of her more as a friend,’ said his mother.
‘Her friend and her nurse,’ Yuki told him quietly. ‘You mother is sick, but I will do what I can to make her last days happy ones.’
So she did, moving quietly about the house, always there when she was needed but never in the way.
He got so used to having her around that, after his mother died, it seemed the natural step for them to marry.
And they were happy.
Seven children they had over the years. The children grew up and married in their turn. So now it was just the two of them, growing old together.
His hair was turning white. So too was Yuki’s, though she still had the smooth, unlined face of a young girl.
So it was that one winter’s evening, seeing her standing in the moonlight looking out at the snow falling on the garden, he was reminded of that night long ago.
Goblins and Ghosties Page 6
