The Doomsday Book of Fairy Tales

by Emily Brewes

  He eyed me suspiciously. “Mouse is a snack creature?”

  “Maybe it’s good for you to be out here. Old Doggo wouldn’t have made that leap of logic.”

  “I am Doggo. You are Food Bringer.” I could see another realization dawn across his goblin face from this statement of simple fact. He humbled himself in a bow, stretching his front legs enough to grunt with effort. Then he lay down, wagging his tail expectantly.

  “Food now?” he inquired, all politeness where moments ago there had been sharp demands. Even his voice went back to its normal, goofy tone.

  Definitely overwhelmed, I concluded.

  I surfaced from my dive into the pack with half a package of compressed krill and the water skin. We took a quick scout inside a former Canadian Tire, finding a camping cook-set in a rotted cardboard box. I took the largest pot and left the rest. The store had long ago been picked for its most useful items, though I found myself strongly tempted by a mountain bike. I left it when I reasoned that trying to use it would be more trouble than just walking. The roads weren’t exactly in driveable condition, and Doggo’s length meant he would spill out of a basket.

  Outside, once a fire’d been built, I dumped the contents of the water skin into the pot and crumbled in the krill. A couple minutes’ simmering, and I called it soup.

  Doggo had to wait for his to cool, but he seemed happy to do so just knowing he’d eat in the end. All of his macho wild-dog hostility had vanished for the moment. I reminded myself to stay alert for any signs of reversion but in the meantime gave copious belly rubs to reward his patience.

  “How about a story while you wait?”

  He didn’t answer but closed his eyes and made the tongue smacking sounds of a blissed-out pup.

  “I’ll tell you one, anyway.”

  Be Just and Fear Not

  Awoodcutter lived alone in a wood. He’d had a wife, but he’d buried her beneath the front-door step, along with their first and only child.

  They’d been taken in the wild cold of the previous winter, while he was carting a load of dried lumber into town. He’d come home to find them by an empty hearth, the babe wrapped close in his wife’s arms. The front door had been pushed open wide, letting the snow drift deeply into the house. Whether this had happened by accident or on purpose could not be known.

  He’d had to wait for the ground to thaw before he could lay them to their rest.

  Now, with winter coming on again, he thought he might leave the wood and take up another trade far away. He went to the magistrate in town and sold his house and its contents for the pittance they were worth. The land, of course, belonged to the lord. The woodcutter kept only his old nag, his axe, and a much-mended tin pot for cooking. Thus equipped, he made off down the road to seek whatever fortune might lay in store for him.

  The road wound down through a soft, quiet valley, spending much of its time alongside a lazy river. There was always a gentle murmur of moving water and so many fish that it seemed merely a matter of reaching into the shallows and pulling one up. The woodcutter found himself thinking, “Perhaps I will find a spot to settle here and take up a fisherman’s trade.”

  At the next town, he inquired of the magistrate if they had any need of such a skill.

  “Surely we do,” replied the magistrate. “Our river knows such plenty for it is protected by a cruel troll who eats any who would dare fish there.”

  The woodcutter waved this off. “I fear no troll,” said he. “Only point me to the fisherman’s cottage and I’ll take up directly.”

  He paid a copper farthing for the month’s rent in advance and was told where to find the fisherman’s lodging. He tied his nag beneath the front-yard tree and hung his tin pot on the front door.

  “Now to the river to see about this troll.”

  The town had not been long without a fisher, since a weir was still set in a curve of the river close by. It was so packed with fish that the woodcutter simply scooped them by the bucket into a wheelbarrow and brought them into town. The townsfolk were so happy to have fresh fish that soon his barrow was empty and his pockets full of coin.

  So far, so good, he thought. And no problem with the troll. Perhaps it has moved on from here.

  He jaunted back to the fisher’s cottage only to find his mare was gone.

  “No matter,” said he. “The creature was beyond her useful life and not long for the knacker. With my new found wealth, I shall buy a chestnut mare whose coat gleams like burnished bronze.”

