Gudgekin, the Thistle Girl, and Other Tales by John Gardner
Meanwhile the griffin spent another busy day. Not a jot or tittle of work got done anywhere, for whenever a carpenter began hammering a nail, there the griffin would be, and the carpenter would fall into rudimentary doubts, wondering, for example, why he’d chosen nails instead of wooden pegs, or then again, Lucite; and whenever the man on the ferryboat got set to travel from the left bank to the right, there would be the griffin, sitting on the pilothouse, and the man would at once begin to question in his heart whether one end of the ferry or the other could be called, technically, the front end, and if so, whether or not he was going backwards, and wondering, moreover, in what sense, if any, it could be seriously maintained that one side of the river, and not the other, was really the left side. These inquiries so troubled him that in the end he merely sat in the exact middle of the river, with his head in his hands and the sweat pouring down off his forehead, and thought and thought. In the middle of that afternoon the griffin, while walking through a schoolroom, abruptly frowned, his eagle head cocked sharply, and reflected, “For three days I’ve been watching these people steadily and like a hawk, trying to find out how it is that though they never succeed at doing anything, they manage to get things done; and for three days I have seen, by unmistakable evidence, that in fact they do not get anything done. It was clearly an illusion, when it seemed to me before that they did get things done. Now that that’s settled, why am I wasting my time with these fools, since they no longer even amuse me any more? I will go back to my castle and never again waste my head on them.” And he flew out the schoolroom window and straight to his castle, which he never left again in all his life.
Meanwhile the wise old philosopher and his wife were standing before the king’s throne, and the king had called in all his servants and a great crowd of citizens from the street, for this was a great occasion, at least in the king’s mind, though the philosopher, standing with his arms folded over his great white beard and his head tipped forward, his spectacles fallen to the tip of his nose, was beginning to drift off.
At last, in a booming voice that woke the philosopher, the king said, “Well, old philosopher, have you rid me of that griffin?”
“Let me understand this,” the philosopher said. “Whenever people see the griffin, they immediately become utterly befuddled, so they don’t know anything at all. Is that so?”
“Certainly that’s so,” said the king. “Everyone knows that.”
“They aren’t sure of anything?” inquired the philosopher.
“Nothing,” snapped the king impatiently. “Get to the point. Have you rid me of the griffin or haven’t you?”
“What griffin?” asked the wise old philosopher.
All the people were shocked. The king was furious. But in the days that followed, as the kingdom gradually came back to proper order, and no one felt confused—except, as usual, the philosopher—it was seen that the wise old philosopher was right as rain.
The Shape-Shifters
of Shorm
They were known as the terrible Shape-Shifters of Shorm, and whenever their name was mentioned even the emperor himself went deathly pale, and rightly. For a man might be walking the road at dusk, speaking casually of this and that with a man he had met that day in town—some kind old peasant with a gentle face, or some traveling tinker with stories to tell, some friendly creature who would never harm a fly—and suddenly, quick as the blink of an eye, the stranger might stand transformed to, for instance, an owl. It was unnatural, illogical, a violation of order—though the shape-shifters, it is true, did no one any damage.
The emperor sent out an urgent call for aid through the whole of the empire, and he swore that the person who could cleanse the empire of the terrible shape-shifters would have as his reward whatever he dared to name.
Now in a certain village there lived a woodchopper who had grown too old and feeble to chop wood. Everyone knew him as a troublesome fellow, unpredictable and cranky. When people tried to reason with him, all the old woodchopper would say was “Bah!” When they tried to organize some community effort, the woodchopper would lock his doors and refuse to come out.
On the day the emperor’s proclamation was nailed up, the woodchopper was sitting with his ax on the curbstone, peacefully thinking about the good old days, chopping down trees and occasionally slicing off the head of a wolf; but sunk in thought as he was, he couldn’t help but notice the proclamation being posted and the people all gathering to read it. After a while, against his better judgment, he went over to look at it too.
All the people were saying excitedly, “Any reward a man dares to name! Think of it!” They were all eager to be off to the imperial palace.
But the woodchopper merely pursed his lips and read the proclamation three times, carefully, running his finger along beneath the words. “Bah, there’s got to be a catch,” he said at last, and he went back over to the curbstone and sat down.
“What catch?” the people all said angrily. “How could there possibly be a catch? It’s from the emperor himself. Don’t you believe in anything?”
“We’ll see,” the woodchopper said. “How are you going to tell the shape-shifters from ordinary people? False arrest is a serious business.”
