The Golden Key

by Philip Pullman

The old woman brought them another bottle of the best, and a fine apple tart, what’s more, and a jug of cream. The soldier didn’t get up till he’d eaten enough for three.

  Finally he sighed and pushed his chair back and said, ‘Time to strike tents. It’s not far to town – the old woman’ll show us the way.’

  When they got to the town, the soldier sought out the barracks at once and told the officer in charge about the robbers.

  ‘Come back with me,’ he said to the hunter. ‘I want to see their faces when they wake up.’

  The soldiers surrounded the robbers, who were still sitting animal-magnetized at the table.

  ‘I’ll need another bottle,’ the soldier said to the old woman. ‘One of the best.’

  As soon as he’d drawn the cork and taken a swig, he waved it over the robbers’ heads and called out, ‘Good health to you!’

  Instantly the robbers woke up and began to move, but before they could draw their weapons, the soldiers had overpowered them. They tied them hand and foot and threw them into a cart.

  ‘To prison with the lot of ’em,’ said the soldier.

  While he put the cork back in the bottle and stowed it in his knapsack, the hunter took one of the soldiers aside and spoke to him quietly. The man galloped ahead of the others back to town.

  ‘Well, Shiny Boots,’ said the soldier, ‘that was a good day’s work, eh? We’ve beaten the enemy and had a fine meal. Now let’s bring up the rear as these gallows-birds trundle into town.’

  When they reached the town gate, they found a big crowd all cheering and waving flags, and then the royal bodyguard rode up, saluting and presenting arms.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said the soldier, amazed.

  ‘The king’s been away,’ said the hunter, ‘and he’s returning to his palace. It’s only right for him to have a welcome like this.’

  ‘Where’s the king?’ said the soldier, looking all around. ‘I can’t see him.’

  ‘Here I am,’ said the hunter, and opened his hunting coat to show the royal insignia on his waistcoat. ‘I sent word ahead that I was coming.’

  The soldier fell to his knees.

  ‘Oh, blimey, your majesty,’ he said, ‘forgive me! I shouldn’t have called you Shiny Boots. In fact I should have treated you a lot more proper than what I did.’

  But the king gave him his hand and said, ‘You’re a good soldier, and you saved my life. I’m going to make sure you have the best of treatment from now on.’

  And when he heard about how the soldier’s brother had had him lashed, he ordered the general demoted to private and offered to make the soldier a general in his place.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, your majesty,’ the soldier said, ‘but I don’t think I’m cut out to be a general. A life of leisure would suit me best.’

  ‘Then that is what you shall have,’ said the king. ‘And if you ever want a meal, just come to the door of the royal kitchen and there’ll always be a slice of beef for you. But if you want to drink anyone’s health, you’ll have to ask my permission first.’

  ***

  Source: a story in Friedmund von Arnim’s Hundert Märchen im Gebirge gesammelt (Hundred Tales from the Mountains; 1844)

  Similar stories: Alexander Afanasyev: ‘The Soldier and the King’ (Russian Fairy Tales)

  Here the ‘magic’ is brought about by hypnotism or, as it would probably have been called in those days, mesmerism, after the German physician Franz Mesmer (1734–1815). Grimm (or their source, Friedmund von Arnim) provides no explanation for how the soldier acquired this mesmeric skill, so I put one in. No doubt hypnotism, as a fashionable and intriguing phenomenon, was familiar to the Grimms’ readers, just as the feats of Derren Brown are to a television audience today; and anyway, it’s funny.

  Hypnotism turns up in another Grimm tale, ‘The Chicken Beam’, in which a magician tricks a crowd into thinking that a chicken is carrying a heavy beam when all it has in its beak is a straw. The comic-book character Mandrake the Magician, who began his crime-busting career in 1934, persuaded criminals, mad scientists and other undesirables that they had been turned to stone by ‘gesturing hypnotically’. I tried it when I was a small boy, and it doesn’t work.

