by Jane Yolen
Godmother? It amused her. She had never been asked to be one. “Do you know who I am?” she asked.
“My Lady?” The man suddenly trembled at his temerity. Had he touched a high lord’s wife? Would she have him executed? No matter. It was his first child. He was beyond thinking.
Death put a hand up to her black hair and pulled down her other face. “Do you know me now?”
He knew. Peasants are well acquainted with Death in that form. He nodded.
“And want me still?” Death asked.
He nodded and at last found his voice. “You are greater than God or the Devil, Lady. You would honor us indeed.”
His answer pleased her, and so she went with him. His wife was couched under a rowan tree, proof against witches. The babe was near to crowning when they arrived.
“I have found a great lady to stand as godmother,” the man said. “But do not look up at her face, wife.” For suddenly he feared what he had done.
His wife did not look, except out of the corner of her eye. But so seeing Death’s pale, beautiful face, she was blinded in that eye forever. Not because Death had blinded the woman, that was not her way. But fear—and perhaps the sugar sickness—did what Death would not.
The child, a boy, was born with a caul. Death ripped it open with her own hand, then dropped the slimed covering onto the morning grass where it shimmered for a moment like dew.
“Name him Haden,” Death said. “And when he is a man I shall teach him a trade.” Then she was gone, no longer amused. Birth never amused her for long.
Death followed the boy’s progress one year closely, another not at all. She sent no gifts. She did not stand for him at the church font. Still, the boy’s father and his half-blind mother did well for themselves; certainly better than peasants had any reason to expect. They were able to purchase their own farm, able to send their boy to a school. They assumed it was because of Death’s patronage, when in fact she had all but forgotten them and her godson. You cannot expect Death to care so about a single child, who has seen so many.
Yet on the day Haden became a man, on the day of his majority, his father called Death. He drew her sign in the sand, the same that he had seen on the chain around her neck. He said her name and the boy’s.
And Death came.
One minute the man was alone and the next he was not. Death was neither winded nor troubled by her travel, though she still wore the khakis of an army nurse. She had not bothered to change from her last posting.
“Is it time?” she asked, who was both in and out of time. “Is he a man, my godson?” She knew he was not dead. That she would have known.
“It is time, Lady,” the man said, carefully looking down at his feet. He was not going to be blinded like his wife.
“Ah.” She reached up and took off the nurse’s cap and shook down her black hair. The trouble with bargains, she mused, was that they had to be kept.
“He shall be a doctor,” she said after a moment.
“A doctor?” the man had thought no further than a great farm for his boy.
“A doctor,” Death said. “For doctors and generals know me best. And I have recently seen too much of generals.” She did not tell him of the Crimea, of the Dardanelles, of the riders from beyond the steppes. “A doctor would be nice.”
Haden was brought to her. He was a smart lad, but not overly smart. He had strong hands and a quick smile.
Death dismissed the father and took the son by the hand, first warming her own hand. It was an effort she rarely made.
“Haden, you shall be a doctor of power,” she said. “Listen carefully and treat this power well.”
Haden nodded. He did not look at her, not right at her. His mother had warned him, and though he was not sure he believed, he believed.
“You will become the best-known doctor in the land, my godson,” Death said. “For each time you are called to a patient, look for me at the bedside. If I stand at the head of the bed, the patient will live, no matter what you or any other doctor will do. But if I stand at the foot, the patient will die. And there is nought anyone can do—no dose and no diagnoses—to save him.”
Haden nodded again. “I understand, Godmother.”
“I think you do,” she said, and was gone.
In a few short years, Haden became known throughout his small village, and a few more years and his reputation had spread through the county. A few more and he was known in the kingdom. If he said a patient would live, that patient would rise up singing. If he said one would die, even though the illness seemed but slight, then that patient would die. It seemed uncanny, but he was always right. He was more than a doctor. He was—some said—a seer.
Word came at last to the king himself.
Ah—now you think I have been lying to you, that this is only a story. It has a king in it. And while a story with Death might be true, a story with a king in it is always a fairy tale. But remember, this comes from a time when kings were as common as corn. Plant a field and you got corn. Plant a kingdom and you got a king. It is that simple.
The king had a beautiful daughter. Nothing breeds as well as money, except power. Of course a king’s child would be beautiful.
She was also dangerously ill, so ill in fact that the king promised his kingdom—not half but all—to anyone who could save her. The promise included marriage, for how else could he hand the kingdom off. She was his only child, and he would not beggar her to save her life. That was worse than death.
Haden heard of the offer and rode three days and three nights, trading horses at each inn. When he came to the king’s palace he was, himself, thin and weary from travel; there was dirt under his fingernails. His hair was ill kempt. But his reputation had preceded him.
“Can she be cured?” asked the king. He had no time or temper for formalities.
“Take me to her room,” Haden said.
So the king and the queen together led him into the room.
The princess’s room was dark with grief and damp with crying. The long velvet drapes were pulled close against the light. The place smelled of Death’s perfume, that soft, musky odor. The tapers at the door scarcely lent any light.
