The door flew open. There was Malfri clinging to Jack’s mother. There were his brothers. All were dripping wet, pale and gray, with horror written on their faces, their eyes staring at nothing.
“Give back my life,” moaned Malfri.
Jack rushed down to his boat and sailed into the storm, looking for his family. But all he found was a death boat, bottom side up, with a gaping hole in its keel.
He began to sob. “What have I done?”
Jack tried to lose himself in his work. But the moment he stopped sawing and hammering, the voices of his family returned. The moaning of Malfri was the worst to bear.
Bony fishermen began to rise out of the sea and search for Jack, reaching for him with their skeletal hands. He could no longer sleep.
He desperately wanted to know which of his boats were the death boats. He tested those stored in the boathouse, thumping the keels, searching for flaws. But he could find none. He no longer thought his boats were beautiful.
Even moonlight shining on the waves gave him no pleasure. For it let him see ghostly crews wading through the shallows—and as they came closer, the stench of rot was almost unbearable.
He shouted, “Many more would have drowned if I hadn’t built my boats. Go away!” But they swarmed around him, staring at him with their hollow eyes.
Jack was frantic. He fled in one of his boats, sailing out to sea.
He could barely stand looking at the broken planks floating by, pieces of boats, all green and slimy. Bony fingers reached out of the water and tried to grasp them, then slipped from sight.
Jack’s boat skimmed through the waves, but it was not as seaworthy as it seemed. For it was not Jack who had set its keel in place.
That was the work of the evil draug.
Suddenly the draug appeared again, keeping pace with Jack as it sailed beside him. Jack was horrified to see that the back half of the draug’s boat was missing. He turned pale. He could almost hear what the old fisherman had whispered so long ago. “If it sails alongside you in a halfboat, prepare to die.”
“Begone!” Jack shouted at the draug—as if he could change his fate.
But the keel of Jack’s boat started creaking and cracking and falling away. Water rushed in through a gaping hole, flooding the boat.
The last thing that Jack saw, before he sank beneath the waves, was the draug, grinning monstrously, licking its pointed green teeth.
The Peasants’ Revenge
GERMANY
The peasants were terrified of Lord Hatto. Whenever he rode past, women dropped their loads of wood and darted through the nearest doorways. Children ran alongside mothers, hiding behind their skirts. Men hurried to cultivate the far sides of fields to avoid Hatto’s stinging whip. Even cats fled. No one knew when Hatto would unleash one of his towering rages.
The peasants wished he would be punished for his evil ways. But who dared to challenge such a powerful lord?
The only things that pleased Hatto were money and food. He spent hours counting his bags full of coins—and even more hours eating. The moment he rushed down the castle stairs each morning, he began bellowing for smoked eels and blackbird pies. Then more eels—and more pies. Finally, when he could not eat another bite, he pushed his vast body away from the table. He scowled when servants were slow to drape a cloak over his shoulders, grabbed his whip, and stomped off to his stables.
Pity the poor groom who did not have the lord’s horse saddled and waiting—and pity the poor horse, ridden by such a harsh and heavy master.
Each day, Hatto rode to his bulging granaries to inspect the locks. He wanted to make sure his peasants had not taken even a handful of his wheat to feed their hungry children. Of course the peasants had grown the wheat, but they had grown it on Hatto’s land, so Hatto claimed almost all of it for himself.
One day, when he was sure that his wheat was untouched, Hatto rode down the steep hillside to the Rhine River. He called across the water to a servant tending the stone tower on an island midstream.
“Did you stop every boat?” he bellowed. “Did you collect my tolls?” The servant nodded his head vigorously. He dared not fail. Imagine Hatto’s fury if even one boat slipped by without paying for the privilege.
The lord spent the rest of the day hunting. He would never dirty his hands raising crops—that’s what peasants were for—but he enjoyed killing game for his table, especially little songbirds for his steaming pies.
