Tatterhood (2 page)

‘Sit it through,' they said. ‘The trolls will be gone in the morning.'

No matter how they begged and wheedled, Tatterhood stood firm.

‘I'll sweep those troll-hags back where they belong,' she said. But first she told the queen to bar the doors and windows, firm and tight. ‘No matter how curious you are,' she warned, ‘and no matter how close you put your eye to the crack, you must neither of you see so much as a glimmer.'

Then, waving her dipper, she plunged outside on the billy-goat to clear away the crones. There followed such a racket, such a clamour and din, that the building rasped and groaned as though the very logs were being torn apart at the joins.

And – for one reason or another – one of the doors creaked open just a glimmer after all, and the sister thought she would stick her head out to see how Tatterhood was doing. So she did – and before she could blink, a troll-hag swept past, wrenched off her head and stuck on a calf's head instead.

Well, Tatterhood was a thorough girl and the ruckus outside soon died down. But when she came back inside and saw her sister, lowing and mooing and shaking her head like a beast in the field, Tatterhood understood what had happened and smashed at the furniture in anger.

‘I hope you're contented now!' she shouted. ‘Now that my sister has become a calf!'

And she galloped and plunged on her buck till the rafters rumbled.

‘But I suppose,' she said at last, ‘that I could well free her.'

So Tatterhood asked for a boat, fitted and shipshape, for herself and her sister to sail away in. When spring came and the ice broke up, the two of them sailed down the fjord to the land where the troll-women lived.

The troll-castle hung sheer on a cliff.

‘Stay where you are,' Tatterhood told her sister as she hove the boat to, ‘and be still. I'll be back with your head in a moment.'

Then Tatterhood and her buck clambered up and up, to the top where the troll-house was.

As she approached, Tatterhood saw one of the windows was open. On the sill, set like an apple to dry in the sun, was her sister's head. She clattered onto the porch, snatched the head and galloped off with it, as fast as the buck could carry her.

But the troll-crones had smelled her coming. They were after her in a flash, swarming out of the castle and teeming thick about her, foul and clawing, while Tatterhood laid about with her dipper. She struck and smacked and swiped – and the buck shoved and gored – till in the end the troll-flock gave up and let them go.

Tatterhood climbed down to the ship again, took the calf's head from her sister's shoulders and set the right one there instead.

Then, with her sister a person again beside her, Tatterhood took a different turn down the fjord and sailed off to a kingdom even further away.

The king in that land was a widower. Although he had a son, he was lonely, as there was no one sensible to talk to, either on his estate or off it. When he saw the strange ship sailing up his fjord, he sent messengers down to investigate.

But when the king's men reached the shore there wasn't a living soul aboard – except, that is, for Tatterhood. She was riding about the deck, backwards and forwards on the goat, bouncing and jigging till her hair stood up on her head.

The king's folk were stupefied.

‘Are there any more of you?' they asked.

‘Oh yes,' said Tatterhood. ‘I have a sister.'

And around she clattered, jiggety-clack, until the deck thundered.

‘Is she as rare a sight as you are?' the king's people wanted to know.

‘Rare, and rarer still,' said Tatterhood. ‘But she's not for the likes of you to be looking at, until the king comes and has a look for himself.'

The servants ran back to tell the king.

‘The ship's captain is a matted troll-hag,' they said. ‘Half-buck and half-woman. Her sister is shaggier still – so hideous that only a king could bear to clap eyes on her.'

The king set off at once.

When he arrived, Tatterhood led her sister out from under the deck. The sister looked so beautiful, so petal-fine and golden, that the king was smitten, right where he stood on the shore. Of course, he wanted her for his queen at once, and proposed to her then and there. But Tatterhood had other ideas.

‘You can't marry my sister, no matter what,' she said. ‘Unless, that is, you let me marry your son.'

Now the king's son was a feeble young man, and sulky besides, so the king agreed.
It will do him good
, he thought to himself, and everyone else thought so too.

The prince, however, was horrified.

‘She's an ugly troll!' he shrieked. ‘You can't make me!'

But make him they did. The king – and all the others – plagued and pestered and nagged at him so long and so hard that in the end he gave in.

And so the wedding was prepared, with boiling, brewing and baking, and when it was done they rode to the church, all four.

For the prince, it was the gloomiest trip he had made in his life.

Tatterhood's sister, driving along with the king, looked so shimmering, gold and delicious that everyone along the road gaped after her for as long as they could see her, and then some more. But Tatterhood rode beside the prince on her buck, as matted and shaggy as ever.

The prince's face was as long as a paddle.

‘Why don't you speak?' said Tatterhood, when they had ridden some way in silence.

‘What is there to talk about?' answered the prince. His face grew longer, his head hung lower and his bottom lip looped over his chin.

‘You might me ask why I ride this buck,' said Tatterhood.

‘Why
do
you ride that ridiculous goat?' asked the prince.

‘Which ridiculous goat?' said Tatterhood. ‘Isn't this the noblest mount a bride could wish for?'

When the prince looked over, he noticed that Tatterhood was astride the most stately stallion he had ever seen. Even so, he rode on as cross as two sticks and hadn't a word to say.

After a while, Tatterhood asked him again why he didn't speak. The prince replied again that he didn't know what to talk about.

‘You could always ask why I carry this dipper.'

‘So, why do you cling to that freakish dipper?'

‘What freakish dipper?' asked Tatterhood. ‘This is the finest thing ever carried by bride-to-be.'

With that, the dipper caught the sun and gleamed so bright that the prince had to squint and look away – but not before he saw it turn into the most glittering sceptre imaginable.

