The Devil's Storybook

by Natalie Babbitt

  This happened three times in a row, and at last Bangs dragged in to see the Devil. “Look here,” he said. “I’m supposed to be chasing that rhinoceros, I know, but instead, somehow, it’s chasing me. It chases me all night long, and then it disappears. I can’t go on like this—I’ll be worn to a frazzle.”

  “Go on?” said the Devil. “Of course you’ll go on. You’ll catch it sooner or later. I’m depending on you, and I don’t want to see you again till the job is done.”

  So Bangs dragged back to the wild parts. He tried to sleep in the daytime, but this was hard to do, what with the shuffling and the snuffling and the breathing hard always just out of sight. And as soon as the sun went down in the evening, the rhinoceros would burst through the bushes and chase him up and down till morning.

  After three weeks of this, Bangs was worn to a frazzle, and so were his boots. He gave up the chase altogether and took to living as wild animals do, always watchful, always listening, sleeping with one eye open. And he dug himself a hole to hide in. But as sure as he came out at night to cook his supper, there was the rhinoceros, and off they would go, pounding through the wild parts till the sun came up at dawn.

  “Well,” said the Devil after a while, “I guess Bangs is doing the next best thing. He may not be catching that rhinoceros, but at least he’s keeping it busy.”

  “True enough,” said the major demon.

  “Might as well leave him to it, then,” said the Devil. “Pass the word that the danger’s taken care of.”

  So the major demon passed the word and everyone felt relieved. And every month or so the Devil sent someone out with fresh hay for the rhinoceros and a new pair of boots for Bangs—just to keep things even.

  THE SOLDIER

  THERE WAS a soldier once who had nothing at all to do because, though he’d often been to war, at this particular time there wasn’t one to fight in, anywhere around. So he did what he could—he kept his sword shiny, and polished his boots, and he practiced marching on an open road, up and down, up and down, with his plumes and tassels bouncing and the buttons on his jacket flashing in the sun, and the sight of him was altogether splendid.

  One day the Devil came along, disguised as an old, old man with a weak knee and a strong crutch, and he stopped when he saw the soldier. “I say!” exclaimed the Devil. “What an elegant picture you make!”

  The soldier gave him a smart salute. “Thank you, old man,” he said. “I’m practicing my marching.”

  “So I see,” said the Devil. “But why aren’t you off somewhere, fighting?”

  “There’s no war anywhere to fight in, dash it,” said the soldier, with a sigh.

  “Don’t despair,” said the Devil. “Something will turn up soon.”

  “I hope so,” said the soldier, “for there’s nothing I like even half so much. I’ve seen some lovely wars, old man, some lovely wars.”

  “Ah!” said the Devil. “I don’t for a moment doubt it.”

  “I fought against the Turks at Heliopolis,” said the soldier proudly.

  “Yes?” said the Devil. “I was there.”

  “Well—but I also fought in the Santo Domingo Rebellion,” said the soldier.

  “I was there,” said the Devil.

  “Indeed!” said the soldier, with a frown. “However, I was with Napoleon at Austerlitz.”

  “I was there,” said the Devil.

  “Hmm,” said the soldier. “You’ve seen a few campaigns yourself.”

  “Oh, yes,” said the Devil. “In fact, I never miss one.”

  “Then,” said the soldier, “I suppose you’ll say you were there at Waterloo.”

  “I was there,” said the Devil.

  The soldier raised one eyebrow. “Come, come, old man,” he said. “Next you’ll be telling me you fought in the Siege of Troy and went with Caesar into Gaul!”

  “That’s right,” said the Devil. “I was there.”

  The soldier tried to hide a smile, for he didn’t at all believe what he was hearing. But, deciding to be polite, he said, “It seems I’ve got a ways to go to match you.”

  “Yes,” said the Devil, “you do.”

  “Well,” said the soldier, smiling once again behind his sleeve, “I must be getting on with my marching. Perhaps we’ll meet again at the next great battle.”