  So saying, he went inside the fisherman’s cottage — now his cottage — and lay down for a peaceful sleep.

  The next morning, he went to do as he had the day before. Taking his barrow to the water’s edge, he found the weir had a hole torn in it, so all the fish had swum away.

  “No matter,” declared the new fisherman. “Once I’ve filled my barrow and taken it to town, I’ll spend my evening mending the weir and set it out by morning.”

  He rolled up his trousers and waded into the shallows with his net. No sooner had he made his first sweep, filling the net so well it was hard to lift, than the troll rose up from the water. It was covered in lanky black hair and reeked of old meat. A long tail with a tuft on the end hung over its shoulder, and its eyes burned with green fire.

  “Who steals my pretty fishy wives?” its voice boomed in the morning stillness, and the fisherman (who used to be a woodcutter) found his legs trembled in spite of himself.

  “The fish of this river are your wives?” he inquired.

  “Indeed,” shouted the troll.

  “Surely not all of them?” pressed the fisherman.

  The troll raised his hairy, smelly arms up and out and cried, “All of them!”

  The fisherman leapt from the river onto the shore and made himself a low bow.

  “Ten thousand pardons, good sir! As a widower myself, I would hate to deprive another man of his wives.”

  Confused by his kind behaviour and gentle manners, the troll lowered his arms. “Then you will cease stealing away my silvered shining brides?”

  At this, the fisherman bowed his head. “Alas, I am bound by my landlord to provide him rent for this land and house. To get what coin I need, I know only one trade and that is fishing. Were you to teach me another, I might do that instead and leave your wives alone.”

  The troll thought on this for several minutes, and the fisherman waited patiently for his reply. It would not do to forfeit his life because he could not remain quiet. In time, the troll replied, “I have but one trade to teach, and that is forging gold from straw. Would this trade suit your need?”

  “Indeed it would,” agreed the fisherman, who imagined he would soon become a wealthy lord. “Give me leave to plant a field of hay and three months to grow it. When the stalks are high and green, I’ll call on you again.”

  The troll nodded and sank back into the river water.

  Now the fisherman, briefly to be a farmer, strolled back into town and told the magistrate what had happened.

  “If you’ll postpone what I owe in rent, I can grow up a great field of haygrass, which the troll will help me forge into gold. Then I can pay what I owe and more to you besides.”

  The magistrate, somewhat dumbfounded by the situation, could only nod. It was only later, relating his day to his wife, that she pointed out his folly. “Surely what we must do, my husband, is take the town guard to find the troll and make him tell us the secret of forging gold from straw. Then we may kill him and have the gold and fish in the bargain!”

  “Ah, wife! If we but knew where the troll was lodged, the river would be ours again already.”

  But the magistrate’s wife was clever and not to be turned aside from getting what she was after. “Then, husband, wait you until the fisherman calls the troll up. We will learn his tricks in the same moment and dispatch the fiend before he can flee!”

  The magistrate thought on this for a time, mopping the last traces of supper from his plate with a crust of bread. “Leave i
t to a woman,” he declared, “to arrive at the plan most steeped in deviousness and duplicity. I will do as you suggest, only we must ensure that word of our scheme does not arrive at the ear of the fisherman. I fear he is too honest for such a trick.”

  How were they to know that the fisherman was not too honest to plot against a foul-smelling beast like the troll? Yet for all his thought about capturing or banishing the creature, he could not light on a scheme. His stomach soured at the thought of being unable to live up to his promise of overcoming the river’s bane, and for three days he could not be roused from his bed.

  On the fourth day, the fisherman was to be found in his yard, tilling the soil and preparing to plant his hay. It just so happened that the local lord was strolling down the road dressed as a peasant, as he did from time to time. The lord leaned himself against a tree and watched the fisherman at his labours until the lower man, mopping his brow, took a break.

  “How now?” called the lord. “What business has a fisherman tilling the earth?”

