by Mike Ashley
When the cats stepped out, the badgers and the foxes would stop whatever they were doing to watch and clap. But every family of mice huddled together deeper in their holes, and their whiskers shook.
When the cats stepped out, the weasels and the stoats would stand on each others’ shoulders to get a better view, but the mouse babies crept closer into their mothers’ arms.
Now one day, a certain mouse said: “I’ve had enough!”
And his wife replied: “You’re always right, of course, my dear. But enough of what? We haven’t had anything to eat for days.”
“That’s right!” said the mouse. “We’ve had nothing to eat because those cats sleep outside our holes all day, wrapped up in their long, thick daytime tails. And at night, just when you’d think it would be safe to tiptoe out and steal a piece of cheese . . .”
“Just one piece of cheese!” twittered all his children.
“Those cats put on their night-time tails, and light the night as bright as day!”
“You never spoke a truer word, my dear,” said his wife. “Those cats are crafty as only cats can be . . .”
“That’s why I’ve had enough!” exclaimed the mouse, and he banged his paw on the nest. And his children felt very frightened – as they always did whenever their father got cross.
“So, since nobody else seems to be doing anything, I, Frederick Ferdinand Fury-Paws The Forty-Fourth, intend to do something about it!”
“Oh, do be careful!” twittered his wife, who was always alarmed when her husband used his full name. “Don’t do anything rash, my dear! Don’t let your strength and size lead you to do things you might regret!”
But before you could say “cheesefeathers!” that mouse had scuttled off to the Father Of All Things, and made his complaint.
The Father Of All Things listened with his head on one side. And then he listened with his head on the other side.
Then he turned to the Mother Of All Cats, who was pretending to be asleep nearby, and said: “Well, Mother Of All Cats? It doesn’t seem fair that you should have two tails when every other creature has only one.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied the Mother Of All Cats. “Some creatures have two legs, some creatures have four legs, some creatures have six legs and some – like the ungrateful centipede – have a hundred! So why shouldn’t us cats have two tails?”
“Because,” said the mouse, “it’s unfair to us mice. You can see us by day and by night! We don’t stand a chance.”
And so they argued all day long, until the Father Of All Things said: “Enough! All creatures have only one head. And as it is with the head, so it should be with the tail.”
At this all the mice cheered. But the Mother Of All Cats twitched her crafty whiskers and smiled and said: “Very true. Therefore let us cats have only one tail in future – but do you agree to let us choose which sort of tail?”
The Father Of All Things turned to the mouse and asked: “Do you agree to this?”
And the mouse replied: “Yes! Yes! But only the one tail!”
So the Father Of All Things said: “Very well, you may choose.”
“Then,” said the Mother Of All Cats, giving her tail a crafty flick, “please take note that we cats choose the sort of tail that is thick and long to keep us warm (like our daytime tails) and shining bright to light the night (just like our night-time tails) – both at the same time.”
“That reply was crafty as only a cat’s can be,” said the Father Of All Things.
And all the other mice turned on Frederick Ferdinand Fury-Paws The Forty-Fourth and said: “There! Now see what your meddling’s done! It’ll be twice as bad as it was before!”
The mouse bent his whiskers to the floor and cried out: “Oh, please, Father Of All Things, don’t allow the cats to have tails that are like their daytime tails and like their night-time tails both at the same time, or, I fear, we mice will all be destroyed!”
But the Father Of All Things replied: “I cannot go back on my word.” And he turned to the Mother Of All Cats, who was sitting sleek and crafty as only cats can be, and he said:
“Mother Of All Cats, do you promise to be satisfied if I give you a tail that is like your daytime tail and like your night-time tail – both at the same time?”
And the Mother Of All Cats smiled a crafty smile, and said: “I agree.”
And all the cats and stoats and weasels cheered, and the baby mice crept even further into their mothers’ arms and their fathers wrung their paws in despair.
“Then, from this day forth,” said the Father Of All Things, “let all cats’ tails be like their night-time tails – ordinary in size, neither thick nor long. And let them be also like their daytime tails – not shining bright to light the night – but just ordinary tails.”
And no sooner had the Father Of All Things said this, than there was a crack and a whizz, and all the cats’ tails turned into ordinary tails, very much like they are today.
When they saw that, all the mice cheered, and the cats blew on their whiskers and slunk off into the forest.
But now I have to tell you a terrible thing, which goes to show that cats really are as crafty as only cats can be.
That very night – the mouse said to his wife: “My dear, now it is dark, let us go for a promenade, for – thanks to my efforts – it is now perfectly safe to walk abroad at eventide, since cats no longer have tails that are shining bright to light the night, and they will not be able to see us.”
And his wife said: “As always, my dear, you know best.”
And so they put on their best summer coats and frocks, and they stepped out of their hole and at once were pounced upon by the cat. For cats, of course, have all got special night-time eyes, and have always been able to see as perfectly well by night as they can by day – with or without their shining tails.
They really are as crafty as only cats can be . . .
