by Various
By the time the mob arrived at the store, the druggist had sent his assistant to bolt the front door. The marchers were furious. They pounded on the door with their fists. “Give us your mermaid,” they shouted. “Give us your mermaid if you value your life!”
The druggist raced upstairs and leaned out a second-story window. “I have no mermaid,” he said. “It was only a trick.”
“We saw her,” someone shouted, and everyone began chanting, “We saw her.”
“You’re wrong,” yelled the druggist, and he sent his assistant to get the bottle from the front counter.
The boy wrestled it up the stairs, and the druggist held it in front of the window. But before he could uncork it, a rock was flung by someone at the back of the crowd. It hit the bottle and shattered it. Now the druggist was angry. He kicked aside the broken glass with his brine-soaked shoes and picked up the slimy creature.
“You fools!” he said. “Watch.” And he snipped at hidden stitches around its waist. When the two halves fell free, he waved them in front of the crowd. “The bottom is the tail of a fish, the top is part of a monkey. I tricked you all.”
This enraged the mob. Not only had they been fooled but the rain was still pouring down, and now they had no mermaid to throw back into the sea.
They picked up dead rats floating past their knees and hurled them at the druggist. “No one else in Charleston would capture a mermaid,” a man shouted. “You must have one somewhere.” And he threw a handful of mud that found its target.
The druggist backed away from the window, wiping the muck off his face, his eyes flashing.
More mud and stones thudded against the store. Windows broke, and a wooden panel in the front door splintered.
The druggist grabbed his assistant’s arm. “Hurry! Save the bottle on the top shelf of the back room. Hide it for me. I’ll delay the crowd.”
The frightened boy raced down the stairs. He could hear the mob breaking through the front door, tossing medications about, trampling on dried herbs. He rushed into the back room. Twice the key slipped from his sweaty hands, but he finally managed to lock himself in. Then he pushed a ladder over to the shelves and grabbed the bottle of murky liquid.
When he tipped the bottle, he was startled to see a flash of shimmering scales inside—and a lock of golden hair. Stranger yet, he thought he heard a muffled song rising and falling within, like waves lapping upon a moonlit beach.
By now the mob was pounding on the door to the back room. He heard the druggist bellowing above the roar of the crowd. “Just a dusty old storeroom,” he shouted, but angry men were ramming the locked door with their shoulders.
The boy flung open a window to the alley, struggled to lower the bottle to the ground, and dove out headfirst. He was so muddy that he could barely hang onto the bottle. But he hugged it to his chest and floundered along as fast as he could. The mermaid pressed her face against the glass and smiled.
The boy was about to turn the corner and slip out of sight when he heard the mob crash into the back room. He looked and saw someone leaning out the open window. “There he goes,” the man shouted, and he jumped out the window, followed by a dozen others. They rushed after him, splashing and yelling, sure that the bottle held the very mermaid they wanted to return to the sea.
The boy’s legs were aching and he was breathing hard, but he forced himself to run faster.
Then one man began to pelt him with iron nails from his pocket, trying to break the bottle. He was a carpenter who thought that hitting a mermaid with iron would undo her spells.
By now the boy’s heart was pounding in his ears. But he could still hear the mermaid’s song. It made him forget everything the druggist had said. He would not hide that bottle even if he could escape from the mob. Nor would he let the carpenter or anyone else hurt her. He must return the mermaid to the ocean himself.
So he splashed down to the dock, tugged desperately at the bottle’s cork, and pulled it free. At that very moment, the druggist raced past the mob like a man possessed. He leaped onto the dock. “Stop!” he screamed. But the boy was too quick. He flung the uncorked bottle into the water, mermaid and all.
Suddenly a giant wave crashed ashore. It split, as if sliced by a knife, and missed the boy. But it engulfed the druggist in a wall of water and sucked him to the bottom of the sea.
Then the sun began to shine.
Months later, when the boy was walking along the beach, he came upon the very bottle that had imprisoned the mermaid. He leaped back, horrified to see something dead and shriveled within.
Not the mermaid!
He forced himself to take a closer look. And when he rolled the bottle over, he shuddered. For inside was a shrunken corpse with a scraggly goatee, gray in the center and black on each side.
Next-of-Kin
• Tale from Spain •
The old man longed for children. But he and his young wife had none, so he invited his nephew to live with them. This infuriated his wife, who had a vile temper. When her husband welcomed the young man with great affection, she turned pale with jealousy. Her eyes narrowed and her head flattened.
And when she licked her lips, her nephew saw that her tongue was forked.
From that day on, the young man spent as much time as possible with his uncle and tried to avoid his aunt. But she seemed to enjoy startling him, suddenly appearing when he least expected her.
One evening, the nephew returned to the house quite late. He lit a candle and started up the stairs. Halfway up, he tripped on what seemed to be a coiled rope. Imagine his horror when that rope uncoiled and slithered up the steps in front of him! Then he saw it glide across the hall and under the door of his uncle’s bedroom.
“Wake up! Wake up!” the young man shouted, and he knocked on the door until his knuckles hurt. But when his sleepy uncle finally let him in the bedroom, there was no snake in sight.