  The fisherman waved the stranger over and invited him to share his lunch of mean bread and hard cheese. The lord was careful to take little as he was able but enough to seem polite.

  “I till this land, good sir, because I may not fish. The foul troll who guards the river has offered to teach me the trade of forging gold from straw, in place of stealing his wives to sell at the market.”

  “His wives?”

  And so the fisherman related the whole story from the wood on the mountain to the moment before they met. The lord, for his part, laughed and wept in equal measure and ended by clapping his new friend on the shoulder.

  “Though surely a noble endeavour to trick that which is evil, I fear you are too honest a man to discover a plan on your own. Attend! Down the river from here is a gristmill whose stone can grind anything put to it. Only speak these words:

  Mighty and well,

  the gristmill turns!

  Round and well,

  the gristmill turns!

  Strong of back,

  Single of will,

  oh how well the

  gristmill turns!

  “Now take you that old axe head and grind it well in the magic mill. Take the flour this makes and bake it into a cake in that old tin pot. When the troll comes to pay his call, see that he eats the whole cake. Once inside him, the axe-meal will chop him all to pieces!”

  The fisherman barely knew what to say. After thanking the man for his help and his company, he excused himself to get back to work.

  “Worry not, friend. You will win the day with a plan like that!”

  So saying, the lord-in-disguise took up his merry way and strolled back to his manor house. Inside, now dressed in his finery, he could not stop thinking of the poor, honest fisherman.

  I know, thought he. I’ll attend the day of the lesson along with a few of my best guards. Should my friend feel his conscience too strongly to do the troll in himself, I can have my men do the killing for him. And should I also learn the secret of forging gold from straw? Surely there is no harm in that!

  Meanwhile, back at his cottage, the fisherman could not stop quaking from fear. Not only did he question his mettle when it came to the devious plan, but he fretted the ease with which the stranger crafted such a hideous scheme. That is a lord’s thinking and no mistake. I only wonder how a lowly peasant came to know such intrigue.

  Nevertheless, the fisherman did as instructed. He took the head from his trusted axe — the very one that had served his father so well in his trade — and brought it to the enchanted mill. There he spoke the words and lowered the turning stone onto the iron blade. In a moment, there was no blade at all but a fine-milled flour the colour of iron. He took this up in his old tin pan and brought it back to his cottage. Then he took up a wooden water bucket and brought it to the river’s edge to fill it. No sooner was he there than the troll rose up from the running depths.

  “I trust you are not here to steal my wives?” His stink was even greater today and was coupled with a foul smell from his mouth.

  “Oh no, sir. The grass is planted. I’m only here to fetch up some water for the furrows. Should one of your wives swim into my bucket, I’ll be sure to release her back to your care.”

  The troll seemed satisfied with his answer but was compelled to inquire, “Are you troubled by our compact?”

  The fisherman shook his head. “Oh no, sir. I only worry that we may have been overheard and that those who would do you ill scheme against you. When the grass is grown and I call you to teach me, only keep your wits about you for some trickery. As an honest man, I could not live with myself should harm befall you on my account.”

  The stinking troll was struck by these words and reached into the water by his feet. From the river, he pulled a fine chestnut mare and handed it to the man on the shore. “This is your selfsame nag, made young again by the magic water of my kingdom below. I had planned to eat her but instead am moved by your honesty to give her back.”

  The fisherman was moved in equal measure and took the horse with hearty thanks.

  “I will see you again when the grass is high,” he said, taking his leave.

  Days went by, and the grass grew taller until at last it was as high as the fisherman’s eye.

  “To be sure, this is great enough to fit our purpose. I will to the river to call the troll.”

  What he could not know was that the pair of men sent to spy on him — one from the magistrate and one from the lord — heard this and took off on their separate ways to tell their masters. By the time the fisherman came back, with the troll at his heel, both sets of guards had taken up their hidden posts behind thickets on opposing sides of the yard.

