Thursday, January 24, 2019

The Lumberjack and the Rat Queen

I am in the murky middle of a new middle-grade novel at the moment, and grasping at any excuse to avoid making the difficult decisions I need to make to crawl forward out of the murk. That means a lot of Facebook, Twitter, Netflix, crossword puzzles, and cooking. Yesterday I made posole, and managed to use about several pots and pans, the blender, the food processor, the Instant Pot, and a host of utensils. It was good. It probably would have been just as good if I'd simply thrown all the ingredients in a pot, set it on low, and walked away. But I succeeded in avoiding writing for about three hours.

When I finally got back to the heinous task of dealing with plot issues, I began by looking for things to delete, because deleting is easier than leteing. I found a lot, and shortened the manuscript by a good twenty pages, giving me a daily word count of negative bazillion.

One of the sections I deleted was a fairy tale. There will be several short fairy tales in the novel, each of them moving the story forward—or so I hope. But this particular tale turned out to be too dark and violent for the book I want to write. 

But not too dark for my blog! Here it is:


The Lumberjack and the Rat Queen
A Litvanian Fairy Tale

Once upon a time a lumberjack chopped down a tree and it fell on a young wood rat, killing it instantly. The lumberjack felt bad about the rat, but there was nothing to be done, so he continued working. Later that day, as he rested upon a fresh stump, he was approached by the Queen of the Rats.
“You have killed my grandchild,” the Rat Queen said.
“I am sorry,” said the lumberjack. 
“It is not enough to be sorry, therefore I curse you.”
“But I did not intend it!” objected the lumberjack.
“I curse you nonetheless! I take away your conscience!”
“My conscience?” The lumberjack thought for a moment. “How is that such a bad thing? My conscience has plagued me all my life. If truly gone it be, then I say good riddance!”
The Rat Queen laughed and scampered off.
That night, the lumberjack told his wife what had happened.
The wife, a thin, sinewy woman with a lengthy nose and a poor complexion, asked, “What was the nature of her curse?”
“She said she would take away my conscience.”
The wife thought for a moment, then said, “Is that so bad? Your conscience has held you back from many opportunities. For example, our neighbor’s bull sometimes grazes near the edge of the forest. If you were to lure him into the trees we would have beef for a year, and no one would be the wiser.”
“But it is not our bull!” said the lumberjack.
The wife shrugged. “Perhaps you still have your conscience after all.”
The next day, the lumberjack was chopping logs into firewood near the edge of the forest when he saw his neighbor’s bull nearby. He approached the bull slowly, for bulls are moody creatures, and spoke to it softly. He held out the apple he planned to eat for lunch. The bull snorted and followed as the lumberjack backed into the forest. As soon as they were beneath the trees, the lumberjack swung his ax and slew the hapless beast.
That night he and his wife enjoyed thick, bloody steaks with their turnips and kale. By morning he had salted and packed the rest of the beef in barrels, while his neighbor remained mystified as to what had become of his prized bull.
“Does your conscience bother you now?” the lumberjack’s wife asked.
“Not at all!” said the lumberjack.
“Nor does mine,” she said, “for I too have met the Rat Queen. Last spring I caught one of her rat children in the coop making off with a hen’s egg. I killed it with a pitchfork. The queen visited me that very night.”
“Then neither one of us has a conscience!” the man exclaimed.
A few days later, the lumberjack hauled a load of firewood to town to sell. Because it was mid-summer, he found few customers.
“Master Grocer!” he called to the grocer from his cart. “I know you have not enough firewood for the coming winter. Allow me to sell you a rick. A mere seven coppers!”
The grocer looked askance at the wagon piled with freshly cut logs. 
“I need no wood until winter,” he said.
“It will cost you more then!”
“Then I will have to pay more. In any case, your firewood is green. You should set it out for a season to dry.”
The grocer went back into his shop. As the lumberjack brooded on whom to approach next, the grocer’s daughter, a fresh-faced lass with golden hair, stepped out of the shop. The lumberjack had always thought her lovely. 
“You are the most beautiful girl in all the parish,” he said to her. “Come with me. I would take you for a ride through the forest.”
“You?” The grocer’s daughter laughed incredulously. “You are old, and your hands are rough, and you are married.” With that, she flounced back inside.
The lumberjack finally sold two ricks to the blacksmith, but only after reducing his price to four coppers per rick. He rode home with his cart still mostly full, brooding. He imagined the grocer’s daughter sitting beside him. How unfair it was that he should be married to a scrawny, long-nosed woman such as his wife. Did he not deserve better?
At home, his dark mood deepened as his wife berated him for selling so little wood. When he could stand it no more he struck her on the cheek. To his surprise, she took up a kitchen knife and came at him. He slapped the knife aside and struck her again, and again and again until she moved no more.
The lumberjack dragged her to the shed and chopped her body to pieces and stuffed her in a barrel and covered her with salt. He set the barrel beside the barrels of beef filled with his neighbor’s prize bull. He then emptied the wood from his cart and drove to town. The grocer, he knew, lived in the rooms behind his shop. The lumberjack took his ax and broke down the door. He slew the grocer and the grocer’s wife, tied up the daughter, and threw her in the back of his cart.
As he rode out of town, several citizens chased him down. The girl was saved and the lumberjack was dragged of to the side of the road. They cut off his hands and feet and rolled him into the ditch.
As he lay there bleeding, the Rat Queen happened by. She saw the lumberjack bleeding his last drops of blood, and she laughed.
“How can you laugh?” the man said. “I am dying, and you are to blame!”
“Lumberjack, you are correct,” the Rat Queen said with a smile. “I will return to you that which was taken.”
And with that, the lumberjack’s conscience returned, and he left this world filled with shame and remorse.

“I do not like these stories,” Annie said. “I do not like the way they end.”
“Some are better than others,” Miz Ozols agreed.
“Was the lumberjack glad to have his conscience back?”
“I rather doubt it. It was his final punishment.”
“That is very sad.”
Miz Ozols shrugged. “It is Litvanian,” she said. “In Litvania we tell sad tales.”

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