Fairy Tales from the Brothers Grimm

by Philip Pullman

  One day he said to her, ‘Listen, I’ve got a good idea. You know your cousin the carpenter – let’s get him to make us a calf out of wood, and paint it the proper colour, so it looks real. It’s bound to grow up eventually, and then we’ll have a cow. What d’you reckon?’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said his wife.

  So they went to the carpenter and explained what they wanted, and he got some good pieces of pine and sketched it out and then sawed and planed and carved and nailed it all together, and then he took some brown paint and painted it till you could hardly tell it wasn’t real. He’d made it with its head down as if it were grazing, and given it some long black eyelashes too.

  When the village cows were driven out to the pasture next morning, Farmerkin called the cowherd and said, ‘I’ve got a young calf here, but she’s too small to walk yet. She needs to be carried.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said the cowherd, and he picked up the calf, carried it to the pasture, and set it down on the grass. The cowherd said to himself, ‘She’ll be running around soon. Look at her tuck into that grass!’

  When it was time to drive the cows home that evening, the cowherd couldn’t make the calf move. ‘Damn it,’ he said, ‘you’ve been guzzling away all day long, I reckon you’re strong enough now to walk home on your own four legs. I ain’t going to carry you both ways.’

  Farmerkin was standing outside his front door waiting for the calf to come back. Along came the herd of cows, and behind them was the cowherd, but there was no sign of the calf.

  ‘Hey!’ said Farmerkin. ‘Where’s my calf, then?’

  ‘She’s still out there grazing. I called her, but she didn’t move. I can’t wait all day – these cows want milking.’

  The cowherd got the cows settled in the milking parlour, and then went back to the pasture with Farmerkin, but by the time they got there, someone had stolen the calf.

  ‘That’s your fault,’ said Farmerkin.

  ‘No, it ain’t! She must have wandered off.’

  ‘Well, you should have fetched her back,’ said Farmerkin.

  And he took the cowherd to the mayor, who was shocked at the cowherd’s negligence and ordered him to give Farmerkin a cow to make up for his loss.

  So now Farmerkin and his wife had the cow they’d been longing for. They were happy about it, but they had no feed and they couldn’t afford to buy any, so they had to have her slaughtered. They salted the meat and tanned the hide, and it was a nice hide too, so Farmerkin set off for town with it, intending to sell it and buy a calf.

  On the way he went past a mill, and there sitting on the ground was a raven with both wings broken. Farmerkin felt sorry for the bird, so he picked it up carefully and wrapped the hide around it. Dark clouds were gathering in the sky and the wind was getting brisker, and no sooner had he got the raven wrapped up than the rain started pouring down. There was nowhere else to shelter, so Farmerkin knocked on the door of the mill.

  The miller’s wife, who was alone there, opened the door to him.

  ‘What d’you want?’ she said.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you, missis, but could I take shelter here?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose it is coming down a bit . . . All right, come in. You can lie down in the straw over there.’

  She pointed to a big heap in the corner, and when Farmerkin was comfortable she brought him some bread and cheese.

  ‘Very good of you, missis!’

  ‘Well, it looks as if it’s set in for the night,’ she said.

  Farmerkin ate the bread and cheese and then lay down and closed his eyes, with the hide beside him. The woman, who was keeping an eye on him, thought he must have been tired, and as Farmerkin didn’t stir, she was sure he’d gone to sleep.

  Soon afterwards there came a soft knock on the door, and the woman answered it with her finger to her lips. Farmerkin opened his eyes wide enough to see the priest come in.

  ‘My husband’s out,’ he heard her say, ‘so we can have a feast!’

  Farmerkin thought: ‘A feast, eh? Then why did she fob me off with bread and cheese?’

  He watched through half-closed eyes as the miller’s wife sat the priest down at the table, fluttering her eyelashes and talking sweetly, and proceeded to serve him a joint of roast pork, a big dish of salad, a fruit cake just out of the oven, and a bottle of wine.

  But the priest was just tucking in the napkin over his clerical collar when there was a noise outside.

