Arnica the Duck Princess Read online

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  In which we team up to write a story and get to know the main characters

  “Write me a story!”

  “What about?”

  “The duck king and the duck princess.”

  “About two ducks?”

  “They’re not really ducks, you know.”

  “What are they then?”

  “They’re really a proper king and a proper princess. It’s just that the wicked witch has cast a spell on them.”

  “Why has she done that?”

  “Because of Poor Johnny.”

  “Johnny sounds like an English name—is he English?”

  “Of course he isn’t! Poor Johnny is Poor Johnny and that’s that. He’s got nothing except the shirt on his back and wanders about wherever he wants, whistling as he goes.”

  “And why was it because of Poor Johnny that the witch turned the king and the princess into ducks?”

  “She didn’t want him to marry Arnica.”

  “And who’s Arnica?”

  “The princess of course, who else would she be?”

  “Ah, Princess Arnica! Who was so sweet and gentle, that when she smiled, wolves and bears forgot their fierceness. Even the wild wind became still. Everyone loved King Tirunt’s daughter.”

  “King what?”

  “King Tirunt. Isn’t that what Arnica’s father is called?”

  “Oh, yes. That’s his name. King Tirunt. Absolutely.”

  Far away, over the mountains and beyond the valleys, beyond the valleys and over the mountains there was once a round lake. By the side of the lake stood a royal palace with thirty-six towers and three hundred windows. In this palace lived King Tirunt and his daughter Arnica. The king was a very fair man. He punished those who needed punishing, and rewarded those who deserved a reward. But there was one thing that showed more clearly than anything else what a good king he was: he would never order anyone to do anything when he was in a temper. If he did lose his temper—and kings often do—he would retreat to his throne room, saying, “Now whatever I say, don’t pay it any heed. Ooh, I’m angry! You’d best get out of my sight, you sons of dogs, before I tie you up by your heels! Get out, everyone, and count to a thousand. When you’ve done that, you may peek in and see if I’ve calmed down or not.”

  Well, everyone would scramble out of that throne room so fast that their feet barely touched the threadbare Persian rug! Standing outside, the Chief Royal Counter would quickly count to a thousand. Then the courtiers would peek in at the king, generally quite boldly as, by that time, his anger would have evaporated.

  If it hadn’t, then when he saw them peeking at him, the king would yell, “Out with you, dogs!”

  In such cases, the Chief Royal Counter would count to another thousand. More often than not, at eight hundred and eighty-eight, the king would come out of the throne room and say:

  “Sorry, everyone, if I called you dogs and sons of dogs, but I was like a mad dog myself.”

  But such two thousand—or one thousand, eight hundred and eighty-eight—scoring fits of rage were as rare as hen’s teeth because King Tirunt was a wise man and his anger quickly passed.

  “Where did it pass to?”

  “Angerland.”

  “Is that where the Angers live?”

  That’s right, and they like to get into people’s hearts. They’re always on the lookout for one they can enter. And once the Angers have got into a person’s heart, no amount of shaking and huffing and puffing and going red in the face will make any difference. That poor person can go on shouting till they burst!”

  “Or until their Anger flies off back to Angerland.”

  “That’s right. The sooner the better.”

  “And what if someone wandered into Angerland by mistake?”

  “Then woe betide them, woe and weeping and wailing a thousand times over!”

  “Why? Is there no such thing as good anger then?”

  “Of course there is. Absolutely there is.”

  “And when King Tirunt got angry, was it good or bad?”

  “Both good and bad. But I want to tell you about a time when his anger was good.”

  It happened once, and once only, that the poor Chief Royal Counter had to count so much his throat got quite dry. On that occasion, he had to count to five thousand. Hardly surprising, given what had happened. That would have made anyone angry, not just King Tirunt. One fine day two knights had turned up in the palace courtyard, their helmets flashing and gleaming in the sunshine, their armour rattling and clanking, and their horses blowing and stamping and pawing the ground. All this clattering, stamping and neighing brought the people of the palace, young and old, out into the courtyard. King Tirunt and Arnica came out too.

  “And who might you be?” asked the king.

  “Greetings to Your Majesty, the greatest of kings,” said the knights. “And greetings to Princess Arnica, the most lovely, the most beautiful girl in the world.”

  “But I’m not the most lovely or the most beautiful girl in the world,” whispered Arnica to her father.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said the king. “One day there’ll be someone for whom you’ll be the most lovely and the most beautiful.”

  With that, he turned to the knights.

  “What do you want?”

  “We request your daughter’s hand in marriage, Your Majesty,” said the knights. “We realise of course, that she can marry only one of us. Therefore, we have decided that we will fight a duel to the death right here, in this courtyard, and whichever of us survives will have Arnica.”

  This was greeted with delight by the courtiers and the palace staff. A good little scrap was in the offing and they’d get to see it!

  The two knights were already drawing their swords. However, both the rejoicing and the brandishing of weapons turned out to be a little premature.

