Maria was shocked and laughed and cried at the same time. ‘I can’t be your wife! I’m your daughter!’
But the King was adamant he must keep to his promise and Maria went along with it on condition he bring her a dress the colour of meadows and all the flowers in the world; another dress the colour of the sea with every fish in it; and a bridal gown the colour of the sun, the moon and all the stars. She reckoned she was demanding the impossible, but after six months of searching, her father presented her with the three gowns, each one in its own way the most amazing that could be imagined.
‘One thing more,’ said Maria.
‘What else could you possibly wish for?’ said her father.
‘I want another dress, made of wood.’
The King immediately had a wooden dress made and for the first time in ages, Maria seemed pleased.
On the day of the wedding, she put on the three gorgeous dresses, then the wooden dress on top, and set off for the river. She pretended to bathe, then threw herself in; but instead of sinking and drowning, she floated away, down the river, out to sea, bobbing over the waves, on and on, until she came to a place where a King’s son was fishing.
‘I’ve never seen a fish like that,’ he thought, and he spread his net and pulled her onto dry land.
‘Who are you and where are you from?’ he asked.
‘I am Wooden Maria and I go where the water takes me.’
‘Why are you dressed in wood? Why do you float without drowning?’
She told him that she was a poor girl who had only a wooden dress that floated like a boat, and that she wanted to be of service.
‘What can you do?’
‘Everything and nothing.’
This amused him so he took her to his castle and hired her as a rat-catcher for the rats were forever plundering the eggs from the geese. Instead of setting traps for the rats, Maria whistled and sang jolly tunes and tapped out the rhythms on her wooden dress so that soon enough the rats became her pets and danced around her. She fed them on scraps from the kitchen and the rats left the geese and their eggs in peace.
Every evening, Wooden Maria returned to the castle with a basket of eggs and one evening she found the King’s son getting ready to go to the ball.
‘Where are you off to, heir to the King?’
‘Mind your own business, wooden thing!’
‘Take me dancing to the ball?’
‘You don’t have a chance at all!’
Maria grew quiet, but when she was alone she put on the dress the colour of meadows and all the flowers in the world and became the most beautiful woman that was ever seen. At the ball, she sat near the King’s son. He asked her at once to dance and would dance with no one else. He fell head over heels in love with her and gave her the gold pin from his lapel.
‘Who are you and where are you from?’ he asked.
‘I am the Countess Thwartscoff,’ she replied, but no one there knew her at all. Before the ball was over, she disappeared and the King’s son could not find her. She hurried home and put on her wooden dress.
The following evening, he dressed again for the ball and Wooden Maria said to him:
‘Your Highness, take me as your guest.’
‘Not in that ugly wooden dress!’
‘Take me dancing! Please be kind!’
‘Silence! I have something on my mind.’
And he grew angry and threatened her with a stick.
After he’d gone, Maria put on the dress the colour of the sea with every fish in it. When she arrived at the ball, the guests gaped because they had never seen someone so beautiful. The men formed a queue to ask her to dance, but she would say yes only to the King’s son.
‘Who are you and where are you from?’ he beseeched.
‘I am the Duchess Thwartstick,’ was all she would say. The King’s son was besotted and gave her the diamond ring from his pinkie. They danced and danced then suddenly she disappeared and the smitten Prince ran everywhere but no one could tell him where she had gone.
The next evening as he prepared for the ball, he was in an agony of hope and despair. Wooden Maria came up to him but he was in no mood for her rat-catcher’s cheek and he shoved her away. At the ball, her beauty was dazzling, for she wore the gown the colour of the sun, the moon and all the stars. The King’s son gave her the locket from round his neck which held his portrait.
‘Who are you and where do you come from?’ he begged.
He knelt enraptured at her feet as she told him she was Princess Thwartshove, and the next moment she had given him the slip.
The King’s son was struck down with lovesickness and took to his bed. Each day he grew worse, asking everyone over and over if they knew anything about the beautiful girl and swearing he would die unless he saw her again. The whole castle thought he was bonkers. Wooden Maria heard everything and said nothing.
One day, when the King’s son was more dead than alive, she slipped something in the soup the son was to sup. Not a soul saw her and the butler took him the soup. He managed a spoonful but something sharp stuck in his throat and he coughed it up. It was the golden pin he had given to the gorgeous Countess!