A Bunch of Fairy Tales
THE WARLOCK’S DAUGHTER
Anthony Armstrong
We start this fairy-tale sequence with one by the too-soon-forgotten Anthony Armstrong, or to call him by his real name, George Willis (1897–1976). He was a regular contributor to Punch and similar magazines, and was at his peak in the 1920s and 1930s, when his output was comparable to P.G. Wodehouse. He wrote a number of clever parodies of fairy tales which were published as The Prince Who Hiccupped (1932) and The Pack of Pieces (1942), required reading for anyone who thinks that comic fantasy first appeared last week.
Once upon a very long time ago there was rather a pleasant young man called Erroll, who lived with his father in a wood. This was because his father was a woodcutter by profession, and found it handier than living, say, on the seashore.
Well, one day the old woodcutter unfortunately got on the wrong side of a tree he was felling and left Erroll fatherless, and – since he had rather stupidly neglected to teach him the art of woodcutting – without a job as well. So the young man gathered up all his possessions in a bundle and set out into the world to seek his fortune, which was about the best thing he could have done, for in those days a humble woodcutter’s son generally fell on his feet.
Towards nightfall some evenings later he came up to a large castle and wondered if there’d be a chance of getting a job there, as under-scullion or something. So he asked a passing farmer if he could tell him who was the owner.
The farmer replied morosely that he did hear tell a warlock or some such lived in the place; at any rate, that there castle had appeared suddenly during the night a week ago. Looking at it more closely, Erroll could well believe this, for it seemed to have been set down very carelessly on an angle of four fields with one side in each, and, moreover, had a small river running right through it. The farmer, he soon learnt, was very bitter about the whole incident; because it seemed he owned two of the fields, and the pesky thing hadn’t done his root crop no good. In those days countrymen had worse things than mere weather and poor fat-stock prices to contend again
st.
Erroll thanked him and was hurrying past the castle – he preferred to keep clear of magic if possible – when he was hailed cheerily from a window and told to come on in and spend the night.
The young man paused doubtfully. Warlocks were warlocks, and you never knew what they’d be up to next. Often it was something quite distressing, such as getting your head set backwards on your shoulders, which the warlock, however, seemed to think funny. On the other hand, this particular warlock sounded friendly enough.
“It’s getting dark,” he yelled again, “and it looks like rain! You must stop over. I insist.”
Erroll went. One didn’t cross warlocks who insisted.
His fears were groundless. This warlock was a pleasant old man and apparently delighted to see him, though he waved aside any suggestion of taking Erroll into his employ.
“Nearly all my servants are fairies,” he pointed out. “Got a gnome as under-scullion, a wizard chef, and so on. Brought ’em all with me from fairyland. No, you be my guest for to-night. Only too glad to have company. The people round here don’t seem to like me. Come to that, they don’t anywhere. I keep moving house, but I can’t find a really friendly neighbourhood. Had the old shack over in Latavia the other day and the local farmers tried to burn it. Never mind that now though. I’m glad you’ve turned up. Shall we take a stoup before supper?”
Well, what with one thing and another, Erroll spent a very cheery evening, and they even played cards without the slightest suspicion of his host materializing magical aces at a moment favourable to himself – which in his position he might quite reasonably have been expected to do. In fact, the warlock’s only drawback was a tendency to harp on the subject of his unpopularity in every neighbourhood he visited, and when Erroll, pointing out that the question of land tenure had something to do with it, tactfully suggested that he might have big parties now and then and invite all the people round, by way of showing his friendly disposition, the warlock seemed to think it a grand idea.
“Only drawback though,” he said, when referring to it again next morning as Erroll was on the point of departure, “is that I ought to wait till my daughter is home to act as hostess . . . That reminds me,” he broke off, “if you see her on your travels you might tell her where I am.”
“Your daughter? But how shall I know her?”
“Oh, she’s very pretty, dark hair, grey eyes, name of Joy – her mother’s idea, poor soul,” he added hastily. “She— er— went out for a walk a fortnight ago and hasn’t come back yet.”
Erroll was frankly puzzled. “Doesn’t she know where you are? Aren’t you afraid something’s happened to her?”
“Oh, she can look after herself all right. It’s just that she’s lost. You see,” he went on in rather an embarrassed manner, “I suppose it’s in a way my fault. I forgot she was out and went and moved the castle over a mountain range because it started to rain. And then I found it was snowing there, so I moved on, and— er— to cut a long story short, forgot where I’d been at first. So when she, as it were, got back home, home wasn’t there.”
“I should think she’d be pretty angry by now.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” admitted the other frankly; “she takes after her poor mother. Of course I take out the big touring carpet every morning and fly around, but I haven’t come across her yet. Trouble is, she may have changed herself into something for fun – girls won’t be girls these days. So do tell her where I am, if you come across her, there’s a good chap.”
“Certainly,” said Erroll, and set off. He had just reached the gate when he was called back.
“Just remembered. I may have to move about a bit – don’t like the look of these peasants – so you’d better take one of our travelling rugs with you.” Seeing Erroll’s puzzled look, he went on, “Air travel, you know. It’s just a little runabout. I’d let you have the big saloon carpet, but the great thing about this one is it always flies straight home – wherever home is.”