  ‘Oh, good grief!’ the woman cried. ‘It’s my husband! In the cupboard, quick!’

  The priest scuttled into the cupboard as quick as a cockroach, and the woman shoved the meat into the oven, the wine under the pillow, the salad under the bedclothes, and the cake on the floor under the bed.

  Then she ran to the front door.

  ‘Oh, thank God you’re back!’ she said. ‘I was getting frightened. What a storm! You’d think it was the end of the world!’

  The miller came in shaking the water off his clothes, and straight away he saw Farmerkin lying in the straw.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, poor fellow,’ said his wife, ‘he knocked on the door just as the rain was beginning to come down. He asked for shelter, so I gave him some bread and cheese and let him lie down there.’

  ‘Well, I don’t mind,’ said the miller. ‘But I tell you what, I’m bloody starving. Get me something to eat, will you?’

  ‘There’s only bread and cheese, honey-bunch.’

  ‘Whatever you’ve got in the larder will do me fine,’ said the miller, and then he looked at Farmerkin and called: ‘Hey, mate, get up and have another bite with me.’

  Farmerkin didn’t have to be asked twice. He jumped up, introduced himself, sat down at the table with the miller and tucked in.

  After a minute or so, the miller saw the hide with the raven in it still lying on the straw.

  ‘What you got over there?’ he said.

  ‘Ah, now that’s something special, that is,’ said Farmerkin. ‘I’ve got a fortune-teller in there.’

  ‘Really?’ said the miller. ‘Could he predict my future?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Farmerkin. ‘But he only predicts four things, and the fifth he keeps to himself.’

  ‘Go on then, get him to predict something.’

  Farmerkin picked up the hide very carefully and put it on his lap. Then he squeezed the raven’s head gently till the bird croaked: ‘Krr, krr.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Well,’ said Farmerkin, ‘he says there’s a bottle of wine under the pillow.’

  ‘Get away!’ said the miller, but he got up to look, and found the wine. ‘That’s amazing! What else can he predict?’

  Farmerkin squeezed the raven’s head again: ‘Krr, krr.’

  ‘What’s he say now?’

  ‘In the second place,’ said Farmerkin, ‘he says there’s a joint of roast pork in the oven.’

  ‘Roast pork? I don’t believe it . . . Well, I’m damned! There is and all! Lovely bit of meat, look at that! What else does he say?’

  Farmerkin made the raven prophesy again. ‘This time,’ he said, ‘he predicts that there’ll be a salad under the bedclothes.’

  The miller found that too. ‘This is incredible,’ he said. ‘I never seen anything like this in all me life.’

  ‘Krr, krr,’ said the raven for the fourth time, and Farmerkin interpreted: ‘There’s a cake under the bed.’

  The miller brought it out. ‘Well, I’m flabbergasted!’ he said. ‘And all we was going to eat was bread and cheese. Wife, what you doing over there? Come and sit down with us!’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’ve got a bit of a headache. I think I’ll go to bed.’

  Of course, really she was terrified. She got in
the bed and tucked the bedclothes right over her, and made sure she had the keys to the cupboard.

  The miller carved the joint of pork and poured some wine for himself and Farmerkin, and they began to eat.

  ‘So this fortune-teller,’ said the miller, ‘he keeps the fifth thing to himself, does he?’

  ‘That’s right, yeah,’ said Farmerkin.

  ‘What sort of thing might it be, usually?’

  ‘Could be anything really. But let’s eat first, because I got a feeling that the fifth thing is something bad.’

  So they ate their fill, and then the miller said, ‘This fifth prediction . . . How bad might it be?’

  ‘Well, the thing about the fifth prediction,’ said Farmerkin, ‘is that it’s very valuable. He never gives it free.’

  ‘Oh. What sort of price does he ask, then?’

  ‘Four hundred talers.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘Well, like I told you, it’s very valuable. But since you been a generous host, I reckon I can persuade him to let you have it for three hundred.’

  ‘Three hundred, eh?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘He won’t go lower than that?’

