Serpents and Werewolves

by Lari Don

  When they reached the neighbour’s house, the back door was wide open, so the archer and his father walked in.

  Their neighbour was lying on the stone floor of the kitchen. Stretched out, stiff and cold, with blood pooled under his chest and an arrow in his shoulder.

  “That’s my arrow,” said the archer. “That’s the arrow I shot at the wolf.”

  That’s how they discovered their neighbour had feasted on stolen lambs and perhaps even stolen children.

  The archer kept his one last arrow, not as a reminder of the wars he’d fought, but as a reminder that he had shot a werewolf and a warning that he could do it again.

  For the rest of his long peaceful life, on his family’s farm and on the farms around, the lambs grew fat all summer and the children played in safety.

  And the wolf-grey arrow was never needed again.

  Buzzard Boy

  Mexican folktale

  Once there was a boy who lived on a farm at the edge of the forest, with his mum and dad.

  One day, his dad said it was time for the boy to break ground and grow his own crops. His dad gave him an axe and his mum gave him a pile of warm tortillas and they said, “Go to the edge of the trees, and clear a field for yourself. Cut down the trees, cut down the bushes, burn the scrub, then you can plant these seeds and grow yourself a field of corn.”

  The boy walked towards the forest. When he reached the best place for a field, he lifted the axe and swung it at a tree.

  Thunk. The axe hit the trunk. “Ouch! That was sore on my hands.”

  Thunk, again. “Ouch!”

  Thunk, one more time. His hands were stinging and the tree still hadn’t fallen over.

  The boy sighed. This was going to be hard work and he didn’t feel like hard work. So he left the axe sticking out of the tree, sat down at the edge of the forest and ate one of his tortillas.

  Then he lay down and gazed up past the trees at the cool blue sky.

  He saw birds flying above him. “Birds don’t have to work,” he muttered. “They’re free to fly about all day and go wherever they want.”

  He saw a big bird circle above him.

  “Oi! Buzzard! You don’t know how lucky you are, up there with no work to do! I wish we could swap.”

  The buzzard circled lower.

  “Oi? Buzzard? Do you want to swap? You come down here and be a boy, and I’ll go up there and be a buzzard, free as the air.”

  The buzzard circled even lower.

  “Come on, buzzard. It’ll be fun! Swap your feathers for my clothes and eat my mum’s warm tortillas for lunch.”

  The buzzard landed beside him. The big black and red bird looked at the axe, at the tortillas and at the boy.

  The buzzard nodded. “Let’s swap.”

  The buzzard pulled off his feathers and the boy pulled off his shirt, and they swapped.

  The boy’s nose became a beak; the buzzard’s claws became toes. Soon the boy who was now a buzzard was testing out his wide wings, and the buzzard who was now a boy was wrapping his fingers around the axe handle.

  “Thanks!” said the brand new buzzard and flapped his wings to fly off.

  “Hold on!” said the brand new boy. “Tell me how to be a boy.”

  “You’ve been watching me, just do what I did.”

  “But all you’ve done this morning is lie about and eat. There must be more to being a boy than that.”

  “If you really want to work like a farm boy, chop down some trees and bushes, burn the scrub, then plant seeds.” The brand new buzzard flapped up into the air.

  The brand new boy called after him, “Don’t you want to know how to be a buzzard?”

  “How hard can it be?” The brand new buzzard laughed as he flew away.

  The brand new boy pulled the axe out of the tree and swung it, enjoying the strange new strength of his arms and legs, and the heavy solidity of his new body.

  He cut down a dozen trees, ate tortillas for lunch, then cut down another dozen trees. As he piled them up, the farmer arrived and said, “That’s an excellent day’s work, son. Come home for your tea.”

  So the brand new boy followed the farmer to the farmhouse for a hot meal, then lay in a soft bed all night, listening to rain on the roof.

  He returned to the edge of the forest the next day to continue clearing his own field. As he chopped at the first tree of the day, the brand new buzzard flew down and asked, “How do buzzards stay warm and dry?”

