The Harvest That Never Came: A Swedish Legend

My dearest Arild,

I promised to wait for you forever, but I fear I will not be allowed to. My father says you will never return, and he has chosen another man to be my husband. Though I pleaded with him, he has already set the marriage date.

I will love you always.

Your faithful Thale

Arild Ugerup, son of a noble Danish family, sat on his cot, reading the letter by the dim light of his prison cell. How cruel the tricks played by war, he thought, his eyes filling with tears.

Though Arild and his family were nobles of Denmark, they had long lived peaceably in Sweden. When King Erik of Sweden was crowned, Arild had been one of his honored guests. But then Denmark and Sweden declared war on each other, and Arild was drafted into the Danish navy. He was captured in battle and imprisoned by King Erik.

Arild’s childhood sweetheart, Thale Thott, had promised to marry him when he came back from the war. Now it seemed he would lose Thale as well as his freedom.

Arild sat thinking for many hours, the letter lying loose in his hand. At last he crossed to a small table. Dipping his pen in an inkwell, he began to write.

Your Royal Majesty,

Though I am now your prisoner, you once counted me as a friend. Grant me one favor. Let me go home to marry the woman I love. Then allow me to stay only long enough to plant a crop and harvest it.

On my word of honor, I will return to your prison as soon as the harvest is gathered.

Arild signed and sealed the letter, then called the jailer.

The reply came the next day. King Erik had agreed! Arild was free—at least until the harvest.

Arild returned home, where Thale met him joyfully. Her father was not happy to have his plans changed, but in the end the two were married.

Now it was spring, the time for planting. And, in only a few months, Arild would have to harvest his crop and return to King Erik’s prison.

Arild thought long and hard about what he would plant. At last he went to the fields and planted his seeds, placing each of them six paces from the rest.

Late that fall, a messenger arrived from King Erik. “The harvest season is past,” he said. “The King awaits your return.”

“But my crop is not harvested,” said Arild. “In fact, it has not yet sprouted!”

“Not sprouted?” said the messenger. “What did you plant?”

“Pine trees,” replied Arild.

When King Erik heard what Arild had done, he laughed and said, “A man like that does not deserve to be a prisoner.”

Arild was allowed to remain home with his beloved Thale. And a magnificent forest stands today as a testament to his love.

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About the Story

This legend is retold from “The Master of Ugerup,” in Swedish Folk-Lore, by Herman Hofberg, translated by W. H. Myers, Belford, Clarke & Co., Chicago and New York, 1888; and reprinted in Scandinavian Folk and Fairy Tales, edited by Claire Booss, Avenel, New York, 1984. Whatever the truth of the legend, it concerns an actual place and actual families of the mid-1500s, and a forest existing at least in Hofberg’s time.

The Most Precious Thing in the World: A Dutch Legend

The old sea captain was not sure he had heard right. “What did you say, my Lady?”

The Lady stopped pacing about her parlor and looked at the captain in annoyance. Many were the merchants rich and proud in this great port city of Stavoren. But this woman, called by everyone “the Lady of Stavoren,” was richest and proudest of them all.

“I said I want to hire you and your ship to bring me the most precious thing in the world.”

“But what is the most precious thing?” asked the captain. “And where do I find it?”

“If I knew,” said the Lady coldly, “I would already have obtained it. I ask you to discover and bring it to me. I will make sure you have ample gold to buy it, whatever it turns out to be.”

“Forgive me, my Lady,” said the captain, “but I still don’t understand.”

The Lady sat facing him. “Look around you, Captain. Have you seen a more magnificent mansion?”

“Never, my Lady.”

“I spared no expense to build it, and I have filled it with the most costly items from all the ports visited by my ships. Yet whatever I do, my rival merchants find a way to copy me.

“I must show them once and for all that I am their better. That is why you must bring me the most precious thing in the world. I’ve chosen you for the job because it needs someone of your experience. Of course, I will pay you handsomely.”

“Thank you, my Lady. I will do my best.”

“You had better, dear Captain. If you fail, you and your ship will never find work in Stavoren again.”

The next day, the captain sailed from Stavoren, in search of the most precious thing in the world.

Months passed. Everyone in Stavoren knew of the captain’s quest. Wherever the Lady went, she heard people guessing what the most precious thing would be.

“A pearl as big as an egg,” said one.

“No, a magnificent gown,” said another.

“No, a marvelous statue,” said still another.

The Lady was delighted at the stir she was causing. “And how they will envy me,” she said to herself, “when they see what the captain brings!”

At long last, the captain’s ship was sighted entering the harbor. The people of Stavoren streamed to the dock. When the Lady arrived, dressed in her finest, they made way for her.

The captain’s ship was just docking. “My Lady,” he called, “I have brought what you desired! The most precious thing in the world!”

“What is it, Captain?” called back the Lady, barely able to hold in her excitement.

“I visited many ports in many lands,” said the captain. “I saw many wonderful things. None could I say was the most precious of all. But at last, in the city of Danzig, I came across it. Then I laughed at myself! I should have known it from the first!”

“But what is it?” said the Lady impatiently.

“Wheat!” cried the captain. “My ship is filled with wheat!”

