by Lari Don
The Frog, the Flies and the Frying Pan
Scottish folktale
Once upon a time, on the mossy heathery moors of Scotland, a mother and her daughter lived in a small cottage.
One day, the mother asked, “Would you like oatcakes for tea?”
“Yes, that would be lovely,” said the girl.
So the mother fetched a couple of handfuls of oatmeal and a pinch of salt, then realised there was no fresh water in the house. “The best water for baking is the pure clear water in the Well at the End of the World.” She handed a big jug to her daughter. “If you want oatcakes for tea, fill that jug from the Well at the End of the World, please.”
The end of the world sounds like a long way away, but Scotland is on the northern edge of Europe, and the end of the world is often just over the horizon.
So the girl faced a long walk, but not as long as an expedition or a quest. She spent the morning striding along, swinging the empty jug with every step.
When she reached the white stone well, she sat on the edge and looked in.
The well was empty. The Well at the End of the World was dry.
The girl sighed. “I’ve walked all the way to the end of the world. Now I’ll have to walk all the way home again with an empty jug, and there won’t be oatcakes for tea.”
“Oatcakes!” said a soggy voice. “I love oatcakes.”
A frog jumped onto the edge of the well.
A shiny frog, with a yellow belly, a green back and a long tongue, jumped up right beside the girl. But this frog was shiny like slime rather than polished jewellery. It was green like poison rather than leaves. It was yellow like mustard rather than daffodils. And its long tongue was black and sticky.
The girl stood up quickly and stepped away from the frog.
“I love oatcakes,” the frog said again.
“There won’t be any oatcakes, without water,” she said.
The frog smiled a gummy wide-mouthed smile. “I can bring the water back to the well, if you make me a couple of promises.”
The girl looked at the frog, at the empty well and her empty jug, then back at the frog. The frog flicked its tongue out and caught a fly. Then ate it.
“Yuck,” said the girl.
The frog said, “If you want water, you must promise to let me into your house when I knock on the door tonight, and you must promise to let me sit on your lap and eat oatcakes from your plate.”
The girl took another step back and watched the frog flicking out its tongue.
She didn’t want to let the frog into her house, or onto her knee, or at her oatcakes. But she thought, “This frog doesn’t know where I live and it can’t possibly hop as fast as I walk, so I can safely make those promises and never see this frog again.”
So she said, “Yes, I promise that if you knock on my door tonight, I’ll let you in, let you sit on my knee and let you eat my oatcakes. But first, you have to find me water.”
The frog hopped round the well three times, and as he completed his third circle, the well flooded with pure clean water.
The girl dipped her jug in and filled it to the brim. Then she walked off, swinging the heavy jug.
The frog called after her, “Remember your promise!”
She turned round and saw the frog, with a fly half in and half out of its mouth, one tiny clear wing flapping feebly by the frog’s cheek. The frog crunched and the wing drooped.
The girl made a face. “Oh yuck! I mean, oh yes, I’ll remember.” She walked off, swinging the jug, drops of water flying out at every step. Leaving a trail of dark dots on the ground behind her.
She walked all the way home from the end of the world.
She helped her mother mix the oats and water, roll and cut the oatcakes, and bake them in the oven. When the oatcakes were still warm, they set the table with soft butter, crumbly cheese and hot broth.
As they sat down to eat, there was a knock at the door. A soft, squelchy knock. The girl put her head in her hands.
Her mother said, “Answer the door, please.”
“Erm... no. I really don’t want to. Let’s have a quiet evening, just the two of us.”
There was another soft knock.
“Answer the door, my girl.”
“I can’t, my legs are stiff after that long walk.”
“Nonsense. Answer the door, now.”
“No, I won’t!”
“Then I will!” Her mother stood and walked towards the door. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me, the frog your daughter promised to let in if I knocked on the door tonight.”
The mother looked at the girl. “You made a promise? To a frog?”
