by Various
He now had so much money that he often treated himself to boiled sheeps’ heads and pickled blood loaf. And still the coins piled up.
Having such wealth pleased the wizard. But more than anything, he relished his newfound power. He had mastered the magic of his ancestors. How proud they would have been.
Year after year, the coins came, and year after year the wizard grew older. He knew he didn’t need so much money, but how could he give up his magic mouse?
It wasn’t until he grew quite feeble that fear began to overwhelm him. What if he still had the mouse in his possession when he died?
Every storm rolling across the sea began to look like a mouse squall headed his way, ready to destroy the land and send him to an agonizing death. But each time, he gritted his teeth and told himself, “Tomorrow. I will give the mouse away tomorrow.”
Then one morning the wizard felt sharp pains in his chest, and he could no longer contain his terror. When he looked far across the ocean, he saw huge thunderheads above the waves, lightning ripping across the sky, and sheets of water pouring down.
He must give away the mouse. He slipped it into his pocket and headed down to the harbor. The only man he found there was a fisherman repairing his nets. The man laughed when the wizard described what the mouse could do.
All the while the storm was coming closer.
Finally the wizard pulled forth coins that the mouse had drawn from the sea—coins that looked as if they had lain on the ocean floor ever since the shipwreck.
He knew he should tell the fisherman about the danger of keeping the mouse too long. But there was no time.
The mouse squall was almost upon them.
“Look,” he said. His hands trembled as he held out the coins.
“Well,” said the fisherman at last. “I’ll give it a try.” And he accepted the mouse, tucking it into his own pocket before he walked away.
The wizard could still feel his heart pounding in his throat. But now he saw the storm veering away to the north. He heard a tremendous boom but thought nothing of it, for he had just saved himself from an agonizing death. He took a deep breath, only to cough violently. For suddenly the air was thick with volcanic dust and sulfurous fumes.
He heard a crackling roar and turned in time to see a stream of boiling lava pour down the side of the old volcano. It had already swallowed his home, his book of magic, his coins, and all.
Now it was going to swallow him.
The Speaking Head
• A Tale from Eastern Europe •
The boy felt uneasy, traveling to a distant land with a merchant he barely knew. He was going to meet the man’s daughter, his future bride. But he had never left Prague before, nor had he been separated from his family.
Joseph was only twelve when the merchant approached his father to arrange for the betrothal. It seemed as if the two rich men had made a fine match for their children. But when the merchant wanted Joseph to visit his castle, the father hesitated. The boy’s Bar Mitzvah was only six months away, and the trip to the castle would take weeks.
But Joseph was an exceptional student. The merchant promised not only to help the boy with his studies but also to bring him home long before his Bar Mitzvah. So the boy’s parents reluctantly agreed to let him go, and Joseph set forth to meet his future bride.
He could not believe his eyes when he and the merchant finally reached the castle, high on a hill. It was immense, with hundreds of rooms and a great tower that brushed the sky.
When they opened the massive front door, the merchant called for his servants. But no one answered. He called to his wife and daughter. But no one came. “They must be visiting elsewhere this week,” he said, as if he weren’t the least bit surprised.
Yet it seemed strange to Joseph. And when three full months had passed with no sign of the merchant’s family, he became anxious. Besides, the merchant had not given him any help with his studies. Indeed, Joseph had not seen a single book anywhere in the castle.
Joseph passed the time wandering up and down the corridors. He discovered that doors were open to every room except one. And the one locked room was at the very top of the castle tower.
Finally he asked the merchant if he could see what was in that room. “Of course,” said the merchant, and they climbed up the tower stairs.
When the merchant unlocked the door, he led the boy inside. Joseph was delighted to see that they had entered a library filled with books. “You will find everything you need for your studies here,” the merchant said.
But while Joseph hurried over to the bookcase, the merchant slipped out the door—and turned the key.
Joseph was trapped.
He ran to the door and tried to open it. He tugged at the handle only to find that it was firmly locked from the outside.
He pounded on the door with his fists and called to the merchant. But the only response was the sound of footsteps descending the stairs—until an eerie voice spoke from somewhere in the very same room.
“I see they have found a new victim,” it said.
The boy wheeled around and saw a sight so shocking that he almost fainted, for across the library, sitting on a round table, was an old man’s head, severed from his body. And that head was speaking to him.
“Who ... who are you?” cried Joseph.
“Eighty years ago I was a young boy like you,” it said, “when I, too, was trapped in this room by the evil demon who pretends he is a merchant.”
Joseph shuddered. “But what happened?”
“On the day of my Bar Mitzvah, the merchant came to me with his fellow demons. First they cut off my head. Then they wrote a spell on parchment and placed it under my tongue.
“That spell reveals all secrets to me and forces me to reveal those secrets to them. But a speaking head is good for only eighty years, and now they need a new one.”
Joseph felt as if the ground had split open beneath his feet. “The merchant wants my head,” he moaned. “That’s why he brought me to this terrible place.”
“But it’s not too late for you to escape,” whispered the head. “Listen carefully.”
