Ask the Bones Page 4

  “Where can you find a better deal?” asked the devil.

  So Lucas agreed to sell his soul, his fears swept aside by the devil’s music.

  But he could hardly stand doing what the devil demanded next.

  “To seal our pact, you must swallow my spit!”

  “I can’t,” said Lucas.

  “You don’t want to be the world’s best fiddler?”

  “I do,” said Lucas, and he squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed. The devil’s spit was hot and sulfurous. Lucas could feel it burning all the way down to his stomach. He thought he was going to be sick. But then the devil handed Lucas his fiddle, and all seemed well.

  A flaming hole opened in the ground, and the gleeful prince of darkness sank from sight, sucking the smoke down with him.

  Lucas fiddled and danced all the way home.

  From that night on, no one could get enough of Lucas’s fiddling. He made that fiddle laugh and sing. And when he played for parties, everyone danced until cock’s crow. He played up river and down, over the hills and through the valleys. He never tired of playing.

  When Lucas was young, his fiddle sang with joy, but as he grew older, sadness crept in. The thought of spending eternity in the devil’s fiery realm preyed upon his mind. So Lucas began to scheme. He had to think of a way to outwit the devil.

  One moonlit night, Lucas had an idea. He jumped out of bed and raced to the cemetery. The slithering shadows made Lucas wonder if spirits had slipped from their graves. He shuddered, but he sat on the mossy tombstone once more and tucked his fiddle beneath his chin. Then he dragged his bow across the strings, making them screech as they did so long ago.

  Just when Lucas thought he couldn’t stand his awful fiddling a moment longer, a fiery hole opened up. And once again the prince of darkness stood before him. Lucas leaped to his feet, trembling, but he continued to play.

  “Stop that squawking!” bellowed the devil. “You are hurting my ears.”

  “I can’t,” said Lucas. “This is the best I can do.”

  The devil snorted fire and stamped his cloven hooves right through the charred soles of his boots.

  “I’m no longer the best fiddler in the world,” Lucas said, trying to keep his voice from quivering.

  “You are!” bellowed the devil. “Try harder!” And he threw thunderbolts so close to Lucas’s head that they curled his hair.

  Lucas jumped back, but he made his fiddle screech even worse than before. Gooseflesh crept up his neck, making his hair stand on end. But he looked the devil in the eye. “Our pact is broken.”

  “It is not!” screamed the devil, holding his hands over his ears.

  “It is,” said Lucas, scraping his bow across the strings once more.

  “All right! ” the devil snarled. “You can keep your soul on one condition. You must never play the fiddle again.”

  Then he sank through a circle of flames and the fiery hole closed behind him.

  “Never play the fiddle again?” Lucas trudged home, sobbing. He put his fiddle in a trunk and closed the lid.

  Then he took to his bed, feeling old and weary. He shriveled a little each day and spoke to no one. But when his family gathered around, he made a last request. “I want to hold my fiddle one more time.”

  He ran his fingers over the smooth wood and quietly fingered the strings. Then, in a rush of unexpected strength, he played a haunting melody.

  “Now put it away,” he said. And they did.

  But before he could sink back on his pillow, terror overtook him. He tried to shield his eyes from something no one else could see. A bolt of lightning hit. It blinded everyone around him. When they recovered their sight, they couldn’t see anything on the bed except scorched sheets.

  And when they looked for the fiddle, they saw a smoking hole in the lid of the trunk—and nothing inside.

  The Laplander’s Drum

  • A Tale from England •

  Will couldn’t take his eyes off the mysterious drum. Its wooden bowl was covered with tightly stretched reindeer hide, and on that hide were the eeriest drawings Will had ever seen. From the drum’s edge, three brass rings dangled on leather thongs.

  “Who wants me to tell his fortune?” cried the Lappish drummer. His eyes were pale as arctic ice, and when he faced the English crowd, he seemed to be staring at other worlds far beyond.

  The townspeople murmured to one another, curious but wary. No one stepped forward.

  But Will felt himself irresistibly drawn to the drummer’s side. “I do,” the boy said. “I want to know my fortune.” He handed a coin to the drummer and watched him lift the dangling brass rings and place them on the drumhead.

  Then the drumming began. The Laplander beat his drum with the horns of a reindeer, slowly, softly, not disturbing the rings at all. But as the pace quickened, the ornately carved rings began to bounce over the drawings. They encircled great round eyes, suns and moons, fish with two heads, four-legged birds, animals and monsters of every shape and size. The rings bounced across letters of an ancient alphabet, and signs and symbols known only to wizards.

  When the drummer stopped, he looked at the rings. A demonic grin lit up his face. One ring had landed between drawings, encircling nothing. The second encircled a monkey and the third encircled the chain that led to the monkey’s collar.

  Will was merely curious until he glanced at the drummer’s face. Then he felt a twinge of fear. What was his fortune ? What gave the drummer such fiendish glee?

  Will stepped back, nervously waiting for the drummer to speak, and then he heard his father’s voice echoing across the town square. “You!” he shouted. “You with the drum! I’m the magistrate. Show me your pass.”