  “Buzzards don’t. Birds live outside, so buzzards are cold at night and wet in the rain.”

  “Ah. And who gives a buzzard his meals?”

  “No one. You have to find your own food. That’s why I accepted your offer to swap: now I sleep with a roof over my head and I eat your mother’s lovely cooking.”

  “You might have a roof and tortillas, but I can fly free above the forest.” The brand new buzzard flew off, while the brand new boy chopped down trees.

  The next day, as the brand new boy started cutting down bushes, the brand new buzzard flapped into the clearing, looking a bit scrawny. “How do I find my own food? I tried to hunt rabbits but they’re too fast. I tried to eat berries but my beak’s too big.”

  The brand new boy put down his axe and stretched his arms. Then he handed the brand new buzzard half a tortilla and said, “Buzzards don’t hunt fresh meat or eat fresh fruit. Buzzards scavenge dead things. Buzzards eat corpses.”

  “Yuck!” said the brand new buzzard. After a pause, he added, “I know that should be yuck, but actually my tummy is rumbling at the thought. How do I find a nice juicy corpse?”

  “You have to hunt for gases, rising like smoke from a body as it cools, then follow the fumes down.” The brand new boy picked up the axe again. “I used to like the smell of cooling corpses, but now I prefer the smell of baking tortillas.”

  The brand new boy cut down another bush and the brand new buzzard flew off to find and follow fumes.

  That afternoon, as the brand new boy piled scrubby bits of bush around the field to burn it to the ground, the brand new buzzard tried to find fumes that would lead him to food.

  First he dive-bombed a kettle as a traveller made coffee, then he got his talons caught in a girl’s hair when she went to a party wearing too much perfume, then he nearly landed on a fresh steaming cowpat.

  Finally he found a hot pillar of intriguing fumes and he thought, “That’s it!” He dived down through the whirling warmth.

  He dived right into the heart of the fire that the brand new boy had lit to clear the field.

  The brand new buzzard dived into the centre of the flames. And he couldn’t get out. His feathers were smouldering, his eyes were watering, he couldn’t work out which way was up or down.

  The brand new buzzard was burning.

  Then two hands, blistered with hard work, dragged him out. The brand new boy pulled the brand new buzzard out of the fire.

  The brand new boy said, “Do you want to swap again? I like being a farmer, and I like living in a house and eating tortillas. But if you want to swap again, if it’s too hard to be a buzzard, I will give you back your clothes and your job.”

  As the brand new buzzard preened his singed feathers, he looked at the hoe, the rake and the sacks of seeds at the edge of the new field. “Being a boy is too much work. I like being a buzzard, with the freedom of the sky. It’s not easy, but I will learn to be the best buzzard I can be.”

  The buzzard flew away.

  The boy cleared the rest of the field, planted the seeds, harvested his crop, and eventually ate tortillas made from his own corn.

  The boy never spoke to the buzzard again. But he often saw him, circling above the farm. The boy waved his arms, and the buzzard dipped his wings then danced in the air, being the best buzzard he could be.

  Many years later, when his own children, his own boys and girls, looked up at the blue sky and said, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be free as a bird?” the farmer who used to be a buzzard smiled. “It’s
not easy being a bird. I wouldn’t swap it for a watertight house, a pile of warm tortillas and a bit of hard work. I wouldn’t swap it at all.”

  The Laidly Wyrm

  Northumbrian legend

  Above the long golden beach at Bamburgh, a castle stands proud on a hill.

  Once upon a time, the King of Northumbria lived in that castle. He had a queen and two children: a boy called Wynne and a girl called Margaret. The two children played together in the castle and on the beach, the little sister often annoying her big brother by dancing round him, getting in his way, giggling and smiling and being hard to dislike however irritating she was.

  The King’s children grew up happily, and soon Wynne was old enough to learn how to be a king. He decided the best way to learn was to go on a quest, with a ship, a crew and a long sharp sword, to find and defeat as many monsters as he could.