When Hatto rode back to his castle, he whipped his horse into a gallop. It was time to eat, and he knew the cook was roasting the carcass of a young ox.
But when he burst into the kitchen, the cook muffled a shriek and tried to hide something behind his back. It was a kitten. Worse yet, it was chewing a scrap of meat.
“How dare you?” shouted Hatto. He kicked the kitten out the door. “I don’t need any more mouths to feed.” He almost struck the cook as well. “You know I hate cats,” he snarled. But the savory smell of roast ox sent him rushing to the table.
By the time he went to bed, a heavy rain was falling. It rained the next day, too, and the next week, and the next month. In fact, no one could remember a wetter, colder spring. Seed rotted in the ground. Pastures were flooded. Farm animals grew thin.
The peasants soon ate their meager stores of food. Their vegetable gardens were sodden and bare. They begged the lord for wheat, but he refused. So they went to the forests to dig up edible roots and plants. They grew gaunt while the lord continued to feast.
Finally the peasants decided they must approach the lord together. Surely a starving crowd could persuade him to share his wheat.
When Hatto saw them gathering outside the castle door, he was angry. He saw no reason to help his peasants. Why did they keep pestering him? He was about to stomp back into his castle when a sly smile suddenly lit up his face. “Of course,” he said. “Come to the granary with me.”
The peasants were overjoyed. Maybe the lord would give them enough wheat to save their lives. Hatto unlocked one of his granaries and urged everyone inside. They were surprised to see that the granary was empty. The lord had sold the wheat for outrageous prices when everyone became desperate for food.
The peasants were even more surprised when Hatto suddenly slammed the door shut and bolted it. They cried out, begging for their freedom.
“They sound like a bunch of squealing mice, don’t they?” scoffed the lord.
“Squealing mice?” echoed a frightened servant. He dared not disagree, but when Hatto told him to set the granary on fire, he fled in terror. So the lord threw the torches himself. Flames began to lick up the granary walls.
Hatto imagined the peasants suffering horrible, lingering deaths. But only part of his evil wish was fulfilled. There was death, but no suffering. Before the flames touched the peasants, an enormous bolt of lightning ripped down from the heavens. In an instant it destroyed the building and reduced everyone inside to ash.
Lord Hatto was knocked flat on his back. As he lay there, stunned, he watched a vast cloud of ashes rise into the sky. Then the cloud swirled and darkened and began drifting back to earth. He shook his head, blinking. He couldn’t believe what he saw. The ashes were clumping together and turning into mice, thousands of huge, squealing mice with razor-sharp teeth and appetites far greater than Hatto’s.
He staggered to his feet as mice rained down upon him. Each time he batted one away, ten more struck him, clawing at his clothes as they fell. He raced into the castle with the sea of mice nipping at his heels. So many swarmed through the kitchen door, he couldn’t close it. No servants were there to help. All had fled when he set the granary afire.
While the mice paused in the kitchen to eat Hatto’s great stores of food, he charged up the stairs. He bolted his bedroom door and jumped into bed. But even when he pulled the covers over his head, he could not escape the sounds of scampering feet, gnawing teeth, and unearthly squeals.
For once in his life, he wished he had been kinder. Not to the peasants, of c
ourse. He still was as hard-hearted as ever. But he did wish he had been kinder to cats—to mouse-eating cats.
He lay awake all night, listening to scurrying and squeaking from all corners of the castle. He heard the mice move from the kitchen to the great hall, where they climbed up the walls to chew on tapestries and family portraits. Finally they clambered up the stairs to gnaw holes through Hatto’s bedroom door.
By the time the sun rose, they were swarming into the bedroom and shredding the very blankets under which Hatto was hiding.
The lord raced out of the castle and lumbered down the hillside to the Rhine. The mice weren’t far behind. He leaped into a boat and started rowing. I’ll be safe on the island, he told himself. No mouse would swim across the river.