‘Who made this soup?’ he gasped.
‘The cook made it,’ said the butler.
‘Well, I can’t eat it. Bring me something else immediately.’
The cook was put out and asked the rat-catcher girl to fetch eggs for an omelette. But when he turned his back, she dropped the diamond ring into the mixture. The King’s son took a bite of the omelette and nearly broke a tooth on the diamond. Then he ordered that Wooden Maria was to make him a pie. The cook, the butler and the rest of the staff complained about this loopy behaviour, but the pie was made and dished up soon enough. When the pining Prince forked out the locket with his portrait, he ran down to the yard.
There he found the rats dancing around the girl in the wooden dress, singing:
‘She dresses in wood
And loves who she should!’
Then Maria told him her story from beginning to end and before anyone knew it they were hand in glove and deep in love and wife and man and King and Queen, through tears and laughter, happy ever after.
The Squire’s Bride
A big old Squire owned a dirty great manor and had loads of gold stashed in his chest and plenty more coming in from money-lending. But something was missing, because he was a widower. The young lass from the nearby farm worked for him and he’d taken a right shine to her. Her family was hard up and he reckoned that if he so much as hinted or winked at matrimony she’d be all over him like a rash. So he told her that he had hit upon the notion of getting wed again.
‘Ooh! It’s surprising what one can hit upon!’ said the girl, standing there giggling. She reckoned the revolting old goat should’ve hit upon something else!
‘Well, I have hit upon the idea that you should be my new wife!’ said the Squire.
The young girl replied prettily, ‘Thanks, but no thanks!’ and thought, ‘That day will be a long time coming, Squire!’
Of course, the less she wanted him, the more he wanted her and he wasn’t used to taking ‘in your dreams’ for an answer. He got nowhere with the lass, so he sent for her father. If the father could fix him up with the girl, he could forget about the money he owed him and the Squire would throw in that piece of land next to his field on top.
The father thought his daughter was only a child who didn’t know what was best for her. Yes, he promised the Squire, he’d sort it, no problem.
But his daughter would have none of it, whether he yelled or wheedled. She wouldn’t marry the Squire if he sat in powdered gold from arsehole to earhole, so there!
The Squire waited for news, day and night, but no, nowt. At last, angry and impatient, he told the father he couldn’t wait any longer. If the father was to keep his promise, he must settle matters at once.
The father told the Squire to get everything ready for the wedding and when the parson and all the g
uests were assembled, he was to send for the girl on a work pretext. When she arrived, she must be spliced in a trice, before she knew what was to do.
‘Good plan, good plan,’ said the smitten Squire. So he had his servants brew and bake like maniacs, had a wedding cake made and a wedding punch concocted. And when everyone arrived in their finery for the feast the Squire told one of his lads to run down to the farm and have the father send up what he’d promised. He shook his fist at the lad and told him to be back in the pop of a cork or he’d get what for, so the lad legged it.
‘I’ve come from the Squire to fetch what you promised him,’ he said to the father. ‘But it has to be this instant because he’s in a right old state today.’
‘No problem! No problem! Get down to the field and take her with you. You’ll see her there.’
The boy rushed to the field and saw the daughter raking there. ‘I’m to take what your father promised the Squire,’ he said.
The girl wasn’t daft. ‘Is that right?’ she said. ‘It’s the little white mare over there by the cabbages. Take her away.’
The lad jumped onto the little mare’s back and galloped home at full pelt.
‘Did you get her?’ asked the Squire.
‘She’s standing by the front door,’ replied the lad.
‘Well, take her up to Mother’s bedroom!’ said the Squire.
‘Bloody hell! How’s that to be managed?’ said the lad.
The Squire thought he meant the girl might kick up a fuss. ‘Do as I say,’ he said, ‘and if you can’t manage her on your own, get the others to help you.’
The Squire was scarlet in the face, so the lad got all the servants together and some hauled on the front half and some shoved on the back, and at last they got the mare up the stairs and into the bedroom. The wedding dress, veil, gloves and so on were all laid out for the Squire’s bride.