  The idea of the brother who became a general comes from Afanasyev’s story, which is a tight and well-shaped narrative, but it has no hypnotism. Instead, the soldier cuts the robbers’ heads off one by one, and wallops the king for falling asleep on guard.

  THE GOLDEN KEY

  One winter’s day, when the snow lay deep on the ground, a poor boy was sent to the forest to bring back firewood. He gathered some fallen branches and loaded them on his sled, but after doing that, he was so cold that he thought he’d make himself a fire right away and warm himself up a bit before going home.

  He cleared a space to build the fire, and as he brushed the snow away he found a little golden key.

  ‘Where there’s a key,’ he said to himself, ‘there must be a lock nearby.’

  So he dug into the ground, and a little way under the surface he found an iron box. He dug all around it and with a struggle he pulled it up out of the frozen earth, thinking, ‘There must be some treasure in here. I hope the key fits!’

  At first he couldn’t find the keyhole, but it was a very small key, after all. Finally he found the hole, so small he could hardly see it. He took the key in his frozen fingers, and he could hardly hold it. He put the key in the hole and started to turn – and now we’ll have to wait till he turns it all the way and opens the lid. Then we’ll know what marvellous things the box contains.

  ***

  Source: a story told to the Grimm brothers by Marie Hassenpflug

  This is one of a number of formula stories that are never quite finished. Many of them concern a shepherd who has to get his very large flock of sheep across a very small bridge one at a time: ‘So he took the first one across, and then he took the second one across, and then he took the third one across . . .’ Or it might be an ant filling a barn with corn: ‘He carried the first grain in, and then . . .’

  Another way of setting up such a story is with the famous opening sentence: ‘It was a dark and stormy night’. In this variation, someone is telling a story in which someone is telling a story in which – and so on.

  ‘The Golden Key’ depends not on repetition but on terminating before the terminus, so to speak. This is the pattern followed by a number of annoying novels or films or plays in which, for instance, the outcome depends on a letter saying whether X has got a university place or not, or the result of a pregnancy test, or the verdict of a jury. The postman arrives at the door; the heroine begins to open her hand to disclose the colour of the test result; the jury returns to the courtroom – and then: THE END.

  Which raises the suspicion that the author just doesn’t know how to end the story. It’s cheating.

  In this case, though, the set-up is a little more interesting. From the Grimms’ second edition of 1819 onwards, this tale was always placed last, suggesting perhaps that there are more marvellous tales yet to be discovered. Given the treasures they have already disclosed in their great collection, I’m willing to take that on trust.

  ‘The Golden Key’ is also the name of a literary fairy tale from a collection published in 1867 by George MacDonald (1824–1905), which is much better than most specimens of that genre. It, too, ends without ending. Mossy and Tangle are searching for the land whence the shadows fall: ‘And by this time I think they must have got there.’

  * * *

  Read on for a sneak peek at two stories from Philip Pullman’s

  FAIRY TALES FROM THE BROTHERS GRIMM

  A NEW ENGLISH VERSION

  Coming from Viking in November 2012

  * * *

  THE GOOSE GIRL AT THE SPRING

  Once upon a time there was a very old w
oman who lived with her flock of geese in a lonely place among the mountains, where her little house lay surrounded by a deep forest. Every morning she took her crutch and hobbled off into the woods, where she kept herself busy gathering grass for her geese and picking any wild fruit she could reach. She put it all on her back and carried it home. If she met anyone on the path, she would always greet them in a friendly way, saying, ‘Good day, neighbour! Nice weather! Yes, it’s grass I’ve got here, as much as I can carry; we poor people all have to bear our burdens.’

  But for some reason people didn’t like meeting her. When they saw her coming, they’d often take a different path, and if a father and his little boy came across her, the father would whisper, ‘Beware of that old woman. She’s a crafty one. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was a witch.’

