Devil Gets His Due

   A long, long time ago, over the seven mountains and across the seven rivers, there lived a simple farmer with a kind heart named Hans. Hans rarely complained, even though he had experienced hard times, sure enough, and would have had every right to complain.
 
   No, the closest thing to speaking out that you’d ever get out of Hans was when he whistled and sang popular old folk songs. This was him having his say. His trick was to replace the real words with obscene words. In Hans’s renditions of songs, “doors” became “whores,” and “hearts” became “farts,” and so on. He was the Weird Al of his time, sure enough.

   Here are some of the hardships that Hans had endured: The land he worked was not his own. It belonged to a rotten little Duke named Luka, who took great pleasure in the sufferings of others. Working that land was back-breaking work and Duke Luka paid Hans a mere pittance and provided nothing but a little shack for Hans and his family to live in. Luckily, Hans’s family was small. Unluckily, this had come about the hard way. Hans had lost his dear wife, Gretchen, and his unborn daughter, Ingrid, to the consumption, leaving him to raise his young son, Wolfgang, on his own. Hans and Gretchen never knew about Ingrid, since she had only just taken root when Gretchen expired. If you wonder how Ingrid, who never met her mother or father, got her name, it is this: Angels gave her that name.
 
   One day, Duke Luka came prancing up to the side of the field where Hans was working and made a frantic waving motion for Hans to come over and speak with him. Hans sighed a little at the Duke’s dandy display and then dutifully put down his rake and walked over. That’s when Duke Luka told Hans that he was going to let the land go to pasture, meaning he no longer needed a farmer to work the land. Just like that, Hans was out of a job and a home, sure enough.

*          *          *

   So Hans and his son, Wolfgang, who was only a little tyke at the time, set off on foot, carrying what few belongings they owned, to find a new life for themselves. Hans aimed for the South Lands because he had heard that the growing seasons were much longer down there, and he assumed – correctly – that farming down there would somehow be better overall.
 
   The going was slow since Wolfgang couldn’t walk too fast with his little legs, and even when Hans carried him, they didn’t move along much faster. But they walked and walked, sure enough, and kept up a reasonable pace, considering.

   Here’s one of the songs Hans would sing while they were walking:

In days of old I squeezed a fart
my hand then fanned the cheese.
I lurched one turd into my cart,
then counted one, two, three.

   This was Hans’s special version of an old folk classic, of course. The real song went like this:

In days of old I journeyed far
by land and then by sea.
I searched the world for a gentle heart,
the one I found in thee.

   Wolfgang was still a bit young to fully appreciate his father’s special humor, but he’d whistle and hum right along, just the same. He’d catch on one day, sure enough. As for Hans: Singing his special songs always lifted his spirits and lightened his step.

*          *          *

   One day, while Hans and Wolfgang were singing and humming and whistling and walking, a hawk took special notice of them and glided down for a closer look. Hans caught a glimpse of the hawk’s passing shadow out of the corner of his eye, but thought nothing of it. “Probably just a floater,” Hans said to himself. That’s what Hans called the things he’d get in his eyes every now and again. The hawk then landed and perched in a young oak tree just up ahead of them, and as they passed, he spake thus:
 
   “Ho, travelers! My name is Vincent the Hawk and I came down from the sky to tell you something.”
 
   “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Vincent the Hawk,” replied Hans, courteously. “I’m Hans and this is my son, Wolfgang. What is it that you’d like to tell us?”
 
   “You’re singing is lovely, sure enough, but carrying on that-a-way might well gain the attention of the Trickster who occupies the Dark Forest that’s just up ahead of you.” He motioned up ahead the trail with his left wing. “I would respectfully advise you to keep it down, in order to avoid an encounter with him,” Vincent the Hawk explained.
 
   “Thank you kindly for your sage advice, dear sir,” said Hans. “But, with all due respect, I’d prefer to keep on singing, for it lifts my spirits and lightens my step. Without a song or a whistle on my lips, I fear my heart might shrivel up like a raisin or stop beating altogether. Hard times are upon us, you see.” Hans paused for a moment and had a look on up the trail. He thought he saw something moving up there in the distance. But it might have been a floater. “If there be a Trickster in yonder Dark Forest, let him come. We’ll be having a look out for him now, on account of your kind advice, sir, for which we are most grateful.”
 