“Erm... yes.”
“Then come here and open this door!”
The girl got up, walked slowly to the door and opened it. The shiny green frog hopped inside. The girl sighed.
The frog said, “Now let me sit on your lap and eat from your plate.”
“No! That would be too gross.”
“But you promised!”
“Did you promise?” asked her mother.
“Yes, I suppose I did promise.”
“Then keep your promise,” her mother said firmly.
So the girl sat down, the frog jumped onto her lap and she leant back, making a face, keeping her hands well away from the frog’s glistening skin.
The frog put its front feet on the table and started to eat one of the oatcakes from her plate. It used its long tongue and soft lips, and it dribbled and drooled as it worked the oatcake into soggy lumps, then swallowed them.
The girl leant back even further, muttering, “Yuck, I’ll never be able to eat another oatcake.”
Then the frog pulled itself up on the table. “There is one more thing I want you to do for me.”
The girl pushed her chair back, stood up and stared at the frog squatting in the middle of the table.
“Just one more thing,” the frog said.
The girl had read the right books and heard the right stories, so she said, “No! No way! I am not kissing you! I’ve seen you eat flies with your flicky tongue and there is no way I will ever kiss you. Not for a jug of water. Not for a jug of gold coins. Not for anything. I will never kiss you!”
The frog shrugged. “That’s fine. I don’t want a kiss. I want you to hit me on the head with an iron pan. I want you to strike me with cold iron.”
“You want me to hit you on the head with a pan?” asked the girl.
The frog nodded.
“You want me to hit you hard with a pan?”
The frog nodded again.
“Fine. I will happily whack you with a pan.”
She picked up a frying pan and lifted it above her own head.
“No!” yelled her mother. “If you hit the frog, you’ll squish it!”
“That’s the idea!” said the girl as she lifted the pan higher. She brought the pan down as hard as she could. Right on top of the frog’s green shiny head.
The frog vanished.
The table smashed.
And standing there, in the midst of the wrecked table, was a young man, tall and elegant in a green satin coat and a yellow velvet waistcoat.
He smiled. “Thank you so much for freeing me from my curse. I was travelling in your land, and I met a witch who cursed me to be a frog until a girl let me eat from her plate then struck me with iron. So, thank you.”
He knelt down and took the girl’s hand. “We must do this the traditional way. You’ve lifted my curse and returned me to my true form, so would you like to marry me?”
The girl took her hand back gently. “Not really, no. I’ve seen you eat flies. A fly half out of your mouth, with its wing still fluttering, is not an image I’ll ever forget. So, no, I don’t want to marry you. But thanks.”
The young man sighed with relief and stood up. “Then I shall continue my journey and my adventures. And I shall try not to annoy any other witches and get turned into any other animals. Thank you for your help and for
the lovely oatcakes.”
He bowed to the mother and the daughter, left the cottage and walked away from the end of the world.
The girl stood at the doorway and called after him, “If you do annoy another witch and do get turned into another animal, you’re welcome to come back here and I’ll hit you with the frying pan again!”
I wonder if he ever went back... what do you think?
Fooled by Foxes
Japanese folktale
In Japan, everyone knows what kitsune are, but very few people can recognise one.
Kitsune are foxes who can turn into humans, or humans who can turn into foxes. Kitsune love to trick people, often persuading men to marry fox-women, or leading travellers down dangerous paths.
One day, a dozen young men were drinking tea under the cherry trees in their village and telling kitsune tales. One young man announced to his friends: “I’d never be fooled by a kitsune!”
His friends laughed. “Scholars and priests and samurai have been fooled by kitsune. Why should you be different?”
The young man grinned and stroked his long silky black hair, tied up in a fashionable topknot. “I can tell the difference between a girl and an animal. I would never be fooled!”
His friends dared him to go to the lonely lands above the village where the local kitsune stories came from, to walk there for a day and a night, and to see if he returned still convinced he’d never be fooled by a fox.