“I cannot see,” Haden said, taking one of the tapers. Bending over the bed, he peered down at the princess and a bit of hot wax fell on her cheek. She opened her eyes and they were the color of late wine, a deep plum. Haden gasped at her beauty.
“Open the drapes,” he commanded, and the king himself drew the curtains aside.
Then Haden saw that Death was sitting at the foot of the great four-poster bed, buffing her nails. She was wearing a black shift, cut entirely too low in the front. Her hair fell across her shoulders in black waves. The light from the windows shone through her and she paid no attention to what was happening in the room, intent on her nails.
Haden put his finger to his lips and summoned four serving men to him. Without a word, instructing them only with his hands, he told them to turn the bed around quickly. And such was his reputation, they did as he bade.
Then he walked to the bed’s head, where Death was finishing her final nail. He was so close, he might have touched her. But instead, he lifted the princess’s head and helped her sit up. She smiled, not at him but through him, as if he were as transparent as Death.
“She will live, sire,” Haden said.
Both Death and the maiden looked at Haden straight on, startled, Death because she had been fooled, and the princess because she had not noticed him before. Only then did the princess smile at Haden, as she would to a footman, a servingman, a cook. She smiled at him, but Death did not.
“A trick will not save her,” said Death. “I will have all in the end.” She shook her head. “I do not say this as a boast. Nor as a promise. It simply is what it is.”
“I know,” Haden said.
“What do you know?” asked the king, for he could not see or hear Death.
Haden looked at the king and smiled a bit sadly. “I know she will live and
that if you let me, I will take care of her the rest of her life.”
The king did not smile. A peasant’s son, even though he is a doctor, even though he is famous throughout the kingdom, does not marry a princess. In a story, perhaps. Not in the real world. Unlike Death, kings do not have to keep bargains. He had Haden thrown into the dungeon.
There Haden spent three miserable days. On the fourth he woke to find Godmother Death sitting at his bedfoot. She was dressed as if for a ball, her hair in three braids that were caught up on the top of her head with a jeweled pin. Her dress, of some white silken stuff, was demurely pleated and there were rosettes at each shoulder. She looked sixteen or sixteen hundred. She looked ageless.
“I see you at my bedfoot,” Haden said. “I suppose that means that today I die.”
She nodded.
“And there is no hope for me?”
“I can be tricked only once,” Death said. “The king will hang you at noon.”
“And the princess?”
“Oh, I am going to her wedding,” Death said, standing and pirouetting gracefully so that Haden could see how pretty the dress was, front and back.
“Then I shall see her in the hereafter,” Haden said. “She did not look well at all. Ah—then I am content to die.”
Death, who was a kind godmother after all, did not tell him that it was not the princess who was to die that day. Nor was the king to die, either. It was just some old auntie for whom the excitement of the wedding would prove fatal. Death would never lie to her godson, but she did not always tell the entire truth. Like her brother Sleep, she liked to say things on the slant. Even Death can be excused just one weakness.
At least, that is what she told me, and I have no reason to doubt the truth of it. She was sitting at my bedfoot, and—sitting there—what need would she have to lie?
Dedicated to the memory of
Charles Mikolaycak
Happy Dens
or
A Day in the Old Wolves’ home
NURSE LAMB STOOD IN front of the big white house with the black shutters. She shivered. She was a brand-new nurse and this was her very first job.
From inside the house came loud and angry growls. Nurse Lamb looked at the name carved over the door: happy dens. But it didn’t sound like a happy place, she thought, as she listened to the howls from inside.
Shuddering, she knocked on the door.
The only answer was another howl.
Lifting the latch, Nurse Lamb went in.
No sooner had she stepped across the doorstep than a bowl sped by her head. It splattered against the wall. Nurse Lamb ducked, but she was too late. Her fresh white uniform was spotted and dotted with whatever had been in the bowl.
“Mush!” shouted an old wolf, shaking his cane at her. “Great howls and thorny paws. I can’t stand another day of it. The end of life is nothing but a big bowl of mush.”
Nurse Lamb gave a frightened little bleat and turned to go back out the door, but a great big wolf with two black ears and one black paw barred her way. “Mush for breakfast, mush for dinner, and more mush in between,” he growled. “That’s all they serve us here at Happy Dens, Home for Aging Wolves.”
The wolf with the cane added: “When we were young and full of teeth it was never like this.” He howled.
Nurse Lamb gave another bleat and ran into the next room. To her surprise it was a kitchen. A large, comfortable-looking pig wearing a white hat was leaning over the stove and stirring an enormous pot. Since the wolves had not followed her in, Nurse Lamb sat down on a kitchen stool and began to cry.
The cook put her spoon down, wiped her trotters with a stained towel, and patted Nurse Lamb on the head, right behind the ears.
“There, there, lambkin,” said the cook. “Don’t start a new job in tears. We say that in the barnyard all the time.”
Nurse Lamb looked up and snuffled. “I . . . I don’t think I’m right for this place. I feel as if I have been thrown to the wolves.”
The cook nodded wisely. “And, in a manner of speaking, you have been. But these poor old dears are all bark and no bite. Toothless, don’t you know. All they can manage is mush.”