But he was talking to himself, for by now everybody in the village had gone to the imperial palace. Or, rather, everybody but the woodchopper and two old hags who were beating an ox with a long, thick stick.
Meanwhile, at the imperial palace, the emperor watched all the people gathering, and he was pleased with the turnout. They came from the farthest corners of the empire—knights and dukes, wizards, scholars, housewives, adventurers, hucksters, tailors—and the palace was packed so full there was nowhere more to stand. “Welcome!” cried the emperor, clapping his hands with pleasure. “Welcome one and all!”
Now the first to offer his services was a humpbacked knight dressed in scarlet. “If I rid the empire of the shape-shifters, Your Imperial Majesty,” the knight said slyly, “I ask one half of the empire as my prize.”
The people all widened their eyes a little, startled that he should ask for so much. You could have heard a pin drop. But then the emperor said, “Done!”—a little crossly—and it was settled.
So the humpbacked knight in scarlet set out from the palace and said he’d return by the first day’s sunrise. However, he didn’t return. A hush fell over the great crowd waiting at the palace gates, and they watched the sun rise higher and higher, and some said, “He’ll come yet,” and some said, “Never.” And then it was noon, and they knew that the knight wouldn’t make it.
Meanwhile, the feeble old woodchopper was sitting on the curbstone, at home in his village with his ax beside him, watching the two old hags beating their ox. He watched for a long time, having nothing to do, and after a while it occurred to him that maybe they were shape-shifters. Otherwise why hadn’t they gone off to the palace with the rest? “But nothing’s simple in this world,” he thought, for he had no faith in logic. “There must be some catch.” On second thought, though, he walked over closer, taking his ax, and stood watching them until sunset. Sure enough, just at sunset, the two old hags turned into oxen, and the ox turned into a hedgehog. Before they could run away the wood-chopper cut off their heads and stuffed them in a sack.
Now the woodchopper was the only one left in the village, so he decided to go to a neighboring village and see if there was anyone there who hadn’t gone off to the palace with the others. There was no one there but a humpbacked knight in scarlet. The woodchopper shook his head and chuckled and said to himself, “There’s got to be a catch.” However, he cut off the knight’s head and put it in his sack and hurried to the next town to see what was there.
Back at the palace, the second man to offer aid to the emperor was an ancient wizard all dressed in black. He said, “If I rid the empire of the shape-shifters, Your Imperial Majesty, my reward shall be half the empire and your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
Again the people were dismayed by suc
The reason was that the woodchopper had met him, in the fourth village the woodchopper came to, where he’d also met five old men picking peppers, and sometimes as they reached out for the peppers their hands were paws, and sometimes they were hands, and sometimes hoofs. The woodchopper quickly cut off all their heads, including the wizard’s, and stuffed them in his sack.
The third to offer his help to the emperor was a wrinkled old mechanic with tattoos on his shoulders and birthmarks even on his ears. He said he wanted the whole empire and the emperor’s daughter’s hand in marriage.
“That’s a lot,” said the emperor, with a look of indignation. However, after swallowing several times, he clenched his fists and accepted, for the sake of his dignity, because he’d promised.
So the mechanic went out, and he said he would be back by the third day’s sunrise. But no one believed him, and when the third day’s sunrise came, hardly anyone bothered to get up and watch for him. Sure enough, morning came as usual, but not the mechanic.
“That’s life,” said the people, for though they were optimists, they believed above all in regularity, and when two quests had failed they could easily predict, they thought, the third.
“Well,” said the emperor, looking around despondently, “who’s next?”
But nobody was eager to meet the challenge now. They said, “Your Imperial Majesty, there’s something fishy going on around here. The Shape-Shifters of Shorm never used to hurt people, they just shape-shifted. It was annoying and alarming and unnatural, but it wasn’t like this. In our opinion, you should have left well enough alone.” The emperor flew into a rage, but secretly he agreed with them.
Just then who should appear at the palace gate but the woodchopper, dragging his huge sack of heads.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” he said, “I’ve brought you the heads of the Shape-Shifters of Shorm. Is it true you’ll give me whatever I dare to name?”
The emperor frowned. “What’s the catch?” he said.
“No catch,” the woodchopper said. “I just want to know the rules.”
“Ask away,” said the emperor. “You’re among honorable men.”
“All right,” said the woodchopper. Then he said, not knowing how much the others had asked for, “I’d like a round-trip ticket to Brussels, to take a short vacation.”