His aunt seemed to be sleeping, so the young man whispered in his uncle’s ear, “I saw a snake.” But his uncle was too groggy to respond, and he slid back under the covers. The young man searched the room quietly, looking into drawers and cupboards and corners. He peered under the bed and behind chairs. He was beginning to think he was going mad when suddenly his aunt sat up in bed, narrowed her eyes, and gave him an evil look that made his flesh creep.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he cried, racing to his bedroom and firmly shutting the door.
When he awoke the next morning, he noticed that the bottom of his bedroom door was arched up in the center, leaving just enough space for a snake to slither through. He bolted out of bed trembling.
When he went downstairs, he was shocked to see that every door in the house had a snake-sized arch beneath it.
His aunt was sitting at the table, eating. “Your uncle left for the day,” she said, licking her lips with her forked tongue. The young man was too terrified to speak, but his silence only made matters worse.
“I don’t like the way you treat me,” she said and grabbed his arm. Then she pressed her fingernails so deeply into his skin that he felt as if he were being bitten. He rushed outdoors and saw that his arm was swelling. His hand and fingers were beginning to throb.
He knew he must seek help, so he ran into the forest to find the wise old hermit who lived there. The old man examined him carefully and handed him some leaves. “These are best for snakebite,” he said. “Bind them around your arm and keep them wet.”
“But I wasn’t bitten by a snake,” said the young man. “Those marks were made by my aunt’s fingernails.”
The old hermit shook his head in despair. “The touch of a snake-woman is even worse,” he said, “but try these leaves. They should help.”
The young man was appalled. “Is my aunt really a snake-woman?” he asked.
“If you want to find out,” the hermit replied, “stay awake tonight, and if a snake enters your room, cut off the tip of its tail.”
The young man wasn’t sure how this would help, but he th
anked the hermit for his advice and returned to his uncle’s house. By afternoon, he was happy to see that the wet leaves had reduced the swelling.
He watched his aunt closely that evening, but he didn’t notice anything strange until she tasted her soup. She said it needed more “ssssseasoning” and lingered on the s as if she were hissing. Her nephew felt gooseflesh rise from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. He excused himself from the table and went up to his bedroom.
But not to sleep.
He planned to watch for the snake all night long. There was just enough moonlight for him to see the bottom of his door, so he blew out his candle and unsheathed his sword. Then he stood waiting.
He watched for hours wondering what the snake might do. What if it slithered through the window instead, crept up behind him, and struck him with its venomous fangs? What if it slithered to the top of the wardrobe and dropped down on him from above? He was thinking of fleeing for his life, when he finally saw the snake glide under the door-first its head, then its body, then its tail.
Slash! He swung his sword so quickly that the snake had no warning. And the tip of its tail began writhing, all by itself, there on the floor.
The snake raised its head as if to strike, but then it hissed viciously and slithered out of the room. And when he looked down the hall, he saw it disappear under his uncle’s door.
The young man couldn’t stand looking at that quivering tail, so he scooped it up with his sword and flung it in a drawer. He hardly slept all that night, and when he did, snakes chased him through his dreams.
The next morning, he opened the drawer a crack to look at the snake’s tail and was amazed to see that it had turned into human toes.
He raced back to the forest to tell the hermit what had happened. “And now my aunt is staying in bed, but do you know what my uncle said? She told him she hurt her foot while sleepwalking! ”
“Either she will fear you now,” said the old man. “Or she will try to get rid of you. Listen carefully. If you think you are in danger, you must search her bedroom for her snakeskin, and when you find it, burn it.”
The young man thanked the hermit, but he was concerned. What would happen if he burned the snakeskin? He decided to give his aunt one last chance.
While she was recovering, she caused no trouble, but as soon as her wound healed, she resumed her nightly slithering about the house.
Sometimes, when the young man was lying in bed, he saw the snake slip in and out of his empty boots or up the sleeve of a coat he had worn. One dreadful night, he felt the snake wiggling under his pillow, and he jumped out of bed in a cold sweat.
His dreams grew worse. He had a terrifying nightmare in which his aunt was trying to choke him. He awoke gasping for breath and realized that something was coiled tightly around his neck.
It was the snake.
He pulled it off and threw it across the room. And after he caught his breath, he knew he had to follow the hermit’s advice.
The next day his aunt said her back was sore, but this didn’t keep her from going for a walk with his uncle. As soon as they left the house, the young man slipped into their bedroom to look for the snakeskin, but he couldn’t find it. He was about to give up when he noticed dusty footprints on a chair. He stepped up on the seat and looked on top of the wardrobe, and there, neatly coiled, lay the shiny snakeskin.
But just as he picked it up, he heard the door open downstairs, and he knew that his aunt and uncle were home. He rolled up the snakeskin tightly and hid it in his fist before he raced back to his room. And that’s when he heard hideous sounds coming from the lower hall.
His aunt was shrieking, “Something is crushing me!”
When her nephew heard her cries, he almost lost his resolve. But then he remembered how he felt when the snake wrapped itself around his neck and tried to choke him.