“Wheat?” said the Lady. Her face grew white. Behind her, she heard murmurs from the crowd, and laughing. “Did you say wheat?”

“Yes, my Lady,” said the captain joyously. “What could be more precious, more valuable, than wheat? Without our daily bread, what good are all the treasures of the world?”

The Lady was silent for a moment, listening to the whispers and snickers of the crowd. “And this wheat is all mine, is it not? To do with as I like?”

“Of course, my Lady,” said the captain.

“Then,” said the Lady, “pour it into the harbor.”

“What?” said the captain. Now his own face was white.

“Pour it into the harbor! Every grain of it!”

Murmurs of horror and approval both rose up behind her.

“My Lady,” said the captain, “please consider what you say. There is wheat enough here to feed a city! If you have no use for it, then give it to the poor and hungry. After all, you too may someday be in need!”

“I?” shrieked the Lady. “In need?”

She plucked from her finger a ruby ring and held it high. “This ring will return to my hand before I am ever in need!”

With all her might, she flung it far into the harbor.

The captain stared at the Lady on the dock, her face red with rage. Then he called to his men.

“Cast off!”

When the ship reached the harbor mouth, the captain ordered his men to pour all the wheat overboard. Then he sailed from the harbor, never to return.

The next day, the Lady held a grand feast for all the richest merchants of Stavoren. She spared no expense, to show that she still had every cause for pride.

A huge roast fish was set before her for carving. As she was about to cut into it, the Lady noticed a glint from something in the fish’s mouth. She pulled out the object and held it up.

The diners gasped. The Lady turned pale.

It was the ruby ring.

A few weeks later, fishermen found that a sand bar was building beneath the water at the harbor’s mouth. The discarded wheat had sprouted and grown, and was catching the sand that before had drifted freely.

Soon, the tall ships could not enter. The harbor was ruined, and with it went the fortunes of the city. Many of the merchants lost everything.

Among them was the Lady of Stavoren.

Today, Stavoren is known mainly as a ferry landing. The sand bar that keeps tall ships from the harbor is still called “Lady’s Sand”—a reminder how the Lady of Stavoren scorned the most precious thing in the world.

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About the Story

My retelling of this legend is based largely on “The Lady of Stavoren: A Tale from the Province of Friesland,” in Tales Told in Holland, edited by Olive Beaupré Miller, The Book House for Children, Chicago, 1926. Other versions consulted were found in Dutch Fairy Tales for Young Folks, by William Elliot Griffis, Crowell, New York, 1918; The Golden Cat Head and Other Tales of Holland, by Marian King, Whitman, Chicago, 1933; The Owl’s Nest: Folktales from Friesland, by Dorothy Gladys Spicer, Coward-McCann, New York, 1954; and The Sunken City and Other Tales from Around the World, by James McNeill, Henry Z. Walck, New York, 1959.

For help and comments, I thank Coby and Hans Siegenthaler in Los Angeles, and Claire Metz and her mother in Charlottesville, Virginia.

How to Say the Name

Stavoren ~ stah-VOR-en

The Stone in the Temple: An Islamic Legend

“The sons of Makhzum should raise the Black Stone,” declared one of the men in the circle. “It is our right as foremost of the tribes.”

“Who gave you such a position?” demanded another man. “The sons of Jumah will raise it!”

“Not while the sons of Abdu Manaf stand here,” said another. “The honor should be ours.”

“Then you will have to fight for it,” cried another. “None but the sons of Abdul-Dar shall raise the stone!”

In the years before Muhammad’s holy mission, it happened that the tribes around Mecca decided to rebuild their temple, the Kaaba. In those days, the Kaaba was simply a yard enclosed by a wall. Their plan was to build a higher, thicker wall and add a roof.

Each tribe had chosen a section of the wall and started pulling down the stones. The sacred Black Stone, built into the east corner, had been removed carefully and set aside.

At last they had gotten down to the foundation laid by Abraham. They had begun to rebuild, and the wall had grown steadily higher. But when the time had come to raise the Black Stone back to its place, they could not agree on which tribe would have the honor.

The dispute grew fiercer and fiercer, till it seemed likely that blood would flow. But then Abu Amayya said, “Brothers, let us not fight among ourselves. I have an idea: Wait for the next man who comes through the gate, then give the decision to him.”

All agreed and settled down to wait. And it happened that the first man to enter the gate was Muhammad, he whom they called “The Trustworthy One.”

When Muhammad had listened to their claims, he considered for a moment. Then he said, “Bring me a cloak.”

They brought one, and Muhammad spread it on the ground. Then he took the Black Stone and placed it in the center.

“Each tribe will choose a man to hold the cloak by its edge. Then all will raise the stone together.”

This was done, and Muhammad himself set the stone in place. Then all the tribes were satisfied, and work went on with no further dispute.

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About the Story

Muhammad, the founder of Islam, lived in Arabia from 570 to 632 A.D. Though in later years he took to warfare to spread his religion, Muhammad’s teachings were often aimed at conciliation—a trait found also in this tale of his early life.