   Vincent the Hawk tilted his head to get a better look at Hans and his boy, whom he now considered to be quite brave. He knew well and intimately the joy of singing, so he could think of no argument or further advice for the two travelers. So, he gave them a noble nod and simply said, “Very well. I understand. Safe travels to you.” And then he flew up, up, and away out of the forest canopy.

*         *          *

   Hans and Wolfgang made it to the edge of the Dark Forest around nightfall. Hans decided they should get their rest before venturing into that dark and foreboding place in the morning.
 
   That night Hans dreamt of Vincent the Hawk and his warning. The dream was a word-for-word repeat of what had occurred earlier, but in his dream, Hans was dressed in the finest clothes, much finer than the finest clothes had ever seen, which were those worn by Duke Luka.
 
   Wolfgang dreamt of the hawk as well, but there were no spoken words or fine clothes. In his dream, Wolfgang was riding on the back of the hawk. They soared through the clouds together.

*          *          *

   Soon morning came, but it was not as bright as expected. The Dark Forest was already living up to its name, even though they were only at the edge of it.
 
   It was darker still when they first made their way in, sure enough.
 
   But then, around midday, when they were only a few cubrins into the Dark Forest, the day suddenly became quite sunny and bright. Hans and Wolfgang had emerged from the thick woods and stepped into a lovely glade with the greenest grass and the loveliest wild flowers they had ever seen.

   Curiously, there were piles of rocks every so often, carefully stacked piles it seemed, scattered all about the glade. Hans was a might curious about those rock piles and he wondered who might have made them and why. “A place like this would make for some fine farming,” Hans said to Wolfgang and somewhat to himself, “if there be any running water nearby, that is.”

   “Why, you’re right! You’re right!” declared a shrill little voice off to Hans’s and Wolfgang’s left. “This is the finest farmland in a thousand cubrins, sure enough, and there’s indeed a nice little river just over yonder.”
 
   Hans and Wolfgang both turned to see who was speaking. What they discovered was about the strangest little person that either of them had ever seen. For one thing, he was furry. That is, he was covered head to toe in what appeared to be black fur. And his head was pointy and misshapen and most unusual, made worse by a coarse and unflattering goatee that had the effect of elongating his face. His eyes twinkled brightly, perhaps even menacingly, even from a distance. And his feet. Well, his feet will be told about shortly.
 
   The little fellow was perched atop one of the rock piles, brandishing a large pitchfork, waving it about as he continued to speak. “You look so strong and capable. Are you a farmer, by chance?” he asked. “I bet you are, I bet you are!” He starting laughing so hard that he began choking and coughing and spitting. “Come here, come closer, my friend, I want to make a gift to you of this pitchfork. It’s much too big for me, you see. You should have it. It’s just your size.”
 
   Hans was unsure about the little fellow and wondered if he might be the Trickster that Vincent the Hawk had warned them about. So he kept his feet planted right where they were and said, “I do thank you for the offer, sir, but I do not make it a habit to accept gifts from strangers.”
 
   “Well, you can purchase it if it’ll make you feel better. Or we can make a barter for it, assuming it’s something you desire. The thing is this: I just don’t need it any more, and I want it to have a good home. It’s a solid fork. And it’s perfect for whomever buys my land over yonder.” The little fellow scratched his head and relaxed his pose a little, hung his head a bit. “You see I’m getting out of the farming business. It’s just not for me. Farming is for those with broad chests and strong arms – like yours. I’m built for other trade.”
 
   Hans softened a little upon hearing the little fellow’s admission. He knew that farming was indeed not for everyone, sure enough. And there was something about the pitchfork that was wildly appealing. Hans watched as the little fellow twirled it around and around like a rotisserie as it rested on his narrow, furry shoulder. It had such a nice, strong handle. It had such glittering, long prongs. Hans wanted to rest it upon his own shoulder and give it a twirl.
 
