More Bones (5 page)

In the moonlight, he could see the very chest in which he had first hidden the ring. It stood by the foot of the bed, close to his sleeping wife. He took the handle in his mouth and slowly pulled the lid open. To his horror, the hinges creaked. His wife tossed and turned in her sleep, but soon she was snoring as loudly as before. He rooted around in the chest with his nose, and when he uncovered the ring, he grabbed it with his teeth and leaped out the window.

The magic words that rang through the forest that night sounded more like barks and howls, but at last the ring understood. The werewolf disappeared.
Zap!
And the poor man stood in its place.

He picked up the ring and thought hard for a moment. “‘Ring of gold, ring of old, do my bidding as you're told.'” He made his wish, then tossed the ring as far as he could into a tangle of bushes.

As the man walked out of the forest, a donkey started to bray in the distance. When he reached home, a donkey ran to meet him, braying furiously.

“I thought you would rather be a donkey than a werewolf,” he said to his wife. And he entered his house, smiling.

The Secret

ITALY

 
 
For centuries, a secret had been kept high in a tower of an Italian castle. The whole family knew
something
was there. But only the grandfather knew what it was—and he wouldn't tell. Each morning he unlocked the door and entered the tower room, staying there for hours.

His granddaughter, the lady Sophia, was burning with curiosity. She figured she had as much right to know the secret as anyone else.

So one morning she tiptoed up the tower stairs behind her grandfather. She was hoping to slip into the room. But he quickly shut the door and relocked it from inside. She pressed her ear against the door. What was he doing in there?

What the lady really wanted to hear was the clink of coins or the clatter of jewels. Her greed made her imagine all sorts of wondrous things. What if there were boxes of diamond tiaras and necklaces, just waiting for her to wear them at the next grand ball? But the only sound she heard was the occasional scratch of a fingernail. Or was it a pen on paper?

She knew, however, exactly what she smelled. Whiffs of candle smoke were seeping through cracks around the door. Why would her grandfather burn candles long before dark? She went down the stairs before the smoke made her sneeze, and hurried to the stable.

There the lady found one of the stable boys and snapped out an order. “Saddle my horse,” she said, “and be quick about it.” She rode into the forest looking for the hut of an old fortune-teller. It wasn't easy to find, half hidden by bushes and overgrown with vines. But the lady finally spotted it. She dismounted and threw open the door. She didn't even knock.

“What is my family's secret?” she demanded, startling the shrunken old woman.

The fortune-teller peered up at her. “Why would I look into the past? I only foretell the future.”

The lady tried to contain her anger. “Then tell me my fortune!”

“Much depends . . .” the fortune-teller began. Then she paused. She was listening to an owl hooting in a tree nearby.

“A bad sign,” she said. “A great disaster may await you. Let us see.” She led Lady Sophia to a nearby meadow and pulled a ruby-colored goblet from her pocket. She called to a swallow—a bird of good fortune—and she called to an owl—which foretells evil. “Whichever bird alights on the rim of the goblet first will determine your success or failure.”

The owl was first.

The fortune-teller shuddered. “Be careful,” she said. “Do not invite trouble.”

“Ha!” snorted Lady Sophia, gripping the fortune-teller's shoulder. “You'll be the one in trouble. Not me.” Without so much as a thank-you, she rode back to the castle to confront her grandfather.

“Why won't you tell me?” she stormed. “I have asked you a thousand times!”

“Patience, my dear,” said the old man. “You will know someday.”

“Soon?” she asked.

“No. Only the oldest member of the family is permitted to know the secret. When I am gone your father will know, and when he dies, your mother will know, and when they are both gone, your older sister will know. When she dies, it will be your turn.”

The lady could hardly believe what her grandfather had said. What enraged her most was that her sister would learn the secret first.

She turned on her heel and left the castle. By the time she reached the forest, she was stamping her feet. She was so angry that she almost didn't see a small spring or the scraggly herbs growing beside it. But something clicked in her mind as she went past. She looked back and saw the oval leaves and pale pink berries. They matched a drawing she had seen in a strange old book. She had read about the herbs, too.

Suddenly she knew how to learn the family secret. She pulled the herbs out by the handful, hid them under her skirt, and hurried back to the castle. When no one was looking, she grabbed a kettle of water from the kitchen and hung it over the fire in her room. As soon as the water boiled, she tossed in the herbs and watched the murky brew turn poisonous. Fury had overcome all thoughts of love and respect for her family—and greed had twisted her mind.

At breakfast, she stirred the evil mixture into her sister's porridge. At lunch, she poisoned her parents' soup. At dinner, she slipped poison into her grandfather's pudding. One by one they lay down to die. Her grandfather was last. When he was gasping for breath, he called her to his bedside. “We never harmed you, yet you killed us, thinking you would gain a treasure. But you will be sorely disappointed. Your punishment will begin when you learn what has been hidden for so long.”

Lady Sophia didn't look the least bit remorseful. “What is it?” she demanded.

“It is the skull of our oldest ancestor, which must be cared for by the oldest living descendant. This is your responsibility now, and only death will free you from its power. At seven each morning, you must enter the room and close all the windows. Then light four candles in front of the skull and open the great book that lies before it. It is the history of our family. You must learn that history and add to it each day. Just think what you must write, now that you have murdered those who loved you most.” His voice grew weaker. “You will find the key,” he whispered, “under my pillow.”