The story concerns the Kaaba (“KAH-buh”)—meaning “Cube”—a Muslim shrine in the Arabian city of Mecca. Muslims believe the original Kaaba was built by Abraham and his first son, Ishmael, legendary founder of the Arab race. Set into one corner of the building is a black stone about eight inches in diameter, said to have fallen from heaven. This stone—possibly a meteorite—is the most sacred relic of Islam.

All Muslims are required to make a pilgrimage to Mecca at least once in their lives if they are able. Today, as many as two million pilgrims a year visit the Kaaba and kiss the Black Stone.

Whether or not the Kaaba was truly built by Abraham, it existed well before Muhammad, and at the time of this story was used as a temple for tribal gods.

The tale is found in the Sirat Rasul Allah of Ibn Ishaq, the earliest complete biography of Muhammad, compiled a little more than a century after Muhammad’s death. References included:

The Life of Muhammad: A Translation of Ishaq’s Sirat Rasul Allah, translated by A. Guillaume, Oxford University Press, Karachi, 1955.

Muhammad: His Life Based on the Earliest Sources, by Martin Lings, Allen & Unwin, London, 1983.

Understanding Islam: An Introduction to the Muslim World, Thomas W. Lippman, Penguin, New York, 1990.

For further reading: The Life of the Prophet Muhammad, by Leila Azzam and Aisha Gouverneur, Islamic Texts Society, London, 1985.

Kings for Breakfast!: A Hindu Legend

Once in India there were two generous kings. But one was more generous than the other.

The first king was named Karna. Every morning, he gave to the poor a hundred pounds of gold. In fact, he had vowed not to eat on any day before doing this. But where he got so much gold was a great mystery.

The second king was named Vikram. So big-hearted was Vikram, he would give anybody anything they asked for—a jewel, a horse, even a palace. His time and help too were free for the asking. Vikram’s fame spread far and wide, and even the animals asked him favors.

One day, while Vikram was strolling through his palace garden, two snow-white geese landed at his feet.

“Good King Vikram, we are starving!” cried the gander. “We beg you to feed us!”

“Certainly,” said Vikram. “I will send for seed at once.”

“We cannot eat seed,” said the female. “We come from a sacred lake, high in the mountains of the north. There, we eat only fresh pearls.”

“Then pearls it shall be,” said Vikram. He sent for a basket of his finest pearls and fed the geese from his hand.

Each morning, Vikram fed the geese. But one morning, the gander noticed that one of the pearls was pierced.

“Look!” he cried to his mate. “These pearls are not fresh!”

“Not even King Vikram can feed us forever,” she said. “Let us fly elsewhere.”

Before Vikram could protest, the geese rose into the air. But as they soared, they cried, “Thanks, thanks to Vikram, the most generous king of all!”

The geese flew on, singing Vikram’s praises. On their way, they passed over the palace of King Karna.

When the king heard their song, he said, “Why is Vikram praised even by the birds? Surely he’s no more generous than I!” And he sent his royal hunter to trap the geese where they landed.

The geese were brought in a cage before King Karna. He asked them, “Why do you call Vikram the most generous king of all?”

“He fed us pearls from his hand,” said the gander.

“But I give away a hundred pounds of gold each day!” said the king. “Am I not as generous as Vikram?”

The female said, “King Vikram would never imprison the innocent.”

King Karna took a handful of pearls and opened the cage door to reach in. But the female pushed past and flew out the window.

Swiftly the goose flew back to Vikram and landed breathless at his feet. “Good King Vikram,” she said, “you must help us! My husband is a prisoner!”

Vikram listened to her story. “Rest easy, dear friend,” he said. “I will rescue your mate.”

Disguised in ragged clothes, Vikram made his way to the court of King Karna.

“Your Majesty,” said Vikram, “allow me to be your servant. I hear you are the most generous king of all.”

“It’s true!” chortled the king. “Tomorrow you can help carry the gold.”

The next day, Vikram helped carry the baskets of gold coins to the palace steps. He watched as the king handed out all the gold before going in to his huge breakfast.

Vikram said to himself, “Truly, Karna is a generous king. But how does he have so much gold?” He decided to keep a careful eye on the king.

So it was, the next morning before dawn, Vikram spied the king sneaking from the palace. He followed secretly as Karna hurried up a mountain path and came to a lonely hut.

Vikram watched through an open window as King Karna was greeted by a scrawny, squinty-eyed hermit. A huge pan hung over a crackling fire.

All at once, Karna undressed and climbed in the pan! He sizzled and frizzled and fried to a crispy golden brown. Then the hermit, moaning and groaning with delight, munched and crunched and gobbled him down.

When the hermit was done, he set the bones on the floor, waved his arms over them, and chanted,

“Bones are good, but flesh is best.
Give him life, while I digest!”

And there was King Karna, as good as ever!

“Thank you so much,” said the hermit. “As usual, you were a very tasty meal. And now I will keep my part of the bargain.”

The hermit pulled a tattered coat from a peg and shook out the pockets. A hundred pounds of gold coins tumbled onto the floor from the magic coat.

“Thank you!” said King Karna. “Now I must give away this gold so I can have my breakfast!” He gathered up the gold and started down the mountain.

“Now I see!” muttered Vikram. “And now I know how to rescue the goose!”