   Hans fetched a piece of tar out of his pocket, handed it to his son to chew on for a while, told him to stay put. And then he began a slow approach over towards the little fellow perched atop the rock pile.
 
   Wolfgang, gnawing away on his tar, said “Be careful, Papa.” Hans looked back over his shoulder and gave him a wink.

*          *          *

   Hans and the little fellow – who was Old Scratch Himself – in case you hadn’t already guessed it, talked at length about this, that, and the other thing. Of course, as everyone knows, it’s never a great idea to get into a conversation with the Devil, since it’s bound to be beset by tricks and traps of all sorts. But it can be reported that Hans held his own.  
 
   Eventually, Herr Pike – for this is how the Devil had introduced himself to Hans when Hans first walked over, got down to business. “Hans,” he said. “In this short time, with only a few words exchanged between us, you’ve already convinced me that you ought to be the rightful heir to my estate. You are trustworthy and strong and kind of heart. I want you to have it, and there’s no convincing me otherwise.”
 
   “Herr Pike,” replied Hans, “I can’t thank you enough for your kind words and kind intentions. But as I said before, I couldn’t possibly afford to purchase your estate. Sixty-six hects of land and a tall-standing house in this glade must be worth – oh, I cannot even imagine.  I’m only a simple farmer. If I opened my purse right now, you’d see my entire life savings, all that I have, and it only amounts to…”
 
   “Tsk, tsk,” Herr Pike interrupted. “Minor details. Minor details. I don’t need to know about that.” Herr Pike reached into a little leather pouch that was tucked into the rocks, hidden there, and pulled out some papers. “I’ve already prepared a Deed for the most part, and as for the price, how about I just write in ‘the contents of your purse’ instead of spelling out the exact amount and making a big to-do about it?”
 
   Hans indicated with a nod and a shrug that he thought that sounded good. He was ashamed to have only thirteen thalers in his purse, and it would have embarrassed him to see that piddling sum in writing.
 
   Herr Pike quickly scratched out the changes on paper and handed the Deed over to Hans. “Here. Take a look. See what you think.”
 
   When Hans started to reach out for the Deed, he found, to his surprise, that he was now holding the pitchfork in his own hand, resting it over his own shoulder. It was queer to discover this, sure enough. Hans could not remember taking hold of it. He reckoned – correctly – that it must have transferred by some magic, unbeknownst to him, at some point during the conversation. He further reckoned – correctly – with whom is was that he was dealing.
 
   He set the pitchfork down and took hold of the Deed with both hands. Hans could not read very well, but he was able to make out the gist of it. There it was in writing: Sixty-six hects of land and a tall-standing house in exchange for the contents of his purse. As you can imagine, this was quite the tempting offer.

   Hans’s suspicions were aroused by the situation as a whole, and by the too-good-to-be-true nature of the deal, and by the magical appearance of the pitchfork in his own hand, and by the furry and insistent Herr Pike, and by the tap-tap-tapping of Herr Pike’s foot on the rocks – which was not a foot at all, Hans noticed, but a hoof.

   But Hans went ahead and did what any sensible person in his situation would have done: He shook hands with the Devil and signed the Deed.

*          *          *

   “Splendid, splendid!” announced the Devil, grinning ear to ear.
 
   Hans bent down, picked up his gift, the pitchfork, and motioned for Wolfgang to come over. Little Wolfgang came a running. “What was that paper you wrote on, Papa?” he asked.
 
   “That was the Deed to our new homestead, son. I purchased it from the generous Herr Pike here.”
 
   “Ahem.” The Devil cleared his throat. “There is the small matter of my payment,” he said, holding out an open, expectant hand toward Hans.
 
   Hans fetched his purse, which he always kept tucked safely under his mid-wrap, close to his chest. It was a bit of a process to dig it out, sure enough. The Devil watched him keenly with his glittering eyes.
 
   Then the most curious thing happened.
 
   When Hans opened his purse, a tiny woodland faerie flew right out of it. She landed on Hans’s shoulder ever-so briefly, blinked her eyes a few times as if clearing them from a long nap, and then she zipped out across the glade, flying low, just above the grass, until she was out of sight.
 