Joseph forced himself to move closer so he could hear, even though the sight of that severed head made him feel faint.
“Your only hope,” it whispered, “is to escape through the secret passage. See the bookcase behind you? Push hard on the third shelf.”
Joseph pushed and was amazed to see it swing open, revealing a dark passage. He was about to rush in when the speaking head called him back.
“Wait! If you don’t take me with you, I’ll be forced to reveal how you escaped and where you can be found. But if you do take me, I can guide you.”
Joseph went back to the table and gingerly lifted that gruesome head. He put it under his arm, entered the dark passage, and pulled the bookcase shut behind him. Joseph stood trembling in the dark. How could he move ahead with no torch?
“Count seven hundred and three stairs,” the head told him. “Then feel for a door.”
Joseph knew he had not climbed that many steps on his way up to the tower room. Was the speaking head in league with the demons? Did he dare let it guide him?
He felt rooted to the floor until he heard terrible voices crying out, searching for him. He frantically felt for the edge of the step with his foot and moved into the darkness, forever downward.
His fingers ached from clutching the speaking head. The only thing worse than carrying it would be dropping it and letting it roll down the steps, leaving him alone in that terrible place.
He continued down, trying to shut out the demons’ voices, trying to remember to count. When he reached the seven hundred and third step, he was breathing hard, and his legs were quivering. He felt for a door—and found it.
But what was on the other side? He was almost afraid to turn the knob. Then he heard a demonic voice so close behind him that it made his ears ache. He thrust open the door, leaped out, and slammed it shut. Before him was a sunlit meadow, far
below the castle.
For the first time in eighty years, the speaking head smiled.
Joseph was so relieved he laughed out loud. “Can you guide me home?” he asked.
“Of course,” said the speaking head.
And so it was that Joseph finally made his way back to Prague with the aid of the speaking head. He arrived on the day of his Bar Mitzvah and entered the synagogue with the speaking head under his arm.
All who had gathered there to pray for him listened to his terrible tale with amazement.
Then the speaking head made a last request.
“Remove from my mouth the parchment on which the spell is written, so I can go peacefully to my grave.”
When the parchment was removed, the speaking head died. He was given an honorable funeral, attended by all the Jews of Prague.
Joseph slowly recovered from his ordeal. But for many years he was haunted by terrible nightmares in which he was nothing more than a head resting on a table, with no body. And he always woke up screaming.
The Dripping Cutlass
• A Tale from the United States •
There was no doubt. It was a gold coin, lying there amid the seashells on Gombi Island. The fisherman stooped to pick it up, barely able to believe his good fortune.
He had always dreamed of finding gold—the gold that pirates once buried on islands along the Louisiana coast. But never before had he found a single doubloon.
He dropped to his knees and began to rake through the shells with his fingers. He scooped them up with a flat piece of driftwood. He kicked them aside with his feet. But all that afternoon he found no more gold.
Surely the coin was a good omen. Pirates had once lurked here. The fisherman raced to the center of the island to see if he could find twin oaks—landmarks the pirates favored when burying treasure.
When he finally spotted twin trees, he was so excited he wanted to dig with his bare hands. But he needed a shovel, so he pushed his boat into the water and rowed home with the day’s catch. He would hurry back after supper.
His wife tried to dissuade him. “You’ll get hurt,” she said. “Pirate ghosts hate to give up their treasure.”
“Ghosts? You know I don’t believe in ghosts.”
She gripped his arm. “They’ll addle your wits. Once you see them, you’ll never be the same again.”
But he didn’t listen. He kissed her good-bye, grabbed his shovel, and rowed across the silent waters. A full moon left a silvery path on the waves, leading directly to Gombi Island.
The fisherman pulled his boat well onto the beach and walked through the woods to the spot where he had seen the twin oaks. And that’s where he started to dig. The sand was soft and dry. But he had dug down no more than a foot or two when he heard a startling noise. It sounded like something wooden being dragged across sand and seashells. The sound came from the very beach where he had left his boat.
He raced back and found the boat floating out to sea. He waded into the water and hauled it ashore. This time he pulled it even farther up the beach. Then he returned to the hole he was digging.
What hole? His shovel was where he left it, but the sand beside it was level again, as if he hadn’t taken out a single scoop.
He tried to reassure himself. A big wave must have rolled up the beach and pulled his boat down to the water—and perhaps the sand was so soft it had just slid back into the hole.
The fisherman started to dig again. The sand seemed to be staying where he threw it, but the work grew harder. He stepped down into the hole and threw the sand over his shoulder. His arms were aching and he was breathing fast. Then he heard the trees swaying overhead, even though there was no wind, and he felt the earth tremble. A few grains of sand came tumbling into the hole. What if all the sand slid over him? He was about to jump out when his shovel clanged against something—metal against metal.
The fisherman threw down his shovel and began to push the sand aside with his hands. There at the bottom of the hole was a metal box.