He handed the young man a little green rug, said a friendly good-bye, and Erroll at last set off. At lunch time he halted and, because it was a little damp, he sat on the rug. Five minutes later he was in the castle again, the rug apparently having a concealed self-starter somewhere.
“Should have warned you,” said the warlock, who was just sitting down to a chop. “Never mind, now you’re here you’d better stop to lunch.” He waved a wand over the dish and another chop appeared beside the first.
After lunch Erroll set off again. At supper he halted, but took care not to sit on the rug. That outward journey on foot was becoming a little monotonous.
Some days later he came to a little stream and was just starting to wade across when a voice said:
“Here! Steady on, please! Mind me!”
Erroll looked round, and soon saw a green lizard sunning itself. “I beg your pardon,” he said and made it a sweeping bow. The lizard merely ran away. Rather mystified, for generally at this point disguised fairies assumed their own shape and wanted something done for them – and you had to be pretty polite as well, or you got something you didn’t like done for you – Erroll was starting across the stream again when the same voice repeated:
“I said, ‘Mind me!’ ”
“Where are you?” asked Erroll.
“I’m the stream, and that’s my face you’ve got your foot on.”
Erroll removed it.
“Are you really the stream, or just being a stream?” In those days a little point like that often made a lot of difference: one could ignore a mere stream to a certain extent.
“No, I’m being one for the moment. It’s cool and one can talk to oneself and so on. I was rather enjoying it till you came along in that clumsy fashion. Treading on a girl’s face!” the stream concluded rather huffily.
This struck Erroll as unreasonable. “Look here. I don’t know who you are,” he said, “but if you go around like that you must expect things to happen to you. Why, I might have— might have spat into you to see which way you were flowing, or something. Be reasonable!”
There was a silence.
Then, “Sorry!” said the voice in a subdued manner. “Silly of me.”
“That’s all right,” acknowledged Erroll kindly.
“You know, you look rather nice.”
“You look— er— cool and inviting at the moment,” responded Erroll gallantly. “And I love your voice. But what are you really like?”
“Well, my name’s Joy, and I’m . . .”
“But how lucky!” cried Erroll. “I’ve just been with your father, and he’s sent you this rug.”
“What? Our homing rug?” The voice gave quite a squeak of relief.
“Yes. He wants you to go home on it.”
“I will. And I’ll tell him off, too. Stupid old thing! Can’t turn my back on home for a moment and home’s gone. But what can I do for you in return? I’m terribly grateful. I was really getting a little scared.”
“Well, I’m off to seek my fortune. Perhaps you . . .”
“In those clothes?”
“All I’ve got,” replied Erroll ruefully. “I’m only a woodcutter’s son.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do then for a start. Go on on your journey, and when you wake next morning you’ll find yourself travelling with everything even a Prince could want.”
“I say! That’s charming of you.”
“Not at all. Just a simple little spell. Learnt it a year ago. And if ever you’re in a real difficulty, take this jewel . . .”
“What jewel?”
“Right in front of you.”
Peering into the water Erroll saw at the bottom of the stream a glittering red gem on a gold chain.
“Am I to take it now?”
“Certainly.”
“Then— er— excuse me!” He reached down his hand and fumbled for the jewel.
“Hurry up! You’re tickling!”
“Terribly sorry!” stammered Erroll, rather embarrassed,
as he at last secured the jewel and hung it round his neck.
“When you turn the jewel round three times I shall appear— and, well, see what I can do to help you.”
“I say – it’s awfully decent. How can I ever thank you?”
“Don’t! I’m doing it to thank you. And because I rather like you,” the voice added softly.
“I like you, too – that is, if I could see you. Can’t you change back for a bit?”
“Not till you’re out of sight.” The stream gurgled with laughter. “You see, I’ve got no clothes on. They’re behind that bush. Now, leave my rug on the bank, there’s a nice boy, and set off.”
Gallantly Erroll raised a handful of water to his lips and kissed it, then with a cheery farewell continued on his travels, wondering a good deal what the unknown Joy was really like. By now, he imagined, since he was safely out of sight, she must just have changed into her real shape and be making for her clothes. An idea struck him and he began to turn the jewel. After all, he reflected, as he finished turning, he could always say that he just wanted to see if it really worked . . .
Next moment he was spluttering under a shower of water and a gay laugh was sounding in his ears.
“I thought so!” came Joy’s mocking young voice from the midst of it, “so I waited. I said, only use when you’re in a real difficulty. Now get along do, and don’t be so naughty again!”
Erroll laughed and resumed his journey. He was keeping an eager eye open for real difficulties.
He awoke next morning in considerable surprise. For a moment he couldn’t think what had happened. Then as he fingered his rich clothes and saw the gay silk tent in which he lay, he remembered.
He went out and found a squire waiting with his horse, also two pack-mules laden with luxuries, and half a dozen respectful servants. Evidently he had become, as Joy had promised, practically a Prince overnight. He mounted and rode on, feeling more and more like a Prince as he went. Three days later he came in sight of a magnificent castle.