   Hans stood there dumbfounded for a moment. He had, of course, heard about faeries, but he had never, in all his borne days, actually seen one.
 
   “Ahem.” The Devil cleared his throat again. “I’ll admit that’s not something you see every day, but I’d rather you not stand there with your mouth hanging open like an oaf.” The Devil’s true colors were spilling forth, sure enough. He snapped his fingers at Hans to gain his attention, and held out his open hand with even more emphasis. “I’d much rather you hand over the thirteen thalers in your purse.”
 
   Hans handed over his coins, his life savings, to the Devil. The deal was done.

*          *          *

   “Come now, gentlemen, let me show you your new estate,” announced the Devil with great pomp. He sprang off his rock pile, and his cloven hooves ker-thumped upon the dirt. He pulled a flute from his pocket, began playing a merry little tune, and motioned for Hans and Wolfgang to follow him as he skipped along, across the glade.
 
   “That man has goat’s feet, Papa,” Wolfgang observed, innocently.
 
   “Indeed, he does, son. Indeed, he does,” replied Hans.
 
   It just so happened that the tune the Devil was playing on his flute was one that Hans knew well, so Hans began to sing along:

The priest in a skirt
lifted up his thigh,
and farted a squirt
the stench made me cry.

   This was Hans’s special version of an old folk classic, of course. The real song went like this:

The yeast of the earth,
gifted from On High
and parted by work
by strength and by might.

   The Devil blushed, for even he was slightly offended by Hans’s raunchy lyrics.

*          *          *

   After some time, the group of them came to a stop at the edge of a small bog. The Devil pocketed his flute, opened his arms proudly, and announced, “Here it is, gentlemen! Your new estate!”
 
   Hans didn’t understand at first. There was no sixty-six hects of land. There was nothing but a useless bog, no larger than a hect. There was no tall-standing house. There was nothing but a rickety old shack built into the crook of an old cedar tree near the edge of the bog.
 
   “This is no sixty-six hects of land,” spake Hans.
 
   “Oh but it is, it is,” declared the Devil. “This bog has been renewing itself continually, every year, for the last sixty-six years. “Look here,” he continued, reaching down and scooping up a clump of stinking peat in his hand, “this wasn’t here a year ago, no sir.”
 
   “There’s no tall-standing house,” spake Hans.
 
   “Oh but there is, there is,” declared the Devil. “Look yonder at how tall your tree-house be. It will keep you high and dry above the bog, sure enough.”
 
   For the second time that day, poor Hans found himself standing dumbfounded.
 
   The Devil grinned broadly. So broadly that it was almost a snarl. “Happy farming!” he said, and then he vanished in a puff of sulfur smoke that stank worse than the bog itself.
 
   “That man tricked us, Papa,” said Wolfgang to his dumbfounded father.
 
   “Sure enough,” said Hans. “Sure enough.”

*          *          *

  
   Now, Hans was not one to sulk about and feel sorry for himself. He knew he’d been had by the Devil, fair and square, and there was nothing to do now except get on with life, and see what he could make of his newly deeded bog.
 
   And wouldn’t you know it: Hans knew a thing or two about bogs on account of having grown up near one when he was a boy. He knew, for example, that a bog this size was likely being fed by an underground spring. If he could find that spring, he could well it off with rocks and sand and have himself the nicest, coolest, freshest drinking water. And he knew that if he laid some furrows just so, that he could drain his bog, leaving behind the blackest, richest farming soil.
 
   And that’s exactly what Hans did, with Wolfgang at his side, helping and learning and growing.
 
   It wasn’t too many years before Hans and Wolfgang had the most lovely and productive farm that had ever been known in that part of the country. On account of the richness of his soil and the freshness of his water, they were able to grow more than enough food for themselves, enabling them to sell off the surplus and amass a little wealth. They kept their tree-house because they came to enjoy the fun of it, but they built it out handily so that it became, by all reckoning, a splendid and well-appointed home.
 
   Word got around, and eventually the Devil got wind of Hans’s good fortune, sure enough. The Devil decided this wouldn’t do at all. The Devil decided that it was time to declare Breach of Contract and go get his estate back.