Nevertheless, he bolted the door of the stone tower and climbed to its topmost room. He looked down from the window. What was that scum he saw on the surface of the water? It seemed to be moving toward the island.
As it came closer, he began to tremble. It wasn’t scum. It was a mass of mice—all swimming his way.
Hatto rushed to the door of the tower room, slammed it shut, and bolted it. Then he barricaded it with bags of money—tolls collected from boat captains. But the doors of the tower were made of wood, and the teeth of the mice were sharp.
Even when he pressed his hands over his ears he could hear the horrendous gnawing at the door below. Wood splintered. Toothy, whiskered faces punched through ever-widening holes. Hoards of mice scampered up the tower stairs, sniffing for blood.
Hatto crouched in a corner, whimpering, “Kitty, kitty, kitty,” but none came. The gnawing grew closer, the squeals deafening, and the mice, crazed by hunger, soon poured into the room.
Later that morning, the toll collector rowed out to the island. He could scarcely believe what he saw. The tower doors were full of ragged holes. Ashes were scattered everywhere. He was tempted to jump back into his boat, but he gathered up his courage, climbed the stairs, and peeked into the tower room.
There he saw a few flecks of blood and bone, scattered over bags of money. Nothing more.
The Wizard’s Apprentice
EASTERN EUROPE
A man stood by a fork in the path, trying to decide which way to turn. If he went to the right, he would reach the hut of a fearsome wizard. If he went to the left, he would go home to a weeping wife.
He sat down on a stump and put his head in his hands. Which way should he turn? For weeks his wife had begged him to seek the wizard’s help.
“How else will we ever have a child?” she’d cried. “We’ve waited so long. Only magic can help us.” But he wasn’t so sure.
He didn’t like anything about the wizard—particularly not what he’d heard in the marketplace that morning. An old woman had tugged at his sleeve. He had tried to hurry away, but she insisted on telling him how the wizard had squashed her husband under his heel.
“How could he do that?” the man had asked.
“First he turned him into an ant.”
An ant? The man had shuddered. Could this be true? He’d heard about her husband’s disappearance, but was this the work of the wizard?
The woman’s story was so upsetting that the man had quickly left the marketplace, and now he was sitting on the stump by the fork in the path. He was still talking to himself, still trying to decide which way to go. He knew how desperately his wife longed for a baby. And, if the truth were known, he did, too. But did he want to face an evil wizard?
Finally the man straightened his shoulders, rose from the stump, and began to walk down the path toward the wizard’s hut. An insistent voice inside him kept saying, “Turn around. Go back.” But he forced himself onward. The trees grew thicker and the forest darker.
At last he found himself standing in front of the wizard’s hut. But even before he had a chance to knock, the wizard suddenly materialized on the doorstep. The man leaped back, almost falling over his feet.
“So,” said the wizard. “I understand you want a child.”
The man was astounded. How did the wizard know?
“Of course, I know,” said the wizard. “Why else would you come to see me?”
The man was about to turn and run. He was terrified that the wizard could read his mind. But before the man could escape, the wizard stretched his arm to twice its normal length and grabbed him. “Come right in,” he said, pulling him into the hut.
When the man stepped inside, he almost fainted. What incredible power did this wizard have? From the outside, his hut looked as if it were about to collapse. But from the inside it appeared to be the throne room of a palace. Silk tapestries hung on the walls, and the furniture was made of gold.
“Don’t be so surprised,” said the wizard. “I have the power to do anything. I can even give you a child. But what can you do for me?” He looked cold and cunning. “How will you repay me?”
The man didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to offend the wizard by offering a small reward. He felt in his pocket for coins, but he found only three. Not enough.
“You’re right,” said the wizard, “I would never give you a child for a few coins. Not even for a basketful.”
“I could cut firewood for you,” the man said, “for a whole year.”
“What for?” scoffed the wizard. With a snap of his fingers he made a rock in the fireplace burst into flame, sending waves of heat into the room.