“But no one told me this was an old wolves home,” complained Nurse Lamb. “They just said ‘How would you like to work at Happy Dens?’ And it sounded like the nicest place in the world to work.”
“And so it is. And so it is,” said the cook. “It just takes getting used to.”
Nurse Lamb wiped her nose and looked around. “But how could someone like you work here. I mean . . .” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I heard all about it at school. The three little pigs and all. Did you know them?”
The cook sniffed. “And a bad lot they were, too. As we say in the barnyard, ‘There’s more than one side to every sty.’”
“But I was told that the big bad wolf tried to eat the three little pigs. And he huffed and he puffed and . . .” Nurse Lamb looked confused.
Cook just smiled and began to stir the pot again, lifting up a spoonful to taste.
“And then there was that poor little child in the woods with the red riding hood,” said Nurse Lamb. “Bringing the basket of goodies to her sick grandmother.”
Cook shook her head and added pepper to the pot. “In the barnyard we say, ‘Don’t take slop from a kid in a cloak.’” She ladled out a bowlful of mush.
Nurse Lamb stood up. She walked up to the cook and put her hooves on her hips. “But what about that boy Peter? The one who caught the wolf by the tail after he ate the duck. And the hunters came and—”
“Bad press,” said a voice from the doorway. It was the wolf with the two black ears. “Much of what you know about wolves is bad press.”
Nurse Lamb turned and looked at him. “I don’t even know what bad press means,” she said.
“It means that only one side of the story has been told. There is another way of telling those very same tales. From the wolf’s point of view.” He grinned at her. “My name is Wolfgang and if you will bring a bowl of that thoroughly awful stuff to the table”—he pointed to the pot—“I will tell you my side of a familiar tale.”
Sheepishly, Nurse Lamb picked up the bowl and followed the wolf into the living room. She put the bowl on the table in front of Wolfgang and sat down. There were half a dozen wolves sitting there.
Nurse Lamb smiled at them timidly.
They smiled back. The cook was right. Only Wolfgang had any teeth.
Wolfgang’s Tale
Once upon a time (began the black-eared wolf) there was a thoroughly nice young wolf. He had two black ears and one black paw. He was a poet and a dreamer.
This thoroughly nice wolf loved to lay about in the woods staring at the lacy curlings of fiddlehead ferns and smelling the wild roses.
He was a vegetarian—except for lizards and an occasional snake, which don’t count. He loved carrot cake and was partial to peanut-butter pie.
One day as he lay by the side of a babbling brook, writing a poem that began
Twinkle, twinkle, lambkin’s eye,
How I wish you were close by . . .
he heard the sound of a child weeping. He knew it was a human child because only they cry with that snuffling gasp. So the thoroughly nice wolf leaped to his feet and ran over, his hind end waggling, eager to help.
The child looked up from her crying. She was quite young and dressed in a long red riding hood, a lacy dress, white stockings, and black patent-leather Mary Jane shoes. Hardly what you would call your usual hiking-in-the-woods outfit.
“Oh, hello, wolfie,” she said. In those days, of course, humans often talked to wolves. “I am quite lost.”
The thoroughly nice wolf sat down by her side and held her hand. “There, there,” he said. “Tell me where you live.”
The child grabbed her hand back. “If I knew that, you silly growler, I wouldn’t be lost, would I?”
The thoroughly nice wolf bit back his own sharp answer and asked her in rhyme:
/> Where are you going
My pretty young maid?
Answer me this
And I’ll make you a trade.
The path through the forest
Is dark and it’s long,
So I will go with you
And sing you a song.
The little girl was charmed. “I’m going to my grandmother’s house,” she said. “With this.” She held up a basket that was covered with a red-checked cloth. The wolf could smell carrot cake. He grinned.
“Oh, poet, what big teeth you have,” said the child.
“The better to eat carrot cake with,” said the thoroughly nice wolf.
“My granny hates carrot cake,” said the child. “In fact, she hates anything but mush.”
“What bad taste,” said the wolf. “I made up a poem about that once:
If I found someone
Who liked to eat mush
I’ d sit them in front of it,
Then give a . . .”
“Push!” shouted the child.
“Why, you’re a poet, too,” said the wolf.
“I’m really more of a storyteller,” said the child, blushing prettily. “But I do love carrot cake.”
“All poets do,” said the wolf. “So you must be a poet as well.”
“Well, my granny is no poet. Every week when I bring the carrot cake over, she dumps it into her mush and mushes it all up together and then makes me eat it with her. She says that I have to learn that life ends with a bowl of mush.”
“Great howls!” said the wolf shuddering. “What a terribly wicked thing to say and do.”
“I guess so,” said the child.
“Then we must save this wonderful carrot cake from your grandmother,” the wolf said, scratching his head below his ears.
The child clapped her hands. “I know,” she said. “Let’s pretend.”
“Pretend?” asked the wolf.
“Let’s pretend that you are Granny and I am bringing the cake to you. Here, you wear my red riding hood and we’ll pretend it’s Granny’s nightcap and nightgown.”
The wolf took her little cape and slung it over his head. He grinned again. He was a poet and he loved pretending.