At that very moment, something wet splashed on his head. He looked up and cried out in terror, for there above him, leaning over the hole, were three fearsome pirates. Seaweed streamed from their shoulders and shrimp crawled through their hair. The daggers they held high were dripping. Dripping what? Blood or seawater?
The fisherman didn’t know which.
Drop by drop it fell on him, salty and warm. He was trapped at the bottom of that hole, shuddering and desperate. What if they decided to bury him alive?
He sank to his knees and prayed. He vowed he would never search for pirate treasure again if only he could escape with his life. When he looked up, he saw the pirates melt into mist before his very eyes.
He leaped out of that hole. Even before he had hurtled through the woods to the beach, he heard the sound of sand sliding back into the hole. He was gasping for breath, but he managed to drag his boat down to the water.
Just as he jumped aboard, he saw that he wasn’t alone.
Another pirate had materialized at the back of the boat. This pirate was twice as big and twice as fierce as the others. He too had seaweed streaming down his shoulders and shrimp crawling through his hair. And two huge sea turtles were dangling from his ears like monstrous earrings.
This pirate carried no dagger. What he held was far worse—a great, curved cutlass, dripping whatever those daggers had dripped. The pirate slashed that cutlass just inches from the fisherman’s nose, spraying his face with something that smelled very much like blood. In the moonlight, the fisherman couldn’t be sure.
But when the pirate pointed that cutlass first to one oar and then to the other, the fisherman began to row as if his life depended on it. And when the pirate pointed that cutlass out to sea, the fisherman rowed exactly where the pirate pointed, pulling on those oars with the strength of a dozen men.
Hour after hour the fisherman rowed, until he was afraid he would never see land again. He was sure his end had come. He would never see his friends again, nor his wife—his wise, wise wife.
He was so exhausted he could hardly think, but he began to mumble the same prayer he had said when he was deep in the sandy hole.
And lo and behold, the pirate slid silently over the edge of the boat and down beneath the waves.
The fisherman’s hair stood on end, for not one bubble arose from the spot where the pirate sank. This pirate was a ghost, and so were the others. He immediately swung the boat around and rowed back home, too frightened to rest his aching arms.
When he was back on land at last, walking to his front door, he saw a terrifying sight. Jammed into the dirt by the doorway was the very shovel he had left on the island, and down that shovel streamed seaweed and shrimp. The fisherman wanted to fling it far from the house, but no matter how desperately he tugged, he couldn’t tear it free. Somehow the ghosts had made sure he would never use that shovel to dig for pirate treasure again.
Then he noticed the door to his house was ajar and saw four sets of wet footprints leading inside. He threw open the door and saw a wild-eyed woman sitting by the fire, shredding seaweed. His wife screamed when she saw him, and he screamed, too. For the ghosts had so addled their wits that neither one recognized the other.
The Black Snake
• A Tale from Persia •
Three merchants sailed from Persia in fair weather. They had no reason to suspect trouble. For years their ship had carried them safely to distant lands where they traded fine rugs for leather, wool, and silk.
But on this voyage a great storm arose when the ship reached the heart of the sea. Howling winds tore at the sails and huge waves swept across the deck. The merchants clutched ropes and railings, praying they would not be swept overboard. But the storm grew worse.
Suddenly a gigantic wave slammed into the ship, splitting it in two and sinking it. But a beam miraculously rose up from the wreckage, and the three merchants clung to it with all their strength. For two days and two nights they hung on, neither eating nor d
rinking, and at every moment they saw death before their eyes.
On the third day they saw an island in the distance and their hopes rose. They drifted toward it and soon they managed to touch the ocean floor with their feet. They dragged themselves ashore and stumbled up the beach. There they slept for hours, and when they awoke they thanked God for saving them from drowning.
The merchants began to search the island for food and water. They had little strength, but they struggled up a hill, their feet sinking into the soft sand. They felt like collapsing, until they saw what was on the other side—a castle stood on the far shore of the island.
They hurried down the hill and knocked on the door. But no one answered. So they drank from the clear stream that flowed past the castle and ate figs from the trees that lined its banks.
Then they sat down to wait. Perhaps the owner of the castle would return soon or a ship would sail by. But for days nothing appeared. And when it did, they wished it hadn’t.
Far out on the horizon they saw something indescribable coming toward them. At first they thought it was a sea serpent, but soon they realized it was a gigantic horse and rider rising out of the waves.
The merchants were terrified. But it was too late to hide, for the horse was as swift as the wind.
The moment the giant reached the castle, he jumped off the horse and grasped his sword. “How dare you land on my island!” he bellowed.
The merchants told him they were shipwrecked, but the giant only scowled. “Follow me,” he said. And he led all three to the depths of the castle cellar. There he handed them shovels and told them to dig three pits, “deep enough for you to stand in with only your heads above ground.” The merchants were shaking with fear, but they dug the pits because they had no choice.
When they finished, the giant ordered them to put down the shovels and stand in the pits with their arms down at their sides. Then he dumped great handfuls of sand around them and packed it tight. Within minutes, the merchants’ bodies were trapped underground, except for their heads.