He threw the snakeskin into the fire and watched it burn.
By the time he went downstairs, he was startled to see his aunt lying dead on the floor. He thought he was getting rid of the snake, but now his aunt was gone too.
“I’m sorry,” he said to his uncle.
But the old man seemed relieved. “It’ssss only the poisonousssss onessssss who are dangerousssssss,” he said, and he licked his lips.
The Bloody Fangs
• A Tale from Japan •
Long ago, there was a boy in Japan who wished he were as strong as his brothers. They could work alongside their father planting rice. They could jump and run and climb trees.
The boy could not. He was small for his age and he tired easily. But he had a lively mind and filled his lonely hours drawing.
The boy’s family was poor and had no money for paper and ink, so he used whatever he could find. He sharpened sticks and scratched pictures in the dirt. He gathered pieces of charcoal and drew upon smooth stones.
And what did he draw? Cats. Cats lashing their tails and cats washing their ears, cats stalking mice and cats leaping into the air.
His brothers wanted him to draw goblins with hideous eyes and great sharp fangs, but the boy never drew anything but cats.
The boy’s parents realized he wasn’t strong enough to become a farmer, so they decided he should become a priest. And why not? Even poor boys could hope to devote their lives to the service of Buddha.
One morning, the mother and father walked down to the village temple with their small son. They stood before the door and listened to the prayers being chanted inside by the old priest. They waited until the chanting stopped. Then they knocked.
The priest came to the door and asked what he could do for them. They told him they wanted the boy to become his student. The old man smiled. He would enjoy teaching such a bright and eager boy, so he invited him to live at the temple.
The boy tried hard to think right and speak right and do right. He learned to recite important prayers, and he kept the temple free of dust—but he couldn’t keep his mind on his studies.
He had to draw cats.
When the sun set and crickets chirped in the grove around the temple, the boy would open the writing box, grind ink, mix it with water, and draw. He could hear the voice of the old priest reading scriptures on the other side of the temple, accompanied by the tinkling of bells. The boy knew he should be studying, but his hands could not be stilled. He drew cats everywhere, even on the walls and on the floor.
The priest was not pleased.
“You have an excellent mind,” he told the boy. “You could learn everything a priest needs to know. But I cannot keep you as my student. Your heart is in your drawing. You must become an artist.
“But take my advice,” the man said. “Avoid the large at night, keep to the small.”
What did the priest mean? The boy was too upset to ask. Early the next morning he said good-bye and walked out the temple door.
He wanted to go home to his family, but what would his parents think? They expected him to follow the ways of Buddha. How could he tell them he had failed?
So he wandered down the road to the next village where there was a larger temple and more priests. Perhaps they would welcome a young student.
When he reached that temple, he was aware of a strange silence. No insects buzzed in the nearby bamboo grove. No temple bells rang. And there was no musical droning of voices from within.
The boy knocked at the door, but no one answered. He knocked again and the door swung slowly inward, so he stepped inside. He was amazed to see that the temple was filled with cobwebs and dust. “The priests need my help,” he thought to himself. “I’ll wait until they come back.”
What he did not notice were the pawprints on the floor. Huge pawprints and the marks of sharp claws.
All he noticed were large white screens, set here and there in the temple. He hurried to the writing box. Never before had he seen such magnificent places on which to draw cats.
The hours flew past while he was drawing. Hundreds of cats now decorated the temple. Cats with every
marking imaginable, contented cats and snarling cats, huge cats and newborn kittens.
It began to grow dark, and still no priests returned. The boy decided to spend the night there, hoping the priests would come back in the morning. He peered around the dim temple. It was the largest place he had ever seen. Suddenly he felt his hair stand on end.
“Avoid the large, keep to the small.” That’s what the old priest had said. What did the warning mean? The boy didn’t know, but he hurried about looking for a small place—and safety.
It was growing so dark he could hardly see, but finally he found a small cupboard. At first he thought he couldn’t squeeze in, but he wiggled through the opening, pulled his knees up to his chin, and just barely managed to pull the cupboard door shut.
There was a decorative grating in the cupboard door, a perfect peephole. He wanted to keep watch that night, but it was far too dark. Besides, he was tired, and before he knew it, he fell asleep.
He had barely closed his eyes when something quietly pushed open the temple door and crept inside. Its claws clicked across the floor and its nose swung this way and that, sniffing, sniffing, sniffing. It smelled boy! And it wanted boy for dinner.
It began to scratch at the cupboard door, hooking its claws in the grating, trying to pull it free.
The boy woke up to the wildest, screechiest battle he had ever heard. The whole temple was awash with shrieks and howls, the gnashing of teeth, the slashing of claws.
The boy couldn’t see a thing through the grating on the cupboard door. So he squeezed his eyes shut and curled up even more tightly than before.
The terrible battle continued. Wetness splashed through the grating and onto his face. When the boy licked his lips, he thought he tasted blood.
It was almost more than he could stand. He now realized that his parents would have welcomed him home. They never would have wished such a terrifying night on their small son.
Just when he thought the howling and shrieking would never end, it stopped, just like that. And an eerie silence fell over the temple.