  “Stop right there!” said the king. “I’m not having a fight on my hands.”

  The knights lowered their swords and looked at the king.

  “What do you mean? Don’t you want to give us your daughter’s hand in marriage?”

  “It’s not for me to decide who my daughter marries,” said the king.

  “Then who should decide?”

  “My daughter. When she gets married, it’ll be to someone she loves. And to someone who loves her. There’s no point in you two hacking away at each other, if my daughter happens not to love the victor. And if she happened to love the vanquished one, well, that doesn’t bear thinking about. Better forget the whole thing.”

  “You mean to say that your daughter wouldn’t want to marry the victor?”

  “I meant just what I said,” said the king. “My daughter will marry someone she loves.”

  “And what if she happens to fall in love with some riff-raff?” asked the knights. “Some fly-by-night, some traveller-type, some empty-pockets, some sleep-in-the-straw?”

  Red patches were appearing on the king’s cheeks. To those in the know, it was clear that he was about to lose his temper.

  “Then that fly-by-night, that traveller-type, that empty-pockets, that sleep-in-the-straw will be her husband,” said the king, a touch louder than usual.

  “Hardly proper for a king, that way of talking,” said the knights snootily.

  Now the king was shouting.

  “Not proper for a king perhaps, but proper for a
man! Take them to the prison and off with their heads, both of them!”

  The Chief Royal Counter had already begun to count. One, two, three…

  The king dashed into the throne room, pressed himself into the farthest corner of it and there he fumed and he huffed and he puffed. Anger had got into his heart all right.

  The knights looked at the courtiers in dismay.

  “Are you going to chop our heads off right now?”

  “Of course not. Just get out of here as fast as your legs can carry you!” said the Chief Courtier.

  The Chief Royal Counter had got to three hundred and thirty-three.

  By the time he reached one thousand, the two knights couldn’t be seen for dust.

  The peekers had a peek in, but the king was still so enraged that he flung his crown at them. It took him till five thousand to calm down. Then he came out of the throne room and said:

  “I rather fear that, while I was angry, I may have told you to chop off their heads. I do hope…”

  “Not to worry, Your Majesty,” said the Chief Courtier. “We didn’t touch a hair of their heads. Let them run off, I say.”

  “Oh, thank the Lord!” said the king, much relieved. “What a pair of dunderheads! They’re just the sort I’d give my daughter to. Eh, Arnica?”

  Arnica smiled at her father, and said, “Thank you, dearest Father.”

  “Because Arnica is going to fall in love with Poor Johnny, isn’t she?”

  “I reckon so.”

  “Do tell me when Poor Johnny’s going to come into the story!”

  “He’s on his way. He’s already in a wood nearby.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  In which Poor Johnny, the most footloose and fancy-free of all people, grapples with the Witch of a Hundred Faces

  There was Johnny, strolling through the middle of the wood. As he strolled along, he whistled a tune, sometimes a merry one, sometimes a mournful one, depending on what mood he happened to be in.

  “I must be the poorest person in the whole world,” he thought, and began to whistle a sad melody. And it was true, besides his staff and his pocket knife, he had nothing except the shirt on his back.

  “But it also happens that I’m the richest person in the world,” he thought, and in that moment his whistling became full of trills and turns. And, yes, he was the richest person in the world: he had the woods, the blue sky, the birds, and even the weeds growing by the roadside. All the great expanse of this wide world was his to enjoy.

  Then, something else occurred to him that made his whistling yet more cheerful. “When I come to think of it, I’m also the most footloose and fancy-free person in the world. I can go wherever I want and when I get there I’m free to turn somersaults to my heart’s content. No jumping to anyone’s command for me! Hey, there’s not a person in the world freer than I am!”

  Then, becoming downhearted once again, the tune he was whistling turned sorrowful. He had realised that he was more of a prisoner than anyone in the world; that his freedom in fact held him in fetters. He had neither a friend nor a sweetheart, not even a hand’s breadth of land to call home and on which he could lay down his head to sleep.

  Well, there he was, whistling and thinking to himself as he strolled in the deep dark forest under the great arch of the sky and he was completely unaware that in doing this, he had strolled into our story. Neither did he know that he had strayed onto land belonging to the Witch of a Hundred Faces. If he had known where he was, he would most certainly have hotfooted it out of there. Not, we hope, on account of our story, but on account of the Witch of a Hundred Faces, whose wickedness and cunning had no match for many leagues around.

  “Why was she called the Witch of a Hundred Faces?”

  “Because she could appear in a hundred different guises. She could turn herself into a dog or a bat, or even a wasp if she chose. And she could change her human appearance as easily as you or I change our socks. She could make herself look beautiful, or ugly, young or even old and wrinkly whenever she wanted.”

  “It’s not good to be a witch, is it?”

  “Why not?”

  “You have to make trouble for everyone and bring them sorrow. It must be awful.”