The wizard thought again. “So . . . you’ll do something for me for a year?” His face twisted into an evil grin. “I’ll make a bargain with you. I’ll help you and your wife have a son. But on his tenth birthday you must bring him to me, to serve me for a year. After that you can take him back. But if you do not bring him to me on his tenth birthday, I’ll fetch him myself—then it won’t be so easy to regain your son.”
“I’ll bring him,” said the man, too happy about the promise of a child to worry about the wizard’s demands.
He said good-bye and whistled all the way home. Not only did he have wonderful news for his wife, he hadn’t been turned into an ant.
His wife was so happy when he told her about the child, he didn’t mention the wizard’s bargain.
Just nine months later, his wife gave birth to a fine baby boy. He was the joy of his parents’ lives, with his quick mind and his warm smile. His early years sped past, and it wasn’t until the approach of his tenth birthday that the boy’s father remembered the wizard’s warning.
He hated to admit to his wife that he had agreed to such a terrible bargain, and when he finally did, she wept. “I can’t give up our son for a year. You must not take him to the wizard.”
“It might be worse if I don’t,” he said. “This way, at least we will get him back.” But she was so miserable that her husband didn’t know what to do. In the end he did nothing.
So there they were, sitting at the table on the boy’s tenth birthday, eating their supper. They didn’t realize that the wizard was peering at them in his magic mirror, furious that they had not set forth.
By the time they finished eating, the sun had gone down. It was much too late to venture into the woods—and that’s when it happened. One moment the boy was sitting at the table and the next moment he was flying out the open window . . . as a bird.
“The wizard must have cast a spell,” cried the man. His wife fell into his arms weeping, and nothing could console her.
Imagine how confused the boy must have been, suddenly finding himself in the body of a bird, irresistibly flying into the dark forest. Before long, he arrived at the wizard’s hut, where he was, just as suddenly, turned back into a boy.
“Ah! There you are,” said the wizard. “I have been waiting for you.” He led the astonished boy into the small hut that contained the large palace. Then the wizard told the boy about the bargain he had made with his father ten years earlier. “And now you are my apprentice,” he said. “I will teach you all that I know.” What he did not tell the boy was that he planned to make him his slave.
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The boy knew very well that he couldn’t escape the wizard’s power, no matter how much he longed to return home. So he settled down to his studies, even though it meant learning the black arts—a kind of magic that he would rather not know. He studied day and night, and in a year’s time he possessed almost as much power as his master.
In the meantime, his parents had been counting the days. When at last the year was up, the father hurried down the forest path. The wizard glanced into the magic mirror and saw who was coming. He quickly turned the boy back into a bird, and he did the same to two frogs croaking nearby. Now three birds were flying around the palatial chamber.
When the father arrived, the wizard said, “You did not bring your son to me as you promised, even though you knew this would make it hard for you to get him back.”
What could the father say? He knew it was his fault, but he pleaded with the wizard, telling him how much he and his wife missed their son.
“Don’t you think that I would miss him if he left?” asked the wizard.
By now the man was ready to beg for mercy.
“No need for that,” the wizard said. “I’ll give you a chance. If you can tell me which of these three birds is your son, you may have him back. If not, he will be mine forever.”
The man started trembling. If he chose the wrong bird, he would lose his son. He looked them over. All three were identical—black all over. He didn’t know what to do.
The bird-boy desperately wanted to send a signal to its father. So it plucked a feather from its tail and held it in its beak. Then, using magic learned from the wizard, it pronounced a spell that turned the feather red. The father spotted it before the wizard could turn it black again. He pointed at the bird-boy. “That’s him!” he shouted.
The wizard was furious. He angrily turned the bird back into the boy. Then he grasped his shoulders painfully hard. “You won this time,” he said, spitting out his words. “But never again use the magic I taught you, or you will be my slave for the rest of your life.”
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