  The drummer pulled forth a crumpled piece of paper, but the magistrate refused to accept it, insisting it was a forgery. “Lock him up,” he told the constable. “I’ll keep his drum.”

  But before the drummer was led away, he issued a challenge to Will. “I dare you,” he said, “to use my drum.”

  “Never!” said Will’s father. “No one will touch it.”

  The drummer crowed with laughter as he walked to the jail.

  That night Will lay awake, too uneasy to sleep. He heard branches sighing in the breeze, revelers walking home from the inn.

  And drumming?

  Was it possible?

  He lay absolutely still, listening. It started as soft tapping on the doors of the magistrate’s house, then moved to the walls, then to the roof, repeating the circuit, louder each time. Stranger yet, no dog in the household barked.

  Will heard his father rouse the servants to search for an intruder. But no one was there. And the servants said they heard nothing.

  But father and son heard the drumming for weeks, as if the drummer were trying to enter their home, trying to find his drum. Yet all the while, the drummer sat in the jail across the square.

  Will could hardly stand the drumming. Night and day, it reminded him of his mysterious fortune, the one the brass rings had foretold.

  He wanted to question the drummer, but his father forbade it. “Stay away from that man,” he said.

  So Will spent hours in his room, his mind racing. He had to learn more about his fortune, the only way he could, by examining the forbidden drum.

  The very first evening his father was away, he slipped into his office to search for it. He looked in every cabinet, every drawer. He looked behind draperies. He pulled books from the shelves. But he had no luck until he remembered the window seat with the storage space beneath. He lifted the seat.

  And there it was. The drum with all its eerie drawings. The drum with the picture of a chained monkey.

  Will knew his father would be furious if he touched it. But he wanted to look at it more closely. Just look, that was all. So he carried it up to his room. It was as cold to the touch as an arctic night.

  Will stared at the drawing of the chained monkey and was startled to see that its hands were now raised to its cheeks, and its
mouth was wide open as if it were screaming.

  And somehow, the monkey’s face was looking more like the face of a boy.

  Will felt like throwing the drum out the window, yet his hands clutched it more tightly. And while he held it, it grew warm.

  It began to pulsate faintly beneath his fingers.

  It seemed alive.

  To Will’s horror, his hands picked up the brass rings, set them upon the drum, grasped the reindeer horns and began to play.

  Even more alarming, he heard echoing drumbeats from across the square—and he felt a surge of power down to his fingertips.

  No matter how hard he tried to still his hands, they beat the drum faster. The echoes quickened and the brass rings bounced.

  Will thought maybe he could break free from the drum if he returned it to his father’s office. But his legs would not obey him. Panic swept over him, but there was nothing he could do.

  His hands drummed faster. The echoes grew louder. The brass rings bounced higher and higher until they bounced right off the edge of the drum.

  While the rings were dangling from their leather thongs, suspended in space, a fierce drumbeat echoed across the square and in through the open window.

  Will’s entire room vanished—he could see nothing.

  When his father returned home and found that the drum was not in the office, he raced to Will’s bedroom. But he could not find the door.

  He ran outside to get a ladder so he could climb through Will’s window. But all he could see was a blank wall.

  “This is the drummer’s doing,” cried Will’s father. And he ran across the town square to the jail.

  The drummer looked at the magistrate coldly. “You want me to help you?” he asked. “How can I? Your boy has my drum.”

  “I’ll give back your drum when we find it. I’ll give back your freedom. I’ll sign your pass, provide you with a horse, and give you fine new clothes.”

  A bitter smile flickered across the drummer’s face, but he followed the magistrate to his home. They climbed the stairs and hurried down the hall to the spot where the magistrate had last seen Will’s door.

  The moment they arrived, the drummer bared his chest. He began to drum upon it with a primitive, powerful beat.

  From somewhere in the void, the magic drum began to reverberate faintly. The drummer beat his chest harder, his fists tightly clenched, his eyes flashing. The echoing drumbeats grew louder.

  Finally the magistrate saw the room materialize—and Will, too, still holding the drum. The father rushed in and knocked the drum from his son’s grasp, releasing him from its spell.

  He knew he’d promised to give it back, but when the drummer picked it up, the magistrate turned on him. “I refuse to help you,” he shouted. “You’re a wizard. You should be burned at the stake.”

  The drummer’s only reply came in a few swift drumbeats. When the brass rings landed on drawings of monsters, the drummer struck the drumhead fiercely, one more time. Father and son watched in horror as the drawings rose up through the rings and grew, turning into flesh and blood, fur and fangs, snarling about the room.

  The last that anyone saw of the magistrate, he was racing down the road as if monsters were pursuing him.

  The drummer turned his icy eyes on Will. “Your fate,” he said, “is with me.” He pulled a chain and a monkey collar from under his cloak and reached out for the boy.

  A Night of Terror

  • A Tale from Eastern Europe •

  One evening two rabbinical students were hurrying down a forest path. They had planned to spend the night in the next village, but now dark clouds were rolling in, and lightning split the sky.