‘I’ve taken her upstairs, Squire,’ said the lad. ‘But it was the worst job I’ve had since I started work here.’
‘It’ll be worth it,’ said the Squire. ‘Now send some women up to dress her.’
‘Bloody hell! How’s that to be done?’ said the lad.
‘None of your lip! They’re to get her dressed and to forget neither garter nor garland,’ snapped the Squire.
The lad went to the kitchen. ‘Listen, girls,’ he said, ‘get yourselves upstairs and dress that little mare as a bride. The Squire must want to give his guests a good laugh.’
So the housemaids put the bridal outfit on the mare and the lad went to the Squire to tell him she was ready, and wearing both garter and garland.
‘Tickety-boo!’ said the Squire. ‘Bring her down and I’ll greet her at the door myself.’
There was an almighty clattering on the stairs and the sound of snorting and neighing. Then the door opened, the Squire’s bride came into the great hall, and all the wedding guests fell about laughing.
And it must have been a very happy union, because they reckon the Squire hasn’t gone courting since!
The Lost Happy Endings
The Rat’s job was important. Each evening when dusk was removing the outlines of things, like a rubber, the Rat had to shoulder his sack and carry all the Happy Endings of stories from one end of the forest to the other, in time for everybody’s bedtime. Then the Rat had to climb onto the branch of the ancient oak tree, open the sack and shake out the Happy Endings into the darkening air.
Some of the Endings drifted away like breath and others fluttered upwards like moths fumbling for light. Some looked like fireflies disappearing among the kindling of the leaves and twigs and some were fireworks, zipping skywards like rockets and flouncing off in a jackpot of sparks high above the forest.
When the last Ending was out of the sack, the Rat would scamper and rustle his way homewards through the woods. Sometimes the eyes of owls flashed from the trees like torches and made him jump, or bats skimmed the top of his head like living frisbees and he squeaked with surprise; but the Rat ran speedily along and was soon home in his hole.
He would sleep quite late the following day. By the time he’d washed, eaten and visited other rats down by the river, the Happy Endings had flown back to the forest like homing pigeons and were hanging from the old silver birch all ready for the Rat to collect once more.
One evening, as the Rat set off with his sack, he noticed scarves of mist draped in the trees. One of them noosed itself round the Rat’s neck, soft and damp, and made him shiver.
By the time he had reached the middle of the forest, the mist had thickened and the Rat could only see a little way ahead. The shadowy trees looked villainous: tall ghouls with long arms and twiggy fingers. Bushes crouched in the fog as though they might pounce like muggers. The Rat hurried on.
‘Hello, my verminous deario!’
The Rat jumped. A twisted old witch with a face like the bark of a tree and horrible claw hands was standing on the path in front of the Rat. She had fierce red eyes like poisonous berries.
‘What’s in the sack?’
‘Let me pass,’ said the Rat.
‘What’s in the sack, I said!’
The witch had grabbed hold of the Rat’s tail. Her touch nipped like pepper.
‘Let me alone!’ gasped the Rat. ‘I must go on.’
‘Shut up, rodent!’ said the vicious witch, and she spat green spittle in the Rat’s face. The Rat was so shocked that he jumped backwards and rolled over a tree root. Faster than fury, the witch was on him and had snatched the sack of Happy Endings.
‘I’m having this, my rat-faced deario,’ she snarled. Then she gobbed at the Rat again and hobbled rapidly away into the darkness and the fog. The Rat cowered for a long time, terrified that the witch would return.
The fog began to lift and the moon turned the narrow path through the forest to a long silver finger. An owl’s hoot questioned sadly. The Rat looked about. The Happy Endings were lost! He turned and ran back down the path to his home, scattering bitter tears into the cold black night.
As the Rat ran crying through the forest, children in their beds were listening to their bedtime stories. But tonight there were to be no Happy Endings.
Wooden Maria sank to the bottom of the sea and she drowned. The children started to cry.
The lass who worked on the farm was forced to marry the old squire and scrub him in the bath before bed. The children started to scream.
The children of Hamelin, trapped inside the mountain, ate each other or starved to death. The children had hysterics.
On and on the parents of the children read, and worse and worse the tales became. Soon the night was filled with the awful sound of frightened and traumatised children weeping and wailing in their beds.