Next morning, Vikram got up even earlier than King Karna and went to the palace kitchen. He made a paste of curry spices and rubbed it all over himself. Then he hurried to the hermit’s hut.

The hermit was so near-sighted and so hungry, he didn’t even see it wasn’t King Karna. “Why, King, you’re early today!” he said, as he welcomed Vikram in.

Vikram undressed and climbed in the pan. He sizzled and frizzled and fried to a crispy golden brown.

When the hermit caught a whiff of the curry spices, he said, “What is that marvelous aroma? The King has never smelled better!”

Moaning and groaning with greater delight than ever, he munched and crunched and gobbled Vikram down. Then he set the bones on the floor, waved his arms over them, and chanted the magic words.

“Bones are good, but flesh is best.
Give him life, while I digest!”

Vikram opened his eyes and heaved a sigh of relief.

“My, my, King,” said the hermit, who still thought Vikram was King Karna, “you must tell me how you tasted so delicious this morning!”

Vikram told the hermit about the curry spices. Then he said, “I will curry myself every morning, if you do me a favor.”

“Anything, anything!” said the hermit.

“I am tired of carrying a hundred pounds of gold down the mountain each day,” said Vikram. “Give me the magic coat, so I can keep it at the palace and shake it out down there.”

“Agreed!” said the hermit, and he handed over the coat.

Vikram took his leave, but hid outside the window. Before long, King Karna arrived. When the king found out what had happened, he screamed at the hermit.

“How could you give him the coat?”

The hermit yelled back, “I thought he was you!”

“You should have known better!” roared the king.

“You’re right!” howled the hermit. “You could never taste so good, you old goat!”

King Karna stormed down the mountain.

Later that morning, there was no hundred pounds of gold to carry to the palace steps. Just as he had vowed, King Karna ate not a thing. He went to bed and stayed there all day, growing hungrier and hungrier.

Finally, Vikram came to the king’s bedside. “Friend,” he said, “you need not starve any longer.”

He shook out the hermit’s coat. King Karna cried out for joy as the gold coins tumbled to the floor.

Then Vikram told the king his story. “And if you free the goose,” he said, “and promise to curry yourself for the hermit, I will gladly give you the coat.”

The king hung his head. “The geese were right,” he said. “I am generous to be nibbled for the needy. But more generous are you to be gobbled for a gander!”

Together they went to the goose’s cage, and King Karna opened the door.

Out flew the goose, through the window and over the palace, joining its mate in the air. And as the two turned homeward, they cried, “Thanks, thanks to Vikram, the most generous king of all!”

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About the Story

This tale brings together two famous kings from India’s distant past, each a model of generosity. Of course, they lived in two different times—but why let historical accuracy stand in the way of a good story? By setting them face to face, the legend can at last answer the age-old question: Which of these two kings was the most generous?

Vikram—short for Vikramaditya (“VIK-rum-OD-it-ya”)—is a legendary king of Ujjain in central India in the first century B.C. He appears in countless folktales, as well as in classical literature. Like King Arthur of Britain, Vikram embodies the princely virtues most honored in his culture: bravery, wisdom, and above all, generosity.

Karna lived perhaps a millenium earlier and figures prominently in one of India’s great epics, the Mahabharata (“MAH-hah-BAR-a-ta”). Many legends are told of his generosity, which extended even to giving up his life. When he became king, he vowed never to refuse a request made of him while at midday prayers. The god Indra took advantage of this by requesting Karna’s magical golden armor and earrings. Karna gave them up willingly, knowing this would lead to his death—which it did, during the great battle at the climax of the epic.

The geese in the story are wild geese of the type called hamsa (“HOM-sa”)—known in English as the bar-headed goose—which breeds in Tibet and winters in India. Because of its beauty and its grace in flight, it has long held a revered place in the Indian imagination.

My retelling is based on “The King Who Was Fried” in Tales of the Punjab, by Flora Annie Steel, Macmillan, London, 1894. That version is said to have been recorded by R. C. Temple in the late 1800s in northwest India—now Pakistan—at Murree, close to modern-day Islamabad. It was told by a Brahmin priest at a temple shrine where the hermit’s hut was said to have stood.

The roots of the story, though, are much older. Two of its major motifs are found in tales #15 and #17 of the Vikramacarita (Adventures of King Vikram), a popular 11th-century text in Sanskrit.

How to Say the Names

Karna ~ KAR-na
Vikram ~ VIK-rum

The Wicked Girl: A Tale of Turkey

There was once a merchant who set out with his wife on a pilgrimage to Mecca. Their daughter, though, they left at home, with an Arab slave girl to keep her company.

One evening quite late, the merchant’s daughter and the Arab girl were singing and laughing and dancing about in the upstairs apartment. By accident, the Arab girl knocked over the oil lamp, leaving the young ladies in darkness.

“What should we do?” said the merchant’s daughter. “It’s too late to rouse the servants.”

“I’ll go out and find a light,” said the Arab girl.

“But we’re locked in!” said the merchant’s daughter.

“The window’s open,” said the Arab girl.

So they knotted some bed sheets together and lowered them from the window. Then the Arab girl took a basket and climbed down.