  “Perhaps we will,” said the Devil, “for I’ll certainly be there.” And he moved off down the road, leaning on his crutch, and didn’t try at all to hide his own smile.

  BOATING

  SOME PEOPLE think Hell is dry as crackers, but this is not the case. There are four nice rivers inside the walls, and a fifth, called the Styx, that flows clear round the place outside.

  Hell has the Styx the way castles have moats, but there isn’t any drawbridge. Instead, you have to come across the water on a ferryboat run by a very old man named Charon. Most of the time Charon does his job all by himself, but it happened one day that he came to the throne room with a problem.

  “What’s wrong?” said the Devil, putting aside the novel he was reading.

  “Why,” said Charon, “they’re having some kind of fuss in the World, in case you didn’t know it.”

  “They’re always having fusses in the World,” said the Devil with a yawn. “What of it?”

  “Well, whatever sort of fuss it is,” said Charon, “they’re coming down in droves and I can’t keep up. You’ll have to lay on another ferryboat.”

  “You don’t say!” said the Devil. “That’s splendid! I’ll come and take a look.”

  And sure enough, there were hordes of people on the far side of the Styx, waiting to get across. Some of them were quite put out to be kept there cooling their heels, and wouldn’t stay nicely in line for a minute. And what with their birdcages, boxes, and bags all piled and getting mixed, the confusion was indescribable.

  “I’m doing the best I can,” said Charon to the Devil, “but you see the way things are.”

  “Hmmm,” said the Devil. “Well now. I’ll give you a hand myself. It looks like fun.”

  He called for a second ferry—which was, like Charon’s, more of a raft than a boat—and, climbing aboard, seized the pole and pushed out cross-current into the river Styx. He wasn’t as good at it as Charon, not having had the practice, but still arrived not too long after at the opposite bank, where all the people were waiting.

  “Ahoy,” said the Devil. “Women and children first.” And since there weren’t any children—indeed, there never are—three old women stepped onto the raft, which was all there was room for, and off they started back across the river.

  “And who, my dears, may you be?” asked the Devil, eyeing their silks and feathers.

  “We’re sisters,” said the first old woman. “The last of an important old family. The sort of people who matter.”

  “We can’t imagine what we’re doing here with all these common types,” said the second.

  “It’s all a terrible mistake,” said the third.

  “Indeed!” said the Devil, with a smile. “I’ll have someone look into it.”

  “I should hope so,” said the first old woman. “Why, we can’t put up with this! Look at these dreadful people you’ve got coming in—riffraff of the lowest sort! It would appear that anyone at all can get in.”

  “We can’t be expected,” said the second, “to mingle with peasants and boors.”

  “Never in the World,” said the third.

  “It’s true,” said the Devil, “that we do have every class down here. But so, I’ve heard, does Heaven.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said the first old woman. “Not Heaven.”

  “You must be misinformed,” said the second. “Only the best people go to Heaven.”

  “Otherwise,” said the third, “whyever call it Heaven?”

  “An interesting point,” said the Devil. “Why, indeed!”

  And all the way across the river Styx the three went on protesting and explaining.

  When the raft at l
ast scraped up before the gates, the sisters refused to get off. “We simply can’t go in,” said the first old woman. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “Oh, I do,” said the Devil. “I do.”

  “Not our grade of people in the least,” said the second.

  “Look into it for us, won’t you?” said the third. “We’ll just wait here and catch the next boat back.”

  Now, the river Styx flows round the walls of Hell in a wandering clockwise direction, and a long way round it is, too, which will come as no surprise. And though the current isn’t swift, it’s steady. So the Devil, disembarking, put his pole against the ferry and simply shoved it out again so that the current bore it off, turning it gently in circles, with the sisters still on board. And then he went back to his throne room and sent a minor demon out to give a hand to Charon. For the Devil had had enough and wanted to finish his novel.