There was a cacophony of children crying or asking for the light to be left on or refusing to sleep alone or wetting the bed. The Rat rocked back and forth moaning with sorrow.
When dawn came, it grew quieter, and the exhausted Rat fell fast asleep. As he slept, he dreamed of a Golden Pen, which could write on night itself …
He seized the pen and set off into the forest. It grew dark. Stars whispered.
The Rat dreamed that he came to the spot where the witch had snitched his sack.
Wondering what to do, he held the Golden Pen and drew a question mark on the night air. It floated before him, glowing in the darkness.
Suddenly the Rat knew exactly what to do. He would write his own Happy Ending on the night! He wrote in the air and every word shone out in perfect golden handwriting:
‘When the witch first opened the sack of Happy Endings she was furious. They were worthless to a witch. Boring. Stupid.
‘She flung the sack into the corner of her lair and went out to bite the head off any small songbird she could catch and crunch its beak. It was good to be bad. Then she decided to burn the sack of Happy Endings. She would dance around the fire and shout out terrible swear words and drink poison-berry juice and smoke a clay pipe. Good to be bad.
‘So she lug
ged the sack outside, added a few dried leaves and twigs, then squatted down and began to rub two sticks together to light the fire.
‘The rapid movement of her witchy hands made a spark, then another, and another, and soon the fire was born. Suddenly a spark leapt from the stick and jumped onto a lock of her frizzy old hair. There was a nasty burny hairy smell and – whumph! The Witch’s hair was alight.
‘She shrieked horribly, beating at her head with her hands. She danced crazily around the fire, singing hideously. The flames danced with her, cheek to cheek, step by step, arm in arm, one-two-three, one-two-three. Her screams scattered the sleeping birds from the trees in a panic of wings.’
The Rat heard an awful noise and smelled something strange cooking. He followed his nose and it led him to the bowels of the forest. The fire opened its jaws and roared.
He stared in horror into the Witch’s small red eyes until they were burned completely black and the Witch collapsed in a sullen hiss of ash …
He saw the sack on the ground.
The sack of Happy Endings!
There was still time, if he ran as fast as he ever had in his life, to send the Happy Endings out into the world.
Goosegirls went to the ball and grooms lived happily ever after …
Squires with little taste and loads of cash produced as much food as a peasant could ever wish for and … Look! Look! Look! Lost children were running home through the woods into the arms of their parents.
Hansel and Gretel
It was no more than once upon a time when a poor woodcutter lived in a small house at the edge of a huge, dark forest. Now, the woodcutter lived with his wife and his two young children – a boy called Hansel and a little girl called Gretel. It was hard enough for him to feed them all at the best of times – but these were the worst of times; times of famine and hunger and starvation; and the woodcutter was lucky if he could get his hands on even a simple loaf of bread. Night after hungry night, he lay in his bed next to his thin wife, and he worried so much that he tossed and he turned and he sighed and he mumbled and moaned and he just couldn’t sleep at all. ‘Wife, wife, wife,’ he said to Hansel’s and Gretel’s stepmother. ‘What are we going to do? How can we feed our two poor children when we’ve hardly enough for ourselves? Wife, wife, what can be done?’ And as he fretted and sweated in the darkness, back came the bony voice of his wife – a voice as fierce as a famine. ‘Listen to me, husband,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow at first light we’ll take the children into the forest, right into the cold, black heart of it. We’ll make a fire for them there and give them each one last morsel of bread. Then we’ll pretend to go off to our work and we’ll leave them there all by themselves. They’ll never be able to find their way back home on their own. We’ll be rid of them for good and only have to worry about feeding ourselves.’ But when the woodcutter heard these hard, desperate words he said no. ‘No, no, wife, I can’t do that. How could I have the heart to leave young Hansel and Gretel in the forest? The wild beasts would soon sniff them out and eat them alive.’ But his wife was adamant. ‘You fool,’ she said with tight lips, ‘do you want all four of us to starve to death? You might as well start smoothing the wood for our coffins.’ And she gave the poor, heartsore woodcutter no peace until he agreed to do as she said. ‘But I feel so sorry for my helpless little children,’ he wept. ‘I can’t help it.’
Faery Tales Page 9