  On the day he left, his little sister didn’t annoy him at all. She just kissed him on the cheek, wished him an exciting quest and said goodbye.

  The King continued to rule Northumbria with the Queen’s help, and Margaret learnt to play on her own.

  One winter, the Queen died. The King was left with only Margaret to help him. She had to grow up fast. She became her father’s advisor, wise and kind. She took control of the keys of the castle: the keys to every chamber and the keys to all the treasure.

  One spring, the King went hunting in the forest, where he met the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He fell instantly in love and married her on the spot.

  They rode back to the castle, the King smiling because he thought he’d found someone wonderful to share his life with, the new Queen smiling because she thought she’d soon have complete power over the King, the castle, the kingdom and the treasure.

  Then she saw the slim figure of Margaret, waiting on the steps of the castle. As they rode closer, the new Queen saw Margaret’s cheerful clever face and the heavy bunch of keys on her belt. The new Queen realised she would never have complete power over the King or the kingdom while Margaret was by the King’s side.

  So the new Queen decided to get rid of Margaret.

  She took a few days to gather what she needed, then one night she crept down to the basement, to cast a spell.

  From her left pocket, she took a long white bone. “The rib of a dragon,” she whispered. From her right pocket, she took a long dark hair. “The hair of the daughter,” she whispered.

  She knotted the hair around the bone and circled the palm of her hand over it nine times. As she passed her hand over the bone, she thought about how to make this the strongest spell ever.

  Every spell has a weakness, and it’s wise for the spellmaker to choose what its weakness will be. To make her spell strong, the new Queen chose the most unlikely way to break it.

  “You will stay in the loathsome form I give you, annoying child, until you are kissed, not by a lover or a friend, but by a boy who is far overseas, learning to kill your kind. You will stay in this shape until you are kissed by the King’s son, Wynne!”

  The new Queen snapped her fingers. And upstairs in her bedroom, Margaret turned into a...

  ...dragon!

  Margaret didn’t know she’d become a dragon, of course, because she was asleep. She found out early the next morning when her maid came in to help her brush her hair.

  The maid saw a huge green serpent coiled on the bed and she screamed.

  Margaret woke up, sat up, looked at herself and saw her green scales. She screamed too. But she didn’t have the right throat for a scream any more, so the scream came out as a roar.

  The maid screamed, the dragon roared and the castle shook.

  Margaret slid out of the window, slithered down the castle wall and hid in the darkest hole she could find. She didn’t want to be a dragon. She didn’t want anyone to see her.

  But she grew hungry, so after a week of hiding, she crept out to search for food.

  She tried to catch a sheep, but when she chased the flock, the shepherd ran off, shouting, “Dragon! That dragon wants to eat me!” But the dragon didn’t eat him, the dragon ate a sheep. She tried to catch a goat, but when she chased the flock, the goatherd ran off, shouting, “Dragon! That dragon wants to eat me!” But the dragon didn’t eat him, the dragon ate a goat.

  She tried to catch a cow, but when she chased the herd, the farmer ran off, shouting, “Dragon! That dragon wants to eat me!” But the dragon didn’t eat him, the dragon ate a cow.

  The people ran to the castle and demanded to see the King. “Help us, your majesty! There’s a dragon trying to eat us! Please kill the dragon for us!”

  The new Queen was about to say, “Yes, let’s kill the dragon,” when the King asked, “A dragon, trying to eat you? Really? How many people has it eaten?”

  “Erm... none. No people at all actually...”

  “So what has it eaten?”

  “Sheep. Goats. Cows.” They told the King exactly what had happened.

  And the King, who was a wise king in most matters, even when he was distracted by his new queen and his missing daughter, said, “If it had wanted to eat you, you’d be chewed up and swallowed by now. It’s not a dangerous dragon, just a hungry one. If you feed it every day, it will leave you alone.”

  So the dragon coiled round a tall rock called Spindleston Heugh, and the bravest of the local people delivered a big bucket of milk and a dozen large loaves to the foot of the rock every day. The dragon was full, the people were safe, and so were the sheep and goats and cows.