  Years went by, and dozens of years, with the sisters still floating round the walls of Hell. Every once in a while, in the beginning, the Devil would remember them and go out when it was time for them to pass. And as they came along, he could hear their protestations, steady as the current of the Styx.

  “Ragtag and bobtail,” they’d be saying. “Waifs and strays. Quite beneath contempt! Commoners, upstarts, people of the street. Not our sort at all.” And they would say, “There’s been some mix-up, certainly. Why don’t they get it straightened out?”

  Sometimes they saw the Devil standing on the banks, and the first old woman would call to him, “Yoo-hoo! I say, my good man—have you made inquiries concerning our situation?” And the Devil would wave and nod, and watch as they slowly circled by and disappeared. And then he would smile and go back through the gates for a nice cold glass of cider. But after a time he forgot the three completely. This was not because he was too busy to remember. No, indeed. He forgot them because they weren’t the sort of people who matter.

  HOW AKBAR WENT TO BETHLEHEM

  THERE ARE no camels in Hell. You might suppose there would be, for camels have shocking bad tempers; they were crabby to begin with, when everything was new, and they’re just as crabby now. The only thing a camel does from morning to night is sulk and moan about in the desert, kicking its children—who always kick back—and complaining in a voice that is not at all agreeable. But still, there are no camels in Hell. Not anymore.

  Once, long ago, when Hell was getting settled, there was a camel there, a great, ragged beast named Akbar, and the place was just to his liking. He was the Devil’s special pet, and could go where he pleased, growling and grumbling and curling his long, split lip at everyone. “Oh, Akbar,” the Devil would say, “what a satisfaction you are!” And Akbar would sneer and show his yellow teeth, the picture of disrespect, and the Devil would laugh and let him get away with it. So it seemed like a nice arrangement.

  Then one night when it was winter in the World, a strange light appeared in the sky that had never been there before. Everyone in Hell observed it, and they all crowded into the throne room—major and minor demons, and imps of various ages—to find out what it meant.

  The Devil had seen it, too, and was very much upset, though of course he didn’t let on. “It’s only a star,” he said. “You’ve all seen stars before.”

  “But not like this one,” said the demons. “Never one like this. We don’t know what to make of it!” And one of the youngest imps began to cry.

  “It’s nothing, I tell you,” said the Devil snappishly. “Go along to bed and leave me be.”

  But when they had gone, he climbed to the roof of his throne room and stared at the strange new light in the sky above the World, for he knew very well what had happened. A baby had been born up there who was going to be nothing but trouble for a long, long time to come. “Confound it,” said the Devil to himself. “And just when I was getting on so well!”

  Now, although this event was a terrible thing for the Devil, he still felt a certain curiosity. So, one dark night soon after, he dressed himself as an Arab, climbed onto Akbar’s hump, and away they went up to the World to see how things were going. They wandered up and down among the little towns and found them all so quiet and serene that the Devil felt encouraged. “No fuss here,” he thought. “It all seems just the same.” But he didn’t dare go to the one small town where the strange light glowed the brightest.

  It happened, however, that soon they arrived at a wild and dry sort of place with cold black sand, and wind that made the Devil shiver, huddled on Akbar’s hump. And, wandering there to think things over, the Devil saw at last three beasts, not far away, striding by on the crest of a rounded dune. Camels they were, like Akbar, but hung with bells and tassels and richly patterned rugs. They held their heads high as they came, and on their backs, on saddles made of skins and polished wood, were riders in robes of pale, soft wool woven into stripes and fine designs, with wide, embroidered borders traced in gold. Gold was on their fingers, too, and round their necks, and one wore a thin gold crown. Their faces were lit by the glow that hung low now in the sky, and they were leaning toward it, eager and intent.

  “Look at that,” said the Devil to Akbar. “They’re going there, to see that baby, or I miss my guess.” And he tried to look scornful, but the sight made him very uneasy.