*          *          *

   “Breach of Contract! Breach of Contract!” screeched a familiar voice outside the tree-house one day in early Spring. 
 
   “What brings you here, Herr Pike?” asked Hans, his head poking out of the kitchen window. “Our business is done.”
 
   “No, it’s not! No, its not!” yelled the Devil. “I’m taking my estate back. It’s mine due to Breach of Contract.”
 
   “What’s going on, Papa?” asked Wolfgang. “Is that you-know-who out there?”
 
   “Sure enough,” answered Hans. “I had best go down there and see what he’s prattling on about.”
 
   Hans climbed down the tree-house ladder and approached the Devil cautiously. “What’s this you’re saying?” he asked the Devil.
 
   “The Deed here clearly states that you were to pay me everything in your purse in exchange for this estate, and because you haven’t done so, I’m taking back what’s mine,” announced the Devil, his head held high and mighty.
 
   “You’re up to no good, Herr Pike,” Hans said flatly. “I believe you want this estate back because my son and I have made something good of it, and you’ve become jealous and desirous. I paid you every last thaler I had on the day we made our deal. All thirteen thalers. You know it and I know it.”
 
   “Yes, yes,” replied the Devil, “but you did not give me all the contents in your purse, as the Deed clearly states. There was something else in there. I recall that a little woodland faerie was in there and she flew away before you could give her to me. Therefore, the Deed was not properly executed. So, this estate is rightfully mine, as it has always been and always shall be.”
 
   Hans blinked, remembering about the faerie.
 
   “I’ll give you another day to collect your things and be gone. You have until tomorrow at sundown,” the Devil proclaimed. He was just about to puff-of-sulfur-smoke himself away, when Hans spoke up.
 
   “When you return tomorrow, what if I give you the faerie that was in my purse?”

   “The faerie that was in your purse?” the Devil asked with surprise. “Why then, the Deed will be valid and the estate shall be yours.” The Devil knew that chasing down and capturing faerie was a fool’s errand, impossible for any human, but he wasn’t going to pass up a chance to make someone suffer and scramble and squirm.

   “Shake on it and give me your word?” asked Hans.
 
   “Okee-doodle,” said the Devil.
 
   And for the second time in his life, Hans shook hands with the Devil Himself.

*          *          *

   Immediately after the Devil’s departure, Hans explained the situation to Wolfgang and charged him with looking after everything until his return. Hans knew that he had to start off immediately if he was to return before sunset the next day. The Faerie Mountain was a good distance away.

*          *          *

   When Hans arrived at the Faerie Mountain, he had no idea about what to do next. From legends he knew that there was a secret entrance that led to the Land of Faerie, but he did not know where it might be located or how he might gain entrance even if could find it. So, Hans decided to sit down, have a rest from all that walking, and think about the puzzle before him.
 
   As Hans sat there at the foot of the Faerie Mountain, he observed a fox trotting along at some distance. It was unusual to see a fox trotting along like that with the sun still so high in the sky. That fox was up to something, sure enough. Hans thought perhaps it was a mother fox out looking for a bite to eat for her pups. But then, as Hans watched, the fox reared itself up onto its hind legs, spun around three times, said a special word, and then vanished right before his eyes. [I am bound by a promise not to repeat the special word here, for it is known by few, and closely guarded.]
 
   Before Hans could stand up and go investigate the spot where the fox twirled and vanished, the fox suddenly reappeared, this time wearing a miniature vest and a stately hat, and it trotted off happily, back in the same direction from which had originally arrived.
 
   Hans recognized this immediately as a magical working, and he suspected – correctly – that the special word spoken by the fox might invoke a magic spell that would gain him entrance to the Land of Faerie. Sure enough, when Hans stood in the same spot where he had previously seen the fox, and twirled himself thrice, and spake the magic word, he found himself transported to an enchanted world inside the Faerie Mountain, a world like unto nothing he had ever seen.
 
   To describe the Land of Faerie in our humble language is to do it injustice. But if you imagine it in your mind’s eye, you will see something close, sure enough.

