Read Online The Book of the Unknown: Tales of the Thirty-six by Jonathon Keats - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathon Keats
Ads: Link
auburn braids in order to avoid his crooked cyclops gaze—and then at the aged queen herself. At last he said that his fortunes had turned less than an hour’s journey from the palace.
One of the wagons carrying his treasure hit a rut (he told the king), and while he labored to get it out, a peasant woman came over and asked what he was carrying. He said the cart held half a fortune, and the rest was in the other one. Since she wouldn’t believe him, he let her look beneath the covering, and told her where his bounty came from. Putting up her auburn braids, she tried on a diamond tiara. The fit was perfect. She sighed and declared that she was meant to be a princess.
Gimmel had to agree. So that she wouldn’t leave, he offered to share his fortune.
— And what do I have to do?
— Be my companion.
She looked him over, and shuddered. She exclaimed he was uglier than a fairy-tale frog. She said that if he wanted the chance to wed her, he’d have to gamble everything he had.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the gambler reached into his tobacco pouch. The girl set her emerald eyes on his wooden dice. She chose the number seven for luck. Gimmel chose two, the only number that mattered anymore.
They each took a die. She threw hers with eagerness. It came up one. His hand trembled, his will to win shaking, for the first time, the thrill of gambling. His die dropped. He looked. He’d rolled a royal six—and lost his chance to leap, so to speak, from frog to prince.
The girl kissed him anyway, once, on the lips. Nothing changed.
When Gimmel’s tale was through, the king wanted to know why he’d consented to bet his whole fortune instead of just one cart.
— Surely no peasant could be worth all that.
— She bet everything, Your Majesty. How could I not do the same?
— And what happened to this fortunate young girl? Why haven’t I heard of her, if she lives so near?
— You have. You married her.
The king looked at his wife. For a moment, under the sparkling tiara of chandelier light, her gray hairs seemed to tinge auburn. Her green eyes settled on him. His Majesty saw that the gambler spoke the truth.
To show his gratitude, the king proposed that Gimmel take his daughter for a wife. The princess shrieked, but before she could escape the old frog, he declined. He left the palace that night, carrying only his wooden dice. Happily ever after might be fit for a king, but such was not a fate given to a gambler.
DALET THE THIEF
Dalet was a thief. He’d learned to be a thief from his father, who’d apprenticed under his father’s father, once upon a time: Thievery had been the family business for as long as anyone could remember. In his town, Dalet was the only thief, just as there was one family that produced coopers, while another raised each generation’s butcher.
Of course every town needs a thief, and for forty years Dalet’s father had fulfilled that role admirably well. The old man would filch the baker’s batter spoon, or swipe the shoemaker’s leather apron, and, later the same day, the baker or shoemaker would come to his door to take back spoon or apron in exchange for a couple of coppers. Dalet’s family had lived on that money. They’d never been wealthy, but they got by respectably, and when Dalet’s father died, a widower of fifty, he had a wooden casket at a funeral attended by everybody.
On the whole, the village was prosperous by then. What could go wrong? Because Dalet’s family was always to blame, nothing was ever missing for long. Nobody ever lost money or time. Folks spent their surplus on luxuries: gilded candlesticks and crystal goblets and gemstones for their unwed daughters. Tailors and tinkers threw lavish suppers simply so their neighbors could admire a serving platter or a saltcellar or some embroidered table linen. Market day became a pageant of mass affluence, and collective envy.
In at least one respect, Dalet was not a good thief. Given the vast wealth
One of the wagons carrying his treasure hit a rut (he told the king), and while he labored to get it out, a peasant woman came over and asked what he was carrying. He said the cart held half a fortune, and the rest was in the other one. Since she wouldn’t believe him, he let her look beneath the covering, and told her where his bounty came from. Putting up her auburn braids, she tried on a diamond tiara. The fit was perfect. She sighed and declared that she was meant to be a princess.
Gimmel had to agree. So that she wouldn’t leave, he offered to share his fortune.
— And what do I have to do?
— Be my companion.
She looked him over, and shuddered. She exclaimed he was uglier than a fairy-tale frog. She said that if he wanted the chance to wed her, he’d have to gamble everything he had.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the gambler reached into his tobacco pouch. The girl set her emerald eyes on his wooden dice. She chose the number seven for luck. Gimmel chose two, the only number that mattered anymore.
They each took a die. She threw hers with eagerness. It came up one. His hand trembled, his will to win shaking, for the first time, the thrill of gambling. His die dropped. He looked. He’d rolled a royal six—and lost his chance to leap, so to speak, from frog to prince.
The girl kissed him anyway, once, on the lips. Nothing changed.
When Gimmel’s tale was through, the king wanted to know why he’d consented to bet his whole fortune instead of just one cart.
— Surely no peasant could be worth all that.
— She bet everything, Your Majesty. How could I not do the same?
— And what happened to this fortunate young girl? Why haven’t I heard of her, if she lives so near?
— You have. You married her.
The king looked at his wife. For a moment, under the sparkling tiara of chandelier light, her gray hairs seemed to tinge auburn. Her green eyes settled on him. His Majesty saw that the gambler spoke the truth.
To show his gratitude, the king proposed that Gimmel take his daughter for a wife. The princess shrieked, but before she could escape the old frog, he declined. He left the palace that night, carrying only his wooden dice. Happily ever after might be fit for a king, but such was not a fate given to a gambler.
DALET THE THIEF
Dalet was a thief. He’d learned to be a thief from his father, who’d apprenticed under his father’s father, once upon a time: Thievery had been the family business for as long as anyone could remember. In his town, Dalet was the only thief, just as there was one family that produced coopers, while another raised each generation’s butcher.
Of course every town needs a thief, and for forty years Dalet’s father had fulfilled that role admirably well. The old man would filch the baker’s batter spoon, or swipe the shoemaker’s leather apron, and, later the same day, the baker or shoemaker would come to his door to take back spoon or apron in exchange for a couple of coppers. Dalet’s family had lived on that money. They’d never been wealthy, but they got by respectably, and when Dalet’s father died, a widower of fifty, he had a wooden casket at a funeral attended by everybody.
On the whole, the village was prosperous by then. What could go wrong? Because Dalet’s family was always to blame, nothing was ever missing for long. Nobody ever lost money or time. Folks spent their surplus on luxuries: gilded candlesticks and crystal goblets and gemstones for their unwed daughters. Tailors and tinkers threw lavish suppers simply so their neighbors could admire a serving platter or a saltcellar or some embroidered table linen. Market day became a pageant of mass affluence, and collective envy.
In at least one respect, Dalet was not a good thief. Given the vast wealth
Similar Books