  ‘Well, you seen how accurate he’s been already. You can’t fault what he’s told you so far.’

  ‘That’s true. I can’t deny that. Three hundred talers, eh?’

  ‘Three hundred.’

  The miller went and fetched his purse, and counted out the money. Then he sat down again and said, ‘Let’s have it, then, let’s hear what he’s got to say.’

  Farmerkin squeezed the raven’s head. ‘Krr, krr,’ said the raven.

  ‘Well?’ said the miller.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Farmerkin. ‘He says the Devil’s got into your cupboard.’

  ‘What?’ said the miller. ‘I’m not having that.’

  And he hurried to unbolt the front door and wedge it open, and then said, ‘Where’s the key to the cupboard? Where’s it gone?’

  ‘I got it,’ said his wife, muffled under the blankets.

  ‘Well, give it here quick!’

  He snatched the key, unlocked the cupboard, and the priest shot out as fast as he could and vanished through the front door.

  The miller gaped, his hair standing on end. Then he hastened to bolt the front door again.

  ‘He was bloody right, your fortune-teller!’ he said. ‘That was the Devil, and no mistake! I seen the bastard with me own eyes!’

  And he had to drink the rest of the wine to settle his nerves. Farmerkin went to bed on the straw, and slipped away early in the morning with his three hundred talers.

  Once back in his village, Farmerkin began spending his money. He bought some land and built himself a fine house, and soon the villagers were saying, ‘He must have been where the golden snow falls. You can bring home money by the shovelful from there.’

  What they meant was, they didn’t believe he’d got it honestly. Farmerkin was summoned to stand before the mayor and explain himself.

  ‘It’s quite easy,’ he said. ‘I took the hide of my cow and sold it in town. There’s a big demand for leather now. Prices have gone way up.’

  As soon as they heard that, people all over the village began slaughtering their cows and tanning the hides, and got ready to go to town and sell them at this amazing price.

  ‘Me first,’ said the mayor.

  He sent his maid off with the first hide. She got three talers for it, and the rest of the villagers didn’t even get offered that much.

  ‘Well, what d’you expect me to do with all them hides?’ said the leather merchant. ‘There’s no demand these days.’

  Naturally, the villagers were furious with Farmerkin. They denounced him to the mayor as a swindler, and it didn’t take long for the village council to decide his fate.

  ‘You’ll have to die,’ said the mayor, ‘by means of being nailed into a leaky barrel and rolled into the pond.’

  A priest was summoned to say a mass for his soul, and the villagers left the two of them alone while that was being done. Luckily, Farmerkin recognized the priest.

  ‘I got you out of that cupboard,’ he said, ‘now you get me out of this barrel.’

  ‘Well, I wish I could—’

  ‘Just back me up, that’s all,’ said Farmerkin.

  He’d seen a shepherd coming along the road with his flock of sheep. He happened to know that that shepherd wanted one thing more than anything else, and that was to be mayor.

  So Farmerkin shouted at the top of his voice: ‘No, I won’t do it! The whole world can ask me to, but I won’t! I refuse!’

  The shepherd stopped and said, ‘What’s going on? What won’t you do?’

  ‘They want me to be mayor,’ said Farmerkin, ‘and they said all I got to do is get in the barrel, but I won’t do it. I just won’t.’

  ‘Serious?’ said the shepherd. ‘The only thing you got to do to be mayor is get in the barrel?’

  Farmerkin nudged the priest, who said, ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Oh, well, if that’s all it takes,’ said the shepherd, and he clambered in. Farmerkin put the lid on, and then took the shepherd’s crook and drove the flock of sheep away.

  The priest went to the village council and told them that the mass had been said, and the barrel was ready. The mayor led them out, and they all came hurrying along and rolled the barrel towards the pond.

  As it bumped along the road, the shepherd shouted out, ‘I’ll be glad to be mayor!’

  They thought it was Farmerkin shouting, of course, and called back, ‘Course you will! But first you can have a look round down there!’