Then they rode on, with the prince as sour as two lemons and uttering not a word. Tatterhood asked him again why he didn't speak, and this time she told him to ask about the hood she wore.

‘Well, why do you wear that ghastly grey hood?' asked the prince.

‘Ghastly hood? What I'm wearing is as grand and gleaming a crown as any bride could have!' Tatterhood said.

And so it was. The prince admitted – though only to himself – that such radiance had never been seen and, though he rode on as lumpen as before, he couldn't help thinking that Tatterhood was indeed an astonishing creature.

Eventually, his bride asked again why he didn't speak, and this time she invited him to ask about her looks.

‘All right then,' said the prince, ‘why are you so ugly and grotesque?'

‘Am I grotesque?' said Tatterhood. ‘Look again. You think my sister is lovely, but I'm ten times as dazzling as she.'

This time, when the king's son looked, he realised he couldn't hope to find a more glorious maid, either in this kingdom or the next. Although she was tougher than troll-hags – and brazen and bold besides – there was no one so splendid as Tatterhood. Or so rare.

As it turned out, the prince found his tongue and was soon smitten with his new wife. He drank to the wedding with great gusto and when everyone sailed home to Tatterhood's parents, they drank to the wedding all over again, without end.

Which is why – if you hurry and don't drag your oars – there may be a drop left for you.

Once, not long ago — when brides were few and men were many – there was a young woman so lovely that her name was known in all the valleys around. Suitors came from far and wide to see her, rowing up fjords, striding through forests and even scrambling over glaciers for the chance to marry her.

Some were rugged and some were young. Several were farmers with hands as rough as fresh-hewn wood. But the man the girl's father chose for her had polished boots, hair that was black and gleaming, and a moustache that curled over his mouth.

Not only that, but there was none so rich as he – nor one more suitable – in all the kingdom. At least so the man said, and the girl's father believed him.

The couple met often at the girl's house, but one day the groom told her to visit him in his own home.

‘You are, after all, to be my bride,' he said. ‘This way, my dear, you can see for yourself what sort of man I truly am.'

The girl's heart sank. She had no real wish to go. The man's teeth were not as good as they had first seemed, nor were his fingers always clean.

‘I don't know where your house is,' she said, hoping to excuse herself.

‘It's deep in the shade of the forest,' he replied.

‘How shall I find it there?'

‘I'll scatter peas for you to follow,' he said. ‘Come next Friday, and I'll have a surprise waiting for you!'

The following week the bride set out. However, for whatever reason, she went on Thursday instead. She walked and walked, following the peas, and passed through woods and meadows. The meadows gave way to wilderness, and the woods to forest, but still the peas led on, pale and pearly in the deepening dusk, until she had walked for most of the day.

At last, just as the gloom was making it hard to tread without tripping, she came to a clearing. There, on a grassy knoll and gleaming in the last rays of the evening sun, was the finest house the girl had ever seen.

‘Is this the sort of man he is?' she wondered to herself, knocking on the door. ‘So fine and truly splendid?'

But all was silent. The man wasn't home; nor were there any servants about. The bride went round to the kitchen, and there was no sign of life there either – except for a bird in a cage, hanging from the ceiling.

‘A baffling welcome,' she thought, ‘no matter how grand.'

Curious, she went into the parlour. As she went, the bird twittered to itself – alone and echoing under the rafters – ‘Be bold, sweet maid, but not too bold.'

The parlour, too, was every bit as grand as her sweetheart had promised. There were decorations on every beam and carvings on the posts; there was gilt around every panel, glass in every pane, and glinting pewter plates, row upon row, lining the walls.

But the floor was scraped and battered, and the furniture shuddered as she passed.

She crossed the parlour and went through another door to a bedchamber beyond. As she went, the bird called again – a still, small voice from the kitchen – ‘Be bold, sweet maid, but not too bold.'

The room was massed with chests. They were smooth with age and smelled sharp with resin. Dragging out the heavy drawers, the girl found them full of mugs, candlesticks and plates, all silverware and gold, jumbled and in disorder.

‘Stained with the palms of the hands that have held them,' she said, ‘and with the wine that once filled them.'

‘Be bold, sweet maid, but not too bold,' chimed the bird.

The bride-to-be went into the next chamber, where there were piles upon piles of gowns. They were flung across tables and banked in drifts over the beds. The wool was more evenly woven, and the lace more rare between the bride's wondering fingers, than any she had known. But there were blots, as if from tears, on the lace; and the cloth, though strong, was ripped and torn.

Far back in the house, the bird shrilled from its cage, ‘Be bold, sweet maid, but not too bold!'

The girl went on. At first, when she entered the third room, she saw only tubs and pails. They were painted and clean, their handles were carved, and they were set in rows as neat as a dairy.

But when she looked closer, each cask was full to the brim; jellied and black, with blood.

The bird shrieked. The pewter twittered. The mugs hummed in their chests.

‘But surely it's only horse-blood,' the girl decided, ‘clotting for black pudding.'

She went on.

But where the third room was neat and ordered, the fourth was a shambles. Corpses and skeletons littered the room – scattered and mauled, strewn and tangled.

The girl yelled. The bird screamed. The windows rattled.

She tried to run, but got only as far as the blood-buckets.

‘Turn back, turn back!' the bird shrieked from its cage. ‘Dive under the bed! Here he comes!'

She stumbled back amongst the bodies, dropped to the floor and scrambled beneath the bed – deep in dust and bones – until she lay pressed against the farthest wall.