  But the people weren’t happy. They didn’t like having a great long serpent of a dragon wound round a rock so close by, with its bright green scales, long white teeth and sad eyes watching them as they farmed and fished. The locals called the dragon the Laidly Wyrm, or loathsome worm, and went on long detours so they didn’t have to walk too close to it.

  After a few weeks of dragon-feeding and dragon-avoidance, they went back to the King and said, “It may not be hungry, but we still don’t feel safe with a dragon coiled round a rock so close to our homes and the castle. We’d still like you to kill it.”

  The King nodded. “The best person to rid us of a dragon is the boy who went off to learn to kill them. I miss having my children around me, since Margaret vanished, so I shall summon young Wynne home again.”

  A short message was sent: “Wynne, come home urgently.” Soon Wynne, who had killed almost enough dragons, manticores and basilisks to feel qualified to be a king, started the journey back to Bamburgh.

  The new Queen was furious. She’d just got rid of the daughter, now here was the son heading home. She had to get rid of him too, so she would be the only one with influence over the King.

  Late one night, she crept to the basement and conjured up ninety-nine spiky black imps. She gave each of them a bowl of water and a fishbone spoon, and ordered them to stir up a storm.

  As each of the ninety-nine imps stirred, the water began to swirl and splash, and the water in the basement called to the water in the sea.

  The water near the castle shivered and swirled. Waves reached up to grab air, then smashed down and shattered. The breezes near the castle shifted and whirled, and became winds, which surged and howled.

  The imps were stirring in different directions and at different speeds, so the waves and winds were arriving from all angles, crashing into each other, battling and building a massive storm at sea.

  The magical storm roared around Wynne’s ship as he approached home. But it didn’t sink him. While he’d been away, Wynne had learnt to kill monsters, and he’d also learnt to keep himself safe from dark magic, so he was returning in a ship of rowan wood, the only tree that resists magic.

  Wynne’s ship floated calmly on the top of the soaring waves, and drove a straight line through the gusting winds.

  The new Queen screamed in frustration. She kicked over the imps’ bowls and yelled, “Hide yourselves on the beach and when that boy comes ashore, tear him to pieces!”

  The imps scuttl
ed down to the beach, buried themselves in the sand and waited for Wynne to land.

  But when the ship approached the beach, there was a sudden splash, as the dragon leapt from her rock and landed in the water between the ship and the shore.

  The dragon flicked at the ship with her tail, the dragon danced in the waves, the dragon coiled round the ship, and the dragon made it impossible for the ship to land.

  Wynne said, “What an annoying creature.” He and his men tried to kill the dragon with arrows and spears. But her scales were too thick, and she was moving too fast. The dragon kept dancing and coiling and generally making a nuisance of herself so the ship couldn’t land on the long, golden beach.

  The golden beach that was hiding ninety-nine imps...

  Eventually, Wynne said, “This irritating dragon won’t let us land here, so let’s try the bay to the north.”

  As soon as the ship turned away from the beach below the castle, the dragon stopped bothering the sailors and coiled back round her rock.

  Once Wynne had landed safely, he said to his men, “Before I go to the castle to greet my father, I must deal with that annoying green wyrm.” He drew his long sword, now tempered with the hot blood of dozens of monsters, and he strode up to Spindleston Heugh.

  The dragon was coiled round the rock with her tail at the top and her head at the bottom. She hung there, upside down, and watched Wynne approach. Wynne stepped right up to the rock and stared at the dragon’s throat, searching for a soft patch he could pierce with his sword.

  The dragon tipped her head to one side and smiled.

  Wynne thought, “That’s unusual. I’ve killed many dragons, and not one of them has smiled at me just before I attack.”

  He looked at the dragon, hanging upside down, with its head on one side, smiling at him. He thought of the dragon dancing and bouncing in the waves, and annoying him by getting in his way.

  He said, “How strange, dragon, you remind me of my little sister.”

  The dragon grinned even wider.

  He lowered his sword. “I can’t kill something that reminds me of my little sister.”