  Said the magistrate to his men, “Look sharp and move not until I give the word.”

  “Follow my lead,” whispered the lord to his men, “and attack not until I should give the signal.”

  When they arrived, the fisherman excused himself to his hearth, where he took up the tin pot in which a cake was baked.

  “Here I have a cake, which I have baked to celebrate the fruition of our agreement. Would you eat it now while it is hot, or teach me first and partake when it’s cooled?”

  The troll considered before answering. “Hot cake is surely the greater treat. But will you not have some with me?”

  To the lord’s great shock, the fisherman nodded. “To do otherwise,” he said, “would be impolite.”

  So the pair sat at the threshold of the cottage and shared the cake between them. When it was done, the troll stood and made for the yard of grown grass.

  “For someone who isn’t a farmer, you’ve done well in your first crop,” he admired.

  The fisherman could not answer, for his insides were being chopped to pieces by the axe head flour. He groaned, and the troll rushed to his side.

  “What ails you, friend?”

  “I made a promise to overcome your tyranny of the river, yet found myself lacking in cruelty to kill you for it. I have no family, nor no trade to ply, and all around are those who would upset an honest compact. Therefore I ate of the cake that would have killed you, and so die myself.”

  On speaking those words, every shred of stinking hair fell away from the troll to reveal a handsome young man. “Thank you, dear fisherman! My brother had me enchanted by an evil witch so that I would be a wicked troll until an honest man should pity me.” From his belt, the handsome prince took a skin of water. “Drink of this. It is the healing water that I gave to your mare that made her shed her weary years. One sip will make you live, another will make you young, and a third will make you wiser than the wisest man who ever lived.”

  So saying, the prince poured one sip, two sips into the fisherman’s mouth. Before he could pour the third, the lord’s men spilled forth from their hiding place in the thicket. Though the guards stopped short, recognizing the rightful heir, his brother flung himself forward to cleave the prince’s head from his body.

  At that mome
nt, the lord’s sword met that of the magistrate, bouncing away with a loud clang. The lord had some skill, but the magistrate came away from the melee victorious.

  When the fisherman regained his senses, he saw the rightful lord looking down on him, while all around were liveried guards on bended knee. Even the magistrate made deference.

  To his friend, the prince said, “You are healed and you are young again. Is there another boon you would have of me? In truth I can never repay you. Yet ask what you would, and it will be yours.”

  The fisherman shook his head and sat up. “What I truly want can never be mine. Instead, I ask only the gift of this cottage that I may live out my days gazing upon the river and knowing what peace can be had.”

  The prince nodded. “It is done.”

  Within the hour, a deed was signed, and the fisherman took up his retirement in the little cottage by the river. As for the magistrate, he was pardoned of the murder of the lord and was given a stipend generous enough that his wife did not miss the secret of forging gold from straw.

  And so they all lived, as happily as they might, from that day to this.

  WINNER, WINNER

  “I LIKE YOUR STORIES,” said Doggo, licking the last of what I’d dubbed Krill Casserole from the whiskers on his muzzle.

  “Thanks, Doggo,” I replied.

  “What do they mean?” he asked.

  “Well, I don’t suppose they mean much of anything,” I admitted.

  He paused to consider. “Then why do you tell them?”

  “Because you like them. And I like you.” It wasn’t a lie, because it had been once true. Thing was I felt compelled to tell the stories. I probably would’ve gone on telling them even without Doggo to listen, since it was the only thing I knew how to do.

  “That makes sense,” he said, yawning expansively and putting his head on his paws.

  “Hey, buddy. There’s no time to sleep. We’ve gotta get under cover before nightfall.”

  It was no use. Doggo was out like a light.

  I looked out from where we’d perched, partway up the western-facing slope of a steep valley with a creek snaking along its bottom. A fair amount of tall grass grew all around where we sat, but other than that, it afforded a clear view in all directions. I sat up on a nearby rock, gaining enough height that I could see over the grass. We could stay for a few minutes there.