The Rebellious Son: A Fairy Tale -- Part 12

“You’re with me now,” said the little lady. “Come along.”

What other choice did the boy have?

He walked with her down the street toward the countryside. She held tight to his shirt. When they came to a narrow crossroad they took it. On the edge of the road were tall trees that made large dark shadows.

The boy wanted nothing more than to lie down. He was so tired. Tired also of being at the mercy of others around him. Even if they were kind to him. First Claudia (not kind, he had decided) and then the Virgin Mary and then the man with his mule and now this old woman.

Was she old? The boy didn’t know for sure. Maybe it was not seeing the hair under the red rag that befuddled him. He looked again at her and still could not distinguish an age, even to the decade. Thirty? Fifty-five?

“Wait till you see my rats,” said the lady.

“Who are you?” said the boy.

“They are growing and growing. I love to see them grow. My barn is filled with rats!”

“What should I call you?”

“Don’t names just get in the way?”

“What do you do?” asked the boy.

“I can’t wait to teach you the flute!” she said. “Now give me that stick,” she grabbed his snake-stick and looked into the wooden eyes. “Open up, my child,” she said, speaking to the snake.

The snake’s eyes came alive, the mouth opened, and the split tongue slithered out. The lady snatched the tongue and yanked. Out with the tongue came the insides of the snake. She tossed the innards on the road. They lay in a greasy pile.

A raven landed and began feasting on the entrails.

“Boy, you will be a wonderful flutist. And then,” she paused with excitement, “and then! And then you will be ready!” She reached into her pocket for her dagger. She sliced off the end of the tail, making a little hole. Then she stabbed six smaller holes into the body of the dead skin.

With a slight flick of her wrist the skin of the snake slapped out and became completely wooden and strong and straight. “Here you are, my boy. A fine flute for a fine boy.”

The boy looked into the mouthpiece, which was also the mouth of the dead snake. "He was my friend."

"A flute is much better than a friend, trust me."

"A flute?"

“Go ahead,” she said. “Give it a blow!”

The boy put his lips on the mouthpiece and blew. A snort spurted out.

“Ha, ha! What a beautiful first note!”

The boy blew a second time. A louder snort. He blew a third time. And a fourth. He liked that he could make a noise just by blowing.

“Soon, soon," said the little lady, "soon you will be a master!”