So the young man finished his tea and set off on a long walk.
The land above the village was a mixture of trees and fields, with only a few small farmhouses. The young man walked along the narrow lanes confidently, whistling and pausing to look up at the beautiful mountains.
Suddenly, from behind a slim tree, stepped a slim young woman, in a silver kimono and a white headscarf and gloves. She said, “A traveller! You must be tired and thirsty! Follow me to my family’s house, and we will give you refreshment and rest.”
The young man laughed. “How stupid do you think I am? That tree is far too thin to hide a girl. When you were behind that tree, you were a fox, weren’t you? Crouched down waiting for a foolish traveller to walk past?
“There must be pointed ears under that scarf and furry paws under those gloves! I know what you are. You’re a fox! You’re a kitsune! So I say ‘no’ to your rest and your refreshment. This is one traveller you won’t fool.”
The girl blushed. “I’m sorry if I offended you, but I assure you, it was a genuine offer. I’m sorry. I will leave you to continue your journey.”
She walked off, heading down the narrow lane. The young man, feeling quite pleased with himself, kept going up the lane.
After he took ten steps, he whirled round. The lane behind him was empty. There was no girl in sight. But he did see a bushy tail vanish into the trees.
“Aha! I was right! She was a kitsune. And she didn’t fool me!” He grinned. “But what about all the people round here who aren’t as smart as me? I’d better warn them that there’s a kitsune about today.”
He strode up the path to the nearest farmhouse and knocked on the door.
When the farmer answered, the young man said, “I came to warn you that there’s a kitsune about, a tricksy fox-girl. You’d better be on your guard!”
“Goodness me,” said the farmer. “You’d better come in and tell us all about it.”
The young man went into the small kitchen, and saw the farmer’s wife sewing by the fire and a young woman sitting on a stool. The same young woman he’d met on the path.
“That’s her! The fox-girl. The kitsune. She’s here, ready to trick you all!”
“No, that’s my niece, visiting from family far away,” said the farmer. “She’s not a fox!”
“Yes she is. She absolutely is. I saw her tail, I’ll prove it to you.” He stepped over to the girl.
“Here are her ears!” He pulled off the white scarf. Underneath were delicate human ears.
“Oh. No fox ears. She’s a tricky one. But here are her paws!” He pulled off the white gloves. Underneath were slim human fingers.
“Oh. No fox paws either. But you’re not fooling me, girl. Animals fear fire.”
He grabbed the girl’s right wrist and dragged her over to the fire. “Let’s burn the fox out!”
He thrust the girl’s hand towards the flames.
The girl screamed.
The young man watched her human skin turn red in the heat.
“Oh no! You’re not a fox! Oh no!” He pulled the girl from the fireplace, shoved her into the arms of her aunt and ran to the other side of the kitchen.
He stood with his back pressed against the wall and stared at the weeping girl.
“I’m sorry. I made a terrible mistake. I’m so sorry. What can I do to make amends? I’ll go back to my village and spend all my money on the best creams the healer can offer. We’ll heal the burn and your hand will be as good as new. I’m so sorry.”
“That’s not good enough,” said the farmer. “You’ll have to do more than that to prove how sorry you are. The priest will know how you can make amends.”
The farmer left the kitchen as his wife bandaged the girl’s hand, and the young man stood still and silent. Soon the farmer returned with a priest.
“I’m so sorry!” said the young man again. “It was a mistake! What can I do to make amends?”
The priest looked at the girl’s hand, then at the young man. “You must let me shave your head. Then for as long as it takes your hair to grow back, everyone will see the evidence of your terrible mistake and everyone will know your shame.”
The young man knelt down. The priest undid his topknot, then shaved off all his hair.
The priest threw handfuls of long black hair into the fire. As the young man breathed the stink of his own hair burning, he fainted and fell face-first onto the tiled floor.