She walked down the street till she came to a restaurant still open. The customers had all gone, but a handsome young man was in the kitchen, cleaning up and preparing for the next day. On the table were dishes piled high with kebabs, dolma, pilaf, and baklava.

“May I come in?” said the Arab girl prettily.

The young man, who owned the restaurant, cast an eye on the lovely young lady. “Please sit down!” he said.

As the two of them chatted, the young man moved closer and closer to the Arab girl. She was almost in reach when she asked him, “What’s in those huge crocks?”

“One has olive oil, one has clarified butter, and one has honey.”

“Honey?” she said. “What’s that?”

“Surely you’ve had honey before!”

“Never! Please give me a taste.”

So the young man took off the lid and leaned into the crock to spoon some out. The Arab girl came up behind and lifted his feet, so he slid head first into the honey. Then she quickly loaded her basket with dishes of food, grabbed an oil lamp, and ran off.

The young man came out of the honey dripping and sputtering. “Ooh, that Arab girl! If I ever catch her, I’ll drink her blood!”

The next night, the Arab girl was again dancing about with the merchant’s daughter, but she was wondering about the restaurant owner. So she knocked over the lamp a second time.

“I’ll have to go out again,” she said.

They lowered the bed sheets, and the Arab girl climbed down with her basket. When she reached the restaurant, she again found the young man alone.

“How dare you come back!” he demanded. “Do you know what I’ll do to you now?”

“Kiss me?” she asked.

“Well, well!” said the young man, with a smile. “What a fine idea!” He came close to embrace her.

“Not yet,” she said. “First we must eat and drink.”

So they ate and drank, and the Arab girl kept pouring him more and more wine, and he kept drinking it, till his head dropped down and rested on the table. She found some rope, tied him up, and gagged him. Then she took more dishes of food and a lamp and ran off.

His customers found him the next morning and set him free. “Ooh, that Arab girl! If I ever catch her, I’ll drink her blood!”

Later that same day, the young man disguised himself as an old flower peddler, with ragged clothes and a long white beard. Then he walked up and down the streets, calling, “Roses for sale! Roses for sale!”

When he came by the merchant’s house, he spotted the Arab girl looking out the upstairs window. “I have her now!” he muttered.

Meanwhile, the Arab girl was telling the merchant’s daughter, “There’s that handsome restaurant owner. I wonder what he’s up to.” She called down to him, “We would like some roses.”

“Then please come to the door,” said the young man, in an old man’s voice.

“We’re locked in,” she said. “But you can climb to the window.”

She lowered the bed sheets, and the young man started up. He was just a few feet away when the Arab girl took a knife and sliced through the top sheet. Roses flew everywhere as the young man tumbled to the ground.

While a crowd gathered around him, the young man painfully struggled to his feet. “Ooh, that Arab girl! If I ever catch her, I’ll drink her blood!”

Not long after that, the merchant returned with his wife from their pilgrimage. To thank the Arab slave girl for keeping his daughter good company, he asked, “What would you like as a gift?”

“A doll made of rubber,” she told him. “It should be just my height and look just like me and wear clothes just like mine. And when you shake it, it should say, ‘Yes, yes.’” So the merchant had the doll made and gave it to her.

A few days later, the merchant spoke again to the Arab girl. “I’ve received a note from a man who does not name himself. He wishes to buy you for an incredibly high price. But if you object, I’ll refuse him.”

“I don’t mind,” she said, smiling.

The next morning, a messenger came with a carriage and drove the Arab girl to a house a few streets away. She and her belongings were left alone in a room upstairs.

The Arab girl took her doll and stood it in the middle of the room. She poured red sherbet into its hollow center, filling it with the sweet fruit drink. Then she hid in a closet.

Before long, the door flew open. There stood the young restaurant owner, a dagger in his hand. He glared at the doll. “You wicked girl! I’ve caught you at last!”

Gripping it by the shoulder, he demanded, “Do you remember how you pushed me into the honey?” He shook it back and forth.

“Yes, yes,” said the doll.

“And do you remember how you tied me up and gagged me?”

“Yes, yes.”

“And do you remember how you made me fall to the street?”

“Yes, yes.”

“You admit everything! Then prepare to die, for now I will drink your blood!”

He plunged the dagger into the doll, and red liquid spurted out. As the doll fell over, he caught a few drops in his cupped hand, and raised them greedily to his lips.

“But what’s this? Her blood is so sweet! And if her blood is this sweet, how much sweeter must be the rest of her! What have I done? I have killed the sweetest woman in the world! Oh, if only I could bring her back to life, I would free her and marry her! But it’s too late. All I can do now is end my own life!” He raised the dagger above his chest.

“Hey, dummy! I’m right here!”

The young man stared at the Arab girl.

“Darling!” he cried.

“Dearest!” she answered.

And they lived happily ever after.

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About the Story

In traditional Turkish culture, women were closely guarded, living in a separate upstairs apartment called a harem. The only men allowed there were family members. Servants in the harem were generally female slaves imported from other lands, since slaves didn’t have to wear veils in front of their male owners.