  However, instead of sneering with him, Akbar made a sound in his curving throat, a gentle sort of bleat. And then, quite suddenly, he dropped to the big, knobbed knees of his two front legs, pitching the Devil off onto the sand.

  “What’s this?” cried the Devil. “How dare you!”

  But Akbar continued to kneel, with his ragged head tipped down, till the royal camels disappeared from sight. And then he reared upright again, and this time made a great, glad, bubbling sound like a trumpet full of milk, and strode away alone in the wake of the wonderful three, off toward the strange new glow.

  “Confound it!” yelled the Devil. “You can’t go!”

  But Akbar could. And did. And the Devil was afraid to go after him.

  Next morning, down in Hell, everyone said, “Where’s Akbar?”

  And the Devil said, “Who cares? We don’t want his sort here.”

  And never again did he try to keep a camel.

  THE SIGNPOST

  THERE WAS a pair of sweethearts once named Gil and Flora who believed they were in love. But, in fact, they were not a bit good for each other. They were always quarreling over nothing, and would go for days quite red in the face, refusing to speak to each other. Then they would make it up, and things would be fine until the next argument. At last they had the worst argument of all, and Gil said to Flora, “I’ve had enough. I’m going away to the inn at Argo and I’ll wait there seven days. If you can promise you’ll never argue again, send me a message and I’ll come back and marry you.”

  And Flora said, “You can go to the inn at Argo and stay there forever, for all I care. Because it’s you that argues, not me.”

  So Gil went off quite red in the face and started on foot down the road.

  Now, the road went along for many miles and then it divided in two, going east to Argo and west to a town called Woolfield. There was a signpost at the split, with arrows pointing the way to each. And when Gil arrived at the signpost, he headed east and came in time to Argo, where he went to the inn to wait.

  Four days went by, and at home Flora stewed and fretted and missed Gil more and more. Finally she could stand it no longer. She wrote a note to him saying, “Come back right away and marry me, and I’ll try never ever to argue.” And she hired a messenger with a fast horse who went galloping toward Argo with the note tucked into his vest.

  But on that very day the Devil was walking about in the World, looking for ways to make mischief, and came by chance to the place where the road divided. “Well!” said the Devil. “Here’s a nice idea.” He switched the signpost around so that the arrow for Argo pointed now to Woolfield, and the arrow for Woolfield pointed instead to Argo. And then he went on his way, whistling a little tune, and
so far as anyone knows never passed that way again, at least not for years and years.

  Meanwhile, Flora’s messenger came galloping along and, arriving at the signpost, turned west, thinking he was heading for Argo. And of course, after a while, he arrived in Woolfield instead and went to Woolfield’s inn to look for Gil. But though he searched it from top to bottom, he could find no trace; so he sat himself down to have a mug of ale and catch his breath before he turned back to Flora with the news that Gil was gone.

  While this was going on, Gil stewed and fretted at the Argo inn and said to himself, “Four days! And I miss her more and more. I’ll just go and marry her, arguments or no.” So he left the inn and hurried back along the road, coming at last to the signpost. “Egad!” he said. (In those days people often said Egad.) “Egad, what’s this? I haven’t been in Argo at all but in Woolfield. And it could be that Flora has sent a message already and I wasn’t there to get it!” Off he went at a run toward Woolfield, thinking he was headed right, this time, for Argo. And on the way he might have passed the messenger coming from the other direction, but the messenger had ridden his horse into a meadow to drink at a little stream, so they missed each other entirely.

  Gil arrived at the Woolfield inn, and he waited out the last three days. But no message came. “Well, that’s it, then,” he said. “She doesn’t want me back. I’ll go away to the city and seek my fortune.” So that is what he did.

  And the messenger, arriving home, told Flora that Gil had been nowhere to be found. “Well,” said Flora, “that’s it, then. He doesn’t want me back. I’ll have to marry someone else.” So that is what she did.

  And a peddler who knew both Argo and Woolfield came along soon after and set the signpost straight.