When he woke, he wasn’t lying on tiles, he was lying on the earth; he wasn’t in a farmhouse, he was in a field. He looked up and saw four foxes running off in the distance. One of the foxes was limping.
He walked back to the village, his shaved head gleaming. And until his hair grew long enough to be tied up in a topknot again, everyone could see how he had been fooled not by one fox, but by four foxes.
Ceridwen’s Potion
Welsh legend
Ceridwen was a powerful sorceress, skilled in many kinds of magic.
Her favourite magic was shape-shifting, because she loved to run and eat and sleep as many different animals. She loved the different view of the world she got with different eyes, and the different feel of the earth under hooves, or paws, or claws. She loved the challenge of hunting different prey. And she loved learning from different animals, while she lived with them for a day or a week or a month.
But she wanted a human life too, so she became pregnant, to have a human child of her own.
Ceridwen continued shape-shifting while she carried the child in her belly, spending nights as an owl or a badger or a bat, and days as a deer or a pigeon or an eel. The constant changes of shape and size may not have been good for her baby, because when he was born, he was crooked and crinkled, with odd patches of hair and misshapen feet.
But Ceridwen loved her baby. She called him Afagddu. She would change into a weasel and dance until he giggled, or change into a nightingale and sing until he slept.
Though Afagddu wasn’t handsome or swift on his limbs, Ceridwen soon realised he was clever. He didn’t have the looks to be a prince, nor the strength and balance to be a warrior, but perhaps he could gain respect as a wise man.
So she decided to use her magic to help her son become happy and successful. She started to brew a potion that would give Afagddu all the wisdom in the world.
It was a complex potion, requiring herbs from all over Wales, picked at very specific times: at midnight in a lightning storm, at sunrise on May Day, at noon on the summer solstice. Ceridwen would need a full year to gather all the ingredients and she could ma
ke this potion only once in her life.
She knew that the potion must simmer gently all the time she was collecting ingredients and that the potion must be guarded because the first person to taste it – and only the first person to taste it – would gain all the wisdom in the world.
Ceridwen employed a local boy, Gwion, to stir the potion and keep the fire burning under the pot.
She allowed Afagddu to limp after her as she gathered the herbs, and while they walked she talked to him about plants and their powers.
She gathered goldenrod and sage, dropped them in the pot and snapped at Gwion, “Keep stirring, boy, and don’t let anyone steal a drop.”
She gathered meadowsweet and rosemary, dropped them in the pot and shouted at Gwion, “Keep stirring, boy, and don’t let anyone taste it.”
She gathered wormwood and vervain, dropped them in the pot and yelled at Gwion, “Keep stirring, boy, and guard it with your life.”
The potion was almost complete. The final ingredient, to sweeten it, was dew from the white rose at the foot of the tallest mountain. As Ceridwen and Afagddu left early in the morning, she shouted, “Keep that fire bright, boy, and keep stirring!”
Gwion added wood to the fire, to make it burn bright, and he stirred. The potion boiled, bubbled, popped and spat.
One drop of potion flew out of the pot and landed on the back of Gwion’s hand, scalding him. Gwion put his hand to his mouth and sucked, to cool the pain.
So Gwion was the first person to taste the potion.
Ceridwen returned, with Afagddu limping behind her and the white rose in her hands. She saw the light in Gwion’s eyes and knew that his mind was alight with all the wisdom in the world.
She screamed, “You stole my son’s wisdom!” And she leapt towards Gwion.
But Gwion was newly full of wisdom and knowledge and ideas, and he knew that Ceridwen meant to kill him in her anger. So, fast as a heartbeat, he changed into a hare.
The hare bounded off.
Ceridwen changed into a hound and chased the hare.
The hare’s long legs were powerful, but the hound was just as fast, and unlike Gwion, Ceridwen was used to running as an animal. So the hound began to catch up and the hound’s long teeth reached for the hare’s spine.