This female slavery was less harsh than the slavery in some other cultures. Slaves were generally treated well and were freed after seven years, often to marry Turkish husbands. Following the establishment of Turkey as a republic in 1923, the country was largely Westernized, and both slavery and the harem disappeared.

This story is retold from “The Arab Girl in Hate and Love,” in More Tales Alive in Turkey, by Warren S. Walker and Ahmet E. Uysal, Texas Tech University Press, Lubbock, Texas, 1992. That version is translated from a 1966 recording made of Ali Çuga, a Turkish storyteller. My retelling includes only a selection of the Arab girl’s exploits.

For more on traditional Turkish life, see The Women of Turkey and Their Folk-Lore, Vol. 2, by Lucy M. J. Garnett, Nutt, London, 1891, chapters 16–22.

The Boy Who Wanted the Willies

There was once a boy who was never frightened—for he had not enough sense to be scared.

One day, Hans and his big sister were walking home after dark. The wind howled, and the trees creaked and groaned. The road led past a graveyard, where the moon lit up rows of tombstones.

Hans’s sister began to quiver and quake.

“Ooh!” she said. “This place gives me the willies!”

“The willies?” said Hans. “What are the willies?”

“Do I have to tell you everything? The willies are when you get so scared, you shiver and shake.”

“Well!” said Hans. “I never had anything like that! I wish I would get the willies, so I’d know what they’re like.”

The more Hans thought it over, the more he wondered about the willies, and the more he wished he could have them.

One day he told himself, “If I want the willies, I’d better go look for them.” So he said good-bye to his family and started down the road.

Hans walked for many days. Everyone he met, he asked, “Can you give me the willies?”

Many tried, but none could.

At last he came to the King’s castle and stood before the King. “Your Majesty,” said Hans, “can you give me the willies?”

“Of course I can. I’m the King!” The King waved his royal scepter. “I command you to have the willies!”

Hans waited, but nothing happened. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I still don’t have them.”

“Oh well,” said the King, “at least I know where you can get them. On the other side of my kingdom is a haunted castle. If you spend the night there, you are sure to get the willies.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty!”

“There’s just one problem,” said the King. “No one who goes there ever lives through the night. But, if you stay alive and break the spell, you’ll find the castle treasure!”

“That’s fine with me,” said Hans, “as long as I get the willies!”

It was midnight when Hans reached the castle. The towers cast eerie shadows under the full moon. The drawbridge lowered itself at Hans’s feet. Creeeeeeeeeeeek.

“Seems like a friendly place!” said Hans.

As Hans entered the great hall, a fire sprang to life in the huge fireplace. Hans pulled up a chair and settled himself to wait.

“Now I’m sure to get the willies,” he said.

The clock in the great hall struck one. Bong.

“Velcome!” boomed a voice behind him.

Hans looked around and saw two men playing cards. One had a long, black cloak, and the other had a furry face.

“Vould you care to join our game?” asked the man in the cloak. “It’s been so long since ve had anyvun to play vith.”

“Certainly,” said Hans, taking a seat. “It will pass the time, while I’m waiting for the willies!”

“I vill explain the rules,” said the cloaked man. “If my furry friend vins, he vill rip you to shreds. If I vin, I vill drink your blood. If you vin, ve vill let you live.”

“Sounds fair to me!” said Hans.

The furry man snarled and dealt the cards. They played for almost an hour. In the end, the cloaked man won.

“I vant to drink your blood!” he said, moving closer to Hans and showing two long, pointy teeth.

“I think you cheated,” Hans said. He reached for the pointy teeth and broke them off—Snap!

“YEEE-OWWWWWWWW!” howled the man as he ran from the hall.

The furry man roared and leaped at Hans, but Hans sprang away and the man flew past—right out an open window. Hans heard a piercing scream, then a dull thud.

He settled himself again before the fire. “I enjoyed the game,” he said, “but when do I get the willies?”

The clock struck two. Bong. Bong.

Hans heard a rattling, and into the hall marched a long line of skeletons.

The first skeleton snapped its fingers. Click. Click.

The second skeleton knocked its knees. Clack. Clack.

The third skeleton drummed its skull. Clock. Clock.

The fourth skeleton tapped along its ribs in a little tune. Clackety, click clock. Clackety, click clock.

“Nice beat!” said Hans.

The other skeletons formed a circle and started to dance. One skeleton stretched a hand toward Hans.

“Don’t mind if I do!”

Hans took hold of two bony hands and danced in the circle around the hall.

The music got faster. Clackety, clackety, click clock clackety. Clackety, clackety, click clock clackety.

“Hold it, I can’t dance that fast!” shouted Hans over the clatter. But the skeletons gripped his hands harder and danced even faster.

Clackety clickety, clackety clockety. Clackety clickety, clackety clockety.

“I said HOLD IT!”

Hans gave a yank and—Pop!—the two skeletons’ arms came right off. The music and the dancing stopped.

“I think you lost something,” said Hans.

The skeletons rushed at Hans and started jumping on him. Hans grabbed a chair and swung it, this way and that.

Crash! Bash!

Bones flew here, there, and everywhere, till the skeletons lay all in pieces on the floor.

Hans gathered them up and tossed them out the window. “I like a little dancing,” he said, as he settled again before the fire, “but I wonder when I’m going to get those willies!”