  One morning a good-looking young man happened to be walking through the forest. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, a fresh breeze stirred the leaves, and he was feeling happy and cheerful. He hadn’t seen anyone else that morning, but suddenly he came across the old witch kneeling on the ground cutting grass with a sickle. There was already a big load of grass neatly cut, and beside it two baskets filled with wild apples and pears.

  ‘Good grief, my dear old woman,’ he said, ‘you can’t be intending to carry all that!’

  ‘Oh, yes, I must, sir,’ she said. ‘Rich people don’t have to do that sort of thing, but we poor folk have a saying: “Don’t look back, you’ll only see how bent you are.” Would you be able to help me, I wonder, sir? You’ve got a fine straight back and a strong pair of legs. I’m sure you could manage it easily. It’s not far to go, my little house, just out of sight over that way.’

  The young man felt sorry for her, and said, ‘Well, I’m one of those rich people, I have to confess – my father’s a nobleman – but I’m happy to show you that farmers aren’t the only people who can carry things. Yes, I’ll take the bundle to your house for you.’

  ‘That’s very good of you, sir,’ she said. ‘It might take an hour’s walking, but I’m sure you won’t mind that. You could carry the apples and pears for me too.’

  The young count began to have second thoughts when she mentioned an hour’s walk, but she was so quick to take up his offer that he couldn’t back out of it. She wrapped the grass up in a cloth and tied it on to his back and then put the baskets into his hands.

  ‘You see,’ she said, ‘not much really.’

  ‘But it’s actually quite heavy,’ said the young man. ‘This grass – is it grass? It feels like bricks! And the fruit might as well be blocks of stone. I can hardly breathe!’

  He would have liked to put it all down, but he didn’t want to face the old woman’s mockery. She was already teasing him cruelly.

  ‘Look at the fine young gentleman,’ she said, ‘making such a fuss about what a poor old woman has to carry every day! You’re good with words, aren’t you? “Farmers aren’t the only people who can carry things!” But when it comes to deeds, you fall at the first hurdle. Come on! What are you standing around for? Get a move on! Nobody’s going to do it for you.’

  While he walked on level ground he could just about bear the weight, but as soon as the path began to slope upwards his feet rolled on the stones, which slipped out as if they were alive, and he could barely move. Beads of sweat appeared on his face and trickled hot and cold down his back.

  ‘I can’t go any further,’ he gasped. ‘I’ve got to stop and rest.’

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ said the old woman. ‘You can stop and rest when we’ve got there, but till then you keep walking. You never know – it might bring you luck.’

  ‘Oh, this is too much,’ said the count. ‘This is outrageous!’

  He tried to throw off the bundle, but he just couldn’t dislodge it. It clung to his back as if it were growing there. He squirmed and twisted this way and that, and the old woman laughed at him and jumped up and down with her crutch.

  ‘No point in losing your temper, young sir,’ she said. ‘You’re as red in the face as a turkey cock. Carry your burden patiently, and when we get home, I might give you a tip.’

  What could he do? He had to stumble on after the old woman as well as he could. The odd thing was that while his load seemed to be getting heavier and heavier, she seemed to be getting more and more nimble.

  Then all of a sudden she gave a skip and landed right on top of the pack on his back and stayed there. She was as thin as a stick, but she weighed more than the stoutest peasant girl. The young man’s legs wobbled, all his muscles trembled with effort and blazed with pain, and whenever he tried to stop for a moment, the old woman lashed him with a bunch of stinging nettles. He groaned, he sobbed, he struggled on, and when he was sure he was going to collapse, they turned a corner in the path and there was the old woman’s house.

  When the geese saw her, they stretched out their necks and their wings and ran towards her, cackling. After them came another old woman, carrying a stick. This one wasn’t as old as the first one, but she was big and strong with a heavy, dull, ugly face.

  ‘Where’ve you been, mother?’ she said to the old woman. ‘You’ve been gone so long I thought something must have happened to you.’