  The Witch of a Hundred Faces was sitting huddled and despondent by the door to her house. She was thinking that in the blink of an eye, the seven years would be up. For, every seven years, a witch has to make someone her slave. Not by force, but by trickery. If the person doesn’t enter into it of their own free will, the arrangement won’t be valid. With barely a year left of the seven she had, the witch still hadn’t managed to hook another person to be her slave. The people of the area were all careful to give the wood a wide berth, precisely to avoid her, and strangers were not likely to wander that way, the forest being almost at the world’s end. Thus it was that the witch could only weep and wail, “What will become of me if I lose my magic powers?”

  Ah, but listen! The witch’s eyes lit up. She could hear whistling.

  “I’ll be blowed if that isn’t someone coming this way on the road through the woods,” she said to herself. And she was right. Poor Johnny was on that road, getting nearer all the time. Ooh, the witch went mad with excitement!

  “This one’s mine,” she thought. She set to and turned herself into an ancient, doddery little old lady, complete with a stick and a crutch to lean on. Just at that moment, Johnny reached her house.

  “Oh, dear boy, what luck that you’re here,” said the witch. “You’ll help a poor old lady, won’t you?”

  “Gladly. What can I do for you?” asked Poor Johnny.

  “I’m not well at all. Can’t hardly manage by myself these days,” bluffed the witch. “Will you agree to work for me?”

  “Well, Mother,” said Poor Johnny, scratching his head. “I’m happy to help with whatever needs doing, but I can’t agree to work for you. In case you didn’t know, I’m the most footloose and fancy-free person in the world. I don’t work for anyone.”

  Well, you should have seen the witch’s face when she heard that. Of all the people to come wandering this way, it would have to be the world’s most footloose and fancy-free one, the devil take him!

  “You’ll work for me, whoever you are!” she muttered under her breath. “Oh, it wouldn’t be for a long time,” she coaxed Poor Johnny. “Only three days. Three teeny-weeny little days. You’ll see, they’ll fly by so fast, you won’t even notice them.”

  “No,” said Poor Johnny, shaking his head,” I won’t work for anyone, not even for a half a minute.”

  “But I would pay you handsomely,” persisted the witch.

  Poor Johnny became curious.

  “How much would you pay?”

  “Come and see.”

  She led him to the door of her store cupboard and opened it. Poor Johnny had to shield his eyes with his arm, so bright was the light that poured out. The cupboard was full of treasure, gold coins, real pearls, silver and jewels all sparkling and gleaming. The Witch of a Hundred Faces blinked cunningly up at Poor Johnny.

  “All yours,” she said. “All you have to do is work for me for three days.”

  Now, what do you think the most footloose and fancy-free person in the world said to that?

  “What the devil would I do with all those gewgaws?”

  The witch could barely conceal her anger.

  “You call these gewgaws, you halfwit, you dunderhead, you melon! These are handpicked treasures, not trinkets! Odds bodkins! The richest king in the world would dance for joy if he could have these for his treasury. Now… three days’ work and they can all be yours.”

  Poor Johnny shook his head.

  “And what would I do with all this treasure? I wouldn’t be able to lift it for one thing. And say I could, I’d soon be worn out carrying it around. Not likely!”

  “Dunce!” said the witch. “Buy yourself a horse and cart and load it onto that. Ride on the cart, and you won’t even need to walk.”

  “Firstly, I like wa
lking. Secondly, if I had a horse and cart, I’d be eaten up by worry. The horses would always need feeding and watering, there’d be all kinds of bother with the cart; new wheels, new brakes… Ah no, that’s the last thing I want! Thirdly, what about robbers? I’d have to guard the horse, the cart and the treasure from them. Ha ha, I’d even forget to whistle. Keep your treasure, Mother. You’re welcome to it.”

  “Oh, you’re a worthless good for nothing,” said the witch. “Bother with the horse and cart! You’d have servants. As for the robbers, you could build a castle to keep them out. You’d have more than enough money. A castle with good, thick walls, then no robber would be able to break in.”

  “So I’d be cowering in my castle for the rest of my days, is that it? All pasty and pinched looking? I wouldn’t be able to go out for a nice walk, because I’d always be thinking, ‘Oh no, what if my castle gets struck by lightning? Alas my castle this and alas my castle that!’ I don’t need your treasure, old Mother. But I’m very happy to help you out of the goodness of my heart. Just tell me what to do.”

  The witch fumed and pretended not to hear that Poor Johnny had freely offered his help.

  “You’d have hardly anything to do in those three days,” she spluttered. “Your only job each day would be to pick an apple for me from that tree.”

  In the yard stood an apple tree, a low, stunted thing, with exactly three apples on its branches. A child could easily have reached them all, without even having to climb up.

  “Oh well, that’s no trouble at all,” said Poor Johnny. “I’ll get them all down for you right now, for nothing.”

  He stepped towards the apple tree as he spoke.

  The witch flung away her stick and her crutch and leapt to her feet as if a wasp had stung her.

  “No, don’t touch it!”