The clock struck three. Bong. Bong. Bong.

From up the chimney, a deep voice called, “LOOK OUT BELOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWW!”

Something huge came falling down, swerved to miss the fire, and—thump—landed before the fireplace. It was a giant body, with no arms or legs or head.

“LOOK OUT BELOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWW!”

Thump thump thump thump. Two giant legs and two giant arms landed next to it.

“LOOK OUT BELOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWW!”

Thump. A giant head landed by the rest.

“I get it!” said Hans. “It’s a puzzle, and I have to put it together!”

Hans heaved the two giant legs and stuck them onto the body. Snap. Snap.

“Hey!” thundered the deep voice, close by. It was the giant head. “You got the shoes pointing out!”

“Oh, sorry,” said Hans. He switched the legs. Then he stuck on the arms and the head. Snap. Snap. Snap.

The giant jumped up. “The spell is broken! You’re the only one ever to get me together. The others all died of fright long before this! Now follow me to the castle treasure.”

Hans followed him to the doorway. The giant said, “You first.”

“After you,” said Hans.

The giant led him to the courtyard and pointed to a shovel under a tree. “Dig there!”

“You dig there!” said Hans.

The giant dug till he uncovered three pots of gold. “Take them inside!”

“You take them inside!”

The giant took the pots of gold into the great hall. He said, “One is for the king, one is for the poor, and one is for you.”

Then he fell into pieces again and flew up the chimney—first the head, then the arms and legs, then the giant body.

“Some folks just can’t keep things together,” said Hans. He went back to his chair before the fire, curled up in it, and sighed. “It’s nice to be rich, but when will I ever get the willies?”

* * *

And that is how Hans stayed alive, broke the spell, and found the treasure. When the King heard the tale, he let Hans live in the castle, and when Hans grew up, he married the King’s daughter. Within a year they had triplets—three fine sons. Hans named all three of them Willy.

“And now,” he said, “at last I have the Willies!”

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About the Story

The story of the fearless lad in the haunted castle is known throughout Europe—from Spain to Russia, from Scandinavia to Italy—and in North America as well. In the Aarne-Thompson index, it is tale type 326, “The Youth Who Wanted to Learn What Fear Is,” named after a particularly well-developed version in the collection of the Brothers Grimm.

For this retelling, I have drawn most of my basic plot structure from Grimm, but have incorporated motifs from the Italian and other versions as well. Still other motifs were suggested by audiences during my time as a professional storyteller, when I performed this tale as a participatory improvisation. The ending was supplied in part by a student of Pinedale Elementary School in Pinedale, California.

Though I have skirted perilously close to anachronism, I hope to have sustained only minor injuries. Count Dracula and Wolfman have a modern cast, but they are based on European folk archetypes of the vampire and the werewolf.

In the same vein, “the willies” as a description of fear may be an English-language expression—and not too old a one at that—but it is derived from German legend. According to Heinrich Heine, the “Wilis” are “maidens who have died before their wedding day, because of faithless lovers.” They rise from their tombs at night to seek vengeance, and if any man is unlucky enough to encounter them, he is forced to dance till he drops dead from exhaustion. This legend formed the basis of the popular 19th-century ballet “Giselle.”

Mop Top: A Tale of Norway

Once there was a King and Queen who were never happy, because they had no children.

Every day, the Queen would sit and sigh, until the King would ask, “What is wrong, my dear?”

“Oh, you know,” she would say, and sigh again. “If only we had children. I could hug them when they were good, and scold them when they were bad. What fun it would be!”

Then the King too would sigh, and agree with the Queen.

One day, the Queen was sitting and sighing in the garden, when the gardener’s wife came by.

“What is wrong, Your Majesty?” she asked.

“Oh, you know,” said the Queen, and sighed again.

“Well,” said the woman, “perhaps I have something that can help.”

From her apron pocket she took a pouch, and from the pouch she took a seed. She placed it in the Queen’s palm. It was shaped like a baby, curled in sleep.

“Plant this seed tonight, when the full moon is at its highest,” said the woman. “Water it with your right hand. But don’t water it with your left, or you’ll be sorry!”

That night, when the full moon was at its highest, the Queen crept out to the garden and planted the seed. She scooped up some water with her right hand and poured it over. But she forgot what the gardener’s wife said, and she watered it with her left hand too.

Early next morning, the Queen ran back to the spot. There, in place of the seed, she found a tall tree with two long branches. On each branch was a single blossom. The blossom on the right was golden yellow, and very lovely. The blossom on the left was flaming red, and very strange.

As the Queen watched, the petals fell from the yellow blossom, and the fruit began to grow. It grew into a lovely little girl with a princess’s gown and shining golden hair.

The child cried, “Pick me, Mama, I’m ripe!”

The Queen rushed to pick the child from the tree. “Am I your Mama?” said the Queen. “How wonderful! I shall call you Fair Hair.”

Just then, the red petals fell, and another child began to grow. But this one was a dirty mess, with tangled red hair that stuck out all over. Her clothes were rags, she carried a wooden ladle, and she sat on a baby billy goat.