“Done,” said the emperor quick as a flash, and the people all laughed and poked each other and pointed at the woodchopper and laughed some more, and then they looked inside the sack. Sure enough, there were all the shape-shifters’ heads, and some of the time they were wolves’ heads, and some of the time they were peacocks’ heads, and some of the time they were oxen, and sometimes bears. But three of them, unluckily, were the knight, the wizard, and the mechanic.
“What’s this?” cried the emperor. “Good heavens, this is murder! Guards! Guards!”
The guards came running, and the emperor said, “Put this man in the dungeon. Tomorrow he hangs!”
The woodchopper looked in the sack and now he noticed it too. He said, “Then I don’t get my vacation?”
The emperor rubbed his chin. “Hmm,” he said. After a long period of reflection he said, “You can go visit Brussels, but you have to wear handcuffs, and I’m sending along guards. After you get back, you hang. Do you solemnly swear you won’t escape?”
“I swear,” said the woodchopper.
The people all nodded and agreed it was fair.
So the poor old woodchopper traveled off to Brussels. When he’d been there three days, he suddenly bolted down an alley and escaped, and he changed his name to Zobrowski and dropped out of sight.
The Sea Gulls
A king was walking in the forest one day when a huge ogre saw him and picked him up in his hand. “What a tasty morsel,” said the ogre, and prepared to eat him.
“Wait,” said the king. “Let me offer you a bargain. We will play a game of chance. If you win you may eat me right now, and if I win, you may eat me and all my children in seven years.” In seven years the king thought he could raise an army against the ogre and kill him and thus get out of his bargain.
“Fair enough,” said the ogre. And they played a game of dice. The king, who was a cheater, won, and the ogre left the country for seven years.
The king was so pleased at having won that he promptly forgot all about his terrible bargain. But when the seven years were nearly up, he suddenly remembered the ogre and began to feel alarmed. He tried to raise an army to fight the ogre, but no one would have any part of it. Then, while the king was running around in his garden, not knowing which way to turn, he saw a woman up in a tree. She was a wicked witch.
“I will save you,” said the witch, “if you will give me your three fat sons to feed my geese.”
“I have a better idea,” said the king. “Let us play a game of chance. If you win you may eat my sons, but if I win, then in seven years you may eat my three sons and myself and my daughter.”
“They’re not for me, they’re for my geese,” said the witch.
“Yes, that’s what I meant to say,” said the king.
The king smiled slyly, for in seven years he thought he could find a way to murder the wicked witch and get out of his bargain.
They rolled the dice and, cheating as usual, the king won, and immediately the wicked witch turned into an owl so large that her head was hidden in the clouds. When the ogre came, dressed in his finest, she ate him like a dumpling. Then the wicked witch vanished.
The king was so pleased with his good luck that he again forgot all about his bargain, and seven years passed as quickly as a day. Then the king happened to remember the wicked witch. He asked all his kingdom for advice, and this time there was no one at all who could help him.
Seeing that their father was at his wit’s end, the king’s three sons and daughter ran and hid in the woods. They met an old hermit with a tangled beard and a solid iron eye, and when they had told him their troubles the hermit said, “If you really wish to escape the wicked witch, the thing to do is turn into sea gulls and fly away.”
“How do we do it?” cried the king’s sons.
The hermit said, “You simply say:
Wind, wind, whither do you blow?
Make me a gull for evermore.
There’s just one catch,” said the hermit. “Not all the magic in Lapland can turn you back to children.”
Just then they heard a horrible laugh: The wicked witch was coming. As fast as they could get the words out, the three brothers said,
Wind, wind, whither do you blow?
Make me a gull for evermore.
And they changed into sea gulls and flew away.
But the king’s daughter would not change. “I would rather be eaten by a goose than turn into a sea gull forever,” she said. “It might be all right for a little while, but forever is too long.”
Suddenly the trees all around the king’s daughter turned to gold, and where the old hermit had been standing there stood a handsome prince.
“Well I never!” cried the princess.
The prince explained that once, long since, the wicked witch had turned him into an old hermit, and the bargain was that he must remain a hermit until somewhere on earth he found someone with a proper sense of values—for instance, someone who knew that, whatever one might think at first glance, people are better than sea gulls. That had been years and years ago, and he’d begun to despair—until the princess came along.
Then the prince and the princess were married and moved to the prince’s palace on a high cliff overlooking the ocean. All day and all night the princess’s brothers, w
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copyright © 1976 by Boskydell Artists Ltd.
illustrations copyright © 1976 by Michael Sporn
cover design by ORIM
ISBN: 978-1-4532-0322-4
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