*          *          *

   Through nothing but his own Intention and Will, Hans was able to attract to himself the very same faerie that had flown out of his purse all those years ago. Intention and Will are powerful forces in the Land of Faerie. The faerie alighted again upon his shoulder, just as she had done years ago, and she told him that her name was Ingrid and then she explained to him why she was in his purse in the first place.
 
   Hans then explained to her his dealings with the Devil, as well as his current dilemma.

   “I have something for you, something that will help you” said Ingrid, motioning her hand to direct Han’s attention to a tiny chair next to what appeared to be a toadstool, in which sat a creature of her very own likeness. “It’s an automaton, a perfect replica of me that moves about and flies and does most of things I can do, apart from my magics. It’s not alive, although it draws upon the aether like we do. It’s made of little crafted bits and parts.” She explained more details that were beyond Hans’s understanding. But Ingrid’s final statement Hans understood well: “If you present this to the Great Deceiver, he himself will be deceived.”
 
   And so it was. Ingrid instructed Hans on how to handle the little automaton, and assisted him in placing it in his purse, and then Hans tucked his purse safely under his mid-wrap, close to his chest. Then Ingrid instructed Hans on where to go and told him another magic word to say in order to return to his own world.
 
   “Most importantly, my dear Hans,” she said to him, whispering into his ear, “don’t eat or drink anything until you are back in your own world. I know you must be hungry and thirsty, but please don’t be tempted.” Then she bit Hans’s earlobe with her pointy teeth, and flew off past what appeared to be a giant shrubbery of some sort. A bite on the earlobe is how faeries give a kiss.
 
   Hans did exactly as he was instructed. He found the dip in the ground, right where Ingrid had said it would be. And he didn’t eat or drink a thing on his way there, although he had crossed a delightfully clear stream on the way, and had been greatly tempted by it, and he had passed a tree with queer fruit that smelled sweet and buttery, and he was tempted by that too. Hans knew well the legends about people who ate or drank things in the Land of Faerie. Those people never returned, or returned after so much time had passed that generations of loved ones had already lived and worked and played and died.
 
   Hans spun himself around three times and said, “Parumpsa!” [This word I will share with you, for if you ever find yourself in the Land of Faerie, you may need it to get out!]

*          *          *

   It was getting quite late in the next day when Hans finally returned home. He saw the Devil was already there waiting for him, hoofing around impatiently in the dirt. Wolfgang waved to him from up in the treehouse and yelled, “Welcome back, Papa! But look who’s already here.”
 
   “Time’s up when that sun goes down!” said the Devil with glee. “You look tired and worn. I suspect you’ve suffered much on your futile faerie-hunting quest, eh?” The Devil laughed and coughed and spit.
 
   “It was indeed an exhausting adventure,” said Hans, “but my quest was a success, and I’ve come to give you your due.”
 
   The Devil tilted his distorted head curiously and incredulously. “Give me my due?” he questioned.
 
   Hans extracted his purse and handed it over to the Devil, and said, “Do not open it too wide when you peek inside, Herr Pike, or she might fly away.”
 
   The Devil placed one of his orange eyeballs as close as he dared and pinched the top of the purse ever-so-gently to open it just a little. He saw the faerie in there, flitting all about, sure enough. Then he clasped it shut quickly and looked up at Hans, with a gulp of disbelief. [It’s worth mentioning that the Devil dared only once more to peek inside the purse, but that wasn’t until much later, near midnight the following day. That’s when the little automaton escaped the Devil and flew back to Ingrid. Ah, but that’s another story…]
 
   “You can keep that purse. Consider it a gift, liken to that pitchfork you gave me long ago.” Hans smiled broadly and stood tall. “Now, Herr Pike, I think it’s time for you to take leave of my estate and return to yours.”
 
   The Devil tucked his tail between his legs and sulked off, kicking some rocks as he went.
 
   “And don’t bother coming back,” Hans added.
 
   Without looking back, the Devil threw up a discourteous wave of hand as a begrudging acknowledgment. It was the last time anyone ever saw the Devil anywhere near the glade.

– O.M. Kelsey