  Then they rolled the barrel into the water, and set off for home. While the priest stayed behind, pulled up his cassock and tried to drag the barrel out so the shepherd wouldn’t drown, the villagers had the surprise of their lives, because as they came into the village square, there was Farmerkin with a flock of sheep.

  ‘Farmerkin! What the devil are you doing here? How’d you escape from the barrel?’

  ‘Nothing to it,’ he said. ‘The barrel sank deeper and deeper till it got to the bottom, and then I kicked the end open and crawled out. And you’ve never seen such beautiful meadows as they’ve got down there! Rich green grass, warm sunshine and so many lambs you couldn’t count. So I rounded up a handful and brought them back up with me.’

  ‘Are there any left?’

  ‘Oh, plenty. More than enough for everyone.’

  So they all turned around and hurried back to the pond, each of them determined to bring back a flock of his own. Just then the sky happened to be full of those fleecy little white clouds that people call lambkins, and the villagers were so excited seeing the reflection of the clouds in the pond that they didn’t notice the soaking wet shepherd on the other side belabouring the priest. All they could do was exclaim in delight at the clouds and jostle for position on the bank.

  ‘Me first,’ said the mayor, and plunged in with a splash.

  There came a gurgle from the water as he went down, and thinking that he was calling for them all to join him, they jumped in after him.

  After that there was no one left in the village, so Farmerkin found himself in charge of everything. He gave the shepherd his sheep back, declared himself mayor and became a rich man.

  ***

  Tale type: AT 1535, ‘The Rich Peasant and the Poor Peasant’, including an episode of type 1737, ‘Trading Places with the Trickster in a Sack’

  Source: stories told to the Grimm brothers by the Hassenpflug family and Dorothea Viehmann

  Similar stories: Alexander Afanasyev: ‘The Precious Hide’ (Russian Fairy Tales); Katharine M. Briggs: ‘Jack and the Giants’, ‘Sheep for the Asking’ (Folk Tales of Britain)

/>   Farmerkin is a classic trickster. Quick wits and impudence are what you need to play that part, but a plentiful supply of dupes is also necessary. There was clearly no shortage of them in his village.

  But how severely should dupes be punished for being dim-witted? It seems fair enough for the villagers who wanted Farmerkin dead to be drowned themselves, because it comes about as a direct result of their greed, but it’s a bit rough on the shepherd, who has never wished Farmerkin any harm. In the original the shepherd is drowned, and what’s more the priest gets away scot-free, which also doesn’t feel right. In this version I have the priest rescue the shepherd and then get belaboured for his pains, which seems a bit more just all round.

  Priests don’t turn up very often in Grimm, but when they do, their function as often as not seems to be to get up to mischief with another man’s wife. In the tale ‘Old Hildebrand’, for instance, there is a priest who tricks a peasant into going to Italy so that he and the peasant’s wife can have a fine time together. He’s caught out and walloped in the end, and quite right too.

  THIRTY

  THOUSANDFURS

  Once there was a king whose golden-haired wife was so lovely that her equal couldn’t be found anywhere in the world.

  It so happened that she fell ill, and feeling that she was about to die, she said to the king, ‘If you marry again when I’m dead, you mustn’t marry anyone less beautiful than me, or with hair less golden than mine. You must promise me.’

  The king gave his promise, and soon afterwards she closed her eyes and died.

  For a long time the king was inconsolable, and couldn’t even think about taking a second wife. But eventually his councillors said, ‘Your majesty, there’s no getting away from it: the country needs a queen. You must marry again.’

  So messengers were sent out far and wide to look for a bride as beautiful as the queen had been. However, they had no success, no matter how far they looked. Besides, even if they had found someone as beautiful, she might not have had golden hair. The messengers came home empty-handed.

  Now the king had a daughter whose hair was as golden as her mother’s had been, and who gave every promise of being as beautiful. During her childhood the king hadn’t noticed it, but one day soon after she came of age he happened to see her as the sun shone through the window on her golden hair. Suddenly he saw that she was as beautiful as her mother had been, and he fell passionately in love with her on the spot.