The child called, “Pick me, Mama, I’m ripe!”

The Queen rushed to pick her. “Am I your Mama?” said the Queen. “How terrible! I shall call you Mop Top.”

“Mop Top! Mop Top!” yelled the child. With her wooden ladle, she bopped her billy goat’s bottom, and the billy goat galloped round and round the tree.

So now the Queen had the children she wished for. Fair Hair was as good as gold, so the Queen could hug her as much as she liked. And Mop Top was always into mischief, so the Queen could scold her as much as she liked.

As for the two sisters, they loved each other dearly and were never apart.

One day, the girls were picnicking in a cow pasture. Suddenly, from the nearby woods came a terrible ruckus.

“What’s that?” said Fair Hair.

“Troll girls!” yelled Mop Top.

Just then, dozens of troll girls burst from the woods, shouting and screeching ugly troll words. They had long tails and longer noses. They grabbed the picnic food and played catch with it.

“Keep your head down!” said Mop Top to Fair Hair. “I’ll take care of this!”

Mop Top bopped her billy goat’s bottom, and raced right among the troll girls. Then she bopped those troll girls’ bottoms. Bop! Bop! Bop! One after another, those troll girls went leaping and crying back into the woods.

Meanwhile, Fair Hair just had to peek. She lifted her head the tiniest bit. Whisk! A troll girl took Fair Hair’s head right off! Then the troll girl whisked the head off a calf, put it on Fair Hair, and ran away with Fair Hair’s head.

“Moo!” said Fair Hair. “Moo!”

When Mop Top had chased off the troll girls, she came back to her sister. “Oh, no!” cried Mop Top when she saw the calf’s head. “This won’t do! A princess can’t lose her head!”

So, Mop Top asked the King to prepare a ship. When it was ready, she led her sister on board.

“Don’t you want any sailors?” called the King.

“We don’t need them!” yelled Mop Top, as she galloped round and round the deck. Then she pulled up the anchor and set sail.

They sailed for a long time, till they reached the land of the trolls.

“Stay here!” said Mop Top to Fair Hair as they docked. Then she went ashore and galloped up the road, all the way to the troll castle.

There on a window sill was her sister’s head!

Mop Top bopped her billy goat’s bottom. The goat raced past the window, and Mop Top grabbed the head. Then she galloped back down the road.

The troll girls came leaping and bounding from the castle, screaming and shrieking nasty troll words. They chased Mop Top till they caught up. A troll girl reached for the head.

“No, you don’t!” yelled Mop Top. She swung her wooden ladle. Bop! That troll girl’s head flew right off her shoulders, and the troll girl had to run after it.

Mop Top kept swinging. Bop! Bop! Bop! Oh, those troll heads did roll! All the troll girls had to chase their heads and leave Mop Top alone.

By the time the troll girls had their heads on straight, Mop Top had reached the ship and set sail. Then Mop Top took the calf’s head off her sister and gave her back her own head.

“You’re wonderful!” said Fair Hair.

“You’re right!” said Mop Top.

And the calf’s head said, “Moo!”

Mop Top and Fair Hair sailed home. The King and Queen were overjoyed. The Queen gave Mop Top a big hug. Mop Top gave the calf back its head.

But the very next day, Mop Top said to Fair Hair, “Let’s go!” So they climbed back on board, and sailed off for adventure.

At last, they came to a far country. The people there were looking for a new King or Queen, because the old King had just died. So the Prime Minister himself came down to meet the ship.

When the Prime Minister saw Mop Top galloping round the deck, he glared. But when he saw the lovely Fair Hair, he stared!

“Princess,” he said, “be our Queen!”

“Oh, no!” said Fair Hair. “My sister is brave and noble. She should be the Queen.”

“Oh, no!” cried the Prime Minister. “She can’t be the Queen!”

“Why not?” yelled Mop Top.

“Well,” said the Prime Minister, “a Queen can’t ride an old billy goat!”

“You call this an old billy goat?” said Mop Top. “Look again!”

The Prime Minister looked again and saw that Mop Top was riding a beautiful white horse.

“Well,” he said, “a Queen can’t dress in rags and carry a ladle!”

“You call these rags? You call this a ladle?” said Mop Top. “Look again!”

The Prime Minister looked again and saw that Mop Top wore an elegant riding suit, and carried a polished riding stick.

“Well,” he said, “a Queen can’t be a dirty mess!”

“You call me a dirty mess?” said Mop Top. “Look again!”

The Prime Minister looked again and saw that Mop Top was perfectly groomed, with smooth and shining red hair.

“Well!” said the Prime Minister. “Then you can be the Queen!”

So Mop Top became the Queen and ruled that country with her sister’s help. And if ever that Prime Minister made her mad, you can bet she bopped his bottom!

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About the Story

This tale was collected in the mid-1800s by the great Norwegian folklorist Jörgen Moe. It appears in a number of collections, including Folktales of Norway, edited by Reidar Christiansen, University of Chicago Press, 1964 (as “Mop Head”); and East o’ the Sun & West o’ the Moon, translated by George Webbe Dasent, Dover, New York, 1970 (as “Tatterhood”). Variants have been found in Sweden, Iceland, and Ireland.