  ‘Oh, no, my pretty one,’ said the old woman. ‘I met this kind gentleman and he offered to carry my bundle for me. And look, he even offered to take me on his back when I got tired. We had such a nice conversation that the journey passed in no time.’

  Finally the old woman slid off the young count’s back and took the bundle and the baskets.

  ‘There we are, sir,’ she said, ‘you sit yourself down and have a breather. You’ve earned your little reward, and you shall have it. As for you, my beautiful treasure,’ she said to the other woman, ‘you better go inside. It wouldn’t be proper for you to stay alone with a lusty young fellow like this. I know what young men are like. He might fall in love with you.’

  The count didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry; even if she were thirty years younger, he thought, this treasure would never prompt a flicker in his heart.

  The old woman fussed over her geese as if they were children before going inside after her daughter. The young man stretched himself out on a bench under an apple tree. It was a beautiful morning; the sun shone warmly, the air was mild, and all around him stretched a green meadow covered with cowslips and wild thyme and a thousand other flowers. A clear stream twinkled in the sunlight as it ran through the middle of the meadow, and the white geese waddled here and there or paddled in the stream.

  ‘What a lovely place,’ the young man thought. ‘But I’m so tired I can’t keep my eyes open. I think I’ll take a nap for a few minutes. I just hope the wind doesn’t blow my legs away; they’re as weak as tinder.’

  The next thing he knew, the old woman was shaking his arm.

  ‘Wakey wakey,’ she said, ‘you can’t stay here. I admit I gave you a hard time, but you’re still alive, and here’s your reward. I said I’d give you something, didn’t I? You don’t need money or land, so here’s something else. Look after it well and it’ll bring you luck.’

  What she gave him was a little box carved out of a single emerald. The count jumped up, feeling refreshed by his sleep, and thanked her for the gift. Then he set out on his way without once looking back for the beautiful treasure. For a long way down the path he could still hear the happy noise of the geese.

  He wandered in the forest for at least three days before he found his way out. Eventually he came to a large city, where the custom was that every stranger had to be brought before the king and queen; so he was taken to the palace, where the king and queen were sitting on their thrones.

  The young count knelt politely, and since he had nothing else to offer, he took the emerald box from his pocket, opened it and set it down before the queen. She beckoned to him to bring the box closer so that she could look i
nside it, but no sooner had she seen what was there than she fell into a dead faint. The bodyguards seized the young man at once and were about to drag him off to prison when the queen opened her eyes.

  ‘Release him!’ she cried. ‘Everyone must leave the throne room. I want to speak to this young man in private.’

  When they were alone, the queen began to cry bitterly.

  ‘What use is all the splendour of this palace?’ she said. ‘Every morning when I wake up, sorrow rushes in on me like a flood. I once had three daughters, and the third was so beautiful that everyone thought she was a miracle. She was as white as snow and as pink as apple blossoms, and her hair shone like the beams of the sun. When she wept, it wasn’t tears that flowed down her cheeks but pearls and precious stones.

  ‘On her fifteenth birthday, the king called all three daughters to his throne. You can’t imagine how everyone blinked when the third daughter came in – it was just as if the sun had come out.

  ‘The king said, “My daughters, since I don’t know when my last day will arrive, I’m going to decide today what each of you shall receive after my death. You all love me, but whoever loves me most shall have the largest part of the kingdom.”

  ‘Each of the girls said she loved him most of all, but he wanted more than that.

  ‘“Tell me exactly how much you love me,” he said. “Then I’ll know just what you mean.”

  ‘The oldest daughter said, “I love you as much as the sweetest sugar.” The second daughter said, “I love you as much as I love my prettiest dress.”

  ‘But the third daughter didn’t say a word. So her father said, “And you, darling, how much do you love me?”

  ‘And she said, “I don’t know. I can’t compare my love with anything.”

  ‘But he kept on and on demanding an answer until she found something to compare her love to, and she said, “No matter how good the food, it won’t taste of anything without salt. So I love my father as much as I love salt.”