  Thunder blasted them from every side. They cupped their hands over their ears, but they couldn’t protect themselves from the rain. It poured off their hats and drenched their clothing. They ran through the dark forest, splashing and stumbling, hoping to find shelter.

  Finally they spotted a dim light ahead, and they raced along the path to a small cottage. Its door was ajar, and when the students knocked, two monstrous dogs burst out. They growled and snarled and barked so ferociously that the students backed away.

  All at once two sisters appeared in the cottage doorway. “Don’t worry,” they said. “The dogs are just defending us.” The women snapped their fingers, and the dogs crept back into the cottage.

  The students were amazed. But they thought the sisters looked kindly and pious, so they asked if they could spend the night.

  “And won’t you have a bite to eat with us?” the sisters asked.

  Now the students were very hungry, but before they sat down at the table, they noticed one sister stirring the kettle of boiling broth with her bare fingers and saw the other taking hot bread from the oven with her bare hands. The young men trembled, because they knew they were watching witches prepare enchanted food.

  The two students stared at each other. The storm was still raging. Lightning struck a tree outside with a thunderous blast. But what could be more dangerous than staying inside with a pair of witches?

  “We are not hungry after all,” said one student, trying to keep his voice steady.

  “And we really should be on our way,” said the other, edging toward the door.

  “Nonsense,” said one witch.

  The other witch snapped her fingers, and the dogs trotted over to the door and blocked it. “We really want you to stay,” she said. “Besides, the storm is worse.”

  She slashed her hand through the air and lightning bolts encircled the cottage. She clapped, and thunder exploded throughout the forest, shaking the very floor on which they stood.

  The students were horrified by the witches’ power. They thought silently for a moment. Then one glanced toward the window, and the other nodded—the moment the witches and dogs fell asleep, they would unlatch the window and jump to freedom.

  The students said good night and climbed up the ladder to the loft. Their clothes were cold and damp, so they burrowed into the straw bedding. But they didn’t sleep.

  Every few minutes, they looked over the edge of the loft to see what the witches were doing below. And every time they looked, the witches were wide awake. The women sat in front of the fire, cackling over ancient books filled with ghastly magic spells and potions.

  The students burrowed deeper into the straw and waited. At last all was silent. They were getting ready to take one last look, then slip down the ladder, when all of a sudden they heard its bottom rung creak.

  One of the witches was on her way up.

  Both students pretended to be sleeping. They closed their eyes, but when long, moldy hair brushed their cheeks, they knew a witch was leaning over them.

  The students lay absolutely still, but they clenched their fists under the straw. They were ready to lunge at the witch if she tried to put a spell on them. Luckily she just backed down, rung by rung, and whispered to the other witch, “They’re asleep.” Then the witches rushed to the door and opened it.

  “Fetch,” they said, and they sent their monstrous dogs down to the barn. Moments later the students heard the sound of hooves, then the lowing of oxen inside the cottage. They peered down from the loft.

  The witches were slipping halters off four oxen, and the students were shocked to see the oxen turn into four men.

  With the hideous dogs snarling at their heels, the four men did everything the witches asked of them. They carried in pails of water from the witches’ well. They milked the cows and split wood for the witches’ fire.

  Then the four men were fed broth and bread, and with the very first bite, they began to turn back into oxen. By the time they had finished eating, they were swishing their tails, walking on all fours, and meekly letting the witches put halters on them once again. Then the dogs herded them back to the barn.

  The students were aghast. They thanked God that they hadn’t eaten the witches’ food themselves, and they slipped back under the straw.

  By now the students were d
esperate, but those witches never did sleep that night. And when the students arose the next morning, the witches already had hot bread and broth on the table.

  “You must eat before you go,” said one witch.

  Both students felt their skin crawl.

  “We can’t,” said one. “We are meeting someone in the next village.”

  “We are already late,” said the other, swallowing hard.

  Those witches wanted another pair of oxen, so they tore off chunks of bread and stalked across the room. They faced the students, eye to eye, ready to force the bread into their mouths.

  “Perhaps we could take the bread with us,” said one student, backing away, “and eat as we walk along.”

  The witches exchanged glances. “Very well,” they said, and they snapped their fingers. The dogs got up and followed the students, just inches from their heels.

  “Thank you for the bread,” the students called back, running for their lives, with those ferocious dogs racing along behind them.

  At first the dogs were just panting, but soon they were growling, then snarling, then snapping their teeth.

  And no matter how fast the students went, the dogs kept up with them.

  “What about the witches’ bread?” cried one student.

  “Of course!” cried the other.

  They threw the bread to the dogs, expecting them to wolf it down and turn into gentle oxen, but they didn’t. The dogs just caught the bread in their great jaws and raced back to the cottage.

  The students heard hysterical barking echo through the forest, then hideous screams, then silence, broken only by the lowing of oxen.

  Did the witches whip the dogs for letting the students escape? Did the dogs kill the witches? And what about the oxen? The students shuddered. They could hardly stand the thought of returning to the cottage. But if the witches were dead, the poor oxen—poor men, really—might starve.