With barely a glance at her dying grandfather, Lady Sophia shoved her hand under the pillow, found the key, and raced to the tower room.

“Surely he's lying,” she raged. “No one would spend each day tending a skull!”

When she unlocked the door to the tower room, she was aghast. All she saw there was a table, a chair, a large book, four candles—and the
skull
. Its hollow eyes were staring at her.

Lady Sophia wasn't afraid of old bones, so she grabbed the skull and flung it out the window. It bounced on the ground a time or two . . . and flew right back into the tower room. It grinned at her, just inches from her nose. Again she threw it as hard as she could, and again it sailed
back, still grinning. Whatever she did, it was always with her. Whether she was asleep or awake, in the castle or out, it stayed right in front of her face.

At first Lady Sophia was annoyed. She kept thrusting it away. But as time passed, she began to worry. What if it shadowed her for life? A horrifying thought. She decided it might rest if it were properly buried. So she found a shovel to dig a grave. She had to do it herself, because none of the servants would go near her with that skull hovering close by.

She went back to the forest and dug. Her back ached. She was not used to heavy labor, but she kept shoveling—and pushing that skull away. It floated right back every time, grinning its hideous grin. She threw dirt out of the hole until it was as deep as a grave. Then she stood on the edge, grabbed the skull, and flung it in.

Suddenly the hole turned into a deep pit. Flames rose from the bottom. The edge of the hole crumbled away, and Lady Sophia fell in screaming. The skull rose into the air, turning once more to grin at the lady as the dirt closed over her head and she sank out of sight. Death had freed her from its awful power.

The skull was still grinning as it flew out of the forest. Now that its relatives were dead, it was eager to haunt a new family. How about yours?

The Severed Head

PERSIA

 
 
The King of Persia was a tyrant, a terrible man who loved nothing better than chopping off heads so he could watch the blood flow.

Everyone kissed the ground before him and sang songs in his honor. How could they do otherwise?

But still the king was not happy, for his body was covered with open sores, and his head throbbed day and night. One evening he pushed aside his silver goblet and his golden plate. “What care I for food and drink,” said he, “when my life is slipping away?”

His trusted vizier spoke soothingly to the king. “Somewhere there must be a physician who can cure you,” he said. “I will send forth messengers to every corner of the land.”

In truth, the vizier was so evil that he had no sympathy for anyone. But he knew that keeping his job—and his head—depended on how well he served his king. So the vizier sent the message far and wide. Anyone who could cure the king would be rewarded with gold and jewels, but woe to those who tried and failed.

Most physicians were reluctant to try. They knew that the king had already been given ointments, herbs, and potions of all sorts—with no success.

A few physicians came forth, hoping for vast riches. But their medicines did not help the king. So what did he do? He called for his executioner. The physicians' heads soon rolled across the palace floor.

The king was about to give up hope when he learned that a wise old physician had come to the city—someone who knew more about medical science than any other man in the world. He could identify all the plants on earth and knew their effects on the human body, good or ill.

The king summoned him to the palace, and the old man kissed the ground in front of the king's feet.

“Rise,” said the king, “and tell me if you can cure me.”

The physician could see the open sores on the king's hands and face, and he noticed how often the king rubbed his throbbing forehead.

“Certainly,” said the physician, “and you need not drink any vile medicines or smear any ointments on your skin.”

The king was amazed. “How can that be?” he asked.

“If it pleases your majesty,” said the physician, “I will return to the inn to prepare a cure. Tomorrow I will bring it to the palace.”

For the first time in years, the king had high hopes. So did the old physician. He had never failed before. Why would he fail now? He told the innkeeper that he was about to cure the king, but the innkeeper was horrified.

“No one can cure him,” he whispered. “You must flee the city at once!”

The physician just shook his head and smiled. “Fear not,” he said, “I shall be richly rewarded.”

The innkeeper turned aside, muttering to himself. “How could such a wise man be so foolish?”

Back in his room, the physician took a piece of wood and fashioned it into a mallet with a hollow handle. Then he took a handful of herbs, some blades of dried grass, and a few slices of gnarled roots. He ground them into a fine powder, mixed them with a bubbling liquid, and filled the handle of the mallet with his strange concoction. Then he sealed the handle.

The next morning, the physician hurried to the palace and kissed the ground before the king.

“Rise,” said the king, “and cure me.”

“If it is your pleasure to ride your horse,” the physician said, “I would like you to mount it now. With your right hand you can grasp the handle of this mallet. Then use it to hit the ball that is lying on the sand. Ride up to the ball and keep hitting it ahead of you until your palm gets sweaty. When it begins to tingle, you will know that the medicine has seeped out of the mallet and into your hand. Then you must bathe and go to bed.”

The king did exactly what the physician asked, and when he awoke the next day he was overjoyed. He was cured. His skin was clear and his head no longer throbbed. He sent for the physician, poured gold coins into his hands, and insisted that he sit in a place of honor beside the royal throne.

Now this was the very place where the vizier had always sat giving advice to the king. As the days went by, the physician continued to sit there, entertaining the king with stories of his travels.

The vizier became more and more jealous. When the physician returned to the inn one evening, the vizier asked the king's permission to speak.

“Your majesty,” he said, “you are in grave danger. If the physician can cure you by putting something in your hand, he can kill you just as easily. I think he is a spy from another kingdom. When he has gained your trust, he will kill you.”